What's for Dinner?

                                                                       What’s for Dinner?

In 44 years of marriage, my husband has never once asked, “What’s for dinner?”  It’s not that he doesn’t love eating. He always says, “I never met a meal I didn’t like.”  For most of those 44 years, I have planned and cooked the meals. My husband eats whatever I serve — even sometimes when I think the results of cooking experiments belong in the compost heap. He never fails to thank me. If I don’t feel like cooking, he serves himself.

Our children’s eating habits ranged from following their father’s “see-food, eat it” diet to a complicated dairy-free, gluten-free, vegetarian plan. During one's teen years, only five meal-plans were deemed acceptable. To avoid conflict (pick your battles), I cooked those five meals during the week and made what I wanted on the weekends. Being the pickiest of eaters myself, I accepted the challenge of cooking around likes and dislikes, allergies, and cravings. During my ten-minute commute home from work, I mentally reviewed the contents of my freezer and pantry. Arriving at home, I headed straight to the kitchen to prepare dinner to be served before we dispersed to teams, band, clubs, or homework.

My father was of the “eat what is put in front of you” philosophy. Growing up during the Depression and WWII, he preached gratitude to his six children,“be glad you have food on the table, there are children starving in….” Every night, we bowed our heads to give thanks for the bounty before us.

My mother somehow fed ten people every night. My grandmother, who lived with us, never left the kitchen. Nonna started dinner preparations right after lunch. Two courses every night! Italian delicacies and pasta dishes served in fine restaurants in Naples or Rome! Mangiare!

Our family squeezed around our kitchen table with a “buffer” (a parent, grandparent, or child too young to argue) in-between possible combatants. My mother rarely sat down as she bounced back and forth from the stove serving the meal, cutting food into bite-sized pieces for the little ones, feeding the baby in the high chair (there always seemed to be a baby), pouring drinks, mopping up spills, or clearing between courses. My father led the conversation, recited poems, replayed baseball games of his youth (or the Phillies), and refereed arguments (sometimes leading them too). 

Today, when my husband and I sit down to dinner, we remember the happy faces of our childhood. We recall our grandparents, parents, and siblings, and the family meals we shared. We wonder how our children, with our grandchildren’s busy schedules, manage family dinner times. My father was right. We should be grateful for the food on the table. We should remember those who do not and share what we have. Before we begin the meal my husband is sure to like, we give thanks for our bounty, our families, and our memories. 

What’s for dinner? Memories, love, and gratitude.

Mangiare!