To Sit Around a Dinner Table
I couldn’t tell you how many meals I’ve eaten alone: plates of fries in airports, granola bars and bags of chips on night buses, bowls of lentils at the kitchen table in my apartment, or late-night take-out falafels with a laptop and dim lamp in my bedroom. Thinking on it now, there must have been thousands with just me and my thoughts.
Of course, I had friends in all the different cities where I lived. We’d get together in restaurants or have picnics in the park, and I especially loved doing a big Thanksgiving, feeding a Spanish, Italian, Turk, Frenchman, Russian, Czech, Dane, or Khazak their first proper American mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, casserole, and apple crisp—all vegan versions, of course. And it’s a beautiful thing to build a little community of friendship and love in a new place. But those meals were the exception.
The overwhelming majority were me at a table of one. I don’t mind being alone; I often need solitude and don’t remember many periods of loneliness during those years abroad. But looking back, it does have a tinge of sadness, like a college student away from home and spending most nights eating bowls of cheap noodles by themselves. They don’t necessarily have to be miserable for it to have that feeling of sadness.
As with all things in the Universe—and something I say often, those years away and getting used to being alone have me looking at home through a different set of eyes and appreciating the time with family.
And I’m especially grateful and present for the shared meals.
Growing up, my mother put a lot of effort into cooking different dishes and made sure we were at the table a few times a week for a proper family meal. For many other meals though, my father was famous for putting a hefty slather of peanut butter on wheat bread and eating it while rushing from one errand to the next.
And I’m doing that too often lately, slurping a smoothie for breakfast as I’m getting ready for work or scarfing down a shift-meal black bean burger, holding it over the garbage as juice from lettuce, tomatoes, and jalapeños drips down. I chew a few times, take another massive bite, and then rush back behind the bar. However, I love it when I have peanut butter on toast in one hand while putting on my shoes with the other because it makes me think of my father.
But since being home, I’ve been very fortunate to share a lot of meals with family. I’ve had many coffees sitting across the kitchen table from my Uncle Peachy or on the large plush couches in Uncle Ed’s living room. My Uncle Jeff had his first Chipotle burrito right in front of me at a low half-booth—and saved me when I didn’t notice that they accidentally put a massive handful of cheese in mine.
After six hundred falafels by myself in Europe, I got to go with my Uncle Dave to his first European kebab shop in Basel, Switzerland, and share durums (wraps) and fries with him and Uncle Bob.
My Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Crystal have a little pizza oven. So when I was there in the fall, we gathered around the kitchen island, Crystal pressed out dough for me, Uncle Jeff, Jimmy, and the kids, and we went around scooping toppings that were laid out neatly in small bowls across the counter. I then took my plate out into the garage with Jimmy, and he knelt in front of the low oven and cooked it to perfection.
I’m savoring the heck out of every bite and sip of shared coffee this year.
I even got a little emotional at the table the other week in Ishpeming with Uncle Nick and Aunt Julie.
I found out we were having tacos for Saturday’s dinner and told Julie that they’re my all-time favorite food and, with some apple crisp, would be my death-row meal. She had to bring two children to a sleepover, so Nick and I started to prepare dinner—we both really enjoy being in the kitchen. I was in charge of sautéing veggies while Nick cooked up a large cast iron pan of ground beef, calling Julie quickly to make sure three pounds would be enough. They’ve got ten children, who often have friends over, so cooking meals takes school-cafeteria levels of logistics.
And they eat incredibly well in that house. There were bowls of lettuce, tomatoes, beans, sautéed veggies, ground beef, cheese, avocado, salsa, nacho cheese, various types of tortillas, and a proper American-sized bag of corn chips. We each took turns preparing our tacos and then sat around the large kitchen table.
Julie put a platter of carrots, cucumber, and snap peas in the center—as she always does—and various bowls of chips, salsa, and cheese around it for sharing. We were passing things around and kids were holding out their plates and asking my Uncle Nick and Aunt Julie for more of this and that as the youngest Nelly ignored the little taco on her plate and tried to open up snap peas with her tiny fingers because she only likes the insides.
Between bites of ridiculously good tacos, I just sat back and took in the scene. It’s all slightly chaotic but so wonderful. A crazy-large family sharing a Saturday dinner in a warm kitchen, the dark cold winter evening outside the sliding doors, the wood-burning sauna on the deck already scalding hot and waiting.
“I’m really really lucky to be here,” I thought as my Uncle Nick dolloped nacho cheese on a plate for one of his kids. And I felt emotions welling up as I thought about how much I missed this type of simple quality family time.
There is something sacred to it, something so human and universal across culture and time. Since the beginning of humanity, it’s been a ritual to sit in a group and share the food from Our Beautiful Earth that gives us life.
After the meal, I took a sauna with my Uncle Nick and little cousin Torin. We came inside and, while we were out there, my Aunt Julie had made a surprise apple crisp. With wet shampoo-smelling hair and a post-sauna endorphin high, I sat at the table again with my little cousins and enjoyed a warm piece of apple cinnamon crumble and a scoop of coconut whip on top for that creamy balance.
The simple luxuries: amazing food, a hot sauna, and time with family, what more could anybody ask for?
My head hit the pillow that night overwhelmed with thoughts of gratitude, thankful I came home, thankful I made the drive to Ishpeming, and so thankful I get to sit around the dinner table with my family, making memories… and not eating alone.
Hope we can all slow down and be present to these little moments that make up days and years. Thanks for the thoughtful share brother 🫶
This article was so sweet. Made me a little teary eyed. My husband and I were not able to have children. One time my niece (from a large family) was over. We were eating dinner (my husband, I and 2 niece's)....... she asked "is it only you and your hubby eating meals together..... she said it seemed different than what I am used to. ' I am so happy you came home to see your family.