Eight at the table, in an immaculate widower's home. Ranging in age from 14 to 78. Thick stoneware plates, delicate crystal goblets cut with a touch of cranberry red. A floral centerpiece. An uncluttered dining room with family heirlooms set in several large glass cabinets. Two large frames of arrowheads on the walls behind us.

A small chandelier above the table, but from each arm was suspended one Christmas ornament. A blue and white enamel, presumably from Europe. A snowflake looking suspiciously of Waterford. Another of woven silver metal thread. Mementos of places visited. Yet another handmade, a name hand written I could not read.

A simple meal... home baked cannoli, ingredients made to order, the orders placed weeks ago. Your choice of wine, Harp lager, or Pepsi. A "Watergate" salad, which was exactly the same as what we call my sister's "green stuff".

Homemade brownies for dessert. Almost forgotten until two hours after the diners sat, the conversation so engrossing, and varied. Tales of critters, alive and dead. Of pets, alive and dead. Of first cars, one of which was a Model T (really). Best and worst babysitting experiences, from both the perspective of the sitter, and the sat.

No politics. No war.

Almost no business was discussed either, that being the agenda in the living room before dinner. And again in the bedroom, as no one seemed to want to grab their jackets and purses and just leave.

A simple dinner.

A memorable dinner.