They say that an essential component of successful child-rearing is the legendary “Family Dinner.” Apparently it’s crucial to maintain a regular schedule of eating around the table (yes, all at the same time) in order to reinforce the ties that bind us together.

Or something like that.

Well . . . okay . . . but anyone who has teenagers in the house knows that the phenomenon of the whole family being under the same roof at the same time is about as rare as a clean gym uniform.

But it was the night before Easter, and lo and behold, we were all: 1. home, 2. happy, and 3. hungry. The stars were magically aligned, and by golly, we were going to take a stab at this mythical “Family Dinner.” I had spent the afternoon doing housework and cooking for the next day’s holiday feast, so my husband and son graciously offered to run to the store to pick up some groceries.

Upon their return at 5:30 p.m., they announced, proudly, that we would be having pork chops (grilled!) and baked potatoes. Sounded perfect–a quick and easy meal, leaving plenty of time for enlightening and fulfilling conversation around the table. I was startled to see the size of the baking potatoes they brought home (each one roughly the size of a chihuahua), but I got them into the oven as quickly as possible so we could eat before 9 p.m. A couple of hours later, we were really making progress in the potato department, so my husband started cooking the chops outside in the dark, and the kids set the table while casually debating the placement of the [fictional] bread plates.

It should be noted that while waiting for the potatoes to bake, we had been watching the 5-hour-long epic TV movie The Ten Commandments. Since we had already invested several hours in this mission, we decided to break the first rule of the “Family Dinner,” and kept the TV on in the background while we ate, marveling at the formal, sometimes cringe-inducing dialogue, like the following:

“Water before love, my girl.”
“Oh, does it take the entire Nile to quench your thirst?”
“No, only your lips.”

AND…

“You will be king of Egypt and I will be your footstool!”
“The man stupid enough to use you as a footstool would not be wise enough to rule Egypt.”
“Oh Moses, Moses, you stubborn, splendid, adorable fool!”

[You get the picture.]

Anyway, what follows is a transcript of “Civilized Family Dinner, Take One”:

The Scene: We all contemplated our potato strategies independently. My son sat and waited for everything to cool, so as not to scorch his delicate palate. My daughter ate her pork chops first, in order to make room for the Great Potato Massacre to come. I knew I couldn’t possibly eat the entire thing, so I cut mine in half the long way, and discreetly placed one section on the table right next to my plate. My husband, on the other hand, sliced into his with great zeal, releasing a jet of steam into the air that threatened to set off the smoke alarm.

[Overheard from the TV]: “God opens the sea with a blast of his nostrils!”

Wiping the condensation off our faces, we ate silently, ignoring the Potato Elephant in the Room. Finally, my daughter spoke up:

“Um, yeah, these potatoes are really big!”

Husband: “Well, your brother picked them out.”

Son [defensively]: “Well, you told me to pick out the biggest ones I could find!”

Husband [busted]: “. . .”

Meanwhile . . .

Moses [from the TV in the background]: “Your shoulders should not bear a burden, old woman.”

Me [under my breath]: “Tell me about it, Moses!”

Daughter [refusing to let it go]: “They’re like mini-footballs. They’re ridiculous. They’re ridonkulous! What’s a good word for a ridonkulous potato?”

Me: “Potonkulous?”

[Increasing our vocabulary is a primary goal of family conversation, right?]

We resumed chipping away at our potonkulous spuds, when all of a sudden my daughter spied my extra half potato lurking next to my plate.

“Mom! Your potato is escaping! Get it!”

Me: “I put it there on purpose. There wasn’t room for it on my plate.”

Son [illustrating his point by making inchworm-like movements with his hand on the table]: “I think it moved a little!”

While contemplating the sudden animation of my shriveling demi-potato, I was startled to feel something warm press down on my foot under the table. Oh, it was just the dog, who didn’t want to be left out of this cultural seminar.

Daughter [logically]: “Well, NOW we have to name the potato. What should it be?”

Me [resignedly]: “Ummm……Eric?”

Daughter [clapping excitedly]: “Perfect!”

Now the dog put his wet nose in my lap, hoping for a pork chop bone handout. Even the cat, who normally ignores us, could sense that this meal was a momentous family gathering . . .Although he was recently diagnosed (to the tune of $300) with a mysterious “wrist” injury (do cats even HAVE wrists?), he limped pathetically over to the table in a 3-legged salute to our grand “Family Dinner” experiment.

Husband [in a Clark-Griswold-esque attempt to change the subject]: “So, when I was outside grilling, I think I heard the Easter Bunny hopping around!”

As if on cue, we all retreated to our happy places: Even at the ages of 16 and 14, my kids love the Easter Bunny. My daughter was clearly imagining a basket brimming with nauseating colorful marshmallow Peeps, and my son licked his lips in anticipation of the Reese’s peanut butter eggs he was sure to receive. The dog, hearing the word “bunny,” gave a contented warm-up growl as he fondly imagined “getting his bark on” while terrorizing the arch-nemesis rabbits that taunt him all summer from just outside of our deck rails. And the cat? He just couldn’t wait to get his good paw on the Easter grass, so he could eat it and cough it up in a strategic, carpeted location to be determined later. Myself, I just became nostalgic for the days when the kids were toddlers, as visions of egg hunts and Easter bonnets lazily floated through my consciousness.

By this time, we were all feeling the onset of carbohydrate comas, so we fell silent. As our 1st Annual Family Dinner came to a close, we realized we weren’t sure how to adjourn. Luckily, the TV intervened:

Moses: “Let my people go.”

We got up from the table, and went our separate ways.

So maybe it wasn’t the most sophisticated dining experience we’d ever had. And maybe it wasn’t what the Experts had in mind when they suggested that families who eat together stay together. But for OUR admittedly quirky family, it was just what the doctor ordered.

“So let it be written. So let it be done.”

This entry was posted on Friday, April 17th, 2009 at 10:49 am and is filed under parent. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.