Before every party at our house—whether it’s a fundraiser, an engagement, or just another excuse to gather people—my wife finds a reason to rearrange the furniture, repaint something, or bring home another piece. She calls it “freshening up.” I call it “buying more stuff.” Somewhere around the W. Bush administration I figured we had reached our maximum décor capacity. Yet somehow, sideboards still multiply, armoires appear out of nowhere, and knickknacks sprout like weeds in places I didn’t know we had.
Our house has reached a stage where even the furniture has furniture, and I’m pretty sure one of the side tables is pregnant.
She loves a project and the process. The anticipation of a new piece of furniture or some little trinket gives her something to look forward to. Me? I look forward to the day we stop spending money on things we already have too much of. But I guess marriage is compromise, and I’ve learned to stay away from the battles I have no chance of winning.
I’m not a hoarder. But I have trouble letting go of some things. My phone still holds the numbers of friends and family who passed away years ago. Hitting delete feels too final, like closing a door I’d rather leave cracked open.
Some things I hold onto are practical, others sentimental. For the past fourteen years, there’s been a luggage shell propped against a wall in my driveway. To the untrained eye, it looks like clutter. Most people would see a piece of plastic taking up space. I see the start of one of the best chapters we ever lived.
That shell came from the Volvo factory in Gothenburg, Sweden, the summer of 2011. We had flown there as a family, bought a Volvo, and set out on a trip that changed everything. For six months, we wound our way across Europe, the kids drowsy in the backseat, my wife with the atlas in her lap, and me steady at the wheel. When it ended, Volvo packed that shell inside the car and shipped them both back to America.
Letting it go would feel like throwing away more than plastic and bolts—it would be throwing away part of the best miles my family ever shared. When Volvo shipped that luggage shell back to the U.S., they probably assumed I would use it for travel, not as an outdoor art installation in the driveway.
The license plate they issued us for that trip hangs framed in my office. It’s a bright red European plate, the kind you never see here, and it reminds me daily of the adventure we shared. That red plate doesn’t just hang on the wall—it hangs on my memory, proof that we once packed up and showed our kids the world. Every time I see it, I’m reminded that the best souvenirs aren’t bought in a shop; they’re carried home in the miles and moments you never forget. And that luggage shell out in the driveway is just me refusing to throw away a piece of that story.
Part of it comes from regret. In my younger days, during the dark season of alcoholism and drug addiction, I pawned things that mattered, things I can never get back. My grandfather’s shotgun was one of them. He had given it to me, a gift of trust and legacy, and I pawned it without a thought of reclaiming it. The money was spent in one wild night and then gone forever. I’ve lived with that poor decision ever since.
Later, after my grandmother passed, I bought her house, the one she had lived in for seventy years. It was filled with treasures of another time—old radios, record players, furniture that carried history in its scratches and stains. I kept most of it, and our home today still bears her mark. But in a moment of misjudgment, I held a garage sale. Out went pieces I wish I had kept, things my children or grandchildren would have cherished. That sale has stayed with me, not for the money it brought in, but for the things that slipped out of my hands and should have been passed down.
It’s just not the person I am.
Maybe that’s why I hold on to things today. The luggage shell, the phone numbers, the framed license plate—they anchor me to memories I never want to lose. They remind me of who I was, where I’ve been, and how far I’ve come.
The older I get, the more I realize that holding on isn’t about the stuff—it’s about the stories the stuff carries. My wife buys new furniture because it gives her something to anticipate. I hang on to a piece of plastic car luggage because it holds memories of a journey. Both acts point to the same truth: we need markers in life, reminders of where we’ve been and what we’ve shared.
We live in a culture that tells us to declutter, to purge, to throw away anything that doesn’t “spark joy.” Maybe there’s wisdom in that. But there’s equal wisdom in holding on. Because some things don’t just gather dust—they hold recollections, ties to family, and the meaning of where we’ve been.
Of course, keeping too much can crowd out the present. My wife sees that. She wants freshness, space, possibility. Yet sometimes letting go too easily leaves us lighter in all the wrong ways. I’ve done that, and I’ve paid for it in regret.
The balance, I think, is this: hold on to the things that hold on to you. Not every old radio or shotgun or luggage shell deserves permanent residency in our lives. But some do. Because some things carry more than dust. They carry remembrance, connection, and meaning.
