The irony of my inheritance. The elegant cherry wood dining room set, with its beige embroidered high backed chairs and marble topped buffet table has transformed my sparsely furnished home, but it will never transform my cooking. For all my efforts in the kitchen, my culinary creations are not worthy to be served on my grandmother's table.

I am the least domestic of all my grandmother's descendants. I regularly ruin cake mixes and my kitchen smoke detector goes off so often, my son mistakes it for a dinner bell.

Grandmother Dorothea was known for her domestic prowess and culinary skills. She cooked up delectable dishes, which she joyously doled out in very generous helpings. Giving to her family was as natural to her as sauteing, baking and broiling. It was the heart of her life's story.

She was not what you may call a typical Jewish grandmother. For starters, she couldn't speak a word of Yiddish. Nor did she dress or speak like many of my friends' bubbies. A second generation American, college graduate and cultured woman, Dorothea dressed immaculately and was eloquent and well versed in the pop culture, and loved to recite poetry of the American greats.

Yet she was the quintessential Jewish grandmother. Family always came first. The biggest fan of her children and grandchildren, she always told us we were the best, even as she criticized our behavior.

She served elaborate meals for Shabbat and holidays on her gracious dining room table on fine china and crystal that made us feel we were at a first class restaurant. Long before Martha Stewart, my grandmother set a table befitting a magazine cover.

She never had a formal Jewish education, but her religious convictions were firmly rooted. She regularly prayed out of her worn Birnbaum siddur, reg ularly contributed to our family discussions of the weekly Torah portion and spoke frequently and reverently of G-d whom she referred to as "Der Abishter" in Yiddish.

We did more than just eat around her table. We had heated discussions on current events, government policies and religion. My grandmother raised pointed questions that silenced everyone and then staked out her mostly conservative positions. A college graduate from an era when few women pursued higher education, she spoke knowledgeably about stocks, investments and the arts. I learned from her that unless I could defend my opinions with facts, I best hold my tongue.

Then there was the food. I can almost taste her stuffed turkey, fluffy matzo balls and spicy barbecued ribs. She turned the simplest omelet into a gourmet treat by adding spices and spinach. With her at the stove, an egg was more than an egg; it was a crepe.

But it wasn't all homemade food with her. She often breezed into our home with taffy apples, pistachio nuts and chocolate candy. Once a week, she took us out for ice cream sundaes as we poured out our problems and laughed giddily at our own jokes.

Until my grandmother's last days, she was nourishing her family. As if she knew she wouldn't be around much longer and wanted make sure we weren't hungry when she left.

The last time I saw her was at a festive family gathering, where we talked, laughed and snapped pictures over gourmet steaks, and she insisted on footing the bill -- same as always.

Recently, my husband and I moved into our new home and realized we needed to upgrade our dining room furniture. After nine years of apartment, we were still entertaining our Shabbat guests on a narrow folding table. I realized it was time for a real, adult-like dining room set but kept putting off the shopping.

When my family designated us the inheritors of Dorothea's dining room set, I was thrilled. But it wasn't simply because we needed a table. It was because that particular table meant so much to me. It was because my memories of the warm and lively spirit that hovered around it. Now that history is in my hands.

The first meal we served on our new table was on Rosh Hashanah, a time for new beginnings. I cooked a few easy dishes - a broccoli quiche, rice pilaf, breaded chicken and chocolate chip cookies. I imagined the horror on my grandmother's face had she known that I supplemented the homemade food with takeout and the cookies were made from a mix.

The dinner was certainly no Dorothea affair, but the conversation, laughter and Torah discussion flowed as freely as my memories of my grandmother's meals. When it was over, I knew she would have approved. She knew, as I do now, that serving a meal to your family is more than just the food. It's the love that comes with it.

The dining room table is ours now, but my grandmother's spirit is still with us, enwrapping it, and us, like a beautiful tablecloth.