Something Beautiful May Be Beginning
NAPERVILLE - WHEATON - GLEN ELLYN - ELMHURST - GENEVA - ST. CHARLES - BARRINGTON - BARTLETT PHOTOGRAPHER
Happy Sunday my friend!
It’s been one of those weeks where I’m not entirely sure how we fit everything in.
I had three senior sessions—two in Chicago on separate days—a jewelry company rented the studio Thursday and Friday, we had our Friday night Mimi & Papa sleepover, and we have a little project happening at the house, so there have been workers coming and going in between all of it.
And then there was something else happening quietly behind the scenes that occupied an unreasonable amount of my thoughts, caused more than a little anxiety, and had me seriously questioning some of my life choices. You’ll read about that below.
And somehow, in the middle of all the commotion, the garden has decided to look more beautiful than it has all year. The roses are giving us one last glorious flush of blooms, the dahlias are absolutely incredible, and even the perennials are still hanging on. It feels a little like the garden’s last hurrah before fall truly settles in—and I am soaking up every bit of it.
It was busy, a little nerve-wracking, and definitely not boring.
But really, what else is new at Our Cozy Compound?
Soft Focus: Something Beautiful May Be Beginning
It is very hard to watch someone grieve.
It may be even harder to watch someone slowly fade away.
My dad has been living with dementia for more than seven years now. His decline has been incredibly slow, something our family has always been grateful for. For a very long time, if you met him, you might not have even known.
But slowly, little pieces have changed.
And through all of those changes, there was Trouble.
Trouble was my parents’ fifteen-pound Jack Russell terrier and, if I am being completely honest, probably the most loved child in our family. My sister and I accepted our demotion years ago.
My parents adored that little dog.
But for my dad, especially as his dementia progressed, Trouble became much more than a pet. He became his routine. His companion. His responsibility. His constant.
My dad became incredibly focused on him. Was Trouble comfortable? Was he covered with his blanket? Did he need to go outside? Where was he? What was he doing?
Trouble was his very best friend.
And Trouble seemed to understand his job.
As he got older, he developed blood cancer, and I swear that little dog hung on as long as he possibly could for my dad. Maybe that's me assigning human emotions to a dog. Maybe not. But if you had watched the two of them together, I think you might believe it too.
There was a reciprocal love between them that was impossible to miss.
This spring, at fifteen years old, Trouble died.
I knew it was coming.
What I didn't know was what would happen to my dad when it did.
I had been afraid of it for years because when someone is living with dementia, you begin to understand how important the familiar things are. The routines. The people. The places. The tiny anchors that keep a person tethered to his world.
Trouble was one of my dad's biggest anchors.
After he died, the house became painfully quiet.
It's funny how something that weighs fifteen pounds can leave behind an absence that feels enormous.
My dad tried to be strong. My mom did too. But they were both heartbroken.
And at 83 and 85, there is something else I've come to understand: we all need a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
Trouble had been theirs.
He needed to be fed. He needed to go outside. He needed attention. He needed them.
And perhaps just as importantly, they had him in common.
After he was gone, there was an emptiness in their house that nobody really knew what to do with.
Especially me.
Because I am a fixer.
Give me a problem and I immediately start looking for a solution. I want the people I love to be happy. I want to make the hurt go away.
Unfortunately, grief is not particularly interested in being fixed.
Last week, my daughter Delaney sent me a Facebook post from a local rescue.
There was a little dog available for adoption.
And she looked like Trouble.
Not exactly, of course. But enough.
Enough that my heart stopped for a second when I saw her.
Now, I'm going to tell you something that may make you think I am slightly crazy.
When Trouble was dying, I asked him to come back to us somehow.
I know.
But I did.
I asked him to send us a sign or find his way back to us in some form. I suppose when we love something deeply enough, we become willing to believe in things that don't necessarily make sense.
So when Delaney sent me that photograph, I couldn't just scroll past it.
I filled out an application.
My reasoning was that an application wasn't a dog.
We might not be chosen.
We could meet her and decide she wasn't right.
I could change my mind.
There were plenty of exits.
Because there was one rather significant problem with my brilliant plan.
My mother.
My mom is a strong-willed woman. I am a grown woman with grown children and grandchildren of my own, and I am still afraid of making my mother mad.
There was absolutely no world in which surprising my mother with a puppy seemed like a good idea.
She and my dad had talked about getting another dog. I knew they missed having one. But they always came back to the same concern.
They were too old.
What if something happened to them? It wouldn't be fair to the dog.
