I believe in dinner

Beth - Revere, Massachusetts
Entered on February 27, 2008

I believe in dinner. Sunday dinner, specifically. It’s not the Norman Rockwell scene I’m referring to, in this case—although the good accomplished by a family coming together at the table probably warrants a belief system of its own.—no, in this case I’m referring to Sunday dinner my way, with my friends, in my tiny apartment, crammed around my wobbly table that we have to adjust with matchbook after matchbook. It’s not fancy. I usually make a pot of something we can eat out of bowls—cassoulet, jambalaya, chicken stew. No hors d’oeuvres, and very little ceremony unless opening a bottle of wine counts. In fact, people I like enough to invite into my home have been known to come in and directly sit down at the table…no pit stop on the couch to observe the niceties of cocktail chatter necessary, thank you. What is necessary is the connection we make every week or so when we get together. Hearing about each other’s lives in a way that doesn’t involve a cell phone or an email is its own small miracle. We talk and laugh and catch up and lay waste to any hint of what one of my friends calls “a case of The Sundays.” Have you had one? It’s that sinking dread you feel upon hearing the tick of the 60 Minutes clock. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick tick, tick tick. It’s 7 pm on Sunday. Have you been all you can be this weekend? Maybe not, but I’m going to guarantee that a bowl of beef stew and hearing about someone’s two (two!) dates in one day, or someone else’s hilarious story about their boss, is going to make it all seem fine. And is going to make Monday all that much easier to face. Maybe it’s more Norman Rockwell than I thought…