BREAKING BREAD
“Doreen, are those plates thoroughly warmed? You know I don’t like hot food served on cold plates.”
“I’m using a tea towel to carry them, Ben. They’re quite warm.”
Mum put a smile in her voice but playfully stuck out her tongue behind father’s back. I had to stifle my giggle behind a napkin.
Father was a stickler for proper etiquette at mealtimes, especially on Sundays. Mum was in constant motion. She stacked the warmed bone china plates to his left, filled the crystal water pitcher, and positioned the wine to his right. Lovely smells wafted from the serving dishes placed within father’s reach. Today’s main course was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with a secondary main of chicken curry and rice.
Father presided over Sunday dinner like reigning sovereign holding court. Ritual and presentation were paramount. Once everyone was seated and everything in its rightful place, he began to serve and pass the filled plates down the table.
“Doreen, you’ve outdone yourself again.” Father carved the roast English-style, piling thin slices onto the plates. “This joint is perfection, and your roasted potatoes are crisped just right.”
Mum beamed as she passed a plate to my younger sister.
“EEYOUUU.” My sister’s whine began to crescendo.
Penelope squirmed in her chair, pointing to the offending Brussels spouts. I aimed a kick, but it was too late to stop the words from spilling from her mouth.
“I don’t like the way they smell. I don’t want to eat--”
Father stopped, mid carve, knife poised in the air. “You will eat everything you are given and be thankful for it. Children are starving in China. Not another word.”
The forbidden words ‘but I don’t like’ were a child’s ticket to tears. Mum shot Penelope a warning glance and nodded towards the gorgeous trifle waiting on the sideboard. No child wanted to be sent away from the table without dessert. The whining stopped. The carving resumed.
After everyone was served, father cleared his throat. He made eye contact with each diner and bowed his head. Hands were folded; eyes were closed; heads were bowed. At my parents’ table, grace was said sporadically. Prayers of thanks were usually reserved for holidays and company meals. But, on Sundays, formal thanks to God were always given with eloquence and sincerity.
“Thanks be to God for this food and the friends who grace our table.” Father paused for effect. “Today we hear the words of Matthew 25:35, ‘For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’”
The Sunday morning sermon, still fresh in father’s mind, inspired a burst of active Anglicanism, adding a feeling of ceremony to our Sabbath meal. After the chorused ‘Amen.’, water glasses were filled, the wine decanter was passed from adult to adult, and everyone began talking. The mix of peoples invited to our home ensured diverse opinions and lively conversation.
Extra places were always set at the Sunday table. Father reveled in the role of master of ceremonies, but it was Mum who was the director of the play. She chose the cast with her eyes to God and her fingers crossed behind her back. Our family broke bread with both poor and rich, Christians and Jews, professors, soldiers, and hippies protesting the war. Guests often found themselves seated next to someone from a different socio-economic level, religion, or culture. Mum lived the tenet of ‘love thy neighbor’ and made a conscious effort to be accepting, giving, and nonjudgmental. She also blended the Christian teachings of compassion and hospitality with a reformist’s need to rock the boat.
“You know…,” Mum said to Kumar, a turbaned Sikh, who with his soft-eyed, sari-draped wife had contributed the delicious-smelling curry dish to our meal. “I absolutely believe that no matter what differences people might have, common ground can always be found.”
Mum turned to her left. “Don’t you agree Mr. Poole? You served in British India up until independence in 1946, did you not? ”
Mr. Poole gulped down his glass of wine, puffed out his chest, and launched into the benefits to India of the years of British colonialism and the partitioning of India and Pakistan. Vijay Kumar defended the struggle for independence and educated us on the differences between Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims. Voices were raised. My younger sister slipped beneath the table and examined people’s shoes. I stayed quiet and watchful. The breadth of the adult world was wondrous, and I was a twelve-year-old sponge.
Father took the floor. “It’s been medically proven that a rousing difference of opinion is good for the blood.”
When the waves of dissent built too high, father stepped in, calming the troubled waters by drawing from his arsenal of Mark Twain quotes.
