Slowing Down to Share a Meal

BGCL Newsletter

BGCL Newsletter invites you to heal and transform through slow, intentional living. Each week, take this moment to pause with me and recall what is essential. 💚

Hey friends,

Last week, I visited my in-laws in the city and spent a great deal of time around the table, sharing meals together. It was reminiscent of the years we lived with them before moving to the country, and the countless times we had gathered around the same table to sing, laugh, and share fresh challah. After a few years away from that ritual, it felt like a homecoming. Only this time, we had a new baby overseeing the discourse and stealing crumbs from the adult plates.

While I was in the city, I also had the chance to meet up with some folks who are doing interesting work around diversity and inclusion. Our conversation started on the topic of representation in outdoor spaces, and wound its ways to food, naturally. We talked about the joy of sharing a meal together, the challenges of healthy eating in our modern world, and the concern over the widening chasm between people and our sources of food.

The others at the table opened up about their family mealtime routines, and it turned out that none of them had regular meals together. Feeling a little sheepish, I admitted that I had dinner with my family every night. They were all stunned. How is that possible, they asked. I thought for a moment I realized that family dinner was a central part of my upbringing, and I always knew I wanted to carry on the practice with my own family. However, creating the time and space to share meals has not always come easily.

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You see, I come from a lineage of women who nurtured family through homemade food and shared meals. Growing up, my mother cooked 99% of our meals at home and they were all from scratch. No cans, premix boxes, or frozen containers. And not just dinners, but delicious, delectable, and delightful baked goods. Lest you think she did this because she was a stay-at-home-parent, she worked full-time outside of the home. My mother rarely rested or took time for herself, but it was important for her to share this mealtime tradition.

She was the second youngest of five kids on a 160-acre farm where everything they ate came from their land. In addition to a full dairy operation, my grandmother also grew an expansive vegetable garden that fed the family fresh produce through the summer. Peas, asparagus, onions, tomatoes, potatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, and more. As crops came into season they were canned, frozen, or stored in an underground root cellar to be eaten through the cold season. A tremendous amount of work, but that was how they survived.

While the men labored in the fields, my grandma taught my mother the art of creating a loving home, starting in the kitchen. After the meal was prepared, grandma rang the bell to halt the work so everyone could wash up for dinner. The family settled into their assigned seats and bowed their heads to say grace. During this brief synchronous moment, the family exchanged bits of information about their lives: school, weather, friends, harvests. Then the men returned to the barn to milk the cows while mom and grandma cleaned up inside.

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As a kid, I had zero appreciation for the skillful chef that lived in my home. I begged my mom for a Happy Meal, Toaster Strudel, or Chef Boyardee ravioli. She balked at such a request, insisting she could cook those same things from scratch—in “Janet’s Kitchen.” Not only did she cook them from scratch, but she diligently showed me and my siblings how to cook, as well. Over many years, she taught us how to read a recipe, how to measure correctly, and how to improvise a meal with whatever was in the cabinet.

Each evening, my siblings and I set the table with my mom’s prized collection of Pfaltzgraff Village dishware atop a bright floral tablecloth that belonged to my grandmother. Each plate had a proper silverware setting and glasses for water. When the food was ready, the TV and radio in the adjacent rooms were turned off and we gathered around a home-cooked meal. We’d bow our heads over our plates to whisper words of thanks before serving up hot plates of casseroles and veggies.

I look back fondly on the memories of our shared dinners together, even though it was not always good times in our home. It was a moment of connection in our increasingly separate lives where we stepped back into the wholeness of being a family. The one exception was my father who would retreat to the basement with his food to sit alone in front of the TV. I always felt resentment about the distance he created from us, but my mother never wavered in her belief that this time was important.

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When we moved out of my in-laws' home to start life in the country, we were on our own with two young children. The early days were just survival, and then trying to determine how we wanted our family and home to function. We both worked full-time jobs that left us drained at the end of the day. I felt a pull to be in the kitchen preparing meals for my family, just like my mother had done. I wanted us all to gather around the table each evening. I wanted to nourish this family from the kitchen. But I also lacked the energy, time, or discipline to make it happen.

Our shared meals came in starts and stops, until one evening when I saw how easily this practice could fall apart. My husband was getting sucked into extra tasks at work and had brought his laptop out to the table. He stared at his screen and slurped his soup, completely detached from what was going on around him. Immediately I felt a familiar shock of anger that my family was being split apart by another screen. At that moment, I had a choice: stew in the resentment like I had done with my father or set a new tone for how we would operate as a family.

With some fear and hesitation, I chose to set a boundary around our family mealtime. I needed our dinners to be a sacred moment we shared together. No phones, no laptops, no TV—just us. Regardless of where the meal came from, I wanted my kids to experience the significance of daily shared time together. I wanted them to know that we would always have space to look each other in the eyes and listen to each other. I wanted them to feel the deep love that my mother gave to us each evening when we slowed down to share a meal.

So tell me: What memories do you have of shared mealtimes? What kind of shared meals do you have in your life presently or would you like to have? You can hit reply to share with me directly or leave a comment on the Substack BGCL community page. 

Thanks for taking time to slow down and be present with me this week. Take care, be kind, and we'll talk soon,

Hillarie