Seasoning

Hunched over the cast iron skillet like a vulture over carrion, I deem Operation Frittata a success. Then slice off a slab of the eggy mixture, tossing it back and forth between my hands before demolishing it without the slightest degree of civility.

Operation Frittata is a success!

Once cooled, I carefully remove the rest of the impromptu dinner to the fridge, leaving the sturdy skillet caked with the browned, cheesy leavings. Still, the skillet exudes a bit of rude refinement–an oddly contradictory, apropos description that captures everything I love about cast iron.

And about most things in general.

Without allowing my analogy-oriented mind to deconstruct every little kitchen tool we have, I’ll just write that, like people, it takes a lot of work to season cast iron to perfection. And even then, constant maintenance to ensure it’s utility.

***

Whether it’s the pervasiveness of hipster trends, or the recession reminding us of the economic hurdles our country has had to clear, it seems that many of us–not just twenty- and thirty-somethings–are looking back a lot these days.

Some with nostalgia, some with hope.

It’s odd that we’d look back to decades filled with Depression-era hardship and Cold War-inspired paranoia and get all glazy-eyed and hopeful for the future. But it’s not that I have friends who long to build bomb shelters in their backyards, or collect twine for resale. It’s that so many of us are searching for comfort in things that have withstood the test of time, and have aged like a fine wine–the old, the worn, the refined.

A little wear gives us character.

Maybe even the ethics and morals some of us gleaned from our grandparents.

Perhaps we hope that, through osmosis, the Fiestaware teapot will pour out a few of life’s secrets with the Celestial Seasonings. (Not that I’m projecting.)

Pouring out dreams.

The vintage leather chair will cushion the blow of a failed interview, and its cracked arms will remind you, at exactly the perfect moment, that wear and tear is part of the process. (Really, I’m not projecting.)

Sit a spell.The Vornado fan won’t blow the proverbial shit your way, but will keep the breeze blowing, the air beneath your wings flowing. (Okay, I’m projecting.)

Don't blow the shi* it my way!

And sure, we don’t need things to remind us to harness our in-built tenacity, the drive to keep going.

Because that’s what movies are for! You know, those tried-and-true go-to flicks that remind you to put down the fork, step away from the frittata, and channel your inner innovator.

Julie & Julia is one of mine, even though I have to constantly remind myself that Amy Adams is a good actress–she just always gets cast as the woe-is-me-I-have-low-self-esteem character. (The real-life equivalent of me! Kidding. Sort of.). Plus, anything with Meryl (we’re on a first-name basis) lifts me up.

It’s not that the film leaves me in an ohmygawd, slack-jawed state. It’s that it makes attaining my writerly dreams seem possible. I know. I shouldn’t need a movie to remind me of that. But I think the reason why it resonates is because it’s illustrative of starting over later in life–both for Julie and Julia: two people who let life sidetrack them, but got back on course through sheer determination and lots of butter.

So maybe the root of why folks drowning in this economic cesspool are valuing vintage, antiquey things and historic spaces from our grandparents’ days is that we’re trying to channel that resolute drive, that entrenched stubbornness to not yield, to stay the course. To layer our lives and experiences with that same sense of accomplishment despite the country’s tenuous economic state and hyper-divisive political landscape.

Maybe my perspective’s skewed since several people, after chatting with me a bit, have told me I’m an “old soul.” That I frame things in a way that nods to the past. Regardless, I think there’s something more. Which shows that my inner-anthropologist will always be there–dissecting every experience, trying to distill out the greater meaning.

***

Coarse sea salt trickles out of the Fiestaware shaker and quietly ricochets inside the skillet, across its well-worn, carefully-curated sheen.

It makes me think of Norman. The phone rings.

It’s Norman.

“You know, I was just looking through my old recipes for cast iron cooking. And I figured he’d packed the pans and whatnot up in storage, or would dine out and not have need of such things.”

I smile, and laugh.

“Actually, I’m just prepping dinner now, using that big skillet you gave us. So they’re definitely not in storage. I love’em too much.”

Maybe it’s just the longevity of the things that make me appreciate them. Or their heft.

But I think it’s the stories they tell.

The lessons they embody.

