I grew up in a bungalow[12] in the sixties with my parents and older brother. Mom and Dad had expectations for Peter and me during family dinners, like arriving on time, assisting with setting and clearing the table and cleaning up, minding our manners and partaking in[13] family discussions.
I miss those days when suppertime brought our busy lives together. I miss the wobbly[14] glass kitchen table with hard plastic chairs that welcomed us every night. I miss Mom’s home-cooked cuisine, the home-baked desserts and the discussions that transpired.[15] I even miss Miss Manners, who was channelled by Mom and Dad at every meal.[16]
We far from resembled a perfect family. When my brother entered his teens, he introduced us to fast-food eating—the kind where you sit sideways in your chair while shovelling mounds of food into your mouth, hoping you could whip through dinner during one commercial break.[17] We’d laugh at the belches that escaped, moan at the sight of liver and onions,[18] and question why my parents didn’t have to drink milk.
Looking back on it now, even though there were hiccups, our meals together dished up a healthy serving of bonding that strengthened our family.[19] But those days are long past, and as much as I have wanted to recreate that mealtime connection in my own home, it’s just not working.
Our kitchen is small, housing only a bar-type platform that acts as our table, protruding diagonally outward and leaving little room to manoeuvre.[20] Surrounding this makeshift[21] table are four stools. When we eat together, we crowd around this excuse for a table, which also doubles as a countertop for serving food and stockpiling dirty dishes.[22] To avoid bodily injury, I’ve claimed sole proprietorship of all aspects of meal-making—cooking, serving and cleaning up—even at the risk of jeopardizing my kids’ culinary education.[23]
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