It's not a secret. My kitchen table isn't really "me," and it never has been. We got a great deal on it when a friend replaced her dining set. We were very glad to get rid of the flimsy glit-wood table and chairs we had been borrowing since we got married. The chairs had suffered long enough, and we had to reinforce at least one when it umm, flew off the back of Jason's truck while we were moving from our first house to our second. They were the type of chairs that create quick moves to the living room after a meal is finished, not lending themselves to lingering over courses. Of course, this would take the form of polite suggestion to our company, "There's no reason we can't move to the living room and be a little more comfortable!" or "Wouldn't you love to see our plaid couch?"
Back to the oak set with the press-back chairs. We decided to snatch up the bargain, since our dream table was still only a dream. And, we thought, while we have a house full of young children, we wanted a table that could take a beating without us cringing.
Last night, the table took a beating, or a scorching rather. I was in too big of a hurry to grab a potholder, and so I threw down the rather damp towel I had been using to wipe my hands. When I cleared the pizza stone from the table, I found this:
I should have thought of it. When my oven mitt is wet, heat from the oven goes right through it and my fingers get toasted.
So what do I do? Ignore? Add more scorch marks? Refinish? Paint? If paint, what color? It's an oak pedestal table with one extra leaf. The sides of the table have that oak leaf/acorn carving detail that serves as the perfect receptacle for all the smeary grime from little hands. And by the way, I have tried to care about this table. I even make Owen use a placemat when he plays with playdough!
On a happier note, my clematis is doing better this year than last: