Why We Keep Gathering

Winter Tables and the Kind of Crowd That Shows Up

There is something different about the indoor dinners.

The outdoor gatherings will always be beautiful. Fire moving in open air. Smoke drifting through trees. Long tables beneath the sky. They carry their own kind of magic.

But the winter dinners feel different in a quieter way.

Closer.

Afterglow reminded me of that.

When the doors close and twenty-four people sit shoulder to shoulder, something shifts. The room becomes smaller. Conversation becomes louder. Laughter carries. Glasses clink. Strangers lean in toward one another.

I am biased, of course. But I believe we attract a very interesting and intelligent crowd.

There is something about choosing to sit at a long table with people you do not know that says something about you. It requires curiosity. It requires openness. It requires a small amount of courage.

And what unfolds over the course of four thoughtful courses is one of my favorite parts of this work.

The food is always deliberate. It invites conversation. It asks people to slow down and notice. Wine moves across the table. Plates are passed. Someone asks a question. Someone else tells a story.

By the time I come out to announce the final course, the room no longer feels like strangers.

It feels like a gathering.

One of the things I watch for, quietly, is what happens at the end of the night.

When jackets are being collected. When chairs scrape back. When people linger just a little longer than they need to.

It is not uncommon to see guests exchanging phone numbers.

I spoke with one guest recently who told me that a few years ago, they met someone at one of our dinners and that friendship has lasted ever since. They said they still see each other. Still share meals. Still stay in touch.

That has nothing to do with me directly.

And yet it has everything to do with the kind of room we are building.

The outdoor dinners are expansive. The indoor dinners are intimate. Both matter. Both create connection in different ways.

But there is something about winter tables. The shared warmth. The proximity. The sense that everyone chose to be there, intentionally, while the world outside is quieter and darker.

As we move toward the Spring Equinox, I find myself thinking about that shift again.

The turning toward light. The first sense of expansion after holding close for months.

On March 21, we will gather again at the shop for a communal Equinox dinner. Twenty-four seats. Four courses. Wine and cocktails included. The full menu will be revealed soon, but the intention is simple.

Seasonal. Warm. Shared.

If the winter dinners have taught me anything, it is this:

The table is more powerful than we sometimes realize.

And the people who choose to sit at it matter.

At the bottom of this season, we are also opening a few of the last jars of strawberry vinegar and jam from last summer. A small way of carrying light forward before the fields turn green again.

There are only a handful available.

Spring will come quickly now.

Until then, we gather.