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Celebrating a year of Homeward—and Pie Day!
Plus, setting down new roots and meeting our neighbors for the first time.
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It’s been one year since I began writing Homeward. Once I started my last business, I thought I’d moved on from writing, but then I realized it’s my most natural way of communicating. I had stories and tips to share, and was intrigued by Substack. After many years in the wilds of the Internet, Substack has been a breath of fresh air. People choose to be here, and as a writer, I’m really grateful for this. Your comments and dms have made me think in fresh ways about renovation, about what you fill your home with, and about what makes a home sing. Thank you for being here.
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For anyone who’s new to Homeward, here are a few posts that you might enjoy:
To celebrate this milestone, you can get 15% off an annual membership ($51/year) with this special link now through next Friday. I hope you’ll join me on this new life journey! To those of you who have already been following along, offering advice and encouragement, thank YOU! Last thing before we dive in: This week’s post is free, so please share widely if you enjoyed reading it.
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Back in the fall, when we drove across the country from New York and began our first sustained period in Ojai, I jotted some notes on the experiences and impressions of these early weeks.
I had a cranial sacral massage, during which I learned that my yang and yin were not connecting well. My massage therapist recommended the book, Craniosacral Chi Kung: Integrating Body and Emotion in the Cosmic Flow.
I wandered around Ojai Day, an annual street festival, which was endearingly folksy. There were local arts and crafts, as well as a music tent, in which I saw a man teaching a child how to hold a violin. There was a gardening club that signed people up to order wreaths, with the funds going to a local college student majoring in horticulture; and a forest ranger getting kids to spin a wheel and answer questions about water preservation.
I lost my sunglasses in the grocery store parking lot, and passersby helped me search until we found them.
Tad and I took a “flexibility class” at the Ojai Valley Athletic Club with what felt like the cast of Cocoon. After class, I went to the locker room to refill my water bottle and found an older woman on a bench, completely naked, reading on her iPad.
Tad and I shopped at the two weekly farmers’ markets, where I learned about pineapple guavas and the local olive oil season.
We went hiking on Lucy’s Trail and others.
We saw “The Player” at the Ojai Playhouse.
Everything felt completely different from our life in Brooklyn.
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We also finally met our neighbors in person. (As you may recall, two of our neighbors saved us during the construction—one turning off our water late at night during a big leak, and another noting a design issue with the cladding going up on our house!). Ann, who lives across the street, invited me to a ladies night. “We are going to have some wine and snacks and make fall wreaths with native plants,” she texted. You can’t get much more California than that!
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People often think New Yorkers aren’t friendly. Untrue—they just don’t lead with friendly. But the opposite can be just as off-putting. Ladies night was neither. Everyone was welcoming and curious. I learned about the Thomas Fire in 2017, which destroyed more than a thousand structures, including a number of houses in Ojai, and for several days threatened the entire town. All the people on our street evacuated when the fire came over the adjacent mountain; they assumed they’d return to ash. But the fire department tried a risky strategy: it lit a backfire on a mountain road aimed to spread up the mountain to combat and eventually extinguish the encroaching fire. Miraculously, it worked. Fire seasons come in cycles, one of the women told me. “You’re lucky because we probably have another 20 years until the next big one.” Fingers crossed!
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I also learned about Earth Friend Jen, a local character who used to rollerskate through town wearing nothing but pasties and a bikini bottom. She’d stop traffic doing pirouettes. “I had to teach my kids what the word pasties meant because of her,” one of my neighbors said. EFJ moved away for a while, but she’s back now and still skates—alas, somewhat fully clothed. I’ve seen her rollerskating in a spiral position through town. EFJ is real.
There was talk of a young group of nudists that some of the women knew; this seemed accepted and normal, like talking about a vacation. As is required at all female gatherings, we also discussed a painful procedure that removes blemishes; I’ve unfortunately forgotten the name of it! The biggest scandal in town was the “wheelie kids,” gangs of kids on bikes who stop traffic because they’re doing wheelies. (As everything in 2026 gets branded, I later saw a kid wearing a t-shirt that said Wheelie Kid.) Not a single person asked me what I do, which is often the first question you’re asked in New York.
