I grew up in a house with an imposing china cabinet that smelled strongly of wood polish and rattled like a Waterford wind chime when you tip-toed past it. When those tall, hand carved doors were open it signaled party time, and my parents took great care in setting a table to welcome guests.
I’m too clumsy for cut-glass crystal and too impatient for the care of precious silver things, but my one indulgence: a good set of plates. I bring them out for everything from pizza to beef tenderloin. Because it’s not about what is served but rather, it’s about the people who traveled across an ocean or strolled a few blocks to spend time and share a meal with us. In fact, all about that.