Dinner Hour

The Perfect Dinner Table – by Edgar Guest

A tablecloth that's slightly soiled
Where greasy little hands have toiled. . .
I have dined in halls of pride
Where all the guests were dignified;
But when it comes to pleasure rare
The perfect dinner table's where
No stranger's face is ever known:
The dinner hour we spend alone.

It’s 5 p.m. and I’m scrambling to get dinner going. Christopher will be picking up our older kids from high school cross country practice while I’m indulging the three younger ones with Public Television’s Cyberchase.

I’ve known all day that I’m making dinner, something I do every night, but it still feels rushed at about the same time; and while it’s a struggle to make it happen, I know that this family ritual is worth the effort.

There is nothing like that feeling when all seven of us are finally assembled at the dining room table for dinner. After having been away from one another all day, at school and work and appointments, even within the same house in separate rooms, it’s sweet to come together, at home, corralled in one spot for the dinner hour.

I bring out my German porcelain, either the white with white roses, or the multi-flowered cream plates, and ask the kids to set the table. Seven plates and seven forks and knives and seven cups. And right now sunflowers from our garden brighten the table.

Two-year-old Augustin points to the table reminding me of how he helped pick yellow blossoms with his Dad and brothers: “Flowers for Mommy, flowers for Mommy.”

My husband Chris and kids love the smell of dinner cooking when they first walk into our home. On days when I’m not as prepared, I do the trick I learned from the radio show, Focus on the Family: quickly sauté sliced onions and garlic in olive oil so they think there’s something good cooking. That aroma means home.

“What are you making for dinner, Mom?” is often the first question I hear out of my kids’ mouths when they meander in, backpacks and shoes shed at the door.

It’s the same question I asked of my mom when I came home from school and sports. Dinner was of vital importance to me growing up, especially when it was Mama’s goulash or cabbage rolls or Levanzen (yeast pancakes).

In today’s busy world of soccer and music lessons and PTA meetings and late nights at the office and cable television and the internet, it’s easy for families to forgo eating dinner together in favor of convenience. Fast food seconds before soccer or food plopped in front of our kids while we check our e-mail.

The subject of family meals came up in last weekend’s church service where Pastor Dale mentioned that one reason why the foundations of family life are faltering is that families don’t eat meals together.

I confess, though, there are days when I haven’t succeeded in making the world’s best dinners, meals where I’ve merely opened a jar of spaghetti sauce and offered it on top of over-cooked pasta and a loaf of Sourdough Willy’s bread, if we’re lucky. And there are evenings when our meals should be called the Dinner-15 minutes, not the Dinner-Hour, but I still think that a small pocket of time gathered together is better than no time.

Just trying to figure out what to make for dinner each day at 4:30 is huge, yet alone insisting on eating it together. The act of corralling all seven of us around the table takes dynamite sometimes.

I usually start with a warning: “It’s almost time to eat,” then “two more minutes, please wash your hands,” then, “Wesley, please tell Rachel it’s dinner time,” and “Mickael-Josef, get Daddy and say ‘dinner’s ready.’” 

If everyone’s not at the table when Christopher comes in, he smiles, “Augustin, please ring the cow bell,” our clunky, loud, real, cow bell we bought at a farm supply shop in a village in Germany back in the olden days when we had only two children and could go as a family to Germany. The cow bell embarrasses the older kids. And me.  And that gives Chris even more satisfaction when he rings it or has Augustin do the honors.

When we’re finally seated at our oak rectangular table, we have a momentary quiet before our meal begins, a brief calm before the storm, when we pray and thank God for our food.

“Wesley’s eyes are open,” Mickael-Josef reports. “Well how would you know if yours weren’t open too?” Wesley counters. Then, “Ryan won’t hold my hand,” and “I’m not holding your dirty hands.”

And I just sit there chuckling knowing that God must be smiling too, and it’s all okay. We’re all home.

As we say “Amen,” the twins break into the chant, “Aaa-men. Aaa-men. AA-men, A-men, A-men. Again boom.”

We begin passing the food and have only all been seated for a moment when our new grey kitten, Kujo, dashes between our feet and the rumble of the dinner hour continues. Mickael-Josef falls to the floor to try to catch Kujo, while Augustin cheers on. Then Wesley dashes off somewhere.

“Where are you heading, Wesley?” I ask.
“To the bathroom,” he announces skittering across the floor.

The phone rings, and Chris insists we ignore it but Rachel has to check Caller ID in case it’s related to the night’s carpools.  Good answer.

Augustin spills his juice while Wesley darts to the closet to get a towel to mop it up, and then Rachel disappears. “No cell phone,” I insist.
“How was school today you guys?” I try to get conversation going. 

That reminds Mickael-Josef, as he runs for his backpack to show me his book.

“Please pass the bread, Wesley,” Ryan says. 
“Mom, Ryan didn’t take any salad,” Wesley tattles. 
“Make sure you eat salad everyone,” I insist.  
Rachel is back and I ask how cross country went.
“Fine,” she answers.
“Ryan, how are you doing in math?” Chris wonders.
“Okay.”
“Who’d you sit by at lunch today, Micki and Wesley?”  I wonder.
“Micki has a girlfriend,” Wesley reports, adding, “actually two.”
Giggles. Bright eyes. Laughter.

As we muddle through the dinner hour, with kids jumping up, dashing here and there, shot-gun answers to questions, the other noises begin, the ones produced by the male species in our family, the ones that cultivate chortling and snorting and hilarity at our dinner table.

It’s a guy thing to be sure, and with just a hint of a chuckle from their Dad, they know they have permission to continue.

Sometimes as I listen and watch all the buzzing and clanking and crashing and humming and rumbling I savor the moment and tell myself, this is the stuff of a charmed family life. The things that people who are in the middle of disaster only dream about having.

Then other times I crave a quiet dinner at a local restaurant. Alone.

Then the kids compliment the meal with a “Good job, Mommy,” something Chris taught them to say early on. 

When we’re all gathered together at the dinner table, sharing a meal, we are home.