If you ever wondered what it was like at mealtime in a big family, let me tell you. There were thirteen of us altogether (eleven kids and two parents) and yes, we all belonged to the same mother and father. That alone was remarkable. One family, one rhythm, and two tables to make it all work.
Meals weren’t about favorites. They were about eating what was given. The rules were unwritten but clear:
- Don’t be last.
- Don’t be picky.
- Eat what’s there—or don’t eat at all.
We grew our own vegetables. We raised our own animals. Nothing was wasted. Chickens gave us eggs in the morning and Sunday dinner by evening. Zucchini showed up in every form imaginable, fried, boiled, baked, disguised in casseroles. And biscuits? Well, sometimes they came out with a little extra charcoal. We didn’t complain. We scraped them off with a knife and ate them anyway. Some of us even joked they were hockey pucks. But you wouldn’t dare tell Mom her food wasn’t good. If you did, you’d “see tomorrow today.”
And leftovers? Forget it. Leftovers were a myth, like unicorns. Food didn’t go into the fridge. It went into us. If you wanted seconds, you had to be faster than your siblings. I can still remember arms reaching over my head, sometimes for seconds, sometimes for firsts if the sibling didn’t arrive on time. Plates were cleaned, pots scraped, and if you blinked, your favorite food became your sibling’s favorite instead.
So what was our favorite meal? Truth is, it wasn’t about the food itself. It was about the moment. The bench that held us shoulder to shoulder. The arms that reached. The laughter that followed. The garden harvest that kept us fed. The biscuits that made us laugh even when they were tough. Our favorite meal was whatever Mom cooked, whatever Dad provided, and whatever brought us together – two tables, thirteen plates, no leftovers, and a whole lot of love.
Those were the joys of life. Imperfect meals, shared laughter, and the steady love of parents who gave us everything they had.
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