See that couch up there? That mammoth eight-thousand foot couch? It's been recovered twice now. Apparently, it started out a beautiful purple velvet, when my grandparents moved into this Florida condo back in the 60s. Then I came along and spilled a bottle of milk on it, causing irreparable harm and scarring my nona for life. It was recovered in some harmless (read: boring) fabric for the next few decades until my mom took charge and restored it to its original glory. This time, in a mysterious grey-blue velvet. I love it. It's an amazing piece of furniture and soooo fun to take photos on. (See, that's Amelia looking all deco glam and my thea Mary looking all... portraity.)
My mom spent a good part of last year gutting this Florida condo...a place I grew up in. It's a place where I learned how to bake tiropitas and turkish baklavah, a place I learned about my grandmother's adventurous escape from the nazis, about living under Italian occupation (not so bad) and German occupation (pretty darn bad), and about the terrible, enduring pain of a survivor. All while sitting at my nona's kitchen table, filling leaves of phyllo with feta cheese and rolling them into little flags. Surprisingly (to me, at least), I wasn't sad when my mom decided to gut the condo. I'm excited for my children to develop their own traditions and memories...which will not involve baking, because my mother does not bake. But she does like to read them books...on that amazing couch.
