Around The Kitchen Table

I had supper with my mom last night—just the two of us, because our men were out of town at a golfing tournament.  We talked about everything from current events to the problems and joys in our own lives.  I thought about how blessed I was, to sit with my mom at the table, look into her eyes, and talk.  And I started thinking about how so many of my best memories are of sitting around the table with my family.

When we were growing up, almost everything happened around the kitchen table.  My sisters, Lisa and Heather, pinned patterns and cut fabric there.  Adam, my brother, played with Legos.  I read and wrote little stories and poems.  We all did our homework there.  We had family devotions and family meetings there.  And every single day after school, the four of us sat around the table and told Mom about our days while she made us a snack.  Mom and Dad had a rule that we always had supper as a family, no matter what.  If there were sports or drama practices, we ate later or earlier so that we still ate together.

During supper, we talked about anything and everything, usually all at the same time.  And yes, every single one of these meals was homemade by Mom.  This sounds idyllic, almost “Leave It To Beaver”-esque—and it truly was, for the most part.  Of course we fought and argued with each other—there were four of us kids, after all.  Mom tried to seat us in certain places so that the ones who usually fought weren’t seated next to each other, but that rarely worked.  We still found things to argue about.  I remember Mom dishing up Neapolitan ice cream for dessert and as she handed out the bowls, she said, “Before anybody says anything, you all have the same amount of chocolate.”  We still looked at each other’s bowls—just to make sure.  And then there was the time that Adam ate his first radish, spit it across the table onto my plate, and ran full speed for the door.  The screen door slammed behind him just as he vomited all over the front porch.  I can still hear Dad: “You better hose that off before you come back in!”  And Adam did, came and sat back down, white as a sheet except for his freckles—and supper continued without missing a beat.

There were serious moments at that table, too.  I remember sitting there with Dad, looking at college catalogs and trying to decide which college I would go to.  I sat there with Mom one night after a close friend in high school was killed in a car accident.  I had been lying in bed, unable to sleep because I was trying to make sense of my friend’s death, and I got so upset that I went and woke up Mom.  We sat at the table, in our pajamas, and we cried.  She held my hand and talked to me and prayed with me until I was at peace enough to sleep.

I received so much comfort at that table.  Sixth grade and junior high were difficult years for me at school.  I was an odd, bookish girl.  School was sometimes awful; differences aren’t exactly celebrated when you’re in seventh grade.  I remember being at my locker one day, thinking, If I can just get through the next class, I can go home. Tonight we’re having tuna casserole! And the thought of Mom’s casserole eaten around the table with my family was like a lantern on a dark night, lighting the way home.

And oh, the fun we had around the table!  The six of us played endless games of cards there—Russian rummy and pitch (although if Adam was losing, he’d throw his cards on the table, tell us how stupid the game was, and storm off.)  Now, when our family plays cards, we have to add extra leaves to the table because there are 22 of us there. (well, 21 if Adam is losing. . .)  Playing cards on Thanksgiving night is a beautiful chaotic event, with all of us there.  There are probably seven arguments and ten funny incidents happening at the same time.  Someone will spill their drink or food, which always elicits this reaction from Mom: “NO ONE MOVE.  I’ll get it.”  We freeze while she scurries off to the kitchen and returns with stacks of paper towels and cleaning products.  And then we carry on, just like we did after Adam ate the radish.

And I love every minute of it.  But sometimes, I wish I could go back and say, like Mom: “No one move!  Freeze–just like this.” I want one more childhood supper with my family: one more supper with tuna casserole in the blue and white dish, Kool-Aid in the Tupperware pitcher, radishes in the salad, and Neapolitan ice cream for dessert.  Just one more supper as we were then, with Lisa in braces, Heather in a bolo tie and one of Dad’s old suit jackets, Adam making guns out of whatever bread Mom served, and me, being shot by Adam’s bread gun.  I see us there so clearly, waiting for Mom or Dad to say “Whose turn is it to pray?”  In my heart, that’s a lantern I’ll always hold onto—the memory of the six of us, around the table, sharing jokes, arguments, sorrow, and laughter.

So this one is for you, my family—for who we were then and for who we’ve become with the families we’ve made—you’re the story of my life.  And I could not love you more.