The Matriarchal Table
Holding space, feeding community, and honoring where I come from
A Rythym of Gathering
I’ve started hosting monthly dinners at my house; simple, cozy meals that invite people to gather, slow down, and reconnect.
It began as a way to build community and rhythm in my life, but it also came from memory. Sunday afternoons at my grandmother’s house were a regular part of my childhood, and I’ve been feeling the tug to recreate that magic.
I wanted to build the kind of table I grew up with—one where everyone knew they belonged.
Left to right: My Grandma Margaret, Aunt Janet, Uncle Dennis, me (a baby!), and my mom. In the background is part of her property.
Summers of Fireflies and Wild Blackberries
My grandmother’s backyard felt like an entire world. There was a pool, a trampoline, and a stretch of grass that seemed to go on forever. My cousins and I would run barefoot, play tag until sunset, swim for hours, and jump until we collapsed in giggles.
Sometimes we wandered into the woods behind her house, collecting wild blackberries from the brambles—returning with stained hands and full buckets. We’d spoon them over vanilla ice cream or wait for her to turn them into the flakiest, most delicious pie.
That pool was the heart of summer—chlorine and laughter and sun-warmed skin. We’d spend the entire day in our swimsuits, chasing joy.
Those days were magic. Pure, barefoot, blackberry-stained, sun-drenched magic.
Winters of Sledding and Cocoa
In winter, the yard became a snowy wonderland. We sledded down the hill behind her house until we were soaked and breathless, then climbed the neighbor’s bigger hill just to do it all again.
I loved checking to see how frozen the stream was, noticing the bare trees and cattails beneath the snow. Back at the house, we’d lay our wet clothes by the heater, sip cocoa with marshmallows, and eat something warm and comforting.
There was always food, always warmth, always a place to come back to.
A photo of me as a child playing in the snow.
A Decade Without Her
This August marks ten years since my grandma passed away. She was 94—a spirited Aries who kept our family stitched together in ways that became so clear after she left.
She fed people with her hands and her heart. I like to think I do the same in my own way.
The last photo of my grandmother and I together. 2014
I’ve been missing her more lately. Maybe it’s because my child never got to meet her. Or because I’m becoming someone who holds others in a similar way.
She and my grandfather once owned a bakery, and people still talk about her pies and donuts. She nourished a whole town through her food.
We don’t have to be perfect to be held. We just have to show up.
My Grandmother and I, I believe I’m 3-4 years old here.
A Family of My Own Making
Over the years, I’ve grown distant from much of my blood family. Some of those disconnections were painful but necessary. Others were just time and change.
I’ve learned to make my own family. Since moving to Portland in 2009—with nothing but two suitcases and a cooking diploma—I’ve built a strong, beautiful network of people who show up for each other. The people who sit at my table are now chosen, they are family in the truest sense.
From Kitchens to Healing Spaces
After culinary school, I thought restaurants would be my forever path but the culture was exhausting. Long hours. Low pay. A lot of yelling.
Eventually, I walked away and found a different kind of calling. I started massage school in 2015, and everything shifted.
Still, cooking is part of who I am. I love feeding people. Hosting dinners brings me back to that essential part of myself.
These meals are a return to something sacred… nourishment, connection, care.
Becoming the Matriarch
I’ve realized that in my community, I hold a matriarchal role. I’m becoming a wise woman, a holder of space, a soft place to land.
It’s something I needed so deeply when I was younger. Now, I get to offer it to others through a meal, a massage, or a warm cup of tea at my kitchen table.
My Mother’s Table.
L to R: Brandon, my Uncle Joe, my mom, Uncle Dennis, Aunt Janet
Full Circle
There are so many ways I see my grandmother in me. We both married and had children in our 30s. We both created family beyond blood. She ran a bakery. I run a healing space.
Her offerings fed people’s bodies and spirits. I like to think mine do, too.
Right now, Greyson calls all our dinners “Birthday Parties,” which I love. They’re celebrations of being together.
