For each food lover, the joys of eating are inextricably tied to individual memories and experiences that shape and season their personal culinary landscape. We invite you to peruse what "pleasures of the table" means to each of us here at Oldways.

Cindy
"I love the words “the pleasures of the table” because they evoke so many fond memories:

• Thanksgiving dinners at Nonnie and Grampa’s, with long tables set up the length of the living room and Uncle Maurice wearing an Indian head-dress.
• A ten-course tasting meal on an Oldways trip to Italy, where each course included three tiny bite-size dishes made with olive oil.
• Our once-a-month date night when the kids were little, where my husband and I treated ourselves to food that someone else prepared and served, accompanied by uninterrupted adult conversation.
• The summer night in 1970 when I hitch-hiked to Vermont and ate corn roasted over a fire at an abandoned quarry with a group of locals I never saw again.
• Son Sam, at age 10, encountering snails for the first time, poking with the tiny fork and saying, “Come out little guy!”
• The candlelight-music-and-wine dinners my husband and I enjoy nightly, now that we’re empty nesters.

All of these memories share a common formula: food + people + time = the pleasures of the table. The best quality food is a plus, but any food, eaten mindfully, will do. Your favorite friends and family members are a plus, but any convivial group will do. An hour or more is great, but any piece of time centered only on the pleasures of the table will do, which means eating from cupholders or with the TV blaring don’t count.

We lose a big piece of our humanity when we reduce meals to mindless fueling in a cocoon of loneliness. Even on days when you have only a half hour for lunch, try to find a quiet spot and a dining companion, and eat food that’s designed to nourish both your body and your soul. Take a break, and enjoy the pleasures of the table.

Alison
My official title in the kitchen as a little girl was “Executive Deputy of Egg-Cracking, 1st Rank.” I don’t like to brag, but I was the best egg-cracker in the universe, or at least on my street. My mom, usually clad in a gaudy apron with explosions of white flour in her hair, would hoist me up onto a chair so I could hover over a large bowl, two unsuspecting brown eggs placed by my side. With the speed and dexterity of a seasoned chef, I would tap each egg on the side of the bowl with just the right amount of force: enough to make a nice, clean cracking sound without causing any debris to fall into the mix. With each egg yolk now swimming in the flour used as my mother’s temporary hair dye, I would toss the remains over my shoulder into the trash and wipe my hands onto my stirrup pants with a smug look of satisfaction. Another job had been completed, meaning another batch of cookies were to be at my disposal in just a few hours. Cooking was so easy back then.

Later that night, my entire family would be gathered around the table, though there was never enough room no matter how many chairs we managed to find. There were always ten conversations going on at once, people laughing, babies being exchanged between parents and glasses clinking together. But my mom, who never raises her voice above a calm and reasonable tone, would always manage to cut through the din to announce that the pizzelles were here this evening thanks entirely to ME, and all those at the table should be grateful for the many hours I spent slaving away to provide them with such spectacular treats. Without hesitation, my uncles, aunts, cousins, siblings, and grandparents would let out a shout of joy, and one by one their hands would rocket into the air clutching anything from wine to a baby bottle of apple juice.  After being showered with the appropriate amount of adoration (and turning a violent shade of red) I would flash a secret smile just for my mom, and she would sneak one back while shoving a plate of anisette cookies towards me. My uncle would start telling the story about the time my Nonny chased him around the house with a fly swatter, and it would be a very long time before anyone left the table that night.

Erika
Before preparing this piece about “the pleasures of the table”, I chatted amongst my friends and colleagues to get a sense for an overall tone. The majority of their responses waxed and waned poetically, painting elegant, picturesque settings that were all close to their hearts. I, too, have these fond memories…crisp, white linens, the sparkle of silver, fresh cut blooms bursting with color, all enveloped by the wonderful aromas wafting from the table.

However, for me, the “pleasures” derive from the culmination of events that typically precede these picture perfect settings. I must admit these events are far from perfect. In fact, some have been down-right ghastly, but the significance lies in the happy ending.

Take for example, everyone fleeing onto Wisconsin’s frozen tundra (my back yard) as smoke clouded the house and the fire alarm pierced the air. Our unscheduled backyard rendezvous was prompted by a few innocent drips of grease on the base of our ancient oven. However, was the food still delicious? Was the turkey still mahogany in color? Of course…we all just happened to be eating it with our coats on as we tried to defrost our fingers!

