One tends to develop this affinity when raised by a Chicago-born and bred mom who has rocked reddish blonde hair and a stack of gold rings on every finger since I can remember. My mom was fly when I was growing up, and has always adorned herself with small gold necklaces that ran like a river around her neck, marked with tiny moles, and small rings that glinted at me when facing the sun.

Among my favorite childhood memories was playing in her jewelry chest (the wooden one with 10 drawers!) and dressing up like her while she was downstairs in the living room oblivious to what I was doing. After awhile—when I was quiet for too long—she would yell up the stairs, “Nicole! Don’t lose my graduation ring!” It was a custom ring her mother had made for her when she graduated from Calumet High School on the south side of Chicago in 1978. I rarely touched it, but instead started slowly building my own collection of vintage and found objects of adornment —specifically rings and earrings—over the next 30 years. Rather than walking through all of those, I wanted to put you in to a few I’ve sourced lately over the past week.

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Does its proximity to landmarks and nice restaurants reign over elevated noise levels? Do you need the room to be equipped with a TV or is a stunning view enough? Does access to a rooftop pool and spa trump a child-free location? And does it’s place as a historic wonder among the city overshadow the fact the water pressure in the bathroom is too low for your liking?

For me, when staying someplace away from home for an extended period (4+ nights) I’m often trying to mimic the comfort of my own home or someplace that is abundantly more aspirational than my home.

There are some hotels that are very brief touch points because you’re staying for just a night or two and require minimum amounts of features and luxuries. And then there are other spaces where it becomes a part of the experience you are having in the very city that you are visiting. Whether by choice or circumstance of just aging on into my 40s, staying at any hotel that is objectively beautiful with lots of external amenities but offers little comfort within the privacy of my room is like eating an overdressed and overpriced salad.

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About twelve years ago I was upholstering a chair from a makeshift studio I had carved out of my one-bedroom apartment in D.C, when a question popped into my mind that I up this point had not asked myself before: Who taught me how to upholster and who in my bloodline did this work before?”

I thought of my lineage all the way up to the final point I could remember, which was my great-great grandparents. Questions fell like rain drops on eye lashes. Some I was able to bat away, others fell into my eye and stung a little.

Up to this point I was already two or three years into running a full-time upholstery service, and the question of where the knowledge for how to do this very laborious, tedious work lived in my DNA had never been one I considered before. But the answer in the form of a name fell like a whisper over my ear.

I remember softly starting to weep. The name rang clear as a bell: Veronica. Only I didn’t know any Veronicas in my family. And it was like a tuning rod had been struck and my hearing adjusted.

I had made peace with my calling into ancestral reverence many years prior, and like many elder Black millennial women finding a home for ourselves outside certain religious dogma we had been fed a steady diet of, I understood immediately this was a gift, and that an ancestor may be trying to communicate with me their unfinished business of making their own home.

In my line of work recreating bold furniture, there is not a week that passes where I don’t receive a DM or a comment or email from a person who engages with my work sharing that their mother or father or grandfather or grandmother used to reupholster seat cushions and make slip covers. Largely and almost exclusively they are Black women. A pastry chef from Philadelphia recently messaged saying “Our mother reupholstered ALL of our furniture growing up. All of our first apartments were furnished with pieces she’d done. She was so far ahead of her time.” At a recent workshop in Detroit a woman shared that her grandmother used to reupholster all their furniture in the house every three years, which the family only learned after upon her death. Imagine that level of intention and creation—and personal will, honestly—to make a home in the image of her imagination so deeply that she deigned to reinvent herself every three years. Dozens and dozens of messages like this every week are not a pattern but a collective remembering in unison.

If the living room was the crown, the sitting room was its jewel.

The chairs were often rounded or even swiveled which always added more whimsy. They were decorated with floral fabrics and accent pillows that a friend of a friend sewed for them and featured names of family members or children or phrases of affirmation.

I remember since I was young my mom always talking about her dream to have a sitting room day—a space where she could have her all-white sofa and white rug and no kids allowed. Twenty-five years later she got her dream and a heap of grandkids who all know “we can’t drink on grandma’s sofa.”

My mother, grandmothers and even my aunts found ways to carve out a sitting area to house conversation no matter how tiny or large the space. A small island unto ourselves where laughter and gossip and secrets and cradling one one other’s feelings could have permission to stay awhile. A lounge or accent chair with a soft, wide cushion and maybe a little ottoman to put one’s feet up were commonplace. I remember distinctly the overstuffed recliners all upholstered in different fabrics being in the TV rooms at my grandmothers. Small chrome or metal chairs with the brown leather seat and back like the kind you see in a church basement also languished here to accommodate should company stop by.

The living room sofa commanded the attention, but having a place for company—not guests—was of the highest order.

The sitting room for our mothers and aunts and grandmothers, and surrogate mothers and surrogate aunts, was a space to congregate and sink into ourselves and our relaxation, cradled by furniture we had worked hard to acquire and surrounded by fixtures and photos we drew energy from. It was the space to entertain girlfriends and long conversations past sunset on the phone or in the company of other people.

And I’m grateful I realized early in my career that I have taken up the inheritance of creating work for a new generation of women that is part of the lineage of those spaces our mothers and mother-figures loved and shaped around them. I imagine women sitting cross legged in one of my chairs in their living or bedroom or office while they read and settle their bodies into something that compliments the energy they want to cultivate.

How many of my chairs have cradled new mothers and fresh breakups? All-night work sessions around the kitchen table over wine or a soft landings after a week away on vacation? With any luck—and much support from those before me—I’ll get to spend a lifetime creating more objects of soft landings for women like myself who crave them.

Over the weekend I drove to Detroit, setting out to host the third leg of my nationwide workshop tour I’m in the midst of.

For months I had been tooling with the idea of taking a long road trip for many reasons: I’ve just left a 20-year career in journalism this past month to liberate myself from the mental strain of the news and newsroom culture and burrow further into my design studio and practice.

That transition felt like it needed to be marked with time by myself to fully sit in the magnitude of all I had done and all that lay ahead.

But more chiefly, I just love driving. I love driving fast. I love picking up friends for a roadtrip no matter the distance. Since I was a kid my family would drive 20 hours from where we lived up north to down south for the summers to visit family in Virginia and Kentucky. I have always loved the grip of the open road. The revelations found between the passing trees and the awe that spreads over the sunlight horizons. This year also marks the 100th anniversary that US Route 66 was opened, so it felt aligned to be on the road—despite these astronomical gas prices.

And alas, what better city to make an introduction to by car than Detroit?

I was also surprised this would be my first visit to Detroit. I mean, I do live in the Midwest. It’s the literal home to techno and Motown music, and where Black folk made meals out of morsels left to them from the age of segregation by settling into neighborhoods, buying homes and opening businesses for decades.

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So here I wanted to share a detailed video tutorial I created that demonstrate step-by-step how to reupholster your furniture at home with care and guidance with the hopes of you being at the helm of transforming your space within your own budget.

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Here feels like a good time to say these are in no particular order rather mostly how I recall their process and creation.

1. This fantastic Hans Wegner shell chair was the first time I had the opportunity to work with such a stunning an original Midcentury Modern piece belonging to a client. The client was based in NYC but had shipped the chair to me in DC to be worked on. They wanted it upholstered in this stunning multicolored Carriacou silk thread fabric by Pierre Frey, and I remember being absolutely terrified of wasting the fabric by cutting it in the wrong place or misaligning the pattern. It costs about $$750/yd, so no pressure at all :) This piece was the first time I had a chair go viral online, garnering over 5K likes and appeared on hundreds of Pinterest boards, which at this time in my career was akin to receiving 200K. I still get requests to make another chair just like this one.

2. My client from 5 years ago when I upholstered this chaise is still obsessed with it and so am I. This chaise design, upholstered in the Domino fabric by P Kaufmann found via Greenhouse Fabrics, was made during the pandemic at a time I was holed up in my studio working alone. Sadly the print has since been discontinued.

3. I adore this sofa. The frame I found via Craigslist and paid $10 for (no joke!). It was heavy and in gorgeous condition. I still don’t know how I jerry rigged my little Kia Soul to help get her home from a seller in NW DC about ten years ago, but city living knows no bounds. I had the design for this sofa in my mind for months. I knew exactly the shade of blue green, the buttons, the pattern, everything. I remember having a hard time finding this print until I spotted it on Spoonflower. Sadly this one also is no longer being produced! But its called Inkwell.

   

   4. My favorite style of chair ever created is the French Bergere. Wide bodied, soft, enclosed arms. This was the first chair ever designed specifically for rest and lounging. I designed and upholstered this particular one just a few short years ago on a whim in my now former studio. Very sporadically one day I decided to upholster this using two separate graphic black and white patterns. I posted the finished chair to Instagram that night and it was sold in an hour. The fabrics are Nara Onyx African fabric (on top), designed by P Kaufman and found via House Fabric but that you can now find via Fabric Warehouse And the second fabric is was originally bought via Greenhouse Fabric but you can now buy via Fabric and Home.

   5. I can’t quit the shell chair design. I’ve upholstered dozens of these over my career, but this particular one is where I wanted to stretch the possibilities for how a chair could look. I wanted this version to appear almost like a peacock, its feathers outstretched conveying femininity and power. The fabric is the Shiva Fairway print and can be found here.

   

   6. A dream sofa I worked on about seven years ago for a lovely couple. They wanted a vibrant piece that would be the anchor of their living room, and I found these gorgeous textiles made by the queen of pattern herself, Justina Blakeney. I must have been a little too giddy about using this gorgeous print because I accidentally sewed the cushion with the “wrong side” of the fabric facing and didn’t realize until I was done. The cushion was meant to be the same color and pattern as the rest of the couch, but when I sent a photo to the couple they were ecstatic about it! My momentary lapse in judgment became a happy accident and one of my favorite pieces to date. Alas, friends, this Justina Blakeney pattern stopped being produced years ago. I can’t even find a trace of it ever existing online!

   7. This horned armchair. The love of my life. A wonderful man named Christopher and his partner first reached out to me with a photo of this chair and wanted to leave the art direction up to my imagination. They offered me such a gift during this time as well because it was the end of 2020 and I was winding down my practice to begin moving from DC back to the Midwest amidst the pandemic. This chair reminded me so much of myself as an Aries, and I needed to do something bold and eclectic. I adored this stunning fern-inspired green print from Greenhouse called F1337 Cayman that has been discontinued. I wanted to contrast it with a graphic black and white print but in a smaller pattern so as not to overwhelm the curved frame. I found the perfect pattern via Greenhouse. It’s discontinued (I know!), but I found a very, very similar via Tonic Living which I also love to source from.

   8. The lady I owe so much to. When I formally created my studio under my name Nicole Crowder Upholstery in January of 2017, this was the first piece I created from my living room in a small apartment in DC. I’ve always loved to push the bounds for what a chair can look like or be constructed. Here I used linen orchids I purchased from Michael’s the craft store and stitched them to the outside back of this womb chair that I upholstered in a solid black cotton fabric.

9. In 2020 I had the great fortune to design my first commercial furniture collection with a retailer—World Market. Having a vested interest in both seeing and being a relaxed Black woman, I knew I wanted pieces that were made for lounging. I sketched a prototype for a chaise lounge that had a curved back and a shelf at the bottom so one could have their books or magazines readily accessible. I wanted it to be longer as well so that it could double as a daybed. The fabrics were designed by Morgan Fabrics. The piece caught like wild fire online, and in 2022 when the collection launched it sold out within a matter of a week. I have one in my home as we speak and use it everyday. And the fabulous film director Ava Duvernay loved it so much that I had World Market ship one for her beautiful home as well.

10. Lastly but never least, my Ivy chair. I created what I called an 8x8 collection—eight shell chairs upholstered eight different ways—and released them all for sale on one morning at 9am CST. This chair sold by 9:01. It lived and continues to roam rent free in my mind because of its use of texture, color and lines. I wanted furniture to feel sexy or at least alluring, like this sculptural piece in one’s home. It features a lime green vinyl leather crocodile print from Mood fabrics on the front and a black and white graphic line pattern called Yardley Ash from Folio Fabric on the seat. I’ve probably had more requests to recreate this chair than any other I’ve designed.

Thank you for being on the journey with me, whether you are just joining or have seen the work take many iterations over the years. I’m so happy to have you here!

In my latest post I mentioned that I’m whisking myself off to more than ten cities across the US this year to host upholstery workshops in your backyards. You can read all about them and register here if you’d like to join! I wanted to share a new series that I’m creating after each city’s visit called Field Notes…because fresh from LA a couple of weeks ago, I find myself still wrapped in the glow if what can only be called the perfect trip.

