Learning to be a body language expert begins when we are
small. Simple interactions modeled over and over again help us learn the
intricate dance of interaction in every small move and nuance of the voice. We
need to eat dinner with our families face-to-face around the table at least
three times a week for eighteen years to learn the body language cues required
for face-to-face conversations. I read this wonderful funny story about family dinners the
other day and wanted to share it with you.
There is a chapter in my book about how to learn body
language. To order my book, click on the
pic of my book on the home page of my website.
www.pattiwood.net
By Megan Bello
In 1985 we banned
my mother from making meatloaf. To be honest, I think she was relieved. I doubt
she enjoyed making it any more than my father, brother, sister or I enjoyed
eating it. My mom, Sheila, subscribes to the 1:2 ratio when it comes to eating
bread with butter and grew up believing butterball turkeys and store-bought
bundt cakes to be “homemade” dishes
What she lacked in
culinary skills, however, she more than made up for in creativity. And despite
the occasional overcooked frozen vegetable mishaps, we grew to love the
enthusiastic improvisation Mom brought to the table. She somehow managed to
make every meal special, regardless of the bag, box or fast food restaurant
from which it hailed. I still drift off into reverie over our cool taco
assembly line dinners, Friday pizza nights and the Tupperware-microwave parties
— aka leftovers night. Flaws and all, she put the fun in dysfunction.
Case in point: One
Tuesday night a few years back, my brother —
who inexplicably
still likes mashed potato flakes from a cardboard box— requested his ol' favorite.
Sheila obliged. As the bowl was placed upon the table, we noticed it to be a
little off. (Well, even more off than one could normally expect from potatoes
made from powder.) The flakes had congealed into a gummy glob. My dad
quizzically plopped a pile onto his plate. Then my brother got his hands on it,
literally. He dug his paws into the potatoes as if needing dough and gauging
the consistency to be that of the perfect snowball-making snow, he swiftly
rolled his faux-spuds into an edible (er, inedible) ball. And then he threw it
at me.
I actually caught
it, looked to Dad to sense the temperature in the room … and there was my
athletic father ready to catch. I chucked him the monster mash; he cradled it
like a football and then gazed up at his wife, smiled his big warm grin and
tossed the ball of food Mom had just “slaved” over right into her hands. And
true to form, all she could do was laugh (and toss a highball to my sister).
Game on! When Mom gives you mashed potato flakes, make a ballgame out of it.
Then promptly order up some pizza.
Sheila's cooking
did gradually evolve over the years, thanks to our aunt Kath (one of the best cooks in the entire world), who took Sheila under her wing and molded
her into her sous chef (of sorts). She even managed to master a few signature
dishes, from tuna noodle casserole to baked ziti. By the time we were adults,
Sheila had started a tradition of making our favorite meals on our birthdays.
And like a fine wine, these dinners have gotten better with age. So for Mom's
50th birthday, we decided to return the favor.
Keep in mind that
Sheila's original habits had settled into a permanent spot in our subconscious.
To this day, thanks to olfactory sense memory, we love the smell of boiling hot
dogs (a childhood staple) and when my sister and I are together making mac 'n
cheese from a box or PB&J out of the jars, we ironically tilt our heads
with a wink and a smile and declare, “just like Mom used to make.”
Nevertheless, we
decided to set the bar high for Sheila's 50th. The menu was set: tequila-lime
marinated chicken with mango salsa chutney. Wine, check. Bread, check. Chicken
breast? Well, we'd bought chicken tenders rather than breasts, but they were
close enough. We doused the teeny pieces of chicken in not one but two bottles
of marinade for five hours. Then we made the chutney from memory, because in
delusions of grandeur we were convinced we were THAT good. Two hours later, my
godfather was drunk and the grandparents were pacing. Dinner was finally
served! As the plate hit the table, my dad innocently asked, “What fish is
this?”
The tiny chicken
strips had soaked up the tequila lime sauce like their lives depended on it.
The meat was dead on arrival.
“No honey, you
don't want that," my Nana said as she slapped down my Pop-Pop's hand as he
unwittingly reached for more of the chutney, a nauseating confusion of potent
garlic and angry fruit.
While we were
processing the surreal realization that this dinner was inedible, my
resourceful little bro snuck away from the table and nuked a bag of rice. He
returned with a fork in one hand and the bag in the other, walked around the
table and scooped a pile onto everyone's plate. No one spoke. We just ate the
grains as if they were filet mignon. Sheila's legacy had simultaneously created
a monstrosity and saved her own birthday. Rice-in-a-bag: just like Mom used to
make.
