A dining room table with children's eager hungry faces around it, ceases to be a mere dining room table, and becomes an altar.
All I needed was a steady table and a typewriter...a marble-topped bedroom washstand table made a good place; the dining-room table between meals was also suitable.
The dining room in my old house was truly magnificent, but by far the worst room for conversation. I'd get up from the table, a very long table, and somebody would always say, Paul, I never got to talk to you.
My dining room table is just a huge, great thick slab of oak on a beautiful frame. Whenever people come to supper I invite them to carve their name in it.
I used to eat under my grandmother's dining room table. I wouldn't eat at the table ever until I was about 10.
I was very happy sitting alone at a dining room table, writing a script.
I have this feeling that if I could sort out what's on my dining room table, everything would fall into place.
I have a Damien Hirst spot painting which I love. It has pride of place over my dining-room table.
You might be a redneck if...Your only condiment on the dining room table is the economy size bottle of ketchup.
In the Members' Dining Room, the Conservatives eat at one end, the Labour Party at the other, while the Liberals wait at table.
I have a dining room done in different shades of white, with white cushions embroidered in yellow silk: the effect is absolutely delightful and the room beautiful.
There's something I call 'Moving Day,' which I've done for the last 20 years. Look at everything in your home, then think about how you could combine things in a different way. Maybe you break up your night tables and use one in the family room; maybe the dining room sideboard becomes a console table for your television, with storage underneath.
There are many nations that have perfected a particular room. You know, you have the French drawing-room, the Austrian ball room, the German dining room, and I think the library is a room the English get right.
I kept up top grades, and by senior year, a flow of mailed college recruiting brochures accumulated into an avalanche on our dining room table.
I'm at an age where I think more about food than I do about sex. Last week I put a mirror over my dining room table.
My husband and I have a deal, which has worked out well: He cooks one Sunday, I cook the next. The kids set the table, and we eat in the dining room together, just as I used to do as a kid.