Thirty Years at the Table

There are few things in life more enduring than a three decades-old book club. At FoxHaven, it has never been just about the books (though we’ve read our way through everything from Russian epics to frothy beach reads). The real plot line is the one we’ve been writing together for near thirty years—through reading, recipes, rituals, and the relentless march of time.

What is most precious? Hard to say. Is it the embodied delight of planning the menu? The sacred seriousness with which we treat new recipes, noting both their glorious successes and their spectacular failures? (Whoever heard of chocolate salami???) The careful laying of the table, or the warm, slightly chaotic bustle of beloved guests arriving, arms laden with wine bottles, hostess gifts, or most importantly, themselves? Maybe it’s the storytelling, the laughter so loud the dogs retreat, or the shared sigh as dishes are finally cleared and we soak together in the swim spa, star-drenched and content.

Then comes the collapse—falling into bed, exhausted and happy, with friends tucked into cabins or quilts in the lodge, their laughter still drifting through the night air. At dawn, the hostess (this time me) rises like some slightly dishevelled saint, fumbling with the coffee pot, slicing fruit for brunch, while pretending not to notice the new wrinkles or pounds in the mirror. Soon enough, we are gathered again at the feast table. Sunday Mass shared and whispered with a soul-friend, prayers rising like the smell of warm focaccia. And then—the long goodbyes. Hugs at the doorway, promises to return, tears held back until the dust on the driveway settles.

The final act is mine alone: stripping the beds, folding linens, setting them loose to bellow in the warm September winds like prayer flags. The silence feels both heavy and holy.

We have lived a lot of life together in these three decades. Babies born, marriages made and unmade, illnesses and injuries endured, parents buried, grandchildren celebrated. We are, without denying it, aging. I try to shield myself from the thought of inevitable losses ahead. Yet I know this in the marrow of my bones: I will carry or be carried by these women.

Old stories are told and retold, embroidered with each retelling. New ones are received gently, like fragile Murano glass. Around the table, with food cooked, shared, and cleared away in love, we hold what is most human against the inhumanity of our times: life, love, and longing.

It is not just a book club. It is the story of our lives, still unfolding, chapter by chapter, course by course, until the very end. And beyond.

And for that, I am deeply, hilariously, heartbreakingly blessed.