Father continued to expound, “Mark Twain said, ‘Man is the reasoning animal. Such is the claim. I think it is open to dispute....’”
This quote was particularly long. By the time father sat down, everyone’s thoughts were off track, their argument forgotten. It worked every time.
The following Sunday, our British Anglican minister was invited on the same day as Ian, a young Irish airman, stationed far away from his Irish-Catholic parents and fiancé. A lamb roast was served. Everyone agreed on the food, but that was all. No shots were fired, but there were plenty of fireworks, extinguished by liberally filled glasses of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. That was the Sunday I learned that everyone did not believe that God was an Englishman.
Sunday after Sunday, Mum intermixed her favorite friends and neighbors with strays, strangers, and sundry business associates of father’s. The verbal sparring that ensued from this eclectic mix was usually good-natured and, more often than not, the dining room resounded with laughter. Father kept the wine flowing and Mum stage-managed, or tried to. Giggles would bring tears to her eyes as she attempted to gain some control over her friend Dolina, a Scottish widow with an indecipherable brogue, a rousing laugh, and a taste for slightly off-color jokes. Mum would hold her hands over my ears while Dolina winked across the table and helped herself to another glass of wine. Dolina’s clowning was balanced by Mr. Rosenberg, our very elderly, rotund, and kindly German-Jewish neighbor. He brought an old-world sense of decorum to the table and a gentle, satirical sense of humor, his puns were made even funnier by his tendency to mix English words with Yiddish
Underneath the ceremony and verbal antics that defined our Sunday dinners were fundamental life lessons: the importance of good friends, generosity, tolerance, kindness, and keeping an open mind. It was there that I learned to appreciate diversity and develop respect for both persuasive argument and diplomacy. I learned that dissenting opinions can lead to heated discussions, but respect for other points of view opens hearts and minds. And, if all else fails, one should maintain a strong sense of humor, keep plenty of wine on hand, or learn to quote Mark Twain.
“Doreen, are those plates thoroughly warmed? You know I don’t like hot food served on cold plates.”
“I’m using a tea towel to carry them, Ben. They’re quite warm.”
Mum put a smile in her voice but playfully stuck out her tongue behind father’s back. I had to stifle my giggle behind a napkin.
Father was a stickler for proper etiquette at mealtimes, especially on Sundays. Mum was in constant motion. She stacked the warmed bone china plates to his left, filled the crystal water pitcher, and positioned the wine to his right. Lovely smells wafted from the serving dishes placed within father’s reach. Today’s main course was roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with a secondary main of chicken curry and rice.
Father presided over Sunday dinner like reigning sovereign holding court. Ritual and presentation were paramount. Once everyone was seated and everything in its rightful place, he began to serve and pass the filled plates down the table.
“Doreen, you’ve outdone yourself again.” Father carved the roast English-style, piling thin slices onto the plates. “This joint is perfection, and your roasted potatoes are crisped just right.”
Mum beamed as she passed a plate to my younger sister.
“EEYOUUU.” My sister’s whine began to crescendo.
Penelope squirmed in her chair, pointing to the offending Brussels spouts. I aimed a kick, but it was too late to stop the words from spilling from her mouth.
“I don’t like the way they smell. I don’t want to eat--”
Father stopped, mid carve, knife poised in the air. “You will eat everything you are given and be thankful for it. Children are starving in China. Not another word.”
The forbidden words ‘but I don’t like’ were a child’s ticket to tears. Mum shot Penelope a warning glance and nodded towards the gorgeous trifle waiting on the sideboard. No child wanted to be sent away from the table without dessert. The whining stopped. The carving resumed.
After everyone was served, father cleared his throat. He made eye contact with each diner and bowed his head. Hands were folded; eyes were closed; heads were bowed. At my parents’ table, grace was said sporadically. Prayers of thanks were usually reserved for holidays and company meals. But, on Sundays, formal thanks to God were always given with eloquence and sincerity.
