As a child I used to imagine moving out before my thirtieth birthday with a kind, handsome husband who would remind me of my father in every way. He would be able to build a shelf, hang a picture, fix broken heating in the middle of a snowstorm and carry a heavy basket of logs to light the fireplace when it rained. I know—those were pretty traditional dreams for a kid of the Eighties.
I always pictured a house in the countryside. That setting has always felt essential to me: a life surrounded by nature, not bothered by muddy shoes—well, maybe my mum was, since she had to clean—or by long trips just to buy bread or butter. In my tiny village you can even buy eggs from the farmer at the end of the street.
In a few weeks I’ll take the plunge. After last year’s life changes—a new job and a new project—this year it’s time to move. Being Italian, a mummy’s girl and fond of the countryside, I won’t go far: I’ll make a short walk, just the dozen steps from my parents’ house to the entrance of my future apartment. Same view, same air, the same lime trees that scent the summer evenings, the same light for my photos and even the same street number. But this time it will be my own place.
I’ll be entirely on my own. Part of me is excited: imagine waking beneath a fluffy duvet, padding around the house in anti-slip socks, working in the kitchen and not worrying about putting everything away immediately—thanks to the second-hand dishwasher I’ve inherited. The quiet and freedom are thrilling.
On the practical side, everything feels new, big and inevitably expensive. Nothing can be split cost-wise like it could in shared living: you buy the sofa, I buy the bookshelves. Since I won’t be sharing, I decided to invest in a quality oven and hob. You can decorate with thrift finds, but the oven—well, I want it reliable, efficient and nicely designed. For me it’s already a focal point of the home; I joke that there could be guided tours. The bathroom window’s view is a bonus my friends agree is worth the price of admission.
From childhood fantasies I keep the countryside and, thankfully, my father. In place of the imaginary husband from those dreams, he has stepped up: sawing here, bricking there, installing pipes and building the kitchen to measure for my job, my cooking classes and the boxes of molds and pots currently stashed under my bed. He plans to make the missing furniture and aims to help me achieve the shabby-chic, white-wood look I love. So yes, I can paint your grandmother’s old cupboard white, but the antique wardrobe stays as it is—we’ll compromise.
Today I’ll make a pilgrimage to Ikea, hoping to find a few pieces that will make the house feel like mine. I can’t afford a brand-new sofa, but I do want a small, pretty plant in a vintage-looking enamel pot to sit on a shelf we’ll soon install. Maybe they sell the husband from my childhood dreams in the DIY department—I just hope he comes with instructions in Italian.
In those childhood winters I pictured myself sipping a hot chocolate, wrapped in a Scottish plaid (check), comfortably settled on a sofa (still missing) beside the fireplace (check). The chocolate part is easy and inexpensive, and since I’m already rehearsing for the move, I made a pot a few days ago.
There are many ways to make hot chocolate. For an instant fix, I melted a large cube of dark chocolate into a small pot of milk over low heat, whisking until it reached the thickness I like. Serve it with a spoonful of whipped cream and some shaved dark chocolate, or skip the cream for a more intense flavour. When I imagine myself on that dream sofa, I want a thick, dark, intense hot chocolate—sometimes with a pinch of nutmeg or a dusting of grated orange zest around the holidays. Which kind would you choose to sip by the fire?
I’ll share more about the book that comes out in a few days, and if you don’t mind the ramblings of a woman on the verge of moving, I’ll keep you posted about furniture and the little details of the new place. For now, I wish you a weekend of relaxation, good food and the comfort of your favourite hot chocolate.