Motherlode: We do our carving at the family table
October 19, 2009
Lorraine Sommerfeld
One of the best parts of family dinners is the chance for spirited conversation among the generations. Last weekend, I was happy to cram nine kilograms of turkey into the oven, shoehorn everyone uncomfortably around the table, forget the squash in the microwave and watch my sons throw rolls at each other – all in the name of family.
My niece Katya, 11, artfully laid the table and created origami out of napkins; it's nice having a girl. Her little brother, Manuel, 9, and my two sons Christopher, 17 and Ari, 15 blew each other up on some festive war game, in between wandering in and out of the kitchen lifting lids and asking about dinner.
"Is it ready yet?" asked Ari. Again.
"No. Another hour," I told him.
"But I'm dying!" he said, grabbing another roll. Ten minutes later, his brother came in.
"Is it ready yet?" he asked.
"No. Go away," I told him.
"But I'm dying!" he said, grabbing another roll.
"Pull two place settings, Katya," I hollered. "Ari and Christopher have died!"
Because Sommerfeld women are noted for their vast intelligence and authority on any subject, regardless of whether they've even heard of it or not, the three of us are sought-after dinner guests. Well, mostly because we do all the cooking, but everyone knows the cost of dinner is tolerating our opinions.
Thanksgiving dinner, which is identical to Christmas dinner, was the usual jumble of conversation. As we sat down, someone asked if we could remember the grace from our childhood. My sisters Roz and Gilly immediately blurted out the same thing:
"ComeLordJesusbeourguestletthesegiftstousbeblessed." We used to say it all as one word.
Ari immediately chimed in with his own version: "Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub, yay God."
We are going to hell.
Because we believe in uplifting, spiritual conversations at this time of giving thanks, discussion turned to what my sons should look for in a woman. Virtually ignoring the conversation, Ari and Christopher kept eating and pretending they couldn't hear us.
Amid the commotion, Daryl, Roz's husband, looked over everyone's heads down the table to Christopher.
"Christer," he smiled. "Any questions, you just ask me. I'll tell you everything you need to know."
"Why? You only got her," he stated matter-of-factly.
Oh, how Gilly and I laughed at this. Daryl is "somewhat" younger than the eternally youthful Roz. Gilly's husband is three years her junior, and I have nearly seven years on the Poor Sod.
We are sirens, luring these youngsters to their relationship demise, crashing to the shore of our wily, older-woman ways.
The conversation continued into the kitchen as we cleared up. Christopher is looking forward to his 18th birthday in a few weeks, and believes there will be wild celebrations and expensive gifts. He believes wrongly, but it's cute to watch him think this.
"Hey, speaking of big deals, don't forget my 40th is next year," said the Poor Sod.
Roz, Gilly and I pretend we don't mind the guys talking of their 40th birthdays as something to look forward to.
I can barely see mine in the rear-view mirror.
"Oh, be careful what you wish for," I told him, remembering that adage that men toss around all the time:
"When you hit 40, I'm trading you in for two 20-year-olds."
"I'd trade you in for an ice cream pie," he said. With no hesitation.
Lorraine Sommerfeld appears Mondays in Living and Saturdays in Wheels. Reach her via her website lorraineonline.ca.
Toronto Star