December 18, 2009--Snowbirding: Home Goods

We really didn’t need anything.

The place we are renting for the winter is not only tastefully decorated and rather fully equipped. But since we are seriously reinvolved with cooking, from New York we schlepped a few impressive pots and pans with us in our new station wagon (half the reason we bought it was for such schlepping) and, of course, my knives. I had read someplace that real chefs never travel without their knives. That was about it.

But after about a week in residence we thought, in order to make the place feel a little more like our own, we would buy a few things. For instance, a new rug for by the entrance door to liven up that spot—to make it feel a little more inviting, a bedside lamp for Rona who is devouring the books we also brought along with us, and a station wagon full of plants and appropriate stands and baskets for them. How can you be in Florida and not have at least half a dozen orchids? And, yes, a large pot for our herb “garden.” Many of the things we want to cook require fresh herbs so we thought we’d grow our own--basil, rosemary, dill, cilantro, oregano, thyme, parsley, mint . . . . You get the picture.

We were partly inspired to make this small effort by our nearby cousin’s creative approach to furnishing and decorating the house she bought last year. Every time we are there with her, she shows us how she is thinking about redoing the living room or the den or the dining area; and each time we are there, which has been frequent, she has something new to tell us about or some new and dramatic way to arrange some of the things she brought with her from her previous house or has been finding in the various local shops that are her sources. I know of no one more adept at finding something truly special even in a mundane-looking thrift shop. And then of course there are the consignment shops, the antique stores and malls, and the auctions. We are in Madoff Country after all, and there is a lot to be had at very good prices from his fallen investors.

The other day we noticed some outdoor lanterns she had accumulated. We assumed for the new screened-in patio that she has under construction. As with all her things, they are very spiffy. Rona asked where she got them. Not that we are in the market for any, but we enjoy learning about where she finds things, thinking maybe one of her sources would be good for us as we snooped around looking for planters and a few fill-in household items.

“Do you know Home Goods?” she asked.

“I think so,” Rona said. “Is it that place on Linton in the same shopping plaza as Home Depot?”

“Is it like Home Depot?” I asked, not familiar with Home Goods.

“Not at all. They have these lanterns but also a lot of other things for the home—dishware, linens, decorative pillows, towels, and . . .”

“We could use a new set of bathroom towels,” Rona interrupted, “You know, to make the place feel a little more like our own.”

“Well, I’d give them a try. You basically go right by them when you drive from here back to your place.”

And so, though we hadn’t had lunch, we thought, since it’s so convenient, we’d pop in for a few minutes and give it a try. Rona had been confounded by not being able yet to find the right size basket for one of her glorious orchids. “Maybe they’ll have one,” she said as we guided our new station wagon into the Home Goods parking lot. Just as promised, right next to the better-known Home Depot.

Nearly two hours later, bedazzled, we stumbled back out into the late afternoon Florida sunshine, partly dizzy from lack of having eaten anything since an early and modest breakfast but more from what we found behind those doors. Where to begin?

To start, there were long lines at the checkout counters and the women waiting in line—they were virtually all women—were inching along huge shopping carts, pretty much all of them loaded to overflowing with stuff. One women, well into her years, was struggling to push and pull along two such carts, each of which, with the things packed into them, was taller than she. They were packed with pillows and dishes and towels and Christmas lights and what looked like a mixed set of pots and pans peeking out from beneath an overstuffed floral comforter.

We knew in an instant that we were in a serious shopping place. Either the recession hadn’t yet hit the customers (unlikely) or the prices must be good enough to attract so many holiday shoppers, all with so much piled into their carts. And we noticed that the lines to the checkout counters were strategically laid out to thread between lines of shelves brimming with small items that could serve as either stocking-stuffers or things to nosh while waiting to get to a cash register.

To confess—we are New Yorkers. Manhattanites, actually, and are still fortunate enough to be able to shop at the flagship Bloomingdales for our house wares, Sur La Table for kitchenware, and any place that strikes our fancy in Soho or along Madison Avenue. I mention this only to additionally confess, that within just a few minutes in the environs of Home Goods we became addicted to what it had to offer and the prices.

