I miss Sunday Dinners. They were noisy and full of laughter and interesting small talk. New renditions of old stories were told, keeping everyone amused. A time for free expression and warm commendation. Spiritual encouragement, goal setting and planning was the norm.
Daddy often sat, nodding admidst us all. Sweet music to his ears I suppose. I wish that I had a bigger role in the food prep. See, Mu ( short for mother dear) and my four older sisters Sue, Helen, Beverly & Songa did the cooking. My younger sister, Phoebe and I peeled a few potatoes or mixed some batter up so that we could lick the bowl. I recall shucking corn or peas and having fun shaking the chicken up in the flour bag. Hand me this, hand me that Mu would insist. I can hear everything from the oil sizzling in the frying pan to the dicing of celery and onions. Sunday dinner was not complete without dessert and an unexpected visitor that did not know when they had worn out their welcome. Mu always cooked enough for sick and shut in, as she called it. The left overs were often shared.
I would be remiss if I did not share a typical Sunday dinner menu: