A MODERN RITUAL OF GRATITUDE AT THE TABLE

I grew up in a fruit shop.

I didn’t work, I ate.

When our bucolic family was wrangled indoors, think; lots of boisterous male energy and one baby female in semi-rural New Zealand, we gathered around the table. 

In our household we had a daily format with time stamps along the way, but it was the seventies so the format was more along the lines of– entertain yourselves how you will, but return, together, for food. 

To further set the scene, our neighbors grew wine and we were not a drinking family so I had no context for this category of agriculture. The rest of our land was dedicated to growing food for the religious cohorts who had come to study Jesus at the Bible College of which my Dad was a property and horticultural manager, and again, as a five year old, I had no context for this: his was our normal– food came from our land to our table and for this we were grateful. A tomato sandwich was revered long before I learned this was a Provençal art, hearty soups to stand a spoon in were always waiting after Saturday winter sports and roast dinners were slow cooked affairs served midday on Sundays. Something magical happened to our roast potatoes in those days that I’ve never been able to recreate in my adult life and I wonder more and more if something spiritual was going in our oven while we were at church. 

My dad was a deeply benevolent ex-missionary-turned-horticulturist, with a soft spot for story telling, so he would always say a long grace before our meals. This was our tradition and, to his credit, he always thanked the hands that made our food. 

As the youngest child around the table my biggest rebellion was keeping my eyes open during grace and communicating, via some sort of earthside telepathy, with our dog, about what items she would be accepting quietly from my plate once we had the all-clear to move our limbs–it was often the broccoli. 

The Ritual We Lost

My life has far outstretched my religious upbringing but I feel we have lost a meaningful and joyous act by forgetting the practice of giving thanks for our food.

Our plates, no matter how large or small, the quotidian or the curated, hold so much: nourishment, joy, nature, creativity, the work of hands that grew, transported and prepared our food, sunshine, rain, plants, animals and a host of other tiny creatures we may prefer not to think about. Our food is a survival ritual which we have turned into a golden pastime of luxury, connection and community; this fact alone deserves a moment of gratitude.

For some, our plates and what’s on them are forms of art. Any other cookbook collectors out there?…I see you. For others, food is function, but the path to the plate is not lessened. 

In the dictionary, grace in this context is: a short prayer of thanks said before or after a meal.

The use of ‘grace’ as a mealtime prayer comes from Christian traditions and dates back to at least the 14th century. In English, it stems from:

• Latin: gratiarum actio – literally “act of thanks.”
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• From the Latin word gratia, meaning “thanks” or “favor.”
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It’s a moment to pause and acknowledge abundance or provision that somehow got handed over to God. 

In my early years there were often cringe moments in the saying of grace, especially outside of our familial nest where it felt normal; encased in the rough and tumble of our daily life, but outside of this it felt awkward. It didn’t belong in front of strangers, non-religious friends or other families, it certainly didn’t belong in public places like restaurants and parties. And heaven forbid the task of grace got passed around the table. The mere flicker of an idea of me having to speak these words of gratitude out loud would’ve had me taking up residence in the dog’s quarters. Hence, with the religious angst of my late teens and early twenties, out it went, floating down the street with the baby and the dirty bathwater. 

I wonder, in hindsight, if this moment of thanks felt too personal, and therefore, too vulnerable.

Gratitude in Many Tongues

Across cultures and centuries, people have paused before meals — not just to pray, but to acknowledge. Gratitude for the land, the labor, the very life behind the meal. In Japan, “Itadakimasu” offers humility and thanks. In Hindu homes, food is offered first to the gods. Jewish families recite blessings like HaMotzi, and Buddhists chant to honor the chain of effort that brought the meal to their bowls. In many Indigenous traditions, the meal begins by honoring the earth and the lives given to sustain our own.

This quiet, ancestral impulse — to pause before receiving — is where my Tabletop Poetry finds its root. It’s a moment made visible. A ritual of words. A way to bring presence to the plate. And in the spirit of Ginger Fiasco, it weaves language into a moment of design, color and fanciful engagement. Language, always, can be made manifest in ways that delight the eyes and the soul. 

Table Poetry is merely a new way to celebrate and give thanks for food. 

One of my favorites, Let’s Raise A Glass, is below. 

Imagine this moment: your table–eclectic, intentional, layered with collected items, ready to serve your signature craft cocktail or taste sensations from your kitchen, set to receive your most cherished yet relaxed friends for an evening of camaraderie and connection, perhaps for a reason, or for no reason at all. Your guests know how to have fun, they love the art of a good story as much as they do a good martini. Alchemy incoming. This completes the table-setting:

LET’S RAISE A GLASS

(a grace for the spirited and well fed)

Tonight we dine

Tonight we celebrate

Like the stars of the milky-way

And the showstopping colors of the sunset

Our libations land on our lips

And shimmy into our hearts

With joy, with love, with abundance

Take a bow

And dance into the night

With the spirit of a tiger

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​Sante!

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Gather, give thanks, be cool about it. Find the full collection of downloadable tabletop poems here.

 

by Tracey Henton