When my children were small, we tried to sit down to a family meal almost every night. It didn’t always work. Yossi travelled a lot. Each child had his/her own list of after-school clubs and interests, but we tried.
Friday nights, however, were a given. We always had Shabbat dinner together. If Yossi was traveling, he made sure to be home by sundown. The children never went out with friends on Friday night; Shabbat dinner together was an unspoken rule and even when they got older, and we needed to discuss their social plans versus our family ones, we found a way to share Shabbat dinner.
Understand that Shabbat dinner didn’t begin on Friday. It probably started on Monday or at least that’s when the questions started. Who’s coming for dinner? Where are we going for dinner? What are you making for Shabbat dinner?
I wouldn’t say it was all we talked about or thought about over the course of the week. That would be an exaggeration. Lots of life happened between Monday and Friday. But that meal, that shared repast, filled with singing and flowers, pretty tablecloths and warm and wonderful scents, was the cherry on the top of the week.
It was a time for a collective sigh. We ate well and, often, too much. We discussed politics and religion. We shared jokes. Somebody would invariably fall asleep on the couch. There was moaning and sighing and clean up (thank you, Yossi). Using the crumber to de-crumbify (thank you, Marly). And the post-meal post-mortem. What worked and what didn’t. Did the flavors complement each other? Should we make this again or move on?
We were a family all week long but that meal was the mortar to our bricks. My only request was feedback on the dishes. I didn't want all that work, the planning and the shopping, the chopping and peeling, the roasting and baking, to end with the last bite.
My family knew that. We discussed the meal through Saturday and invariably ate the leftovers the next day as well. The meals were planned and enjoyed and labored over and discussed, taking on lives of their own.
The meals took many forms: family-style and buffets; meat and dairy dinners; Chanukah Shabbat dinners for nuclear and extended families; pre-bar mitzvah Shabbat meals for family and out-of-town guests. Whichever form they took, they occurred, week after week, month after month, year upon year. They were the nuclei of our epicurean lives, built upon food, and encircled by family and friends.
We enjoyed Thanksgiving once a week. Yossi had the chance to bless our children, and have quiet and poignant moments with each of them. He took to singing Aishet Chayil, a song in praise of me, the wife and mother, that moved me, week after week. I was grateful for the chance to show my love for friends and family through this meal that I often slogged through from early in the morning until just before we sat down, dreaming of the end when every part would meld into a whole.
You might think, when reading this, that I woke up one day and had an insight into the powers of food and of cooking. However, my interest in food preparation didn’t start with me. Its roots stretch way back. Through my past until the present, I have gained mentors and shared wisdom along the way.