The Sunday Lunch: A True Story of Gratitude

Today, we journey into another tale of Tate’s childhood with a mini-memoir we call “The Sunday Lunch.” 

This week’s story portrays unspoken tensions, traditions, and the explosive power of unspoken words. Through the lens of Tate's family experience, we delve deep into the complexities of how shared meals, implicit conflicts, and unexpected actions can profoundly shape our perspective on life. So, sit tight and enjoy this insightful exploration of the human experience.

My mother rarely got angry with us, but this Sunday, she sat at the head of the dining table and gave us a menacing stare, her anger brimming to the surface. My two brothers and I remained silent, afraid to utter a word or glance in her direction. Her sharp, intense eyes could convey more than any words could. While she never physically hit us, her piercing gaze was enough to make us obey.

"Is anyone going to speak?" 

I, the youngest of her three boys, was about to say something, but my eldest brother warned me with a glance.

"It would be nice to at least receive a thank you after preparing this meal all day.” She said.

We stayed silent, and an intense rage, as I had never seen, enveloped her. 

Growing up, I lived in the hot tropical climate of the Caribbean, where it was common to play bareback and shoeless. However, my mother had two strict rules: never be late for a meal, and we must wear a shirt at the dining table for every meal. 

Her former beauty queen title earned her the affectionate nickname "Queen," which perfectly suited her regal demeanor. She was always impeccably dressed, smelled of the best perfumes, and carried herself with the grace of a movie star. Despite our lack of wealth, she insisted on maintaining a formal atmosphere during mealtimes and would not tolerate any hooliganism in the dining room. My two brothers and I were expected to behave like royalty during meals while being allowed to be ourselves elsewhere.

We always used sterling silver cutlery, along with a fine china set, both received on her wedding to my biological father, from whom she was divorced. As we used both sets as our everyday serving pieces, they held no sentimental value for her.

Our table manners were expected to be perfect. No elbows on the table. Chew with your mouth closed. Never slurp your soup. Use the knife and fork correctly. A fork has no place in your right hand if there is a knife to accompany it. Skim soup away from you to collect it in your spoon. Only tilt the soup bowl away from you if necessary.

My brothers and I eventually went to our bedrooms to put on our shirts before heading to the dining room for lunch after our mother repeatedly and impatiently told us that lunch was ready. We lazily donned our shirts and made our way to our usual places in the dining room around the heavy, solid wood table that sat eight but could hold up to twelve with a tight fit.

My mother inspired me to become a chef thanks to her excellent cooking skills. Every Sunday, our centrally located home would be filled with friends and family, eagerly anticipating the massive lunch she would prepare. Heading to the kitchen, she would consult her trusted Encyclopedia of Cooking cookbook, which she had owned since her late teens. She worked tirelessly, alone for five or more hours, to produce the most unforgettable meals.

It always amazed me how she juggled her job as a top-level manager at a government-run radio station while also being the sole breadwinner of our family. She was the first and only woman to hold that position and took her job very seriously, often working long hours to prove her worth. Meanwhile, my stepfather only worked to do voice-over work in advertising, which was not very frequent. 

She was not always around as much as she would have liked. As a result, she often felt guilty for not being a more present mother. To compensate, she would put together these elaborate meals for us on Sundays to show her love and appreciation. It was essential to her that we were always on time for these meals, as it was the one time during the week when our whole family could come together and spend quality time.

Our house would be full of people on Sundays, as we were often joined by my brothers' girlfriends, their friends, and my best friend and neighbor, Jimmy. Sometimes, my stepbrother and his wife would also visit, making the total number of people at lunch over a dozen. And my mother loved the large gatherings every Sunday, feeding everyone in a laughter-filled house.

The table was always beautifully set with various dishes, filling the room with a delicious aroma. Among them were a whole roasted chicken and perfectly cooked roast beef, accompanied by roasted root vegetables and carrots. A gravy boat with the most delicious gravy made from the roast's drippings was placed beside them. A large bowl of white rice was also on the table, cooked with salted butter and tinted green with food coloring. We called it “Martian Rice,” as my mother started making it for me as a young child to get me to eat, and it became a tradition every Sunday after that.

