Blessing the table sat the likes of family, friends, neighbors and sometimes even neighborhood dopefiends. Here, all were welcome and all were equal. This was Sunday’s tradition — each week the same, so much so that it’s chronology was its ritual. On Sunday’s, Grandma’s table served as a safe space and bunker in the middle of the West Philly ghetto. The food had the ability to communize it’s participants and heal those who suffered. No matter the discussion, no matter the problem, no matter the chaos that lied outside the door, for the duration of Sunday’s meal and at Grandma’s table everyone was present and everyone was family.