The inner strengths they elicit from us, reminding us that we’re more than capable.

An Eclectic New Life By Design

I love stuff.

Most everything old and worn, vintage and quirky, tattered and treasured.

Still, I’ve had to make some decisions about stuff–what to keep and what to sell, what to give away and what to toss.

After all, design is an ever-changing field.

One day taxidermy is the new thing, the next week it’s those horrendous Keep Calm and Carry On posters adorning hipster sorority girls’ dorm rooms everywhere.

(Kidding! Sort of. Not really.)

***

Regardless of your style, it’s the people who stick with something–own it and make it work–that really pique my interest. You know, the friends whose places you love to visit to see what new thing they’ve incorporated, and what old tragic piece of crap they’ve discarded.

And while I’m no design expert, I do know what I love, and sprinkle that throughout our apartment. And even though I’m trying to be good and curb the antiquing a bit–oh, money, why must you constantly be so elusive?–sometimes you just have to eat rice and beans a few days more than you’d like.

Because certain things are just so cool, and dovetail so effortlessly with your aesthetic, that you must possess it.

Like a ridiculously dramatic mirrored Deco serving tray.

This baby is ready for some drinks...and maybe a Murder, She Wrote marathon

Or a ridiculously dramatic mirrored Deco vanity in need of some imagination and TLC (minus the whole chasing waterfalls bit).

Her rose-colored self is ready for a face-lift!

Sensing a theme?

I know, IKEA-Contemporary.

Kidding!

(By the way, go check out Sanford Antique Mall. You can get some beautiful pieces. But not this one.)

***

One of the most enjoyable things I’ve learned from melding households is snagging finds that speak to us both. In some instances, one of us sees the hidden potential, or realizes the way its lines–when juxtaposed with a completely different style of furniture–makes us both love other things that we have that much more.

Like pairing a beautifully simple, modern bookcase with an ornate, Downton Abbey-like mirror.

A touch of modern, and splash of Downton Abbey.

Individually, each is fine and functional and beautiful. But together, I love them.

Even the little things that you have squirreled away can be reborn. Like my grandfather’s vintage political buttons, now housed in this cool Catherineholm bowl.

Bowled over with fabulous. Pinned.

(And I’m still trying to figure out where to hang his two hats.)

We wear our politics on our...heads these days.

Plus, loving what you have makes everything more fun.

Like eating a healthier, cheaper apple in lieu of a $500 jar of Nutella. (Seriously, Nutella, why are you so expensive?)

Apple break on the Riviera. (Ba dah bah!)

Because why wouldn’t this cute Riviera plate not make you smile and help you forget that this apple is not chocolate-hazelnut spread?

***

When you love the things surrounding you, you’re better able to appreciate the little things that much more.

Like growing an apple tree. (Andy, I’m working on it.)

A tree has to start somewhere. And why not with a snack?

Or figuring out what to do with one of the 12 onions you may have.

Maybe it'll grow into a chariot! Oh, wait. That was a damn pumpkin.

Or realizing that you need to water your African Violet.

Dehydrated violet...

It’s all about balancing the things you love with the functional rigors of the daily grind. And when you’re able to meld lovely aesthetics with high functionality, double-plus bonus. Which is why I love our home even more now than ever before. Because everywhere I look, I see something we use and love.

More than that, though, I’m reminded of the memories embodied in each piece.

And these days, I’m all for remembering good times.

Especially as I cobble together a skill set here, tack it onto a passion there, and try to design a life that complements it all.

A Gay, Man-infested Destiny: The Third Leg, AR to OK

Midway through our third leg, we realize the rumors are true.

The stretch from Arkansas to Oklahoma should be known as The Land Starbucks Forgot.

So.

We suffer in silence.

I've been dreaming of a venti soy no-whip mocha...

Kidding!

I never suffer in silence.

Still, we persevere.

But are reduced to taking photos of billboards instead of scenic vistas.

Oh hey, billboard...

Before long, we get there. And have a critical decision to make. 

“So, we’re going to make it to the antique shops today, right?” Andy asks, clenching the wheel so hard his knuckles go white.

“Right.”

His knuckles regain color.

(Reason #547 I love him.)

