Ketchup and French Polish

Dinner at our house isn’t always fancy.

Tonight, burgers, dogs, fries and iceberg wedges with blue cheese and bacon.

Good friends called and said, you’re going away. We miss you. Let’s get together.

So we had dinner.

With the ketchup bottle on the table- my mother, if she were more than dust in a jar, would roll in her grave.

Of course, she would have loved watching the kids all clear, put dishes away and start the dishwasher.

I love my dining room. I love the space, the art, the table and how comfortable the chairs are to sit in for long periods of time. It is the one room in my house that is all of my mother's things. Now all of my things. It is a comfortable intersection. It is one of the few areas my mother acknowledged my ability in- being able to set beautiful tables, serve amazing food.

My friends who were here tonight are my family. It doesn't have to be an elegant meal. Or prime steaks. Burgers, dogs, fries, and stories of the day make a night to remember.

The familiarity to be able to call last minute is one piece of what makes our friendship beyond friendship. I can open my doors because I don't have to be on, I don't have to be great, I simply have to be myself.

No pressure.

And I can put the bottles of ketchup on the table, French polish and all.