Gingerly cupping a cool egg in his right hand, Charlie pulls a pearly bowl closer to him. Two taps. Crack. Times a dozen. Swirling around his steady task, coffee is burbling & steamy, bacon is blistering, toast is popping, ripe melon seeds are scooped, then sliced all to the soft, blood-pressure-lowering soundtrack of NPR’s Weekend Edition. Bacon’s siren aroma pulls my bleary-eyed, jammie-clad bed-heads off the couch and into the sun-streaming dining room.
With fairly uncivilized young children and severe food allergies present, not only we do gather here for three meals and forty-six snacks a day (save for school lunches), we make almost everything at home from scratch with very specific ingredients. We don’t know any other way of throwing nutrition into their calorie-starved bodies.
While the children’s interest appears to lie mainly in being Quality Assurance Inspectors, all three gravitate to the intoxicating waft and disheveled kitchen topography at some point. The colors, textures, aroma of the meal itself are woven into the snippets of family narratives and daily shares, creating a seamless story of this time. The preparation is often a literary prologue to a later connection: we edit homework over the whir of the food processor and hear a smidgen of news about math club; we hunt for missing puzzle pieces together amongst the ripening fruit while loading the dishwasher; and our middle, with the falling autumn temperature attached to his body, darts past the grill and then pauses on his mission to decorate to his roly-poly’s shoebox habitat. (True Story. Its name is Curl.)
Roasted chicken with lemon and tarragon. Seared buttery rib eye with a tangy reduced-balsamic vinegar drizzle. Sautéed farmers’ market-fresh rainbow chard and garlic with a splash of dry amber sherry. Velvety tomato soup. Dense root vegetable pot pie with a light flaky crust. To be sure, on the soccer practice nights speckled among those others, we see our fair share of boxed mac-n-cheese, frozen pizza, and chicken of the processed nature. Our painfully undersized table suffocates under the plenitude: plates, forks, sippy cups, serving bowls, fare, dinosaurs. All five of us squeeze around the old rectangular slab in (admittedly) grimy, squeaky chairs, although someone is jumping up for dining accessories ninety-six percent of our mealtime. More milk; a spoon with a different handle for Ben; oh no, the car rolled off the table; a second third serving for Jack and Charlie; kitchen towels for milk that just lost its glass; more milk. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
And yet–the Four Percent? That beautiful Four Percent is where the magic lays. It is in this brief golden window of five seated tushes and ten interested ears that we debrief. Engage. Connect. Stories are shared, spelling words recited, preschool finger-plays taught, multiplication facts chanted, tidbits and calendar necessaries noted, senseless jokes delivered and (not really ever) explained.
A cursory glance only reveals the visual and auditory chaos: the cluttered tabletop, clinking glasses, shuffling chairs, dropping tines, five various volumes and pitches crashing into each other over a platter of roasted Brussels sprouts plays out with the same calm as a souped-up nightclub scene. Minus craft cocktails and the hip twenty-something vibe. While far from Zen Island, I’m acutely aware of the pulsing connection we share above the din. I feel it in a nuanced response to who sat by whom in the cafeteria. I see it in bright, shiny eyes and hear the brain-working-faster-than-speech excitement of a recess football play. And sometimes, what appears banal on the surface, reveals an important issue when nudged; an issue we may only catch on a Four Percent moment. John and I share a morsel of our own hours, and more often than not, we delve into a relevant childhood story or fragment of family history.
I wholeheartedly admit the drawn-out food process can feel arduous. Annoying. Un-fun. Loud. Yet, what we lack in ambiance we make up for in connection. There will come a day when this same table will feel immense for two people. The house will be too quiet. And leftovers too abundant. While our family narrative isn’t articulately shared from beginning to end from an antique rocking chair in front of a roaring fire, it’s here among the clamor and the cruciferous vegetables.
And for that, I am profoundly grateful.
Now, if I could get some help with the dishes….
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