Food, and Family Bonds

When I was growing up in Denver in the 1950s and ’60s, my parents insisted our family eat dinner together nearly every night. The food was homemade, and your excuse for not being there, especially for Friday night Shabbat dinner, had better be really good. With my parents, four kids and at least one or two dogs squished into our small kitchen, those dinners were often noisy and full of rivalries and arguments. But there we were, together. I don’t know if I actually turned out any better than those friends or other kids in the neighborhood whose families rarely ate together or who ate in front of the television, but now here’s a book telling me that, without a doubt, my parents were right.

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