Cooking for One and a Half
I want a full table - the ache of dinnertime as a solo parent.
“What do you want for dinner?” I ask, even though I know there will be one of three answers: pizza, hot dog, or mac and cheese.
It’s just my four-and-a-half-year-old son and me, and that was by design. But that means cooking for us is like cooking for one and a half. If I make something I want, something with a protein, a vegetable, and a starch, I’m lucky if he tries it. If I make something he wants, I end up snacking on mac and cheese or butter noodles and calling it dinner.
Our habits right now aren’t great. He’s a picky eater, and I know I’ve had a hand in that. But since becoming a mom, I keep noticing the patterns I’m continuing for myself and passing to my son. Good or bad, I’m not sure. What I do know is that when I close my eyes and picture feeling full, full of love, warmth, joy, it’s always a meal. A dinner party with interesting people. The chaos of cooking alongside someone I love. That’s what I want to build for us.
Thinking about my history of family dinners. There was my immediate family, my mom, dad, brother, and me. We had dinner at 6 pm every night. It was strict, and my dad was somewhat picky, which meant we weren’t exposed to many different foods. And that fell apart when they divorced. I was 12. We also lived in Ft. Myers, FL, where at the time we didn’t have many global ingredients, except when our housekeeper, Maharani, cooked for us. She infused spices and love, and Indian food became somewhat of a comfort food. Her samosas were divine.
Then, moving forward, it was my mom and me in NYC; she worked late, and I did ballet most evenings. So typically I’d fend for myself, or we’d order in Chinese food, steamed mixed veggies with chicken and brown sauce on the side. Sometimes I’d have some dumplings, and she’d sometimes add a hot and sour soup.
The only meals I remembered were when my brother came to town, and we’d eat as a family. My internal programming kind of set it up so that it was okay not to eat a full dinner if it was just me or just the two of us. It wasn’t the easiest of times for us, but she is the parent who’s always shown up for me. So understanding my ideas around family and food is by no means a judgment of my mom. She’s given me so many things, even if that meant making myself mac and cheese for dinner some nights in high school. Besides, I think it’s not so different from my grandmother and my great-grandmother, who cooked very differently for themselves than their husbands.
On the flip side, I remember holiday dinners. Thanksgiving and Passover, where we’d be prepping for weeks, and there’d be multiple tables of guests. Lots of extended family, love, chaos, catching up. Comfort and insecurity at once. We only saw each other every six months, so every visit they’d take stock of how I’d changed: taller, older, different. My whole identity on display for an audience of familiar faces. It was thrilling, and I loved it.
My son also loves it when we’re all together. From family Thanksgiving with all his cousins to family vacations or dinners out. Sitting together around the table, relaxing. When our family feels bigger than just the two of us, he comes alive in the chaos of family. The only times we have a real variety of food are when we order in or go out to dinner, usually with other people.
The more I think about it, though, it’s not about the picky eating. It’s about the desire to have a full table. Most of the time, I never question the shape and size of our family. The two of us feel perfect.
At the dinner table, though, it’s when I feel it. My failure to find a romantic partner, my belief that I’m not enough to make the effort, and my bad habits are all on full display. It’s hard to sit in it, to recognize it, that one of the symptoms of being a parent is how much it highlights your own flaws.
I try to remember that the size of our dinner table is not a unique problem to being a single mom by choice. Not all moms cook. Not all families eat dinner together. No one’s home is that perfect all the time, and the lovably quirky Spielberg family I grew up watching was fiction.
So yes, I want a full table. I also want to make the table feel full, even when it’s just the two of us.
Five things I want to do, or buy, to help our table feel full:
Cookbook: A Year of Simple Family Food by Julia Basuttil Nishimura
Salt and oil dishes (which may have ketchup instead of oil. Shhhhh, don’t tell anyone.)
Cookbook: Apples for Jam by Tessa Kiros