Table for discussion (The dining table)

Beside my bedroom, bathroom, and a sixteen-mile (actually 16-feet, but still, for an entry hall?) hall, the rest of my flat is an open floor plan.

I could have had just a giant living room, or the curious living room/barroom combo that the last tenant decided to go with.

But I chose to have a dining space, so that I could have those witty, sophisticated, Noel Coward-type dinner parties that I began throwing in my fevered junior high imagination.

I know times change but a large flat surface upon which humans can consume nourishment is probably de rigueur in perpetuity.

So, after I had purchased some super cool wooden and cast iron bar/dining chairs from Wayfair, I turned my attention to a table.

While scrolling through every iteration and style of those flat eating surfaces, I stumbled upon one that immediately that ended further scrolling.

It was a door on four porch posts.

I loved it.

After a false start with a louvered door, I got a French door at Habitat for Humanity and four porch posts that I could only obtain at a Lowes in Garner.

I enlisted my friend Stace and The Kid. To their extreme credit for which I am very grateful, neither by look nor word implied that I was at any time not on my rocker. But my guess would be that there was a real threat of blindness from the eye rolling whenever my back was turned.

In the Dining Room Caper, Stace was wheels, warehousing, and finally, delivery, the skilled carpentry to basically build a dining table in my apartment, and set up—Mr. White Glove.

The Kid had agreed to finish both table and posts in a manner of which would be in my taste, but chosen by my child and a surprise to me until an unveiling of the finished project — Little Van Gough.

My birthday, April 13, 2022 was decided upon as the debut of the table-top, still in the guise of an unfinished door was set to be picked up at Habitat for Humanity, and the earlier purchased, now runner-up door, was re-donated.

After pulling off the switcheroo, Mr. White Glove (Stace) ferried the imminent door to his home. In the garage, he set it up on sawhorses.

Little Van Gough was up next and the project slowed.

The ugly reality was a seven-day work week, rheumatoid arthritis and its accompanying fatigue, coupled with meshing schedules of host and craftsperson and a shockingly shoddy memory on the part of a thirty-year-old child if you ask me, which of course nobody does…led to the pace of a tranquilized sloth.

So, a couple of weeks before my birthday, April 13 th , 2023, I got involved. I asked if we could finish it together as a mother/child project (kind of like chicken egg fu yung).

Two weeks ago, Stace and his amazing, wonderful wife and loyal supportive friend to my eternally grateful self, Dr. Val (not caper-related; she has a doctorate in nursing) came over to deliver the finished table.

The glass I had cut to cover the door was delivered last Thursday.

Turns out, it resembles a potting bench. So, I’m leaning into it, and will use it, Gentle Raeder, as a dining/work space/not quite kitchen island.

When the fairy lights for the jars arrive tomorrow from Amazon, it will be completely finished.

I love it.

To thank them, I made a dinner of pork chops, buttermilk mashed potatoes and onion jam gravy… all topped off with cherry pie and fresh whipped cream.

I’ve cooked for Stace and Val quite a few times and Stace always likes my food (even when I, as he says, "Push his palate"). That evening he said it was the best thing I ever cooked for him.

I think they liked it; they took home a big jar of my gravy.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at [email protected].

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