So apparently we have a new family tradition. (Is that possible? A “new” tradition? Dunno.)  Anyway, without any of us really noticing, the “family dinner” has become a “thing”.

To clarify, this isn’t the 6.00pm funfest that is dinnertime at my place. And when I say funfest, I mean shit fight.

I’m talking about the extended family – my sister, her husband, their three kids, my youngest sister and my parents (herein referred to as The Parentals) – having dinner together, usually at The Parentals’ place, on a now-apparently-regular basis.

It’s not that we’ve never had dinner all together before, but up until a little while ago those dinners were held for specific reasons – usually birthdays.  On those occasions, one of us would ring the others going “Crap, it’s <insert name of family member>’s birthday on Thursday. Are we doing anything?”.

If it was one of the kids’ birthdays, the parent in question would usually volunteer to host the “Festival of <insert kid’s name>” and would nominate the preferred date, which wouldn’t work for anyone. After some negotiation, a date would be settled upon – usually at least a week after the birthday – hence the “Festival of…” reference, because the birthday has lasted so long even the kid is over it.

These birthday dinners are not particularly elaborate. Sausages and chips, maybe a crumbed chop if we’re being fancy, followed by cake (homemade if my sister Kate is the parent; bakery or Donut Den Donut Tower if I’m the parent), and it’s usually all over well before 7.  The Parentals (Grandparentals, in this case) will make an appearance for gift-giving purposes, but will conveniently have a reservation at the local Croatian restaurant so there’s no need to feed and water them.

This new version of the Family Dinner is a totally different beast.

 

 

 

First, there’s not as much negotiation.  OK, there’s none. Mum will call and say something along the lines of “I was thinking we’d have dinner here with everyone on Sunday night.”  Obviously what she means is “You are all required to come to dinner on Sunday night.”

When this all started, we were deadset positive there would be a major agenda item rolled out at dinner.  My family – in particular my father – is big on making pronouncements, rather than making conversation. It’s kind of his way. At least with family.  My Dad is Croatian (yeah, the Croatian restaurant wasn’t a lucky fluke) and has some very Eastern European tendencies. There is no place other than the head of the table for him, and it is from here he makes his pronouncements.

So for the first few Dinners we kept waiting for the big moment, whatever it was.  But the big moment would turn out to be something like someone storming out, a kid throwing up, or Maisie eating a pea.  Never anything significant like “hey, your Mother and I are going to spend a year on a kibbutz”.

It eventually became clear that the purpose of the Family Dinner was to – gah! eat together as a family. The kids, of course, see their Grandparents’ house as being like a “gifting suite” (in manner of Academy Awards) – a magical place in which chips and chocolate appear as if out of thin air, and random toys/felt pens/colouring books find their way from Mama’s “special room” into their hands.

 

 

 

To be fair to The Parentals, we adults are not left empty handed at Family Dinners. As mentioned earlier, Dad hails from Eastern Europe, and as such considers alcohol a food group. Thank God. At least, my sisters thank God. I gave up alcohol 5 months and 19 days ago. I am not counting at all. The following tweetversation illustrates the important part played by plonk in Family Dinners:

Me: “So a family dinner 2night at the #mentalparentals with @funsizejaney & @katelhunter #takeadeepbreath”

Kate: “@nicmclachlan am so not in the mood. And I am not even off the sherbs #dontknowhowyoudoit @funsizejaney”

Me: “@katelhunter I go to my zen place #thatissuchcrap @funsizejaney”

Janey: “I’ve already been at the #mentalparentals once today”

Me: “Is there enough plonk for @katelhunter? #desperatetimes”

Janey: “Dad has stocked cellar, fridges and eskies #shouldbeok @katelhunter”

If you don’t speak tweet, this can all be summarised by “we’ll get through it as long as there’s wine”.

In Janey’s case, as long as there’s Bacardi. At the most recent Family Dinner, at an appropriate moment Janey said “Hey Dad, can I please have a Bacardi?”, to which Dad replied “Yes, sure”. Not unreasonably she expected her Bacardi to be forthcoming, but it became apparent that Dad had merely given her permission to have a Bacardi. She pondered this for a second and then said “I’ll just get it then shall I?”.  It was exactly like when you ring someone and their child answers the phone, and you say “can I speak to Mummy please?” and they say “yes” and then stay on the line because you didn’t actually ask them to GET Mummy.

The Family Dinner is always held at the the vast dining table that Mum and Dad bought in South Africa, made from old railroad sleepers.  It had to be hoisted into the house by a crane and is so heavy that if it suddenly fell through the floor while we were eating, none of us would be surprised.  The meal itself is usually either roast lamb or a family favourite called, enticingly, Swagman’s Roll, which is basically mince cooked in tomato sauce, wrapped up in puff pastry. Yes indeedy, we are the last word in gourmet. And there are always peas. They are always Surprise Peas – not as in “surprise! there are peas”, but the brand Surprise Peas. There are always dinner rolls, because if there weren’t, Maisie would go hungry.

Dinner starts with Grace, but only after an exchange like this has taken place:

Kate: “Are we ready for Grace?”

Mum: “No, your father’s not at the table. JOE! WE’RE READY!”

Dad: “Alright, I’m just opening the Red!”.

Maisie: “I don’t like lamb.”

Mum: “JOE, WE WANT TO SAY GRACE!”

Dad: “OK, I’m here. Who’s saying Grace?”

Kate: “Ben, how about you say Grace?”

Mum: “Joe, is there ice for the wine?”

Janey: “I’ll get some ice and the Diet Coke.”

Me: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD COULD SOMEONE SAY GRACE”

 

 

 

The true stars of the Family Dinner, hands down, are my brother-in-law and my husband. Their ability to listen to my father’s stories is awe-inspiring. This is as opposed to my sisters and I who give ourselves eyeball cramps whenever Dad starts with “Speaking of….” because chances are we weren’t speaking of anything remotely close to what he’s about to launch into.

But the husbands – saints that they are, both with over 10 years of son-in-law experience under their belts – gratefully clutch their beers and totally look like they’re into whatever he’s banging on about. Even last weekend’s story about Mohammed the lift installer. There’s a conversation I bet they never thought they’d be part of.

And sweet Jesus it’s loud. Our ethnic heritage means our baseline is loud. But factor in at least one premenstrual sister, two 5 year old cousins fighting over who’s the better singer, twitter alerts from at least 2 iphones, and Dad yelling “THE DOG’S IN! ANNE, HOW DID THE DOG GET IN?!” and we could totally have our own reality tv show called “Shut The Fuck Up”.

I know my family isn’t Robinson Crusoe in the crazy family ritual department. Tell me about yours?