The Best Place That's Not My Bed

The driveway to my friend Maria's house is almost always completely obscured by cars and shoes coming, and shoes going.

The house that Mama Horan built.  Not with hammers and wooden planks and plaster, but with smiles and hugs and good Italian cooking.

The front hall is warm, welcoming.  The polished floor gleams softly, but don't be fooled-sweep your bare foot along and you will find the ease with which you become a dog hair magnet.  It's nobody's fault that Molly is an olympic-level shedder.  A gift and a curse, really.

The kitchen is the best room in the whole house, except maybe the garage.  It is large but not pretentious, clean but not austere, and exceedingly well-stocked. 

The kitchen that Mama Horan built.  With pancetta and olive oil and good bread-the scent of brewing tea as it hangs in the air, sweeter and headier than a lady's perfume.

They converted their garage into a den.  Large, comfortable couches, a TV, and a fridge.  One time I made virgin Sangria and we kept it in there.  It made an awful mess whenever we tried to pour it.

Sometimes I like it better than my own house.  I like the aura of acceptance here.  Every time I leave I say good bye to Mama Horan by bending down to give her a hug.  Usually she's lying on the couch in the living room, but I have to bend way over even when she's standing because she's so short.  It's very comforting because my mom is way shorter than me too. 

Maria told her about my blog and she wanted me to write about her.  So here is that post, and may it evoke the same hints of a second home, the same lazy Sunday mood.  Perhaps even you, reader, can taste the cheesy mostaccioli, or hear our laughter.

The laughter that Mama Horan shares.  In the house that she built.

Giving Ellen's selfie a run for its money