While touring is technically “work” and not vacation, I am nothing if not voracious when it comes to traveling, and plan each location so that I leave spaciousness to visit shops, eat everywhere my stomach can manage, visit old and crammed vintage stores (because I always need just one more thing), make serendipitous visits to artist studios or wherever else the wind takes me. I live by the Japanese concept of “Yutori”—leaving oneself enough spaciousness to arrive early enough so that one can take in the environment, without rush. And four days in LA saw me and my Nissan Rouge scooping up every last saucy bit of what the city offered like the last crust of bread at the end of a pasta dish.

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For the past 15 years I’ve been an upholsterer and furniture designer.

My career began from a sunny row house in the Petworth neighborhood of DC where I obsessively scoured Craigslist (pre FB Marketplace) for inexpensive furniture at 2am, and has since taken me all around the world designing custom pieces and collections for large brands across hospitality and commercial entities, retail and museums through my acclaimed studio Nicole Crowder Upholstery. Coming into the industry in the early 2000s, there weren’t any upholstery workshops within a 200 mile radius. And so I taught myself through trial and error and YouTube university how to feel my way through furniture and understand what each piece needs in order to be made new.

My signature of mixing vibrant, printed fabrics over furniture has filled the rooms of renown hotels and restaurants. My custom meditation pillows have been featured on the award-winning TV series “Insecure”. I’ll never forget that stunning overhead scene of four Black women sprawled out on a beautiful rooftop deck, relaxing among my meditation pillows.

I designed my first sold-out custom furniture collection with the retailer World Market in 2022 featuring chaise lounges, ottomans, benches and chairs named after the women in my life, and was meant for resting and lounging. I’ve been profiled by dozens of acclaimed home decor publications like Architectural Digest, Elle Decor, Better Homes & Gardens, Domino, The Washington Post, Business of Home, design milk and more, and in 2025 I participated in a year-long Triennial exhibition at the Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum in NYC called “Making Home” that centered on the impact of the Great Migration by designing over 20 furniture and home furnishing items along with my friend and designer Hadiya Williams of Black Pepper Paperie.

Within these last 15 years of helming my own design studio, twelve of those years have been spent teaching thousands of people how to reupholster and preserve their furniture—new and old, heirloom and thrifted—through intimate workshops and retreats crafted for someone who may have never approached upholstery before but has been curious to learn.

This year I’ve begun teaching those workshops through my robust 13-city upholstery workshop tour—a tour that began in Minneapolis where I live, and will take me to cities like Detroit, Philadelphia, Brooklyn, Washington DC, Baltimore, Houston, Dallas, Charlotte, Raleigh, Chicago and Oakland through all of 2026. You can sign up and register to attend in the link.

I’m fresh from hosting two sold-out workshop in Los Angeles a couple of weeks ago in early May, and am still processing the delight of teaching 40 folks how to reupholster their furniture within three hours.

These workshops were born out of my love for being in community with as many people as possible, sharing the things that I love with them, and merging that with a strong demand for access to upholstery workshops that demystifies the process and gives people an entry point. Through my years hosting and leading workshops, it’s clear folks are willing to do the grimy work of breaking down a chair and going through the tedious work of restoration if there is the promise of a transformation on the other side and the right tools to help guide them. My classes offer all of that.

Within a three hour structure, I teach you the introductory techniques for how to strip down and build back up a small chair, bench or ottoman using tools that I use in my everyday practice. Included in registration of the workshop, I provide all the tools, the fabric, the materials, everything that you need to complete your transformation. All you have to do is bring yourself and a small furniture item to work on.

You can register here to attend in a city near you.

I first introduced these workshops back in March of this year because of their reputation and demand many have already since sold out (Detroit, Brooklyn, Baltimore, and DC). But I’ll be expanding the tour to new cities next year, and will be taking these classes abroad through a wonderful travel partnership.

In a very digitally connected culture, upholstery is one way I slow down and stay present to my spirit. These workshops offer that human connection and that slowing down of time to let this centuries-old trade inspire you to give a new personality to a piece you may have held onto for years or just found yesterday. The goal of the workshops is restoration, not completion.

I’m looking forward to meeting you, to connecting with you, and to creating something beautiful together.

Nicole

Like many elder millennial who has burrowed into niche obsessions to help us cope with the late stage effects of capitalism and over productivity (Snail mail clubs! Collecting glassware! Bread baking) I have taken up collecting fragrances in painfully beautiful vessels in the pursuit of finding my signature scent. And that pursuit recently lead me through the staggering landscape of stunning and uniquely designed fragrance stores in Mexico City. But let’s be real: Mexico’s award-winning retail design in general has been leading the pack for awhile. It magnifies the natural elements around it that are part of its history so organically so that the experience is reverential and not just well curated—although it has the latter in spades.

A few months ago one of my best girlfriends, Dian, and I planned a vacation to Mexico City for a week of respite and restaurants, art and charm. (At the bottom of this post are places I highly recommend you visit to eat!). I remembered the hosts from one of my favorite podcast — Vibe Check— visiting a stunning fragrance shop in Mexico City from about a year prior that I took a screen grab of and found—making a mental note to check it out whenever I visited next. The shop was called Xinu, meaning “nose” and whose name is inspired by the Otomi language indigenous to central Mexico.

The bottles are what drew me here. Each half moon-shaped vessel at Xinu is handcrafted using local wood and craftspeople who hand blow the glass. Because sustainability is also woven into the tapestry of design, they also are meant to be repurposed when they are empty. The wooden cap becomes a stand for the glass vessel, to be used in innumerable ways.

A thing I wasn’t aware of before my visit was that tuberose was native to Mexico City. The intoxicating perennial, sweet like summer and warm like jasmine, is a frequent note in many of the fragrances here. It was floating everywhere we went in the city, including a fragrance shop in Condesa we had visited just a few hours before called Fuegia 1833, a shop that makes fragrances exclusively from plants. I bought their hypnotic Flor de Hueso as part of a sample box, with notes of tuberose, vanilla, and copal.

But back to Xinu, it was the “Aguamadre” that bewitched from the first spritz. A lusty dance of salt and smoke with mezcal and lime, cedarwood and agave. A note I wasn’t familiar with prior—guaiac wood—kept flirting with me even as I went around the table trying the five other scents. Low key I really want to be a woman whose body chemistry can carry a smoky, woody, musky scent, but in reality it’s the floral notes that seem to linger and marry well on my skin.

