Home and family have always felt wildly important and also elusive. My childhood was an adventure. Leftists, hippies, writers, and craftsmen raised my sister and me. We stayed up late backstage at Grateful Dead concerts, barbecued with Hell’s Angels, and showed up to school in fits and starts. Our formative years were spent changing towns and caregivers, often sleeping in makeshift beds in various locations. At 13 years old I was adopted by the Norstad/Pugh families. The very first bedroom I had of my own was in a 1903 Victorian in downtown San Rafael. The house had eleven rooms all with beautiful vintage details: picture frame molding, a clawfoot bathtub, built-in bookshelves. At 14 I moved into my maternal adoptive grandparent's house – a 1957 mid-century modern home on top of Belvedere Island with an 18-foot wall of windows overlooking Tiburon. I’d bounce my fingertips along the vertical grasscloth wallpaper as I ran down the stairs to my bedroom. My next home was a 1919 craftsman redesigned by ceramicist, architect, and my paternal adoptive grandfather, Eric Norstad. Redwood panel walls, butcher block countertops, a concrete and stoneware tiled fireplace, and one-of-a-kind high-fired sink basins graced the bathroom. The house is surrounded by brick pathways and winding gardens nurtured by my favorite person in the world, his wife, and my grandmother, Ruth.