The Table Where We Became Us

Listen to the Complete Episode:

In episode 3, we’re exploring the theme of Family Dinners.

You can tell a lot about a family by how they eat dinner.

Some prayed first. Some fought first. Some set the table like clockwork, while others hovered near the stove like scavengers, waiting for Mom to say, “It’s ready!”

But one thing’s for sure—those dinners weren’t just meals.

They were rituals. Rehearsals. Conversations you didn’t know were lessons. Silent battles you fought with your fork. And sometimes, the only time in the day when everybody sat still long enough to be in the same room.

Whether your table was crowded or quiet, formal or flexible, it was the stage for part of your story.

The Table Where You Became You

We’ll talk about the memories that live around the table—the meals, the people, the moments you didn’t know would stick. I’ll share a story from my own family table—or, rather, lack thereof—offer some writing reflections, and answer a listener’s question about how much family background you really need to include in a scene..

Then we’ll wrap up with a writing prompt to help you bring those mealtime memories back to life.

A Personal Story

When I was growing up, we didn’t have family dinners around a big, polished table. We had a dining room table, sure—but no dining room. Just a dining area where the table was piled high with typewriter parts and old adding machines. My dad worked full-time for Remington, repairing typewriters and manual, crank-style adding machines from the ’50s. But he picked up side jobs from local office supply stores and brought them home to work on. The dining table was his workbench.

So, at our house, dinner didn’t happen “at the table.” It happened in shifts, mostly at the 2-seat kitchen table or with plates balanced on our laps in front of the TV. The TV was always on. Nobody paused it to ask how your day was. We didn’t pass food or talk about the news. We watched shows like Father Knows Best or Leave It to Beaver while holding a plate of spaghetti with one hand and trying not to spill our milk with the other.

What struck me, even as a kid, was the contrast between what was on TV and what I saw in my own home. On the screen, those fictional families sat down in perfect harmony—Dad still wearing his tie, Mom in pearls, kids using their napkins and discussing school elections. Meanwhile, at my house, we were chewing with our mouths open in front of Gilligan’s Island.

There weren’t really dinner conversations, because there weren’t really dinners—just food and background noise. No one taught me table manners at home because, well, we didn’t use a table. I picked up the basics at holiday meals—at Grandma’s or Aunt Carrie’s—where I had to sit up straight, keep my elbows off the table, and ask for the food to be passed.

Eventually, I learned to mind my mouth and pass the gravy like I had some manners.

So when I grew up and had a family of my own, my wife and I made a choice: We would eat at the table.

Not always gracefully, not always quietly—but together. We passed food. We talked. Sometimes we argued. Sometimes we laughed until we choked. But we showed up. And maybe it wasn’t Father Knows Best or Leave it to Beaver, but it was real. And it mattered.

If I learned anything from the chaos of my childhood dinners, it was this: I didn’t want my kids to grow up watching families eat together on TV while eating alone in the same room.

So we pulled up our chairs. And we made it a point to belong at the same table.

Reflection

Why do family dinners linger in memory?

Because they happened over and over again. And repetition is memory’s best friend.

You don’t have to remember one specific meal to write about your family dinners. You can write about your impressions of dinner. The sounds. The aromas. The seating arrangement. The roles everyone played. Think of it as setting the scene for a play that happened every night.

Here are five angles you can explore:

1. Talk About the Table
Was it round or rectangular? Wood, metal, glass? Did it have a tablecloth on it? Or a centerpiece? Or just scratches and stains from years of use?

2. Talk About the People
Who sat where? Who served the food? Was there a sibling who talked with their mouth full? A parent who kept the peace—or instigated the arguments?

3. Talk About the Food
What did you eat on regular nights? What about special occasions? Was there a dish that defined your family—or a meal everyone dreaded?

4. Talk About the Mood
Was it lighthearted? Tense? Did the TV play in the background, or was music part of the ritual?

5. What were The Rules
Were there expectations? No TV? Clean your plate? Speak when spoken to? Or did it feel more like a free-for-all?

Even if you can’t remember the food, the conversations, or the time of year, you can remember what it felt like to be there. That’s the story.

Memoir isn’t about reconstructing every detail. It’s about capturing truth. And sometimes, emotional truth is more powerful than exact memory.

If you’re stuck, try writing a single scene—a typical dinner night. Focus on the sounds: the clatter of dishes, a sibling humming, the faucet running, the scraping of a chair. Add the smells. The tension or the ease. The moment when everyone went quiet.

You don’t have to write about a holiday meal; just write about a normal weeknight..

Listener Mailbox

This week’s question comes from Joanne in Springfield, VA who writes:

“How much context do I need to give about my family in every story?
Do I have to explain who everyone is, or can I just jump into the scene?”

Joanne, a lot of memoir writers bump into that issue and I’m glad you brought it up.

Here’s the short answer: give just enough context to keep your reader from feeling lost. You don’t need to start every scene with a family tree.

If your sister Diane was always the loud one at dinner, you don’t have to say, “This is my sister Diane, who was born in 1957 and once skipped fifth grade.” The story isn’t about Diane, it’s about your experience with family dinners. You can just say:

“Diane—who never whispered a day in her life—was halfway through her second helping when she dropped the news.”

In other words, introduce people the way they showed up in the scene. You can sprinkle in backstory later if it helps the moment land.

Think about it like this:

• If someone’s role is essential to the tension or humor, give them a quick sketch.
  
• If they’re a background player, they can stay in the background.
  
• And if you mention them more than once in your memoir, find ways to deepen their character across scenes—not all at once.
  

You’re not writing a biography. You’re writing a moment. Trust that your reader will catch up—and stay focused on the emotional truth of the scene.

Thanks for asking, Joanne. It’s a good reminder that memoir isn’t about documenting everyone. It’s about illuminating something real. And sometimes, all you need is one voice at the table to tell the story.

Prompt of the Week

Let’s bring it home with your Prompt of the Week.

Write about family dinners from your childhood.
Where did they happen? What were the routines, the rules, the rhythms? Who was there, and what role did you play?

To help you get started, here are a few jumpstart questions:

• Was there a favorite meal in your family? What made it special or mundane?
  
• Did you have certain foods on certain nights, like “pizza night” or “burger night” or “Taco Tuesday?”
  
• Who served the food? Who cleaned up?
  
• Did anything unexpected ever happen at the table?
  
• If you could sit down to one more dinner with your family, what would you want to say?
  

Bonus Prompt: Try eating a meal from your childhood—just one dish: Fish sticks. Cream of Wheat. Jello Salad; It doesn’t matter what it is. But try it. Smell it. Taste it. Then write about the memories that it brings back.

Key Takeaway

The family dinner table is more than furniture—it’s a map of family dynamics.

It’s where patterns form. Where stories repeat. Where you became you, one bite at a time.

If you want to understand your upbringing, look at how your family fed each other. How you spoke—or didn’t speak—over meatloaf or macaroni. What was said, and what was left unsaid.

In memoir, sometimes the deepest truths are sitting right there… between the salt shaker and the second helping.

---