Hi there, welcome. I’m glad you’re here. I wish I could welcome you to my actual table. In this dream scenario it would be made of sturdy wood, large and round, surrounded by comfortable chairs. I’d light a few candles, tall tapers or tiny tealights, and scatter flowers among the plates and glasses. I’d play Miles Davis and Sade and Elvis Costello and Rose Royce. There would be a pitcher of water, and probably bottles of wine. And in the center, ready for passing, would be the star of the show: dinner.
I grew up in a family that looked forward to dinner as much as a kid might look forward to a trip to Disneyland: We’d start discussing it at breakfast, mulling over the options based on what was in the cupboard and freezer, and through bites of cereal or French toast we’d land on something simple, like