Back in the fall of 1990, as freshmen at BYU, Todd and I would eat all three of our meals together nearly every day in the cafeteria. A group of us would gather for dinner every night at 5, if nothing else, and it became habit for the entire nine months we lived in the dorms. Who knew 24 years later we’d still be dining together? We must’ve noticed the impact that tradition made in our lives, because over all these years we still insist on eating breakfast and dinner at the table as a family, and Todd and I still meet every Thursday for lunch. Those were somewhat formative years in establishing our relationship. And now we’re in those formative years with our kids, grateful for a time we know we’ll connect.
Speaking of meals, hardly anything makes me feel more on top of my game than when dinner’s underway before the day’s really awake. I know how nerdy that sounds. But I think if other moms could share a voice here they’d agree. That’s one of my constants. Regardless of what else my calendar dictates for the day, I know we’re all going to come together in the evening and that it’s mostly up to me. And so I take that charge seriously. But I love it when it’s done early. Like in a crockpot bubbling away on the counter, smothering the house with tantalizing smells or in the fridge just waiting to be popped in the oven an hour before we’re ready. Love those days.
I’d had a rough couple of weeks awhile back, you know how it is when you’ve been sick or just not yourself. We were just getting by as far as dinners. Nothing too crazy bad, just not my best effort. I just wasn’t feeling it, too distracted and not quite engaged. But finally one day I felt myself rising above the fog for whatever reason. I decided to make enchiladas. Garlic beef, one of my favorite recipes, one I’ve had forever. I love the blend of spices. I like the thick sauce. I’m in my element when I’m making food for my family. And I knew I was on the upswing as I rolled cheese and beef mixture into little tortillas in the late afternoon. I felt so much like myself. Making dinner that night with my soft music in the background and the new spring breeze wafting through the kitchen window was cathartic. I felt centered knowing I was serving my family in a small but simple way. So normal, routine. Just right.
This morning was the same. I’m starting early. I think I’d do it more if I was home more during the day. Usually I’m gone about the same hours as the rest of my family, but I’ve been pulling back a little more, carving out some time to be home, and I love it. I just took out spicy-smelling muffins that will go with our Great Northern bean soup. We’ll be gone this afternoon, so it’s one less thing to think about. I wish I was better at this. I’m really trying. I think the biggest road block to cooking is deciding what to make. So if I can figure out Sunday night what we’ll be doing during the week or even the night before, pulling a meal together really doesn’t take much effort. I’m good and bad at this. I go in waves.
I don’t care if it sounds old-fashioned—you know I don’t care—I am old-fashioned. I think dinner ought to be a top priority in a family. It seems that as dysfunctional as a lot of families were when we were all growing up, most of them at least had dinner together. Which we know now is a buffer against all sorts of ails. I’ve read studies, anecdotes, even a whole book devoted to this topic (The Surprising Power of Family Meals)—in favor of eating together. And I know you know this too, both intuitively and because you’ve seen the studies as well. Just interesting that something so effortlessly cultural made such a big difference in our lives growing up, even as tumultuous as some of our home lives could have been.
I think because it was one thing we could count on every day. We knew that no matter how crazy the other parts of life at school and with friends were, we would come together as a family—whatever that looked like—and at least spend a few minutes over dinner. Our dinner time wasn’t perfect. We usually watched tv. Our living room and dining room could hardly be distinguished. They were just extensions of each other in our little apartment, and so during dinner we’d sometimes just turn the tv toward the table. Other times I suppose we’d talk. I know we weren’t a deep family, and it was nothing memorable, but just the routine of coming together at the table night after night, year after year, must’ve connected us in ways we didn’t realize.
I loved my mom’s cooking. During the week she worked, so dinners were kind of fast and easy. Skillet types. I didn’t care. I loved spaghetti and tacos as much then as I do now. We had macaroni and cheese with hot dogs. Boiled. I know. Tostadas. BLTs on Thursdays. Creamed chicken occasionally. Which I made for my roommates in college on one of my nights. Disgusting. We had canned peas and pickled beets that leaked red juice all over the plate. We had pizza every Friday. Most of us still do. Todd’s family does too.
Sunday was one we all looked forward to. I remember hearing my mom call out before church, “Who’s going to make the jello?” (A given, the jello.) “Who’ll make the muffins?” (Another given.) Blueberry, the kind with the small enclosed can of juicy berries right in the box. A fascinating little pouch of mix, the can of blueberries, and additional tiny pouch of streusel all in one box. She’d make roast or chicken broccoli and rice or bbq ribs and poppy seed potatoes. We’d have chicken cordon bleu or Mexican chicken with a chili and cheese in the middle. It was always such a treat to have Sunday afternoon dinners together, and a lot of times it seemed we had extra friends. So fun.
Maybe that’s where I’m coming from. It was so natural to include others, there was always plenty, and we’d linger when a college cousin or friends from church would join us. We loved it when our Japanese teacher friend from day care or our Scottish relatives would bring a new perspective. It felt like we almost always had an extra friend. And so it’s not a big deal to me. We’re making dinner anyway. Our kids are always asking who’s coming over and a lot of times we end up with someone by the end of church even if we told them we’re just having a small family dinner. If not for dinner, at least for dessert. Which is great, we all love it.
It’s not always around the table. When the kids had sports I’d pack up pasta salad and bread. Or little sandwiches on rolls. Fruit and bagels. We’d make do. Sometimes we’ll pack up tin foil dinners and head to the park or lake for the night. When the evenings seem to go on forever in the height of the summer, we’ll head up the mountains and cook over a fire until it gets dark. And then we’ll do marshmallows. Usually on Thursdays we have leftovers, the perfect night to clean out the fridge and get ready for the weekend. Some nights the kids and I have to be all over town at different times, so we’ll eat early, without Todd. It doesn’t feel the same, and we’re all a little out of sorts. We normally eat at 6:30 when he gets home, which I know is late, but it’s better than not having him. Sometimes it’s closer to 7. I know. Sometimes I have to be gone all afternoon and I’ll leave something in the crockpot. But we really seem to do best when it’s a normal night and we gather around the table and catch up. It’s not long, but it’s one thing we can count on. We don’t have any cutesy things we do, we’re certainly not the poster family for dinnertime. Or any time. But we talk about what happened, if there was anything unusual, what the plans are for the evening or upcoming days. I try to teach the kids conversation skills—a lost cause. Except for Callum, our 11 year-old, who will ask his dad, “What was your most interesting case today?” (He’s a vet.) We occasionally pull out some fun conversation starters and we try to record something in our book every day. At breakfast we’ll read a bit and share some stories, but we’re not awesome at any of this. I guess our only success is that we’re at least trying.
Yes, yes, yes and YES! :-)
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