Family table

My family on a recent weeknight is daughter Clara, her friend Emily and Joseph. We come to the table at 8 o’clock for pasta with butternut squash and talk about the merits of feta cheese versus goat cheese, and the “cheap cheese” we had in a German restaurant that, without the accent, turned out to be “sheep cheese.” We discuss whether we like olives in our pasta. I could tell about the olive oil we had at Nikita’s, pressed from her housemate’s family trees in Italy, but since we are a sort of family ourselves, they’ve already heard that story.

We talk about the U.S. soccer team winning the semi-finals against France, and whether we’ll get to see the finals this weekend. We brainstorm how to handle a challenging kid in the sports camp where Emily is working this summer. We puzzle out how to arrange the furniture in Clara’s craft space upstairs.

Another night the table might include a combination of other friends and family: Tyler and Aaron and Clara, or Martin, or Tom, Amber, Tommy, Giovanna, maybe Adriana or Lauren. It could be just me and Clara and Joseph. Or me and Joseph. Or me and my own two kids. We might talk about the latest tragic headline, like the massacre in Norway, and debate whether there’s any obligation to read about such things when they are so depressing. Or we’ll talk about the quality of the acting in the Harry Potter movies (adults good, kids not so much), or the proposed teen curfew in Montgomery County or single vs. double rooms in college dorms. Recently, my nephew and his wife joined me at the table, and we talked about their move to Charlottesville and law school, and whether Mormons can eat chocolate (yes), and how to make something called a stuffed burger.

I love this fluid table, always open, throw some more pasta in the pot. Or not.

I miss it when the kids are gone.