Parenting
Growing up in New Jersey, my family gathered for dinner every night at 6 p.m. My father was immersed in paving construction, while my mother juggled her time between raising my brother Jake and me and pursuing her degrees in art history. It wasn’t until I became an adult and settled in California with my own family that I realized how my parents managed to prepare a hot meal for us each evening. Dinner was a collective effort, a necessity rather than a luxury. Everyone had a role to play.
My mother often prepared large, one-pot meals that Jake and I affectionately dubbed “Sludge” (a mix of wide egg noodles, ground beef, and an assortment of frozen vegetables) or “Death Warmed Over,” which was a chicken and rice dish made nearly inedible by an overabundance of lima beans. My father managed the plating and clean-up afterward.
A pot of “Death Warmed Over” could last us from Sunday to Wednesday, and I remember the relief when the serving spoon finally hit the bottom. Regardless of what was served, we gathered at the table at 6, sharing our day’s highlights—the highs and lows, the absurdities, and the victories. It was our time to connect.
If you weren’t at the table by 6 p.m., an explanation was required.
“Driver’s ed. with Mr. Thompson.”
“Dual-meet against Plainfield.”
“Gravel delivery.”
“Renaissance studies in Italy.”
Family was paramount. Once you settled in with your napkin in your lap, you were expected to engage, even if you were a moody teenager or an exhausted parent. The conversation flowed freely, from jokes and riddles to stories from the newspaper. Jake and I often teamed up to entertain our parents.
Now I find myself married to someone who grew up having dinner at 5:15 p.m., and we have two children of our own. Our family of four leads busy, separate lives, and sometimes it feels like I’m only saying goodbye to my three favorite people throughout the day. “Goodbye, see you later, have a good day! Bye!”
Dinner time is our reunion, usually around 6, but sometimes it stretches to 7:30. I love hearing the latest news: who got into trouble at school, who has a crush, who scored or saved a goal, who’s reading what novel, or who heard something wild on NPR. Dinner acts as a magnet that gathers us back together as the sun sets. Often, our table is joined by an extra soccer player or a friend who drops by around dinner time. Family meals serve as a safety net.
Recently, my 8-year-old son decided he wanted to slice cucumbers for our salad. “Aren’t the cucumbers delicious tonight?” he asked as we sat down. His older brother chimed in, “You cut them, right? Good job.” My husband added, “Thanks for helping.”
Last winter, our neighbor was diagnosed with colon cancer. His children attend school with mine, and I wanted to assist but felt unsure how. We coordinated some carpooling, and their kids came over to enjoy the zip line and watch a movie with mine. Yet, it didn’t feel sufficient.
One Thursday, while picking up a chicken for dinner, I decided to buy another one to roast for my neighbors. I delivered the piping hot meal to their porch just before dinner hour. They texted their appreciation, and I began to bring over a chicken every Thursday. As their treatment transitioned from chemotherapy to radiation, I added potatoes and vegetables, all packaged in an aluminum pan that could be recycled—or not.
I learned their Thursday routine and announced my drop-offs with a silly chicken joke or a simple “Cluck cluck.” The weeks turned into seasons, and I kept my commitment.
What I prepare for my family, I also make for theirs. The meals are wholesome, organic, colorful, and crafted with care. Chicken breasts, thighs, or whole birds, seasoned with herbs, salt, pepper, and lemon, or marinated in coconut milk. Accompaniments might include baked baby Dutch potatoes, sautéed kale, roasted broccoli, or a tangy chickpea salad bursting with scallions and parsley.
On a recent Thursday, I arrived to find my neighbor and his son on the couch discussing Samuel Beckett’s plays (no joke!). I handed over the meal and hugged my neighbor, who was recovering from surgery. His wife and daughter soon joined the lively discussion. It warmed my heart to see him surrounded by family—it 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 their chat about Waiting for Godot and Krapp’s Last Tape without worrying about dinner prep. When hunger struck, they could simply peel back the foil and enjoy.
As I walked home to my family, I felt a sense of fulfillment for helping my neighbors. I like to think the meals I deliver serve as a family magnet for them, just as they do in my home. With my Thursday contributions, they can skip the cooking and cleaning, diving straight into family time, perhaps even sharing a laugh like Jake and I used to.
Since I began cooking for them nearly a year ago, I’ve discovered that the joy of family dinner multiplies when it’s shared between two families. Today, my neighbors are spending Thanksgiving with friends, but next Thursday, our culinary tradition will resume.
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In summary, sharing meals can strengthen bonds not only within our families but also with our neighbors. The effort to provide a comforting dinner can foster community and connection during challenging times.