At our house, dinner time is often a disaster. And it isn’t because we have crazy schedules or busy teenagers or even overtime at the office to consider. In fact, I’m not even sure what it is that makes dinner such a hassle.
I try to study the components.
There are two people: Earl and me. One of us likes somewhat healthy meals served later in the evening; the other likes to snack while watching the five o’clock version of “Jeopardy”. One of us is into vegetables; the other hates the sight of them. One of us does this; the other does that. You get the gist.
As I noticed our dinner hour declining over the past couple years, I tried a variety of approaches. Without revealing which partner preferred what, I learned that whatever I tried didn’t work. Neither of us seemed to want to compromise. After all, we were both only children. Instead, each of us has become entrenched in our individual eating habits.
Now I’m beginning to think that dinner isn’t the place or time where we communicate best. With this in mind, maybe Earl and I need to be responsible individually for our evening ingestion of food and relegate the social aspect to some other time of the day. This way, one of us can put a knife in the peanut butter with full glee while the other can steam Brussels sprouts and sprinkle them happily with lemon pepper.
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