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When we were first married, we had a lot of dinner parties. They weren’t potlucks — I did all of the cooking — but they weren’t sit-at-the-table parties because we only had four chairs. And they were all metal folding chairs. People plopped down on the sofa or the floor with their plates, and we’d hang out all night, eating and listening to music and talking.

Then we moved to a different place, and we held one or two of those old-style, sit-on-the-floor dinners in our basement. But at some point, we graduated to a smaller group—usually just a handful of people—all around the table. I came to think of the floor dinners as part of new adulthood and the table dinners as part of being a grownup.

The dinner parties dried up entirely during COVID and haven’t returned.

I miss those dinner parties on the floor. Watching where you stepped so you didn’t knock over a glass. People constantly shifting to a new space and talking to a new person when they returned from refilling their plate. I don’t know why I ever thought the floor wasn’t grownup.

Dinner parties are the thing I miss the most from pre-COVID.

Yesterday was lördagsgodis in Sweden, a weekly custom known as “Saturday Candy.” Food and Wine explains: “Every weekend, children and adults alike spend part of their Saturdays cozy at home, eating through an assortment of their favorite candies.” You build anticipation during the week and go all-in on Saturday.

A quick Google search brings you IKEA’s offerings, a BBC article, and an Etsy shop dedicated to the tradition.

ChickieNob and I have something similar on Fridays that I started years ago. We take a mid-day break (either together or in our own space when she is at college), eat a few squares of chocolate, and watch a few minutes of a favourite television show. Doing it during a workday as the lunch break feels a little more decadent than Saturdays, which are already exciting because you’re off work. But I like the idea of an entire country taking a candy break at the same time.

I only learned about this place when it closed for the year, but I’ve put it on my to-do list to go to this fall. Tivoli’s Astounding Magic Supply Company describes itself as “The District’s premier (and only) magic supply store, illusionarium, and de-lux haberdashery is also the official storefront for local nonprofit 826DC. 100% of your purchase supports 826DC’s free writing programs for DC students ages 6-18. Extraordinary!”

Isn’t that brilliant?!?!

The way I understand it, they are using the entrance to the writing center as a magic store, and anything purchased in the magic store benefits 826DC, which is a writing center for kids.

And I am completely in love with the names/storefronts in other cities.

Something to look forward to when school starts up again.

Have you been to the one in your area?

I read something profound last week in a newsletter that stuck with me, so I’m passing it along. The opening hooked me because I feel much the same way. It’s as if I don’t have a satiation threshold when it comes to progress. She writes:

Noticing how the desire to be “more productive,” to be farther along, to be progressing faster, to have gotten more things done is constantly pulling me away from being fully present to the task at hand. There’s this energy of wanting to rush past what’s happening right now to get to something “better” in the future — an inability to relax into, and be fulfilled by, whatever is happening in the present moment.

That rushing past things also ties into the desire for more when I’m not rushing. As in, I am sitting on the beach, and all I can think about is how I want to sit on the beach more rather than acknowledging, “I am lucky to be sitting on the beach now.”

But the most profound thought comes near the end: “If we are always rushing towards fulfillment, we will never actually experience fulfillment.” As in, we will never get there because we will always be trying to reach end goals that continuously move (that we encourage to move) to keep us actively pursuing them.

I don’t know the answer beyond recognizing when I’m doing it and reminding myself to stop. But it gave me food for thought.

I don’t remember where I found this, but it contains a profound set of questions, including: what is the monetary worth of memories?

Meaning, what would you be willing to pay to retain your memories? Is there a price tag you’d place on how far you’d go to preserve your memories — from backing up your photos to treating memory loss? But also, what is the monetary worth of creating memories? Are there price tags you’re willing to pay not just for the experience but also for knowing you’ll have the memory of the experience afterward?

And then it travels into how do you know when you’re creating memories vs. living an experience that you’ll forget about over time? Or what would you do differently to allocate your money so you can spend it on things that create or preserve memories?

Such a thought-provoking read.