I have some minor hoarding tendencies, mostly involving excessive amounts of books and clothes. But when it comes to decorating for the holidays, I prefer a clean, streamlined, and muted look. A few strands of twinkling white lights, some live greenery, and a dozen or so ornaments compose my Christmas décor most years.
This hand-painted ornament is always a sentimental and aesthetic favorite. Quimper faïence (hand-painted pottery) comes from Brittany in Western France. The art dates to the early 18th century, and it is emblematic of Brittany. Each piece is signed. Motifs include traditional dress and florals, like the one I feature in this post.
My thoughtful aunt Susie gifted this treasure to me years ago, and each time I slip it from its velvety pouch, my mind returns to our visits in France, Italy, and the Midwest. Cool and heavy in my hand, this art piece also connects me to the artist who carries on this Breton tradition, as well as to friends from Brittany who have passed through my life over the years.
I admire minimalists for their empty closets and the clean looks they create in their homes. I am not ready to significantly shorten my book stacks, nor am I prepared to thin out my extensive scarf collection. Yet I emulate their restraint through my commitment to holiday minimalism. My light touch keeps me from feeling bogged down by Christmas “stuff.” Each of my ornaments holds a story, which allows me to enjoy the season all the more.
My former student and friend Maggie Heine of Louisville, Kentucky kindly agreed to contribute to Creative Sanctuary this month. Her thoughtful piece celebrates autumn, rooibos, and wanderlust. Thank you, sweet Maggie!
In 2010, while living in France, I hosted Thanksgiving for 24 American college students. Our “Franksgiving” celebration was boisterous and joyful. My students decorated my apartment with handmade construction paper leaves and turkeys. I cooked for days in the rickety Strasbourg kitchen—green beans, apple and cabbage slaw, winter squash. Students contributed favorite family casseroles, approximated with French market ingredients. I had rotisserie chickens delivered to the apartment on Garlic Street. It required a lot of planning, coordination, and energy to pull off “Franksgiving.” That fall, I gained a deep appreciation for the beautiful and large family meals my grandmothers, mother, and aunts have hosted over the years.
During my last visit to Paris, I spied a few of these messages of love, all sprayed by the same hand. They delighted me. Moving about Paris can be stressful, especially given the security measures of recent years—more soldiers, more police vehicles, more security checks. In short, more fear.
When I entertain, I almost always favor savory over sweet. I’d rather linger over a few small bites before dinner than serve a rich dessert after dinner.
Flea markets are therapeutic. My eyes do the initial sifting as I make my way down the aisles and through the booths. When I am drawn to an object—a hand-painted tray, a copper planter, a Limoges teacup—I approach for a closer look. Where was it made? What is its story? Can I make space for this object in my little house?
Oh, how I’d love to slip away to Melbourne for a weekend! Alas! Quick visits to Australia are out of reach for most of us in the Northern Hemisphere. But all is not lost. My memories and pictures bring me back to the mosaic floors of Melbourne’s elegant covered passages and its iconic street art. And in my Kentucky kitchen, I revisit a stunning meal shared with my good friends Stephanie and Jeremy.