Something primal is essential, necessary, fundamental, and often goes way back in human culture. We can all recall the satisfaction of staring at a campfire or relaxing in front of a fireplace with a well-tended flame. So also we should recognize that sharing of food is a primal practice of past generations far removed in time and place.
In our world we see this practice repeated daily, but I wonder how often we stop to appreciate its importance? From mothers nursing newborns to smash cakes to s’mores around a bonfire, and from little girls with tea sets and EZ-Bake ovens to camp stoves and wood fires on a family vacation, sharing food has always been a part of family life. From fancy restaurants to fast food, the ritual of sharing food, of breaking bread together has been a feature of human culture for as long as there have been human cultures.
Sharing Food is Primal—Part ISharing Food is Primal—Part IIIn the Heartland, supper was a daily ritual of our lives. We looked forward to it every day of the week. Only on Sunday might the primary meal be served at dinnertime, which meant at midday. Church schedules often moved this event to 1 o’clock PM or even 1:30. It if had to be postponed to any later in the day, there were bound to be sneaking raids beforehand. I used to dread big holiday meals like Thanksgiving, because our family might put those off until 4 PM, and no one could justify going without something between breakfast and 4 PM. Smelling the scents of a holiday dinner for six hours beforehand would drive any small boy to distraction. Stuffing a pocket with breakfast bacon or butter bread, or perhaps kidnapping the entire box of Ritz crackers was the only way to survive it some holidays. My older brothers began plotting kitchen raids when backs were turned. They were always better at this thievery than I was, but they often shared some of the loot. It was probably because of these raids that smart mothers, like mine, began to provide something at lunch time on those holidays to prevent the thefts.
Every other day of the week, supper was the day’s finish line. Everyone had work to do, and even if it was only schoolwork, supper marked the hour when work would be put aside to gather with family members for the informal sit-down of the day.
My mother and both my grandmothers were legendary cooks. All three were born along the state line in either Clinton County, Kentucky or Fentress County, Tennessee. For as long as anyone knew, our families had kept gardens, fed chickens and a hog, and lived close to the land. Even the coal miner side of the family did these things
That’s what life was like. How lucky could a kid be?
My earliest memory is the maple table we sat around for supper on the edge of our little town. My mother sat at one end under a drop-leaf and my dad sat at the other. We three boys sat along the sides. My oldest brother got his own side with his knees between the table legs, but my other brother and I had to straddle a leg and lean forward in our chairs. The folks tolerated no nonsense, and being within easy reach, we didn’t try it much. We learned many things around that table.
We learned that they had a sense of humor. My dad made a joke or a funny comment about supper one night and my mother, who was serving and had not been seated yet, came over to his side and play-kicked at his leg with feigned outrage, but hit the drop-leaf support instead, which let the table leaf drop down. His plate slid to his lap spilling beans or peas or fried potatoes and we all laughed until we were nearly sick. Pop was more respectful with his jokes after that.
Think of it! Our parents played! They could have fun and kid each other. They sometimes exaggerated for effect. They laughed! With all they had been through in the depression and the war, they could still laugh and treasure family rituals. My mother had grown up in deprivation and want in the Depression. In the war my father had learned to recognize the odor of decaying human bodies. They had lived through terrible things, but they came together to preside over our supper every day. This was something primal to them, something they knew they must do. It was something they had earned.
It was truly remarkable. But I was a child in the 1950s, and I thought every home was like that, or I didn’t think about it much at all. That’s what life was like. How lucky could a kid be?
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This Norman Rockwell painting always reminds me of the traumas we never knew. The mother has her son home after a very long absence overseas. There are battle stars on his ETO campaign ribbon. She gazes at him just to reassure herself that he’s really back home again. It’s a day she feared many times might never come. He’s home for Thanksgiving 1945. What are they doing? They’re preparing food. Behind them can be seen the bounty from the garden, from orange groves in California, and the jelly she canned while he was gone. There’s humor and irony there. No doubt he served some KP duty, because he knows how to peel potatoes. The Germans and the Japanese have been utterly defeated, but when he’s home he gets to do KP again. There’s a shared meal coming up, and they’re all going to thank their lucky stars that they made it to this celebration of the primal ritual of sharing food.
We learned other things, too. The folks shared their faith with us before every supper and before every Sunday dinner. This part of our meal together was a given. They even brought in speakers to give special presentations. In the 1960s my mother tuned in the Billy Graham Hour of Decision on the radio on Sundays while she prepared the big dinner. We heard Billy Graham preach, and we also heard George Beverly Shea sing. The Lutheran Hour was next on the same station. It was nearly impossible to hover around the kitchen without hearing Dr. Oswald Hoffman’s spellbinding voice telling stories of faith. In this way I learned about Martin Luther and Dietrich Bonhoeffer and other giants of Christian faith. The Lutheran Hour always featured remarkable choral arrangements. My ear noticed these things without intending to do so.
Image Norman Rockwell, mother and son praying in a diner
Kids helping in the kitchen became part of the popular culture
In time, because boys (and girls, too, I soon learned) hold food in high regard, I began to branch out into meal preparation. At the beginning it was simple things like setting the table, then I was allowed to fill and carry the water glasses. After some success with these things came manners and not embarrassing everyone during a rare visit to a restaurant. We had a 36-inch Frigidaire range with a deep well. The operator of this wonder had the respect of us all. In time I was allowed to turn a burner on, or turn something down when it threatened to boil over. Mostly I just watched.
When I began to want to cook something myself, my mother started me with hot dogs. In our house, hot dogs were always steamed in about a quarter inch of water heated in small, low Kitchen Craft aluminum pan that was missing a handle. The dogs went in on medium heat with the cover on. I was taught to stare at it until it was done so as not to burn anything. With only that much water, one could hardly look away without damaging lunch. I could put the Miracle Whip on the bread if it was next to the stove, but I had to pay attention. I began to appreciate oven mitts and hot pads, too. I still love a steamed hot dog on bread with mayo. I can close my eyes and go right back to the kitchen on Riley Road, smelling the same smells from those days. The folks bought the Kitchen Craft pots and pans right after the war when such things became available again. My mother used them for sixty years to feed all of us. I still have them.
Kids helping in the kitchen became part of the popular culture. We were all charmed when this television commercial came out in the 1960s. Kids from the South know a thing or two about mealtime because their folks were good about teaching the ritual.
Shake-n-Bake commercial I remember:
Watching our mother follow the cookbook and do her magic in the kitchen taught us boys that maybe we could follow directions, too, and do a little cooking ourselves now and then. Recently my brother made a coconut cream pie (including the crust!) and pronounced it good. Then he ate the whole thing himself. He said I could have had some if I had been there when it came out of the oven. It’s my own fault. I must get down there more often.
So sharing food is primal, and many lessons and solid memories come from those occasions. We can pass these bonds and standards on to our family members and friends, sharing the joy of our past memories, and those to come. Don’t forget the young ones! They’ll be watching to see how things are done when somebody who remembers the old days does them. Make us proud.
Dr. Bruce Smith (Inkwell, Hearth and Plow) is a retired professor of history and a lifelong observer of politics and world events. He holds degrees from Indiana University and the University of Notre Dame. In addition to writing, he works as a caretaker and handyman. His non-fiction book The War Comes to Plum Street, about daily life in the 1930s and during World War II, may be ordered from Indiana University Press.
