If the past few months have taught me anything, it’s that I need very little in the way of stuff. I suppose that intellectually I always knew this to be true; I’ve lived at plenty of times over the years out of a backpack or a camp trunk or a suitcase—but those were always brief interludes to normal life. These days, 90% of my belongings are crammed higgledy-piggledy in a storage unit somewhere outside of Baltimore. I think (fingers crossed!) that most of my clothes and books and…well, everything I own…is still there, but for the first time ever, movers packed it up (unsupervised) so I can only hope and cross my fingers and toes.
In theory I associate home with the presence of all my physical things, as they’re the manifestation of years lived and possessions accumulated: my drawer full of neatly folded winter sweaters, a pair of Carhartt overalls stuffed in a box alongside dozens of wool scarves and hats, many (many many many) shelves of books, my baking pans (including at least 5 Bundt pans, a heart-shaped brownie pan, a MaryAnn pan—yes that’s a thing—and a tortilla press), dozens of water glasses and mugs and the Riedel “O” glasses we use for wine, a worn leather J.Crew tote, my sleek navy Yves Saint Laurent muse bag with its shiny gold hardware, stiletto heels in every height and color, a camel-colored pea coat and tangled piles of jewelry and the South Sea pearls my dad brought me back from Hong Kong and the white linen armchair I carefully selected for the nursery.
Clip-in bike shoes and a miniature carbon fiber bike for a (not-yet) toddler and a yoga mat and a foam roller. Nars lipstick in three shades of crimson and Chanel Eau Fraiche perfume and a heavy curved glass jar of thick, creamy Acqua di Parma lotion—luxuriously scented with Calabrian jasmine and tuberose and pink pepper and mandarin blossom. The organic mascara I like.
Blue patterned pillows and my worn teddy bear Sarah—still with me (since age 3), though now rubbed threadbare in places—and a bag full of knitting supplies with a half-completed blanket in Lilly Pulitzer neon pink. Two decks of playing cards with the jack of spades missing and a pair of carved wooden elephant figurines my mom made me for Valentine’s Day.
All those things, and much more, have been packed away for months. Instead, I have a pile of summer clothes folded on a shelf above the laundry basket—mostly t-shirts and shorts with a few running clothes, swimsuits, and sundresses thrown in the mix. I haven’t worn anything but Birkenstocks or slip-on white sneakers in months. I have a weekend-home-amount of books and kitchenware, although my baking gear situation is pretty good (Escali scale and navy KitchenAid stand mixer at the ready, and so on).
Unsurprisingly, what I’ve come to realize is that anywhere can feel like home. The obvious answer there is that family makes it so—as can connecting to the physical [outdoor] space (hiking the hills and swimming the beaches and walking the woods all give you a sense of rootedness).
But there’s more hidden between those two extremes (one being ‘you need all your physical stuff’ and the other being ‘you only need people and space’). I’ve found that certain small and ordinary items go a long way towards creating a feeling of home. Some of them could be termed “stuff” but they are minor and unassuming, unlike an entire collection of all your worldly possessions.
First, art. My walls at the moment are mostly white white white but there are a few photographs and bits of art hung up, all of which make me extraordinarily pleased every time I see them. In the kitchen hangs an oversized photograph in a white wooden frame of a beach and turquoise ocean from above—tiny colorful umbrellas and beachgoers dot the sand and waves.
Upstairs there’s a floating frame with a picture—taken by a coworker who’s a very talented hobby photographer—of a canoe sitting on the surface of a placid New Hampshire lake at night, the dark sky brimming with stars, thousands of pinpricks of light visible in the photograph.
I’ve hung a gallery wall of art in the bedroom: a collection of images that just…make me happy for various reasons. Black lettering in one reads in big script good vibes only. Another is an image of a table at a bakery crammed with croissants. Another is a photograph of a crooked little street in Rome. There’s a print of bright green palm fronds, a colorful world map, a tiny handpainted image of a storybook-esque storefront in Tokyo, and a big rectangle of black and white polka dots.
Second, scent. I read a piece of advice on a blog once that suggested traveling with a candle and lighting it in hotel rooms or AirBnBs to make it feel like home. (SIDEBAR HA REMEMBER HOTELS? I digress.) I like the scent of Pantene Pro-V shampoo and Malin + Goetz rum lime hand soap and Mrs. Meyer’s peony all-purpose cleaning spray. I like the smell of garlic or onions sautéing gently in olive oil, as well as the smell of brownies or banana bread baking. All very familiar. Very comforting. Very much like oh yes, here we are at home.
A garden makes a place feel like home—being able to eat a few things you’ve grown, and being able to pop into the backyard instead of out to the store for zucchini and basil and thyme.
This summer’s cherry tomato crop has been especially productive. The vines are tall and messy-looking, listing precariously to the left after a few severe storms, but still heavy with fruit nonetheless.
One can, of course, eat a near-endless quantity of cherry tomatoes straight from the vine, but it’s also nice to make use of them in various ways. I put them in salads and frittatas and pastas, as one does, but the other day I did my favorite dish yet using them.
Dish is a generous term for it—it’s really merely a condiment (though condiments are nothing to scoff at).
Here’s all you do: cook the tomatoes down with a pinch of salt and some water until the skins burst and the juices thicken, turning the entire dish jammy and soft. The consistency ends up somewhere between a ketchup and a chutney—I spread it on top of burgers along with some arugula, but it’d be great on everything from sandwiches to a cheesy cheddar breakfast biscuits topped with scrambled eggs to pizza to rice.
Be sure to taste your tomatoes—if they’re quite sweet raw, as mine were, you’ll want to go heavier on the salt since the jam ends up being even sweeter as it cooks down and the salt helps balance it all nicely.
Cherry Tomato Jam
3 cups cherry tomatoes
1/2 to 1 teaspoon kosher salt, to taste
1/4 cup water
Add all the ingredients to a large skillet set over medium-high heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the tomatoes burst and begin to release their juices. Turn the heat down to medium-low and continue to cook, mashing the tomatoes slightly with the back of a wooden spoon, until the juices thicken and the entire pan takes on a jammy consistency, about 10 minutes. You may need to add a bit more water if you find it’s getting too thick too quickly.
Remove from the heat and cool before using. It’ll keep for a week or so nicely in the fridge.