Dinner Time Growing Up
I met John Lescroart, a well known author of outstanding legal thrillers, at the 2010 ThrillerFest held in NYC last year. John is a very affable guy, very down to earth, as I have experienced a couple of times now when he's done book discussions and signings at The Poisoned Pen Bookstore in Scottsdale, AZ.
I became a fan of his on Facebook and recently he posted an interesting little note about his youth and dinner experiences at the family supper table. This prompted a rush of memories as I made a comment on his Note page that said this:
Dinners were not only sacred in our family but regimented. A family of 6, we sat at a round kitchen table in a Cape Cod style home, whose kitchen was probably the tiniest room. We sat in the following order: Dad at High Noon, oldest brother 1 o'clock, next oldest 2 o'clock and so forth, until my mom who rarely got a seat or waited for one of us to finish then sat down. Dad always took the first helping, then oldest brother, and so on. You get the picture. You did NOT miss dinner. If you did, not only did you not eat but there would need to be a very strong explanation given. Meals were only "saved" on the stove top if you were involved in some type of "organized, legitimate" activity, like Little League practice. Saying you were late because you were playing ball in the street and forgot what time it was never won you a left over meal or alleviated the wrath of dad. A couple of John's fans posted that they "liked" my comment and it made me wonder how many more people had vivid memories of their dinner time as children. As I said above, ours were definitely sacrosanct and very regimented. When dinner was served we were expected to be seated at the table. My dad was usually already sitting down as most times he often would walk in the back door off the kitchen and, after washing up (which he never failed to do) he'd take a seat at his spot at the tiny, round kitchen table in our very cramped kitchen. He's usually start off with a beverage: shot and a beer if summer; homemade Italian red wine if winter. One drink all he had and then he was ready to chow down. My brother. Mickey, sat to his right, at what I referred to as the "1 o'clock position" above in my Lescroart post. Then came brother, Ed, then me, then my sister, Mary Ann, then my mom. Food went in that order too. My dad loved chicken legs so when mom served this dish, he usually grabbed two chicken legs, or maybe a chicken leg and breast. My brothers then had freedom to choose their favorite piece. One piece, not two. I then served myself (I loved the wing) but they were so small that one would barely hold me. So, if you took a wing you were allowed to have two. Mom loved wings too so I'd pass on taking one, but she'd encourage me by saying, "Go ahead, Pat, take a wing, I'll split them with you. I know you like them." This then allowed me to take two pieces, adding a prized thigh to my plate. (To this day my favorite choice in chicken pieces is a wing and a thigh.) It was such a magnanimous gesture. She was always so unselfish when it came to sharing but also preparing our food. I'd often wonder why she just didn't by a couple more legs or even a few more wings. But in those days you bought a whole chicken and made that go as far as it could. It's funny how these memories come rushing back after this innocent little prompt by Mr. Lescroart. Food has a power that is somehwat overwhelming when it comes to creating and keeping memories strong. To this day, whenever we eat chicken with my own family I always am reminded when dishing out the food how my dad liked the legs and my mom liked the wings. Dad's no longer with us but mom is. She'll be ninety soon and when I have the opportunity to eat a chicken dinner with her at my home or hers I always offer her one of the wings. And she still replies to this day, "You take one, and I'll take one."
I became a fan of his on Facebook and recently he posted an interesting little note about his youth and dinner experiences at the family supper table. This prompted a rush of memories as I made a comment on his Note page that said this:
Dinners were not only sacred in our family but regimented. A family of 6, we sat at a round kitchen table in a Cape Cod style home, whose kitchen was probably the tiniest room. We sat in the following order: Dad at High Noon, oldest brother 1 o'clock, next oldest 2 o'clock and so forth, until my mom who rarely got a seat or waited for one of us to finish then sat down. Dad always took the first helping, then oldest brother, and so on. You get the picture. You did NOT miss dinner. If you did, not only did you not eat but there would need to be a very strong explanation given. Meals were only "saved" on the stove top if you were involved in some type of "organized, legitimate" activity, like Little League practice. Saying you were late because you were playing ball in the street and forgot what time it was never won you a left over meal or alleviated the wrath of dad. A couple of John's fans posted that they "liked" my comment and it made me wonder how many more people had vivid memories of their dinner time as children. As I said above, ours were definitely sacrosanct and very regimented. When dinner was served we were expected to be seated at the table. My dad was usually already sitting down as most times he often would walk in the back door off the kitchen and, after washing up (which he never failed to do) he'd take a seat at his spot at the tiny, round kitchen table in our very cramped kitchen. He's usually start off with a beverage: shot and a beer if summer; homemade Italian red wine if winter. One drink all he had and then he was ready to chow down. My brother. Mickey, sat to his right, at what I referred to as the "1 o'clock position" above in my Lescroart post. Then came brother, Ed, then me, then my sister, Mary Ann, then my mom. Food went in that order too. My dad loved chicken legs so when mom served this dish, he usually grabbed two chicken legs, or maybe a chicken leg and breast. My brothers then had freedom to choose their favorite piece. One piece, not two. I then served myself (I loved the wing) but they were so small that one would barely hold me. So, if you took a wing you were allowed to have two. Mom loved wings too so I'd pass on taking one, but she'd encourage me by saying, "Go ahead, Pat, take a wing, I'll split them with you. I know you like them." This then allowed me to take two pieces, adding a prized thigh to my plate. (To this day my favorite choice in chicken pieces is a wing and a thigh.) It was such a magnanimous gesture. She was always so unselfish when it came to sharing but also preparing our food. I'd often wonder why she just didn't by a couple more legs or even a few more wings. But in those days you bought a whole chicken and made that go as far as it could. It's funny how these memories come rushing back after this innocent little prompt by Mr. Lescroart. Food has a power that is somehwat overwhelming when it comes to creating and keeping memories strong. To this day, whenever we eat chicken with my own family I always am reminded when dishing out the food how my dad liked the legs and my mom liked the wings. Dad's no longer with us but mom is. She'll be ninety soon and when I have the opportunity to eat a chicken dinner with her at my home or hers I always offer her one of the wings. And she still replies to this day, "You take one, and I'll take one."
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