Growing up in New Jersey, my family made it a point to gather for dinner every night at 6 p.m. My dad worked in paving construction while my mom pursued her BA and later her Master’s in art history. It wasn’t until I became an adult, living with my own family in California, that I appreciated how they managed to prepare a hearty meal for my brother Jake and me each evening. Dinner was more of a communal effort than a chore; everybody had a role.
My mom often prepared large, one-pot dishes that Jake and I would jokingly nickname “Goo” (a mix of wide egg noodles, ground beef, and an assortment of frozen vegetables) or “Zombie Dinner,” a chicken and rice concoction that would have been delightful without the overwhelming presence of lima beans. My dad took charge of plating and cleaning up afterward.
A single batch of “Zombie Dinner” could last us from Sunday to Wednesday. I remember the relief when the spoon finally clinked against the bottom of the pot. Regardless of what was being served, we made it a point to sit down together at 6 p.m., sharing our day’s happenings—the complaints, exaggerated tales, victories, and defeats. That was our time to connect.
If anyone was absent from the table at 6, an explanation was mandatory.
“Driver’s ed. with Mr. Thompson.”
“Track meet against Lincoln.”
“Gravel delivery.”
“Art history presentation.”
You were expected to show up for your family. Once you settled in, you were encouraged to contribute to the conversation, regardless of whether you were a moody teenager or an exhausted parent. We engaged in jokes, riddles, and lively discussions about current events. Sometimes, Jake and I would team up to get our parents laughing.
Now, I have a husband who grew up with dinner at 5:15 p.m. We have two children of our own, and our lives feel like a race. Often, I feel like all I do is wave goodbye to my three favorite people. “Goodbye, see you later, have a good day! Bye!”
Dinner time is our designated reunion, typically around 6, though sometimes it stretches to 7:30. I cherish this time to hear the latest news: who got into trouble at school, who’s got a crush, who scored a goal or defended one, what book they’re reading, or any quirky stories from NPR. The meal serves as a magnet, drawing us back together as the day winds down. Often, our table expands to include a soccer player or a friend who stops by around dinner time. Family dinner operates as a flexible gathering.
Just the other day, my 8-year-old expressed his desire to slice cucumbers for our salad. “Aren’t these cucumbers tasty tonight?” he asked once we were all seated. “You cut them, right?” his older brother chimed in. “Nice job,” he added. “Thanks for helping,” my husband said.
Last winter, our neighbor was diagnosed with colon cancer. His children attend school with mine, and I wanted to assist but was uncertain how. We did some carpooling and organized playdates, but I still felt inadequate.
One Thursday, while picking up a chicken for dinner, I decided to buy a second one and roast it for my neighbors as well. I left it on their porch, steaming hot, just before dinner time. They texted their gratitude, and I continued this weekly tradition, delivering a roasted chicken every Thursday. As their treatment shifted from chemotherapy to radiation, I began adding potatoes and vegetables, all packed in a recyclable aluminum pan.
I learned their Thursday routine and would announce my arrival with a silly chicken joke or a simple “Cluck cluck.” Weeks turned into months, and I made it a point to deliver every Thursday.
What I prepare for my family, I prepare for theirs. The meals are fresh, organic, colorful, and made with love—chicken breasts, thighs, or whole birds seasoned with herbs, lemon, or even a coconut milk marinade. Accompanying sides include roasted baby potatoes, sautéed kale, or vibrant bell peppers. Occasionally, I throw in a tangy chickpea or lentil salad with scallions and parsley. What I create for my own family, I offer to theirs.
Recently, I found my neighbor and his son discussing Samuel Beckett’s plays when I arrived on a Thursday. I handed over the meal and embraced him, just two weeks post-op. His wife and daughter soon joined the conversation, and it warmed my heart to see him nestled between them. It was the highlight of my day.
I didn’t stay to see if they ate the food right away or saved it for later. It didn’t matter; they could dive into their meal whenever hunger struck without the hassle of meal prep. I returned home feeling like I had made a small difference in their lives, hoping the meal served as a family magnet for them, just as it does in my house.
Since I began cooking for my neighbors nearly a year ago, I’ve discovered that the joy of family dinner multiplies when shared. Today, my neighbors are off to celebrate Thanksgiving with friends, but next Thursday, I’ll resume our tradition.
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Summary:
This article reflects on the importance of family dinners, weaving together personal memories and the author’s journey of extending kindness to neighbors during a difficult time. Through the simple act of sharing meals, the author highlights how food can serve as a powerful connector, fostering relationships and creating a sense of community.