what’s for dinner?

I feel less afraid today. Is that foolish? Maybe. But taking a day off from fear doesn’t seem wrong. A vacay from fear. A break from fear. A fear hiatus. A fear intermission. An intermezzo.

I think about all the food we are privileged to eat. I think of how lucky I am and how lucky the girls are (though they don’t truly understand what they have just yet) to have someone who cooks so well for them. I think about the greens, the bread, the corned beef on St. Patrick’s day — wasn’t that last year, isn’t that what it feels like?, the Korean noodles, the Reubens, roast chicken (me!), the beans and sausage (me again), the cheeseburgers x 2, the tofu lettuce wraps, Saturday is now PIZZA NIGHT, the short ribs (mine again!), and more salad lunches than I can count, though the number is around what…20? We meet and eat together at our round kitchen table. Depending on the popularity of the meal, we may have to spend a significant portion of our mealtime asking the girls to finish their food, first calmly and then with increasing frustration and cleaned plates. During the meal, we ask them to talk about real stuff, rather than kid tv shows we haven’t watched with them that day, the ones we plugged them into so we could make the dinner they’re now only sort of eating. We do a rose/bud/thorn (thank you, L) and these days, when I ask How did we do today? I’m usually met with nods of approval that we are doing alright, all together, all the time.

We bought this table at a shop that used to be an elevated junk shop, which is now a mid-century modern-focused vintage shop, now with a sign in the window letting us know that the owners will be out of town indefinitely, having likely escaped to a mid-century modern oasis far from this wounded city. It’s an old Herman Miller table, it’s white melamine top not all that worse for wear given that it’s been around since the 60s. Who ate here before us? Who will eat here after we do? So many meals shared between us. So many meals to go before what comes next.

My dear friend J says that these days, the only thing that gets her through the day is looking forward to and planning what she’ll have for dinner. I wish so much that that’s all we all had to think about in this moment. Imagine it. A world where time outside stops, but you get to hole up in your house, hopefully safely, with those you love and just…meal plan. Before the heat of the summer, before the wave of whatever is coming next. I wish this. I wish this for everyone who is not in the way of it.

I can’t wait to have you over for dinner.

Perhaps the World Ends Here

BY JOY HARJO

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Joy Harjo is everything. She’s curating this month’s Poem a Day at Academy of American Poets. You should join. Sometimes it’s too much in the morning, but most of the time, there’s time for a poem sometime.