I grew up with family dinners. I see the value in gathering around the table.
Full disclosure: when I divorced, my daughter told me how much she hated those dinners. I had no idea. So now, in Freedom House, we stand around the kitchen island and eat a lot of the time. Another full disclosure: I hate to cook. It's not in my wheelhouse. I can do it. I've done it. I don't have to do it anymore. I'm not disappointing anyone by not doing it. My kids don't care. By the miracle of modern food preparation, Stouffer's and Lean Cuisine and the local grocery or Chinese place, my kids are fed.
I grew up thinking that being a good woman meant being a good cook. Guess what? Untrue. I can't think of much more that is counterintuitive to me than cooking. All the good women in my life have been slaves in the kitchen.
I have been liberated.
When I was married and coaching a debate team that--ps, was solid--I worked late a lot. A LOT. But when I was home, I would try to produce the mighty family meal. It was like a hostage crisis. I came home, threw something marginal together. Little appreciation was shown for it. I couldn't wait for it to end. Apparently I wasn't alone.
When I was a kid, Nydia would come home from teaching a full day and produce meat, potatoes, and multiple sides. I have no idea how she didn't claw my Dad's eyes out.
But Nyds, those pork steaks in the oven were nasty. Sorry.
My point is this: My kids are well taken care of. We are all nurturized. But I'm absolutely gleeful that I can just hang out with them and we eat and it's no big deal. There are a thousand things that are better about our lives in recent years, but the dinner hour is absolutely at the top of the list.
Sure, I will still make stuff that is real from time to time. Nance can grill! But the pressure is off.
The pressure. It's off.
And the happiness? You can FEEL IT.
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