everyone has a seat at my table

I have a highly misunderstood tattoo.

In my defense, it was cheap, I got it in a third world country, and the guy free hand drew it. However, it’s a picasso-esque drawing of a table that goes on into the distance and wraps around my upper arm.

It represents sobremesa.

There is no direct translation for sobremesa in the English dictionary but spanishdict.com translates it to an “after-dinner conversation.”

Sobremesa is much more than that — it’s the art of being able to share a meal with anyone, while discussing anything. the candle burns out, another is lit. you smoke a cigarette on the patio. dessert is served, while coffee is brewed. It’s midnight and no one has checked their phone. everyone is welcome. no one has anywhere to be except here. everyone has a seat at the table.

Somewhere between 40-hour work weeks, school deadlines, or the absurd cost of eggs, I forgot that I loved cooking. Not just cooking—but curating an atmosphere, setting a table, creating a homey environment. hosting.

This season of my life has been about coming back to the kitchen and opening my door to strangers.

In the color orange I wrote about a perfect day. I was awoken by a knock at the door where I was reminded that I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. I spent the rest of the day open to accepting where I am, being where my feet are. I had coffee with a dear friend, we went for a swim, laid in the sun, and ended the perfect day at my place where I cooked dinner.

I prepared a farmer’s market beet burrata over a bed of fresh arugula. Topped with salt and pepper, pistachios, balsamic glaze, and Kevin grilled chicken. While the chicken was cooking I made a spread of hummus and crudite and sliced cheeses.

I danced around my kitchen in the patchwork apron that my grandma made for me, chopping veggies, curating a playlist on the TV, and selecting a bottle of wine to pair with the meal.

I prepared the table, placed the food in a beautiful display, and pulled down my nice wine glasses from the top shelf. Kevin, seated at my table with a green wine glass, said, “you really know how to make a home.”

Since then, Tuesdays have become sacred. I host dinner every week which has turned into an open invite, open door policy.

They’ve continued to grow each week.

I thought being an adult would be full of invitations to fun events like dinner parties. I didn’t realize that if you wanted to go to a dinner party you had to host it.

After the initial burrata dinner for two, I hosted pad thai night where 4 chairs were filled. then, Nicky requested a nacho making party. followed by taco Tuesday where 14 people overflowed into the living room. and a potluck for my birthday where 18 of us sat on laps and countertops. we shared plates and went through my reserve of wines. by the end of the night we squeezed too many people on the patio to smoke cigarettes.

At one point, Kevin and I tried to go back to the basics and have dinner just the two of us. Before I even set the table he nervously told me that he invited a friend who was in town. I happily set three placemats and wine glasses while Kevin assured his friend on the phone that “it’s not weird,” “no you don’t need anything,” “yes we want you here!”

He ended up staying just shy of midnight.

That same friend, who uncomfortably entered my place when I yelled “IT’S UNLOCKED” from the kitchen, just a week later, walked in with a bottle of wine and quickly made himself at home.

I started inviting regulars at my restaurant, people I met in bars, and my friends invited their friends. The parties have continued to grow, each week is a different crowd.

No one knows everyone, but somehow, everyone feels at home. There are constants like Kevin, who help me pull wine glasses from the top shelf and know where I keep the tea. There are strangers who quietly show up but loudly leave with a handful of new connections.

The overwhelming sound of laughter floods out the music, while conversations tangle and overlap. I tend to observe from from my kitchen. I feel like the glue—holding together this random mix of humans who wouldn't otherwise interact.

This week Izzy offered to help host, she showed up at my house with all the ingredients and her own pot. Izzy delicately made a short rib ragu while I prepared a caprese salad and sautéed zucchini as sides. Teddy prepared cookies from scratch while Kevin sat on the couch recording us on the camcorder I acquired from my parents attic recently. One by one, our friends and strangers, followed the sound of laughter diluted by an indie rock playlist to my apartment. Some showed up with bottles of wine and others came empty handed. Each one of them, graduating from the week prior, walked in without knocking, took their shoes off at the door, and made the routine round of hugs.

This week we were all able to sit together in true family dinner style. We made a cheers over the food and the conversations kept unfolding and intertwining. While the wine continued to flow, it was revealed that it was the newcomers birthday. I put a candle in a burnt cookie and everyone sang happy birthday to the person we no longer saw as a stranger.

He texted me after, “My heart is so full. Thank you a million times over!! It’s so funny how we’re all technically strangers but a group like last night feels like hanging out with your best friends.”

It has truly been a joy to create a space where people feel like they belong, even if just for a meal.

don’t knock, just leave your shoes by the door.dinner’s at seven and there’s always room for one more.

Kevin didn't just say “you really know how to make a home” he followed that with, “you’re going to make a great wife one day.”

If this was said to me yesterday, or by anyone else, or in a different setting, I easily would’ve gone into a feminist rampage. I would probably raise my voice, like I have done many times in the past. I would’ve made it clear that women are meant for much more than being in the kitchen.

However, standing in my apron, I did not take the comment as an insult but rather as a compliment—a high honor. My heart glistened a little and I smiled. I was honored that he saw my enthusiasm to cook and open my home to him as motherly—womanly.

My mom always insisted on having a table in our home that had an extra leaf to extend the table to fit more chairs. My friends came over after practice, my brother’s best friend basically lived with us, the neighbors, extended family, people from church, strangers—everyone had a seat at her table.

So I understood this comment as an expression of comfort, specifically in my home. a home of which I have spent many months curating—perfecting. I have decorated the walls with colorful art pieces and photographs of things I love. I light candles and collect cookbooks. I’ve tended to my garden. my cat will probably fall asleep in your lap. I bought a big table with extra chairs, the chairs are obviously bright red to match the red trash can and microwave. Everyone has a seat at my table, even if it means we pull them in from the bedrooms.

everyone has a seat at my table. you are always welcome.

you don't need to knock, the door will always be open.

how lucky am I to have a sink full of dishes.