My kitchen tops the list of my favorite places in the world. Not because my kitchen is fancy or even moderately nice, mind you. It's a standard apartment kitchen with an old, loud refrigerator, stove that has seen better days and terrible cabinetry. The linoleum floors are scuffed and mostly dirty. The counter tops have scratches from careless chopping and spots from an overzealous red wine pours.

It's the table that makes the room. The table that my beloved Gramps carted home in his little red wagon at the age of 9 or so and bestowed upon his overworked mother as repayment of sorts. The table that my mom and my aunts and uncles and all of their children gathered around for the bland, cupboard-scrounging meals my Grandma made for them for 60 years. The table that every grandchild and great-grandchild laid upon while the rest of the family gathered around and oohed and ahhed at them. The table that we painstakingly worked on our drawings that would get hung on the fridge like the Monets and Picassos they were. The table where we learned what manners were all about. The table that heard some of the most heartbreaking stories of our lives. The table that showed me what true, unconditional love meant.

To have that table in my kitchen means that I made it. I was able to come out of a childhood full of laughter and tears and joy and pain to gather around the table with my child and do it all over again.