My mother often describes herself as ‘not being creative at all’. However, whenever she has friends over or the family gathers, she always sets the table with such care. What is really happening in the setting of this small scene — the dinner table?

But, wait.

Am I using the word "care" only because I am thinking about the home, the dinner table, and the mother? Does the word "care" disguise other, more in-depth descriptions of this act? What does it mean to do something with care?

Here, I will pull back the curtain.

Act 1

In this scene:

THE MOTHER

THE FATHER

THEIR YOUNGEST DAUGHTER

In the middle of the stage, we see a dining table and five upholstered dining chairs.

The MOTHER, a grown woman, 70 years old, is walking with light steps back and forth between this dining table and the kitchen area right behind it (an open kitchen layout).

The FATHER is also in the room, reading a book in the sixth dining chair, for the moment placed by the window. The doorbell rings.

The MOTHER walks towards the door, pushes a button; there is a buzzing sound, she opens the door, waits. Footsteps approaching.

MOTHER: «Hi my dear little baby girl, how are you?»

A 37-year-old woman enters the small hallway of the apartment. They are the same height. The mother opens her arms; they fold their arms around each other, their cheeks pressed closely together. They stand like this for a while.

DAUGHTER: «Hi mamma».

The FATHER also welcomes the daughter with a hug.

After some chit-chat about health and everyone's schedules this week, the mother’s tone of voice shifts a bit; with a sense of excitement in her voice, she turns towards her daughter, who has now moved over to the sofa, ready to observe.

MOTHER: «Okay, so you are here to observe me today, should we start?»

DAUGHTER : «Yes! Are you ready?»

MOTHER: «I will start by putting on the tablecloth.»

She holds a folded tablecloth in her hands, tilted towards the daughter. Talking almost like a TV chef, as if her daughter is a camera lens and a microphone, documenting instructions for future generations and whoever has tuned in. The tablecloth is made out of linen, in an aubergine colour.

«I chose a tablecloth in this brown colour, to complement the leaves I found earlier today.»

She unfolds the tablecloth over the table while slightly leaning over the oval surface of dark wood, now covered with the heavy linen. Her hands flat, placed widely apart, she adjusts the tablecloth to centre it. The linen fabric is stiff and straight, the folds crisp and clear.

Pause

NOTE: When doing laundry, to flatten tablecloths, sheets, and duvet covers, my mother uses an electric roller press. Growing up, we often stood across from one another with damp textiles between us, holding them tight, each of us leaning back in a synchronised movement — like a game of trust without the fear of falling — to stretch and fold them, before they went into the roller to be flattened, and then up to dry. But when folding something more than once, the folds will not become symmetrical. And for the tablecloths in particular, she wanted symmetry, so we always used a special technique, to ensure the fabric folds in the textile covering the dining table were symmetrical.

End pause

The clock on the wall is showing 15:10. The folds in the tablecloth are symmetrical.

MOTHER: «The girls are coming at six o’ clock, but we might as well get everything ready now.»

DAUGHTER: «How long have the five of you had this girls’ club?»

The mother gets a stack of five white plates and five wine glasses.

MOTHER: «We have met almost once a month for 50 years. I have known them longer than your father, imagine that!»

She puts the plates on the dinner table, gets the knives and forks. Firmly placing them on either side of each plate.

She picks up something from the kitchen counter, starts washing it under running water in the sink. There is a certain speed and flow to everything she does; she shakes off the water, puts it on a drying mat on the side of the sink, before she turns around, opens a drawer. It’s all done in one uninterrupted movement.

MOTHER (addressing her daughter): «It’s important to clean up as you go.»

(Talking to herself): «I only have four spoons.»

FATHER (also in the kitchen): «Here is the fifth.»

He hands the spoon over to her.

The mother turns towards her daughter, addressing her again with careful instructions.

MOTHER: «Now I put the cutlery for dessert, one spoon and one fork facing each other.»

On the top side of the plate, one small spoon and one small fork face each other.

FATHER: «This is a very traditional, old-fashioned way of putting the cutlery for dessert, like your grandmother, Annelise-style.»

Intermission

Act 2

The lights are more dimmed compared to Act 1, but a strong spotlight is focused even more on the mother, following her every move.

She gets a small bunch of branches with leaves from the kitchen counter — in shades of green, yellow, orange, red, and brown.

«Now I will bring in the fall. I picked these from the trees down the street. I know exactly where to go this time of year, I just bring a pair of scissors and a small carrier bag. It’s important to pick these the same day, so they don’t collapse.»

She stands by the table, her body again in a slight curve over the table. She puts down one branch at a time, with small pauses in between: she leans forward, straightening up again, quick movements from her lower back, giving her different views of the composition.

«I need to make sure the green leaves of the branches don't overkill the green in the wildflower bouquet. So there’s a balance here I need to test.»

She turns one of the branches around, aware of the direction of it and its leaves – placing the branches so they point towards the middle, but in a more random manner, not looking for symmetry this time. Adding another branch, picking up a handful of leaves, she places a few to fill in the gaps, and wipes off her hands on her apron in a rapid gesture. Straightening her back again.

On the table, there is a vase with a small bouquet of wildflowers, placed at the right side of the table, at a point where it does not interrupt the invisible sightlines between the currently empty chairs. Her right hand now folded around the vase with the flowers, twisting the vase just slightly.

«I gathered these yesterday, right off the boat at Nesodden. I even found raspberries! Look.»

She lifts up one of the raspberries very gently.

«Fall is here, but summer is really hanging in there — for anyone who takes the time to notice. Especially the red clover.»

She turns towards the kitchen counter again.

«Then there is lighting.»

She picks up three orange tea light holders, in frosted glass, and lights the candles. Walks towards the small hallway where she dims the pendant lamp hanging over the table.

«And napkins. I wanted some that were autumn-themed but still a bit neutral. The design was nice. A bird.»

The napkins are square, thin paper with a naturalistic illustration of leaves and a bird, in earthy colours. She places one on top of each plate.

«I always plan the colours ahead. In spring I use the spring-green tablecloth, and the verdigris green placemats from your grandmother. I always adjust the table setting to each season. In fall I want to bring out the red, and you know, the orange and brown in crab and lobster.»

She adjusts one of the leaves.

«And you know. Not one of these table settings is alike.»

Curtain