The tables we sat at..

The tables we sat at were brimming with joy.  A true feast for the eyes. Overflowing crystal cups of homemade jams and honey. Candies in shiny wrappers wrapped around biscuits towering in golden teared dessert trays, sometimes 3 to a table. Bread, a sacrament of the table, never wasted pilled in heaps at every seat.

Always three courses served. Even in the remotest of yurt camps on the finest china. Soups of broth and homegrown potatoes and carrots, hand cut noodles. Delicately simple, yet caring fourth the warmth of  your welcoming. Then comes salads of shredded carrots, chopped tomatoes and onions, dill and parsley. Exquisitely cut, dressed modestly in oil and salt. Main courses of Plov, Bishbermeck, stuffed peppers. The host only satisfied if there is no more space on the table. Wash it all down with plenty of tea.

Tea a course of its own, drank all through the day, brewed lightly, served with plenty of sugar,  in bowls ( bowls nest and travel well, where handles break easy). Pour only a little bit to show your respect; say, I am here, always, to serve you more.

Never eat with your shoes on, leave them by the door. Always end each meal with an offering, palms up, an offering of well wishes, say omen and rub your hands across your forehead and down around your face.

The tables we sat at reflected the knowledge these once fully nomadic people new, that hosting was the difference between life and death. Stepping off of your horse and into a strangers yurt was a surrendering of self. It was an honor to host, a place to show grace and hospitality to those in need.