The Kitchen Table

This was a period of time during my childhood when there were always some pieces of furniture, in various stages of refurbishing, strewn around the floor of the den.  I do not know what drove my mother to embark on these projects, nor do I want to venture to speculate, but she was meticulous, methodical, and determined as she stripped, sanded, oiled and rubbed these pieces into submission.  My mother deconstructed, and then reconstructed, wooden discards into refined elemental beautiful furniture. 

One of the pieces that she restored was a Cushman Colonial Drop Leaf Maple Kitchen table, circa. 1950.  I know that now, because I researched it until I found the table that matched my memory.  But as a young boy and into my teens, I only knew that it was our kitchen table, the hub of my childhood and the center of the known universe. 

It was stripped down to its purest element, even beneath the scuffed aging techniques that Cushman was known for, and that was solid maple wood, unstained and lightly oiled.  I knew that table intimately, and the grain and touch of that wood is still fresh some thirty-five years later. 

Although on most nights, we ate in the dining room, most everything else gravitated to the kitchen.  This is where all other meals were eaten, and on those (somewhat) rare occasions when I was in a battle of wills over peas with my mother, this is where my plate and my butt were moved to wage the war of attrition.  This is where Sunday breakfast occurred each week, after Mass and a trip to Dot’s or the Pastry Pantry Bakery for jelly donuts or sticky buns.  The leaves were raised and a bounty of bacon, ham, cheesy scrambled eggs, and pancakes would slowly fill the table, while we sipped orange juice and read the comics. 

This is where the day actually began and ended.  You were not actually present and accounted for until you showed up at the table for breakfast, particularly in a large family.  And typically the night ended at the table over a snack or a book.  The kitchen table was the sidelines from playing outside to rest and catch a drink of water.  It was the homework and project table; the table for bill paying, and war counsel room.  It was where real conversations happened, not the formal dining ones or the distracted TV room conversations, but the ones where relationships deepened.  It was where crisis were met and averted, where the ebb and flow, the flotsam and jetsam of our daily lives floated in and out with the current.   Friends dropped in to sit at the table and chat for a while.  It was the thinking place; the safe haven with milk and cookies.  Oreo cookies were split and licked to high art at the kitchen table.  It was a place to wrap cool fingers around hot chocolate, and a dull mind around sharp coffee. 

A couple friends of mine talked about the kitchen table as the place where justice was meted out. One talked about his father sitting on a high stool at the head of the table, looking down at you, as from a judicial bench, and delivering his judgments.  Sometimes, if you were too late getting home, that is where you would find mom, preferably, or dad waiting up. 

My stepfather, a taciturn man of Italian heritage and old world values, still judges a man’s character by the kitchen table rules.  He once remarked about one of my sister’s boyfriends, ‘He never eats here’, and that was not a good thing. 

As I grew older, I found myself gravitating to the kitchen wherever I went.  Coming in the back door to the kitchen was the preferred entrance when I stopped by friends' homes, and even professionally through the many years I spent selling beer and wine to restaurants.   I  always felt more at ease in the kitchen during parties, dinners, and gatherings.  There, I could just do my thing, instead of force out small talk.  I cooked, and listened.  I felt my way through evenings tactilely, a light touch on the food at all times, an anchor that grounded and steadied my mind. 

At the end of the movie, “The Big Night”, a wonderful story about family, food and perfection, two brothers share a plate of eggs.  Not a word is spoken; there is only the act of cooking, the serving up of a simple plate of food, and the congregation of two brothers. 

I sometimes wonder why I really chose to stay in food service.  For many years, I thought I just fell into it.  Maybe I did, but not in the way that thought.  I fell into what felt most at home to me: the rhythm and smells, the background noise of conversation and cast iron skillets, and the sense that no matter what happened elsewhere, this would always be here.  My friends and my family would always come to sit at the kitchen table and share food, and themselves, with me.

Please tell me about your kitchen table.  I like to hear from you.