Updated: March 30, 2021 | Originally Published: November 27, 2014
Growing up in New Jersey, our family made it a point to gather for dinner at 6 p.m. every evening. My dad worked in construction, while my mom pursued her degrees in art history. It wasn’t until I became an adult and started my own family in California that I appreciated the effort it took for them to provide us with warm meals each night. Dinner wasn’t just a routine; it was a collaborative effort, and everyone was expected to pitch in.
My mother often prepared hearty one-pot meals that my brother, Ryan, and I humorously dubbed “Slop” (a mix of egg noodles, ground beef, and an assortment of frozen vegetables) or “Death Reheated,” a chicken and rice recipe that could have been delicious if it weren’t for the excessive amount of lima beans. My dad took care of serving and cleaning up after.
A single batch of “Death Reheated” would last us from Sunday to Wednesday, and I distinctly remember the relief I felt when the serving spoon hit the bottom of the pot. Regardless of what was on our plates, we sat down at 6, sharing our day’s news—the highs, the lows, the funny stories, and everything in between. It was our time to connect.
If you weren’t seated at the table by 6 p.m., you needed to provide a reason. “Driver’s ed. with Mr. Thompson.” “Soccer match against Fairview.” “Gravel delivery.” “Art history lecture.” Family was a priority. Once we settled in, we all made an effort to be present, even on those grumpy days.
Now, as a parent myself, I find that my husband, who grew up with dinners at 5:15 p.m., and I have our own two children. Our days are a whirlwind of activities and sometimes I feel like all I do is wave goodbye to my beloved family. “Goodbye, see you later, have a good day! Bye!” But when dinner rolls around, we strive for 6, though it often turns into 7:30. I cherish hearing the latest news: who faced trouble at school, who has a new crush, who scored a goal, or who heard something quirky on NPR. Family dinner acts as a magnet, pulling us together as the sun sets. Often, we have an extra soccer player or friend who drops in around 6.
Recently, my 8-year-old expressed a desire to help by slicing cucumbers for our salad. “Aren’t these cucumbers amazing tonight?” he asked once we were all seated. “You cut them, right?” his older brother chimed in. “Great job!” “Thanks for your help,” my husband added.
Last winter, our neighbor received a colon cancer diagnosis. His children attend school with mine, and I wanted to support them but felt uncertain about how to help. We carpooled together, and their kids visited to play with mine, but I still felt like I could do more.
One Thursday, while picking up a chicken for dinner, I decided to get a second one and roast it for my neighbors. I left it on their porch, warm and ready just before dinner. They texted their gratitude, and that became a weekly ritual. As their treatment shifted from chemotherapy to radiation, I added potatoes and vegetables, all neatly packed in a recyclable aluminum tray.
I learned their Thursday routine and would announce my arrival with a silly chicken joke or a simple “Cluck cluck.” Each week passed, and I remained committed to delivering a meal.
The dishes I prepare for my family are made with care—fresh, organic ingredients that are colorful and nutritious. Chicken, whether breasts, thighs, or a whole bird, is seasoned with love and accompanied by baked baby potatoes, sautéed greens, or roasted vegetables. Sometimes, I include a zesty chickpea salad, brimming with scallions and parsley.
On a recent Thursday, I noticed my neighbor and his son deep in discussion about Samuel Beckett’s plays when I arrived. I handed over the meal and embraced my neighbor, who was recovering from surgery. His wife and daughter joined in, and it was heartwarming to see him surrounded by his family. I didn’t linger to find out if they ate the food right away or saved it for later. It didn’t matter; they could dive into the meal without worrying about cooking or cleaning.
Walking back home, I felt a sense of fulfillment in helping my neighbors. I imagined the dinner I provided serving as a family magnet for them, just like it does for us. On Thursdays, at least, they could skip the chaos of cooking and focus on being together, perhaps sharing a laugh like my brother and I used to.
Since I began this tradition nearly a year ago, I’ve discovered that the joy of a family dinner multiplies when it’s shared between two families. Next Thursday, they’ll be away for Thanksgiving, but I’ll continue our little tradition when they return.
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Summary:
In this heartwarming reflection, Jessica Langston recounts the importance of family dinners and how she has extended that tradition to help a neighbor in need. By delivering homemade meals each week, she fosters connection and support during difficult times. Through shared meals, both families can focus on togetherness and laughter, reinforcing the value of community and kindness.