“Thanks be to God for this food and the friends who grace our table.” Father paused for effect. “Today we hear the words of Matthew 25:35, ‘For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me.’”
The Sunday morning sermon, still fresh in father’s mind, inspired a burst of active Anglicanism, adding a feeling of ceremony to our Sabbath meal. After the chorused ‘Amen.’, water glasses were filled, the wine decanter was passed from adult to adult, and everyone began talking. The mix of peoples invited to our home ensured diverse opinions and lively conversation.
Extra places were always set at the Sunday table. Father reveled in the role of master of ceremonies, but it was Mum who was the director of the play. She chose the cast with her eyes to God and her fingers crossed behind her back. Our family broke bread with both poor and rich, Christians and Jews, professors, soldiers, and hippies protesting the war. Guests often found themselves seated next to someone from a different socio-economic level, religion, or culture. Mum lived the tenet of ‘love thy neighbor’ and made a conscious effort to be accepting, giving, and nonjudgmental. She also blended the Christian teachings of compassion and hospitality with a reformist’s need to rock the boat.
“You know…,” Mum said to Kumar, a turbaned Sikh, who with his soft-eyed, sari-draped wife had contributed the delicious-smelling curry dish to our meal. “I absolutely believe that no matter what differences people might have, common ground can always be found.”
Mum turned to her left. “Don’t you agree Mr. Poole? You served in British India up until independence in 1946, did you not? ”
Mr. Poole gulped down his glass of wine, puffed out his chest, and launched into the benefits to India of the years of British colonialism and the partitioning of India and Pakistan. Vijay Kumar defended the struggle for independence and educated us on the differences between Hindus, Sikhs, and Muslims. Voices were raised. My younger sister slipped beneath the table and examined people’s shoes. I stayed quiet and watchful. The breadth of the adult world was wondrous, and I was a twelve-year-old sponge.
Father took the floor. “It’s been medically proven that a rousing difference of opinion is good for the blood.”
When the waves of dissent built too high, father stepped in, calming the troubled waters by drawing from his arsenal of Mark Twain quotes.
Father continued to expound, “Mark Twain said, ‘Man is the reasoning animal. Such is the claim. I think it is open to dispute....’”
This quote was particularly long. By the time father sat down, everyone’s thoughts were off track, their argument forgotten. It worked every time.
The following Sunday, our British Anglican minister was invited on the same day as Ian, a young Irish airman, stationed far away from his Irish-Catholic parents and fiancé. A lamb roast was served. Everyone agreed on the food, but that was all. No shots were fired, but there were plenty of fireworks, extinguished by liberally filled glasses of Harvey’s Bristol Cream Sherry. That was the Sunday I learned that everyone did not believe that God was an Englishman.
Sunday after Sunday, Mum intermixed her favorite friends and neighbors with strays, strangers, and sundry business associates of father’s. The verbal sparring that ensued from this eclectic mix was usually good-natured and, more often than not, the dining room resounded with laughter. Father kept the wine flowing and Mum stage-managed, or tried to. Giggles would bring tears to her eyes as she attempted to gain some control over her friend Dolina, a Scottish widow with an indecipherable brogue, a rousing laugh, and a taste for slightly off-color jokes. Mum would hold her hands over my ears while Dolina winked across the table and helped herself to another glass of wine. Dolina’s clowning was balanced by Mr. Rosenberg, our very elderly, rotund, and kindly German-Jewish neighbor. He brought an old-world sense of decorum to the table and a gentle, satirical sense of humor, his puns were made even funnier by his tendency to mix English words with Yiddish
Underneath the ceremony and verbal antics that defined our Sunday dinners were fundamental life lessons: the importance of good friends, generosity, tolerance, kindness, and keeping an open mind. It was there that I learned to appreciate diversity and develop respect for both persuasive argument and diplomacy. I learned that dissenting opinions can lead to heated discussions, but respect for other points of view opens hearts and minds. And, if all else fails, one should maintain a strong sense of humor, keep plenty of wine on hand, or learn to quote Mark Twain.
