There's nowhere like home.

Julia Child held the policy that she would never apologize for the quality of any of the food she made, even if it was terrible.  My grandmother held much the same ideal.  Never did I ever heard her apologize for quality, only possible lack of quantity.

My grandma’s kitchen table has been a grounding center for my life as long as I can remember.  I have eaten innumerable meals, snacks, drunk hundreds if not thousands of cups of tea, at her table.  While the table itself has changed a few times over the years, it has always been the most prominent feature in her home, a gathering place for family and friends.  Her table acts as an anchor we all could hold onto in the storms of life.

No one uses the actual front door at my grandma’s house.  Everyone uses the kitchen door, a sliding glass door (or the screen door in favorable weather) that allows my grandparents a panoramic view of their potted-plant garden and bird feeders.  The door opens directly into the open kitchen, where my grandparents constantly sit at their wooden table.  From the table, my grandpa can watch the TV that he can’t hear without his headphones, and still keep an eye on the goings-on of the neighborhood through the windows.

My grandma sits in the same chair, and has as long as I can ever remember.  I have whole troves of memories of sitting across from her, learning lessons of life from her experience while her deft fingers worked a needle in her intricate cross stitches.  It’s rare to find her stitching anymore, as she has trouble she won’t admit to with her arthritis and eyesight.

But she is always sitting there, as if she knew I was coming, even if I was trying to surprise her.

From years of homework, to huge cookie decorating fests at Christmas, making batches of Grandma Jelly in the summer, to crying over heartbreaks and disappoints, my life always comes back to her itchen table.  On my worst days, when I feel completely sorry for myself,  I want nothing more than to be sitting across from my grandma at her table, nursing a mug of tea, as she tells me to get over it – “This too shall pass.  It’s not that bad, it could be worse.  You could be dying.”  Tough love, served with jelly and butter sandwiches, a mug of hot tea laced with enough sugar that it’s basically syrup, and a comforting pat on the hand to soften her words.

But she was always right.  The bad things passed, and life went on, eventually improving.  I dread the first time I have to miss a holiday dinner at her house, because I honestly don’t know how to celebrate Thanksgiving or Christmas without sitting at her table.  Here’s hoping that day is a long way off.

Sometimes where you eat the food of your life is more important than what you eat.
-A