My Kitchen Table Story

I wrote the following story more than two years ago. The intent was to publish it, but since this has not yet happened, I am copying it here for you to enjoy. Yes, that's my kitchen table in the picture, under the cup of apple-cinnamon tea.

My kitchen table once belonged to my sister in law. It’s made of thin strips of birch, varnished a golden yellow. It sags a little in the middle where the leaves come together and a few bolts are missing. It has scratches on one end, worn places, spots stained soft by steam where I took too little care once with the canning jars. Many loaves of bread have been shaped on this table; many children have had their meals here. Many crayoned pictures drawn, popsicles eaten, homework pages finished, jokes told. There’s joy to be had at this table, and laughter.

Women solve problems at the kitchen table. It’s where you’ll end up if you come to me worried or confused or sad. I’ll choose handfuls of herbs from my garden and brew them into tea: peppermint for strength, lemon balm for courage, chamomile for acceptance, calendula for sunny spirits, sage for wisdom. And I’ll sit with you and listen intently while the tea and the table absorb your worries. Until you can smile again.

Give your worries to me, dear one. Feel my solidness, my strength. I can handle more, much more than this.

Other women I know solve problems the same way. This is how it has always been. This is how it will always be.

My friends, my sisters, my neighbours, all have kitchen tables of their own. Closing my eyes, I can picture them all, run my hands over each surface, call to mind the memories.

Grey and white melamine, worn from scrubbing and many years of service, strewn often with political memoranda.

Round wooden surface strewn with drying herbs and handmade pottery dishes.

Yellow melamine, wicker on the wooden legs fraying in its second generation of use, spread often with artwork and acrylic paints.

Old, dark hardwood, worn and solid.

Large and round, covered in plastic when the children were small.

Dark wood rarely seen, covered always with blue and white checks that the fingers can trace while the mind works out an answer.

Speak to me. Lean on me. I can support you in more than this. Haven’t I before?

The kitchen table is where we become allies, where tentative confidences are received in warmth, where we remember what we’ve nearly forgotten.

It’s where we plan our days and plot out our lives.

It’s where we teach our children: to hold a spoon, to wait their turn, to form their letters and their futures.

It’s where we celebrate: a birthday, a creative triumph, the end of a happy, ordinary day.

It’s where we cry out our loneliness, disappointment and heartache; where we offer each other hugs and Kleenex and time.

It’s where we give and take advice, laugh at ourselves and the world, share our experiences and our musings.

It’s where we turn over possibilities: new jobs, new love, new creations, new beginnings.

It’s where we gain the strength to carry on.

How, then, could you not trust me, knowing my wisdom? Knowing all I’ve been witness to?

It’s where we ease conversation with the help of strong coffee, herbal tea, and organic vegetables.

Where sun streams in through sparkling windows, or curtains are drawn against inclement weather.

It’s where spider plants and aloe vera flourish, seeds sprout, and delicate annuals gain vigour before being planted outside.

Sometimes I think you’ve forgotten. The world has too many TV dinners, too many boardrooms, too much virtual reality.

I ache for the earth and her children. The wisdom you come to at my side is universal wisdom. It is the quiet voice in all things, the voice that will always speak to you if you listen. It says slow down, be calm, nurture yourself and others, proceed in reverence and in love. The seasons turn; what you see before you now is what you and the ancestors have planted. What you plant now will be harvested long into the future. Be patient, be content. Know that there is no problem that love cannot solve.

Too many decisions are being made away from me. I would never advise hatred, poisons, genetic engineering, ethnic cleansing, pornography, McJobs. The people choosing these things for the world have forgotten much, missed much. They’ve drunk too few cups of tea, wiped up too few sticky fingerprints, kneaded too little bread dough, laughed too little, dried too few tears, listened to too few stories.

Remind them. Bring back the men; bring back the women who are struggling to keep up with them on their terms. Turn off the television and bring back the children.

And pour a cup of tea to save the world.