There are few things more satisfying than scanning a dinner table or looking across my kitchen counter to see the faces of people I love. Even when it includes those oddball characters no one quite knows what to do with (you know who you are).
You know the ones. They have a real knack for artfully–almost poetically–saying exactly the wrong thing.
Yeah, even them. Maybe especially them.
In fact, those are the very people who usually make things more interesting. Like the other night when one of my son’s friends went off on a rant about anti-depressants. He said, “Not to be graphic” (so we braced ourselves), and then he went on to describe scientifically (and graphically) why antidepressants take all the umph out of orgasms.
Really? Hmm. Didn’t know that. “Coffee anyone?”
Or there was the recent dinner when my nephew was home from college with two friends. I overheard one family member talking about the politics of homosexuality with one of the friends. (To his credit, the young man maintained a remarkable poker face. Didn’t even flinch.)
I sat for a moment that night taking it all in. I scanned the table, watching everyone joke and gesticulate, while they stuffed faces full with pizza and somehow still managed to share stories, tall tales, gross exaggerations, good-natured ribbing, and belly laughs—all without bringing soda up their noses.
Somehow it was all so….glorious. So wonderfully and beautifully imperfect. No matter what is being served or where, if I can look across a table or a room into the eyes of someone I love, it is all so very, very good.