That’s also important to note that Xinu only showcases six scents in its Polanco location, but highlights a spacious side room featuring a different set of specific home fragrances you can only get in candle, room spray or incense form. Each and every portion of the store is Mexico-made or based. The presentation feels minimal with hits warm and muted tones of wood, sand and black onyx. But then you account for all the details of the black pillars and stands and display vessels and it’s staggering the layers.

After you’ve made your purchase and need a place to process the wave of euphoria you now feel after having found your new favorite scent here, you’ll need a place to eat. The world offers no shortage of great recommendation of places to eat in Mexico City. You can toss a stone at one of their gas stations and find a great meal. But here is a short list of places we went on our trip that I loved:

-Rosetta (if they have the sweet potato tamal, macha sauce and buttermilk dish I highly encourage it. You’ll be spooning up what’s left from the bowl).

-Feral

-Makan

-Voraz

-Cafe Nin

It feels pretty apt to kick off “Tear Jerk” and Valentine’s Day weekend with The Bridges of Madison County, a movie that never ceases to leave me weeping uncontrollably into my palms and is recommended for the yearners out there.

One second I’m starting to reupholster a chair in the middle of my living room. The next I’m doubled over with my staple gun still in hand sobbing ceaselessly, shoulder-to-ear-style on the floor. And I blame Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood for leaving me a broken shell forever in my living room in the middle of the damn day.

It was late summer in 2020 and I was working as an upholsterer in quarantine from my DC apartment. I was just beginning to start a new project for a client and doing what I usually do, which is flip through for a movie or a good series that I can burrow into to help pass the time while I work. I happened to partake in that rare past time of flipping through actual TV Guide stations instead of a streaming service and saw The Bridges of Madison County was playing on HBO Max all day. The movie was just a quarter of the way in and my instinct told me to press play.

The lore of the film— both as the book and a movie— and subsequently as an anchor among the canon of great romantic dramas in film history—is stacked. Over 19 award nominations and eight award wins among the cast and crew. If Meryl as Francesca had not already solidified herself in the 80s as the queen of the dramatic protagonists, this movie shifted the apex on which other romantic dramas are based. So much of the film’s success hangs on the pastoral planes of Iowa that the cinematography lifts, lulling us onto its dusty roads and hot, crackling old house that simmers with romance under the roof like a tea kettle on a quaint stove over the course of just four days. The fall sunlight sets the tone when the movie first starts, but the light doesn’t fully beam until Robert’s old truck makes its slow pull into Francesca’s drive way in the summer of 1960.

I admit my interest was further piqued when Robert (played by Clint Eastwood) introduced himself as a photo journalist with National Geographic magazine, largely because I came of age in my visual life flipping through dozens of National Geographic magazines and wanted to be a photo journalist or a photo editor and have made a career out of that for the past 20 years. I’d also not seen roles of photojournalists depicted in cinema without it being part of a war drama or something that they have to be killed while doing. And, if I’m being honest, I enjoyed my own brief but rapturous affair with a photojournalist many years prior to ever watching this movie, but that’s a story for another lifetime.

Watching this movie back is a bit like observing an old tintype photo or sepia-toned Polaroid. I found my eyes scanning the frame for all the details of Francesca’s hair —pinned up with just two swirling brown strands cascading lightly down her face. The silhouette of her dull yellow dress sticking to her body from the heat, but not in any vulgar way to suggest her form or shape. Her face full and seeking and curious whenever she looked at Robert, and he not yet fully aware that his life’s direction is forever thrown onto a new path.

The writing does a beautiful job of filling their characters in as outlines mirroring each each other throughout the whole time that we know them. We learn over the course of the film that Francesca is a 40-something Italian war bride who has moved to Iowa to live with her down home farmer husband and is the mother their two children thousands of miles away from the culture or the life she once knew, and miles even further from the life she imagined for herself. She’s motherly and loving, but also clever and sassy… flirtatious even, as is indicated by the way her eyes trace Robert’s figure, mouth biting her finger like she’s containing herself from tasting him while studying him like a giddy school girl when she introduces him to the bridge he wants to photograph. Or in the way she doesn’t want him to leave when he’s wrapped up his scouting shoot for the day so she invites him inside for ice tea and then later to stay for dinner, even though it would be salacious to be seen with a man in her home (small towns, you understand).

In a movie where it’s hard to take your eyes off of Meryl Streep, Clint Eastwood’s gaze holds a soft command. The helix of Clint and Clint as “Robert” adds to the sultry nature of their interactions because his eye contact commands it. A cool, confident man will never not be attractive. He’s guileless, and I love how straight he plays Robert’s character, offering no dramatic overtures of professing love or any predictable gestures that would suggest his character has any nefarious intent or wants to degrade her as a married woman. He also brings a gentle and earnest character to Robert in the way that his 6 foot, slender and silver haired frame moves through her kitchen and stretches out at her table with so much ease.He lets Francesca lead the invitations, and accepts them with warmth, humility and chivalry, but also desire. The scene of the two of them sitting under the light of her kitchen table drinking brown liquor and smoking is so sexy for many reasons: it’s the start of us seeing Francesca slowly unfurl over the course of their four days together. Her hair is loose though not fully down. Her shoes are off and she throws her head back with flirtatious laughter. Robert’s grey t-shirt laying across his body showing his tight biceps. The way they glide through each other’s stories surrounded by billows of smoke from their cigarettes the whole evening is intoxicating. As the audience this is the moment on screen we see their soul ties have already been cemented; we simply get the privilege of being dropped into the middle of their conversation, observing their auras in synch.

So much of the joy of yearning in love and movies is the anticipation of wondering— will they or won’t they? Will they kiss? Will they explore this passion? Will their paths just miss each other? Will they be together forever? The movie gingerly ushers us along through sweeping vignettes of the two of them almost in their own world save for a brief moment in public when Robert gets lunch at a diner and Francesca goes into town to buy a new dress in anticipation of seeing him again. The anticipation of how they will move closer to each other with every scene is what I found myself swooning over while I’m still seated on the floor of my living room. (The chair be damned at this point, darling). We find them leaning into the inevitable comfort of each other, Francesca’s hair slowly coming fully unfurled and flowing down her back the more she is in Robert’s presence. Her placing her name plate necklace that stayed around her neck around his as a gift. Her body language relaxed, hands less clutched together but catching the air as she walks with him. Robert takes her by the waist or the hand, pulling her in gently for a kiss in the shadow of the kitchen we forget is not their own.

