Where the Constant Convene

Sometimes, there is no better place in the world to be, than sitting on a hard wooden chair at a kitchen table, surrounced by your closest friends.

Last night, as I sipped my vodka cranberry and munched on baguette and brie, listening to the stories being traded back and forth across the table, some funny, some heart-breakingly sad, I was transported back to all the Sunday night dinners I had at this table, with my friend's family, when I was a kid. They have since made many renovations to their home, gutted basements, replaced windows, added a sun porch. But this warm, wooden kitchen table has remained with them always and I love it. There was the time I spilled an entire glass of milk, soaking her older brother's napkin, the time her dad patiently tried to teach me to play poker. The night I decided I would never eat another green been so long as I lived, and the night I had three pieces of pie for dessert and no one batted an eye.

We aren't kids anymore, but every time I sit down to this table, with it's well-worn lines and slightly off-kilter chairs, I feel like I am. Like I'm back in sixth grade and it's Sunday night and there's no place on earth I would rather be than right here, at a kitchen table with a good, great friend.