Kitchen Table

The kitchen table is where we were sitting. My grandmother looked at him and said "You know, that reminds me of a phrase I've learned to use over the years - 'That's fantastic!' People have all kinds of stories they tell. Fish stories. Work stories. War stories. And often those stories are exaggerated. Maybe the basic story is there, but the details and obstacles have turned into gigantic monsters overcome through brute strength and unheld skill. At the end of the story, the storyteller requires a response. That's when I tell them 'That's fantastic!' They think I am admirably impressed; and I am -  impressed by the fantasy they have created, often in their own mind. It is a fantastic fantasy. I've provided a response they feel is appropriate and my response is in line with my integrity, so we're both happy."

The kitchen table - that's where gumbo was eaten.
"Pass the filé please." "Do you need more rice?"
Crab legs caught in the gulf, spending the day in an old style bonnet dragging lines slowly across the rocks outside Port Arthur. Dropped in the pot of spiced boiling water. Crack! Snap! Break! Pull! Squeeze! and the white dripping tendrils of crab meat appear like treasures from a pirate's chest. Open mouth,insert crab, mmmm. Shell to the side on the heaping plate - evidence of the feast already savored - and on to the next crab leg. Until no more is left, the lights long ago turned down, just Grandpa and I finishing our meal in peaceful companionship, enjoying Neptune's provisions of the day. Talking not required. No manners allowed. Sharing moments and presence. A treasure much greater than the delicacies on the table. 

Kitchen table.Where life is shared.