I'm usually the one rushing
On weekday mornings, I stand in the kitchen with a cup in my hand and tell the kids to hurry up. I say it even when I'm still looking for my own keys. Everyone grabs something, somebody asks where their bag is, and the kitchen empties before we have time to sit down.
That weekend, I woke up before everyone else. Not because I'd planned anything special. I just woke up, went downstairs and saw the gift box on the counter. Coffee, tahini, honey, halva and wafers. I hadn't found the time to open it properly.
I took out a small bowl for the tahini. Then I decided one bowl wouldn't be enough. Not because of the quantity. Because of the table.
I started taking things out
I chopped the tomatoes and cucumbers from our fridge. I put out bread, made eggs and started placing everything in the middle instead of making separate plates. I prepared the tahini, set honey beside the bread and opened some halva. The cups were already out when I heard the first footsteps downstairs.
"Who's coming?" my son asked.
"Nobody. Us," I said.
He looked at the table as if a detail was missing. He probably only sees me setting it like this when we're having people over. I asked him to call everyone else. He went, but took a piece of bread first.
A table I remembered, with my own kids
Once everyone sat down, the bowls started moving from one side to the other. Somebody wanted more cucumber, somebody preferred honey, and one of the kids decided it was time to investigate the halva. I was still making the coffee when they started discussing what we'd do later.
I grew up in Israel. Now I'm a dad in America. There are things I try to explain to my kids and get tangled up halfway through. I didn't need to explain much at this table. Everyone chose something, asked someone to pass a bowl and kept talking.
This wasn't a breakfast copied from a memory. The bread was what we buy here, and the kids ate things exactly the way they liked. But the tahini beside the vegetables, the coffee and the little dishes in the middle gave me a feeling I knew.
Five more minutes
At one point, I got up to fetch something from the kitchen. By the time I returned, they'd changed their plans for the morning completely. We ate, passed plates and listened to one of the kids telling a story from school. This time, I didn't have to cut it short because we needed to leave.
Eventually somebody reminded me that we'd planned to go out. I looked at the time, then at the table. There was still a little coffee. The halva was still in the middle.
"Five more minutes," I said.
The kids laughed immediately. That's usually their line. This time it was mine. I stayed in my chair. The box hadn't planned our morning, but it had given me a reason to start it differently. Not as a host. Just as a dad sitting with his family.