Blog Post #1: Sunday Dinner

No vegetable leaves its watery stain on my plate. No potato occupies valuable room in my stomach. No bean sets my digestive system into motion. My plate and my stomach are empty; the white emptiness of the plate calls me to have a bite of salad or the tiniest chunk of bread; the vacancy in the stomach begs in its grumbling way for fulfillment. Today, however, is Sunday, and I will not succumb to wasting the valuable emptiness of my stomach on such mundane pleasures as tubers and legumes.

My father lives and works in Louisville. He comes home for four or five days every two weeks and then he must uproot again to a land far less fruitful than our home. It is a sad existence. He planned to move my mother and sister and I to there at some point, but he wants to fix up our house a little before selling it. An intention most worthy, though intrinsically impracticable: he is home only four or five days at a time, hardly enough time to love his family and fix minor household malfunctions. The pleasure of his company fades too quickly. We should not dilute it with other chores.

My mother and sister lightly garnish their plates with those mundane amusements. They do not understand the fixation that now possesses me, nor can they be held by the same fascination. They sit side by side and daintily nibble at the warm, soft, toasted bread that mocks my fasting. But soon enough, my suffering will be rewarded, and the grandeur that awaits me will recompense all pains endured.

When he is home, we are often occupied by chores that dilute our limited time with him. A project due on Monday that I must complete over the weekend. A gymnastics meet for my sister. An essay I must write. Once, I wrote an essay for a psychology class that was more like cutting a strong onion on the keyboard. It was about family. My thesis was about the benefits of eating as a family, and I included research about how great it is to have a fully intact family: teens who eat frequently with their families are 40% more likely to make A’s and B’s in school, are 42% less likely to drink, 59% less likely to smoke, 66% less likely to try marijuana (abcnews.go.com). We don’t often eat as a family.

The empty place on my father’s side of the table is vacant, as is usual at the Jozefov house. The wait gives me time to reflect on my feeling of longing for my father’s presence. Then the delicious clang of the lid of the grill reverberates through the kitchen, bringing me out of my musings with an excitement. The excitement is near indecent for someone who is not starving and is awaiting food, but perhaps the excitement that I feel as I wait for my father to appear at the back door is not due to merely the expectation of sustenance.

Figure 1. The Empty Chair! Source: www.naute.com

When he is home, there are certain tasks that one can be certain that Dad will undertake. He will repair whatever broken items that I am incapable of restoring into its own. He will do some small restoration to make the house look better for selling. Always, there is a trip (or several) to “the store” with my mother. This trip out is often some of the only time that my mother and father spend alone together during his return, and they spend it on Saturday morning. “The store” is not a store, but an eclectic combination of vendors. A farmer’s market, Wal-Mart, Costco, Publix, and a restaurant comprise the usual trip to “the store” with my mother. The only noticeable similarity between these components of “the store” is the presence of food.

The plate appears, preceding my father’s arm, which precedes his body, which precedes his happy, slightly proud, face. He opens the back door and steps into the room, and says nothing, but closes the door behind himself. He stands and looks around, commenting on how beautiful the corn looks, how good the beans look…Finally he walks the two short steps to the table and proffers me the plate.

When asked where they are going on Saturday morning, the answer is always the same: “the store.”They are always happy when they arrive home from “the store,” my mother and father. Going and buying food for the coming week, supplies for school, maybe dropping by her school so that he can help her move a desk or reattach a bulletin board. But they mostly go for the food. They bring back groceries and happiness. I love it when they get back from going to the store.

There they are; after such a long wait, anything else would be anticlimactic, but not these. These are small as an ox, these are dry as an ocean, these are fatty as a gymnast; these are perfect steaks. Though my mother and sister don’t eat the meat, they benefit from its presence. Everyone feasts and is amiable and talkative. Our tongues loosen and we all have a wonderful experience at the table, as we do on every other Sunday.

Figure 2: Filet Mignon. Source: pinegrovemarket.com, copyright Pinegrove Market and Deli

Often, my family seems dysfunctional. Often, it seems irreconcilable. But, when my parents are out to “the store” to buy food, and when we share a family meal, we are again united as a family. The love flows forth from the wellsprings of our hearts and adds such flavors to the food that a simple meal of steak, potatoes, and vegetables becomes a gourmet meal that no chef could ever put in front of a customer.

I reflect, as I inhale my steak, on what steak means to different people. The word recalls many descriptions: juicy, pink, butterflied, rare, half-desiccated, tough…

Steak is tough. Its fibers endure the weight of thousands of pounds in life. In death, it is a critical part of the family dinner that brings my family closer together.

My stomach is full. My father's chair is occupied. "The steak is fantastic," I think to myself, "but being together is even better."