We must take a moment to acknowledge the music that adds so much to the waltz we are in the middle of with these characters. I watched a documentary about the behind the scenes of the film where Clint Eastwood discusses using songs from musicians who were or felt like outsiders in their time to mirror how he saw both characters: outsiders trying to fit into foreign environments. There is that beautiful pinnacle scene where Francesca quietly enters the kitchen in her brand new off the shoulder dress and she and Robert waltz together in the moonlight to the backdrop of Johnny Hartman and Dizzy Gillespie. It’s the closest we have seen the their bodies touching up to this point.

There are so many tender moments in this film, but the tear jerk moment for me is the final act of the movie when Francesca locks eyes with Robert standing in the pouring rain in the parking lot of a gas station after her family has returned home, and the illusion of running away together has been ruptured by reality. Francesca is torn between breaking a promise of duty to her family and leaving for an unknown future with the man she loves. They have just had the crushing scene in the kitchen where she and Robert fight and reluctantly resign themselves to a life without the other.

Francesca’s husband gets in their truck to return home, Robert in his. As both trucks turn on the road to leave they stop at a red light: Robert’s truck is in front of Francesca and her husband’s, the husband completely unaware of any relation, of course. From the viewpoint inside Francesca’s truck we see Robert lean over slowly with one hand to unlock the passenger side of his truck door to signal an invitation for Francesca to join him in life before he is set to leave town. The camera pans to the strain on Francesca’s face, covered in water from the rain pouring down as she struggles to restrain herself with one hand holding on to the door handle for dear life, contemplating jumping out. It is gut wrenching to watch. The scene lingers for what feels like minutes—Robert leans over once more to hang the nameplate necklace Francesca gifted him as a reminder that he can’t forget her. The violins swell and the anticipation of will she go, will she stay renders me totally weak and I am left bawling for her, for them. She won’t go. She can’t.

I recently re-watched the movie in January of this year at 40 and now married, and the moment breaks me still because despite being happy with a partner who is deeply romantic, in my own waking life I know that crush of a love that got away. It triggers my memories of what it felt like as a 20 and 30-something who shared brief and wondrous encounters with past lovers from different corners of the world, likely fantasizing a life with them that I, too, could not know. And if I thought I had expended all my tears on this scene, Clint and Meryl told me to hold the Pabst beer for the end.

Dozens of year pass and Francesca lives her life alongside her children as they age and move out, and her husband until his deathbed where he whispers he’s sorry he couldn’t give her her dreams. And after she honors that part of herself by laying him to rest, Francesca feels free to wonder about Robert. The movie continues to slowly bury any aspiration of the two of them finding each other later in life when a box of Robert’s things arrives at Francescas’s home and we learn he has passed but has carried his love for her everyday of his life since they met. Every memento, token, and memory of her he held onto, made morsel of it. Two people from wholly opposite ends of the world share the desire to have their ashes be released over the river connected by the bridge where they met in this small town in the middle of America. The thought of a person loving you so deeply and letting their life be reshaped by the memory of you that transpired over just four days was all too much for me. I let myself succumb to wave after wave of tears at the power of that.

That is the beauty of this film—it humbly offers love as having no age, no lifespan, no destination too foreign to be reshaped by it’s hand, and thus remake you again and again. In the spirit of these winds, happy lover’s day to all of you.

—Nicole

Well, hello again. We can nonchalantly gloss over the fact that it has been exactly one year ago today since my last post here. But only a brief gloss over because I’ll be catching you up on the goings on and new finds and obsessions discovered during that time over the course of several posts coming going forward. The first of which is a gift guide of sorts with Christmas gifts and gift giving.

Despite the deluge of news that continues we continue to sift through, a thing about me (and honestly a generation of women like me)—is that we will prioritize our peace and leave everything on do no disturb if it means we can continue to revert into our millennial honey holes and hone in on our wellness and mental health. We gon’ pop on a playlist that feels like love (you can listen to my whole Chestnut Orange playlist there), a good matching set of pjs with the right bounce (baby, I’ve been wearing this Cozy Earth set out since 2021! It’s on sale today), burrow into our wine learning practice or our tinctures, shop, beautify, rest, heal and still be the most generous givers. Especially for the holidays. And because we spend a considerable amount of the year sharing recommendations and products and recipes and links to a book or useful household hack, (and good, well timed memes, thank you) with one another, one can’t help but cultivate good taste along the way.

For the last three years my family has participated in Secret Santa via Elfster, largely born out of a desire to save on overspending during the holidays but also because as working adults we were buying what we wanted for ourselves throughout the year already. I absolutely love participating, but a teeny tiny part of my over achiever brain wants to use my secret Santa’s list as ideas rather than a directive for buying the exact thing someone listed. It’s extra mental gymnastics, I realize, but I like it!

Here we go!

Homemade Black Pepper Ceramic Cone

*swoon, drool, repeat

I’ve been wanting to talk about this dang ceramic ice cream-vase-thingy for weeks! I came across it via the rabbit hole of Instagram one evening and immediately went searching for the link to buy because this is what I have adult money for. This elegant and sculptural work of art—a drinking glass/ice cream cone modeled after a call lily is made by a Black woman artist named Taryn Andre, who one scroll through her website shows she is a Renaissance woman skilled across disciplines, and whose pleasure in all of them oozes from every photo. It’s unclear if these are available for purchase or moreso an artist expressing whimsy in creating a thing for their own joy and delight, but I am sold either way.

Gustaf Westman x Mercedes Benz Chunky Plate

Speaking of whimsy, Swedish artist Gustaf Westman’s designs and color palettes feel like the dropped down from a rainbow into a story book with their chunky pastel designs. A world of chairs, serving trays, mirrors, lamps and more that seem made for children but are just imbued with Westman’s admiration for play and wonder for objects suited for adults. Awhile ago he did a collaboration with Mercedez Benz where he iterated on his own chunky ceramic designs and made a few serving platters that were modeled after the Mercedes Benz iconic symbol. A very lovely gift for truly just about anyone in your life you can think of: the hosts, the parents or caretakers of small children, the friends who have everything but always love a unique bespoke gift item that will become a conversation piece.

