Growing up, I never really had the family dinners thing. My father left when I was 6, my mother wasn’t very much of a cook (to her credit, she could make amazing spaghetti and chicken salad though), so dinner for me was something like a chilli cheese burrito from Taco Bell in front of Breaker High playing on the TV.
The first time I had dinner with Mark’s parents, the idea of settling in a given place at a table filled with foods I had yet to learn to pronounce, without the television to serve as a central focal point, was alien to me. All of a sudden, I had these new set of familial obligations to learn and I was apprehensive at not being able to adapt as well as I should have because I hadn’t been accustomed to no more than a table for one (sometimes two). The cherry on top of my quickly melting sundae was that I was a picky eater on top of everything else. Vegetables never even grazed my plate and you couldn’t pay me to take a bit of any type of fish.
Ever so slowly, my love of food was nurtured and it is a beautiful feeling to be cooking dinner alongside by husband, in a home of our own, for the children who will always have better, and for the mother who couldn’t get me to eat much more than plain rice with soup!