tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8995198144734127772024-02-07T19:04:19.898-08:00Basingstoke HomeWhat happens when a lover of decrepit villas and crumbling stone farmhouses moves into a new build? Come in and I’ll show you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-899519814473412777.post-37662554298362521412011-07-13T12:07:00.001-07:002011-07-14T13:55:29.821-07:00Before Aromatherapy There Was Bacon<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Rde6ZuOR-h2FU2IBF2pC0TtasEJ0K0Ej56Vq_go-igNDFH67vwyX6Ir0dKuSRe65IV4YUEmY5DNSZJJDwTrpBBwlOtW-VuxhStkUkZUnKG30_mXt6ooUaFiX1BWN70EWLV8BSsSCOlfc/s1600/My+Kitchen.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Rde6ZuOR-h2FU2IBF2pC0TtasEJ0K0Ej56Vq_go-igNDFH67vwyX6Ir0dKuSRe65IV4YUEmY5DNSZJJDwTrpBBwlOtW-VuxhStkUkZUnKG30_mXt6ooUaFiX1BWN70EWLV8BSsSCOlfc/s320/My+Kitchen.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628915796124191522" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcn1qNq_ep_uRBUxHosMvABF225r8JWsenboujJKtuKfMM0n3fXltVYn1khI81fH1Hy_d6P_9TuT_LiLeFtP55QCQfXjn9mHjuVdjiB_-Dae_9NP1ddc2dMtskBcoPhuq8YZDoL3FzHx3w/s1600/P6201878.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcn1qNq_ep_uRBUxHosMvABF225r8JWsenboujJKtuKfMM0n3fXltVYn1khI81fH1Hy_d6P_9TuT_LiLeFtP55QCQfXjn9mHjuVdjiB_-Dae_9NP1ddc2dMtskBcoPhuq8YZDoL3FzHx3w/s320/P6201878.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628915716007162818" /></a><br />The smells and tastes of our childhood will always bring us home. Whenever I cook bacon I can see my grandmother standing by her range. The smell of Beef Bourgogne transports me to my mother’s Christmas parties. Nights of music and merriment the likes of which I am yet to match. The taste of a Manhattan is a liquid hug from Aunt Kathy. And baked manicotti will always remind me of the kindness of my best friend’s parents, when my first attempt at a sleepover failed (at 3am). <br /> <br />When building my dream house I knew my kitchen had to be in the center of everything. It's large enough to cook for a crowd, but small enough to feel intimate and since it's open to the family room even the cook can enjoy the fireplace. I can almost see my boys smiling as the smell of ginger cookies fills the air. October can't come soon enough.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-899519814473412777.post-15975721792961005112011-07-07T17:50:00.000-07:002011-07-07T17:51:30.090-07:00Building the DreamI grew up in a kind of forgotten-looking place. A peaceful, private home set back into the woods. From the road the overgrown yard gave our home a touch of melancholy that hid the magic from the uninitiated. On the inside my home was a place filled with music, the glow of candlelight, wine, food, friends and laughter. A place where everyone felt welcome, appreciated, loved and accepted. It was perfect in its imperfection.<br /><br />While we were building my “dream” house I came to realize that it’s not square footage or upgrades that make a home, it’s our memories.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0