Ever since I was very small, my mother met the sunsets on Friday night with a crisp tablecloth, tall candlesticks, and a spread of purple cabbage, challah, and eggplant. Waving hands over the candles seemed to physically usher in a peace, like the whole house warmed up with Shabbos. When I was young they taught me this was called the "Shabbos spice," angels descending upon our home to greet the Shabbos queen with us. I've since realized that the warmth I felt as a child was the way the people of my life would wind down together week after week, year after year. Over time, our home contracted and expanded, as children left and returned, sometimes bringing new friends and chosen family with them, but our Friday nights stayed constant. We flocked to the table, laughing at our bullshit weeks, razzing on each other, celebrating joys, sharing in griefs and heartbreaks, always with the same warm challah, eggplant and cabbage sprinkled with craisins and pickles. Shabbos began to feel like a hug I carried in my arms and could wrap other people in, wherever I went. Moving across cities and visiting new homes and communities, I've carried the Shabbos I knew to the spaces I didn't, challenging the traditions I knew to see how far I could stretch them. Shabbos has always been a way for me to connect with my family, but with this project, I wanted to explore how Shabbos could take me beyond the people and life I knew to find moments of overlap with the people I've chosen to make family with too — the queers, rabbis, artists, and heretics I want to break bread with.