During a recent visit to a Central Kentucky flea market, I overheard a mother instructing her children: “These are antiques, so they are three times as expensive. Don’t touch anything.” Her words have been rolling around in my mind for a few days, and I must admit that I find antique and vintage pieces to be very reasonably priced. Why? For most people, “old” things are not desirable.
I am dazzled by my recent haul of “old” stuff. I brought home four vintage Limoges teacups—delicate, floral, and elegant. There are no chips, and the saucers are intact. I paid $9 each. I haven’t tried to date them or research the pattern, but I’m guessing that my teacups are from the 70s or 80s. I am tickled by the idea of sipping my morning tea from the delicate porcelain cups.
When I can get my act together to find a vintage or antique plate rack, maybe I’ll display them with the four hand-painted Limoges plates that I scored in the same booth ($6 each). These floral plates are a delight, each featuring a different flower. When I turned one over and saw that it was signed by “Maude”, that sealed the deal. Knowing the name of the artist who painted my plates makes them all the more special for me.
In another booth, I found a charming soap dish painted with violets, also made in Limoges ($7). I’m guessing that this piece was painted in the 50s or 60s. It somehow feels older than my cups, saucers, and plates, due to its patina. I’ll place it in my guest bathroom with a pretty little soap. I finished my great buying day by scooping up a set of eight embroidered napkins. They must be several decades old. I’ll bring them to the dry cleaner for a good cleaning and starching. They’ll be so beautiful during tea time!
Did I need any more cups, saucers, plates, and linens? Absolutely not. Though had I not been wandering around the flea market with my friend Shelley on that Saturday afternoon, I probably would have been spending money in other ways. All of the items I purchased would be more expensive new, and it’s unrealistic for me to expect to find the beautiful craftsmanship and handwork that are not valued as they once were. Bringing vintage and antique items into my home gives new life to pieces that people have left behind. Placed next to the newer items in my home, they create a unique style for a small price.
Inspirations
Decorating on a small budget, NYT
On the rare occasion that someone tells me they are not fond of chocolate, I wonder what is wrong with them. How could someone not love rich, decadent chocolate desserts? A chewy brownie, a slab of homemade chocolate cake, or a square of dark chocolate as an afternoon pick-me-up…
The delight in this spontaneous dinner is in its mix and match nature: a 15-minute meal built on little floral plates, purchased in flea markets and antique shops; an assembly of vegetables, herbs and cheese that I had on hand. No fiddling, no stirring, no oven! It was the happiest, most delicious meal I ate all week.
Every day, I wear stories. The stack of bracelets on my left arm reminds me of dear people, travels, and great deals scored in local antique shops. Side-by-side, the bangles, beads, cuffs, metal, and leather hold meaningful moments that span decades—my visit to the Leather School in Florence, a sterling silver bangle that Dad brought back from Ireland, two sweet bracelets made of glass beads from Mali.
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.
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?
ge chopsticks for months… two sets lovingly displayed in narrow, silken boxes. I figured the local antique shop wouldn’t sell them right away, so I hemmed and hawed. They definitely weren’t ivory—maybe resin? The floral cloisonné was dainty and delicate. I liked the weight of them in my hands. I slid them back in their case.