I have a farmhouse table in my kitchen, built with wooden slats and grooves wide enough to collect every crumb. Its legs are adorned with red crayon marks courtesy of my toddler. It is not the most ornate table in the world, nor is it the neatest, but it is my favorite place in my house.
That my family eats dinner together is my strictest rule. I do this so we can talk, I do this because I enjoy it, but mostly, I do this because of my grandfather’s stories from the war.