As a kid dinnertime at our house meant everyone sat together without baseball caps or cell phones. This was the Dark Ages when nobody but professional baseball players wore hats, and the only phone in the house was hard-wired to the kitchen wall, regularly in use by our “party line” family whose name was not Siri.
My mother had three dinner rules:
Rule No. 1
We tell no unhappy stories.
Rule No. 2
We’d better have learned something new or interesting that day to share.
Rule No. 3
Dessert is part of the meal.
Rule No. 1: Baseballs hurled through the neighbor’s window, C’s on report cards, the overflowed toilet from a paper wad the size of Ohio that required an expensive emergency plumber, were off limits. My mother felt commuter traffic and a long work day warranted my father some peace until he’d been fed and liquored.
Rule No. 2 wasn’t so much a rule as my mother’s thin support of Dad’s pricey investment in a set of Encyclopedias.
“You want your children to be educated, don’t you?” said the well-dressed door-to-door salesman. My mother, her arms crossed, shook her head and nodded towards the ratty old refrigerator while my Dad signed the deposit check.
Before my father arrived from his long commute, mom fleshed out what we’d prepared to share during dinner. Mostly we answered, “nothing”. She pointed to the rack of books occupying her sewing machine’s former space.
“So what did you learn today?” my Dad eventually asked, and we’d go around the table.
My older brother, who liked numbers but struggled with retention, went first. “Dad, did you know according the 1968 census,” he began with great confidence, “the population of Nepal is…”
Standing behind Dad, my mother, the charades champion of the world. She hoisted fingers over her head, trying to force a correct answer. One index finger sprang up, then the other, followed by a circle motion.
“One…one…circle…!” said her playing partner. She shook her head.
A few of us laughed while my father zoned out to grate some cheese over his pasta.
“No,” my brother corrected, “just a point.”
My mother nodded, yes. Good answer.
“One, one, point. Then a zero. Nine. That’s it! The population of Nepal is one, one, point, zero, nine.” By the time the team finished, the population of Nepal had doubled.
My mother slid Encyclopedia number 15 under the dish rag. One kid down, too many to go.
Dad’s eyebrows lifted over his glasses as he twirled his spaghetti. “Hmm. Very interesting fact.”
When he looked at me I announced that blue and red make purple, as if my recent discovery would revolutionize the art world. “I see,” he said, emptying the wine bottle, looking for dessert.
Rule No. 3: My mother was not only a fabulous baker, but a diplomatic server. She believed dessert was part of the meal and not a reward for finishing your plate. That said, she could slice a piece of chocolate cake as sheer as Chantilly lace. No matter the portion size, we’d savor and moan each little crumb.
Dinner ended with the daily newspaper and mail. My mother took extraordinary pleasure in slamming the next Encyclopedia installment bill on the table.
Side note: Today with everyone connected to their smartphones at the dinner table, if families still make eating meals together and sharing what they’ve learned today a priority, it’s likely Siri knows the population of Nepal.
BE F-G AWESOME TODAY!
Original graphic: Stephanie DelTorchio
Image: Richard Loader
No comments yet.
Add your comment