When I was growing up, my parents didn’t usually have people like neighbors over for meals as my first husband’s family did. I learned after my dad died that my dad had been close to a neighbor who had died unexpectedly and my mom said he vowed never to be that close to a friend again. But what we didn’t have with neighbors, we definitely had with family. There were several gatherings each year with my mom’s side alone for holidays and other events.
Growing up, I know I didn’t think much about the hubbub and organizing that goes into these events. When we hosted, there was always extra cleaning to do (the cutouts in the dining room chairs that had be dusted were the worst) and my mom trying to perfect her green Jello mold and making it too late, getting frustrated because it wouldn’t set right.
The photo above is of Mom’s side in the family, taken in the late 1950s. I believe this was my mom’s college graduation and those are her aunts and uncles at the table. I chose this photo, however, because that’s my Grandma Zurawski in the background wearing the apron and holding a pot. And that’s her basement kitchen.
The house was built around 1950 and had a small kitchen, but it was deceiving because downstairs she had second kitchen– pantry, refrigerator, sink, and stove. all right next to the washer and dryer that look covered in this photo.
As we have entered this season of gathering together, this year I have been thinking so much about how I learned to host a party. While a lot of it came from trial and error of simply having a party in the first place, there were also things I learned from Mom and that she had learned from Grandma Zurawski. I can look back now and see that learning to host was part of growing up, of becoming an adult, of a family education of sorts.
But I also understand now that hosting a party is one of the most joyful parts of my life. To gather people in my house (the happiness that they are excited to come over for a party!) for a meal that I have made (or partly made if we’re having a pot luck) takes time and planning. Yet it’s about sharing with others. And in life, sharing a meal with others, breaking bread as we have often heard, is where we find joy and meaning.
How lucky I am that it’s been part of my life, too.