Those years without
the Holly Homemaker home-cooked meals actually turned out to be family-bonding
dinners. I'm now a firm believer that family meals should be a joyful
expression of love, no matter what's on the table. They're opportunities to
reconnect, appreciate everyone's personalities and simply remember why we like
being together. In our home, we never had to endure the cold and stoic dining
room propriety or learn to appreciate sushi at an age when it's probably not
all that good for a kid. Don't get me wrong, we learned our manners and could
dine with adults at a fancy restaurant if the occasion called for it, but we
were partial to down-home fun.
I wouldn't trade
our crazy meals for the world, as they gave way to unplanned and unforgettable
splendor. We grew up with a role model who didn't take herself too seriously,
always did her best but had the wits to laugh at her goof-ups and celebrate her
imperfections. It's a relief to be able to laugh at yourself and make the most
of it. We now take pride in turning our faux pas into funny anecdotes that
always make for a great story.
Sheila may have
been sparse on culinary expertise, but her spunk made up for it. Like many
parents, she found other ways to express her love. She took us to museums and
nature centers on weekends, built science projects with us, gave us the freedom
to express ourselves when we picked out our own outfits, let us get dirty in
the backyard on our exploration missions and shared all of her super-cool
vintage clothes that she'd saved for us in our special "dress up
box."
At a time when
competitive parenting is at an all-time high, interviewing for pre-school, the
challenges of fitting into a new school system or the inevitable stink eye shot
between the stay-at-home moms and the working ones, how do the Sheilas of the
world measure up? At the end of the day, what really matters? How do you
compete with the mothers who diligently keep their families perfectly coiffed,
poised and fed five-course meals on good china every night?
I'm no expert, but
I'd say as long as your kids are smiling, laughing and learning about life and
how to make the most of any situation, it really doesn't matter what your pot
roast looks like or if Johnnie went to school with two different shoes on. What
it boils down to is love and cherishing the time, however much you have,
together.
To this day, tidy
packages scare me. I prefer the creative-looking family unit, where it's
obvious love abides, but sometimes there's just not enough time in the day to
brush hair or turn on the oven. Mistakes are often blessings in disguise and a
great opportunity to see imperfect people perfectly. After all, isn't that what
love is?
My perfectly
imperfect mom wrote the recipe on family bonding with her contagious laughter,
undeniable sense of humor and innate way of seeing the (wine) glass half full,
and she's passed it on to her kin. I endeavor to pass it on to my kids one day.
It's the gift that keeps on giving and feeds more than our bellies, but also
our spirits and our souls.
Bing even more:
· Learning to be a body language expert begins when we are
small. Simple interactions modeled over and over again help us learn the
intricate dance of interaction in every small move and nuance of the voice. We
need to eat dinner with our families face-to-face around the table at least
three times a week for eighteen years to learn the body language cues required
for face-to-face conversations.
I read this wonderful funny story about family dinners the
other day and wanted to share it with you.
There is a chapter in my book about how to learn body
language. To order my book, click on the
pic of my book on the home page of my website.
www.pattiwood.net
By Megan Bello
In 1985 we banned
my mother from making meatloaf. To be honest, I think she was relieved. I doubt
she enjoyed making it any more than my father, brother, sister or I enjoyed
eating it. My mom, Sheila, subscribes to the 1:2 ratio when it comes to eating
bread with butter and grew up believing butterball turkeys and store-bought
bundt cakes to be “homemade” dishes
What she lacked in
culinary skills, however, she more than made up for in creativity. And despite
the occasional overcooked frozen vegetable mishaps, we grew to love the
enthusiastic improvisation Mom brought to the table. She somehow managed to
make every meal special, regardless of the bag, box or fast food restaurant
from which it hailed. I still drift off into reverie over our cool taco
assembly line dinners, Friday pizza nights and the Tupperware-microwave parties
— aka leftovers night. Flaws and all, she put the fun in dysfunction.
Case in point: One
Tuesday night a few years back, my brother —
who inexplicably
still likes mashed potato flakes from a cardboard box— requested his ol' favorite.
Sheila obliged. As the bowl was placed upon the table, we noticed it to be a
little off. (Well, even more off than one could normally expect from potatoes
made from powder.) The flakes had congealed into a gummy glob. My dad
quizzically plopped a pile onto his plate. Then my brother got his hands on it,
literally. He dug his paws into the potatoes as if needing dough and gauging
the consistency to be that of the perfect snowball-making snow, he swiftly
rolled his faux-spuds into an edible (er, inedible) ball. And then he threw it
at me.
I actually caught
it, looked to Dad to sense the temperature in the room … and there was my
athletic father ready to catch. I chucked him the monster mash; he cradled it
like a football and then gazed up at his wife, smiled his big warm grin and
tossed the ball of food Mom had just “slaved” over right into her hands. And
true to form, all she could do was laugh (and toss a highball to my sister).
Game on! When Mom gives you mashed potato flakes, make a ballgame out of it.
Then promptly order up some pizza.
