there’s always room.

people & place

Growing up, tables were a place where all were welcomed. Kids could speak without having to wait until they were spoken to. Kid conversations and adult conversations were intertwined; not at separate tables. I never had to think about how I was going to approach the table, what I was going to bring, or what I was going to wear. There were very few expectations. I, as a person, was enough just by taking a seat. As a child, I just knew I belonged. But looking back, I now understand that this open invitation shaped much of who I am and the way I want to bring others to the literal and proverbial table.

Food, to me, is so much more than the ingredients that make a meal or something that provides nourishment. It tells stories about family history. It allows us to share ourselves with others in ways that aren't possible in other circumstances. The dishes we create are extensions of our humanity, and the humanity of our families. The ingredients we use give insight into our worldview. Food is personal - it's a storytelling mechanism.

And yet, food doesn't get to the table without the hands that prepare it. Therefore, this blog is a dedication to those hands. This is a small token of love for those in my life that have taught me about the world through food - those that made the meals, and those that sat around the table as we ate them. Usually, as a child, it was women that I was surrounded by who were cooking the meals. I remember them doing it with such love and joy. At the holidays, when it took multiple sets of hands, I always looked forward to eavesdropping on their conversations to see what I could learn about them and the family, and then not-so-sneakily meander my way into the kitchen to get a snack - sometimes, offering to help.

It was the women who were often preparing the meals. These were women that had day-time-jobs, and raised families. It hasn't been until recently that the weight of what they did has set in. They cut cauliflower as they told stories of their high school days and cooked ground beef in a skillet while putting a band-aid on a child. The meals they crafted were often simple. They wrapped me in comfort and safety.

I come from a family that always seemed to be around each other. A family where third and fourth cousins are the same as first cousins, and where immediate family doesn’t just include your parents and brothers and sisters. Gatherings happened for everything; for birthdays, graduations, sporting events, baptisms, school performances - you name it - and we were all there. So much of those family gatherings were centered around food and meals. There was a table full of snacks, and a fridge full of other snacks if the ones on the table weren’t what you wanted. I can trace my worldview to the people that provided those snacks and nuggets of wisdom. Those meals were a metaphor for my personal, professional and spiritual growth. They made me, and continue to make me, into the person I am, and am becoming. 

Tables have always represented so much of my life and hold so much symbolism in how I approach the world. Dinner tables were for eating, praising, thanking and arguing. Coffee tables were for kicking your feet up after a long-day and knowing when it was time to relax. Card tables were for ruthlessly being beat by Grandma in whatever the night’s game was. But, regardless of what we brought to these tables, we never left in a worse place than when we came. And, regardless of the size or shape of the table, everyone always had a seat.

It’s my hope that you feel welcome here, and that you always know you have a seat at this table. Welcome to Weeknight Dinner Party.