The table does not care about your politics, your bank balance, or your failed resolutions from last January. The table only asks that you pull up a chair. And then, as suddenly as it began, it ends. The last cracker is pulled. The last candle burns down. The last guest leaves a forgotten scarf on the banister.
Here, we perform the ancient act of breaking bread with people we love—and people we tolerate. Here, Uncle Bob tells the same joke about the turkey neck. Here, the children build fortresses out of dinner rolls. Here, someone cries in the bathroom, and someone else follows with a glass of wine and a hug. festive season
And when next November rolls around, and you feel that first shiver of anticipation, you will lie again. Willingly. Enthusiastically. Because the human heart, it turns out, needs tinsel as much as it needs bread. The table does not care about your politics,
But during the festive season, we willingly suspend reality. We stay up until 2 a.m. wrapping gifts in shapes that defy geometry. We drive forty-five minutes to see a single inflatable Santa on a neighbour’s roof. We eat carbs without apology. The last cracker is pulled
Consider the humble Christmas cookie exchange, or the Diwali mithai box. These are not snacks. They are edible diplomacy. When you hand a plate of baked goods to the grumpy postman, you are saying: “I see you. You exist. Please take this sugar and have a better day.”