A Home in Ruins

Yesterday I went back to the Historical House with Benedict Ambrose to pick up a bag of utensils and ingredients for making our traditional Easter Sunday breakfast. He went straight to his office, and I went up the old servants' staircase, as usual, to the attic. The slightly musty smell was discouraging, but at least my slippers were waiting for me under the hall chair, where I left them last time. The slippers are necessary because various carpets have been pulled up and occasional floorboards removed.

I clandestinely straightened up the place while we still lived in a hotel in the neighbourhood, over a month ago, but workmen have gutted the bathroom and moved our furniture out of the way of their operations, which seem not to have taken place for a week--except for the removal of the bathroom sink. It is very odd to see your bathroom without a sink. I think the sink is now on the floor of the guest room, aka my dressing room. My actual dresses are on a coatrack in the front hall--with the exception of my wedding dress, which--thank heavens--was in a wardrobe in my office when the Deluge occurred. 

The air was and cold and dank. Very depressing. 

I have been thinking about what makes a dwelling a home when you or your family don't, in fact, own it. If you're not allowed to alter it in any way, with paint, or wallpaper, or new fixtures, let alone ever light a candle or permit a guest a quiet smoke, how is it a home? 

My conclusions are that what makes a home are the memories that you create in it, which in the case of a family could begin with the first family meal there and perhaps a toast to the new dwelling. The attic of the Historical House teems with memories, from my first visit almost ten years ago to the departure of Polish Pretend Son and Daughter-in-Law-to-Be the day before the Dreadful Event. 

Memories of the Historical House involve a lot of parties and a lot of visits. This may because we don't have any children, and suddenly I am reminded of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Oh dear. Not a good analogy. No wonder B.A. doesn't want me to get a pug. 

Last Easter was utterly splendid because the house was so full of guests I am not sure where I put them all. I am astonished now to recall just how much I cooked and baked. Polish Pretend Son, who is very anti-sugar, nevertheless kept cutting and eating slices of mazurek krolewski with a greed that filled me with cook's pride.

It was an extra-merry Historical House weekend, first because one of our friends got married on Easter Monday, and second because Benedict Ambrose seemed to have cheated death. It is, of course, a great mercy that none of us knew B.A. and I would soon be fighting for his life, through the long and frightened months, and that the following Easter we would be squashed into a tiny flat meant for weekend tourists.

I am not sure what the moral of that story is except to say that it is a good thing to surround yourself with friends and family, when you can, and cook them splendid meals, when you can, because later you might not be quite so lucky.

Another moral is to try to make the best of disaster and salvage what you can from the wreckage, even if that is just a baranek (lamb cake) pan and a jar of marjoram for Easter zurek. This reminds me that I must get off the sofa and buy some butter, so that B.A. and I can at least have a decent Easter Sunday breakfast, poor childless couple that we are.

And while we reminisce about our splendid Easter breakfasts of the past, we will hope for equally splendid Easter breakfasts in the future. Perhaps in time we will even look fondly on our little sojourn in the city centre. In a few years, we won't remember that our stay was cramped and lonely; we will probably think of it as quirky and charming.