After my younger daughter moved out, my husband gave her room a thorough once-over: patching holes, painting, replacing blinds, washing screens, and organizing the closet.
I washed the windows.
And then I texted my mom to see if she’d like to be in charge of designing and setting up the room. We’d pay for everything, I explained, but she’d be in charge of finding the various components and arranging them.
Now for those of you who don’t know, my mother is queen of cozy home decorating. Not that she would ever call herself a decorator, mind you. “Decorator” is far too tawdry, too worldly. My mother approaches decorating via Thrifting and Homemade, and then she tweaks and fiddles and rearranges and improves things, things that no one else would even know needed improving, like it’s some sort of Olympic sport. (This obsession of hers — though I think it’s more Gift than obsession — started when she was a child and would rearrange the living room furniture over and over until her father got tired of not knowing where to sit and told her to STOP.)
Her endless capacity for home improvement boggles my mind, but the end result is something else, truly. Always at her house, there are fat “new” chairs to be sat in, homemade artwork to be looked at, bejeweled lampshades, razzle-dazzle pillows, and so on. It’s all very (very) lovely, but when it comes to my holey chairs and ratty blankets and dented lampshades, I just don’t care. Or at least I don’t care enough to get my panties in a twist and do something, anyway.
And so that’s why I texted my mom. I wanted a nice room — a room that I wouldn’t have to think about for the next 20 years — and when it comes to taste, my mom’s is tops.
“I would love to,” she texted back. “Tell me all requirements. Also, room dimensions.” And she was off.
Over the next few months, she thrifted and Amazoned and shopped and sifted through her own wares and Facebook Marketplaced and Craigslisted. She repeatedly popped in to measure and make scribble sketches on bits of scrap paper. I got emails with pictures of bed frames. She bargain with sellers, checking in with us (“her people”) before landing a deal. She organized furniture pickups and drop offs. She sent me photos of various rugs — It’s wool, Jennifer, WOOL. You have to feeeeel it. She asked me to confirm colors and doublecheck measurements. She purchased extras and made returns.
And then, after about six weeks, she and Dad backed their truck up to the porch and thus commenced The Great Bedroom Redo of 2025.
While Dad installed the curtain rods and Mom cleaned the thrifted dresser, I sat on the floor, chatted with them, and occasionally ran to fetch a tool. Watching the room get built right before my eyes, was magical.
I felt like a princess.
Over the next several weeks, Dad built and mounted a row of clothing hooks, and Mom painted over the screw holes. She painted over the screw holes, squeeee!
They swapped out the closet’s cheap metal latch for a black one. Plants showed up — and then disappeared again. (“They didn’t do anything for the room,” Mom said.) I’d get emails instructing me to order that mattress pad and this specific fitted sheet. “Do you have extra pillows or should I buy some?” Mom asked. “Buy some,” I said. I was called upstairs to pick bedding and decide where the towel racks should go.
And then we got word that our first overnight guests would be arriving at the end of the week. “Ok to come hang a mirror?” Mom texted.
And then the next day, “I’m in a panic about changes. . . so I’ll have to come over. . .” Apparently the lighting wasn’t quite up to snuff and she needed to trial shades and lamps.
You can always change it later, she said, and I laughed, reminding her that however she left the room was how it was gonna be for the next several decades.
I’ve made the kids check out the room whenever they stop by. “It looks just like Shirley!” my daughter-in-law shouted, and “Why couldn’t we have done this when I lived here?” my younger daughter said. (To which I snorted and said, “Because you were in it.”)
Want to guess what the total cost of the room redo was? Twelve hundred. Mom seemed a little worried, like she may have overspent, but my husband roared, “Are you kidding? That room is gorgeous! It was totally worth every penny.”
“And then some,” I added.
Every time I pass the room on my way down the hall, a giddy lightness zips through me. Here sits a simple, put-together room, welcoming and ready for whenever we might need it.
Thanks, Mom and Dad. What a gift.
P.S. My husband’s sister and brother-in-law, the new room’s first guests, declared the bed comfortable (whew), and the room lovely.
