Supper was time for the four of us. Always. My friends in high school and college talked about how they would make themselves something to eat on the evenings when their families were scattered from one athletic practice to another, or when their parents had other obligations away from home. Not us. We sat down together, we all ate the same meal, and we stayed there talking for a while after everyone was finished. We must've talked about our days and school and the farm -- I don't really remember any conversation in particular. But there we stayed, long enough that I kept my hands busy by making little sculptures out of bread wrapper twist ties. People. A bicycle. The Eiffel Tower.
Since moving into my own home alone, I've often lamented about the difficulties surrounding cooking for one. Bread goes stale. Fresh fruits and vegetables rot. Servings aren't often packaged for one; even half-sized cans of peas have more than one serving in them. Leftovers fill my house. Tonight, though, I realized that's only half the problem. I'm missing the conversation after the meal.
I listened to a podcast on pockets in women's clothing as I ate my nearly leftover-free meal -- vacuum sealed fish filet, one serving of noodles, but the rest of those pesky peas will have to just sit in my refrigerator -- and I wondered if I'd finish eating before the episode was over. As the host kept talking, I pushed my empty plate a few inches from me and leaned back. A few weeks ago, my best friend told me that's how I've finished every meal she's ever seen me eat. Pause, slide the empty plate away, lean back. Until that night, I didn't even know I did it...but tonight I realized I was hoping to have a moment after the meal before cleaning up. I dread finishing the last bite and then bouncing out of my seat to put all the food away and load the dishwasher...I dread missing out on the time after the meal. So I sat there and finished the podcast before rushing off to clean up the aluminum foil and peas.
But it's not just eating alone in my own home that lacks that final conversation time; eating alone at restaurants magnifies the lack. My family has been known to stay for hours -- yes, hours -- after a meal in a restaurant while the waitress just keeps refilling our glasses of ice tea.
But I don't think it's just us, while I do believe we take it to a new extreme. Perhaps it's within the culture of the Midwest, but I know more people who would rather eat alone in their cars than alone in a restaurant. It's especially difficult in small communities where people recognize everyone else's faces, whether or not they know each other. Last month, I decided to eat at a pizza joint a few towns away. As I stood in line for a table, the busy waitress actually looked right past me to the family behind me to ask how many were with them. She had assumed I was waiting for more to arrive, she shrugged. After I piped up and asked the waitress for a table, she furrowed her brow and looked in the adjoining room.
"Is a round table okay?" she asked. I had no idea why the shape of the table mattered...until I followed her into the room. She pointed to a table for six. The only available table.
While I waited for my pizza, I scrolled on my phone and texted my friends about how ridiculous I felt, sitting there with five empty chairs around me. They applauded my courage, and I was a bit proud of myself, too. As I finished, the owner -- with a thick Italian accent and one hand on my shoulder -- thanked me for coming and asked how the meal was. We chatted for a moment; quick and unexpected conversations like that are usually the best part about eating out alone. Well, that and people watching. Both remind me of just how big this world can be, of how connection can happen in a million different ways. Of how breaking bread together isn't always about sitting at the same table.
As I talked to the owner of that little pizza place, I probably slid my plate back a few inches and leaned back in my seat. At least there was a speck of conversation between the last bite and leaving.
