Our dining room takes on less importance this time of year even though it sits right in the middle of the house.
In fact, the room is also a passageway. So even if we are taking more meals outside, the space is something of a foyer.
It's a two-edged sword. Either it makes a wonderful area to showcase some fine display or someone drops by the minute you have unloaded the car onto the table.
One way or the other there's usually something of interest accumulating at this 'command central' location.
My chippy iron candelabra is very versatile and able to stand alone or hold fruit, flowers, or what have you, in a mostly overstated way.
Ditto, this commodious tea pot, which holds flowers as often as anything else.
I really enjoy covering my table with the texture of a white quilt. I also like the thick foundation for the tableware.
I have a motley collection of kind of busted up transfer-ware taking up space all the time. In her former home my mom-in-law kept a blue transfer-ware tureen on her kitchen table at all times which she referred to as her 'office'. (It's mine now.) It corralled stamps and a letter opener and such, and I have copied that here.
An empty platter asking the existential question... With what will I be filled?
A decorative tureen perhaps. Candles, shells. Even something edible.
Smooth and delectable white shells.
The dining room also showcases my habit of overdoing the hanging of plates.
Details, details.
What is more delightful in the universe?
My tureen keeping its contents hidden in plain sight!
This tiny vessel was surely part of a pitcher and bowl set in some past life and is my newest little treasure. Cost-- $1.50. Cheer factor--priceless.
Unflinching under scrutiny.
Dining room ablaze.
A calm and serene sea of stitching.
"She looked up... and saw the room, saw the chairs, thought them fearfully shabby.... Never mind, the rent was precisely twopence halfpenny; the children loved it;... and there was room for visitors. Mats, camp beds, crazy ghosts of chairs and tables whose London life of service was done--they did well enough here; and a photograph or two, and books. Books, she thought, grew of themselves. She never had time to read them... At a certain moment, she supposed, the house would become so shabby that something must be done... things got shabbier and got shabbier summer after summer."
Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
Ciao! Thanks for stopping by!
Jacqueline
Please visit Faded Charm for more WHITE WEDNESDAY!
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