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In December, a few weeks after we moved in, we invited a few of our neighbors over for drinks on a Sunday afternoon. There was another neighborhood party earlier in the day, so we figured they might only want to swing by our place for an hour or so.
Everyone piled in on time and explored the house. As I was pouring drinks, Marty, who lives next door, leaned in and said, “I’m going to come clean, I’ve been in your house A LOT.” During construction, he’d chat with Evan, our contractor, and come by to see the updates.
That night, we learned that our house used to be the gathering spot for all their kids. Our neighbors’ children, now adults, pointed out the place on our property where they’d once constructed a skateboard half pipe. Matt, who had built his family’s house across the street, asked about the wood finishes.
We ran out of wine. They went back to their houses and got more. The party went on for more than four hours.
We went to bed that night feeling lucky.
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It’s several months later now, and I can feel the roots taking hold. I’ve borrowed a pot from Marty and Michele, and a rolling pin from Ann and Matt. I’ve gone to a silent tea ceremony with Tegan, another neighbor from ladies night, and will be attending a garden tour with Ann and her son.
Tad and I have met dozens of lively people, a lot of them expats from LA and New York and many of them writers, actors, artists, and makers. We have found our regular exercise classes at the Athletic Club; we go to the farmers’ market; and we get California burgers at Zaidie’s every couple of weeks.
I love our house. I love hearing the owls “hoo”-ing at night. I love the natural beauty and fresh citrus. And I love spending more time with Tad. I have been happier here over the past few months than I’ve been for most of my life.
A few weeks ago, Ann sent me a photo of an egret that was on the roof of our house.
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Egrets, Google tells me, “signify independence, self-reflection, and good fortune,” and “are widely regarded as messengers of divine guidance and peace, appearing during life transitions to encourage patience and harmony.” That sounds about right.
Yours in new chapters,
Amanda
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This year on Pi Day, I learned from my Ojai friend Franz that Albert Einstein was born on March 14, 1879, and Stephen Hawking died on March 14, 2018. I also learned that Ojai really knows how to celebrate Pi Day. I’d heard early on in our Ojai journey that a group of people exchanged pies on Pi Day, but that was a fragment of the more glorious reality. At a dinner party, I luckily sat next to one of the founders of Pi Day and scored an invite for this year’s celebration.
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As local legend goes, students at Thacher, a boarding school on the east end of town, named one of their running loops “Pi,” because it was (more or less) 3.14 miles long. They would “run Pi” or “go walk Pi.” Some local adults decided to make an event of Pi on Pi Day. The invites that went out said: Bring Pie. Walk Pi. Eat Pie.
Now, 15 years later, 40 or so people arrive at Churchill Farm, pies in hand, at 8:30 in the morning. At 9 a.m., everyone sets out to walk Pi. This year, there were kids in strollers, dogs, groups of friends, and people of every age, walking along the citrus orchards and ascending the hill toward Thacher. Back at the farm, the pies were laid out on oilcloth-covered tables. There were apple pies and blueberry pies, key lime and lemon meringue, quiches and crumbles, even chocolate pies. Pi Day organizers provide plates, forks, napkins, and coffee.
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You learned quickly which crusts were the most tender, based on how much people struggled to carve out a slice with a plastic knife. And I got my hard-knocks lesson: when your pie is competing for attention with 30 others, you’ve got to make it visually distinct. I’d made one of my favorite pie recipes—Lazy Mary’s Lemon Tart (baked in a pie dish)—with a Meyer lemon from Franz’s and his wife Maggie’s tree. The filling gets blitzed in a blender with the entire lemon, skin, pith, and all—and is a beautifully balanced yet direct lemon tart. But it looks like a yellow blob. Barely anyone touched it. Next year, I’m bringing a pie dressed for a parade, with whipped cream, maybe some shaved chocolate, and cherries on top.
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