My grandma’s tablecloths were white, with a self-crocheted lace border at the ends. For around 340 days a year they lay ironed and wrinkle-free in the drawer of a bureau in the living room. During the holidays they were pulled out and thrown over the oval table. As a base for the service with the gold rim, for coffee, bee stings and waffles. In the evening, after the plates and cups had been cleared away, the stains on the white linen told the story of everything that had happened. The uncle had lost control of the cake server, the little cousin had let her chocolate fingers wander across the tablecloth and Grandma had let the coffee spill over.
