I was admiring a house once in House & Garden magazine, a gorgeous cottage filled with pools of sunny lemon light, yummy dark wood, just-right white walls, and very little personal touches. The overall absence of any kind of frivolity made things feel impossibly serene and I felt dizzy with longing. I eagerly read the accompanying text: the two women owners were very steadfast on what they wanted: pure beauty in its simplest form. Right down to removing the Saran Wrap from its packaging and placing it in glass holders. In fact throughout the kitchen there was nary a color or label: things were poured or stacked into identical metal tins or glass. It was very seducing this idea (not to mention time consuming) of taking away commercial labels and allowing the simple contents speak for itself with nothing distracting the eye away from the homeowner’s intended style. I imagined their sheets of toilet paper stacked elegantly in Lucite boxes: (rolls seem so gauche) or maybe they had hummingbirds fly in through the bathroom window, little white squares clasped between their tiny beaks. Or maybe these women had found a way to eliminate eliminating. I was at a dear friend’s house this afternoon. She has five children and an ice pond which is social central on winter weekends. Her kitchen is a whirlwind of food, children, and mementos of whatever holiday or birthday is being celebrated. She manages to keep it always tidy, cosy, friendly and personal, despite a constant cacophony of food, animals, aspiring ballerinas and basketball players. Window ledges burst with plants, party streamers, bird feeders, paper snow flakes, school pictures, pebbles from beaches and tiny treasures only Marina knows why they are there. The Saran Wrap is kept squarely in its original box, thank you very much. It’s there for little hands to find if they need to wrap the homemade cookies for their teacher or tomorrow’s lunch box left overs. I try to envision the two women here on a Saturday afternoon. Would they be able to handle the noise? The refriderator jammed inside with food and a jostle of music lesson schedules and calenders taped across its front? I’m thinking that once they’d accept a cup of Marina’s hot chocolate, take a seat in one of the painted wooden chairs, they’d absorb this wonderful, clashing symphony of familial rituals and habits and, how I always feel, would want to stay a little longer.