Last week we had my brother’s family over for supper, pus my sister-in-law’s two nephews who were staying the night with them.
For supper, I sauteed two big bunches of kale in my largest skillet. I made a South African-style tomato-onion gravy from a recipe I found online. Eucefe made xima. And then I also grilled a bunch of chicken and hardboiled a dozen eggs to serve on the side. For the dessert, I turned a half gallon of milk into pudding, dumped a quart of leftover huckleberry fill from the bakery into a bowl, and plated some old-fashioned brown sugar cookies I’d had in the freezer.
I served the meal buffet style, hovering behind the island and chatting with everyone as they filed by. While the guest nephews filled me in on the whereabouts of their parents and their evening sleeping arrangements, they piled xima, tomato gravy, and greens on their plates before disappearing outside to eat their dinner by the firepit.
Later, when I played the evening back in my head, I was surprised to discover that it was the nephews that stuck with me. Not the boys themselves — I didn’t talk with them that much — but the way they matter-of-factly approached the meal. That night’s food was plain, yes, but also unusual, yet those boys didn’t even bat an eye. Instead, they took enthusiastic portions and then ate it, the end.
In a culture glutted with choice, preference, food obsessions, and health fads, the simple act of eating what is served — no questions, no picking, no whining, no hesitation — is astonishing.
Which is exactly what made it an evening headliner.
This same time, years previous: eight fun things, a special weekend, six fun things, how we homeschool: Jane, the quotidian (3.30.20). Asian slaw, for-real serious, the art of human rights, absorbing the words, the quotidian (3.30.15), the quotidian (3.31.14), Good Friday fun, braided bread.
