On Saturday, we went to an estate sale in a much fancier adjoining neighborhood to see if we could carry away any treasures. We mostly go to these sales to be nosy in old houses. A lot of good stuff is usually gone by the time we manage to stir ourselves and show up, but you really never know; plus the things I like to buy (random china saucers, vintage table linens, obsolete household tools) are not at the top of a lot of other shoppers’ lists.
The house in question was built in 1912. It seems to have been added on to at least a couple of times, giving it a rambly Winchester Mystery House vibe minus the spookiness. The sale was quite picked over already. We heard one of the staff say that the owner had taken a job at the London School of Economics, which provided context about what was and wasn’t on offer. I don’t know a lot about the real estate market of London and its immediate environs, but I can’t imagine this person will find a 6,000 square foot house on two-thirds of an acre for $785,000, such as they had been enjoying in Cleveland. Some downsizing was probably in order, which explains the fire sale on things like a conference table, a Peloton bike, a lot of large-scale art, and more chafing dishes than you could possibly know what to do with.
There wasn’t much in the way of old table napkins, but I did find some linen placemats embroidered with bunnies, which seemed fitting considering our backyard home for unwed bunny moms. (Someday another person will pick over these placemats at my own estate sale whilst my ghost hovers above them and says, “Good luck getting those beaujolais stains out.”)
But in an upstairs bedroom, we found a real treasure: a 1926 Humphrey Radiantfire #60, a little brass and cast-iron fireplace insert of the type that used to be in our 1925 bedroom fireplace. Whatever used to be there has long since been replaced with some oddly heavy faux logs. We aren’t going to hook the heater up to the capped-off gas line, but we are very happy to have it sit there and look the part.
The last time we went to a neighborhood estate sale, we had to wait in line directly behind three of the worst people in the world. It was one of those times where you are with your spouse and the two of you are overhearing a conversation that you know you will discuss later, but are too proximate to the participants to do much more in the moment than give each other extremely meaningful looks and trade very expressive eyebrow signals. (This is actually one of the ways you know you are married to the correct person.)
These three people included a married couple, probably in their 50s, and a woman who was there on her own; I assume they struck up a conversation because they were immediately able to establish affinity through their plumage and sociological cues, like rare exotic birds, except instead of birds, it’s pretentious dingdongs. The woman in the couple was wearing very dark sunglasses and too much red lipstick, and in my memory, she was wearing a fur coat, although I don’t think that can be right because it wasn’t that cold outside. (Just picture Leona Helmsley.) Her husband was unremarkable other than being physically unable to stop talking or to talk at a normal volume, which is how we learned that:
He drinks a lot of really good red wine
His house is furnished “real traditional”
He works hard, so hard in fact that he will probably die standing up at work, you won’t catch him lying down on the couch for a nap, ever
I think we can agree this guy’s life sounds very cool!!!
He also mentioned a number of times that they were waiting for their son and his fiancée to show up and join them, and that, can you believe it, his son’s fiancée looks and acts exactly like his wife?? Okay sir, that is a) very weird of you to mention and b), based on the short time I’ve spent getting to know you via the metric fuckton of BS you’re spouting, ZERO PERCENT SURPRISING. (When the son and lookalike fiancée showed up, his parents eagerly allowed them to cut the line in front of 20 or so people who’d been waiting for an hour. Also zero percent surprising!)
The third woman gets lumped in with these two because, when they were discussing how much they all dislike a local French restaurant (which they repeatedly called a “Michelin-starred” restaurant – reader, no restaurant in Ohio has or has ever had a Michelin star), loudly declared: “It tastes like they cook everything in FISH LIQUID!!!”
Fish Liquid bothers me to this day, and I will be haunted by it forever. I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS:
What did she mean!
No seriously what was she talking about?
Did she mean fish broth?
Did she order fish??
Was it bouillabaisse?
WHY DOESN’T SHE KNOW THE WORD “BROTH”
Obviously, I was hoping we would see all of these people at the estate sale on Saturday, but alas. It’s probably for the best, as I suspect my interrogation of Fish Liquid would not yield any satisfying answers to its many, many mysteries.
It is now full-on burn your epidermis off summer here and I have adjusted my weekly dinner plan accordingly. This week I’ll make the Barefoot Contessa chicken salad (with red grapes instead of green, be serious Ina!!), a pork tenderloin with the quinoa salad I make 100 times a summer, and the New York Times’ easy chicken tacos, which are indeed very easy. All of these can be accomplished on the grill or the stovetop and will bring us into the Friday holiday with minimal fuss. I usually really enjoy finding new recipes to try, and, yes, I’ve recently added at least 148 salad recipes to my Instagram saved folder, but it’s just too hot for novelty. The world is too the world. Phoning it in can be a strategy.
Last week, I made Adeena Sussman’s no-churn ice cream with the last of our local CSA peaches and crumbled ginger snaps. I do have an ice-cream maker attachment for my KitchenAid mixer but I haven’t put it in the freezer for the summer yet, so I was forced to punt. And truly, when ice cream is the result, who can care about the process? Certainly not me, I am too busy fretting about Fish Liquid.