Four-year-old boys are not much for dinner conversation. They don’t savor their food, and almost never linger over an empty plate while mulling the events of the day.
Maybe your house is different, but at ours, mealtime feels like a race to the finish line. Mere moments after we have joined hands to say grace, Jack Henry has wolfed down his food, guzzled a cup of juice, and is demanding to get up.
“Mommy, can I be done? I want to go watch SpongeBob. Pleeeeeeeeeease, Mommy, can I be done?”
Once upon a time, I put a lot of effort into the family meal – that is, when “the family” was just the husband and me. I watched the Food Network and read Martha Stewart magazine. I experimented with new recipes and bought expensive cheeses. These days, dinner is much less elaborate. The words “frozen pizza” and “fish sticks” come to mind.
When I was growing up on an Illinois farm, we grew much of what we ate. At dinnertime, Mom would send us kids out to dig up potatoes, pull carrots, shuck sweet corn and pluck fresh lettuce and radishes from the garden. Sometimes she’d ask us to pick a few snapdragons or sweetpeas for the centerpiece. When my father came in from the fields, my mother, brother, two sisters and I would gather at our long wooden farm table for a meal of meatloaf or pork chops on the bone, with field greens, buttery corn on the cob and fresh strawberry-rhubarb pie.
I don’t necessarily remember having any significant conversations over dinner, though I’m sure that happened. What I do remember is that the family table was a place of ritual. The meal of hearty home-grown fare always started with my dad saying the blessing and ended with us girls washing the dishes. And though our family lived a frugal and simple life, dinnertime was when we indulged in what was abundant and savory, rich and sweet.
When I interviewed Alice Randall in her home for this issue’s “Scholar Spotlight” (page 15), we discussed her new novel Rebel Yell, which describes African American culture – including its “food ways” – in delicious detail. We also discussed her “Soul Food in Text as Text” class, which had convened at her 18-person dining table the night before for a traditional soul food dinner. Students from diverse backgrounds feasted on fried chicken and turnip greens and talked about favorite food traditions in their own homes – from challah bread to peach pie. I think if I had been there, I would have had a hard time choosing just one tradition to share.
It kind of makes me wonder what my boy will remember about our family meals when he’s grown. It’s possible that one day he’ll look back and say his mother wasn’t much of a cook. But I’m certain he’ll say that we laughed and shared happy moments around the dinner table. I’m sure he’ll say that he always found love waiting for him there.
Joan Brasher
Editor in Chief, Vanderbilt View
view-editor@vanderbilt.edu
Posted 10/01/09
