I have a dining table. Oak. Sturdy. Expandable.
When purchased 30+ years ago, Houston furniture icon and outrageous hype man, “Mattress Mac”, guaranteed we would pass it down for to our children and then to theirs; a guarantee to “Save You Money”! (Houston peeps understand the tag line.) I doubt my son and daughter-in-law will ever want the table. It will eventually sell for less than its value in an estate sale. And that is okay. The table has served and continues to serve us well. I look at it and see memories of those I love sharing a meal. I see my son at different ages, and I anticipate the meals I’ll share with my granddaughter at that same table that once sat her father.
But something is lacking. I’m sorry Oak-Table-That -Will-Save-Me-Money, you are limited.
You are not a “kitchen table”.
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Growing up we did not have a dining table. Why? Because we did not have a dining room! Simple! We had a kitchen table in the middle of … wait for it … the kitchen! I remember it well. Formica “White Sequin” pattern, white with gold glitter flecks. It sported a metal chrome band around the edge. “Mid-Century Modern”, although at the time it was simply “modern”.
Earlier this month several family and friends posted memories on social media celebrating my late mother’s birthday: sitting at the kitchen table drinking hot coffee , sitting at the kitchen table playing Scrabble, and sitting at the kitchen table visiting. Although Mom and Dad eventually moved to different styles of tables, it always remained in the kitchen. Dad could stretch to reach a utensil off the counter; Mom could serve you from the stove top without having to get up from her chair. Convenient, yes, but not “special”. What was special was who was invited to sit at the table.
Who? Everyone! Children. Grandchildren. Siblings. Nieces. Nephews. Friends. Neighbors. Salespeople. Lost strangers looking for directions. You were invited to sit at the table and share a cup of coffee. Hot coffee was always on tap. Cold winters or hot Texas summers, there was always a pot of coffee waiting for you. It was the center of the home. It was the heart.
The table was not just for guests. It was a place for my parents. One of my favorite memories is seeing just Mom and Dad, drinking coffee, talking, and listening to their favorite music on the radio. Countless hours discussing children, budget, fears. plans, life.
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When guest visit my home, we gather in the nameless front room. It is not exactly a den, not a living room, not a formal room by any means. It is the room where order is maintained (in the event of unexpected visitors), that once supported a towering bookcase before I went digital, and is home to the piano. No matter its name or lack of, this seems to be the landing point for many. Eventually we migrate to the living room and kitchen. But my home lacks a center. We only sit at the dining table when we are dining. Some may stand around the kitchen island while I’m cooking, but typically the only consistent islanders are my pups who anticipate the occasional spill or dropped food. Where is the go-to place to visit, gossip, share? Where does the heart gather?
I need a kitchen table. An epicenter. A place for solving the problems of the world or at least ourselves. A place to share a meal and share a life. A place, that when you drop in, you know will have a cup of coffee, iced tea, or a beer and someone who wants to listen.
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I realize that my parents’ kitchen table, itself, wasn’t the heart of their home. The heart was the people around the table. But the table was a place to start.
ISO: Kitchen Table for myself and the world.