I would jokingly tell them, "You know, you're really not that special. The dog will survive without you. We'll take it and love it, and it will be just fine."
My mom would laugh.
But I knew her concern was real.
And honestly, mine was too.
Because bringing a young dog into a home where one person is caring for someone with dementia isn't a small thing.
What if it was too much for her?
What if the dog made my dad more confused?
What if I was trying so hard to fix their sadness that I actually made their lives harder?
I thought of every possible thing that could go wrong.
And then the rescue called.
They wanted us to meet the dog.
Suddenly my harmless little application had four legs.
My anxiety went through the roof.
Ironically, Delaney—the person who had sent me the post in the first place—started playing devil's advocate.
My sister, on the other hand, was immediately on board.
"They need this," she said.
Then she told me something I hadn't seen.
She had watched my dad sitting on the couch, ruffling the blanket beside him and pretending he was covering Trouble the way he used to.
Except Trouble wasn't there.
That was it.
We were getting the dog.
Although apparently I wasn't quite as brave as that sentence makes me sound.
At one point I asked my sister if she would tell Mom and Dad that she was the one giving them the dog so Mom wouldn't yell at me.
She agreed.
Sisterhood.
So began a week of secret planning, buying puppy supplies, hiding a dog from my parents, and lying awake at night wondering if I had made a terrible mistake.
Yesterday was the day.
We walked into their house with this little dog beside us.
My mom took one look at her and said,
"No."
My heart sank.
And then, almost immediately:
"Oh my gosh. She's so cute."
She saw Trouble in her too.
Within minutes, the woman I had spent an entire week fearing would never forgive me was smiling.
Really smiling.
The kind of smile I haven't seen on her face in a long time.
There was energy in the house again. Something to fuss over. Something to talk about. Something that needed her.
My dad was the one I hadn't prepared myself for.
He looked at the little dog and became emotional.
"Boy, you look like Trouble," he told her.
And then he cried.
He was happy.
But he was sad.
Melancholy is the word he has used.
It was almost as though loving this little dog might somehow mean he was betraying the one who came before her.
And suddenly I realized that in trying to soothe his grief, I had brought it right into the middle of the room.
Today he seems more confused.
More fragile.
Maybe it is simply all the commotion and change. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe this will take time.
I don't know.
And that may be the hardest part for someone like me.
I want to know that I did the right thing.
I want a tidy ending where my dad holds the puppy, my mom smiles, everyone is happy, and I get to pat myself on the back for fixing something that has felt broken for months.
But grief doesn't give us tidy endings.
Neither does dementia.
And maybe love doesn't either.
My dad keeps saying something today.
"I think it's a good thing that we have this dog."
He says it almost as though he is trying to convince himself.
Maybe he is.
I think somewhere inside him, he is trying to figure out how to hold two things at once: how to love this little creature standing in front of him without letting go of the little creature he loved before her.
Maybe that's what all of us have to learn eventually.
New love doesn't require us to surrender old love.
We don't replace the people—or the animals—we have loved. We don't have to close one room in our hearts before opening another.
We simply make more room.
I started this week believing I could fix something.
I couldn't.
I couldn't take away my dad's grief. I couldn't bring Trouble back. I couldn't restore what dementia has slowly taken from him.
All I could do was place a little bit of love in front of him and hope that, eventually, he might decide there is room for that too.
And perhaps that's what it means to stand beside someone who is grieving.
Not to drag them out of their sadness.
Not to convince them that it's time to move on.
Not even to make them happy.
Just to sit beside them in the complicated space where sadness and joy can somehow exist at the very same time.
There is a little dog in my parents' house tonight.
My mom is smiling.
My dad is grieving.
And somewhere in between those two things, I think something beautiful may be beginning.
*This essay and more can be read on my Our Cozy Compound substack
WHAT I’M LOVING THIS WEEK
Inspiring Follow: @meetcutesnyc
This is one of those accounts that just makes me happy.
The premise is so simple: they stop couples on the streets of New York City and ask them how they met. That’s it. One meet cute at a time.
Some have been together for just a few years, others for decades. Some met completely by chance, some through friends, at work, online, or in ways that make you think, What are the odds? And along the way, you often get little pieces of relationship advice from people who have been doing life together for a very long time.
It’s fun and sweet, but I think the reason I love it so much is that it’s a reminder that there are a lot of happy relationships out there. There are people still holding hands, still making each other laugh, still choosing one another after all these years.
And with so much of social media showing us what’s wrong with the world, I’ll happily make room in my feed for a little more of what’s right.
