This column is by Madeleine May Kunin, a Democrat who was the 77th governor of Vermont, serving from 1985 until 1991. She is the author of “Coming of Age, My Journey to the Eighties.” Her new book of poetry is “Red Kite, Blue Sky.”
It’s almost the end of lockdown. Light is coming through the open door. Fresh air is rushing in.
Outdoors, we can breathe again, without being muffled by masks.
Where I live, at Wake Robin, a senior living community, the dining room opened up into a real dining room once again after more than a year of being silent as a vault. The first night it opened, the dining room sounded as if the clock had struck midnight on New Year’s Eve.
Yeah! We could eat together again!
What joy. The only thing missing was fireworks. And confetti. There were a few balloons. And noise.
Laughter bounced off the glasses. Chatter hit the ceiling and ricocheted back to the tables. A birthday party? No, just a reunion of some 150 people who hadn’t been together for ages.
For all that time, dinner had been delivered in a large brown paper bag, left at everyone’s doorstep. The bag was packed with all the courses that comprise a balanced meal: soup, salad, a main course and dessert.
The food was takeout, with all of its limitations. Even after getting it out of the microwave and transferring it to my plate, in my kitchen, the food was dry. I ate it because I was hungry, almost as a duty. The problem wasn’t the food. The kitchen did their best to make dinner attractive. They too were excited to see a full dining room at last where they could show off their skills.
The problem was that I was eating alone most nights. I didn’t want to eat in front of the television set, as some of my friends did. Glued to the TV. I wouldn’t know what I was eating. Neither could I pay attention to the news.
Alone, I ate too fast, wanting to get the meal over with. Bizarre as it sounds, food tastes better when you’ve got company.
I know I shouldn’t complain about food. I was fortunate, living in a safe place, having food delivered to me, and not having to worry about going shopping, paying the rent, losing my job or caring for others. I was lucky, I kept telling myself.
The euphoria I felt that first night in the dining room showed me what I had been missing during the height of the pandemic.
People.
We are social beings. Some more so than others. But most of us enjoy sharing a meal with others. Dinnertime becomes more of a celebration when we eat with others, whether it is in a large dining room, a restaurant or at a kitchen table with friends or family.
I thought I knew that before the arrival of the pandemic. But with the reopening of the dining room, I realized for the first time what social interaction means.
It means laughter between bites. Smiles exchanged with a neighbor as I stood in line, placing my order for dinner. (Masks were still worn while waiting.) Then, sitting down at a table for four and starting a conversation.
Eating dinner together in the dining room again transformed us from being isolated individuals to a community.
