Carol’s Column
Who invented the fork anyway?
SOME traditions never die. Take eating.
Especially family eating.
Who invented the family dinner? The one the sociologists, psychiatrists and psychologists maintain is so important for human relationships.
"A family should always eat the main meal of the day together," one noted behavioural scientist said recently, while delivering a paper at a congress. "It is a time for meaningful communication, for family inter-action and for togetherness."
Oh yea.
I thought of that behavioural psychologist last night as the Lazar family enacted the 2 555th act in the continuing Drama of Dinner.
The scenario; a serene, warm happy family of six plus three dogs, a cat and a hamster, sitting cosily around a large gaily-laid table.
The background music is subtle — dogs chewing bones, the zing of an eternally-rotating hamster wheel accompanied by the sound of six heavy breathers.
Hayfever, sinus, flu — we have it all.
I open the kitchen door and whip out my super-surprise economy Meal of the Moment — mince on mash.
"Aw Ma . . . why don't we go out for supper?" says my youngest son.
"Why don't you jump in the lake?" I retort, angrily.
He stands up.
"Hey, where are you going?"
"To jump in the lake."
You can't win.
I dish up quickly, not wanting to keep my hungry little family waiting.
They are complimentary about the mince on mash.
"What is this?" asks my husband, pausing in mid chew.
"Guess," I answer coyly. Good cooks never tell.
"Braised sawdust," he replies without a change in his chewing.
Conversation is brisk and topical.
"Shut your mouth."
"Take your elbows off the table."
"Stop eating with your hands."
Our neighbour, a first violinist in the Symphony Orchestra begins practising and strains of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major shriek through the window which provokes Liquorice-the-labrador to sing along in a high-pitched howl.
The sound of steadfast chewing rises above all.
"Must you eat with your mouth?" says my second son to my first and receives an unfriendly nudge on the elbow which sends the water flying into his plate of mince on mash.
"Fetch a cloth," I shout, but needn't bother, he's already used his table napkin which would make Nancy Mitford turn in her grave.
I gaze fondly at my little unit. This is family interaction at its best.
Ralph has just pushed his mash on to Barry's plate who in turn has donated his carrots to Nicky who has swapped plates with Jamie who eats quickly.
The phone rings. "Tell them we're eating, you'll ring back."
"God's a woman," announces my daughter — causing her father to choke.
"It's David Vermeulen."
"No," says Nicky. "David Vermeulen is not God — she's definitely a woman. My teacher said so."
Ten out of 10 to the teacher. I make a mental note to send Mrs Glover a box of liqueur chocolates.
We communicate for a further 10 minutes before I notice the phone's still off the hook.
When I replace it I hear a faint voice calling: "Hello, Ralph, Ralph." Good heavens, it's still David Vermeulen.
The doorbell rings. It's the friendly traffic summons man. His entrance is jovial.
"Hello Mrs Lazar, ha, ha. I can see you under the table," and before I can say I've dropped my fork, he's joined me and we're both crawling around with 10 feet and three dogs.
Then, as his eyes become accustomed to the gloom, he asks: "Why have you got a sheepskin on your head?"
I woof feebly, but he hands me the summons anyway.
"Why don't you join us," says my husband pulling out a chair. So he does, and fascinates us with tales of how some people try to avoid their summons.
The phone and doorbell ring simultaneously.
A charming young man wants to save us all with a custom-built prayer.
My spouse, in a flash of rare brilliance, hands him the phone.
"It's your mother in Cape Town," he says and her need is greater than ours.
Suddenly the lights trip and we're in darkness. Which is just as well as I have just observed the happy, meaningful family interaction has developed into a free-for-all:
That can't possibly be a splodge of mash floating through the air.
It is.
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Editorial note
Masthead reads "Sunday Express LIVING, March 29, 1981", page 11; 29 March 1981 was a Sunday. The section tab reads "Living" and the standing head "Carol's column", both set in rounded boxes, and the column is signed with a byline box reading "By CAROL LAZAR" beside a photograph of her rather than signed at the foot. No drawing ran with it. The clipping is pasted slightly askew and photographed at an angle, so the foot of the left-hand columns sits lower in the frame than the right. A crease runs across the word "Hayfever" and through two lines beneath it; the readings there are given below.
Transcribed as printed. Doubtful readings:
- "Hayfever, sinus, flu — we have it all": a crease in the photocopy crosses the first word and flattens it almost to nothing. The reading is not in serious doubt, the ascenders and the length both fit, but it rests on judgement rather than on type that can be read outright.
- "but needn't bother, he's already used his table napkin": the same crease crosses "bother, he's". The sense is plain and the line lengths fit.