For years, when I heard someone refer to Cornish, I thought of game hens, the people of Cornwall, England, and some vague, imaginary ailment (i.e., “I’m feeling a little cornish today.”). Then, soon after I moved back to Maine from New York, I hosted a group of editors from Rachael Ray Every Day at my dad’s place in Baldwin, where the magazine staged a cross-country-skiing party for a story I wrote. I panicked a bit about where to bring these urban foodies for dinner in rural western Maine, but the cozy Cornish Inn (pictured above), situated among antiques shops on the town’s historic Main Street, did not disappoint. Since that evening, I’ve wanted to return to Cornish to explore the beautiful old neighborhood behind the inn, treasure hunt, and dine at Krista’s, which I’ve heard wonderful things about. Last month, with an hour of free babysitting to burn, courtesy of grandparents, I got to check off the first item on my list. I fell in love with the variety of houses arrayed in the foothills of the White Mountains and the diverse flourishes seen on porches, corner boards, and pilasters. And I’m happy to report that this lovely impression of the town now overshadows my former associations with poultry, a British county, and made-up afflictions!
Note that the Greek Revival, pictured at top left, was in the process of being painted, but can’t you picture it in its full snowy glory? Sigh — I could definitely live in this town. What about you?