What I’m Loving: Emile Henry Ceramic Potter Collection
This week I’m sharing something I’ve actually been loving for years.
I have quite a collection of Emile Henrypieces, many of them given to me by my mom over the years, which probably makes me love them even more. They’re the kind of pieces that are beautiful enough to leave sitting out in the kitchen but, more importantly, are actually meant to be used—and mine definitely are.
Emile Henry has been making its ceramic cookware in Burgundy, France, since 1850, using the region’s Burgundy clay. I love the history behind them almost as much as I love cooking with them. They heat beautifully and evenly, hold their heat at the table, and somehow make even the simplest thing coming out of the oven feel a little more special.
And there are so many beautiful pieces—from pie dishes and bakers to loaf pans, casserole dishes, tagines and more. They’re timeless, incredibly functional, and very French… so really, they never stood much of a chance of not ending up in my kitchen.
Some of mine have been with me for years, and I have a feeling I’ll be cooking with them for many more.
Local-ish: Beyond Grandma’s House
Dan and I went to Beyond Grandma’s House for the first time on Saturday, and I’m not sure either of us was prepared for what we were walking into.
First of all, the place is enormous. It’s tucked inside the old boiler-room space of the former American Licorice Company in Chicago, and wandering through it feels a little like going on a treasure hunt through the past.
There is vintage furniture, lighting, clothing, collectibles, old toys, holiday pieces and just about everything in between. But my favorite part was spotting those things that instantly take you somewhere else—the kind of things you remember sitting in your grandparents’ house or that you haven’t seen since you were a kid.
Dan and I kept pointing things out to each other and saying, “Oh my gosh, remember these?”
It’s one of those places where you could easily lose a couple of hours just wandering, remembering and digging around to see what you might find. If you love vintage, antiques, or simply a really good dose of nostalgia, put this one on your list.
2321 N. Keystone Ave., Chicago, IL 60639
(773) 908-9416
FROM MY KITCHEN
I promised you this recipe last week, and I’m keeping my word!
I served this Gratin Dauphinois alongside my roasted chicken, and honestly, I’m not sure which one I loved more. Thinly sliced potatoes baked slowly in cream, milk, garlic and thyme until tender and golden—there’s really not much to dislike here.
It feels a little fancy and very French, but it’s actually incredibly simple to make. It’s the kind of side dish that works just as beautifully for Sunday dinner as it does when you have friends gathered around the table.
Gratin Dauphinois
Ingredients
3.3 pounds potatoes
1¾ cups milk
2¼ cups heavy cream
2 garlic cloves
Fresh or dried thyme, to taste
1 bay leaf
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 tablespoons butter
Shredded cheese, to taste
Instructions
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Thinly slice the potatoes and arrange them evenly in a baking dish.
Add the milk, heavy cream, garlic, butter, thyme, bay leaf, salt and black pepper to a pot.
Heat the cream mixture until warmed and well combined.
Remove the bay leaf, then pour the warm cream mixture evenly over the potatoes.
Cover the baking dish first with parchment paper, then with aluminum foil.
Bake at 400°F for 1 hour and 30 minutes.
Once the potatoes are cooked and tender, remove the parchment and foil and sprinkle shredded cheese over the top.
Return to the oven until the cheese is melted and beautifully golden. Serve warm.
A little tip: Slice your potatoes as evenly as possible so the layers soften at the same rate.
Serve it alongside roast chicken, beef, or honestly, just give me a plate of this and call it dinner.
It’s rich, cozy, unapologetically indulgent—and exactly the kind of thing I want coming out of my oven once the weather begins to cool.
Studio Happenings
A Little Christmas Magic
Our Santa Experience is one of my favorite traditions at the studio, and our holiday season will be here before we know it!
This isn’t your typical quick photo with Santa. Each family has a private 20-minute experience inside Santa’s Christmas cottage, giving the children plenty of time to talk with him, ask all those very important North Pole questions, share their Christmas wishes, and, of course, capture the magic in photographs.
Before their visit, each child even receives a letter from Santa and their very own golden ticket, personally inviting them to his cottage. And our Santa truly is extraordinary—the real beard, the old-world suit, the storytelling… he somehow makes even the grown-ups believe again.
Santa sessions are now available for online booking. And if your own children have already grown past the Santa years, please feel free to share this with someone who still has little believers at home. You don’t want them to miss out on this little bit of Christmas magic.
Location: Naperville/Warrenville, IL
with love and light,
Alicia Staley Johnson
of Alicia’s Photography
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