The rustic farm kitchen table in my childhood home was like a topographical map, its ridges, marks, gouges telling the story of our family and the families who owned the table before us. Our lives unfolded around this old pine table. This was were we ate meals, drew pictures, had fights, mixed cake batter, did homework. I remember using pencils and knives to lift out bits of gunk that had receded into the table’s deep grooves. Its surface was never smooth, even or shiny.
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