I’ve always craved being home. I used to blame it on my anxiety, genes, personality, but in it’s most simple form: I just like being at home. I was that friend that drove everyone home after a night out, that wanted to make them pancakes in the morning, that put a blanket in the back seat. Dinner is always at my house. When I was a kid, I used to cry when my cousins and friends had to leave. I was the first to always ask for them to sleep over. I begged for company, parties, a house filled with people, dim light, music, and food. My mom would come around the corner of our dining room to find me in a ball against the door frame, so upset, and say “Sophie… you have to let everyone go home.”
There’s a bedsheet and extra pillows in my closet always. There will always be enough food for everyone. I have a lip balm, bandaids, markers, pencils, and a full pharmacy in my purse at all times. It’s like the Cromwell extension charm in there- it’s never empty. That’s the thing I like about being home… it never, ever runs out.
Home to me is more than just picking the right furniture or lighting the right candle. Homemade is a culture. It’s something that is cultivated with intention, with care. I like all things crafted with care. The special thing about my home, and what I hope to share of it, is that every piece is a refleciton of myself and the safety I want to create.
This will always be a place that feels like home. I will share my meal plans, my recipe box cards, routines I have curated, spaces I’ve designed, poems I’ve written, art I’ve created, music, scents, people that fill my home. To reassure you that “from scratch” means more than just making your own salad dressing. That it’s sometimes not making your own salad dressing. That it’s taking care of yourself when things fall apart, going back to the core of the apple to find where it has rotten, to frost the cake, to light the candle, to go to bed.
My only promise is that everything will always be, has always been, homemade.