No one goes hungry in my house. It’s a rule I’ve had since, well, since I’ve had a house. This goes beyond just my family. If you are in my house, I will feed you. Even if it takes my last dollar. I think the world needs more of this. Hospitality, I mean, not my cooking. I’m not religious by any stretch, but I think “Love thy neighbor” are the most important words ever put together. Imagine if everyone lived by that. No more hunger, because we would all make sure our neighbors have enough. No war, because the whole “love” thing. 

One thing that has been relatively constant in my life is dinner time. Growing up, it was at 5pm. Occasionally a bit later, but more or less the same time. We would all sit down at the same table and eat the same meal. This was before cell phones, so we just talked. It was considered rude to have a book at the table or headphones and discman (kids, ask your parents). Even if we didn’t want to talk, we still sat there as a family. 

Obviously there are nights where this didn’t happen. Illness, working late, or just plain life. I didn’t do any real extra curriculars growing up, but as I got older I would be out with friends more. Going as far as my bicycle would take me before the street lights came on. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was life. 

Dinner time would come, and we all knew to come sit at the table. During my childhood, it was four of us most of the time. Eventually I would grow up and move out into my own shitty apartments. Even then, I would try to be hospitable to anyone that visited. The cuisine back then was mostly dictated by my finances. There was a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches served up.

Then, as I got older and my wife and I brought more loin fruit into the world, the table had to be bigger. Our previous house in Florida had a table for six. When I was a kid, we ate what was served. I didn’t like every meal as a kid, but whomever was cooking tried to satisfy the majority. I try to do the same when I cook, but kids are picky. 

“I don’t like these potatoes.” “Shepherd’s pie again?! Didn’t we have this last month?”

My dad was a chef, so I know a thing or two around a kitchen. I’m by no means a pro, but I get more thumbs up than down, and I enjoy experimenting with new recipes. 

One of the center pieces to our lives was the table. That still holds true. There are eight of us under this roof, so the table needed to be bigger. I can look around at the occupants as we eat and just be so full of joy. This is where we share meals and conversation. Many times there are several conversations going at once. If you want to join, just pick one and jump in. We tell funny stories until we’re crying-laughing. We sit and work through hardships where we’re just crying. This big ass table is where I’m teaching the three year old how to write. This is where the older kids do their homework. It’s where we play chess and where I’m sitting to write this story. 

It’s just wood and chair cushions. Couple of candlesticks for decoration. But to us, it’s so much more than that. We gather here for meals as a family. I’m not going to even attempt to try and define what constitutes a “normal family”. Families come in innumerable shapes and sizes. All colors and creeds. A family isn’t about blood, it’s about love. When you sit at our table, you become part of that. Whether it’s tacos or shepherd’s pie (again), you won’t go hungry.

Dinner time is a tradition that I will continue to try and keep. It lets all of us break bread and be in each other’s company. The world needs more of that. Being in a room together and just talking, or listening to music or reading, or even just some quiet time. Our devices and the outside world in general demand so much of us. Our time and energy. Our attention. If it costs you your peace, it costs too much. Home is supposed to be a sanctuary, and the table is the altar where we can receive the love of our family. And maybe some garlic bread. 

My four boys have never been the “sit still and be quiet kids” you see on tv. At restaurants we are usually the loudest table. It’s mostly laughing, but sometimes we’re just loud. I’ve made my peace with it and I’m sorry if you were ever at a table next to the circus that is my family. At least we’re not fighting. Nothing takes the flavor out of a margarita like a soon-to-be divorced couple fighting over an appetizer (I’ll have another margarita, please and thank you). 

My point, if there is one, is that the table is more than the sum of its parts. Being around it, either for food or company, means you won’t go hungry.

“There’s no ‘normal life’, Wyatt. It’s just life.” –Doc Holliday