Recently I have been finding time to wind down in the rolling green pastures of central Kentucky.  My husband and I purchased a former thoroughbred farm in Midway as a getaway; located in the heart of the Bluegrass State, just outside the capital city of Frankfort, not far from Lexington, and east of Louisville where Rob grew up.  We were inspired to acquire the property after visiting his family several years ago for a ribbon-cutting ceremony at Buffalo Trace Distillery honoring Rob’s 3x great grandfather, Colonel E. H. Taylor.  Col. Taylor is known as the father of modern bourbon and was a huge force in the modernization of bourbon distilling.  He owned several distilleries in the Frankfort area, was Mayor for a decade, instrumental in getting the Bottled-in-Bond act passed through Congress and named “The Man of 100 Suits” due to his sartorial panache.  He was even dubbed a “Master of Hospitality” by the American Association of Collegiate Registrars for his convincing proficiency as a “lavish host, genial leader, and cordial friend.”

Concurrent to getting the farm up and running, we are collaborating with our daughter and her fiancé on the design of their restaurant, Limewater Bistro, slated to open later this spring.  The restaurant is situated on the banks of the Kentucky River just a few paces from Buffalo Trace in the historic Glen Willis House, which is the oldest property in Frankfort.  Kentucky has afforded Isabelle and Axl the opportunity to make their dream of opening their own restaurant a reality, like it has Rob’s dream of owning a farm.  It has given my family a new place of discovery, and me a place of respite.  In the words of Thomas Wolfe, “Peace fell upon her spirit. Strong comfort and assurance bathed her whole being. Life was so solid and splendid, and so good.”   Who said you can’t go home again?

The main reason for my hesitation in returning to Kentucky was the condition of the property we were now calling our second home.  We had purchased a thoroughbred farm the previous fall with plans to renovate it.  Complete with a large barn, several outbuildings, and a majestic antebellum brick house, the property is magical.  However, the condition of the house was in greater disrepair than we previously thought.  The old part of the building (circa 1847) was in relatively good shape, but the back half, which housed the kitchen, family room, and first floor master bedroom, was rotting at its core: infested with vermin chewing their way through the floorboards from underneath the building, a main carrying beam that had been hacked through in the 1970s to install trunk lines for the HVAC, sagging walls, and a leaking roof; it required  a complete gut of the back half of the house.

A few days passed and news of the spreading pandemic grew grimmer. State after state announced closures and airlines were grounding their fleets.  My husband, an experienced builder and finish carpenter, brokered a deal with me: if I agreed to come to Kentucky, he would work to get the house more live-able and, perhaps, even a little more beautiful.  I decided it made sense to head south and join my family for lockdown even though I had never envisioned living in the old house during the necessary renovation.

My husband created countertops out of flooring material from Home Depot and set them on top of metal racks that became our de facto pantry and pot storage.  We called into service the refrigerator from the gutted kitchen and added a gas log set to the existing fireplace.  We even installed a kitchen sink in the old bar cabinet and placed next to it a new washer and dryer topped with a counter fashioned from the antique French cherry island that had once been the proud centerpiece of the former kitchen.   A rug from a local home store, skirted Ikea Parsons chairs being held in storage for our daughters’ future first homes, our old wooden kitchen table once a homework station for the girls, a prized antler chandelier, and various pieces of art from our collection completed the scene.

This quirky room (which will eventually become our formal dining room) was our sole sanctuary during the months of lockdown. A quarantine kitchen that warmed us literally and figuratively, providing food and shelter during a time of uncertainty. The space ended up feeling like a cozy English country kitchen and pantry, layered with memories and many stories to tell.  On any given day, you could find a pot of soup simmering in the slow cooker while a casserole bubbled in the Breville.  Chef could be found most afternoons at the prep area miraculously producing gourmet meals from thin air, while our daughter tested on us her burgeoning bartending skills with deliciously crafted cocktails.  The table would be set with linens and crystal unearthed from the stacks of moving boxes now stored in the gutted rear of the house, and candles were lit for dinner each evening without fail.   I could have easily bemoaned the lack of so many things about this humble room: state-of-the art appliances, a proper kitchen sink, and an automated dishwasher, but realized instead I had everything I needed not only to survive, but to do it in style.