My Adopted Table

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

“Well HELLO CA-rol DE-uh!,” the plucky, red-cheeked Irishman and his wife proclaimed in thick New England accents, taking a pause from clanging pots and pans to offer warm embraces. The mouth-watering aromas trailing them were a delectable temptation of what was to come.  A meal at this table was more than simply good food. Stories, laughter, and advice were the seasonings in this soiree of solid fare, lovingly prepared and abundantly presented.

Moving in across the street when I was thirteen, their daughter, Trish, and her entire family became dear friends; their comfortable dinner table the designated gathering spot for decades to come. Nourished by mainstays of homemade spaghetti and meatballs, pot roast, and – a personal favorite – an outrageously delicious chocolate cake, problems were solved in group fashion, along with humorous anecdotes from Pa’s boyhood days on the farm tempered by my second mom’s more urban rearing.  While I loved my own parents, it was a blessing to have a surrogate set this fun.

Good-natured teasing was part of the meal, just like dessert. It built character and, if you were lucky enough to be picked on, you were designated officially in the fold. Frequently the target, I felt loved in the flow of their friendly fire.

Mom & Pa were generous in every way. Even the impromptu sandwich spread was a florid display of fixings yet straightforward and nourishing, just like the company. The only caveat to this hospitality was a decree permanently affixed to the fridge that read “Free Beer Tomorrow.” Plenty of other beverages circled around the table in beer’s absence, and when finally of age, jug wine was available for those now legal.

Obsession with food permeated Mom and Pa’s existence. For these post-depression era adults, any chance to dine well was an occasion worth planning for and savoring. Creating for a crowd was their calling card, be it a family gathering, church festival, and everything in between. 

The best scrambled eggs on the planet came from their enormous aluminum skillet easily holding a few dozen cackleberries at any given time. I once asked how they were seasoned so perfectly. Pa coyly grinned as he cooked. Picking up the salt, he proceeded to count and shake, although not in a paired fashion. With about four shakes to every count, I laughed and nodded, now knowing that a few daily allowances of sodium intake would be consumed at one sitting. None of us minded though, those breakfasts were damn delicious.

When it came time for Trish to wed, a monstrous beef roast was the main course for the rehearsal dinner. Mom & Pa’s attention to practicing their ceremonial parental duties at the church was critically sidelined by their culinary commitment. Reminding the priest that they needed to attend to the beast in the oven, they were released to return to their roasting vigilance. The bride’s palpable chagrin at her parents’ early exit was met with a hug and a shrug. “De-uh! We have a ROAST in the oven!” Trish and her soon-to-be-husband sighed, but were thankful for the fantastic feast prepared with love for their rowdy revelers.

As years passed, I visited Mom and Pa whenever in their area. Having given so much to me over the years, it was my privilege to love on and catch up with them. They weathered adversities, setbacks, and health issues of aging. But around that same table again, time stood still. 

Pa ascended to heaven six years ago, in the privacy of his hospital room after stubbornly shooing away his family for the night. I would have paid money to be a fly on the wall to hear his final cheeky conversation with his Maker. I wonder if he had a free, heavenly beer at the Pearly Gates, since it was just past midnight and already a “tomorrow” when he passed.

Keeping tradition, Mom #2 enjoys her assisted living digs with a new posse around the common room’s table. Sharing coffee and treats, these ladies discuss life and support each other, their variety of backgrounds the condiments in this new kitchen. Before coronavirus, I was able to meet with these women, their wit and wisdom flowing like the java in our cups. Once again, I was back in the fold, and I loved it.

My DNA is surely part Irish from the immersion of so many hours at that convivial table. But genetics aside, the examples of acceptance and hospitality, the importance of gathering and storytelling, and an honest love of what’s on the plate in front of you have been the testaments from my second family.

Their huge skillet cooked hundreds of meals over the years in both home and parish kitchens. Hung in full view (likely because it failed to conform to any drawer size), I often told Mom & Pa how much I loved that piece of cookware. Not only for its size but for its history in the hands of such skilled cooks. Eventually bequeathed to me after Pa’s passing, that pan is a tangible reminder of all they taught me.

I continue to hear my moniker, “Carol Dear,” in that thick brogue as I cook similarly for my family, a loving sentiment from the man who always sported an apron proclaiming, “Insanity Is Hereditary – You Get It From Your Kids.” 

I am forever grateful to have been a contributing adoptee.