One of my favorite shows is “Young Sheldon.” The characters are three-dimensional, and the story lines are relatable.

Almost every episode, the Cooper family sits down to dinner, often to an American meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrots.

Growing up, family dinners in the Hebert house are reminiscent of the ones on “Young Sheldon.” I often wonder how our mom managed to work outside the home and then get a hot meal on the table every night.

Mom was a great cook, and some of the meals I remember were spaghetti and meatballs, gumbo and baked chicken. Mom either made the salad dressing, or a bottle of Wish-Bone Italian Dressing was on the table.

We always had Kool-Aid to drink, and somebody spilled their drink at every single dinner. Manners were expected, and we always had to ask to be excused before getting up.

When we were teens, we’d miss weekly dinners because of jobs or after-school activities. The one meal we were forbidden to miss was Sunday dinner.

Sunday mornings were always chaotic. Before we left for church, Mom would put a pot roast in the oven on low heat while we all fought for time in the bathroom.

But somehow seven children and two adults managed to pile into my Dad’s old Cadillac and arrive at St. Isidore Catholic Church.

Always late.

Always to the front row.

I remember being mortified as we marched down the center aisle – our own parade – and slid into the pew. Usually, a slight shoving match took place when we were sitting next to each other which earned us a withering look from either mom or dad and, once, the priest.

At home, we all pitched in to get dinner ready. A cotton tablecloth was mandatory for Sunday dinners, and we’d set out the plates – all collected with coupons from Winn-Dixie.

Another sibling would make the Kool-Aid while one put ice in the glasses. Mom expertly made the mashed potatoes, warmed the corn, whipped up a salad and got the roast on a platter.

We’d say the blessing and then dig in. It was a rule that we passed to the right, understandable because it was mass chaos without that traffic pattern.

While we ate, we talked about a variety of topics, from what we’d done that week to what was happening in the world.

We were free to give our opinion about politics as long as they agreed with our dad’s philosophy that everything was a communist plot.

Our sister, Diane, loved to argue with Dad and he loved the back-and-forth as much as she did. Some of those “discussions” got pretty loud, but Diane said that’s how they communicated.

Nobody got up from the table until after dessert, and we all helped clean up the kitchen, wash the dishes and put things away. All the while, conversations were taking place.

At the time, we didn’t realize those meals would become some of our favorite childhood memories. Unfortunately, I didn’t recreate Sunday dinners with my boys. But whenever the grandchildren are over, we sit down together for meals.

One of our dinner traditions is for everyone to say one good thing that happened to them that day. If I forget to ask, one of the grands will pipe up with a good event from the day.

We linger at the table and talk, and the faint memories of my family are always in my head.

Every time I watch a television show where people are sitting down to share a meal, I’m glad the writers remember those little things, like sharing a bowl of mashed potatoes or spilling a glass of red Kool-Aid, can create some of the best childhood memories.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.