A Table Full
(c)2006 R. Dean Johnson
I can proudly say I have never been hungry—for
anything. In addition to good groceries, the
provisions of attention, love, and affection were
all equally abundant in my childhood.
If a kitchen, in any way, reflects the bounty in
one's life, my family was richly blessed with almost
embarrassing wealth. And I'm not talking about fancy
cars, swimming pools, designer clothes, or
extravagant vacations. I mean to say the kitchen
cabinets were stocked full of snacks, goodies, and
fillers of almost every kind. There were leftovers
of some sort usually sitting out on the counter from
the previous meal. The deep freezer was packed with
meats and vegetables raised and grown on our farm.
And come mealtime, there was always plenty on the
table when we sat down to eat. Plenty to feed our
stomachs. Plenty to feed our hearts and souls. There
was always a table full of nourishment.
My mama has always been a great cook. She knows how
to put on a spread. I followed her enough times up
and down every aisle at the Piggly Wiggly grocery
store to know she had a handle on what she was doing.
And then I watched her wrangle the pots and pans
with such aplomb that anything short of delicious
was not possible. She has cooked under pressure. She
has cooked with short notice. She has cooked for the
masses. She has cooked for the preacher.
Daddy has his own way of filling the table. I've
watched him kill hogs, hang them over large steaming
wash pots or iron kettles, and procure the most
enjoyable pork meat I've ever tasted. I've seen him
prepare salt-cured hams in the smokehouse. He's
raised cattle for food, and he's fished for food.
He's planted the most beautiful gardens, which
flourished with every imaginable vegetable that would
dare grace a suppertime table. Together, he and Mama
have always provided generously.
But as a child, it was more than food that garnished
our kitchen table. When we sat down to eat, we were
together. And without knowing it then, we were being
filled with a sense of family and belonging.
Everyone knew what the other had done that day.
Everyone knew what was happening tomorrow. My
brother and I were never begged or ordered to come
and eat. We were glad to be there.
Neither debate nor compromise was necessary to
guarantee our presence at the table. We were there.
And our parents were there with us and for us.
However, there is a slight disadvantage to such fond
recollections. The tendency for anyone to compare a
wonderful childhood memory of what they cherish to
anything else is sometimes like comparing apples to
oranges, or apples to less-ripe apples.
When I was once invited to join a couple at their
home for dinner, I looked forward to seeing their
home, meeting their children, and being a part of
their family's evening meal. The first thing I
noticed was the pantry in disarray. Bags of potato
chips and pretzels had been left open with their
contents littered on the floor. Two loaves of bread
had both been eaten from and left unsecured. Candy
bars, half-eaten and still in the wrappers, lined
the shelves.
Duplicate containers of all kinds of cooking supplies
(oil, sugar, seasonings, etc.) sat randomly about
the shelves without any organization. I counted at
least four cans of PAM nonstick cooking spray at
four different locations in the pantry. Nothing
substantial could have been obtained from all that
was seemingly available. It may as well have been
empty. The meal seemed to mirror the pantry's
belongings. The table was a mishmash of several
different kinds of foods, including Chinese food,
Lucky Charms cereal, pizza, and Pop-Tarts.
The selection of various cuisines was necessary
because each child liked and disliked certain foods.
And even with the tailor-made menus, the children
were threatened and coerced in an effort to have
them sit and eat. When that didn't work, they were
promised toys, trips, and video games. Debate,
compromise and resolution worthy of the United
Nations dominated the chaotic beginnings.
But once everyone was seated, the meal finally
commenced. You could have heard a pin drop. Not a
person spoke.
I observed the dynamics carefully as each person
dropped his or her head and ate in silence. No one
had any idea what the point of being together meant.
The concept of talking was not entertained. They
didn't know how to behave around each other in this
intimate situation. The children were not even
accustomed to sitting and conversing during the
meal. The silence was disturbing, but thankfully
short-lived. The meal was over in less than fifteen
minutes. We were finished.
Place settings had been beautifully arranged at the
table. A more-than-adequate amount of food,
representing several different tastes, had been
prepared and was available. Six people sat around
the table together, yet the table was empty.
In 1950, my mother was a freshman at Lander College,
a then small, private institution in upstate South
Carolina. She was fortunate enough to have an
academic scholarship, because she didn't come from
a wealthy family. She would be the first to say her
family was poor. Everybody in those days was poor,
but her family always had plenty to eat, clothes to
wear, and a clean home. They also knew what it meant
to sit down together over a meal and share as a
family.
It was during Mama's freshmen year at Lander that she
was invited to spend a holiday weekend at the home
of a young woman who had become her friend. Mama was
glad to have somewhere to go rather than spend a
long weekend alone in the dormitory. They took a bus
to the girl's hometown, where her father met them.
They rode in an old truck to her friend's house.
Mama recalls the house being very rundown and
weathered. They walked into the kitchen where Mama
found very sparse furnishings. A long wooden table
with wooden benches on each side filled the center
of the room. An old wood stove, which sat in the
corner, and a single cabinet nailed to the wall,
completed the remaining décor. On the stove was a
pot of lima beans that had been cooking. On the
table were a pan of cornbread and a bottle of
ketchup. No one spoke. They simply sat down and ate.
The minimal provisions and stark surroundings were
interrupted briefly when a young girl, deformed and
retarded, appeared out of nowhere. Mama's friend
jumped from the table and ushered the girl away. The
moment was awkward as was the mood in the home.
Nothing was ever said about this girl, the meager
offerings, or the weekend spent together. Mama was
embarrassed for her friend.
The physical environment of the kitchen in which she
ate offered a glimpse into the life of this family,
and it had nothing to do with the lack of
furnishings or the minimal food provisions. The room
reflected a certain loneliness. The long wooden
table was designed to accommodate more than this
family could offer. Something was missing. The table
was empty.
Kitchens, pantries, and dinner tables come in all
shapes, sizes, and designs. These structural
resources are engineered to support food preparation
and consumption. People rely on these domestic
components to eat and survive. But most importantly,
these items help make a house a home. In more ways
than we know, they feed those who dwell within.
The dynamics of a family can be found in its kitchen.
Take a look in the cupboard, the cabinets, or the
refrigerator. See what kind, if any, of paper lines
the shelves. Is the kitchen table used for storage
or fellowship? Is mealtime reconciling or divisive?
Is the table prepared so that the family is
nourished?
Being undernourished, either physically or
emotionally, has never been a concern to me. I have
lived a very fortunate and privileged life in that
regard. Ironically, in a world where people still
die from starvation, my concern has always been
whether I've eaten too much. And I have. But if you
had sat at Mama and Daddy's table when it came time
to eat, you'd be full too. There was plenty of
everything to go around, and we all had second
helpings most times.
About the Author
A native South Carolinian, R. Dean Johnson grew up in
a rural community under the stars of Southern skies
and the influence of lazy accents, good cookin’,
kind folks and country livin’. But, it was many
miles and cultures away under the influence of
different kinds of stars where he grew up as an
author.
In his first book, “Life. Be There At Ten’Til.”
(iUniverse), Johnson bridges the geography and
culture of these two distinct worlds and offers a
refreshing new commentary on life and its bounty of
wisdom. Read more of R. Dean Johnson's homegrown
wisdoms at his website:
http://www.rdeanjohnson.com
