It's Giving Friends

Coffee out of an angry hot dog mug, watching Cher perform, and being a vessel for hospitality.

The older you get, the more grief you carry. The more grief you carry, the harder the holidays can be. I sometimes find myself having a tough time during the holiday season, something you may be able to relate to. This is something my friend Billi and I have in common. When she floated the idea of spending all of Thanksgiving together I was very into the idea.

Her tires crunched the asphalt on the driveway around 10AM. We watched the balloons fly over 34th street, ate cinnamon rolls, and danced around the living room for the parade’s finale-- a Cher performance. Then we settled back into the yellow velvet couch for the dog show. When it was time for coffee, Billi asked for a specific mug– one with an [angry hot dog] on it. The mug is small and black, the frank has a gold tooth. It is Billi’s favorite mug at my house.

Most of my friends have their favorites in my home. Some have favorite mugs or favorite drinking glasses, some people even have favorite plates or bowls. There’s a clear glass cowboy boot mug that seems to be everyone’s darling, and when it comes to bowls most people favor the snackers that I made in my second month of ceramics class that look like jawbreakers from the 90s.

My home delights in functioning as a hub for people to make their own in some way or another. Our home is not a perfect one, and for some reason that makes the visitors that come through her doors at ease-- something I’m eternally grateful for.

It could be because the massive amounts of wood paneling in the kitchen, or the fact that our washer and dryer sit caddy corner to our oven. It could be that the whole place is in a state of renovation that is moving slowly slowly slowly. It may be because for much of the lifespan of the house it was occupied by two people who lived their entire life here, until they were grandparents, and then beyond until their passing.

The general vibe of the home is one of deep comfort, and no fuss. It’s a work in progress, and it knows you are too. It doesn’t want you to be anything other than what you are.

Once after a dinner, a friend curled up in a chair under a blanket and fell asleep. It was their first visit to our house. They said it felt like home, that they knew they’d always be welcome wherever we were. They are right.

Some friends were talking about how our house is haunted. Initially I protested, but they continued on. “You can tell that someone’s whole life happened there before you moved in”.

“Haunted in a good way,” they say.

I don’t think it’s the previous owners ghosts that inhabit our space, though I do have [that one story] so she may in fact drop by from time to time for a visit.

Our home is a container for the experiences people have in it. Perhaps any home ends up as this kind of vessel for human experience. I am very fortunate to have a house that is made for gathering, full of friends sleeping on couches and favorite dishes being pulled from cupboards. I have a [lineage of hospitality] to uphold, and I do not carry this mantel lightly.

Each year, we host a Friendsgiving for people who can’t or don’t want to go home. Every year the guest list is different. Plans change, people move, familial relationships heal or fracture.

This year we crammed 23 people around our table that comfortably seats 14. People were squished in, thighs were touching, and you could feel the person next to you laughing. Table space tapped out at 20 and the three remaining troopers were happy to sit table adjacent, holding their plates in their laps, daringly forking turkey and gravy from plate to mouth. For hours that felt like they gloriously stretched into days, we ate a feast of a meal, had loud, crass dinner conversation, and laughed until our cheeks hurt.

It means the world to me to hold this space—one that feels joyous despite the minefield of a mindfuck that holidays can be. I know there’s nothing I can do to fix that for my chosen family, but what I can do is open up my home, and offer up a meal divine meal, with lovely people, around a large dinner table that is somehow never quite large enough.

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