***

Cutting through Norman’s outer suburban hell, we pass into a safe haven: the historic district. We pull up to Amanda’s cute cottage, and get out to a deafening cacophony of wiener dog barking.

Amanda gives us the grand tour, and I get to remember antique-centric moments from years’ past while she recounts stories of her acquisitions. Or, in some cases, stories of when I pulled something out of the garbage and gave it to her.

Like a pristine 1950s kitchen table some dolt threw away.

Not that I’m keeping tabs.

Anywho.

Our feline docent Hernando, the dumbest (thus, skinniest) of Amanda’s two cats, accompanies us, while Tristan, whose blobby form could buckle a chair, casts disdainful glances from his surveillance position and awaits offerings of The Food.

Hernando!

Sensing valuable antiquing time slipping away, we decide to head downtown.

But not before we stop for lunch. And for waiter ogling.

Delicious tofu spring rolls, with a side of cute hipster...

We hit downtown Oklahoma City’s antiquing haunts hard, whisking away Fiestaware and Blenko in crazed swoops. And after each jaunt, we quietly revel in our finds, listening to the occasional tink from the plates, decanters, and teapots we’re balancing while motoring through the city’s labyrinthine highway system.

The sounds of another successful antiquing excursion.

Pretty, pretty

We’re set.

***

We stop back at Amanda’s place long enough to drop our finds and unpack the Prius. Meanwhile, Amanda makes us some bourbony-delicious drinks to help rally us for our little hike to a nearby restaurant.

(Like I’d ever tire of the eating-antiquing-drinking-eating process. It’s so, er, holistic.)

Whether it’s The Drink or reality, I decide to declare that I’m no longer allergic to cats as Hernando investigates our tall tumblers. (Hey, it’s the little revelations, really.)

Regardless, there’s food to be eaten. So the vintage glasses are emptied, coats are layered, and we walk a whole five blocks to a cool little hangout, the Cool Factor for which is amplified by the warmth oozing out of its doorways into the chilly evening air.

Well, that and the drinks.

Yay, more drinkies!

And the bruschetta.

Nom nom nom

The mac n’ cheese doesn’t exactly go to waste. 

Nothing screams "Escape from the cold!" like bubbly mac n' cheese...

Neither do the spinach and artichoke potstickers.

Plumpo potstickers

Nor do the cheese-coated chips.

Cheese-coated chips...

 Quadruple wee! And where’s my Lactaid? 

Meh.

*** 

By the time we come to a consensus that our waiter is a missing, but high, Harry Potter character, and owl calling “Whooooowhowhowhoooooo!” as he disappears with the check, we’re a little tipsey.

Which means it’s time for a walk around the University of Oklahoma.

Ghoulish campus buildings...

But it’s too cold, and Andy and I doth protest too much. Fine. It’s all me.

Soooo colllllllld.

So, it’s time to scamper back to the digs. And talk about the past, and muse about the future, and just get lost in those booze-soaked, reflective moments.

And then sleep.

***

Mornings after a night of drinking are always interesting. Mostly because I don’t know how (1) I’ll ever dress myself; (2) I’ll tame my ratnest head of hair; and (3) I’ll make any sense before coffee.

Enter: local coffee shop. 

Gray Owl goodness...

With an amazingly cool retro vibe. 

Oh hey, MCM furnishings...

Quiet sitting areas. 

Yay, MCM!

And welcoming atmosphere.  

Yay, OK hospitality!

Oh, and the coffee and peach-mango muffin ain’t half bad.

And it’s around that time that I realize that I’ve long misjudged Oklahoma. Sure, there’re unsavory parts like anywhere. But, on the flipside, it has revealed its little secrets, each of which has made me appreciate its charm all the more.

So as we putter back with coffee in hand to say our goodbyes, I have a warm and tingly feeling about this little visit.

Amanda and Andy!

Not just because Amanda is always fun and awesome and antique-obsessed and quirky in all the right ways, but because I’ve decided there’s quite a bit of stock in that adage about judging a place before you visit it.

Amanda and me!

Or is that about judging people?

Whatevs.

Onward...to the fourth leg!

Either way, there’s plenty more to be learned as we hit the road, our eyes toward the horizon and Sin City.