Sheila's cooking
did gradually evolve over the years, thanks to our aunt Kath (one of the best cooks in the entire world), who took Sheila under her wing and molded
her into her sous chef (of sorts). She even managed to master a few signature
dishes, from tuna noodle casserole to baked ziti. By the time we were adults,
Sheila had started a tradition of making our favorite meals on our birthdays.
And like a fine wine, these dinners have gotten better with age. So for Mom's
50th birthday, we decided to return the favor.
Keep in mind that
Sheila's original habits had settled into a permanent spot in our subconscious.
To this day, thanks to olfactory sense memory, we love the smell of boiling hot
dogs (a childhood staple) and when my sister and I are together making mac 'n
cheese from a box or PB&J out of the jars, we ironically tilt our heads
with a wink and a smile and declare, “just like Mom used to make.”
Nevertheless, we
decided to set the bar high for Sheila's 50th. The menu was set: tequila-lime
marinated chicken with mango salsa chutney. Wine, check. Bread, check. Chicken
breast? Well, we'd bought chicken tenders rather than breasts, but they were
close enough. We doused the teeny pieces of chicken in not one but two bottles
of marinade for five hours. Then we made the chutney from memory, because in
delusions of grandeur we were convinced we were THAT good. Two hours later, my
godfather was drunk and the grandparents were pacing. Dinner was finally
served! As the plate hit the table, my dad innocently asked, “What fish is
this?”
The tiny chicken
strips had soaked up the tequila lime sauce like their lives depended on it.
The meat was dead on arrival.
“No honey, you
don't want that," my Nana said as she slapped down my Pop-Pop's hand as he
unwittingly reached for more of the chutney, a nauseating confusion of potent
garlic and angry fruit.
While we were
processing the surreal realization that this dinner was inedible, my
resourceful little bro snuck away from the table and nuked a bag of rice. He
returned with a fork in one hand and the bag in the other, walked around the
table and scooped a pile onto everyone's plate. No one spoke. We just ate the
grains as if they were filet mignon. Sheila's legacy had simultaneously created
a monstrosity and saved her own birthday. Rice-in-a-bag: just like Mom used to
make.
Those years without
the Holly Homemaker home-cooked meals actually turned out to be family-bonding
dinners. I'm now a firm believer that family meals should be a joyful
expression of love, no matter what's on the table. They're opportunities to
reconnect, appreciate everyone's personalities and simply remember why we like
being together. In our home, we never had to endure the cold and stoic dining
room propriety or learn to appreciate sushi at an age when it's probably not
all that good for a kid. Don't get me wrong, we learned our manners and could
dine with adults at a fancy restaurant if the occasion called for it, but we
were partial to down-home fun.
I wouldn't trade
our crazy meals for the world, as they gave way to unplanned and unforgettable
splendor. We grew up with a role model who didn't take herself too seriously,
always did her best but had the wits to laugh at her goof-ups and celebrate her
imperfections. It's a relief to be able to laugh at yourself and make the most
of it. We now take pride in turning our faux pas into funny anecdotes that
always make for a great story.
Sheila may have
been sparse on culinary expertise, but her spunk made up for it. Like many
parents, she found other ways to express her love. She took us to museums and
nature centers on weekends, built science projects with us, gave us the freedom
to express ourselves when we picked out our own outfits, let us get dirty in
the backyard on our exploration missions and shared all of her super-cool
vintage clothes that she'd saved for us in our special "dress up
box."
At a time when
competitive parenting is at an all-time high, interviewing for pre-school, the
challenges of fitting into a new school system or the inevitable stink eye shot
between the stay-at-home moms and the working ones, how do the Sheilas of the
world measure up? At the end of the day, what really matters? How do you
compete with the mothers who diligently keep their families perfectly coiffed,
poised and fed five-course meals on good china every night?
I'm no expert, but
I'd say as long as your kids are smiling, laughing and learning about life and
how to make the most of any situation, it really doesn't matter what your pot
roast looks like or if Johnnie went to school with two different shoes on. What
it boils down to is love and cherishing the time, however much you have,
together.
To this day, tidy
packages scare me. I prefer the creative-looking family unit, where it's
obvious love abides, but sometimes there's just not enough time in the day to
brush hair or turn on the oven. Mistakes are often blessings in disguise and a
great opportunity to see imperfect people perfectly. After all, isn't that what
love is?
My perfectly
imperfect mom wrote the recipe on family bonding with her contagious laughter,
undeniable sense of humor and innate way of seeing the (wine) glass half full,
and she's passed it on to her kin. I endeavor to pass it on to my kids one day.
It's the gift that keeps on giving and feeds more than our bellies, but also
our spirits and our souls.
Bing even more:
·
Motherhood's key ingredient: Spunk.
Comstock
Images/Thinkstock
·
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Motherhood's key ingredient: Spunk.
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·
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controlled by Facebook.
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