The title recalls the term Victorians used for a concert at one's residence, though a performance wasn't involved here. The room is a working studio, where I teach the fine art of singing. It's also a living room.
This Sunday evening, there was no watching of football. Rather, we streamed an episode of Poirot while having dinner, which consisted of a salad with chicken provencal—a recipe right out of the NYTimes. That and a lovely bottle of Bordeaux did nicely.
The ebony handled serving pieces are mismatched, and were sourced from Ebay, while the Gothic candlestick (minus the crystals which my father gave me) was found bent and battered at the now defunct Antique Garage on 25th Street. They ripped the building down unfortunately—the only remaining remnant of a once thriving flea market. I hear that there is one over near the Lincoln Tunnel, but haven't ventured to it since my mind is on other things—and the frames I acquired before the garaged closed have yet to be hung. Speaking of which: I am actively working on a huge mirror for the mantel. Long time coming, I hope to have it up soon.