Turning the Tables

And how you know when it's time

Sweet wartime couple shown here at their table and probably in their early thirties lol

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For me, a big part of getting older has been the luxury of suddenly having time to notice and consider my environment. Not just inside the house but the garden as well; so many tiny things have gone largely unnoticed throughout the years either because of frenzied schedules, lack of funds to change things or simply other more pressing priorities.

An excellent example of all this is the kitchen table or indeed any table where meals are served. I observe lately that modern trends do not even include the humble table, instead opting for intergalactic stools around a runway of kitchen island. (But more accurately, I still suspect that most meals are being consumed whilst lolling on the sofa like a big starfish, watching TV. )

Yes! I have two sons.

Modern kitchen island with stools

And since I have an island myself I mean no disrespect here but many modern homes do showcase kitchens that tend to look more like an operating theatre. It’s true and absolutely what many people want. But for me, there’s no real character or warmth in a place where I enjoy spending so much time. (Where is the clean-but-cozy dog basket, the greenery on the sill, the happy clutch of teaspoons?) I picture the desperate unfolding of a tepid food-delivery bag by someone who is too tired and too sad to cook in this opulent but mostly dead-feeling space.

I am also glad to be wrong.

My first kitchen table in my first tiny home was a cast off from a colleague of my mother-in-law. I was thrilled to receive as we had almost no furniture having unwisely put all our money into the house purchase itself (read: ancient British cottage). The table was smallish, with wooden legs painted black and had a slight wobble. There were two rigid chairs with moulting raffia seats that left an impressive argyle pattern on the bum cheek if one sat too long. But a cheerful tablecloth with bright fruits lent a sort of café vibe and we used it happily for many years.

In between, there were brief encounters with glass topped ice cream parlour tables (endless smudges, never again) and I observed unhappy people struggling with the limited appeal of “drop leaf” tables that can be pressed against the wall but none of these held any emotional energy.

I can barely remember them.

Many houses and years later, we graduated to an antique walnut dining room set with a curio cabinet, sideboard and large table which could be cranked open to add further room for big gatherings. I still have this table but I’m acutely and poignantly aware that neither of my boys have any interest in making it their own one day. The enthusiasm for this kind of dreaded “brown furniture” is no more. Plus the sheer size of it in a modest apartment?

Come ON.

I understand all this completely - and accept it - but here’s what makes it tricky. Tables do have ghosts. I can still see so many happy, laughing gatherings around that table: Christmases, birthdays, visitors, anniversaries, house parties, romantic dinners with someone who is no longer in my life. Faces that I loved lit by candlelight, heads thrown back in laughter, wine (always red) being spilled and then more laughter. I see my brothers and other brave souls who helped us move that leaden sideboard, groaning as they shouldered it from house to house and the handsome contractor who created a special alcove to accommodate its shape and size.

And I also like to imagine all the other families in this table’s past - maybe 100 years ago — who have felt just the same as I do now. They must have held loving dinners too and sat around this very same space, their hands resting on the top like mine. It’s humbling, somehow and makes me feel protective of its history.

Don’t even pretend that this fine leg wouldn’t turn your head!

Curiously heavy sideboard in a place of its own

And of course most startling of all, is the realization that these big dinners are seldom happening in this new and ever-evolving stage of my life — and are not likely to be happening. At least not like they used to. No one is dropping by with four hungry teenage friends and nor am I hosting Boxing Day for twenty three people, something that actually used to happen. The table represents the shadows of things as they used to be and now, (unless D. and I want to go full-on Downton Abbey and use a megaphone to ask for the salt) we just don’t use it as often.

D. has struggled with this concept much more than I have. He does cling to and yearn for an extremely idealized, Eisenhower-hued, Father-Knows-Best past when his own mother was apparently providing roast dinners with all the trimmings for anyone who “just popped in.” I suspect that this soft-focus memory probably originated from the “Sunday Dinner” tradition whereby a roast meat of some kind was sure to be on-the-go each week, without fail.

If a dinner like this was always scheduled, it wouldn’t be too harrowing to stretch it for unexpected guests. But I myself reserve a special kind of dread for the “popping in” visitor(s) especially those arriving around dinner time.

This only ever seems to happen when I have just run out of milk and was planning on making toasted tomato sandwiches for dinner since I am still wearing stained sweat pants at 4pm and there is no cake in the house …

D. is gradually coming round to understanding that those ‘MadMen’ years are in the rear mirror, baby — and thank goodness!

And incidentally, D.? No one thinks Jell-O is dessert anymore …

Downsize that dining room, I hear you say?

Well yes, I understand that too. But for now, as with most things, I have chosen the middle path. Recently, I decided to swop out my large kitchen table where my boys once did their homework and chatted companionably to me as I chopped vegetables or spread newspapers all over so that they could paint. This table is a tidy two seater. It’s quaint looking - definitely not modern - but it’s much smaller and more practical. The woman I bought it from was a delight and we got it for an excellent price. The old table was donated to a local shop that helps new Canadians find affordable furniture. They even came to collect it!

Win-win!

So for now, the dining room will remain as is, because even though I am no Martha Stewart, there are still those times when family appears or we do have people over for dinner. I love the table. It’s old (but not high-Victorian stuffy) and I am not quite ready to say goodbye to all that it represents.

(And at least no one will be forced to sit on an old raffia chair that squeaks and pinches their bottoms … )

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