Thanks, ditty.
What is your Ithaca?
A home
is somewhere you experience good and bad, and no matter how many times you run
away you always end up coming back. I found home in the circular piece of
Swedish dining room furniture we bought at IKEA about 4 years ago (the one and
only time we ever went to IKEA).
That table has been host to most of
the “eventful” things that take place my domestic life. It’s where I eat my
meals most mornings and afternoons. It’s where I roll my eyes behind a mug of
coffee at my dad’s awful jokes. It’s where I discuss ethics with my m other and
where my grandpa drums his fingers to Nat King Cole’s crooning that comes from
the kitchen radio. It’s also where my mother yells at my little brother for not
doing his math homework. It’s a wrestling ring for my parents late at night. It
offered support for my heavy head late at night when my parents wish me
goodnight with viscous lectures.
Sometimes
I can’t even begin to express how much I detest that blasted slab of wood for
hosting so many arguments and late-night reprimands. Maybe if we didn’t have a
kitchen table, we would resort to eating on the floor like Asians. And maybe
we’d adopt more Asian customs that involve peace, harmony, bamboo plants and
tasteful interior design. And then maybe all of the harmonious vibes that
emanate from our peace-bamboo grove would do away with my parents’ passive
aggressive auras.
But
without it, what would we do? We’d have nowhere to station the extended family
that comes for late night café con leche and my dad wouldn’t have anywhere to
slam his fist at republican pundits during breakfast. Painted with butter and
jellies in the morning, sprinkled with salsas and breadcrumbs by night. A staple
part of the kitchen and the anchor of the house. We can’t help orbiting our
lives around our table. Maybe it’s because Mexicans already orbit their lives
around food that the table in the kitchen possesses such gravitational pull,
making us like hungry little moons constantly dancing around it.
When I
go off to live on my own, I won’t miss my bed. I won’t miss the maroon book
shelf in my room that’s not big enough and I won’t miss the plaid couches in
the living room. I’ll miss my mom’s pozole
and my dad’s bad jokes. I’ll miss stories and debates over breakfast, lunch,
dinner. I’ll miss my kitchen table. I’ll miss my Ithaca.
