An explanation and an apology

 

An AI generated image of America's first long table--
or so they would have us believe.
Not much diversity or inclusivity1

Whoa! Did I get in bigtime trouble for my blog post last night. I who am wallowing in the care and love and support of my family, apparently offended them because they interpreted my post about no dinners in the cottage as whining that they—specifically Jordan and Christian—don’t come to see me anymore since I’m not serving dinner. That wasn’t at all what I meant—and I did say that Jordan is out here several times a day checking on me. My point, if I had one, was sort of sociology, a comment on the fact that food draws us together—as families, as neighbors, as community groups. We are closest to others when we gather around the table. I just happened to use my family’s current circumstances to illustrate.

That does not at all mean that my cooking, sometimes wonderful and other times appalling, was the only thing that drew the Burtons out here for supper. If they didn’t care about me, even Julia Child couldn’t have gotten them here for dinner—and mostly on time. I know that well, and I thought they did. They came so we could gather together—and food, specifically dinner, provided the reason for the gathering. No that there’s no food—well, I do offer yogurt, etc.—there is no gathering, no set time and reason. And everybody’s busy.

I hope it’s clear that no one could ever do more for me than my children, with Jordan as the captain of the army. She keeps track of my medical appointments—time, place, diet specifications, etc., if there are any. Because I don’t hear well on the phone, she has most calls directed to her and asked me the other day just to tell people to call her. She has a separate folder for each specialist we’ve seen, with notes on the visit. She has, in effect, become my personal assistant, and I don’t see how anybody goes through a medical crisis like this without her. Christian, too, spent many days going with us to various appointments, until Jamie arrived and took over his duties. Jordan is doing this while dealing with her own luxury travel clients—and tonight they are both worried because they have decided they will have to put their remaining old dog down next week. Their lives go on, but they have put them on the second burner for the time being to take care of me. It’s ten o’clock at night and Jamie is sitting in his car right outside my door, taking a business call from Hong Kong. He’ll likely be there until two in the morning.

No, they were not the subject of the blog. In fact, they were no more than illustrations of an idea. A story that seems to fit here: in one office recently, I introduced Jordan and Jamie as my daughter and son. A few minutes later, the tech, filling out one of those endless forms, asked me how many pregnancies I’d had. When I said, “none,” she whipped her head around and stared at the three of us. What I think happened in that minute was that she felt the love between us and couldn’t believe me. Jordan explained that they are adopted, and she seemed to accept it. It made me think of when I had a hip revision—my kids were all four gathered in the surgical waiting room when my brother walked in. Later, he said, “You could feel the love in that room. It was tangible.” That’s what family is about. Gathering for dinner is an entirely different thing.

All my adult life, I have loved cooking for a crowd. In a hunting cabin in Missouri, where the bedroom was a check coop that had been cleaned (thank goodness) and attached to the house, I had dinner parties for my friends and my then-husband’s fellow medical students. One night I fixed those good Jewish boys stuffed cabbage and, following the recipe, topped the dish with gingersnaps. One by one they walked through the kitchen, lifted the lid, and sniffed, “That’s not how my mom did it.” That may have been the beginning of my cooking for others. In subsequent years I cooked in big houses and small houses, fixing holiday dinners for twenty, Sunday supper for at least fifteen, dinner parties for eight and Christmas parties for sixty or seventy. It all had to do with bringing people together to eat.

In recent years there as been much talk of the long table. Perhaps you’ve seen the meme that urges “Don’t build a high wall—build a longer table.” In other words, don’t wall people out. Invite more to dine with you. There is today a charitable organization called The Longer Table. This is from their literature: “Something magical happens when we sit to share a meal—strangers become friends, and neighbors become family.” That’s what ‘s been missing from my cottage lately, due to circumstances beyond our control. I think when I get through this rought patch, I need a longer table so more can enjoy what Jordan, Christian, and I have. That when we sit together to share a meal—strangers become friends + neighbors become family.

 

Something magical happens when we sit together to share a meal—strangers become friends + neighbors become family.

 

 

Life at the cottage has changed dramatically

 

Jamie and  his guitar

I have always believed that much as it nourishes our bodies, good food nourishes our souls, especially if eaten with congenial company. And I have consciously been a nurturer all my adult life. When pandemic hit, I welcomed Jordan, Christian, and Jacob to the cottage for supper almost every night. We had a few friends who we knew were quarantining as consciously as we were, and they came for happy hour on the patio, our logic being that open-air visits were safer. As a family, we ate well but not lavishly—no lobster and few steaks, but meatloaf and burgers that Christian grilled and casseroles I made and sometimes invented. Jordan and I made weekly menu plans and grocery lists, and one of my greatest joys was to scan the internet and a few magazines, principally Southern Living, for new ideas. By this Spring, of course, all that had changed. The Burtons had social and business obligations, Jacob was off being a high school senior, and I occasionally went to dinner with friends but was more likely to have friends to the cottage for a light supper.

