Candlelight & Chicken Nuggets
Ah, family dinners. That magical time of day when everyone was supposed to gather around the table, hold hands, and share stories while eating a well-balanced, home-cooked meal.
Yeah… that never happened.
When my kids were little, I tried. Really, I did. I dreamt of Norman Rockwell moments. But instead, dinner became a nightly episode of “Who Hates What?”
One kid didn’t like vegetables. Another refused to eat meat. At one point, the boys would only eat broccoli and cauliflower if they were doused in ketchup, which is a crime against both vegetables and condiments. If I served fish, someone cried. If I made meatloaf, someone gagged. Chicken nuggets were the only universally accepted food group.
Every now and then, I’d go all out – placemats, real napkins, candlelight, and the fancy glasses from the back of the cupboard. I’d set the table like we were hosting royalty, turning an ordinary meal into something a little more special.
And wouldn’t you know it? No one complained. Not about the food, not about the setup, not even about the lack of vegetables, because, let’s be honest, I rarely made them. I hate vegetables. The only time they showed up on the table was when one of the kids piped up with, “Mom… aren’t we supposed to have vegetables with dinner?” Honestly, it’s a miracle they turned out as healthy as they did.
We had the occasional win, pizza night, or breakfast-for-dinner (because apparently scrambled eggs and bacon become exotic and thrilling when served after 5 p.m.). But mostly, family dinner meant one of two things:
- At least one person was going to pout.
- I was going to end the meal wondering why I even bothered.
As the kids got older, the inevitable phrase would emerge:
“We’re having THAT??” complete with a sneer, an eye roll, and sometimes even full-blown fake gagging. In my head, I’d mutter, “Why did I even try?”
But I kept going. I made family dinners all the way through high school. It was a thankless job, and I don’t know that I ever got it right for everyone. I even tried prepping meals in advance before business trips or vacations, labeling containers and freezing casseroles like some kind of martyr in an apron.
One vacation, I came home to discover the two weeks’ worth of lovingly prepared, clearly labeled meals hadn’t even been touched. They ate cereal, fast food, frozen pizza, and whatever else required zero reheating instructions.
Still, I kept showing up. Because in between the pickiness, the spills, the “I’m full” five minutes after sitting down, and the ongoing negotiations over having cereal instead of dinner, we had moments. Someone would tell a funny story from school. Someone else would try a new food (and maybe even like it). We’d laugh. We’d tease. And for a few precious minutes, we were together.
These days, even though there’s still one kid at home, I’ve stopped making family meals. I was never making the right thing anyway, so I stopped trying. Now I just cook for myself and wait for the next generation I can try again with.
Maybe grandkids will enjoy my efforts.
Or maybe they’ll gag at meatloaf, too.
Either way… I’ll be setting the table.
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