Eating together

Growing up we always ate together. My grandmother, known as Dar, cooked most of the meals, good old fashioned Yankee cooking. My mother, an avid reader of Gourmet, cooked sometimes, but she was fancier.

Food was an important topic in our house. Even when I held my first job on a gap year, and I came home to a good home cooked meal, it became a joke that I'd bought the same thing in the company cafeteria that my grandmother had prepared. If I'd had email, I could have checked with my grandmother while waiting in the food line.

With my first husband we always had dinner together for a number of reasons including monetary and the fact he hated eating out. He did not cook.

During the years when my daughter and I lived with a couple during the week, it was hard to have the evening meals together every night. There were late working nights, night school, etc. When we did manage to all get home together, a pot of tea and discussion of the evening meal followed. Sometimes it was a restaurant, sometimes it was prepared by any one of us. Bill was the master of turning left overs into a feast.

There was so much to talk about and catch up on. 

Friday nights, however were sacrosanct. It was FAMILY NIGHT. Most often the four of us would head to Harvard Square to eat at any of the restaurants there, have coins for the street musicians and buy our supply of books for the week It was not only a chance to plan the weekend, but also to catch up with whatever.

When it was just my daughter and I we also ate most evening meals together. I did most of the cooking. Pokey Pots were a great help making the house smell good when we entered and eliminating any rush to get food on the table. Again, it was the time to communicate before she did homework and I went to my writing.

Most meals were with a well-set table, but we did have "rude suppers" that might include a picnic in front of the television.

Years later when I lived alone in Geneva, meals were often shared with m Czech, Syrian, Brit, or Indian neighbors. My favorites were the Indian breakfasts where we'd amble down the hall, often still in PJs.

Years late, when I retired, my housemate seldom prepared meals. I'd be writing in my bedroom, she'd be working in her basement office and one of us would Skype the other to decide where we wanted to go to eat. 

When I was in my Nest in France and my good friend Barbara lived down the street, we would prepare meals for each other. Often though it would be, "I have some ----------- left over wanta come over and share?" I can't remember either of us ever saying no.

Now that I'm married my husband and I make sure we eat almost every lunch together. I cook Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sunday afternoons. He does Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays and Sunday mornings. Sundays are usually major breakfasts and sometimes we invite friends, many who've never eaten an American-style breakfast.

The idea that our lunches are a sharing time over good food. Either of us might decide to "cook" at a local restaurant. Rick does that more than me to a point some of the local restaurants when we walk in at noon will ask, "Your day to cook, eh Rick?"  or the French equivalent. Restaurant meals also allows us to be more elaborate or each of us to eat something different. 

During the pandemic when we were in quarantine, we would order food in. I could have Japanese, he might decide on Italian. Still were eating together which was what important.

The late Leo Buscaglia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leo_Buscaglia, used to talk about his Italian family meals where each kid had to bring some fact to the table. He went into raptures about his Mama's cooking. 

I am nutrition conscious. I love, love, love good food. It can be anything from a special sandwich to a four-course gourmet meal. But what is equally important is sharing food with those I like/love as we share thoughts.