Let's Break Bread
/“They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts”
Hey Ya’ll. That’s right, I said Ya’ll. I grew up right outside Memphis, TN and almost just a stones throw from Mississippi and Arkansas. If you’ve met me in person, you know that my sad reality is any accent I may have had as a child dissipated within the first year of leaving home, but occasionally you’ll hear a “ya’ll” or a “bless your heart”. We all know everyone likes someone just a little bit more when they have an accent;). In truth, I dreamed of moving to my mom’s hometown of Anaheim, CA or somewhere nearby and made many wishes over my birthday cakes over the years that’d I’d marry and settle down in Orange County, CA. I wasn’t too far off settling down in my husband’s old stomping grounds of Escondido, Ca in San Diego County and despite my sister’s constant bribes and pleading to move up by her in Orange County, I cannot think of a place I would love more than right where I am. I love the weather, the people, the schools, the zoo, the theme parks and the beach being just far enough away to avoid living in the June gloom, but close enough to make a easy quick day at the beach a breeze.
I do miss the south, the green, the southern accents, the slower pace and the fireflies (I REALLY miss the fireflies). Moving here, to Southern California, was a dream come true. Endless sunshine, year round outdoor activities, the beach, the easy going mentality, but right at first one thing I was not familiar with was there seemed to be a lot of concrete, a lot of homes, and a lot less open land. I knew that it would take some getting used to to make it feel like home. But if I learned anything from my mom and where I grew up it was that there’s nothing more important than making a house a home and taking time to sit around the Kitchen table and break bread with the people you care about.
I believe there’s an energy to a home, an energy that can be created from nothing or evolved over time, but an energy, nonetheless. That energy is the product of the story it leaves behind and the story it is inheriting. All those meals around the dinner table or on the back porch, the fighting over the last cookie or the laughing over the disgusting table manners of the 5 year old little brother or gagging because of the 16 year old older brother. The times when someone storms off in anger, and the times when everyone stays for hours, not wanting to miss a piece of the conversation. I personally have been present at every one of these occasions. At my house I’m usually there with paper goods and last minute quesadillas, but occasionally we are blessed with the laughter of just Sean, me and the kids saying the weirdest random things or like tonight having 2 friends over. 2 friends who both wear glasses and our 6 year old very boldly telling them that they should “REALLY eat more carrots. A carrot a day keeps the glasses AWAY!” as he takes another bite of his full carrot he had been gnawing on like a bunny rabbit because he’d rather not eat the cooked carrots that were chopped up in the soup that was served.
It’s right there, around that dinner table, where the magic happens. Where memories are created. A friend once told me “everyone’s happy around the dinner table because they’re all being fed and that just makes people happy to be fed”. It doesn’t matter what it looks like. When I was first married for several months our dinner table was a cooler and 2 camping chairs we received as gifts from our wedding. But it made no difference to us, it was the place we gathered, we came together every night, it was the heart beat of our home.
Growing up every Sunday we’d sit in the formal dining room and we almost always had guests, whether it was someone new to the area, someone just visiting or someone my mom was having temporarily live with us until they found something more permanent. It didn’t always have to be fancy, but it was always special… at least to me. It is one of my greatest childhood memories. It was part of my home’s ‘story’. My parents raised 8 children in that home. 6 boys and 2 girls. All of us have since moved away, but only 2 years ago we went back to visit for my younger brother’s wedding. Most of us being married with children by now we caravanned over to that old house and someone bravely knocked on the door. The owners looked surprised to see the gaggle of children and adults in their front lawn. We explained to them who we were and how we were raised in the home. The woman smiled big and with a great deal of sentiment said, “Oh the McEwen’s…people still call this the McEwen’s house.”
She proceeded to let all of us in to tour the house and see what it has become. This sweet woman took what my mom had so thoughtfully created of the house and added upon it. It was even more beautiful than I had remembered but had all the same feelings of love and coziness. That day was a gift as we talked and laughed and cried over the memories and stories that had been and still were in that home. They too, obviously broke bread together across from their kitchen table and enjoyed what is best enjoyed at “home”.
So whether you are in the process of coming or going or staying right where you are, just know that the beauty and magic of a home isn’t in it’s perfectly clean floors or decorated walls but it’s most importantly in the people, the voices, the laughs, the tears, and the joys shared around that dinner table where you break bread with friends and family alike.
