“Suppers ready!” I can still hear Mom, clad in an apron, yelling this from the front porch of our farmhouse, if Pop was in the barn area. If he wasn’t nearby, one of the children had to “fetch” Pop, from the field,to let him know it was time to eat. I didn’t mind “fetching” Pop because I always had a ride home on the tractor.
Even when Pop walked in the door, he still had to wash up at the small sink in the kitchen, that had the spring water. I enjoyed watching Pop. He’d roll up his sleeves, fill the sink half full of water. Then he’d lather his face and arms, way up to his armpits. Next, he’d rinse, splashing the darkened water on his face and arms. After all this, the chaff still seemed to linger.
The table was set by one of the siblings (there were only five of us at home once I was born) before anyone sat down. Mom had the daughters peel, cut or slice whatever she was making, but she always did the cooking. Before we actually were allowed to eat, one of the children recited the prayer: “Bless this food. Amen.” That was the serious part of the meal.
So many times, during the meal, we’d get the giggles, including Mom. Pop was the stern one scolding, “Be quiet and eat!” We did our best to suppress our giggles by holding our noses shut, a trick Mom taught us.
The kitchen was always a busy place. Mom prepared meals way ahead. Saturday was always baking day. The table was strewn with not one pie, but six or more, whatever was in season. Summers, it could be strawberry or raspberry pies, as well as AP cakes, shoo-fly or strawberry shortcake.
Early in the morning, one of the children could be seen picking peas from the garden. Later, we were on the front porch glider, shelling a bucket of peas to be eaten that evening for supper.
As a teenager, I often brought home a classmate without letting Mom know. She never reprimanded me for these unexpected guests. On the farm, there was always enough food.
On Sundays, often there were a number of kids at our house. We mainly played ping pong on the kitchen table. Since Pop was also a potato farmer, we made plenty of potato chips in the deep fryer to go around.
Not only did the children bring guests for supper, but on Sundays, if someone visited, Mom asked, “Oh, you’ll stay for supper, won’t you?” To our dismay, everyone stayed for supper and the girls had to clear the table and wash and dry all those extra dishes.
And then there was Pastor Slifer and his wife, from Maxatawny Church, we had to contend with. Mom expected us to be on our best behavior and we hated that. She always served them a duck supper, a few weeks before Christmas. She also invited them for supper prior to one of the girl’s getting married. Two times a year was just too much good behavior for us kids.
The only good thing, to us, about this supper was that Pastor Slifer insisted on having his favorite dessert before we ate the meal. Mom always complied. She’d serve a Jello dessert by letting three layers set and making “real” whipped cream for the top and between the layers. After this, we were in a more forgiving mood.
Mom had large family suppers when the older siblings had children. Eventually, it became too many and she started having picnics outside instead.
In my first marriage, I followed Mom’s tradition of having suppers together and having the children say a short prayer. But that was the early 60s and 70s, and there weren’t so many school and outside activities that teens were involved in.
After a divorce and becoming a working girl, I wasn’t home to place something in the oven. Often, I’d have a three-in-one meal that was fast and simple. After our meal together, the children helped with the dishes.
Now that my children are grown and have their own children, with two in a household working, I see the juggling they have to do in trying to have meals together. They’re busy trying to cook or eat before the next child has to be taken to a dance class or a school activity.
Once again, in my new marriage, I’ve made a comeback to having supper, what I now call dinner, together. It’s a refreshing respite for my husband and me. This is the time of day we tell each other our day’s happenings, we eat slower and enjoy the food, and each other.
I think too many families, in this “hurry up” world are missing something: the family meal and all it offers.
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to everyday stories.
