Culture Shock at the Dinner Table

If you’ve just begun dating that special someone and you’d like to see how your honey reacts under extreme pressure, invite her or him to an intimate dinner. At your house. Seated at a small table with just you and your parents. And, in this case, my seven brothers.

Besides, I felt it was only right to invite Karen to dinner at my family's small wood house, because I’d already partaken at her family’s comfortable, brick home. And the dinner there was a feast. Her mother made roast beef with gravy, and the gravy had its own special porcelain dispenser! Her mother also served white and green vegetables that I had never heard of, and they were bathed in a creamy cheese sauce. And their beautiful wooden dining table was covered in a lace tablecloth, and you would not believe the elbow room! There was just Karen, her parents, and her younger brother. And no one had to sit on a piano bench!

I knew I was out of my element. When her father led the mealtime prayer, I reached for my forehead to make the sign of the cross, but stopped when everyone’s hands stayed still. They closed their eyes, so I closed mine ... part way, because I had to see when it was time to reopen them. And when the odd words came from their lips, I stayed silent.

Come Lord Jesus, be our guest and let thy gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

At the conclusion of the prayer, someone stuck a big bowl of mashed potatoes in front of me. I soon learned the art of passing food around the table at dinnertime. These German Lutherans had some curious mealtime customs. But their food was great, and they were good company and there was laughter. Not once did religion intrude upon the table talk, even though Karen’s folks knew about my religion, and her father was an elder in their Lutheran church.

Several weeks later, it was Karen’s turn to go on display at my Catholic house. If she was nervous, she didn’t show it. Karen smiled and was the picture of composure as she and all 10 members of my family crowded around the dining room table. She got to sit in a real chair, because she was a guest. (One of my younger brothers and our mother sat on the piano bench, because they were both left-handed.)

There were no napkins at our table, but Karen wasn’t fazed. Then, all but she made the sign of the cross, and all but she launched into a prayer:

“Bless us O Lord and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty through Christ Our Lord, Amen.” (However, we sped through our prayer. It sounded more like one continuous word.)

Still, she was composed. But her true test came the instant we said “amen,” because that was the signal for my parents to stand up and dish out the food. Their arms moved furiously around the table. Dad dolloped the mashed potatoes with a big spoon as if he was on a precision bombing mission, each scoop hitting a plate with a hearty thwack. Mom moved around with the fried chicken, dropping her missiles by hand. They worked as a team; my mother finished her run first, so she moved onto spooning up the canned corn.

My father took on the final pre-dinner mission. He grabbed the salt shaker with his big fist and strafed the table, making a pass over each plate. But Karen took a stand: As the salt began to rain down in front of her, she reflexively put her hands over her food, and the crystals bounced off. None of us had ever seen such an expert defensive move at the dinner table. My brothers were in awe. But this Catholic family harbored one nagging question: Why didn’t Lutherans like salt?

Just like at Karen’s house, religion did not intrude at the dinner table. People were too busy eating, laughing, joking, and salting.