At the Table

by Jodi ~ February 10, 2010

Tablecloth embroidered by my great-grandmother

I only remember her hands ravaged by age: skin thin and spotted, knuckles gnarled with arthritis. I can still see them working a crochet needle, kneading dough, and wiping the warm wax from the surface of a just-written pysanka. I thought about those hands and the woman they belonged to, my maternal great-grandmother, Eva, as I unfolded a tablecloth etched with her embroidery and and smoothed it over our dining-room table.

The stitching on the underside is nearly as neat as the pattern that faces up, all tidy knots and zigzags — the mark, they say, of a skilled needleworker. Where did she find the time to do such intricate work? At various times in her life she juggled being a farmer, housekeeper, restaurateur, and factory worker with raising children, keeping a house and garden, preserving and preparing food, supporting her church, and countless other tasks that women of her generation were expected to perform. I think about this life my great-grandmother lived and wonder how it is she found the time to create such delicate art amidst the other demands for her attention while I claim not to have time enough to sit at a table draped with it.

Here’s my dirty little secret: Despite owning a lovely art deco dining set passed down to me from my parents and my grandparents before them, and despite having in my closet a stack of neatly folded tablecloths given to me by my aunt — some originally belonged to my grandmother and great-grandmother — Michael and I rarely spread out those cloths and eat at the table.

Oh, I know the importance of the table ritual — it is there that we eat mindfully (and less!) and engage with one another. Yet at the end of a long and demanding work day, sitting down to eat at that table feels, well, formal (given the size of our apartment, we don’t have a separate, casual eat-in kitchen) and seems fussy. That’s why more often than not you’ll find the two of us taking informal to its extreme by dishing out in the kitchen and sitting on the floor in the living room, our plates perched atop the coffee table. It’s cozy. Sometimes we’ll watch a movie while we eat or episodes from a TV series we’re taking in on DVD. Sometimes we’ll watch straight-up TV.

Our habit goes against everything I grew up doing and believe in, which is that the dinner hour is sacred, a time for the family to commune, to feast with no distractions. Lately, though, as I’ve pulled tablecloths from the closet now and again to dress our table for special occasions, I’ve begun to feel the pull towards that ritual. I now find myself gravitating to the table to write, to make lists and plan menus, and to eat.

It all started with the turquoise linen cloth that covered the table while I canned over 150 jars of strawberry-vanilla jam last summer. I rightly predicted that the contrast of icy blue and bright blood red would offer a cheery and vibrant palette for a weekend of hot, steamy work. Then there was the Provence-patterned periwinkle- and lemon-coloured cloth that enlivened an August buffet lunch and a chatty, laughter-filled dinner with a dear friend. I’ve also been eying a thick cotton cloth woven with heavy-gauge orange thread and a delicate white cloth printed with pale pink and blue flowers. I imagine sitting down at a table covered with each of them to eat goulash and vichyssoise respectively.

And then, of course, there’s the cloth with the red embroidery, its birds and flowers circling diamonds scattered across the centre like stars. It blanketed the table laden with an array of dishes laid out for a recent cocktail party, and although the food has long been consumed and the serving platters washed and stowed away, the cloth remains. I haven’t had the heart to put it away. There is something comforting about its presence in the dining room. It’s as if a part of my great-grandmother is here, and she’s calling me to the table.