When I was in the sixth grade, I wrote a play called "A Thanksgiving to Remember." My wonderful teacher, Mr. Hombaker, agreed to stage it for the parents of Room 117. The plot was an eleven-year-old's version of Little House on the Prairie meets The Waltons, with plenty of woolen clothing, blizzards, meagre rations, and general misery on the plains. I don't know how to describe how horrible this play was. Truthfully, the only action that took place involved the characters setting the table, speaking a few lines like, "sure hope Pa's oxen team blah blah blah" and then clearing the table. Plates on. Plates off. Plates on. Plates off. I remember overhearing some first-grader in the front row groan to his mom, "Not the dishes again!"

My fascination with a well laid table has not abated since.