By Nikki Rood
I invite you to imagine a huge, 100-year-old farm table set out in a field of verdant grass and wild flowers, somewhere in the magical rolling hills of Tuscany. The sturdy knotted pinewood is accented by simple mason jars filled with elegant purple flowers, all arranged in a long line, their moist stems leaning over the glass brims of their water- filled containers as if they were lazily laughing. If you’ve ever taken the time to listen to a flower chuckle, it’s a joy that shouldn't be missed. Personally, I think they get a kick out of feeling the dew settle on their petals at the same time that a warm breeze blows by, but that’s just me. The fact that the table used to be a tall majestic tree is worth a grateful thought. That table is set for 20 people — molded, well-used
benches on each side are waiting for their dinner party to arrive — veteran benches that know the meal will last well into the late hours of the evening, when full bellies and smiling faces will settle in more and more comfortably, bantering for hours under the stars and the rising moon. Rustic, well-used white pottery dishes are flanked by softest lavender cotton napkins lying under carefully cleaned silverware that has been lovingly handed down through the generations. A young child will eat tonight with the same spoon that her silver-haired great-grandmother used to stir some hearty soup in a cast iron pot over a century ago. Someone will mention great-grandma’s name — raising a toast — whereupon mirthful stories of her adventures will ensue,
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