Welcome to a new series: The FLD Three. There are no podcast episodes for these—partly to give myself a break, and partly because I don’t think the format lends itself well to audio. But tell me if you think I’m wrong! If you enjoy my writing, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. —FLD
Kara’s Three Things is a no-nonsense newsletter from TV writer Kara Brown (Grown-ish, She-Hulk) where she highlights three things—tangible or abstract—circling her mind that week. Sometimes it’s an anecdote with a punch. Sometimes it’s a product rec or a life hack, like using the Timeshifter app to combat jet lag. (It works! I tested it during a recent trip to Europe.) Sometimes it’s a cozy meal or a passing but sticky thought.
I’m inspired to write my own—but with a theme, because my creative mind needs parameters.
This week’s: The Home.
RØROS TWEED PILLOWCASES
If there were a fire and I had to escape my apartment knowing that everything I own might burn to ashes, I would grab my cat, my passport, some technology, and my three Røros Tweed-covered pillows.
I first saw the pillowcases in Freiburg, a city in Germany’s southwest known for “its temperate climate and reconstructed medieval old town,” says Google. I know it as the nearest ‘big’ city from the village (his word, not mine) my fiancé grew up in. In Freiburg is a Manufactum, a retail store which sells home goods, clothing, tools, and stationery. Think of it as an upscale Shinola x MUJI x old-school L.L. Bean, with just enough modern European whimsy to elevate the spirit.
The pillowcases were tucked away on the second floor. There were dozens of patterns to choose from. Vibrant. Geometric. Cozy. The sales associate raved about their durability—100% Norwegian wool that gets softer with time, she said, produced in Røros, Norway. Something about craftsmanship. Something about only a “few remaining” workshops. The pitch was strong. So was the high of shopping in a foreign country.
I bought two pillowcases. Months later, Mo brought home a third after visiting his family. They spruce up our plain gray couch and I love them lots. If you’re looking for lived-in Scandinavian simplicity or a practical pop of color, I do recommend. Unfortunately for brand perception—and the myth of dwindling inventory—but fortunately for future acquisitions, they are also sold (for a premium) on Amazon.
MINIATURE SPATULAS (FROM SUR LA TABLE OR ELSEWHERE)
My passion for miniature spatulas is fierce. Why look a stern fool, clutching a towering spatula like the farmer in American Gothic when you could scrape and spread and stir with a petite paddle instead? A bulky blade lends itself to mixing batter, or concrete, but for everyday cooking, a dainty one executes with more style and finesse.
Peering into your utensil drawer and finding a selection of tiny tools to choose from sparks the joy Marie Kondo once sought and praised. I get mine from Sur La Table because it’s where my family gets theirs and brand loyalty runs deep through three generations of women who cook, but Williams-Sonoma has their own line too.
Each morning, I ask myself: Will my omelette be formed by the gentle push of the skeleton spatula, the love spatula, or the Eiffel Tower spatula? The romance of choice goes a long way! I’m currently eyeing the pasta shapes spatula next…
DON’T LIVE ON A HILL IN A CITY
I live in the Pacific Heights neighborhood of San Francisco. The views are expansive, the microclimate is comparatively warm, and the Whole Foods is at the end of my block. But I live atop one of those rolling hills the city is known for and… I low key hate it!
It’s annoying to be young and fit yet out of breath each time I walk through my door. Hiking home is guaranteed no matter which direction I go. It discourages me from running errands on foot, though I do anyway because parking is its own inevitable misery. Strangely, I’ve built no tolerance or stamina. I mumble complaints with each ascent, swearing I’ll never live on a hill again.
Your quads and glutes must be in fantastic shape, you may be thinking. They are fine. But how steep is the incline, really? I’d guess a level 12 on the treadmill. Not that bad? It’s not a one-block climb—it’s at least three, sometimes four or five, on top of whatever terrain I’ve already covered.
Now picture carrying your work bag, lumps of dry cleaning, bags of groceries, or all of that at once. Add cold wind and a man a few yards away exhibiting erratic, likely drug-induced behavior. Once you’ve made it to the building, there are four flights of stairs to maneuver. Or an elevator from the early 1900s—legitimately one of the oldest in the state—made of steel, wrought iron, and brass. You are tired, so very tired. Don’t live on a hill in a city. I'm telling you.
That’s the three! Until next time.