She made a macaroni pie with Irish cheddar cheese, caramelized onions, heavy cream, and bacon bits. It was baked until the top formed a crisp crust, and the center remained saucy and gooey.  There was also a dish of scalloped potatoes and a large green salad. 

Every Sunday meal was completed with a massive bowl of callaloo, a traditional dish made with taro plant leaves, okra, and coconut milk, flavored with ham and fresh crab. I loved scooping the blue crab claws out of the scrumptious callaloo, cracking the shell with my bare hands, and sucking the sweet meat out of the hard crustacean. 

It was one of the only foods we were permitted to eat with our hands, and I made the most of it, savoring the thick green callaloo as it dripped down my fingers. Her signature potato salad was unforgettable, consisting of red onions, mixed vegetables, and a hint of mustard in the dressing, typically served warm.

We usually had ice cream or a store-bought cake a guest brought for dessert since my mother preferred to avoid baking. Her mother was an excellent baker, but they had a complicated relationship. My grandmother made my mother feel inferior to her baking skills, so my mother avoided baking altogether.

I was a pre-teen on that Sunday of this story. The previous Friday night, my mother was visibly tense and bothered by something that happened at her job. My stepfather had previously held the same position and tried to give her advice but ended up mansplaining her job and telling her what he would do if he were in her shoes, which resulted in a heated argument.

Whenever my mother and stepfather argued, they wouldn't speak to each other for up to two weeks. Neither of them would back down. My mother would usually be fine, but whatever he said in this argument affected her deeply. She became brooding and glum and moved around with anger simmering on the point of exploding. I had never seen her like that before and realized it was a combination of her work pressure and my stepfather's mistake.

Despite her sour mood that weekend, she still tried to show a brave face and battled on with her traditional Sunday meal. When my mother and stepfather were not on speaking terms, my stepfather would retreat to their bedroom and avoid everyone for most of the day. However, amazingly, my mother would still silently prepare his plate of food and hand it to me to take to him. He would then eat his meal in silence inside their bedroom.

The atmosphere during this lunch was tense due to the ongoing circumstances. For reasons I can’t recall, no one showed up for lunch that day, and no one called to say they weren’t coming. As a result, only five of us sat down for lunch - my mother, two brothers, Jimmy, and me. The already humid Caribbean weather only added to the tension in the air.

My mother sat at the head of the table, my two older brothers sat together on one side, while I sat opposite them, next to my friend Jimmy. Jimmy and I were inseparable; we would ride our bikes everywhere, run around in the hilly botanical gardens near my house, and explore the city's streets on a quiet Sunday.

Our activities always made us hungry, and since lunch at my house on Sunday was at 3 o'clock, we worked out a food schedule. We would have an early lunch around noon at his house and then the traditional late lunch at my house. And on this Sunday, we were exceptionally boisterous. We took forever to come in for lunch, despite my mother repeatedly calling us in, and my two brothers, in their teen ways, also dilly-dallied into the dining room. 

My mother was getting to her boiling point. No one showed up for lunch. No one called. We did not respect her one cardinal rule: never to be late for meals, even though we were right there in the yard. She had work pressure, and my stepfather was not being supportive. He was the opposite. She spent hours alone in the kitchen, in the hot tropical heat, cooking up a storm.

My brothers, Jimmy, and I sat silently when my mother took her seat at the head of the table. However, before she could dish out a plate for him, my stepfather appeared from their room and sat at the table next to my brothers, sitting farthest away from my mother. He remained quiet and never looked at her, and everyone fell silent.

My mother's rage visibly increased as she glanced at my stepfather. We apprehensively waited for our mother to speak. She didn't say anything, but we knew she was angry. Angry at her job, my stepfather, everyone who did not show up for lunch, and at us.

She violently shoved all the serving pieces into each dish, causing gravy to spill on the saucer of the gravy boat.

