Meals with a Purpose

I’m busy on Mondays, usually around lunch time. That’s the day my granddaughters and I have set as our “date day.” Sometimes we can’t make it, but usually it’s one girl’s lunch with Grammy.

This week it was Katie’s turn. She’s six now, just the age I was when my grandmother, Momo, decided to invite my sister, my brother, and me to each be her guest for dinner one night a month. In her converted one-car garage Momo had a Murphy kitchen and a yellow-and-chrome “breakfast set” from the 1940s. There were two chairs, with padded seats and backs, and once a month I sat on one of them, feet dangling just out of reach of the floor, while my grandmother sat on the other.

At this dinner, a treat to anticipate with shining eyes, the fare was simple, and satisfying. There was no talk of manners, of napkins folded properly, or elbows off the table. I didn’t have to finish food I didn’t like, and dessert wasn’t a reward, it was "A Course." I just thought it was loads of fun, but I now know its purpose.

Because of Momo I learned to use a knife to cut my meat. I learned to pour my gravy, and serve my own vegetables with a slotted spoon. “Mom usually cuts my meat for me, but I think I can do it myself.” I told Momo.  “I do, too!" she nodded. “At least you can try. I can help you if you need it.” If, as I was sawing at my round steak, it did a skid across the plate and landed on the floor, I washed it off, and began again. If I didn’t allow the liquid in the vegetables to drain through the spoon, and my plate was flooded…well, I knew better the next time.

This week Katie and I went to Denny’s, because at Denny’s a child can “BYB”, or Build Your Breakfast, choices no six year old can resist. Katie settled on pancakes, a scrambled egg, and bacon. As her plate arrived, a scoop of butter on top of the pancakes and the syrup dispenser brimful, she looked up at me. “Yes,” I said. “You may.”

It took a fair bit of time, but as I watched her hands holding the knife, trying to spread the butter on all three pancakes without dislodging the egg, then pouring the syrup ever-so-slowly, I remembered my round steak. And I grinned. “Dad usually cuts my pancakes for me, but I think I can do it.” she informed me. “I do, too!” I said. “At least you can try. I’m always here to help.”

I used to think Momo was nicer than my parents, but when I became a parent I understood. Parents don't have time for long meals like these, meals with a purpose, but Momo did.

And so do I.