According to this article in Slate, some researchers have found that home-cooked meals aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.
They’re not cheap, it’s hard to get the family together, and the wretched louts seem ungrateful for the effort:
Beyond just the time and money constraints, women find that their very own families present a major obstacle to their desire to provide diverse, home-cooked meals. The women interviewed faced not just children but grown adults who are whiny, picky, and ungrateful for their efforts. “We rarely observed a meal in which at least one family member didn’t complain about the food they were served,” the researchers write.
There used to be something called manners, a quaint little custom that forbid that sort of behavior, and was even practiced sometimes by people within the hearts of their own families. Not that complaints didn’t occur, of course; I certainly complained about particular meals served to me as a child, particularly the dread tongue.
I have written about my own experience of family meals in general and of tongue in particular, here:
But sharing that image [of a large cow tongue] can’t begin to convey what it was actually like to confront beef tongue as it was regularly served in my home: attached to part of the jawbone. I was not allowed to leave the table, so I erected a barrier to block the grisly sight. The tall water pitcher was pressed into service, as well as the bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans. According to Wikipedia, beef tongue is””or was””popular in families of German origin, and so it was my mother’s German side of the family that I blame.
Note that “I was not allowed to leave the table” part; you stayed there until you were dismissed, although you could ask for permission. Once a child has had a meal of tongue-attached-to-the-jawbone to complain about, everything else seemed like gravy (which I also didn’t much care for).
Fortunately, for the most part the meals in my family were plain but very tasty. But those were hardly the only benefits:
I’ll go on to say that it’s my impression that the family meal has far greater benefits then mere improved nutrition, tongue or no tongue (and, by the way, tongue probably wouldn’t come under the heading of healthful food nowadays, since according to Wiki it’s about 75% fat). Eating together doesn’t necessarily make a family happy together, but at least it forces them to interact and to know a bit about each other.
I’ve encountered many families who take their meals as separate individuals. Sometimes it’s a scheduling thing, but sometimes it’s just the path of least resistance in a family whose members are already so uncomfortable in each others’ presence that they’d rather avoid close encounters of any kind. But my totally unscientific observation is that the act of eating separately tends to cause even more estrangement.
My family had its share of problems, and our meals sometimes ended in yelling and/or tears. But mealtime was the time when we most felt like a family, and just as often there was a lot of laughter. Come to think of it, sometimes political discussions would happen at the dinner table as well, perhaps fostering the development of the future blogger in me””one had to learn to defend one’s position with a certain amount of logic and grace.
I remember those meals very fondly, and tried my best to recreate them for my own family. And I have to say, although I knew other families where everyone complained to the cook about the meals, my own husband and son were princes in that regard. They loved and appreciated everything that came to the table.
