Growing up in suburban New Jersey, my family had a sacred dinner time—6 p.m. sharp. My dad worked in construction, and my mom was juggling her studies for both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in art history. It wasn’t until I became an adult and started my own family in California that I truly appreciated how they managed to whip up a hot dinner for my brother Jake and me each night. For us, dinner was a team effort, not just a routine.
Mom often prepared hearty one-pot meals that Jake and I cheekily dubbed “Sludge” (a mix of wide egg noodles, ground beef, and a questionable assortment of frozen veggies) or “Death Warmed Over,” which was a chicken and rice dish marred by an overabundance of lima beans. Dad was in charge of plating and cleaning up.
A single pot of “Death Warmed Over” could easily last from Sunday to Wednesday. I remember the relief I felt when the serving spoon finally scraped the bottom. Regardless of what we were eating, we gathered at 6 p.m.—ready to share the stories of our day, the highs and lows, the laughter and the tears. It was our time to connect.
If you weren’t at the table by 6, you had to explain yourself. “Driver’s ed. with Mr. Thompson,” “Soccer match against Plainfield,” or “Delivering gravel.” Family was priority. Once your napkin was on your lap, you did your best to be good company, whether you were a grumpy teen or an exhausted parent. Our conversations ranged from jokes and riddles to the latest gossip and news, and sometimes we even combined forces to tease our parents.
Now, as a grown-up, my husband grew up with dinner at an earlier hour—5:15 p.m. We have two kids of our own, and our days are a whirlwind of activities. Often, it feels like all I do is say goodbye to my three favorite people: “Goodbye, see you later, have a great day! Bye!”
When it comes to dinner, we aim for 6 p.m., but often it’s closer to 7:30. I treasure hearing the latest family news—who got in trouble at school, who has a crush, who scored a goal, or who heard something wild on NPR. Our dinner table acts like a magnet, pulling us back together at the end of the day, often with an extra soccer player or a friend who drops by around dinner time.
Recently, my 8-year-old volunteered to slice cucumbers for our salad. “Aren’t these cucumbers fantastic tonight?” he asked as we settled in. “You cut them, right?” his older brother chimed in. “Nice job!” “Thanks for helping,” my husband added.
Last winter, a neighbor of ours was diagnosed with colon cancer. His kids are friends with mine, and I wanted to lend a hand but wasn’t sure how. We did some carpooling and had their kids over to play, but it still felt insufficient.
One Thursday, while picking up a chicken for dinner, I impulsively bought a second one and roasted it for them. I dropped it off on their porch, still warm, just before dinner time. They texted their thanks, and I found myself bringing over a roast chicken each Thursday. When their treatment shifted from chemo to radiation, I started adding potatoes and veggies in an easy-to-recycle aluminum pan.
I learned their Thursday routine and would announce my delivery with a silly chicken joke or a simple “Cluck cluck.” Week after week, I kept my promise. What I made for my family, I made for theirs.
The food was fresh and colorful, prepared with care. I’d whip up chicken breasts, thighs, or even a whole bird, seasoned with herbs and lemon, accompanied by baked potatoes or sautéed greens. Sometimes I’d throw in a zesty chickpea or lentil salad.
One Thursday, I found my neighbor and his son deep in conversation about Samuel Beckett’s plays when I dropped off the food. I gave my neighbor, who was recovering from surgery, a warm hug. His family joined in the discussion, smushed together on the couch. It was heartwarming to see them enjoying their time together, and I didn’t stick around to see if they ate immediately or saved it for later. It didn’t matter; they had the food ready, and when hunger struck, they could dive right in without having to fuss over cooking.
I walked home feeling a bit like a superhero for my neighbors. I like to think the meals I provided serve as a family magnet for them, just as they do in my own home. Instead of stressing over dinner prep and cleanup, they can focus on bonding and sharing laughs—much like my brother and I used to.
Since I started this weekly tradition almost a year ago, I’ve discovered that the joy of family dinner multiplies when shared between two families. Next Thursday, when my neighbors return from their holiday feast, I’ll be ready to pick up where we left off.
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Summary: Growing up in New Jersey, family dinners were a cherished tradition filled with laughter and shared stories. Now, as a mother, I continue this legacy while also supporting a neighbor undergoing cancer treatment by providing weekly meals. This experience has shown me that the warmth of family dinners can be extended to others, reinforcing bonds and bringing joy to both families.