I used to daydream about ballgowns. My house was just a place to live. But these days I find myself more often imagining spaces – albeit probably as fantastical as silver lace and parures.
For now, Significant Husband and I retain both our places, one in San Francisco, one down on the Peninsula. I confess, I don’t think I’m a forever suburbs person. Doesn’t a little place in the city, with a view, and maybe a deck, the streets outside for walking and seeing people, sound kind of perfect?
But then, in the deluxe version of the dream, wouldn’t it be also wonderful to have land in the country, with a view, and light, oh wait, and fields and streams and of course a swimming pool? Assuming that family members all built teeny houses and drifted in and out of each other’s living rooms and porches and kitchens, looking for vinegar? Why vinegar comes to mind I do not know. Dreams are like that. Or maybe just one big kitchen that we all used? I see stone counters, olive oil, baking bread, lettuces from the garden with roots still covered in dirt. Cheese. Wine.
Were money no object, I’d start here, in Sonoma.
But a slightly more reasonable option, by California standards at least, would be acreage further inland. That’s a river in the distance.
We’d live in houses like these.
Imagine a big central space, with outdoor patio, a grill, and a pool. Littler houses, pods almost, surrounding. And the infinite California sky. The smell of a warm hillside covered in grass burned dry. More complicated than ballgowns, but far easier to share. I also keep imagining a multi-colored row of Crocs by the back door. A telling detail, is it not?