I still mother them….

Some of the best moments in my life happened around a dinner table. Not because the meals were fancy. Lord knows sometimes they were overcooked, burnt on the edges, or somebody forgot an ingredient. But somehow, none of that ever mattered. What mattered was who was sitting there. The stories. The laughing. The feeling that for just a little while, everybody belonged to each other.

The funny thing is, I don’t remember a lot of the meals. I couldn’t tell you what we ate half the time. But I remember the laughs. I remember people talking over each other. I remember somebody always telling a story they had told ten times before like it was brand new. I remember staying at the table long after the plates were cleared because nobody was quite ready for the night to end.

And isn’t it funny what sticks with us? I remember my mom’s baked mac and cheese being her thing. The kind people looked forward to. The kind that showed up at holidays and somehow tasted like comfort and family all in one dish. Except for the year she forgot to put the cheese in the mac and cheese. Yes… the cheese. My niece was just a little girl, and to this day we still laugh about it. Somewhere along the way, that story became part of family history. Nobody remembers what else was on the table that year, but everybody remembers the cheese-less mac and cheese. And honestly? That memory makes me smile more than a perfect meal ever could.

I think about my Aunt Carol’s table a lot. Coffee cups sitting out. Meals that somehow tasted better because they came with stories. People wandering in and out of the kitchen. Conversations about life, family, heartbreak, funny memories, and absolutely nothing important at all. There was something sacred about that table, even if we didn’t realize it at the time. It was where life happened.

Nobody tells you that kitchens become safe spaces. Somewhere between dessert and coffee, people start telling the truth. Around a table, people laugh harder. Cry easier. Confess things they didn’t know they needed to say. Somehow food has this sneaky way of making people put their guard down. The table becomes part therapist office, part comedy club, part holy ground.

I think about all the tables in my life. Holiday dinners that felt chaotic and loud. Birthday celebrations. Dead Mom’s Dinners. Random Tuesday nights where somebody just stayed a little longer because nobody wanted to go home yet. Looking back now, I realize it was never really about the food. It was about feeling loved. Feeling safe. Feeling like no matter what was happening in the world, there was still a place where you belonged.

Grief changes dinner tables too. It notices the empty chairs. It notices the people who should still be reaching for another roll or telling a story way too loudly. There are moments when I still catch myself thinking Vincent would have laughed at that. Gabriella would have rolled her eyes at that story. Loss has a way of showing up uninvited sometimes, even in the middle of laughter.

But here’s the beautiful thing. Love still shows up too.

These days, I find myself thinking about what I’m passing down to my grandchildren. I hope they remember the dinners. I hope they remember the traditions. But more than that, I hope they remember the feeling. I hope they remember that there was always room at the table. That home felt safe. That laughter mattered. That people stayed awhile. That coffee was poured, stories were repeated, and love showed up even on ordinary days.

Maybe they won’t remember exactly what Nonna made. Maybe one day they’ll forget what was on the plate. But I hope they remember the sound of everybody laughing. I hope they remember firepit nights, birthday dinners, holidays, and random evenings when we sat around talking longer than we planned to.

Because when I really think about it, some of the best things in life happen around a dinner table. Not because everything is perfect. Sometimes the mac and cheese doesn’t even have cheese in it. But years later, those are still the stories we tell. Those are still the moments we laugh about. And maybe that’s the real magic of family. Not perfection. Just showing up, pulling up a chair, and loving each other through the beautiful mess of it all.