Someone asked me the other day how I go to things like Christie’s and not return home with all kinds of stuff.
I told them it was because I didn’t want my house to become the cluttered, claustrophobic mess it used to be again. Which is true. What’s also true is I have nowhere to put anything else.
If I get sick of something I own I don’t really have a lot of room to “stash it” until I feel like looking at it again. I have a basement but 20% of it is filled with tools, 70% with Christmas decorations and the remaining 10% with body parts and bones. You think I’m joking. I am not. More on that in a later post.
So when I go somewhere like an antique show or flea market, I usually go with a mission. One or maybe two things that I’m specifically looking for. In the case of Christie’s antique show this year I knew exactly what I was going for.
Inspired by a room styled by Heather Bullard (contributing editor to Country Living Magazine and sponsor on this site) I knew I needed an antique egg basket.
Now, I needed this egg basket for the obvious reason … I have eggs. And pretty ones too. But I also needed a wire egg basket because I just knew in my head if I bought one, my kitchen would instantly be transformed into the picturesque retreat as seen above. I just knew it would.
Oh. I was also on the hunt for a bone coloured crock and a few wooden spoons, a blue glass thingamabob, some wooden crates, a vintage cookbook and some fresh picked, countrified produce.
I spotted the blue glass thingamabobs but for some reason unknown to me (probably cheapness) I didn’t buy one. I regret it. I found a few crocks but they had too much of a grey tinge so I didn’t buy them. Ditto on the regret. I decided I had enough vintage cookbooks, couldn’t find any spoons, and the one woman who had some fresh produce on her sandwich became surprisingly alarmed when I tried to pick a tomato off it. So I left her and her tomato alone.
After 5 hours or so of wandering around Christie’s what I *did* come home with was a belly full of french fries and a single purchase.
Not an antique, but a “vintage” (code word for oldish) wire egg basket.
It’s not my dream egg basket by any means. Yes. I have a dream egg basket. It’s a little too new, a little too perfect, a little too clean. The shape isn’t quite squat or curvy enough, but for $20 it’ll do until I find what I’m really looking for. I like the fact that it has legs on it like the one in the kitchen Heather styled. I also like that it does indeed … hold eggs.
Here’s another shot of me pretending to gather eggs in my basket.
I’d already gathered my eggs that day and from what I remember I didn’t use a cute egg basket. I just shoved them into the pocket of my hoodie.
I’m not above taking a pretty picture, but you may as well know the truth behind it.
The other sad truth is, while I’m fine with the idea of keeping the eggs on the counter in a basket, as opposed to in the fridge, the fella will have none of it. Just the thought of it sends him into fits which include (but are not limited to) pretend vomiting, actual gagging, icky faces and stomping his foot while thrusting his hand forward at the same time while he says NO in 14 different languages. Most of them made up.
So even though I know as long as you don’t wash the “bloom” off an egg you can keep it on the counter, the fella can’t deal with it. So, as I mentioned, the other sad truth is, in actuality, my egg basket will be holding fruit.
And maybe …. the odd bit of fresh picked, countrified produce.