Dinner At My House
Dinnertime at my house was a lot different from this. I don’t know these people. They’re family, but I don’t know them. I don’t know where I am supposed to sit. At my house I always sat to my dad’s immediate left, no matter where we were. My sister sat right next to me to my mother’s right and my brother across from us in the middle, the way it always worked out for him in life. I had to sit next to my sister because my brother and I could not be trusted within two feet of each other, and it was easier to kick each other from across the table. My sister was the baby and sat next to our mother, so she could get away with murder, supervised. My brother sat closer to my mother because she doted on him and made him feel that middle was the best place to be. I sat near my dad because I was daddy’s girl, and we could share jokes just between us. And in my mind I always thought my dad was omniscient, and the closer I got, the more I would know. As I grew older I gained a new respect for my mother and realized she probably knew a whole lot more than my dad, but my seat has never changed.
Dinner at my house was a family affair. Mom and I cooked, the way our culture says it should be. My brother and sister set the table, the way western influence suggested it should be. And my father came to the table, the way we all accepted it. Once dinner was on the table, my dad would praise the cooks, my siblings would whine at the sight of a hated dish, and mom and I would sit in silent modesty. As if on cue, someone would announce, “Let us pray,” and whoever’s turn it was to say grace would lead us in prayer. Mom always said a long impromptu prayer which we all prayed would not fall on a day when we were starving. Dad and I recited the same prayer whenever it was our turn. My sister followed the methods she learned in preschool or whatever grade she happened to be in, and my bother recited the prayer he was taught at school. Eating anything before prayer was sacrilege.
Finally dinner would commence with forks clanging against plates and glasses. In accordance with our culture, the adults always served themselves first before the children were allowed to, but my siblings and I were raised in western lands where we picked up western habits, so my mother had to always remind us to be respectful. My dad, the diabetic, always ate healthy, moderate helpings. My mother, forever dieting, followed the same trend. My bother, the bottomless pit, ate anything within reach, and my skinny sister picked at her food and snacked on air. We talked of the day’s events, religious issues, politics, and my dad would crack endless corny jokes that had me spewing my soda across the table. We would sit at the table for hours after we had finished eating, just talking. It was the only time we spent together as a family without the interference of work, school and TV. It is where all my most precious memories lay, memories I am now forced to call up every night now that I am away at college.
Now I sit here with my extended family, my aunt and uncle and my two cousins. And though the number of people is right, my cousin and I don’t have the love-hate relationship my brother and I had, and now I’m the baby who eats air sandwiches. And though my uncle is very smart, his corny humor barely makes me crack a smile. And my aunt doesn’t need help in the kitchen. I am thousands of miles away from the dinner table I sat at for twenty years and I don’t know where I am supposed to sit. Dinnertime now is just dinner, and can not compare to dinner at my house.
Dinner at my house was a family affair. Mom and I cooked, the way our culture says it should be. My brother and sister set the table, the way western influence suggested it should be. And my father came to the table, the way we all accepted it. Once dinner was on the table, my dad would praise the cooks, my siblings would whine at the sight of a hated dish, and mom and I would sit in silent modesty. As if on cue, someone would announce, “Let us pray,” and whoever’s turn it was to say grace would lead us in prayer. Mom always said a long impromptu prayer which we all prayed would not fall on a day when we were starving. Dad and I recited the same prayer whenever it was our turn. My sister followed the methods she learned in preschool or whatever grade she happened to be in, and my bother recited the prayer he was taught at school. Eating anything before prayer was sacrilege.
Finally dinner would commence with forks clanging against plates and glasses. In accordance with our culture, the adults always served themselves first before the children were allowed to, but my siblings and I were raised in western lands where we picked up western habits, so my mother had to always remind us to be respectful. My dad, the diabetic, always ate healthy, moderate helpings. My mother, forever dieting, followed the same trend. My bother, the bottomless pit, ate anything within reach, and my skinny sister picked at her food and snacked on air. We talked of the day’s events, religious issues, politics, and my dad would crack endless corny jokes that had me spewing my soda across the table. We would sit at the table for hours after we had finished eating, just talking. It was the only time we spent together as a family without the interference of work, school and TV. It is where all my most precious memories lay, memories I am now forced to call up every night now that I am away at college.
Now I sit here with my extended family, my aunt and uncle and my two cousins. And though the number of people is right, my cousin and I don’t have the love-hate relationship my brother and I had, and now I’m the baby who eats air sandwiches. And though my uncle is very smart, his corny humor barely makes me crack a smile. And my aunt doesn’t need help in the kitchen. I am thousands of miles away from the dinner table I sat at for twenty years and I don’t know where I am supposed to sit. Dinnertime now is just dinner, and can not compare to dinner at my house.
posted by Sam | 7:48 AM
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