I've always loved cake.  It's an unhealthy obsession that I've never been able to conquer.  When I was five, my friend Tracy and I decided to try bake a cake ourselves.  Banned from the kitchen by a cleaning lady who threatened us with death by hanging" if we dared even walk on the sparkling clean floor she'd just polished", we considered other options.  Somehow, my five year old brain flashed back to my mother talking about "pancake" make up and made a (quite brilliant if I do say so myself) association with flour and cake.  Tracy and I grabbed a bowl and spoon from the kitchen and tiptoed into the forbidden world that was my mother's bathroom. 



The first thing any good cook does is take an inventory of ingredients. Here, in the world I was never privileged to enter, was a secret supply of baking ingredients that made my imagination go wild. Somehow, we never considered how we would bake this incredible cake, but 5 year olds don't always think that far ahead.



The obvious place to start was with the dry ingredients, so we looked for anything powdery.  We found compacts, loose powder and dusting powder and emptied them all into the giant bowl carefully. We were meticulous chefs, painstakingly mixing each ingredient, but the murky brown powder just didn't resemble the snow white cake flour our mothers always used. We decided that color would be an improvement , so we found some pretty red blush and crushed it into the concoction.  We then added the wet ingredients - pretty bottles of tan liquid, each a slightly different shade but all with very fancy lettering.  Vanilla wasn't an easy ingredient to replace, but luckily, my mother had Jungle Gardenia and Shalimar perfumes, so we added just enough to make our cake smell like heaven.  We were just starting to crush the tubes of red, coral and pink lipstick into one of the now empty powder containers for frosting when I heard the sound of high heels coming in our direction.



My mother came around the corner and smiled that smile that only Southern women can.  She said calmly and with a a perfect, but forced pleasantness, "Tracy, I think it's time for you to go home now."  I knew exactly what that meant.  "NO TRACY don't GO!!"my little brain shouted on the inside, but on the outside I was frozen and quiet, knowing what would come next.  My mother's weapon of choice was the perfect hairbrush, and she yielded it with the expertise of a samurai.  The firm bristles of that hairbrush taught me about the forbidden world of a woman's private bathroom and would one day teach me about the forbidden world of the sacred closet and the holy pocket book as well.



My children haven't had that same experience, and have no fear of my private spaces.  They borrow shampoo, blush, lipstick, tweezers, clothing, shoes, and anything else they need, with no reservation.  I must have raised them that way as a response to my own experience, but I do have a few places I try to keep to myself.  I have a huge leaded glass antique china cabinet in my bedroom that houses the treasures of my private world.  It doesn't lock, but I hang a giant key on the door for implied secrecy.



If you were allowed access that cabinet, you might be disappointed to find out that there are no 24k gold earrings, Tiffany diamonds, or Rolex watches. 

You'd find instead, a collection of Chanel No 5 perfume bottles, most with no perfume in them..


A nice collection of antique Pharmaceutical bottles



Little jars of antique mother of pearl, crystal and glass buttons



Hundreds of Rhinestone brooches, shoe clips, and buckles that I never wear but love to have around..



A dress buckle my daughter Kirsten brought me from Europe



And.. vintage fashion books, my dad's cufflinks, letters from my husband, close friends and children, the Parent's weekend name tags from all of my daughter's colleges, my high school class ring and a small photo of my daughter, Katie in a tiny pillow frame she gave me. 
Yes, if you were hoping for Cartier, you might be very disappointed indeed.



It seems ironic that I grew up and made a career out of going into the private spaces of women.  When I enter a home, I'm not interested in the kitchen, living room or dining room - it's the bedrooms and bathrooms that call to me.  It's there that I find the beautiful lingerie, clothing, jewelry, shoes, handbags, scarves, hats, gloves, handkerchiefs, belts and vintage fashion treasures that have become my passion.  I always feel a little guilty, peering into the intimate spaces that were kept from the rest of the world for so many years. I wish I could be more clinical, but it's never just business to me. I get caught up in the world that was this person's life and feel compelled to know as much as I can about the woman who owned these treasures.  What mattered to her? Was she happy in her marriage? Did she have any regrets? Why did she keep that one pair of earrings in a different place? Where did she wear that beautiful designer gown? What was her passion in life?



It's a crazy business, selling the material manifestations of someone's life, and I never want to lose perspective. I open evening bags that still have a single kleenex inside, find lipstick tubes in cosmetic cases and valet tickets in coat pockets.  These small things remind me to take a second, (when I lose myself in the excitement of finding Pucci sunglasses, Hermes scarves, Halston dresses or designer handbags), to remember that those aren't just  inventory items, they are fragments of a person's life. It's absolutely essential that I honor the woman whose possessions I am now entrusted to care for. I know that they would want it that way, and I'll admit that I hope that one day, when someone goes through my secret cabinet, they will take a second to wonder about the crazy woman who filled it with such a quirky assortment.  Considering the actual person behind the "stuff" is what brings dignity and humanity to what we do.  So I learned my lesson, from the hairbrush, about respecting privacy and the intimate secrets of a life, but I'm still obsessed with cake.  One out of two isn't so bad.


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