write about an occasion when a special famiy meal produced unexpected result.
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On Sundays though, an hour or two before sunset, a transformation occurred in our home. The long table in our kitchen, whose job day to day was to hold mail and unfinished homework, as well as be a quick pit stop for filling empty bellies, shifted into something much more. Dressed nicely with linen placemats and napkins, the long table became the setting for a family ritual that somehow, in an almost magical way, quieted the differences between us just enough so we could share a meal and get to know each other.
My father at the head of the table was generally a serious man, but became the jovial story-teller for the evening on Sundays. With every juicy steak he served up there was a cheesy joke as its side. He would recount stories from his younger years, or sometimes those of our grandparents’. No matter what the story, there was always a punch line, which would generally draw an exasperated sigh from our mother, signaling that perhaps this story was somewhat exaggerated for comedic effect.
In perfect mother served up her potatoes and salad along with a verbal newsletter of the comings and goings of family and friends. Birthdays, upcoming celebrations for new babies or marriages and recent accomplishments at jobs were all shared across the table, as well as the tastier tidbits of information that she was hearing through the grapevine. She had her children’s full attention this one night a week, so it was important she share the information with us now as to not risk hearing later, “Mom – you never told me cousin Johnny was getting married?!”
Sitting between our parents at either end of the table, my three older brothers and I would split time between our parents’ conversations and that of our own. I cannot even remember our specific conversations, whether it was music or sports or politics, but I know that we actually talked to each other, about something! And little by little, Sunday by Sunday, we became more than just siblings, we became friends–with each other and with our parents.
The phrase “creature of habit” could very well have been invented in our family. Sunday Family Dinner’s menu every week was (is) steak, potatoes and salad. On occasion and by request only, my father would grill up some fish or burgers along with the steak. But the steak, potatoes and salad always remained the principal of the meal. It was the consistency, something comforting you could count on each week, that brought us back home no matter what and made Sunday Family Dinners a The four siblings are now split between two cities in two states, so Sunday Family Dinner goes to the town that Mom and Dad claim as home for the time. Over the years we’ve added spouses and nieces and nephews to the long table. My father repeats some of his stories from years ago and my mother finds herself forgetting which set of children she has already shared certain family updates with – do the Austin kids know this or was it the Fayetteville kids she told? But little by little, Sunday by Sunday, we continue to share our lives around a long table filled with simple good foods and friends.
My brother stood at the door of the flat at six in the evening. I heard the singing of keys and saw the silhouette of his feet through the crack under the door. I scurried over to open the door for him and witnessed him confusedly fiddling with the house keys. There stood the the person whose voice I heard occasionally, but face I had not seen in two months. I smirked and commented about his loss of memory. He just slouched there and gave me a bored look, head shaven and in his camouflage greens, as if I had just cracked the lamest joke of the century. What a way to say hello to your sister, I thought to myself.
"Mum! Dad! I'm home!"
Donald stepped in with his oversized green bag.
"You're home!" My mother scuttled out of the kitchen with her spatula. She was in the midst of deep-frying Donald's favourite luncheon meat. Mum wanted to give Donald a hug but realised that she was oily from cooking and he was wet from perspiring, and so, decided not to. Dad came out from the office and grinned while placing a hand on Donald's shoulder.
"My son is now a man," he proudly declared.
Welcoming Donald home was indeed a special occasion. Mum even cooked dinner today. The last time my family had a home-cooked dinner was exactly 2 months ago, the very night before Donald was officially enlisted. Meals were quiet without a sibling for me to fight with over who would get to have the last shrimp. It was, however, going to be different tonight.
"Dinner is ready!"
At once I paused the continuation of my essay homework and sped to the dining room, all ready to eat. The dinner table was full of Donald's favourite dishes. Baby carrots and vegetables, juicy steaks, aromatic mushrooms and starchy potatoes, saucy chicken - with gravy that left your mouth wanting more, and last but not least, luncheon meat. All eight pieces were topped with delicious stir-fried leek, a famous self-invented combination by Donald.
We sat around the table admiring the food that was laid in front of us. Donald picked up his fork and I saw his odd, uneven tan lines and laughed mockingly at how strange he looked. We said our prayers and started to down the delicacies. The meat, vegetables, and every inch of dinner tasted wonderful and slightly nostalgic. Donald very happily munched on the delicious food he missed when he was in camp. I did the same, not squabbling with him over any last bites. I even generously gave up my share of luncheon meat to him. The four of us exchanged merry conversations over dinner, as if Donald never got enlisted.
After dinner, Donald succumbed to his laptop in his room. I sat next to him, just like I often did before he went to serve the country.
"Donald! Did I tell you about my pet leek?"
"Pet leek?"
"Yes, I have been growing leeks in the balcony for two weeks!"
"I bet it died, just like all your other... 'pets',"
"How encouraging," I muttered to myself.
"Maybe I did forget to water my other plants, but I've been taking good care of my pet leek! Except... It might have started turning yellow last week..."
Donald scoffed.
"What are you laughing at? I'll show you my pet leek now!" I announced whilst marching to the balcony to fetch my pet.
"Mum!" I shrieked in horror.
"Don't shout when it's late! I'm in the bathroom, Casey," my mother shouted, with the sound travelling through the window that was facing the balcony.
Oh no, I thought to myself.
I went back to Donald's room and saw that his face was starting to crumple up, before he ran to the common bathroom and stayed there for the next twenty minutes. Soon Dad did the same, except he had no toilet to run to so he had to borrow our neighbour's one.
After the episode of listening to a symphony of droppings, my mother came out of the bathroom, holding her stomach. I showed her my bald leek. She gasped. Mum had harvested my leek for dinner.
"That was... quite a welcoming experience," Donald sarcastically commented as he stepped out of the common bathroom. "Also, is that supposed to be your leek?" He questioned, pointing to the plant in my hand. I nodded, and the both of us looked at Mum. She straightened her shoulders and claimed that there was no leek in the house, and she had carefully cut out the yellow parts. When Dad came home, he saw my topless leek and started to laugh.
"Mary, please don't ever try to cook Casey's experiments again. They can be deadly," Dad advised while trying to hold back his guffaw. I shrugged, before joining my entire family in laughter.
Dinner was supposed to be a pleasant treat to welcome Donald home. However unexpected the results turned out to be, I suppose we all did enjoy ourselves!