Constants in life:
– Death,
– Taxes,
and Rachie’s house.
Even if Rachie moves apartments, the inside of her home remains relatively constant. There are the suede sectionals, the comfiest couches you’ll ever sleep on. Antique wooden furniture, the coffee table on which you can iron clothes because the surface has been scratched and burnt so many times, we just cover it with a little woven runner. The bookshelf full of used titles organized by what she has already read and has yet to get to. Big coffee table books and photos she took herself printed and framed in 2×3 foot displays. Plants, a bouquet of flowers she arranged herself, the brita filter attached to the tap. There, the ceramic utensil holder that was probably broken in the studio, but fired and glazed regardless, proof that trash can still become treasure if you know how to salvage things the right way. And that, Rachie can. She fixes and mends and sews. And she makes too. She is a master of power tools and paintbrushes, dyes and stains, knitting needles and twine and ribbon and string. hair cutting scissors, repurposed jars, baking soda and a pocket knife she takes with her everywhere.
Even now, as I write this, she says to no one in particular, “time to make a glaze.” And then she says to me, “do you know how to make powdered sugar?” and when I say no, she says, “blitz some sugar in a blender.” And she pulls her blender out of a cabinet and proceeds to do exactly that.
People step into her space and instantly feel at home; they are also usually surprised to see that a 24 (but before, 23, 22, and even 21) year old could have such classic and old-timey taste. Not what you would expect when we spent the last hour of LA traffic in the car listening to Latin dance house music, courtesy of her own playlist.
She’s a complicated one, Rachie. And you see it in her home. She likes nice, expensive things and will occasionally spend hundreds of dollars on a used ring. Yet she also reuses crates to function as a shoe rack right next to the door. It’s classy, it’s functional, it’s warm, and it’s safe. A place of rest.
I write this after having turned off my phone, laid on the couch while she baked scones, and let little tears of relief dry onto a lotion-lined tissue. I closed my eyes and listened to the sounds of her mixing and singing and occasionally cussing when she made a small mistake. It’s the most restful hour I’ve had in months. I’ve been on Christmas break for three days, but only here, on this oh-so-familiar sectional in the home of my very best friend, did my nervous system finally feel permission to fully relax, to shut off and sink into these couch cushions who so many times welcomed my tired body and mind.
In this little corner of the universe, I feel safe and at home. After all, these couches were once also mine from our little stints as roommates and the one time I babysat her furniture for a summer to save her the money of a storage unit– and to furnish my empty short-term apartment. It’s the familiarity for me, from a person always willing to make space and share. The place that always feels like home, curated by a person who also feels like home. She embodies hospitality, and truly brings to life the phrase, “Mi casa es tu casa.” There are constants in life: a best friend, her tasteful aesthetic, and knowing that you can always call her place, wherever it is, your second home.
The More the Marianer 