This morning I nuked two Ham, Bacon and Eggs Hot Pockets for Drew, the dog, and me. (That’s right: the world’s worst frozen snack. Our freezer’s full of ‘em. Go ahead, judge me!) It was a balmy 60 degrees out at 7:30am. It is the Monday of our Spring Break and Drew and I rose early. We migrated to the back patio where Drew shot baskets, the dog sniffed the ground, and I marveled that this is my reality. It is sublime.
The Hot Pockets were our processed appetizer. After we bummed around out back, I laced up my running shoes and took off. When I returned, I found my son mixing up a batch of brownies. Not long after, I decided that frying up a pound of bacon would be nice for all canines and humans on the premises. It wasn’t long before Gracie and one of her besties who had spent the night came down with a hankering for cinnamon rolls. By midmorning we had created the perfect confluence of unhealthy deliciousness. We floated in and out of the kitchen and around the kitchen’s island and consumed the carbs and fats that make life worth living. We talked, we laughed, we just were. It was bliss.
I have spent my life at the altar of the evening meal. As a child, it was sacred. The television was off, the kitchen lights were on. My poor stepmother came home from a long day of teaching high school English and whipped up meat and potatoes and a bunch of other stuff. There was always a tension in the air while the meat and potatoes were consumed with smiles and the dishes were put away without complaint and we could get on with our evening.
I married and I figured that’s what you did. Our first evening home post-honeymoon, I did what I assumed was the thing: a big ol’ meal in serving dishes and bowls. I had spent hours making this first perfect meal. I was quickly informed that there was no need for all this pageantry. It could all remain in the dish in which it was created, and I certainly didn't need to make so much. I'm sure it was an attempt to decrease my workload. I hoped to sit and visit after the dinner I had made. But the focus seemed to be on cleaning up. I think this was an attempt to decrease my workload and get on with our evening. All that diminished that day was my spirit. And my love for the evening meal.
It never re-inflated. But I tried.
Since that time, I attempted countless family dinners. Usually, any attempts at flagrant cooking effort were met with lackluster appreciation. My kids seemed to love the cheap-o processed, bagged crap over stuff I spent energy and time on. Granted, I'm no Julia Child. And the nights when we were all together and we held the dinner summit around the table, it was fine. We talked. Sometimes we laughed. And I look back now and see that we all breathed a collective sigh of relief when it was over. At least I did.
I don’t mean to whine. I can't stand whiners. And I do have a vast appreciation for good times around the dinner table. They do happen. I in no way discount treasured moments found with loved ones noshing gratefully and joyfully on a homemade meal, made with love. But I’ve learned in the past several months without the pressure of the “family dinner” that the dialogue and togetherness implied in the “family dinner” can be found wherever we are, whenever we are. Intimacy as a family cannot be contrived or staged. The times I have shared with my kids over nuked meals or take-out standing at the counter or an open can of soup at 11pm on sitting our red couch have meant more than any attempt at culinary excellence on my part.
This morning, as my son made brownies all by himself and my girl and her pal popped open that can of cinnamon rolls and I fried up a vat of bacon, it was perfect. It was easy and spontaneous and fun. No expectations, no stilted conversation. Just happiness.
And bacon. Don't ever underestimate the bacon.
