Mealtime

 

 Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art

I lived with 14 people growing up; yep, 14.  Funny thing is, I only had one sibling; just one sister.  It would be easy to envision a mealtime of 14 people sitting around the table, passing plates of food, sharing the events of the day, laughing and carrying on, but never happened in my world.  Thinking through my childhood memories, I can’t recall one single time we all sat around the table for dinner.  Most of the family ate their meal at different times, at their convenience; most of them ate in front of the television, screaming at this sport or that.  My sister and I being the youngest were usually ignored by the older aunts and uncles.  Mom was always too busy cooking or cleaning, Gramps didn’t move from his spot at the table much, and Dad was always asleep, having worked the night shift before.  There were many times, growing up, I felt lonely even with a house full of people.

My mom always cooked.  She wasn’t Martha Stewart or Paula Dean, but she was in charge of cooking-because she was the oldest of the six siblings.  I remember Mom often repeating the story of how Gram made her quit high school so she could stay home and take care of the other kids.  My gram, I guess she had more important things to do than stay home and tend to her young.  What with all the Catholic churches nearby, there was bingo games hosted at least six nights a week.  So, the task of cooking for my dad, my aunts, my uncles, and my grandpa was left up to my mom.  Besides them, she had her two little mouths to feed-my sister and me.

My mom usually rotated spaghetti and goulash for dinner.  That was our meal an average of five nights a week.  It worked perfectly for her; she could make enough to have leftovers for at least the following two days.  On rare occasion, we would have charcoal look-a-like hamburger patties alongside some instant mashed potatoes.  Drown those patties in ketchup, and they were a real treat.  If we wanted a real hamburger, we’d throw the charcoal between two slices of white bread, and of course, drown it in ketchup.  Rolls were a commodity, un-needed.  Heck, there was never real milk in the refrigerator; we used the powder stuff.  It didn’t expire so fast, and you got a lot from one box.

Eventually my aunts and uncles grew up, got married, and moved out; my grandma, she got remarried and moved out too.   While Mom was home cooking for Grandpa, Grandma happened to find herself a new husband.  So, eventually, it was just my parents, us two girls, and my Gramps.  But old habits die hard, if they die at all.  Gramps still sat, coffee cup in hand, at his spot at the kitchen table-a spot he rarely ever moved from, Mom would eat standing up so she could quickly get started on the clean up, Dad would eat late-and alone-before he’d leave to work the night shift, and my sister and I-we ate in front of the television.  

**posted for Magpie Tales