Phyllis’ Blog

How is it that some of the most ordinary things in life turn out to be the most extraordinary?

I never ever had an inkling that having supper every single night of the week together with my family was special. Certainly not unusual. My parents didn’t treat the daily event with ritual status. I’m pretty sure that none of us regarded this routine as a “ceremony.”

We were a family and we were hungry and so we ate together.

I remember exactly how to move the table out from the wall in our snug eat-in kitchen so we could each have our own formica-covered side. (When you’re one of two kids, you get hawk-eyed about having everything divided evenly. That includes the back seat of the car.)

When everyone was within a few feet of the table and the food was about to be placed there, somebody pulled the gray, hard-plastic water pitcher out of the fridge-a downright design oddity with its raised checkered sides, indented so you could get a good grip.

Most of the time Dad prayed aloud-pretty much the same prayer that usually ended with “and bless this food to its intended use,” which mystified me a bit whenever I stopped to wonder what he meant.

We talked about regular stuff. I often tried to read but was usually stopped cold by one or the other disapproving adult, who otherwise always encouraged reading. Suppertime had two inviolable purposes, not stated but understood: being together without other distractions (we didn’t have TV), and eating.

We ate exceptionally well. Ma cooked from scratch. In fact, I remember the first time she tried a recipe that called for a can of cream of mushroom soup. Her amazement as a cook eluded me; I was interested only in the outcome, which seemed fine to me.

We didn’t leave the table without asking if we could be excused, so there was a slight tone of formality to what was happening, although we were all relaxed and fully at home, so to speak.

We kids helped clean up after the meal. My favorite dish-drying routine was being quizzed about the kind of car every person within our family acquaintance drove. I knew all the cars-which now I simply can’t figure out since my interest in cars today is limited to whether they’re road-worthy and that they’re not gas hogs.

Kids being kids seem not to reflect too much on the ordinary. My mother worked part-time at the nearby college. When she figured out what to make-and then prepared the food-I’m not sure. But supper was always right there, balanced and tasty. For years, Ma also cooked lunch and supper for my grandparents who were aging and past the point of being safely able to prepare their own food. My brother and I took turns carrying the steaming dishes to their house next door every evening.

I must have gotten my share of floor-time at the table because I have only good memories of suppertime. Nothing forced was going on. Now I realize how healthy our meals were nutritionally, too. We always had heaps of vegetables, most of which we grew in the garden that we shared with our grandparents. What we didn’t eat in season went into the freezer and into canning jars and landed later on our supper table.

Dad moonlighted as a butcher when I was a little kid (he had learned the skills while growing up on his home farm)-and for as long as I can remember, he always bought the meat for our meals. He knew exactly which cuts to buy for which particular uses. He’s still my meat advisor.

My mother, who had unlimited access to candy as a child, had sworn off desserts by the time my brother and I came along. If we had a final course at suppertime, it was fruit.

Our grandma next door was our sweets source. She kept her candy in a cupboard below the counter within easy reach of short people. I was more interested in nuts than candy, but not my brother. When Ma discovered that he paid regular visits to Grandma, asking for snacks, she forbade his begging. Not easily discouraged, he showed up in Grandma’s kitchen, saying “Hi, Grandma. I’m here for what I’m not supposed to ask for.”

Meanwhile, I’d have a handful of peanuts or cashews from the stash at the back of a hanging cupboard in our kitchen. It was an inconvenient stretch, although not completely off-limits. Now I realize what the message was, although it was never decreed as doctrine-Avoid snacking. Eat good meals instead.

And we did, daily. Almost always in good company-both of our parents and us two kids.

So thanks, Ma and Dad. Sorry I was oblivious to the effort you made every day to feed us not only great-tasting food, but nutritious dishes, too. And thank you for sitting down with us every evening-and for showing interest in our days and our thoughts and our opinions. I often thought the book I was reading was more riveting than our supper-time talk, but now I’m thinking you were probably on to something.

Now studies show what you apparently knew by instinct-that kids who regularly eat their evening meal with reasonably mindful parents are more secure, have fewer behavior problems, and do better in school than those kids who don’t have that kind of routine attention.

I’m ready to believe that we almost got close to the transcendent in our ordinary mealtime practice. I absorbed your love and attention, but I have only lately come to understand what an extraordinary gift you were giving us-while the two of you worked jobs away from home, and also looked after a set of aging parents just across the yard. I know now that it didn’t happen without great intention and some measure of purposeful understanding.<–>