Updated: March 30, 2021
Originally Published: November 27, 2014
Growing up in New Jersey, our family gathered for dinner every evening at 6 p.m. My father was busy with his job in paving construction, while my mother was juggling her studies for a BA and then a Master’s in art history. It wasn’t until I became a parent myself, living in California, that I truly appreciated how they managed to prepare a warm meal for my brother Jake and me each night. Dinner was more of a team effort than a chore; everyone had a role to play.
My mother often whipped up substantial, one-pot dishes that Jake and I affectionately dubbed names like “Gloop” (a blend of wide egg noodles, ground beef, and a mysterious mix of frozen vegetables) or “Left for Dead,” a chicken and rice concoction that could have been delightful if not for the overabundance of lima beans. My father took charge of plating and clean-up.
A pot of “Left for Dead” could last us from Sunday through Wednesday. I can still remember the relief I felt when the serving spoon scraped the bottom of the pot. Regardless of what was served, we came together at 6 p.m., sharing our daily happenings—the gripes, the exaggerations, the wins and losses. That was our time to lay it all out.
If you happened to miss dinner at 6 p.m., you were expected to provide an explanation. “Driver’s ed. with Mr. Thompson.” “Wrestling match against Springfield.” “Gravel delivery.” “Renaissance art in Italy.” You were there for your family. Once your napkin was in your lap, you made an effort to be good company, regardless of whether you were a sullen teenager or an exhausted parent. The topics were varied—jokes, riddles, juicy gossip, or stories from the newspaper. Sometimes we would even team up against each other to elicit laughs.
Now, I find myself married to someone whose family sat down for dinner at 5:15 p.m. We have two kids of our own, and our days often feel like a race where I’m merely saying goodbye to my three favorite people. “Goodbye, see you later, have a great day! Bye!” Until dinner time, that is. We try for 6 p.m., but it sometimes stretches to 7:30. I relish the chance to hear all the latest news: who got in trouble at school, who has a crush, who scored a goal, or who heard something particularly bizarre on NPR. Dinner acts as a magnet, reuniting us when the sun sets. Often, our table is graced by an extra soccer player or a friend who drops by around 6. Family dinner is available whenever needed.
Recently, my 8-year-old eagerly volunteered to slice the cucumbers for our salad. “Aren’t these cucumbers fantastic tonight?” he asked as we settled down. “You cut them, right?” his older brother chimed in. “Great job!” “Thanks for your help,” my husband added.
Last winter, our neighbor received a colon cancer diagnosis. His kids attend school with mine, and I wanted to assist but felt unsure how. We did some carpooling, and their kids came over to play with mine, but it never felt like enough.
One Thursday while picking up a chicken for dinner, I decided to buy an extra one and roast it for them. I dropped it off on their porch, hot and fresh, just before dinner time. My neighbors sent a thankful text. This sparked a weekly routine; I began delivering a chicken every Thursday. As their treatment shifted from chemotherapy to radiation, I added potatoes and vegetables, all neatly packaged in a recyclable aluminum pan.
I learned their Thursday schedule and would announce my drop-off with a silly chicken joke or a simple “Cluck cluck.” Weeks turned into months, and I faithfully delivered every Thursday. The meals I prepared were fresh, organic, and colorful, made with love. Chicken breasts, thighs, or whole birds seasoned with herbs and lemon, baked baby potatoes, sautéed greens, or roasted veggies. What I prepared for my family, I prepared for theirs.
On a recent Thursday, I found my neighbor and his son deep in conversation about Samuel Beckett’s plays—no joke! I handed over the pan and hugged my neighbor, who was just two weeks post-op. His wife and daughter soon joined the lively discussion. It warmed my heart to see him nestled between his family; that moment was the highlight of my day.
I didn’t linger to see if they ate immediately or saved the meal for later. It didn’t matter. They could continue discussing Waiting for Godot without the hassle of cooking or cleaning up. When hunger struck, they could simply peel back the foil and dig in.
As I walked home to my own family, I felt a sense of fulfillment for being able to help my neighbors. I like to think that the dinner I dropped off serves as a gathering force for them, just as it does in my own home. Instead of worrying about meals, at least on Thursdays, they can focus on enjoying time together—perhaps even sharing a laugh, just like Jake and I used to.
In the nearly year I’ve been cooking for them, I’ve realized that nothing beats the joy of a family dinner, especially when it brings two families together. My neighbors are heading off to celebrate Thanksgiving with friends, but come next Thursday, I’ll be picking up right where we left off.
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Summary
The author reflects on the importance of family dinners, sharing memories of her childhood and how she has adopted similar practices with her own family. When a neighbor faced a health crisis, she began providing meals to support them, creating a shared experience around food that strengthens family bonds. The story concludes with the realization that the act of sharing meals can foster connection and joy across families.
Keyphrase: family dinner
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