It’s Not About the Corks
November 13, 2020
About six years ago I was at a friend’s house for supper. She had this magnificent display of corks in a picture frame. A lot of corks. I did not ruminate on how long that took to fill, but I decided that I too would like to collect corks. My cork collection started in a small flower vase that sat unceremoniously in the middle of the kitchen table. I absentmindedly threw corks in it and that was about it. Upon collecting, I soon learned that I drank far too much wine, but had a lot of good friends in which to drink wine with. The vase soon filled, so I then dumped the corks into a fairly large serving tray without really thinking much about an endgame for the corks. When I was packing up my house this past June, one of the last things to be packed was that tray of corks. The corks over the years became somewhat of a game with many who sat at the table, or something to run fingers through. Whatever the draw was, those corks held a lot of good memories.
When Mackenzie still lived at home, she and I would read through the 19 Crimes corks trying to figure out what crimes were missing– more than once. We also would stack and dig deep to see if there were matches of corks, or what the inscriptions might be, or what the event may have been for the bottle. Later after my Italy trip, I threw some gems and pottery pieces into the mix that I had found. It was better than any board game.
Once, my Michigan family came to visit, and when they left every single cork had been filed in long lines, organized by name and color. I had no idea when they did that but it was impressive. I would often mindlessly pick up corks while I chatted on the phone. They were stacked and reshuffled more times than I can say by many fingers and hands over the past six years. Before packing the tray away, I looked at all those corks, and what I saw was not an art project in the making, but memories already made. I thought about all the people who I had become so connected with, and who have brought such incredible joy to my life. I wondered if the corks could talk, what would they say about all those who sat at the table. All those many bottles of wine sipped over tears and laughter, joy and heartbreak, babies born, birthdays, family joy and family fights, department parties, the pranks, the unity, and oh my gosh, the laughter. The people I had met were all so different, coming from so many walks of life, varying ages and perspectives. The diversity of it all is what made those relationships work– with a healthy dose of forgiveness and humility thrown in.
The corks were packed for Texas, and all those memories were coming with me.
I think about how many tables I have sat around over the years with strangers that turned into friends. Every school I ever worked at had “a table.” Over the years the school I was in may have changed, and people came and went, and world events– but a constant of comradery remained. In Texas, we watched the OJ Trial unfold, in St Albert, the Columbine shooting. In my current school many years ago we put a RESTROOM sign on the door. I can’t tell you how many substitutes walked through that door startled to see 15 people squeezed around a table and nary a toilet in sight. As a group embellished stories, more than once yogurt ended up on another person, we shared food with those who forgot to pack a lunch, we judged and envied each other’s lunches, we poked fun at each other, and we laughed at each other’s jokes. We clambered to get to lunch, and stayed past the bell. I walk by that table now and the lights are off, the table is quiet. I hope someday that table will come to life again long after I have gone south. I hope new friendships will be forged, and appreciating the uniqueness of all who will sit together.
There of course was also a January night reserved for my crew who tirelessly worked night school with me. This is where I got to experiment anything I had learned about food from tofu to Greek at my own kitchen table. Truth is, cooking has been on and off in my life. My mom taught me to cook in my early years, but I mostly abandoned it in my 20’s and gave way to McDonalds and fast food through college . Mackenzie went through the chicken nugget stage, which seemed for years. At one point in the early 2000’s I dated a guy who was into food. I would put Mack to bed and then I would be the sous chef for him, then we would sit and watch Trading Spaces. Then there was the years of meat and potatoes– and then finally back around again to learning how to peel a garlic, all the while hanging out in our school foods lab for free lessons.
And so the ladies were always delighted to try anything that was in front of them. I was practicing, they were eating. It was an epic extravaganza, and what I loved the most was they would come into the house beaming in anticipation. We paired wine with every course, and ate like the queens we were. We laughed and chatted the night away with the stories of our kids and partners and schools. It really wasn’t the food or the wine, it was the sitting together at the table. It was the effort put forth to show up, to enjoy, to feel appreciated.
Most recently, my temporary location in Stony Plain has garnered me a very special, and surprising prized possession: a Sunday seat at my dear from, Tracey’s table.
Tracey and I met when we were four years old in our kindergarten class. She was a “town” kid and I was a “country” kid. Much of elementary she attended the Lutheran school, and I moved into the public system. Stony Plain isn’t that big, so I would see her from time to time at her mom’s clothing store, or around town. Grade 9 hit and Tracey came back to the heathen public system, and back into my immediate world. And really, we have been fairly inseparable ever since. She remained in Stony Plain, and I moved to the city. She seems to put up with me and all the risks I have taken, and decisions I have jumped at. She has always been the cheerleader of my life, and I hers. I think we are a lot of Ying and Yang- but we like each other just the way we are. She may have raised an eyebrow or two over the years, but she has always been the constant.
Tracey Bartholomew
We have raised our kids together, navigated business and school, and she taught me how to love a good bottle of red. I bring this up because for many years Stony Plain visits were always to my folks house so I didn’t really get to spend much time at her house. We had scheduled dinner dates of course, and phone calls. Now we seem to have a little more time, and only a 7 minute ride away. It’s a pretty great ending to my Canadian story.
And so, when I arrived in Texas this past July, much was left in boxes. I essentially camped for the summer with a handful of glasses, a few plates and a coffee pot. I didn’t look too hard for anything other than kitchen items deemed useful. I found the tray and put it on the borrowed kitchen table. Mostly out of familiarity. When I travel back to Texas, the tray will be ready for new folks, new friends, new stories and memories. The Bed and Breakfast will come to life, and a new chapter will begin. I plan to have a big table. And of course, more corks.