October
2006
My Grandmother’s Kitchen Table
With its long metal legs, bolted to original 50s Formica, it stands, hands on hips, waiting for the next person to stub their toe. The cream plastic top is faded from the kitchen windows and yellowed from hot kettles and glazed bricks heated on the old gas cooker. Countless morning headlines from newspapers have lain at one end whilst countless culinary delicacies have been made at the other.
The plastic there has been worn away with her strong arms rolling pastry for dough. It’s been worn away by top and tailing runner beans fresh from the garden, it’s been worn away by bums leaning and sitting. By my grandmother discussing, arguing, gesticulating, swinging in time to her favourite piece of classical music. It echoes loudly still around the house.
All over, the table is deeply and lightly scarred for life with tiny cuts into its skin. Pommes de terre boulangère, bœuf bourguignon avec petits oignons, chipes faites maison – faites gros à la main, salades fraîches aux légumes du jardin cueillies que ce matin, artichauts à la vapeur avec une sauce vinaigrette à nous faire saliver - saliver - saliver à toute allure.
Look closely and it is possible to make out where the surface has been rubbed away by our hands resting with knives and forks drawn in anticipation. Forced to sit there on summer holidays, my father’s knees knocked cutlery which rattled beneath in a drawer as deep as the table is wide.
Pass la pelle à tarte and you pull and pull the drawer handle as you would your hair whilst explaining to your grandmother why swapping the greens on your plate for the tart she made would be such a good idea. Sometimes, in the corner of my eye, I see it, still, sitting there hot out of the oven, that strawberry tart. Turn to look and it is gone.