Some homes are designed. Others are imagined—and then sculpted into being. Tucked into the tree-lined calm of suburban Bethesda, on a quiet corner that seems like any other, sits a house that refuses to blend in. It bubbles up from the earth like a dream half-remembered, all smooth curves and strange beauty. People call it the Mushroom House. Or the Smurf House. Or, simply, that  house. But whatever you call it, you won’t forget it. This is not a home that followed blueprint

Hovering above the Iowa prairie, at the edge of ordinary and imagined, sits a home that looks less like it was built—and more like it landed. On a quiet stretch of land in Urbandale, framed by cornfields and sky, rises a circular, steel-and-concrete marvel: the private home of LeMar Koethe. Part midwestern farmhouse, part futuristic dreamscape, this isn’t the kind of place you stumble upon. It’s the kind of place you remember. Koethe didn’t set out to build a spaceship. He se

High above the winding roads of Hazard, Kentucky—where the Appalachian hills roll soft and green—there’s a house that doesn’t quite sit. It perches. Shaped like a giant goose, complete with beak, wings, and weather-worn feathers, the Mother Goose House is one of those rare places that feels pulled from the pages of a storybook—and planted, improbably, in the real world. To call it a house feels like missing the point. It’s more than shelter. It’s more than a roadside attracti