I was raised to love food. My dad was an epicurean of sorts, his god was his belly. He loved a beautifully seared filet mignon, really any cut of beef cooked correctly, even trying his hand at raising cattle in his retirement years to stock his own cuts of beef in our freezers. “Best beef bar none”. He was a subscriber to Gourmet magazine, Bon Appetit, and had many James Beard and Paul Prudhomme cookbooks, among others. His Cajun cooking stage was my least favorite, all of it too spicy for my young palate. He made a mean Jailhouse Chili, superb crabcakes, and loved to play with spices. He was a sucker for the latest and greatest kitchen tools and used a Chemex for his coffee long before that was a thing. I still have his 1987 Kitchen Aid sitting on my kitchen counter. At home or frequenting his favorite restaurants, I knew that I was in for a good meal.
That lifestyle of eating delicious food ended when I went away to college. All throughout college, I ate heavy cafeteria food that, after a few weeks, every bite started tasting the same. I would switch to a diet of fast food, and then back to Belk Dining Hall for the million and one ways chicken could be served. My daddy died at the end of my freshman year in college, and within a year, my mother sold our home and chose a nomadic lifestyle for a while. My home away from college became a space in my sister’s home exactly an hour away from my school. When an open weekend came, I would hop into my black Cabriolet, top-down and music up, and speed down I-40 west towards Burlington where she lived with her husband, at the beginnings of a homeschooling journey with her four children.
She was also a lover of good food, tasty recipes, and the art of dining around the table. As a mom of young ones and on a budget, her meals were simpler, still delicious, and could feed a crowd. Every time she served poppyseed chicken with rice and green beans, I felt like I received a deep, long hug. These were the 90s, and mamas made casseroles. Warm, filling, and budget-friendly. I hadn’t been raised on casseroles or convenience foods, but at this stage in my life, those 9x13 pans spoke care and love to me. There was no other meal that I craved when away at school like that poppyseed chicken.
On Saturday, a friend sent a link to this wonderful article about “coming home dinners”, and the comments are delightful to get lost in. People share the traditions of what meals were waiting for them after they came home from college, a long trip, or a holiday. Most are simple, not fancy, but spoke to that person of love, welcome, belonging. For most of college, I didn’t know where I belonged anymore, feeling adrift, grief trying to hunt me down. When my sister would have poppyseed chicken waiting for me, knowing that it was my favorite, I knew that I belonged.
I want to ask my kids what their “coming home dinner” will be. My daughter loves Cincinnati Chili, and I try to have it on the menu in the fall when I know she’s driving down the winding roads from Anderson, tired and hungry. I want them to know that there is always a spot saved for them at my table, the door is open, the kitchen is humming, the love is ready. Sometimes food speaks volumes to a needy soul in ways that words cannot; bread and wine save us, that dear remembrance of Him, and what He did to make us belong eternally. The Meal of Belonging, forever ours.
What is your Coming Home Dinner? I would love to hear.
A Coming Home Meal
My coming home meal is actually a dessert. My granny's chocolate meringue pie is a beacon home. She taught me how to make this amazing pie when I was about 8. To this day it is the dessert for every holiday meal. She has passed the making of the pie onto my mom, aunt, or me, but it will live on for years.
My boys would say that their home coming meal is my lasagna, it takes me at least 2 days to make, because I make my sauce from scratch, but it is by far one of the boys most requested meals.
My prayer is that every meal I make is a beacon home to my husband and my sons.
My dad's lasagna. He puts *5 lbs. of cheese* in it, with perfect layers of noodles, sauce and meat. It takes him 2 hours to prepare. It's served with salad and garlic bread, and no matter how old I get, it's the meal that's ready when I walk in his door. A delicious labor of love.