Too much time in the sun? Perhaps. But more likely an epiphany about why we should even think about spending $200 for a cast iron, enamel Creuset pot (something we need here if we want to replicate Julia Childs’ boeuf bourguignon) when you can find a perfectly good one on the Home Goods Clearance aisle for just $79.99.

When we entered, in spite of the scene at the checkout counter, we agreed that since we were only looking for a basket for Rona’s last orchid, we didn’t need a shopping cart. Certainly not one large enough to tote a small sofa. Which, by the way, Home Goods sells and which were seemingly available at 50 percent off. But with that 12-inch Creuset pot, which weighs at least five pounds, not having a cart was not necessarily a good idea, no matter how stigmatizing we thought it would make us feel if we were sited pushing one by any of our Greenwich Village friends. I can only imagine what they would then say about us back at Balthazar—

“You’ll never believe who we ran into in Delray Beach. Rona and Steven who are wintering there. In a Home Goodies store, or whatever it’s called. We of course were there visiting my mother and she insisted on going to that place to look for new towels. I said to her, ‘Mother. We can go to a Bloomingdales. I do think they have one of those here. We don’t need to go there.’ But she insisted and that’s where we found them. He was wearing something with palm trees on it and was wobbling through those endless aisles dragging with him a shopping cart so huge you could put a refrigerator in it. And . . .”

I could hear the shocked laughter all the way down the Atlantic coast. So sans cart, I did the best I could to carry the Creuset pot toward the back of the store where we thought there would be wicker baskets and, we noticed, the towel department. At most that was all we were looking for and so I preferred to struggle along with that very heavy and clumsy pot and eschew the cart.

“Why not leave it on the shelf? We can pick it up on the way out. It looks as if it weighs a ton.”

“I can manage,” I said bravely, “You saw those women with those shopping carts,” I reminded her. “I think there’s only one of these pots left and if we leave it there I feel certain someone will snatch it within five minutes,”

“But we’ll only be here another few . . .”

“In that case, let me schlep it.”

There were rows and rows of baskets and decorative pots for flowers and plants. And within what seemed like that promised five minutes Rona had not only found just the right basket for her orchid, but three others—two with an antique porcelain glaze and one made from what looked like hammered tin.

“Do we need these?” I asked, shifting the pot to my left arm where I balanced it on my hip. “I thought we only needed one more.”

“But look at these prices. This metal one is reduced to $6.95 and the two ceramic ones are just $4.99 each. From $14.50. Even at $14.50 they would be a steal. Do you know what these would cost at the Chelsea Garden Center? At least three-times as much.”

“But what will we do . . .?”

“We’ll think of something. We can always use them in the city. Or in Maine.” We had this past summer bought a house on Pemaquid Point. “They would fit in perfectly there. Maybe you should get a shopping cart. With that pot you want and now with these we could use one.”

“If you hold one of the ceramic ones I’m sure I can manage with the rest.”

“But what if we get towels? They seem to have nice ones over there. At these prices we could make the bathroom feel more like our own.”

“If you find any, we’ll figure it out and then . . .”

Ignoring me, Rona, grasping one of the glazed pots, darted over toward the bathware section, stopping at one of the aisles that contained rows of soaps and body lotions and sponges and scented candles and anything else one might think about having in a sumptuous bathroom. I saw her sniffing her way through the dozens of boxes of milled French soaps. “What do you think of this one?” she asked, holding out a small box of three lavender-scented bars. “Too much don’t you think?”

“Well, I really . . .”

“I know you love olive oil. You insist on using it on everything. So how about this one? Have you ever seen olive oil soap?”

“Not really. To tell you the truth I prefer it just for cooking and . . .”

“It’s very popular in France. Women swear by it. They say it does wonders for the skin. Here, take a smell. I’ll hold it to your nose. Your hands are all occupied with that pot you insist on having and all the baskets.” She held it up to me and to tell the truth it smelled quite wonderful. Not at all like any of my salad dressings.

