Both Keith and I spent our childhoods in the Mississippi Delta, that rich alluvial floodplain formed by the Yazoo and Mississippi Rivers. The economy was based in the land and in the river, and the design ethos, at least among our families and their friends, was strong: dark pine floors covered in faded Oriental rugs, lots of English furniture, books everywhere, always a well-appointed bar. In those days, our town was full of craftsmen, and my mother availed herself of pretty much all of them. We had carpenters and decorative painters and potters just down the road, (not to mention musicians and artists and chefs). We were known for our parties.

Growing up, Keith and I were separated by an age gap that matters a lot when you are very young and not at all when you are grown. At a mutual friend’s legendary family Christmas Eve party, I was allowed to drink champagne with the grown folks downstairs while Keith was upstairs with the punch and cookies. As we grew we barely saw each other until she and her husband, Jon came to New York. She became the sister I never had. I like to think I taught her the entertaining secrets my mother instilled in me. But at some point, the student becomes teacher. And now there isn’t a decision either of us makes without bouncing it off the other — menus, fabric choices, vacation ideas, and of course the most difficult decisions in life too.