This morning while standing in the kitchen, I found myself pondering the table pictured in this post. When my dad was, literally, on his death bed, he called us in one by one to talk to us. After comparing notes, we discovered the main theme of dad’s wishes was that we not let mom sell and move out of the “party house.” Everyone has great memories of this house, of the crawfish boils, of the game room Christmas Pictionary tournaments, of a million other things.

In my morning pondering, I realized that the underdog of this “party house,” is the table pictured here. This is where the real talk happens. It’s where we would all sit and visit with mom while she cooked. I can still see all the aunts sitting there talking and laughing so loud that you couldn’t imagine anyone knew what anyone else was saying. I can still see Bonnie and Kelly cutting sausage for the red beans and rice. I can still see Grandma Ransonette sitting there drinking her Christmas Eve “high ball” that dad would make for her as soon as she walked into the house. I can still see Terry having a beer with late arrivals to the parties while they eat their first bowl of gumbo.

This table is also the overflow table for people who aren’t quick enough to get a seat at the big dining room table. Nobody feels bad for them though, because people eventually leave the big table and pull up more chairs to this little kitchen table to scrunch up and eat with the losers. Like so many other houses, gaze upon and appreciate the heart of the house: The Kitchen Table.