A Place at the Table: Honoring My Grandmother Through Holiday Tradition

Today, as many of us pause to reflect on what we’re thankful for, I found myself thinking deeply about my grandmother Josephine—a remarkable woman who lived well into her 90s. Last night, I had our Thanksgiving table set with our everyday plates. But when I woke up this morning, I felt a strong pull to honor her in a more meaningful way.

My grandmother was the kind of person who always had room at her table for anyone who stopped by. Friends, neighbors, and family would often pop in, and without hesitation she’d invite them to sit, pour them a cup of coffee, and offer something she had baked—usually a cookie or something sweet fresh from her kitchen. She was a phenomenal cook and baker, but also a phenomenal listener. Her warmth, her conversation, and her unconditional love made her home a welcoming haven. She never turned anyone away, and anyone who knew her will tell you the same.

When I was in my early twenties—long before I had children—she gifted me a set of fine china. She had purchased it at a garage sale, but to me it felt priceless. That she saw it, thought of me, and wanted me to have it meant the world to my younger self. And as the years have passed, that gift has only grown more meaningful. I kept it safely tucked away in my curio cabinet for years, afraid that a precious piece might break. It wasn’t just china—it was a part of her, a reminder of the love and traditions she poured into my life.

This morning, I realized my children are now old enough to appreciate these pieces and handle them with care. So I decided to reset the table using my grandmother’s china—the very set she gave me decades ago. Alongside the china, I also placed the beautiful goblets my mother gifted me, which now come out for every holiday meal. Seeing both heirlooms together—one from my grandmother, one from my mother—filled the table with generations of love.

There was something soothing, almost melodic, about washing the dust off each piece in the quiet of the early morning. As I polished the dishes and set out the goblets, I felt her presence—her love, her lessons, her laughter—all woven into these delicate heirlooms. I reflected on everything she taught me: how to cook, how to garden, how to love deeply, and how to find joy in the simplest moments.

And as I set five places at the table—one for each member of my own family—I felt overwhelmed with gratitude. Gratitude that I had her in my life for as long as I did. Gratitude that I now get to continue traditions with my children. Gratitude for the love that fills our home.

Today, the table is more than a place to eat. It’s a place of memory, gratitude, and future traditions. A place where love gathers, just as it did at my grandmother’s table all those years ago.