This week, I cleaned out the dining table at my son’s house, which has been my “office” since he was displaced by the flooding from Hurricanes Helen and Milton, and sat down to write a shopping list.
turkey. ham. vegetables. Ingredients for pies, sides, and vegetarian/vegan options. drink. plate. cup. Garbage bag. Mimosa with orange juice and champagne. . .
As I was accomplishing the obvious and contemplating the forgotten, my eyes fell on the surface of the shaker table in front of me, a part of my life that has been a part of my life for as long as my memory has existed. did.
It was already old when my mother, who loves antiques, bought it as a new wife in the 1940s. Since then, it has traveled around the country almost as much as I have, being shipped from Michigan to Washington DC to Nantucket to New Mexico and finally to Florida 15 years ago.
Surfaces may be marred by decades of scratches, scuffs and watermarks, but with a little wood soap, they can be smoothed out like the rehabilitated prostitute played by Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman.” As in, “It gets really clean.”
With its ingenious design, it can be extended to seat 12 without removing any parts, or collapsed for an intimate party of four, making it like a child’s Transformers. The item, made of heavy pine wood and flat-faced with flathead nails, was described as “priceless” by a New England antiques dealer, but was sold by several Florida dealers. Lately, I’ve been looked down upon as “that brown thing.”
This table has so many memories that I will never forget.
We had an unforgettable dinner here where my sister stabbed her brother in the hand with a fork and he had to go to the ER and get several stitches. Around this table, as I once wrote about my childhood family dinner, there was “barking dogs, high voices, clanking silverware, and a world as complex as the world’s banking system.” “We were expected to protect ourselves even in stubborn prejudices about issues as vague as extinct species,” I once wrote.
Celebrities such as artist Alexander Calder, former Michigan Governor George Romney, and late billionaire Richard DeVos of the Orlando Magic basketball team sat at this table while my parents were alive. But it’s also hosted a woman I met when I was living in my car, and many foster children I cared for when I was trying to adopt.
About 40 years ago, when dozens of women in my bloodline gathered to make a quilt for Grandma Berry’s 90th birthday, my sister appliqued a square with a depiction of my family sitting at this table. The back of my father’s bald head stood out in the foreground.
The photo of that quilt square is on the cover of my book of essays about food, family, and fellowship, A Place at the Table: Memories of a Life Well-fed (in my mother’s antique recipe box). Recipe included) Last year.
And this is the first time since I started the tradition of inviting readers of my column and others who have nowhere else to go to my home for a “Thanksgiving Open House and Reader Appreciation Day.” This is the table where I left the “Give Board”. 2019.
The memories of those events are some of my favorites, and each year as November approaches, I am filled with anticipation for the next one.
As soon as the news broke that I had been evacuated due to the hurricane, past attendees contacted me to express their regret that they would not be able to continue this tradition this year. “That’s not true!” I protested and assured them that there would be an open house, but at that point I had no idea where or how it would be held.
But this gathering is nothing without adaptability. That first year, when 150 people came into my 1,500-square-foot 1950s home over the course of an afternoon, I was a little nervous about having enough food and seating.
There was no need to worry.
Almost everyone brought their own “food” and drinks, and since the weather was nice, we filled the porches and lawns and sat on every horizontal surface. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I was able to let go of trying to make everything “perfect” and just enjoy the company.
That situation then changed when I moved to a place where parking is now inadequate and the deafening decibel levels are a concern.
Again, I shouldn’t have done that.
Those who were able to park their cars on the street and walk in were kind enough to reserve the few spaces near their homes for those who were less mobile. The jazz standards played by her son, a pianist, and his bassist partner, aka “The Jazzberry,” only amplified the lively conversations that took place between people who were mostly meeting each other for the first time.
After this summer’s hurricanes and stormy election, we feel it is more important than ever that we begin to reconnect as community members and neighbors.
So the open house has moved again, this time to my son’s townhouse just east of downtown Sarasota. As always, there are small obstacles. In real estate agent terms, it’s a “cozy” place. There is very little visitor parking right next door, so you may want to bring your own folding chair.
But the show goes on.
Whether you’re hearing about it for the first time or you’ve been meaning to stop by for a while but haven’t yet, we hope you’ll join us this year. Because, yes. . . who knows? This past year has reminded me many times that life is fleeting, climate change is real, and the opportunity to make new friends at this age is an unexpected gift.
To accommodate other Thanksgiving plans (early and late), doors open around 2pm and the last visitors are “over-served” (as a friend of mine used to say). It will remain as it is until it becomes.
Last year it was around 8 p.m., but in 2017 the “Orphan Appreciation Party” I did for colleagues at the Herald Tribune ended at 2 a.m., 22 corks of wine later. I still remember it fondly–even though I spent days paying for it afterwards. .
Please call, text, or email us with the address and directions to the parking lot so we know how many cars to expect and to give my son a little thought about safety. (Notice to those who have attended in the past. This is a new venue.)
You can come alone, empty-handed, or bring as many family and friends as you like to share your Thanksgiving favorites.
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However, please refrain from giving gifts to the hostess.
Last year, I felt guilty because I couldn’t write thank-you notes to people who brought me gifts because I didn’t know their addresses. Please don’t do this to me again. My mother still scolds me from the grave.
My dining table extends to its full length, so while you may not be able to secure a seat, I guarantee that everyone who attends will have their own place. Whoever you are, whatever your work, beliefs, or prejudices are, you are welcome to join us in a spirit of fellowship, friendship, and goodwill.
Let’s create better memories after going through a lot of hardships and struggles.
Contact Carrie Seidman at carrie.seidman@gmail.com or 505-238-0392.
