“Time to eat!”

-Mom

Some nights I just want to pull my hair out when it’s time to think about what to make for dinner. You too?

Last night wasn’t one of those nights. We splurged with some (on sale) lamb chops, which I happily purchased when the teen in the house (always a picky eater but now branching out—yay!) announced she would try it.

I decided that’s what I’d cook tonight about 4 pm as we pulled into the parking lot at our local Mediterranean shop. They’re open for breakfast and lunch and serve some great to-go options that will supplement tonight’s home-cooked meal.

“Uh-oh. I think they’ve just closed.”

I tug at the door with hope. Sweet mercy—still unlocked. I poke my head through the half-open door.

“Are you closed?”

“Yes, but come on in.” The lady of the place waves us in with a smile.

“We need some of your amazing tabouli.”

Adding to my order a half dozen stuffed grape leaves and some baklava, the aforementioned teen asks the shop owner where she is from.

“I am from Palestine,” the sweet woman replies.

I notice a hint of emotion in her confession and her eyes reference mine for a split second.

I smile politely, my mind quickly scanning social barriers the present situation in her homeland could present. I wonder. How does she feel? Does she have family and friends there? Does she worry that customers here in this mostly white, southern, conservative-American neighborhood might react negatively to her, knowing her background?

I want to tell her I wish the world would all just love one another. I want to tell her how much I appreciate how she and her family have been lovingly serving our community with wonderful food and atmosphere and how sorry I was to hear of their family’s loss years ago, when one of their adult children died in an accident. But I don’t.

My precious teen, not yet fathoming the many possible implications of her innocent question, fills the split-second pause. “My Situ made me try Mediterranean food. She’s from Lebanon.”

Bless that conversational teen.

“Oh, you’re Lebanese?” She looks at me.

“Not me. Her other grandma.”

We talk about Kafta.

Back home again, after an evening stroll and shower, I put rice on to boil and season the lamb to rest a few moments in salt, pepper, garlic, rosemary, and dash of coriander. I choose a Barbera wine for the demi-glace.

While the parmesan-crusted squash slices are air-frying, I customize some store-bought hummus with extra lemon and olive oil and prepare the salad plate.

I love setting a nice table, but it’s getting late, so just a couple of candles will do the trick.

I think about my mom. She didn’t cook fancy meals or set a fancy table. I can almost hear her open the squeaky screen door and yell, “Time to eat!”

There were six of us kids. We had it pretty good back then, but didn’t know it. We often said we’d gladly ship our over-cooked hamburgers and lima beans to the starving children in India.

I have family. I breathe in a sigh of relief, remembering a time I curled up in a ball, crying of loneliness after a divorce. A time when my grown daughter didn’t want to talk to me—as if it was all my fault. Of course, no divorce is all one person’s fault. I didn’t know if I’d ever have family again in those days

It is a special blessing to have family to gather with for the most ordinary routines. I am grateful. God placed me in family. I’m grateful we’ve worked through the kinks and this big, blended family is getting along pretty well. For the most part, anyway.

Though I sometimes dread deciding what to make for dinner, I love creating an atmosphere of supportive, bonded family. I treasure our simple times together at the table. We face one another. We chat. We savor the meal and the company. It is good.

I think about the lady in the Mediterranean shop. Does she know that the time she took to make tabouli, grape leaves and baklava made our dinner so much better tonight?

I want to do a better job of loving my neighbors.

I think about you. What is it like for you? Does your family scatter and eat at different times? Do you make mealtime a special time to connect? Have ya’ll worked out your kinks?

Do you have your neighbors to supper?

When was the last time you heard your mom calling, “Time to eat, come to the table!”

And, for Pete’s sake, what are you making for dinner? I wouldn’t mind some new ideas. . .

#cometothetable

#family #neighbors

#connections #what’sfordinner?

#HolyWeek2025

Love to you all — Joan