Jeremy Anderson Ceramic Works

This next object I cannot lie I would search under many a dusty couch cushion across the metropolitan area trying to scrounge up a few thousand dollars to own one of New York based but Minnesota grown artist Jeremy Anderson’s stunning ceramic and gold lamps from his collection Homecoming: Objects of Origin by Jermey Anderson. I learned of Jeremy’s work earlier this year through my dear friend and designer Victoria Sass who runs the phenomenal and multi-award winning studio and now gallery Prospect Refuge Gallery based in Minneapolis. Victoria has some of thee finest taste of anyone I know, and I love how reverential she approaches the curation of designers she works with. Like myself, she is deeply tied to great storytelling through visuals, and Jeremy’s work shows and tells of his journey rooted here in the Midwest.

So many dazzling ripples of stoneware, glaze and 22k gold piccolo’s and vessels, oh my! I must stare at this photo of the Cleo lamp every day so that I can manifest it into my living room one day.

Captivating and sexy and inspired all at once, they are designed with memory and landscape and architecture as their maps and maker. Which one do you desire the most?

Gohar World’s Glass Candy Utentil Rests

The definition of a product that epitomizes the phrase “Lives Rent Free In My Head”. The murano glass candy utensil rests from Gohar has roamed around gleefully on my wish list for three years now. They’re nostalgic with a subtle elegance in the best of ways. I love how they remind me of a Werther’s candy—my mother’s favorite— rolled up in our glass candy dish when I was growing up. And as a glass curator myself who loves a twee and clever design that plays on another design, these absolutely tickle me. But most importantly they’re just stunningly beautiful while also being useful.

Rare Cambridge Amber Glass Cigarette Holder + Rare Bacchaus French Crystal Glass

Speaking of great glassware, I’ve sourced some lovely pieces from my own company GLAS that would make for beautiful gifts this season. In particular I nearly jumped out of my shoes when I came across this rare Cambridge amber smoking glass—just a single one! I’ve been searching for a smoking glass with a sultry shape from the 1960s, and happened to discover this through a serendipitous trip earlier this year. It even has a curved base for holding cigarettes, spoons, forks, etc.

And for any heirloom collectors (raises hand), a woman messaged me about a rare, exquisite 5-piece set of Bacchaus crystal stemware that captures the luxury of 1970s French design. I teetered on keeping this set for myself that’s how much I love it. But the beauty of discovering so many great things is being able to share them with the world and others who will appreciate them as much. I consider you among them, friend. Happy shopping!

Whether we’ve know one another for a short time or a long time, the one thing you know about me is my love for glassware burns hot. I wrote my fascination and my collection in an earlier post here, and I’ve been a collector for years, ever since falling in love with my mom’s pieces when I was a little girl.

Sometime last year in my desire to bring more people together to gather and bond over niche hobbies and interests, I had an idea to create an in-person market where people could shop in person for glassware exclusively, and solely, displayed like the fine artwork that it is. The idea never fully crystallized (sorry, terrible pun intended, primarily just because of time and other priorities. But about a month ago, the idea came rolling back to me like wind with full clarity of the vision and the execution and its intention, and I created the shop of my dreams: GLAS: A Glassware Emporium.

The word ‘glas’ is Swedish for glass, and sounded so sharp and lovely and simple. I wanted a digital space where I could gather all of the glassware from my personal collection as well as newly sourced pieces to share with equally enthusiastic glass lovers, bewitched by the glint and light of this medium in all its iterations. I’ve been so giddy ever since conceiving this—sourcing and styling and photographing pieces around my home, getting to stretch my art director and photographer muscles once again in a more personal and robust way. It’s been one of the surprising joys, also, connecting with sellers of glassware and then going down deep rabbit holes of the history for different pieces and eras of glass and its makers. So much to explore and so much to share, and I’m thrilled that I now have created a platform to make it useful and simple to curate your own home collections through thoughtfully and meticulously sourced glassware from around the world.

Every Friday, you can find newly sourced pieces available on the website, and you can shop previous inventory to your hearts content. The prices reflect a desire for the widest range of accessibility while also honoring the quality and craftsmanship and age of the different pieces, so you will see glass that spans from $20-$150. And as an added little note, shipping is included in all prices that you see because I wanted the process of shopping to be made simple and enjoyable.

It’s a new journey for me that I am excited to be clear on and enthusiastic about, and I invite you to shop as often as you like for yourself, for friends and loved ones, for upcoming wedding registries (these vintage pieces makes such beautiful gifts!) and parties and anniversaries. There’s so many conversations to be had around glass and its symbolism, and GLAS as a living space is meant to be a catalyst for all of that. Enjoy!

BUT! This post is talk about one thing only, and that is the single best bite of food I had in New York during my three day trip—perhaps the single best bite I’ve experienced in at least three years. And I know I just went on about the seismic shift experience dining at Le Pigeon a recent post, but come closer to your screen and let me look you in the eyeball when I tell you the first bite of a black truffle pork soup dumpling at Shanghai 21 in Chinatown will make you lust for it’s salty, aromatic, soft garlic and truffle flavor for weeks. It will make you consider why you didn’t order two orders so that you didn’t have to share with your husband, and it will

However, let me back up and share how I even came across Shanghai 21 among the sea of places to eat in Chinatown.

This occasion of being in New York to debut work to the public also happened to be my husband’s first time visiting New York, and I wanted him to experience as much of the best of it that a few days could unfold. There’s always that modicum of self-induced pressure to find the best little hidden gem of a place to eat when in the city because, and rightfully so, New York’s reputation for having anything you want any time you want it is usurped by so few cities in the U.S. (though Portland is a strong challenger IMO). Mike is incredibly chill about everything, except food, of which he gets the most excited about second to sneakers. So when he said he was especially wanting to experience Chinatown, a place I hadn’t visited myself in about 10 years, I decided Instagram as my search tool wasn’t going to help me navigate where was really worth going. I needed a more vetted source that had done actual research. A Vogue article from 2021 written by Lucie Zhang called “Take a Dumpling Crawl Through New York City’s Chinatown” proved to be the guide that lead our stomachs down Canal, hooking a left on Milton and inside the flourescent lit Shanghai 21.

The description of how Chef Raymond Yip makes his dumplings—perfectly steamed using gelatin vs. pig’s knuckle broth—was the clincher for me. Accompanied by the words “black truffle”, which are like my dog whistle that I am going to order a dish regardless of what else comes with it.

