I’ve been thinking a lot about dining tables recently. That may sound odd, but we’ve been updating our dining room and about the only thing that hasn’t changed is the table. Eventually I think it’ll have to go, but I’m partial to it. It has live edges, old green antique legs, and a burn from a heat gun my electricians let sit on it just a little too long when hanging up our pendant light. It’s not fancy, or even particularly well-crafted, but it’s got character and its ours.

Ironically, we do just about everything but dine at this table these days. We’ve spent a lot of time and energy revamping this dining area, but we practically do everything we can to avoid having a meal at it. Don’t get me wrong; it serves lots of other purposes. It’s become my de facto home office and my husband frequently works from it too. It’s the port in the night for all types of wayward items-socks, keys, mail, dog leashes, etc. On its best days, it’s the perfect place to fold the laundry.

So now that we’ve redone this dining space and clearly aren’t afraid to use the table, why the aversion to eating a meal around it?

When you go to the trouble of creating a dining space that can seat ten people and there’s just two of you, the math doesn’t add up for meals at the table. I grew up in a family where everyone was always welcome at our table. The women of my family were always cooking, always inviting people to eat, and always making space at their tables for others. I can’t remember a time when their dining and kitchen tables weren’t at max capacity for every holiday. Oftentimes, they’d be at max capacity on a Tuesday for no reason at all.

It’s worth noting that each woman in my family has their own unique way of hosting these gatherings.

My nana would host meals and make just enough. A true child of the depression, and the offspring of German immigrants, nana never wasted a thing. She would make the most incredible meals-her German potato salad, kuchen (German cobbler), and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies are legendary. These are the staples of my childhood that no one will ever make like she did.

However, this is a quality, not quantity scenario. My father would often stop by McDonald’s on the way home from dinner at nana’s house. The food was always wonderful, but it never filled you up.

On the flip side, my grandma, my father’s mother, would never stop cooking. We would be eating breakfast talking about what was next for lunch and dinner. I would have seconds and she would complain that I had eaten hardly at all. At Christmas a few years back, I counted twenty-two different types of pies, cookies, and cakes. My grandma is an exceptional cook; she’s got the quality and quantity to fill you up. I love eating at their house, but I’ve never walked away from her table without being uncomfortably stuffed.

If this is “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” my mom is the one who’s gotten it just right. My mom knows the best of both grandmothers’ repertoire and makes more than enough, but not so much you don’t know how to stop. My mom has welcomed literally hundreds of people to her table-family and friends, but also students, immigrants, homeless people, and felons. I don’t ever remember asking her if someone could come to dinner and her refusing. She prepares plenty of food and there’s no limits on who can come enjoy it.

That’s true hospitality.

This rich legacy of hospitality seems to be dying on the vine here these days. Friends who come to visit are afraid to come in our home. They politely stay outside at a safe six feet away. I get it. This is the world we live in now. God willing it won’t always be this way. Until then, our table will have to endure the purgatory of the new normal. You know-computers, mail, and miscellaneous-until we can joyfully gather others around it again.