Sunday Dinners

Our first dinner, which we actually call lunch, was informal. Everyone fixed what they wanted. Most of us had a variation of the tuna sandwich. Daltonman had a brown sugar and peanut butter sandwich. Daltonboy vociferously questioned what he was doing. I held my peace (and--please understand the self restraint exercised here--didn't even roll my eyes). I believe dm is attempting to shock me by eating the most disgusting and unhealthy foods imaginable. Also he is rebelling against the healthy lifestyle the rest of us have adopted. He refuses to eat vegetables at most meals. I believe that one of two things will happen: 1) dm will eventually come around to our way of thinking if he isn't coerced, or 2) dm will die a horrible death, brought on by causes incident to diabetes. Either way, there's not a whole lot I can do about it. We teach them correct principles and they govern themselves.

Our second dinner, which we call dinner, was also fairly informal, if you're comparing it to a banquet at Buckingham Palace. Or the Provo Marriott. I've noticed recently that no one in my family (except me--otherwise I wouldn't have noticed) knows how to set a table. Even daltonboy puts the forks on the right. Most of the time kids who are asked to set the table are angry about it (I mean, as the wife and mother, isn't that MY job?), so they throw the plates on in such a haphazard manner that they aren't even in front of the chairs. Also, they leave most of the stuff off, so that I end up leaving the table about twelve times to retrieve things they have neglected to set on. As I do, that line from "A Christmas Story" runs through my head: My mother had not eaten a hot meal in twelve years.

Yesterday I calmly instituted a new policy: You set the table, and you set it properly. If you do, it will be someone else's turn next time. If not, you'll do it right until you get it right. I placed a little instruction card on the table, complete with diagrams of how each place setting is supposed to look. Busboy did an admirable job. The plates were not one inch from the edge of the table, but I'm going to overlook that this time. This time.

Please note that at one time everyone knew how to set the table properly. A couple of years ago, my boys even taught the Young Men how to do it. But over the last few months, they've somehow forgotten this information utterly and completely. They have also forgotten that my job is not that of serving wench. I don't know how they forgot this, but they did. It's not like I accidentally started waiting on them hand and foot. And now it is up to me to remind them that my real job is to raise them to be able to function in society and raise families of their own.

I shudder to think about what will happen when daltonman leaves for his mission in five months. Peanut butter and sugar sandwiches for every meal, and no napkin or plate, of course. His dad went to a mission where they had a maid. I'm pretty sure daltonman is counting on this. I'm praying for something else.

Anyway, once we got table setting out of the way, the meal was very nice. And it was healthy (mostly). I actually used quite a bit of honey in the recipe. Please don't judge me. I tend to relax the standards a little bit for Sunday dinner.

And then we realized that it was unnaturally quiet. We looked at Lola. There had not been a word out of her for going on three solid minutes. This was unprecedented! Her nose was buried in an Italian phrase book, and she was grunting as she frantically flipped through the pages. Using the psychic powers of motherhood, I quickly realized that she had determined to speak only Italian. I asked if this was the case. She nodded. "Si."

We all sat for a minute and processed this information. On the one hand, it wasn't going to do any good for her to speak Italian to us, because we don't speak Italian. One semester of the language taken twenty-five years ago was not going to get me far. The rest of them don't even have that to fall back on. Maybe we should point that out? On the other hand, the possibility existed that we could sit through an entire meal and enjoy our food without incessant chatter going on in the background. We silently and collectively nodded. We would hold our tongues (something that is not difficult for the men of our family).

Lola continued to search and grunt. Finally I asked her to stop the grunting. She sounded like Mr. Collins. She nodded. Then she raised her finger (a la Miss Clavel) and said, "Ah! De-lee-see-osa!"

I said, "Grazie!"

"Prego," she said, and went back to the book.

Later, pointing to the lemon chicken glaze, "Per favore mi porti . . . syrup-a!"

"Huh?" said the boys.

"Oh, you mean this sauce?" I asked.

"Si. Sauce-a."

And so it went. After about ten minutes she gave it up, but it was a valiant effort. It was almost long enough to enable the rest of the family to engage in conversation. And no one even burped or ate with their fingers, which I attribute back to the table setting.

Two delightful meals at daltonhouse in one day. Is there a felicity in the world superior to this?