I am
overwhelmed by the warm welcome that my new book has gotten onto bookstore
shelves, coffee tables and kitchen counters all over the South. This journey
is off to an unforgettable start.
The
exact essay below didn't make it into the final edits of Around the Southern Table. Yet, it is important to me to share some
personal moments of my relationship with the table. I'm sure most Southerners
could do the same.
My Southern Table
Being
welcomed at the table is nothing short of receiving a special gift. It’s a
package filled with soothing assurance that you are not alone. It is not simply
a piece of furniture made to support a plate and a glass; it is furniture that
serves its owners in countless and amazing ways.
Like so many
others, my home is not determined by an address; my home is where those I love
gather around the table. The location and the table aren’t always the same, but
those that surround it are always family. In times of great celebration, quite
reflection or deep loss, the table is forever in the center.
Much of my
life has been marked by unforgettable moments around the table. It was at the
table where I tasted my very first tomato sandwich. I ate breakfast at the table
while watching the Challenger liftoff and disintegrate into the sky. Years later
I slipped my left hand across the shiny oak top to show my grandmother my
engagement ring. In that exact same place at the table, my place, I was
overcome by the sea of endless food delivered when she passed away. We gathered
our parents around the table on a frigid January evening to share the news that
their first grandbaby was on the way. 
While
sitting down to a bushel of roasted oysters, I was ecstatic to tell my family I
was writing my long-awaited third book. I swaddled our brand new baby girl in a
bright pink basket on our table the first day we came home from the hospital. We
added leaves and pulled up chairs for the biggest brunch I could cook after each
of our children was baptized. Hours
after the death of my father-in-law, I sat alone at our table in the middle of
the night and cried until no more tears would come. While sitting on his tiny
knees at the table, my son said the blessing all by himself for the first time.
It is at the
table where I have grown-up, loved, laughed, prayed, celebrated and experienced
so many of the defining moments in my life. This long relationship does not
make me unique. Most Southerners could tell a very similar story about the
table where they sit to dine each day. The Southern table does not just fill a
room or a corner; it fills our very lives and enriches our souls.
Copyright © 2012 Rebecca Lang Cooks, LLC. All rights reserved.
www.rebeccalangcooks.com
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