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When I brought Victoria's Farmhouse into the workshop, something felt different. It wasn't the condition of the house or the amount of work ahead. It was the absence of history. Many of the houses I've restored have arrived carrying decades of stories. They've come from attics, garages, and forgotten corners of people's lives. They've been built by fathers for daughters, tucked away while life took unexpected turns, or lovingly cared for until someone finally decided it was t

I usually began a restoration with one simple goal. Preserve as much as I could. Every old dollhouse carries evidence of the person who built it; the way they framed a wall, the trim they selected and the small decisions that quietly revealed how they imagined the finished home. Those choices deserve respect. Even when I plan to take a house in a completely different direction, I want to preserve the craftsmanship that came before me whenever I can. That's how I approached th

For months, the book didn't feel like a book. It lived in a collection of folders, notebooks, photographs, voice recordings, and half-finished thoughts. I worked on it between restorations, late in the evening, or whenever an idea surfaced that I didn't want to lose. It was always there. But it still felt like something I was becoming rather than something I was creating. Creative projects have a funny way of existing in two places at once. They live in our imagination long b

Every collector has a story about the one that got away. The item they hesitated on. The listing they checked one last time, only to find it gone. The piece they assumed they'd never see again. A few months ago, I thought I had one of those stories. Instead, it became something entirely different. It started with a Facebook Marketplace listing. The photos weren't particularly good, and I couldn't tell much about the quality of the build. But there was something about the hous

People sometimes ask how Maple & Moss began. The truth is it didn't begin with a dollhouse. It began with a Christmas gift. A couple of years ago, I bought a book nook kit for my son. The company happened to be running a buy-two-get-one-free promotion, and I remember thinking, "I might as well get one for my brother... and try one myself." That was the entire plan. The kit wasn't even meant for me. But somewhere between opening the box and fitting together those tiny pieces,

When the Scandinavian Harrison left the workshop, I thought I knew exactly what would take its place......The Lawbre. It's one of the rarest houses in my collection—a one-of-a-kind custom build from the 1980s. I'd already spent time creating design mockups and thinking through its restoration. On paper, it was the obvious choice. So, I walked out to the garage to bring it inside. Instead, I came back carrying Victoria's Farmhouse. It wasn't a decision I had planned. In fact,

I thought I knew how the Scandinavian Harrison's story would end. When I brought the house into the workshop, I already had a vision for it. I could picture the interior taking shape room by room, with warm wood tones, simple furnishings, and all the little details that would eventually make it feel like home. In my mind, it wasn't finished. Then Holly reached out. She had originally contacted me about Victoria's Farmhouse. As we talked, I mentioned that I had a few houses th

When I began restoring Magnolia, I was drawn to the feeling I wanted the house to have. Something soft that felt welcoming and lived in. Every decision—from the stone exterior to the warm wood tones—was made with the hope that the house would feel as though it had quietly belonged to its surroundings for generations. One of my favorite details was the curtains. Rather than buying something new, I used lace from my bride box. Delicate patterns that had been handmade by my moth

Coming home always carries a strange kind of contrast. There's the comfort of familiar spaces, familiar routines, and work waiting patiently where you left it. But for a little while, part of you is still somewhere else. When I walked back into the workshop, everything looked exactly as I had left it. The two Harrison houses were still waiting on the table. Paint samples were scattered across my work surface. Notes were tucked into corners, marking ideas I planned to return t

One of the unexpected gifts of my time in Turkey wasn't a place. It was a person. This last week, I got it spent time with Turkish miniaturist Yasemin Kara, learning about her work and the traditions that inspire it. Before we met, I expected to admire her craftsmanship. What I didn't expect was how familiar it would feel. We come from different countries. We build different styles of houses. Our work is shaped by different histories and traditions. And yet, within minutes, i

The longer I stay in Turkey, the more my attention shifts. When I first arrived, I noticed the architecture, the colors, and the feeling of being somewhere different. Now I'm noticing something quieter. The more I looked, the more I found myself drawn to the materials themselves—the woven rugs beneath my feet, embroidered linens folded away for generations, carved wood worn smooth by countless hands, and pottery that seemed to grow softer and richer with every passing year. N

This week begins from a different place. I've arrived in Turkey and, for the first time in months, the rhythm of my days has slowed. Instead of spending my time restoring dollhouses, I'm spending it with family, reconnecting with familiar places, and paying attention to the details that often disappear when life is busy. The work feels different here. But it doesn't feel far away. As I've settled in, I've found myself noticing the quiet presence of craftsmanship in everyday l

When I first started restoring dollhouses, I thought I was bringing old houses back to life. Somewhere along the way, I realized that wasn't really what was happening. A restoration always begins the same way. An empty house sits on my dining room table. I walk through it room by room, making a list of what needs attention. Missing trim. Damaged windows. Loose flooring. Walls that need repair. At first, that's all I see. A project. But there's always a moment when something c

Some of the biggest decisions in a restoration begin with a feeling that something isn't quite right. That was the case with Cedarwood Manor. As I prepared the house for the Seattle Miniature Show, one detail kept drawing my attention. The tower. No matter how many times I looked at it, the proportions felt off. The original dome seemed too heavy for the rest of the house, and once I noticed it, I couldn't unsee it. So I did what restorers often do. I took it apart. The origi

At first glance, Cedarwood Manor looks like a single dollhouse. But the more time I spent with it, the more I realized it had a story to tell. As I prepared the house for the Seattle Miniature Show, I found myself looking beyond the dust and the details to something much more interesting. This wasn't simply a large Victorian dollhouse—it appeared to be two different kits brought together into one custom home. In the miniature world, we have a name for that. It's called kit ba

One of the least glamorous parts of restoring a dollhouse turned out to be one of the most important. Long before the wallpaper was hung, the furniture was arranged, or tiny accessories found their place on a shelf, there were decisions to make about something most people never notice. The lighting. Every vintage dollhouse that came into my workshop brought its own story—and its own electrical challenges. Some arrived already wired and needed only a few repairs. Others requir

Sometimes the smallest discoveries tell the biggest stories. As I began working on the 1988 Houseworks Victorian, I opened a small bag that had been tucked away with the house for decades. Inside was an original wood interior door, complete with its tiny crystal knob. It had been waiting there since 1989. For more than thirty-five years, that little door had never been installed. The house had sat unfinished, its story paused, while this one small piece quietly waited for the

People sometimes ask why I care so deeply about old dollhouses. For a long time, I wasn't sure I could answer. I knew I loved restoring them. I loved uncovering forgotten craftsmanship and imagining what a house could become. But that wasn't the whole story. There was something deeper drawing me in, and I couldn't quite put it into words. Looking back now, I can see the answer had been unfolding from the very beginning. Heather's house was the first to stop me in my tracks. T

Every now and then, a message arrives that reminds me exactly why Maple & Moss exists. Recently, one of our clients shared a story with me that has stayed in my heart. She told me she'd dreamed of owning a dollhouse since she was eight years old. When she finally received hers, it wasn't simply a beautiful miniature—it was a reflection of her life. Tiny, framed family photographs hung on the walls. Three hand-painted dogs waited faithfully on the front porch. Hidden throughou

When people visit one of my displays or discover Maple & Moss for the first time, they often ask the same question. "How do you have the patience?" The answer is simple. Miniatures have taught me that the smallest details are often the ones that matter most. A strip of trim that's only a few inches long. A tiny window that takes far longer to restore than anyone would expect. A floor laid one plank at a time. Individually, these moments seem insignificant. Together, they're w