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Every creative project asks something of us. It asks for patience while we wrestle with ideas that don't quite fit. It asks for persistence when progress feels slow. And it asks us to trust our instincts long before we know whether they're leading us in the right direction. For weeks, that's exactly what Victoria's Farmhouse and the Lodge Harrison had asked of me. Every day brought another decision: Another color to test. Another piece of trim to adjust. Another moment of won

People occasionally ask where I build my dollhouses. I think they're expecting a dedicated workshop with rows of neatly organized tools, custom workbenches, and shelves lined with projects waiting their turn. The truth is a little less glamorous. Every summer, my workshop moves outside. It takes over a picnic table on our back porch. The table is large enough to spread out a dollhouse, lay out paint, wallpaper, and trim, and still leave just enough room for a cup of coffee. T

One of the hardest parts of restoration is knowing when to stop adding and start taking away. It's easy to assume that every renovation begins by building something new. More often, it begins by removing the things that keep a house from becoming itself. That's where Victoria's Farmhouse and I began. When I first opened the front door, every room had its own personality. The walls, floors, and even the ceilings had been painted in bold jewel tones. It was clear someone had en

There are twenty-five windows in the Harrison. When I first counted them, they felt like another item on a growing list of things that needed attention. Some were missing altogether. Others had to be removed so I could work on the interior. None of them were as straightforward as I had hoped. Like so much of this house, every window seemed to uncover another layer of glue. Before I could begin installing replacements, I spent hours carefully working around hot glue, construct

I've learned not to choose colors too early. It's tempting. The paint aisle is full of possibilities, and it's easy to fall in love with a wallpaper or a flooring sample before a house is ready for it. But I've found that the best palettes usually reveal themselves gradually. Victoria's Farmhouse reminded me of that. By the time I began thinking about color, the exterior was finished and the interior had been white boxed. The distractions were gone, and I could finally see th

Every restoration reaches a point where I stop looking at rooms. I start walking through a house instead. It never happens on the day I expect it. For weeks, I think like a builder. I'm measuring walls, fitting trim, testing colors, and solving one problem after another. My attention stays fixed on whatever is directly in front of me. One room. One window. One decision. Then, almost without realizing it, my perspective changes. I'm no longer asking what needs to be built. I'm

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