Or, perhaps the time my flight was delayed as I tried to make it home for Christmas Eve during a snowstorm. My mom, insisting on everyone eating together as a family, refused to serve dinner until I arrived. As I walked thru the door at nearly 11pm, I was not greeted by warm hugs by all. Instead, I saw a room full of vacant stares, as our guests were about to pass out from hunger. They looked as though they would kill for one chunk of cheese, as they filed past and silently took their place at the table – fork and knife in hand! Once the first servings were dished out and devoured, conversation started to flow, and we all sat together until the wee hours of the night. Certainly a night to remember.

For me, food and wine set the tone, but the pleasure is derived from the camaraderie at the table.
 
Sara B.
After we returned from visits to the gorgeous southern Mediterranean island of Pantelleria and the elegant Umbrian town of Todi, the memories of the way we ate and lived during our time with our friends is my most vivid memory. We were constantly impressed by the simplicity and ease of each Mediterranean meal's preparations—their vivid appearance on the table, and their fresh, real tastes.  We began to think of these elements as additional central characteristics of the Mediterranean Diet and way of living.

Not surprisingly, we wanted to capture the essence of these characteristics, and began to think of them as a kind of "Mediterranean Rhythm." I believe this "Mediterranean Rhythm" helps to explain the healthfulness of the Mediterranean diet.  We were quite certain also that this "rhythm" characteristic could apply equally to other of Oldways' traditional diet programs, including the Latino and Asian diets. And of course, this rhythm is the heart of “the old ways of eating.”

What was it that so stimulated us? Picking lush tomatoes and fully-ripe plums. Intense eggplant. Golf-ball-sized potatoes. Grilled very fresh fish, and rich shellfish stews. Beautiful paellas. Crusty loaves of bread. Gorgeous salads. Sweet ripe fruits. Crisp local wines. We went with our friends Fausto and Mar to their farm in Pantelleria's Girlanda area, where Roman farm ruins are still visible.  We picked tomatoes, eggplant and plums on their farm, drained olive oil pressed from last-year's olive crop from their trees, and tasted the red and white wines made from their farm's grapes. Some of the large tomatoes became a zesty pasta sauce one day, the rest a lush tomato salad the next night.  The eggplants were sliced, soaked, grilled and drizzled with Fausto's own extra virgin olive oil.   The potatoes were diced and sautéed in the oil, too, then sprinkled with sea salt, and served with two small cuts of grilled meat.  Dessert was fruit one night, fruit granita the next night.

In Todi, at the house of our friends Edward and Paul Hughes, all meals were al fresco, either under an arbor on a terrace looking over the valley, or at a large table under the ancient, tall pines.  The meals were simple, elegant, healthy, delicious—the products of timeless Mediterranean rhythms.

We can capture much of this here at home in America. Yes, we can!  We can shop at farmers' markets, buy fresh produce in grocery stores, find recipes on cooking sites online, on television, and in wonderful books (one of which is our own book, The Oldways Table). Though we can't carry all of the bliss of an unhurried vacation everywhere we go, our recent experience led me to reflect on ways we can adopt Mediterranean rhythms into our everyday lives. If you have...

  2 minutes – Take several deep breaths before you begin your next meal. It makes a difference.
10 minutes – Splash fresh olive oil and sea salt on a ripe tomato, then really stop and taste each bite.
20 minutes – Linger in the produce section at your grocery store, and  choose a fruit or veggie
                     you've never tried.
30 minutes – Take a walk after dinner, in the tradition of Spain's paseo.
45 minutes – Find the nearest Farmer's Market, lose yourself in the colors and smells of real food,
                     and choose some beautiful, local produce.
45 minutes – Pick a new recipe and try a new dish.

These sorts of Mediterranean rhythms are key elements underlying the healthfulness of the traditional Mediterranean diet.  Sure, we lead hectic lives these days, but we gotta eat.  Why not bring the Mediterranean rhythm into your own daily life?

Kara
Set the wonders of the kitchen aside, brush past the flambé and the flan, the exceptional roasts and the elegant sautés, and at its heart, the phrase “Pleasures of the Table” stirs in me a profound appreciation of that most elemental of all kitchen alchemy: toast. 

That’s right, toast.  The Melter of butter, the Conveyer of jam; partner of breakfast eggs and lunch-time soups; the foundation upon which bacon, lettuce, and tomato become a BLT; the ingredient necessary to lift cheese to grilled cheese heights.  Via the careful application of heat, just so, an ordinary slab of bread transforms into a warm, golden, crunchy slice of toast.  Too much time or flame and what emerges from your toaster will be nothing more than the charred and smoking attempt at crisp perfection, a grain-based Icarus who flew too close to the sun.  Too little of either and there will be no melting magic, no golden glory, just a cold chunk of bready failure telling you to try again.

