John and I raised our kids on the other side of the country for the first twenty years. Other side from what, you might wonder. From where we are now, which is the hometown where many of our relatives live. I was grumpy about this, especially at Christmas and Thanksgiving, when we celebrated alone. Except that we were not actually alone. Other kind people invited us to sit at their tables and break bread. I almost never did the inviting, which is something I regret. 

 

Then we moved to the East Coast just before the twins were born, and for the first time we had extended family to hold hands with for the blessing. My mother lived with us for four, brief years, and I soaked her up to compensate for two decades of missed holidays. 

 

A friend described what she does at festive times, to fill in where the absence of relatives could leave a vacuum. She hosts a Friendsgiving, collecting a room full of people who are also separated from family by distance or discord. It sounds marvelous. 

 

One of the labels I have plastered to my self-image is "mediocre hostess". There have been reasons, if you can call them that. Like being pregnant or holding a nursing baby for most of those years, and how could I be expected to be gracious while I was expecting? Then there were the constraints of frugality, which put a damper on generosity. My own mother was disinclined to entertaining, and her entrées rarely had more than three ingredients. The only spice in her pantry was cinnamon. 

 

But as it happens, we can evolve. There is a flickering intention, that I can say out loud without fear of snuffing it. I hope to be better at inviting people in. It feels at once outrageous and commonplace. I mean, everybody eats, and no one will perish from one overcooked supper. 

 

Plus, I have a whole shelf of spices.