Wednesday is my usual day off and I occasionally cook something I know the girls will eat. Today I’m making Chicken Marsala (Sorry, Sarah) and
something I’ve begun to call ‘Stupid Potatoes’ because they’re so damn easy to make and they taste great.
I asked my wife who would be around for supper when it hit me that it’s sad I had to even ask. I believe I’ve stumbled upon a growing problem in today’s society: the family unit no longer sits down together to share a meal.
There’s soccer, basketball, track, chorus, play, band, SAT Prep and a host of other extracurricular activities that currently take presidence over sitting down at the dinner table.
We wonder why we’re not in touch with our kids sometimes when the truth of the matter is you can’t touch someone that’s been at baseball practice since after school with schoolwork to do when they come home.
There are coaches that believe Sunday mornings are an appropriate time for a scrimmage/practice (and said athlete has to be there, or else).
The subliminal lesson learned by the child: Worshipping God is no longer important.
Just learn to nail those foul shots, throw strikes, run faster, be better (you’re not good enough now!).
30 years ago, if a coach ever pulled a boneheaded move like that he’d be on the first boxcar out of town.
These days it’s all part of the game.
Our priorities (myself included) are disoriented and sadly obtuse.
I see things changing and not for the better.
We’ve dug a hole we will never be able to climb out of and for what?
And at what cost?
I’m trying hard to think of a time when I didn’t sit down and have supper with my mother, father and sister.
Supper was at 5PM.
Be there or go hungry, end of story.
Supper wasn’t served in four or five shifts like today.
What the hell happened?
There was something to be said about breaking bread together; there was interaction and a sharing of conversation, a waging of arguments, a dispersement of knowledge, the telling of jokes, zany explanations of the numerous leaves on the family tree.
I feel we’re all missing out.
By the time we actually figure out where we went wrong, our kitchens will be empty and I’ve no doubt the Burger King’s of the world will be stuffed to the grills with our kids.
So how does it end?
Maybe we just don’t want to know.
And that’s quite possibly the saddest part of all. . .