My wife will keep filling the house with new things. I’ll keep defending the old ones. Somewhere in between, we’ll keep making a life together. And in that tension—between holding on and letting go—maybe the greater truth lies. Life isn’t just about accumulating or discarding. It’s about remembering. It’s about cherishing.
So, yes, the luggage shell stays. The phone numbers remain. The regrets will linger, too, reminding me of choices I can’t undo. But all of it together—the keepsakes, the losses, the new furniture, the old radios—makes up the story of a life. And isn’t that what we’re all trying to do? Not throw away the story.
Onward.
Pastel de Huevo
Serves 6 to 8
OK, so it’s a quiche. But “Mexican Quiche” just didn’t sound right. I’ve already thrown in an Italian version in this book. I don’t want to do even more to insult the Francophiles. So, we’ll just call it an egg pie.
If you have a Mexican market nearby, purchase your chorizo there (unless you make your own). Substitute queso cotija or queso chihuahua for a little more depth in the flavor profile.
Leftover salsa can be used for a topping on scrambled eggs or a dip with chips later in the day.
1 recipe pie dough
8 ounces chorizo
2 teaspoons fresh garlic, minced
1 tablespoon fresh jalapeño, small dice
4 each green onions, sliced thin
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon chili powder
1/2 teaspoon dry oregano leaves
1-2 1/4 ounce can sliced olives, drained
9 large eggs
3/4 cup heavy whipping cream
6 ounces pepper jack cheese, shredded, about 1 1/2 cups
1 cup sour cream
Salsa, recipe follows
Remove the prepared pie dough from the refrigerator. Lightly flour a clean working surface and place the dough in the center of the floured surface. Lightly dust the top of the dough as well. Begin in the center of the dough and roll upwards towards 12 o’clock, then downwards towards six o’clock. Rotate the dough 90 degrees and repeat the process. Apply more flour as needed to prevent the dough from sticking to the surface or the rolling pin. As your dough begins to resemble a circle, use the rolling pin to define the shape. Roll the dough into a 16-inch circle. Use the rolling pin to transfer the dough to your pie dish. Press the dough firmly on the bottom and up the sides of the pie dish. Using your fingers, crimp the dough along the top of the sides and trim off any excess dough. Chill in the refrigerator while making the filling.
Preheat oven to 375° F.
Place the chorizo in a medium-sized skillet over medium heat. Cook for six to seven minutes. Drain off excess grease and return to the stove. Add the garlic, jalapeño, green onions, salt, cumin, chili powder, and oregano. Sauté for two minutes and remove from the heat. Stir in the olives and set aside.
In a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs and whipping cream. Stir the chorizo mixture and cheese into the eggs.
Remove the chilled pie crust from the refrigerator and pour the filling into the crust. Place on a sided baking sheet and place in the center of the oven. Bake for 40 minutes then remove the quiche from the oven. Using aluminum foil, tent the sides of the crust and return the quiche to the oven for an additional 10 to 15 minutes. The center will jiggle just slightly when the edges are tapped when done.
Remove from the oven and allow the quiche to cool for 20 minutes before serving.
Cut and serve with sour cream and salsa.
Salsa
Makes about 3 cups
1-14.5 ounce can Fire-Roasted San Marzano Tomatoes, drained
1-10 ounce can Rotel Tomatoes, original or spicy, drained
1/3 cup Red Onion, medium dice (Char in a hot cast iron skillet before blending for added depth)
2 tablespoons Fresh Jalapeño, diced (Char in a hot cast iron skillet before blending for added depth)
1 1/2 teaspoons Roasted Garlic, minced (Roast a whole garlic bulb wrapped in foil with olive oil at 400°F for about 40 minutes)
1/2 teaspoon Ground Cumin
1/2 teaspoon Chili Powder
1/2 teaspoon Kosher Salt
1/4 teaspoon Smoked Paprika (Especially effective when using fire-roasted tomatoes)
1/4 cup Cilantro, chopped
1 tablespoon Lime Juice
1 tablespoon Orange Juice
1 teaspoon Apple Cider Vinegar
1/2 cup Fresh Tomato, finely chopped (Folded in after blending for added texture)
Pinch of Sugar or Drizzle of Honey (Balances acidity and heat)
Place all ingredients into the bowl of a food processor with the blade attachment. Pulse several times until salsa reaches desired consistency. Fold in the finely chopped fresh tomato at the end for added texture.
Store refrigerated in an airtight container for up to 7 days.
(Robert St. John is a chef, restauranteur and published cookbook author who lives in Hattiesburg, Miss.)
