INHERITED TASTE
I opened my first shop in the spring of 1977—nine hundred square feet, no heat, no air conditioning, and a hand-lettered sign out front. I was a florist then, teaching myself as I went, filling orders and making deliveries, with my daughter coming in after class to help. Over the years, the business changed. Flowers gave way to fine china, crystal, gifts, and a bridal registry, and Vonda’s grew into a larger store in a new location—a destination for generations of Fresno brides and gift-givers. But through all those changes, one idea remained the same: a table set with care tells people that they matter to you.
My daughter didn’t first learn that in the shop. She learned it at home, simply by watching me prepare for people to arrive. Long before I collected fine dinnerware for myself, I understood that a memorable gathering begins with more than what is on the table. It is where people sit, what’s playing softly in the background, the flowers, the lighting, and how a room feels the moment someone walks through the door. The beautiful dinnerware came later. The feeling came first.
Over a lifetime of entertaining, you naturally collect things for different occasions—stainless flatware for everyday and something special for a more formal evening, glasses chosen for whatever is being poured, dishes that move from casual dinners to holidays and celebrations. I have always loved beautiful things, but no plate or glass creates a memorable table on its own. The pleasure is in bringing everything together and, just as importantly, knowing when to keep things simple. The best tables feel considered without feeling contrived.
What has surprised me most is seeing that instinct travel through our family. I see it in my daughter, entertaining in Park City, Utah, where the mountain light does half the work for you. I see it in my daughters-in-law, creating traditions in their own homes, and now in my grandchildren, grown and choosing dishes for homes of their own, often with my help. Their tables don’t look like mine, nor should they. Taste isn’t passed down by copying someone else. You take what you grew up with, make it your own, and eventually pass some version of it along.
Of course, I was doing the same thing long before I realized it. I still make my mother’s meatloaf recipe for Sunday dinner, just as she made it for our family. There is nothing particularly formal about meatloaf, but that may be the point. Tradition isn’t reserved for the good china or important occasions. Sometimes it is simply a familiar dish on the table and the people you love knowing exactly what it will taste like before they take the first bite.
Perhaps that is what we sometimes miss about tablescapes. They may look like decoration, but they can become a kind of inheritance—handed down through Sunday dinners, birthdays, holidays, and ordinary evenings. A platter becomes the Thanksgiving platter. A set of glasses comes out for celebrations. A recipe becomes the one everyone expects when the family is together. Eventually, these small rituals become part of a family’s history.
Looking back, I realize the most important thing I passed along wasn’t a trade or a particular way of setting a table. It was the instinct to make a room feel welcoming before the first guest ever arrives. Beautiful things can help us do that, but their real value comes from how we use them and the memories that gather around them. A table set with care is simply love made visible. And that may be the most enduring tradition any of us can pass along.
Features Contributor Vonda Flanigan
Photographer Katie Flanigan
