Ammi Midstokke: The house is now warm

By the time anyone is done building their home, the last thing they want to do is throw a party. Parties have to be cleaned for (and then again after), beverages and bags of ice must be sourced, socially acceptable clothing ought to be worn. At least 14 varieties of corn chips and dip purchased. Subsequent tours of rooms brings recent trauma back to the surface (Remember the tile diva? The patriarchy appearing in the form of obstinate carpenters? That awful fall from the ladder?)

Despite our reluctance, we promised a lot of people we would have a party, mostly just to delay visitors while we licked our wounds and rearranged the low-budget rock landscaping.

“When can we come see the new place?” they’d ask.

“We’ll invite you to our housewarming,” we’d say, knowing full well that we’d probably not have the energy to host more than the UPS driver for another eighteen months.

People started getting suspicious, first that we hadn’t invited them and eventually just that we hadn’t built a house at all. When the UPS driver started delivering our packages to the tents on the property next door, we decided it was time to prove we had actually built a real house.

It would not be accurate to pretend Charlie and I did this on our own. This house was designed, stained, supplied, raised, roofed, finished, and moved into with the generous help of our community. So why was I so overwhelmed at the thought of trying to feed them dinner?

Post-build exhaustion must have had us running on coffee fumes. By August, most of this town is so tired of making eye contact at social events (not unlike after the holidays), chances were no one would show up anyway and I’d be left with a pallet of knock-off hard seltzers and those 14 bags of corn chips. At least I wouldn’t have to grocery shop or cook until school started.

There are many different housewarming traditions around the world, but among my favorite is the southern tradition of the “Food Pounder.” In this variation, all guests bring a pound of food to establish the new kitchen. It seems far more pragmatic than the sage-burning, demon-chasing, and cat-trespassing options. And anyway, I burned sage every time one of those condescending subcontractors left. I hear it masks the distinct odor of sexism laced with chewing tobacco and Mountain Dew.

So on our invitation – which was primarily a text message with our address and a date – we suggested people bring a bite to eat, or at the very least keep their culinary expectations low. To prepare for the “party,” Charlie spent the day moving several piles of gravel out of the driveway. I had been slowly shaping them with my front and rear bumpers for a few weeks, but heavier machinery was necessary for any noticeable change. I prepared by taking a shower and locating matching earrings.

And then, as if maybe people knew what it was like to survive the construction of a home, my kitchen exploded with food, drink, flowers, and good humans who celebrated the milestone with the enthusiasm and excitement that we had been trying to muster through our exhaustion.

We know they are good humans because they wandered from room to room complimenting our taste in wallpaper. In the kids’ bathroom, referred to as the Goth Bath, it is mermaid skeletons on a deep mauve. The kids tried to convince me to put candelabras in there, but we settled for some black sconces with dim Edison bulbs.

We know they are good humans because before they showed up with trays of lovingly prepared food, they had come to work party days in the rain, spent hours breathing in paint fumes, insisted on helping me sand shelving. They had seen the slow creation of this place, from dream to door, and been integral in the making of its bones and then its heart.

The walls of the house filled with the echoes of laughter, old friends catching up, new friends being made. There was chatter about trading recipes, horror stories about various DIY projects gone awry, gardening tips, and the oft-asked question, “Where did you find this wallpaper?”

The halls, kitchen, and patio filled up with diverse humans, a crowded reminder of how rich our lives are, how wealthy we are in friends – particularly those willing to loan us power tools. Their children jumped on the trampoline. The teenagers competed with the Goth-themed powder room. Late into the night, we celebrated what is possible with community and basked in gratitude for their generosity.

And our home was warmed as it is best done: by the presence of the people we love.

Ammi Midstokke can be contacted at ammim@spokesman.com