So I said, “If it’s not too expensive maybe we should get it. I mean, if the French like . . .”

“How does $3.95 sound to you? For three large bars! If we use them in the shower they’ll last at least a year. This is amazing. Simply amazing. Here, the soap’s in this little box. Let me slip it under your arm. No, not the one with that heavy pot but the other arm.” I had tried to lift it. “The one with just the baskets.” Which she proceeded to do and which I found was actually quite manageable. With it tucked there I felt more balanced.

She was rummaging through the shelves and bins of towels when I caught up with her. “What do you think of these?” Rona was holding up two beige hand towels that looked very handsome to me. “They would go perfectly with the color of the walls in the bathroom and the shower curtain. You know, if we can find two matching bath towels they alone could make the bathroom feel more like our own. And these are reduced to just $4.95 each. Where in the city can you find towels this nice for only $4.95?”

Nowhere that I could think of. The last time we needed towels we went to ABC Carpet and Home and couldn’t find any we liked for less that $30 or $40 each. And so, at two for less than $10, Rona irresistibly placed the two hand towels over my shoulders and turned back to hunt for two matching ones for the bath.

“I can’t seem to find any.” She had worked her way quickly through the shelves and was now bent over nearly in half and up to her waist in a huge canvas laundry basket on rollers that contained the close-outs. As she dug deeper, the bin started to side down the aisle, picking up speed as Rona plunged deeper into the pile. Feeling the acceleration and almost losing her balance, she finally came up for air but with no matching towels.

“Nothing?” I asked. “It seems from what I can see that they have either matching hand towels and washcloths but no bath towels that match with any hand towels. Except those,” I tried to point, “in $19.95 sets of six. Maybe if we had enough time, we could find four that go together; but to tell you the truth, I’m wondering if . . .” The Creuset pot had begun to cut into my wrist and was impeding the blood flow.

“I wish you had agreed to get a cart but since you didn’t just give me another minute and I’ll be done. These towels are such good buys that I hate to think we won’t be able to find a set that will work for us.”

“No problem,” I said, “I’m doing fine. Take your time.”

And, to tell you the truth, she and I did take out time.

After another hour of rummaging we finally were ready to pay for what we had rounded up. Of course there was the Creuset and the baskets and ceramic pots. One more of these than the two we had originally scooped up. They were too good and inexpensive to resist. And after a detour back into the cookware area I found a cheese grater, meat hammer to pound cutlets paper thin, and at a great price bottles of high quality vanilla extract. I couldn’t pass them up since we plan next week to make Tiramisu; and using fine vanilla, which is usually very expensive, will make a real difference. And while there Rona had found a wire chicken—a chicken made from white wire—that she felt would also be perfect for Maine. “To hold eggs,” she said. I agreed. And at only $4.50, marked down from $14.25, it was a steal.

“Don’t worry,” she assured me, “Now that we have a station wagon we can take everything we buy up there without any difficulty. That’s why I though we should buy one. Remember?”

Indeed I did.

Finally, in spite of all that we found to buy, we managed to get everything to the front of the store, to the checkout counter, without a shopping cart. And with our hands, arms, underarms, and shoulders full we were inhibited from being able to nosh on the Lindt chocolates that lined the path as we shuffled toward the cashier.

And I couldn’t any longer be bothered about the possibility of our downtown friends finding us here. In fact we learned from the lovely women who checked us out, that they get three trailer loads of goods each week and since one never knows what will be included, it’s a good idea to stop in periodically.

“You mean they might get matching towels later this week?” Rona asked hopefully.

“Indeed, that is quite likely.”

“Then we’ll be back frequently,” I said triumphantly. “And who cares who we run into!”

But Rona had the final word, “As soon as we get home let’s look on the Internet to see if there are any Home Goods stores in Maine. You know, with the place we just bought there, I’ll bet we could . . .”