I just read a headline from House & Garden UK that says cottagecore has given way to burrowcore. I’d say, they’re speaking my love language.

I’m a lover of little havens full of favorites, both my tribe and my trappings. A good book, a soft throw, a mug of coffee or glass of wine, my family gathered all around is heaven to me. Add soup on the stove or scones in the oven and I will never leave.

I bought into minimalism when we first purchased our house – or as minimalist as I could ever get. I painted nearly every surface alabaster white (which I still love, btw… see my kitchen above), but my favorite room in the house is my office, with its dark bronze walls, books stacked to the ceiling, daybed piled with pillows, and the heavy, muted rug my dear Aunt Jan gave me underfoot. 

My truest loves are comfortably cluttered and full of flavor. Always have been, and always will be.  I love my home like I love my literature, full of moody tones and blowsy sentences. I love my decor like I love my food, full to bursting with spice and dense layers.

Minimalism is sparse. It feels deconstructed. Like Hemingway details, sharp and dry. Like food plated by a Michelin-starred chef: angle of substance, line of nourishment.

Maximalism, on the other hand, is overwhelming. Too many things competing for attention. See me! Pick me! Exhibitionist energy in big, bold colors, heaps of fussy meringue on display. Like a great big bowl of Eton Mess. A saccharine toothache.

But burrowcore… THAT’s my speed, my flavor, my jam.

It’s introverted, homey, cozy, layered. All soft spaces, lit with lamps and candles and sunny windows. It’s equal parts shadow and sun, forest flavor and fragrant meadow. It’s collected, gathered, connected, maintained. It’s family hand-me-downs, antique shops and internet finds. It’s Beatrix Potter making best friends with Faulkner. It’s comfort food served warm from the stove.

Her’s to burrowcore forevermore.