Farmhouse Sink

A story about "clean living and pure thoughts"

We were glossy-eyed and had last night’s whiskey on our breath when we knocked on the door of a stranger’s ranch house in Bozeman, Montana. Keelie and I were there for a ski trip, and the night before, had ran into an old friend of mine at a bar. Emily insisted that we check out of our dingy hotel and instead stay with her friend Stowers. And so, there we were, hungover, wearing Mickey Mouse ears, and asking this guy if we could crash in his guest room.

Me and Emily, somewhere between too much whiskey at the Dirtbag Ball. (2014).

“Of course,” he said, “c’mon in”. Stowers has a house that instantly makes you feel at home — cozy lighting, oversized leather couches that have held many storytellers, acoustic country playing through the speakers, and there in his kitchen — the most beautiful hammered copper farmhouse sink that I’d ever seen.

He excitedly told us about it: he had gotten it from a job site after it was dropped and dented. I looked. Where was the dent? You couldn’t tell what was purposefully hammered and what was accidentally dented. And there, in my hungover haze, I decided that I too would one day have a copper farmhouse sink in my kitchen.

… never mind that the cheapest one still has a four-figure price tag.

Me, Stowers, and Keelie — living our best lives at Bridger Bowl, Montana. (2014).

Fast forward to present day: last week, I was scrolling Facebook Marketplace. For what? Nothing, necessarily. Any kind of deal on anything that looked like it came from my Pinterest board, but mostly I was just shopping for a distraction from a long off-season shift where I’d only seen one patient all day.

I scrolled across a picture of a beautiful copper farmhouse sink. I texted my friend Jes:

The list price was $400, though, so I scrolled on by without inquiring.

Next was an ad for a brown leather couch and chair. They looked worn in, but not destroyed. The seller was asking $300. They were, of course, from the same ski town where I work. Living adjacent to a fancy ski town means that good deals on great pieces are easy to come by if you move fast. Huh, I thought. Those could work. Similar to my longing for a copper farmhouse sink, after spending a lot of afternoons napping in an oversized leather chair as a kid, I’ve always wanted my own leather couch and chair as an adult. We measured our space, I sent an inquiry, and — as is rare in the Marketplace/Craigslist world, Tim (the seller) was super responsive. Yes, they were available, and yes, we could get them that next afternoon.

He did have one request, though. There’s a little market in our town, and they’re known for making the best pies. Chicken pot pie, turkey pot pie, rhubarb pie, tri-berry cobbler, pumpkin pie — you name it, they make it, and they make it well. So when this guy selling the couch and the chair found out where we lived, he asked if we wouldn’t mind picking up the Thanksgiving order that he’d pre-placed. “Only if it isn’t an inconvenience,” he said. It certainly wasn’t as inconvenient as the two-hour round trip he’d have to make to pick it up, so we happily said “can do!”.

Thanksgiving order in hand, we showed up at his house the following afternoon, and he immediately welcomed us inside and then outside to his deck, where he insisted that we take in the unobstructed view of one of Colorado’s most prominent peaks. We chatted about his remodel, our build, my job, his job (retired urologist), and his recent visit to our ER (40 staples for a head bonk). We started loading things into the truck, and there, hidden behind the leather couch that we came for, was the farmhouse sink I saw in the ad. Because I’d just scrolled by the ad, I didn’t even realize it was the same guy selling the couch + chair combo and the sink.

The sink (and I suppose, a spoiler alert).

“Oh my god”, I exclaimed. “Love, look at that!”. My builder half agreed that it was beautiful, and so I asked Tim how much he was selling it for. “I bought it used for $500, and it didn’t work for my kitchen, so I listed it for $400. For you guys, I’ll take $200.”

I replied that I didn’t have that much cash left on me, but that I drive by his house twice a week en route to work, and that I’d be happy to pick it up in a few days if he’d hold it for us. He thought for a second and then said, “nah, just take it now and pay me whenever.” I ended up Venmo’ing him in between at least a half-dozen exclamations of thank-you-you-made-my-kitchen-dreams-come-true.

At one point, he asked if I ever “got stuck” at work and on his side of the pass due to weather. I told him “not yet,” half expecting him to offer up his spare bedroom. He didn’t, but something tells me, that, if I was in a pinch — Tim would help get me out.

And that, is how I got the copper farmhouse sink of my dreams. As my Dear Ol’ Dr. Dad likes to say when things just work out, clean living and pure thoughts.

Our leather couch and chair, getting ready for a cozy and rustic Thanksgiving.

Weekly Round-Up!

What I watched:

This video from Gnarly Bay was published 12 years ago, and like others who have left comments — it’s one that I keep coming back to. It’s got everything I love: nature, creativity, love, adventure, and driving really fast down open roads. The written and visual narratives are beautiful, and leaves two questions worth asking. I was going to spoil them here, but I really think you should take five minutes to watch this video and hear them for yourself.

What I read:

As I grow my own Substack, I’ve been actively finding others to support along the way. An obvious one is Mountain Running & Living by Sarah Lavender Smith, who lives and runs in the same region that I do. Sarah recently posted this article, which explores the hyper-consumerism of the trail running industry. As our house gets closer to completion, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I want it to feel. What things I want to bring into its (beautiful glass-paned) doors. This has led to reflections on my own consumption, and continually asking the question do I really need this much stuff? Sarah beautifully articulated exactly how I’ve been feeling about the outdoors industry in general — one that pretends to dirtbag, disguised in brand new $350 puffy coats.

Put Your Money Where It Matters

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That’s a wrap! Happy Thanksgiving, and I’ll see you after the holiday with another story from the homestead.

Laura