This post wanted to be about a day I had earlier this week when I imagined I could literally feel hormonal substances racing through my circulatory system, which can’t be right at all because as I understand it menopause involves the absence of the hormones that keep us females steady and smiling, but why-oh-why does PMS/menopause feel like extra stuff is surging through us, like our heads are full to exploding, like there are too many tears in our eyes and too, too much — everything.
But then I hate to write about that because it seems so self-indulgent and negative and anyway everybody reading this likely knows several people going through menopause right now or is experiencing it themselves, although they probably remain serene and never walk around their houses for parts of a day beginning every other sentence with, “Why do you always…” or “Why does nobody ever…” and clamping their mouths shut and not uttering the even worse sentences they want to say in between those gems that do come out. So, I won’t write about that exactly.
Dinner is a dilemma a good bit of the time at this stage of my life. I like to cook, or at least I used to, and I think I still do. But here’s what I can’t seem to get a handle on: there are five people living in this house, ranging in age from 16 to 46. We all have our lives. Fine. But we are a family. Very fine. We have jobs, friends, volunteer/service commitments, hobbies, Bible studies — things that take us out of the house. Fine.
I sit down every week or so to plan menus. I look at what’s on the calendar (and if it isn’t on my calendar, it doesn’t exist. They all know this rule well.) I figure out crockpot meals for gone-all-day days. I figure out nicer, prep-intensive meals for everybody-home evenings. I figure out big quantities for inviting-people-over nights. I’m not so naive as to think these meals will necessarily happen just as I’ve written them down, but I get the foodstuffs I need to produce them and I am ready to work around a few last-minute changes, swapping meals here and there to accommodate needs. I think I’m cool that way.
Lately, though, my strategy no longer works. It’s “Hey, Mom, _____ wants to know if we can meet and get a pizza. Is that ok?” “Hey, Mom, _____ and _____ wanted to get together tonight for a Bible study, so I won’t be here for dinner after all. You don’t mind, do you?” Can I just say this? YES, I mind. Do not go study God’s Word and leave me here with too much food for this meal but not enough leftovers for another. Do not leave me here trying to decide whether to put this whole meal into the fridge to be reheated tomorrow night and switch to omelets tonight for the poor sops who remain behind while you swan off to feast on spiritual food and serve others or whatever you are doing while I am standing here alone in the kitchen, weary from making a meal I did not feel like cooking and you are not eating. Do not do that!
But I can’t say that, so I don’t.
I know, I know. I understand the problem. We are at cross-purposes with no ill-will on either side. Dinner is a tiny blip on the radar of their day, and it is a big looming event on mine. The whole nature of my day changes based on whether I am spending 10 minutes in the kitchen or 100.
And it’s not just the work involved in planning and shopping and preparing food that often seems to appear when the diners are disinclined to eat it. Dinner together is a big part of what makes us a family instead of a bunch of roommates. Dinner together is waiting for each other and how-was-your-day and let-us-give-thanks. Dinner together hearkens back to the time when the Adolescents and the Post-Adolescents were decidedly Pre-Adolescent and Mom and Dad set the schedule and said when to eat and they ate. It’s not the control I miss, truly it’s not. It’s the syncronicity. It’s the together.
So, Tuesday, the day of the hormone/anti-hormone surging. By mid-afternoon I was whipped just from the effort of forcing kindness and not unfounded rage to rule my tongue. Finally I said, “I think I’m not going to make dinner tonight. Let’s do Every Man for Himself.” And the others were happy with that, probably relieved because they knew they were headed in eight different directions and probably more relieved not to have to sit across the table and watch me try to speak kindly.
I thought I might have cheese and crackers and fruit, but when I got hungry I realized I wanted to cook just a little. I made a composed salad I love and everyone else dislikes — grapefruit and orange supremes with avocado, red onion, and toasted pecans, drizzled with sherry vinaigrette:
To go with it, I smooshed some boiled potatoes I had in the fridge and added canned salmon, seasoning, and an egg. Panko to coat and a few minutes in the pan produced:
Dinner for one person, a person ready to eat when it was ready to be eaten. Well, I shared the salmon cakes with The Husband. After all, we’re in this thing together.
And that, friends, is a slice of my {pretty, happy, funny, real} life this week — trying to find the together and trying to be a person others want to be together with.
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