We’ve eaten tons and tons of dumplings before, but to be honest soup dumplings bring more playfulness because they release flavor in a trio of dumpling, broth and filling, one after the other. That first slurp of broth from the roof of the dumpling is salacious and, the pull of soft dough with your bare teeth is sensual, and then you taste juicy pork and garlic and truffle and maybe a bit of vinegar and you find your left hand sliding down your throat trying to supress a moan. A dumpling is irresistible, whether you like meat or strictly veggie. They are made to tease because they are literal pouches concealing wondrously delicious secrets inside.

So alas, I am sick that I do not live closer to New York, or more specifically Shanghai 21, and will petition for an outpost here in Minnesota to open. Stay tuned. And in the meantime, go eat.

x

Nicole

I haven’t experienced this state of overstimulation in my body in a long long while, mostly because I had employed modalities for coping—or so I thought—like taking those baths every week, going for walks, processing outwardly in the safe keeping of my mother’s living room sofa or with a girlfriend over brunch, saying “no” to engagements, tasks, etc., digging into my bag of crystals and herbs to speak good intent over myself and blessing it with a tea concoction for stress relief. None of these techniques am I so green as to misunderstand them as miracle fixes, but as remedies to cope with every day little anxieties niggling at me, staying close enough to my body’s desire for relaxation enough to guilt me into feeling I was not worthy of experiencing it.

And then I went to dinner one evening at Tori Ramen with my partner. We live in St. Paul and have driven past this place—an otherwise nondescript out-of-commission train car on a quiet strip of West 7th—at least 100 times before even thinking to explore it. It was after one recent trip down the street where my husband googled and saw it was a noodle shop. We went by immediately that weekend.

Tori Ramen in St. Paul used to be Tori44 in Minneapolis, a glorious noodle shop in the Camden neighborhood of North Minneapolis. It served up and continues to serve speciality noodles that are free of pork but full of robust flavor combinations like the Salted Duck ramen with citrus, soy, dashi and daikon radish, or the Bali ramen with tahini, poached egg, chili and fried leeks. You might mistake Tori—as we did— for a place serving seafood or classic American fare because of the anchor on its logo, but what is St. Paul if not a jewel box of a city with hidden gems that ask you to invest time in unearthing them?

Inside, Tori unveils one of the coolest train cars-turned-dining space with dark wood accents, hanging plants and one of the best cocktail bars in the city. Elaborate and ornate wallpaper vibrantly colors the walls, making the space feel larger and more open than it appears from the outside, and vintage stain glass lamps line each table. Everything is made from scratch, nothing goes to waste.

But about the ramen, because that is what brought both you and me here today.

I waffled between the Korean ramen and the Oxtail because you get ramen in order to be cradled by hearty, fatty flavors. I found myself trying to contemplate how I really felt about oxtail—the food most associated with Caribbean cuisine—being used in a ramen dish that cost $30, knowing how much oxtail has been co-opted and up-charged in upscale dining over the past decade. But I really fucking love oxtail, and so I ordered it. And it’s amazing how one of the best bites of your life allows your brain to forget. Forget what the question that preceded it was. Forget whatever dilemma felt more urgent just a minute before. Forget I’ve been eating crumbs and small meals during the week so that I didn’t cut into being “productive” too much. Forget that I’ve been so preoccupied with inhaling that I forgot to exhale…

I devoured that bowl, the smoky heat of black garlic chili peppers and sharp scotch bonnet leaping from my lips with each inhalation. Tender noodles swirling drunkenly in a broth of sesame, chili, onion, radish and herbs. Beautifully braised meat, soft and both sweet and savory on my teeth. The spice was so intoxicating it made me euphoric, simultaneously wincing from the heat and giddy from the rush of flavors to the head, tossing it back, laughing to keep from crying while a tear sprung up in my left eye anyway. Because it needed to.

Something about that experience of being so present in my body, moving to get both from under the heat and closer to it, turned on a lightbulb in me. I must have forgotten that in order to shake off my ghosts I only needed to move. Move my body physically, my hips to let loose the tension blocking safe passage for my pleasure. Free my throat by letting the vibration of my shouts—whether of jubilation or frustration—free from my lungs. Remind myself that my feet nor my feelings were tethered to their current station to grow weeds.

I left dinner that night thinking of all the delicious ways I would untether myself from feeling stuck and start to break up whatever was forming a solid knot inside of me. And so, I’m off to my first cupping appointment as we speak for some body work to relax my muscles, and I have plans let my body and mind flow like a noodle in a bowl of delicious broth for awhile, becoming loose and tender.

Earlier in the Spring of this year I serendipitously came into possession of a massive plastic bin filled with antique and vintage silver dating back to the early 1800s. The silver, I learned, belonged to a well-known family here in St. Paul who at one point in its history owned several of the city’s prominent restaurants and eateries.

The seller of this silver was the family’s grandson.

Now, I’ve had many fantasies in my antique-hunting life of happening upon that one rare and mismatched piece of jewelry or antique that is selling for $8 but is actually worth $15,000, but serendipitously meeting an antique dealer eight blocks from my apartment who was storing bins—literal bins!— of 19th and 20th century silver wasn’t one! But amen.

I had actually been looking for flatware to be used in an upcoming Smithsonian museum exhibition that I am part of with Cooper Hewitt and sourcing for. What I didn’t realize was that my pursuit of silver was also pursuing me, and would become my most desirable meditative practice that I look forward to as I let the remnants of the day slip away. In the audio of this post, I’m sharing my materials and process for polishing silver, but of course there are many approaches one can take.

This video overlaid with audio from one of my favorite songs “Want U” by Jeremy Pope, shows my process for polishing silver and the polishing material I use Weiman’s Silver Polish.

Nicole

This past weekend Fall quietly laid her coat across the couch and placed her boots on the shoe rack to announce she is going to settle in and stay a while. We have entered my favorite season whereby we collectively switch over from simply using lotions and oils and begin baste ourselves in butters—creamy, thick but light and heavenly-scented butters—to become vacuums for moisture as best we can. And I’ve recently come across a luscious brand that is absorbing far more than my coins.

Much like lip gloss or chap sticks, my tubes and bottles of body butters lie littered throughout my personal and private spaces for ease of access: there’s the bathroom sink butter, the bedroom dresser tub, the nearly-empty hand creme at the bottom of my purse, one hidden at the back of the kitchen junk drawer, the coat pocket butter, and because I’m commuting into the office a few days a week now, there’s one in the glove compartment. Because I shant be out here in a Minnesota winter like my hands been tossing flour all day. Still with all these little locations and compartment, I’m convinced two of three of these tubs conspire to get lost almost monthly.

