This story first appeared in CityView magazine’s September 2026 edition.
Growing up, I never knew there was a term to describe the exact way the six of us ate dinner—or “supper,” if we’re being Southern-technical—seven nights a week, regardless of how long my parents’ work days had been, how many extracurricular activities or how much homework the four of us kids had after school. Sitting down as a family to eat a home-cooked meal around our big kitchen table was an expectation—not optional, and not a novelty. It was as much a part of our daily routine as brushing our teeth, getting dressed for the day, and leaving for our respective schools and offices.
Suppertime was sacred to my parents, and their children had rules to follow out of respect for the sanctity of the only time during our busy days all six of us were together in the same place without interruption. The kids were expected to take turns setting the table and were taught from a young age how to do this task properly—putting out placemats, folding the napkins into neat triangles, and arranging the dessert and dinner forks in their correct places neatly to the left of the Blue Willow china plate…the fork and spoon to the right. If it was your turn to set the table, it was also your responsibility to ice the glasses and place them in the corner of the place mat where they belonged.
There were no hats at the table. No electronics. No eating until all the food had been passed, served, and most importantly, blessed. No excusing yourself from the table until the last, slowest diner finally announced they were done. This was, without fail, always our dad, and we kids, now all in our 30s and 40s, still agree to this day that we spent years wondering if he cut his food into the tiniest pieces and chewed in methodical slow motion just to torture the four of us.
If you were lucky enough to have eaten a meal prepared by my mother, you know the food that was served at our carefully-set table was worthy of the ceremony and reverence. On any given night, our wooden farm table was completely covered with bowls and platters of whatever delicious homemade cuisine she had chosen for that evening. It could have been a big plate of chicken, fried to absolute perfection, flanked by a bowl of mashed potatoes slathered in melted butter, made-from-scratch biscuits with homemade peach jam, and green beans seasoned so well that even the most green-averse child could have been tricked into eating them.
The next night it might have been a fresh fruit salad with every fruit you could imagine, glazed with a sprinkling of sugar and lemon juice, blueberry muffins, and the pièce de résistance, homemade meatball stroganoff, a dish so popular in our family that my mom had to ration the meatballs exactly evenly between her four kids. There were bubbling casseroles, pot roasts with tiny carrots, giant bowls of chicken ‘n’ dumplings, pasta dishes with sauces my mom created without a recipe, homemade yeast rolls, and dishes of whatever vegetables were in season that always paired perfectly with our entree. And, without fail, there was always a big, ceramic, blue-striped pitcher of fresh sweet tea and a little glass bowl of sliced lemon on the table.
Dessert was not reserved for special occasions. Several nights a week, our big supper would be followed by a sweet treat. Maybe apple dumplings with homemade hard sauce. Strawberry pie with fresh whipped cream. Fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies or homemade chocolate ice cream in the summer. The adults would make an after-dinner pot of coffee, and, on occasion, my mom would pour us kids our very own “coffee”—equal parts sugar and milk with a splash of black coffee.
And while we ate, my family talked. Our conversation topics ranged from the happenings of our days, to silly things, serious things, religion, current events, and family matters. We were six people who each knew that no matter what, we would be able to come together once a day to share a nourishing meal and be together as one family.
These suppertime traditions and memories were so special to me that when my husband and I got married and started a family of our own, I told him that no matter how hectic our days became, it was vitally important to me to carry on these uninterrupted, family-style suppers around our kitchen table. For a while, we did really well. I tried my best to recreate my favorite childhood meals, taught our two children how to set the table, and upheld the regulations of my childhood dinners—no hats, no screens, blessing before eating, and no one is excused until everyone is done.
And then came the TV trays. Four folding mini-tables with their very own storage stand, tucked in a corner of our living room. We’d ordered the set from Amazon as a short-term solution to relocated dining during a kitchen renovation. Several weeks ago, as I carried pre-plated meals from the kitchen to the living room, distributed each of them onto a TV tray, and tucked an unfolded paper napkin under plates, and plopped a fork and knife on top of them, it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember the last time we’d eaten supper at our kitchen table.
Our renovation had been complete for months, and we were still eating plopped on our sectional sofa in front of the television. My family assembled at their respective trays, and my son asked if we could watch professional soccer highlights. My daughter countered with, “No! We have to watch America’s Got Talent! That’s our new tradition.” So much for the no screens at the table rule. So much for conversation. I decided then and there that supper was moving back to the kitchen.
And so, the next day, my daughter just happened to have several friends over for a sleepover. When I insisted that the kids put their electronics away and come to the kitchen table for supper, my tween protested, “But Mom, we’re just eating takeout!” She and her friends made their way to the kitchen, where I’d dumped tortilla chips from their greasy paper bag into a fine china bowl, poured salsa into individual ceramic ramekins and queso from its styrofoam cup into a tiny pitcher for serving, and moved their tacos and quesadillas from their aluminium containers onto our nice dinner plates.
Again, my daughter, a little perplexed, surveyed the spread and said, “Mom, you didn’t have to do all this. We could have just eaten out of the containers.” One of her sweet friends, unaware of our months-long dinnertime America’s Got Talent binge, spoke up and said, “You’re lucky your family eats together at the table like this. A lot of people don’t these days.” And then, that same friend offered to bless our food. Food that we enjoyed while we laughed and we talked. Family-style.
