Childhood Memories At The Table

Do you remember what your childhood kitchen table looked like? The shape, size, color? Was it a place for homework, laughter, and playing games? Was it a safe place where you could share your thoughts and strengthen family ties? And probably the most important question… how was the food?

When I think back on my own childhood memories at the table, you might be surprised to learn that no memories come to mind.

My parents divorced when I was young, just before I started kindergarten in Las Vegas, which left me with no memories of shared meals or family time at that age. My memories began when family dynamics changed, with both parents remarrying. This significant shift marked the beginning of a complex tapestry of experiences that would shape my childhood, my adolescence, and my perspective of time spent at the table.

When my mom remarried, we added siblings and a stepfather to our table. For me, family dinners would range from joyful evenings filled with laughter and joking around to more subdued, quiet nights when the atmosphere was noticeably tense. On occasion, when things were hectic, dinner was every man for himself, which meant I was on my own—maybe you experienced that too. Sometimes a neighborhood friend would invite me over for dinner, which was always fun and led me wanting to reciprocate the invite. Unfortunately, that wasn't a reality most days.

When the whole family gathered for dinner (seven kids), my younger brother and I would sit at the counter opposite the dinner table, beside the kitchen sink. It was quite an interesting spot. If we didn’t like something on our plates, we could discreetly feed it to the dogs under the counter, make trips to the garbage with food hidden in napkins, or quietly toss it into the sink. I have to confess to doing all three—especially when my mom made tuna fish casserole with onions and peas. Yuck! I wasn't a fan of either. Thankfully, my mom was a good cook so that didn’t happen too often.

On my dad's side, things looked different. My dad served in the Air Force and traveled globally, which meant my brother and I had the chance to see him during his visits to town. I was lucky to have my paternal grandparents living just a few miles away, and we spent a couple of weekends each month with them—time I truly cherished. My Grandma Eunie loved having music playing in the house, especially while making dinner, and we would sing, dance, and be silly together. Sometimes she would burn incense after dinner, and we would even do yoga.

Eventually, my dad was stationed back in Las Vegas, and my brother and I would have family dinners at his house with our stepmom and sisters. Dinner at dad's was different with prayer before each meal and after dinner we often played games, listened to music and rode bikes as the sun set. I came to understand at this time that I had two families—different people, different personalities, and different experiences.

As I navigated those contrasting moments, I learned to appreciate the nuances of family life. Celebratory dinners taught me the importance of togetherness and the joy that comes from sharing moments with loved ones. On the other hand, the quieter evenings made me more aware of challenges that can come with blending families—the need for patience and the understanding that each person brings their own thoughts and emotions into these shared spaces.

These memories, both joyful and uncertain, became the fabric of my understanding of life. They illustrate that family dynamics are not always straightforward; they can be a blend of laughter and silence, celebration and solitude. As I reflect on these memories, I realize they have shaped my perspective on relationships and the importance of communication and empathy in nurturing the bonds that hold us together, even amidst the changes that life inevitably brings.

Now, in 2026, my table looks different than it did when I was growing up. I've been married for 34 years and have three grown daughters. Early on, we established the importance of our family gathering at the table and with time, our table looks different today than it did back then.

The table may change, but the meaning we give it—and what we carry from it—stays with us; every memory, even the mixed ones, has a seat at the table, and every table tells a story. This is just the beginning of mine.

I look forward to sharing more with you next week, on Mother’s Day.

-Angela White