Beyond these crumbly musings, thirty-odd years of dining adventures rise unbidden to the mind.  I see the crowded Thanksgiving dinners of my childhood, elbow to elbow with cousins and uncles, my plate piled high with my grandmother’s cooking and my ears full of grown-up talk and laughter.  I see a red metal barrel on a rocky beach in summer, slowly filling with layer after layer of mussels and lobsters, foil-wrapped onions and potatoes, as my grandparents and their friends set the stage for a clam bake.  I am sitting on a stone bench in a park outside a tiny town in northern Italy, drinking white wine with my sister and parents as we lunch on fresh salumi and well-aged cheese, Lago Maggiore winking blue and gold in the valley below us.  It’s Christmas Eve and I’m taking a turn in front of my parents' stove, cooking up a calamari recipe I learned in Morocco for my family’s version of sette pesci, the Feast of Seven Fishes.  It’s a lazy, drizzly Saturday afternoon and my fiancé and I are debating which of two recipes for stuffed pork loin we want to tackle for dinner.  It’s lunchtime at the Oldways office and we’re laughing at something or other, and my leftovers taste better because of it.  It’s dinner, it’s lunch, or it’s breakfast time; I’m laughing, or talking, or I’m all about the eating; I’m with friends, I’m with family, I’m alone with the cats and their contented purrs.

The pleasures of meals we have known can sustain and warm us, inspire us and lure us back into our own kitchens to test ourselves against the memories on our tongues.  The charm of tables in our past spur us to taste, mix, stir and simmer, to experiment with spices and ingredients that might otherwise have cowed us into meek submission.  But when the hands are tired, the spoons need washing, the dishes aren’t put away, or there just isn’t time to try out that new recipe you’ve been eyeing…  there’s always the enchantment of toast.

Birthe
When I think of The Pleasures of the Table a barrage of lovely images flash through my head. I see beautifully set tables and family and friends gathered around them at various places and occasions. It was always important in my family to have a well-set table, even for everyday dinners, and it was obligatory for the family to have dinner together—there were no excuses except for an occasional scout meeting. And on the more festive occasions such as on holidays, birthdays and extended family gatherings, I loved the sight of the best table linen, best china and silverware being brought out, and the candles and flower arrangements. As a young girl I loved to help setting the table for festivities, and especially to help picking the flowers and making the flower arrangements.

Equally important, of course, was what would be served, and our little games about being able to guess the dishes by the aromas coming from the kitchen. We especially loved visiting my grandfather and aunt who had a farm about 20 miles from Copenhagen where we lived. We spent just about all of our holidays there, many a vacation, and frequent Sunday dinners on the farm with family and friends. These Sundays would start with a magnificent midday dinner, after which all the adults would have a snooze, and we kids were free to explore the fields or barns. This was then followed by a mid-afternoon coffee table with several homemade cakes, layercake, and cookies, and then the obligatory walk for the men (kids and ladies were also allowed) to inspect the fields, although the ladies would more likely inspect the flower and vegetable gardens. We would then have a buffet supper, and more coffee and cake before time to go home, usually laden with fresh produce and flowers from the farm.

My aunt was a splendid cook, and my mother would often complain that we liked her food better than hers. That really wasn’t the case, but we always had a great appetite from the fresh country air, and everything came from the farm. In the summer we helped picking the vegetables and fruits, which I’m sure made them taste even better in our minds. Every year they slaughtered one of their pigs before Christmas, and all kinds of delicious dishes evolved from this pig, proudly featured on the big Christmas smorgasbord, placed on the long dinner table around which the whole extended family and friends would sit. It was a sight to behold with homemade liver pâté, homemade salami, pork loins stuffed with prunes, headcheese, pork roast with crisp cracklings, etc., accompanied by homemade pickles and condiments. There would also be many other delicacies on this buffet, such as the obligatory homemade pickled herring. And my aunt would not consider it a decent Christmas if she didn’t make about six different kinds of cookies, which were stored in big tins. I was proud to be allowed to help her with them when school vacation began, when I became a teenager. 

I began experimenting with food as a young teenager and collecting recipes at that time. It was always important that the food should look, smell and taste equally well, and that the ingredients should be as fresh as possible. This hasn’t changed, and I still enjoy trying out new recipes and experimenting, and especially cherish meals from the organic vegetables we grow ourselves. I love all kinds of international cuisines, in no small measure due to my husband having taken me to all kinds of ethnic restaurants several times a week when we first started dating.