P.P.S. Yesterday my mother stopped by to drop off a new different comforter that she’d found at a thrift store, and then meticulously washed/patched/whatever. It’s butter-soft, much more pleasing to the touch than the current bedspread, but she’s worried the coloring might be wrong for the room. And so it goes…
A couple weeks ago, my girls had friends over to their apartment for supper. One of their friends works in the bakery with me (well, all three of their friends do), and the next morning she shared the leftover cake she’d made to take to the supper: tres leches.
That morning, before I’d even had breakfast, Emily pulled the cake out of the fridge and cut slices. She’d learned to make the cake in her culinary training, and it’d won her a prize. I’ve never mastered a tres leches, so I was pumped.
Now, pudding is not my top choice of dessert, but this — this was otherworldly. It was cake and pudding and cream, light, luscious, and plump with sweet cream and milk. Mysteriously, the thick cap of cinnamon was so unobtrusive that I wasn’t even totally certain it was cinnamon. (Emily assured me it was.)
Throughout the morning, she passed out pieces of cake to the other bakery and diner workers. The one thing that people repeatedly said (besides that it was delicious) was, “It’s not too sweet!” I’m not a tres leches aficionado, but apparently too-sweet tres leches is the norm, and this one is, blessedly, not that.
I asked for the recipe (of course), and Emily hand wrote it out for me on pieces of notepaper and then taped them together and, voilà, my tres leches recipe was a booklet.
I’ve made it twice now. The first time I used our own farm eggs and the cake was super yellow and it sank in the middle, which concerned me even though Emily said that sometime happens. I served that one to a bunch of Puerto Ricans and they raved — again, “It’s not too sweet!” — and then demolished it.
I made another one over the weekend, this time with store bought eggs to see if that, for whatever odd reason, would keep the cake from sinking. It didn’t. The only change was that the cake was whiter. It was still just as delicious as the first.
One word of caution. Tres leches is similar to rice krispy treats in that 1) it’s addictively comforting and 2) it goes down real easy.
In other words, this is not the kind of dessert one makes to simply “have on hand.” Self control and tres leches do not good partners make. Proceed at your own risk.
Emily’s Prize-Winning Tres Leches Cake (Ever so) slightly adapted from Emily’s recipe.
To make your own cake flour, measure 2 tablespoons of cornstarch into the bottom of a 1-cup measure and then top it off with all-purpose flour. Mix well.
Dust the cake heavily with cinnamon, but not so heavily that people aspirate dry cinnamon when they take a bite.
Variations I’m pondering: cocoa powder in place of cinnamon, eggnog spices in the milk, swapping some of the evap milk for Baileys and/or adding coffee.
for the cake 5 eggs, separated 1 cup sugar, divided 1 cup cake flour 1½ teaspoons baking power ¼ teaspoon salt ⅓ cup milk 1 teaspoon vanilla
In a clean mixing bowl, beat the egg whites with ½ cup sugar until stiff peaks form. Transfer the beaten whites to a clean bowl.
Tip the egg yolks into the now-dirty mixing bowl, add the remaining half cup of sugar and the vanilla, and beat for 3-4 minutes, or until the yolks have lighted in color.
Add the cake flour, salt, and baking powder to the eggs yolks and mix briefly until just combined. Add the milk.
Fold the egg whites into the egg yolk mixture.
Pour the batter into a greased 9×12 baking pan. Bake the cake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes. Cool completely. If the cake falls, no worries. The milks will plump it, and the whipped topping covers a multitude of sins.
for the milk sauce 1 12-ounce can evaporated milk 1 14-ounce can sweetened condensed milk ½ cup milk
Stir the milks together.
Using a fork, aggressively pierce the cooled cake all over. Pour the milks over the cake; Emily pours the milk in stages and I just dump it in one go. Either way, it takes some time for the milks to absorb.
Cover the sloshy cake pond and refrigerate for 12-24 hours. The cake will swell slightly as it soaks up the milk. (Don’t worry if there are little clumps of milk on top of the cake, though I suppose you could whip the milks in the blender if you want it to be flawlessly smooth.)
for the topping 2 cups heavy whipping cream ¼ cup confectioners sugar ½ teaspoon vanilla 2-3 teaspoons cinnamon
Whip together the cream, sugar, and vanilla until stiff peaks form. Spread over the cake. Liberally sprinkle with cinnamon.
