Nana's Table

Once a week or so during the sweet summers we spent on the island, Nana would pack the old Lincoln with empty paper bags and an apple basket or two, and we would drive just a little ways up island to Lily Smith's farm for fresh vegetables - tomatoes right off the vines, cucumbers, curvy squashes and sleek onions, new potatoes and peas and best of all, Lily's finest sweet corn.  Supper would be an extravaganza.

We shelled and husked all afternoon while waiting for the boats to come in and never once thought of it as work.  When the sun began to go down, she would give me a quarter or fifty cents and a few pages of old newspaper and send me to meet the incoming boats where the fishermen would wrap up fresh scallops or a piece of haddock or even a couple of lobsters.  I carried these delicate prizes proudly and carefully, never giving in to the temptation to hurry or run, even though the live lobsters rustling and waving their pincers  scared me half to death.  I didn't like to think about that part of it - it had been a shock to discover that they were alive when Nana dropped them into the oversized kettle of boiling water and I still felt guilty.  It was, to my child's mind, an enormous sacrifice and a fearful way to die although I always managed to overlook their suffering by the time I took my place at the table.

The meal would be leisurely, lengthy and country elegant - Nana would never allow a butter substitute or store bought bread, frozen berries were forbidden when we had a strawberry field and a blackberry patch just outside the door, and the thought of artificial whipped cream made her cringe.  My grandmother set a real table with real ingredients and no short cuts were allowed.  The sun would be down by the time we finished and  left the table, staggering and groaning through the clean up, wanting nothing more than to collapse into soft chairs and sleep, but Nana had never left dirty dishes overnight in her entire life and she never listened to a word of protest.  We wrapped leftovers, washed and dried the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, reset the table for breakfast, stoked the old stove - and only when she was satisfied did we drag ourselves off to quiet corners to recover.

Personally, if you can't toss it into the microwave or pick it up at the deli, I'm not inclined to take the time or trouble - odd, considering where I come from and how I was raised but there it is. 

We all set our own table, choose who will sit at it and what to serve.  It's a feast - if we want it to be - no matter who's in the kitchen.  Don't forget to say grace.