During the last 10 years, Oldways has introduced me to even more ethnic foods, and I have enjoyed being able to participate in some of the Culinarias and conferences focusing on specific ethnicities and cultures. Ana Sortun’s cooking demonstrations in Istanbul were fantastic and the restaurants we visited were great. But I think that one of the experiences that impressed me most of The Pleasures of the Table with Oldways, was in Sicily during CheeseArt where we had a gala dinner on Ponte Vecchio in the center of Ragusa, the oldest bridge in Ragusa, extending across the Gonfalone Valley, with the beautifully set table extending the full length of the bridge, and three Italian chefs creating dish after dish of the most interesting cheeses and raw fish parings. It was cold, but the Italians know how to put on a great show, ending with fire dancing that helped keep us warm.

Sara Talcott (Oldways Staff 2007-2010)
“Pleasures of the table” instantly elicits well-loved layers of food memories for me. At the deepest level live the warm and familiar tastes of my childhood: Welsh "rabbit" on Christmas eve at my grandparents’ home; buckwheat pancakes with honey and butter on Sundays with my mother; learning to love the oily spiciness of South Omaha taquerias’ offerings with my father. The next stratum is more polished and smartly-dressed: my last nine years in Boston and the slow maturation of my palate, the growing collection of food-loving friends, and the honing of my cooking skills through trial and much error. The cream on top: my time at Oldways and the shared meals at our sun-drenched office lunch table, our exquisite celebratory dinners at Oleana, or scooping up hand-rolled couscous in Morocco during one of our Culinarias.

Most recently, these pleasures have found a new and surprising incarnation: enjoying my own personal table. I still love cooking and entertaining friends, but I’ve become very, very conscious of the serenity and satisfaction of eating and cooking just for me. A drab, rainy Sunday brightened with the meditative process of a homemade, hand-kneaded loaf; selecting just the right amount of produce at the farmer’s market for a solitary vegetable feast; dawdling over my granola and deciding that yes, one poached egg is definitely in order. Between working and commuting and socializing and the unstoppable rush of life are my quiet resting places of cooking and eating, in any way I want to, and for which I am deeply grateful.

Molli (Oldways Team 2009-2010)
To me, the "pleasures of the table" always revolved around communal preparation, as well as consumption. Growing up on Cape Cod, most of my childhood meals involved seafood, carefully selected at the fish market by one of my parents, usually with my brother and me in tow. We'd stick our fingers in the lobster tank, while they decided between salmon, swordfish, or cod. Sometimes we'd even get lobster knuckles—just the claws, where the meat is easiest to get to.

Once we got home, everyone was in the kitchen—my parents manning the main dish, while my brother and I made a salad, poured drinks, and set the table. The phrase "What can I do to help?" was music to parental ears, so I learned early on to never leave the meal preparation area, and always be willing to be pitch in in some way. When we all finally sat down to eat together, it was with a sense of accomplishment —we had all worked together to produce a delicious meal to share. This joy of shared preparation as well as shared consumption has stayed with me as I've grown up, and cooking with friends remains one of my favorite things to do. Tasting, testing, taking suggestions for an extra dash of this or splash of that—by the end, there's a little bit of everyone present in the meal. To me, there's nothing lovelier than spending time in the kitchen—and then at the table—with the people I love.

Dun (Oldways Founder and President 1990-2010)
Even as a child I thought ahead about my meals — "What's for dinner, Mom?" was a regular refrain in late afternoons, and one that she welcomed.  She would tell me—roast chicken, for example, or burgers, or broiled fish, or spaghetti and meat balls.  It was always the meat that she named first.  I knew there would be fresh vegetables, so I didn't have to ask.
She sometimes volunteered what they'd be—peas, green beans, corn, squash, rice (OK, rice is not a vegetable, but who knew or cared at 6 years old).  We did ask about potatoes, because my Dad loved them  and so did we—baked, fried, mashed, roasted, boiled.  It didn't matter. We had a lot of fresh fruit for dessert, and in the winter, canned fruit.  For some reason beyond my recall we had cookies with canned fruit, but never with fresh fruit.

Dad always planted vegetables in the back yard, so the modest harvests from that were another
time when we thought directly about the pleasures of the table.  It was the same thing when, in
summers, Dad took us fishing off the wharves when we were small, and then surf-casting
when we were big enough to handle the 9-foot rods that we used to cast or lures from the
beach far out over the surf where the powerful, noble bluefish and striped bass hunt for their
own  meals.  The satisfactions of cooking these fish over a charcoal fire, filleted or in the round,
were always followed by pleasures of the table.

Anticipating pleasures of the table as a adult is different.  It's far more intellectual, I think, as we picture in our minds all the wonderful choices we have for our table—home or out; what we're going to eat and drink; who we will  be with; and all the other bits and pieces that go into a table that's pleasurable.

So for me, the pleasures of the table are many, are widely different, and are a source of continuing deep satisfaction. They speak to me of family, children, friends, joy, traditions, health, and the real, continuing rhythmns of life.