Almost three weeks ago, all that changed again, all at once. I was told I should stick to soft food (anything I can cut with the edge of a fork—yogurt, applesauce, oatmeal, potatoes, etc.); I was told I can never have another glass of wine (If I wish to survive); I pretty much lost interest in food (nausea seemed to linger close to the surface). To my surprise I still enjoyed finding new recipes and already have a bulging fold labeled “Recipes to try.” Someday, someday.

Meanwhile the Burtons pretty much stopped showing up. I’m not sure what or how they and Jaie are eating, but I don’t hear dinner plans,etc. Jordan comes many times a day to ask, “How’s it ging?” or to discuss medical appointments, of which I have many. Christian rarely comes, and I think Jacob has been out here twice (we did have that lovely dinner at Pacific Table). Jamies is here now, for moral support and company to doctors’ visits, but he has the most irregular eating habits I’ve ever seen—he brought a jar of peanut butter and cans of ravioli with him—and his working hours are just as irregular. He works remotely but hasn’t found the perfect place yet—yesterday and today he’s at one of those rent an office by the day places at Clearfork, and he came in at 1:30 this morning.

But the result of all this is that I am alone, with Benji (and today Jamie’s dog) much more than I am used to—at a time when it is perhaps not the best thing for introspective me to be alone. But what this new schedule tells me most of all is that I was right—we gather at the table for more than physical nourishment. Eating together feeds our souls as well as our bodies.  I will be glad to get past this physical problem of mine and start cooking again. I will say that music also feeds our souls—last night, about eight o’clock, Jamie brought out his guitar. With memories of another pleasant evening when his guitar had healing properties, I crawled into my bed, and he played softly for me for about an hour. I was probably more relaxed than I have been in weeks.

Another Jamie adventure today: on our way home from today’s doctor’s appointment, we passed a car apparently stranded on the side of a high overpass. As we drove by Jame said, “Looks like an old lady.” Next thing I knew we were in the totally wrong lane for going home, and almost peevishly I asked, “Where are you going?” “Back to check on that old lady,” he said. And so we made the whole circle around the highway exchange and pulled up behind the stranded car. This scared me some, because you always hear about good Samaritans being hit by passing cars, but Jamie was careful. From the passenger seat, I watched him laughing and smiling. When he came back, he said, “She’s got a tow truck on the way. I told her I’d be glad to change the tire”—I looked at his white jeans—“but she said it was all taken care of.” Do you wonder that I’m proud of the kids I raised?

A family dinner

 

On our way to dinner

It’s wonderful to have family and friends share the high points in your life, as we did Friday night celebrating Jacob and three other Paschal High School graduates. But sometimes, a quiet family night is nice too. The four of us went to dinner at Pacific Table last night. Jacob got to choose the restaurant. It was a gorgeous evening again, and we sat on the patio. Yes, the wait for service was long, but we were talking and reminiscing. Jacob ordered, as he usually does, Caesar salad. This night it came in long, uncut leaves, and as he attacked it with a fork, I gently (well I tried) pointed out that the salad, invented in Mexico, was originally finger food. You were to pick up each leaf, with a dollop of dressing on the far end, and eat it. Jacob’s response? “I’m kind of liking the fork.” So much for food history. We lingered until dark—a thoroughly pleasant evening. We don’t often have Jacob’s company in the evening, which made this special.

My cone flowers in the front yard have really spread this year with all the rain we’ve had. I asked Christian if when the flowers go to seed, he could capture some seeds and spread among the wildflowers in the back yard to introduce a new color or at least a new shade of pink. He explained that the plants all have runners and that’s how they spread. But we reasoned they must also have seeds, so if anyone has any hints about sharing the wealth from front to back, please let me know.

Son Jamie just blew into town, literally blown in before what promises to be a storm. Thunder was rolling a few minutes ago and the sky was dark—briefly it was silent, the air very still, and then came the rain. A good medium rain, hard enough to soak in but not to wash away things. Jame will stay the week, helping with my doctor appointments, errands, etc. He brought his Pomeranian, Cosmo, and we had the great introduction of Benji and Cosmo. Benji was of course excited out of his mind, while Cosmo tried to pretend nothing was happening. Given one chance, he bolted out the patio door to the yard, but of course Benji followed him. After only one half-hearted scuffle, they settled down to the butt-sniffing stage. But Benji is very jealous of any attention Jamie pays to Cosmo.

Benji learned a new trick today but I’m quite sure he will unlearn it quickly. The walker was next to me at my desk when suddenly I was aware that Benji’s face was in mine. He had crawled up on the walker, which promptly began to move under him, leaving him scrambling to get his feet on the floor again. Then just now Jamie left, with Cosmo, to get Mama’s Pizza (high school memories die hard) and Benji got so excited he jumped on the credenza next to me where I keep racks of file folders. Two jars of dog treats went down, but I caught the file folders in time. Pray for me—it’s going to be a long week.