After a long trip (or a long day), nothing says home to me like my own bed — and my own sheets.
I freely admit to being a sheet snob. I like them tightly woven (600 thread count or higher), Egyptian cotton, in white or ivory. Maybe a little texture, or a classic trim along the border. But no pattern, and more importantly, no see-through.
In the old days, in historic documents, you can see that beds and their linens were highly valued. People specifically willed their feather beds and prized quilts to their children when they died. Nowadays, not so much. You can pick up a prepackaged set of polyester-blend sheets for a steal at your local discount store. I’m not against the discount – its just that I know what I like. I know what feels good against my skin and what makes me feel that I’ve come home to my own nest.
The sheets on my bed last night are the homiest of all. They’re an utterly decadent 1000 thread count. Ironed before they were put into the linen closet. Enough body to the fabric that they stand up like meringue when you throw them off and get out of bed. So beautiful when the morning light hits them, that its a shame to make the bed.
This is home.