Sunday evening supper and tears near the surface
One of my favorite pictures.
John and I enjoying a happy time at his ranch.
Renee came for Sunday suppertonight, and we had a high old time talking about everything from Jacob’supcoming prom to osteopathic medicine. Sunday supper is a longstandingtradition in my family, the sense that it should be just a little bit better, alittle bit different from ordinary supper. When I was living at home and mybrother gone to college or the Navy, Mom rolled her tea cart into the livingroom, in front of the fireplace, and we had a casual, light supper—a souffle orcheese strata. Today, Sunday supper is still special—we try to have everyonehome and the menu is carefully chosen. Tonight Christian cooked an Asian beefand green bean stir fry, and, mixing cultures a bit, I fixed a Lebanese potatosalad. Christian didn’t think the two would go together but admitted tonightthey did complement each other
But tonight it was the Sundaysuppers of my children’s high school years that were much on my mind. My bigbrother, the patriarch of our family, died yesterday morning at the age ofninety-two. He was my last surviving blood relative and the man I knew all mylife would protect me. Everyone asks how I am, and the answer is “fine, butteary.” John and I have lived in close proximity probably more than not—as children,of course. He went to boarding school as a high school junior and was neverhome again, but in 1961, he declared I needed to get out on my own and took meoff to Kirksville, Missouri where he was studying osteopathic medicine and hiswife was working on a master’s in English. I too worked on that master’s. Thatmove set the course for my life, including marriage to an osteopathic studentand a doctorate in English. I moved to Texas in 1965, and he to Colorado in1966. In 1980, he moved to Fort Worth to join the faculty of the Texas Collegeof Osteopathic Medicine.
In the early 1980s, John and Ifound ourselves both single with six teen-agers between us. Sunday suppersbecame an institution. We gathered at my house each week, inviting stray peoplewe thought needed to join us—the parents of my goddaughter often, a good friendrecently divorced several times, the kids’ friends. I fed anywhere from ten to fifteenthose nights. Presence was required for the kids unless they had a jobobligation, which some did. John presided over the table, led us in grace, andceremoniously served the meal. Table manners were strictly monitored, mostly by John, and I’m proud to say todayall six of those kids have great table manners.
I loved cooking those dinners.Mostly they were a success, though sometimes not. I remember a turkeyWellington recipe which I have long since lost to my regret, and I distinctlyremember one night I did a marinated butterflied leg of lamb (I must havethought I was a rich woman). Sometimes we had a turkey or a casserole orwhatever I chose. One night, when my office was working on a regional cookbook,I fixed a cornbread/hamburger casserole I’d found the recipe for. John took onebite, looked at me, and asked, “Sis, is the budget the problem?”
Probably though the kids mostremember the conversation. John went around the table, asking each personperhaps what they were grateful for or what they had done that week. No one wasallowed to shrug it off—you had to have a cogent, intelligent answer. Theclassic that everyone laughs about to this day is the time we were asked whatwe were grateful for. Megan had brought a new beau to dinner (in retrospect quitebrave of her) and the young man stood (his first mistake—none of the rest of usstood) and said, “I am grateful for Megan and her beauty.” The adults managedstraight faces, but the teens couldn’t handle it. To this day, everyone laughsabout this.
Today, Sunday dinner is servedaround the coffee table in my cottage, a far cry from that crowded, formaldining room on Winslow Avenue. But John will always be at my dinner table—and inmy heart. We had our differences, particularly political—how he grew up in astaunch FDR/Mayon Richard Daley household and turned out a conservative isbeyond me. But we learned, especially in our golden years, to put those asidein favor of our strong bond. We loved to talk, for instance, about the IndianaDunes where our family had a cottage or Chicago, about which these days I ammore nostalgic than he was.
John was sick, mostlybedridden for over a year, and our togetherness, such as it was, was always byphone—he lived south of Granbury on his ranch. We talked every few days, and Ialways ended the conversation with, “I love you.” It was hard for him, and he’dsay, “Back at ya.” So here’s back at you John!
