Remember how rainy it was last Sunday? Despite the rain, our determined neighborhood forged ahead that morning with an annual “Spooky Hour” in honor of Halloween. Then I was headed to host a new listing’s open house. A colleague suggested that I bake cookies. At first I thought she was kidding, yes, yes, it’s rainy that would be cute. But then triggered by her suggestion, a flood of memories relating to my own CT house hunting overwhelmed me.
My own search for the elusive starter home began a good decade and a half ago. Picture myself and my husband, clearly younger, sprier versions of ourselves. Desperately trying to look the part of my then image of what a proper Fairfield County mom should look like, I swapped out my usual head-to-toe black ensemble, aka the NYC uniform, for some cheerful Lilly Pulitzer. We eagerly arrived at our first open house. We were already enchanted, seduced by the street whose name included “Pheasant,” yet discovered a seriously tired dwelling with tooth floss left on the family room coffee table. And I mean the actual string, not the box. Gross!
My own search for the elusive starter home began a good decade and a half ago.
Our second stop was another starter home in our price range. The pictures looked so nice and the backyard had room for an actual swing set! This warmed my city heart as I imagined that urban public playgrounds multiple blocks away from my current apartment would be a thing of my past. With a Snap-N-Go infant car seat draped over my arm like a super-sized Birken bag, I looked out of the kitchen window, dreaming of my little ones frolicking in the grass. All of a sudden a fire alarm went off! Ms. Snap-N-Go was startled from a nap and started crying. When I realized that the searing siren was coming not from the house, but from an actual firehouse that sat directly across the street, I wanted to cry too.
At our next stop, my husband didn’t even want to enter the home. We had just spent over a decade living in noisy NYC where neighbors literally lived on top of each other. It wasn’t unusual to overhear a quarrel or party in the apartment next door or above us. My husband had developed an exacting standard when it came to the kind of ambiance and minimal noise pollution that he envisioned for our future abode. At each stop, he would get out of our car, stand in the driveway and close his eyes. After a few seconds, he would give the green or red light. Agents sometimes asked, “What exactly is he doing?” I would then have to explain that he was conducting his “95/Merritt Test”. Shell-shocked from city living, if he could hear even the faintest hint of any highway noise then we were outta there! This man wanted peace and quiet in the way most men crave football and chili.
Our final stop that day was a sprawling ranch on a generous, flat, multi-acre lot and in a cute neighborhood. When we walked in and smelled the chocolate chip cookies, I rolled my eyes at my husband and we both smirked. Really? Did this agent think her quaint cookies were going to win over this calloused NYC couple? Like we would seriously abandon our methodical search and plunk down a wad of cash just because she presented us with some baked goods.
But I have to say, enveloped by the saccharine scent, the light seemed a little brighter as we walked through the home. The windows shimmered with a little more sparkle. The polished wood floors took on an added sheen. The molding even looked a touch fresher. Was that a fresh coat of paint? My cynicism started to slowly evaporate. I thought, “Could it be the power of the cookies?” That’s ridiculous. As we entered the kitchen to sign in to the open house sheet, the agent greeted us. Bubbly as ever, she carried most of the conversation and asked us questions about our search. She offered the cookies which, of course, we turned down, even as my husband looked longingly at them. We weren’t going to owe her anything. She’d have to work just a wee bit harder for our business. We discussed the house, the neighborhood, local market trends, interest rates, you name it. Then all of a sudden the doorbell rang announcing new guests, so she flitted away. That left me, my husband, our infant and the plate of cookies staring at us. What a plebeian idea. So basic. So trite. Maybe it was the long trip out from the City. Maybe it was the way the warm chocolate was irresistibly oozing out of those crisp sugary shells. Maybe it was the way that the sweet smell transported us to a sea of fond childhood memories, a childhood that we now wanted to re-create for our own children. Hence, the house hunt we were on. I can’t say for sure. Though, once we felt we were in the clear, we could resist the temptation no longer. We devoured half the plate! Exhilarated by a sugar high, we grabbed a buyer’s house packet and headed back to the City.
So back to my original question, Do the cookies work? You’ll have to try them for yourself to see, but we did move into that ranch one month later.
Christa Kenin has lived, worked and volunteered in New Canaan for the last 12 years. She is an attorney turned real estate agent with Douglas Elliman. Christa is a former President of the New Canaan Newcomers Club and publicly elected member of the Town Council. She is a current member of the Utilities Commission. Catch her bouncing around town with her husband, two daughters and two Italian greyhounds, Minnie and Luna.