Jimmy and I giggled childishly as my brothers glared at us. 

"Where is everyone?" my mother asked my two brothers. They remained quiet. Either they had no idea or knew and chose not to say, which only annoyed my mother.

My stepfather sighed loudly, mumbled something under his breath, impatiently grabbed the spoon upright in the macaroni pie, and cut himself a piece.

Her face turned beet red. I didn't hear what he said, but she did, making her even angrier.

“It would be nice to at least receive a thank you after preparing this meal all day.” She said to my stepfather.

Jimmy and I stopped giggling, and everyone became quiet.

"I spent my only day off making this meal; no one shows, and no one can say thank you?” 

Bending her arms at the elbow, she placed the flats of her palms beneath the heavy wooden dining table. With a heave, she lifted the table above her head at a forty-five-degree angle, its contents sliding, and each dish crashed loudly to the floor.

Everyone was so shocked and disbelieving that nobody reacted.

My mother let the table go, and it slammed hard to the wooden floor. With tears forming in her eyes, she stormed off.

My brothers stood in disbelief and looked over the table to the floor piled with food and broken dishes.

My stepfather rose slowly from the table, looked at the mess, and instructed us to clean it up before heading to the bedroom and closing the door behind him.

My eldest brother looked at the heap of broken dishes in the food on the ground and asked, "What the hell do we eat now?"

I lifted the creamy and warm potato salad bowl with a sheepish grin. It was the dish closest to my mother, so it was the last dish that passed by me. Snapping out of shock, I reached out, grabbed it, and hid it on my lap.

"We better eat this before she comes back," I said. My brothers, Jimmy, and I quickly grabbed four forks and devoured almost the entire bowl of potato salad. We made sure to leave some back for Mum. We then spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the dining room. 

After that day, we found ourselves short of dishes, and the dining table developed a slight wobble, which remained a constant reminder of that tense lunch.

From then on, my brothers and I made a conscious effort to always show up for meals on time, dressed appropriately with an appreciation for our mother’s efforts. Even at a young age, I realized that my mother's outburst of anger wasn’t because of silence but rather due to a lack of appreciation.

After that Sunday, I helped my mother in the kitchen by assisting with various tasks such as peeling potatoes, washing vegetables, and other basic kitchen chores. I eventually became her prep cook, and she generously shared her culinary knowledge with me. Even after completing my education in culinary school, I would frequently reach out to my mother for advice on adequately preparing specific dishes.

That Sunday lunch left an indelible mark on appreciation in my psyche. I always make it a point to show gratitude, no matter how small the gesture. Every time I prepare a dish, I am grateful for the trust placed in me by the person I am cooking for. Their satisfaction is my ultimate reward.

After completing my culinary education, I earned a certificate from one of the world's most prestigious schools. However, I lost one of the greatest pleasures of my life: the taste of my mother's cooking. No matter how much I begged, she never made me a meal after graduation. She would smile and tell me I knew how to do it better than she ever could.

In 2019, my mother passed away, and her old cookbook stands out among the precious memories she left me. It's the same cookbook she used every Sunday to cook those unique dishes I still cook. The cookbook, with its discolored pages, some stained with different spills over the numerous years of use, still stands strong. I've given some of the recipes a modern touch, but I still treasure the classic recipes that my mother used to cook.

As we conclude this tale, it reflects on the enduring influence of family dynamics, tradition, and the significance of appreciation. The story unveils the indomitable spirit of a mother—her dedication to culinary mastery, her aspirations, and the paradox of her strictness juxtaposed with immense love. We witness how a seemingly ordinary Sunday meal becomes a canvas for understanding the intricacies of human relationships and the value of gratitude in our daily lives.

Yet, beyond the dining room chaos, a poignant question lingers: How often do we express appreciation for the efforts and love woven into the simple gestures of our lives? How might recognizing these moments reshape our connections with our loved ones?

As we bid farewell, ponder how such small tokens of acknowledgment could redefine the essence of our connections and the legacy we leave behind.