Dinners growing up were always more or less casual affairs (it was the 70s/80s and everyone worked, had group therapy, and didn't buy into the old traditions--it was the West Coast and it was very laid back). Furthermore, we weren't in touch with our extended family so if there were a big special dinner on a Sunday or holiday, only a few of us would sit around the table and make small talk (which in those days meant reviewing our feelings about this or that current event).
Inspired to live their lives differently than their parents, my parents provided more love than structure, more cereal than roast chicken.
Fast forward a few years and a few kids and the ideology of doing it differently ended with less quality family time, poorer nutrition, and a house that smelled more of pop tarts than bread, cookies, or rosemary chicken.
The decision to make more of a to-do over Sunday dinner came very gradually, with the return of the twins from their Dad's every other Sunday night, we wanted to mark their homecoming in some significant way. And as sitting down to dinner as a family became more important to me than worries about who did more cooking (and as the possibility of more time to plan and prepare meals became available), we took advantage of this one daily ritual.
The Sunday dinner in my house is nothing fancy. Tonight we're having flank steak with broccoli, salad, and rolls. What matters is that when the twins come home, they'll walk into a house that smells good. And maybe they'll carry these memories of the cozy smells of homecooked food into their adulthood.
[Photo Credit: New York Times]