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Thus my happy sojourn to one of those magical gourmet food stores that doesn’t have aisles so much as vignettes and corners stocked with specialty foods and oils and soaps and spices from small vendors this past Sunday. In St. Paul there is such a place called the Golden Fig Fine Foods, a charming necessary gem in a charming neighborhood that feels like you are discovering a little corner shop down a side alley in Paris. While perusing, I picked up the scent “Ocean & Oakmoss” by the brand Formulary 55, and lightly inhaled a serene but deep expression of the ocean and salt, aloe and sunflower. I love a body butter that has soft notes of flowers and herbs but doesn’t sting your nostrils the moment you inhale because it’s so sharp and unbalanced it blows your senses. The Ocean and Oakmoss was already delicate, and then I spread a bit on the back of my hand and was elated to feel how it absorbed into my skin rather than just sat on top like an oily film. I’m weary of moisturizers categorized as “silky” because I’ve found that to mean my fingers are coated in a greasy residue that makes my skin feel slippery, not well hydrated.

Made in Colorado, Formulary 55’s scents come in bath soaps, hand creams, body butters, masks, mists and candles. The body creams run about $24 for a 4oz, but because a small amount goes a long way in moisturizing, you can maximum each jar. Or do like me and buy one for every crevice of your space.

Nicole

For a year I’ve kept a burning secret in my little antique-loving heart. Doing upholstery in the style that I had been for years—bold, mixed and vibrant patterns— the #1 question I’ve always been asked is “Where do you find your fabrics?” And for years I shared those resources to my favorite brick and mortar and online fabric haunts freely because I feel everyone should enjoy access to beautiful things.

But there is one magical place I will admit to you, dear reader, that I have kept clutched to my chest like a babe in a swaddle (honestly, more like Gollum with that damn ring, is probably more accurate) because I didn’t want to miss out on the spoils should they be gone before I could return! But now, on the occasion of the one year anniversary of the weekend of my initial visit to this place, I’m ready to share. I NEED to tell somebody or I’ll burst.

I happened upon this creaky little establishment during a beautiful fall drive through Minnesota while staying out at a friend’s cabin that made me gasp, and with wide eyes say to myself, “Oh, I don’t know if I’m going to tell anybody about this place.” The experience of discovering it for the first time felt like it was out of a movie, down to the squeaky base boards and literal hidden door past a dark hallway that the owner had to push open like we were in Jumanji stepping out of the bedroom and into a mythical jungle. The shopkeeper, with her small frame and joy creeping through the soft wrinkles around her eyes, pushed the door back and revealed a room filled wall to wall, floor to ceiling with fabrics. Rolls and rolls of it. It was Narnia. My Narnia. The floor fell away and I turned to the shopkeeper and whispered “You and me are best friends now.”

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Not too long ago one of my girlfriends, an incredible ceramist named Kemi Schleicher, debuted a gorgeous set of espresso mugs via her Instagram, and my affinity (mild obsession) for tiny things shot through the roof.

I first discovered Kemi’s work for myself in 2022 when I interviewed her for a magazine I was working for, along with the pottery collective she was part of at the time made of Black and Brown women and non-binary potters in Minneapolis. We struck up a friendship after that and I adore her and her beautiful work. Next to glassware, my mug collection is a treasured thing of beauty at home. Though I have we will never say way too many, I get attached to one mug for weeks. Kemi’s is currently the it girl of my cupboard.

I was having a conversation with a friend recently about whether we prefer our mugs with or without a handle, and after deep existential thought and mulling a la Frasier Crane, I decided handless is my preferred technique. I always want to be as close to heat as I can be, and cupping a hot/warm curvaceous vessel fulfills my hygge fantasies of swaddling and being swaddled by something. I will have hot tea on a 90 degree day, and I will cup it. I also like that it encourages my inner hermit to be sat instead of walking around with an object because it’s been made portable vis a vis a handle.

A mug with a handle, while efficient and arguably safer, has too many variables: will it only fit two or three or four of my fingers? They are generally made from clay or porcelain, so the likelihood of the poor handle breaking is higher and thus rendering it useless. And, of god!, we can’t forget the crisis of the handle being on the opposite side that allow you to hold it so that the mug’s text is facing outward!

But I digress. Friends, what say you? What is your preferred way to hold a mug? And while you ponder it, equally steeped in an endless loop of options, buy Kemi’s mug.

Nicole

I’m someone for whom an atmosphere’s aesthetic—from the smells to the texture and quality of the fabric, to how much the space feels full or empty—allows me to ease into a place or not. When I am preparing a bath for myself in the evening, I’ve made it a ritual whereby I set the mood by lighting a few candles, filling the bath with water just short of scalding with a bath mixture laced with a few drops of essential oils and a playlist or podcast. The finishing touch is always lighting a single stick of incense to put a punctuation on the ambience.

Up until March 2024 I had been experimenting with various brands of incense, and was generally satisfied with the calming energy of them all. That was until a revelatory experience during my bachelorette trip to the Dominican Republic, where one of my dear girlfriends, Karen Attiah, a connoisseur of fragrances and parfums and whose taste I trust, introduced me and the group of women to the pleasures in the aromatherapy of Japanese incense. It was during one of the evenings where we were all gathered in her hotel room dressed in caftans to talk about single hood and played games that revealed salacious secrets. Entering her room, sweet floral notes brought me to attention. All I could think about was having the scent as close to my skin as possible. I wanted it under my skin. Karen sent the link to the brand and I bought several boxes as soon as I got back stateside and haven’t looked back.

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For the first time, revolutionary brand Bottega Veneta will publish its first fanzine inspired by Creative Director Matthieu Blazey’s sublime Summer ‘24 collection, and will make the publication available free-of-charge in all Bottega Veneta stores, as well as select bookstores, around the globe.

The publication showcases the photography of Alec Soth, a Magnum and Minnesota photographer who photographed the campaign in Utah and Nevada through lush behind-the scenes imagery, sketches, and a travel notebook for readers. Also available in each fanzine are prints from the prolific collage artist Judy Bowman.

Looking forward to acquiring a set for my coffee table, though it is already screaming for me to get another hobby ;)

Nicole