Leaving Home to go to college was both the best Idea, and the worst Idea I ever had. The beauty of leaving home, and the sadness of moving 3000 miles from my family was almost unbearable. There is so much turmoil that an individual goes through in an effort to find themselves, and I was no different. I wanted freedom. I wanted new places, sights, and to meet people who were different. I succeeded, but those dreams drove me further away from my family dinners, discussions and life. Four years is a long time to live apart from friends and family that I treasure.
This past year, I finally made the decision to move off the college campus and into my first apartment. I was so proud of this. My very own furniture, things that were finally mine. I share the apartment with several young women, but it started to feel more like home. The sanctity of knowing that the solid ground had no campus like restrictions, hours, or security guard that scrutinized my card every time I left or entered the building.
After a few move in issues, my new roommate and I were finally ready to find some new furniture for the apartment, and turn it into a home for us both. I went out in September and shopped around for the perfect kitchen table. The Table. My very first table. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted. Something small, but that was fitting with the decor. It wasn’t surprising that the first couple shopping trips brought me back empty handed.
Now, Having read my last couple of posts, you are probably wondering why having a kitchen table is important to me. Family. Kitchen tables equal the kinds of places where people come together, where they learn what it means to be human, where they smile, laugh, and find the freedom to express their hidden secrets. People enjoy eating together, it’s a leftover from tribal history. A gem of our past where our ancestors shared food and shelter with others for the sake of expressing love. The same is true here, with the simplicity of a kitchen table.
I was raised around one. Not just a table, but a loving, caring, foodie world. People that fed me to grasp this little thing one calls love, and pull on it like a life rope. Teaching me to cook, showing me what real food should taste like, and of course how to present food to others as a form of love. This expression has been passed down to me as a gift, and I too provide it for others. That’s what love should be, a full stomach and a good time.
I wanted a table like the one I had grown up with. Small, elegant if necessary, and something that was shapely enough to stand on it’s own. Very few tables that I saw while shopping came close. I decided that maybe I’d check with my roomates to see if they had anything else to offer.
The final roommate to move in, Began to move stuff off the small rental truck she brought and “BAM” there in the midst of the things to move in was a Small wooden table with a small but lovely design, slight wear and beautiful but wobbly legs. It was perfect. I knew I’d be able to tell the table at first sight. It wasn’t what I’d initially though i’d fall in love with, but it was perfect. Fate brought the table into the apartment.
Now, many months later, the table is the centerpiece of our very eclectic apartment. My first dinner party that involved the table was a success, and I’m growing up just like my mother wanted.