I began with seven. Two brothers, two sisters, two parents and me, seven to feed when I began cooking. That was the year my mom went to a paying job and my sisters and I went to the kitchen.
We shared the work. I made cake while my sisters made green bean soup and washed dishes. I peeled potatoes and they fixed vegetables, watched the roast and set the table. When the cousins came, we all peeled potatoes for a dozen.
In college, my work-study funding sent me to the college cafeteria, where I served meals to hundreds. By the time I met my future husband, I knew how to cook for a lot of people. Knowing how to cook was on the top of his unwritten list of qualifications needed more before I married into his family of two ready-made sons.
From seven to hundreds, down to four.
We began with four. I added one more and invited in two foster sons. Four grade-school boys, one toddler and two parents. Seven. I knew how to cook for seven.
The foster boys moved back home, the hospital sent me home with others until I had a table of five boys and one little girl to feed.
When the oldest two left together, we arranged the chairs around the table and set it for six. Six, I began to cook for six.
One by one, the boys grew up, packed their clothes and went to eat with hundreds in college cafeterias. Five, then four and now three.
We used to be more, but now we are three.
The three of us only take up half the table at meals. With only three for meals, the food I fix is barely enough to feed a hungry teenage boy.
Before the last year, I had never cooked for three. I had never planned meals, bought groceries or set the table for three. I did not know how to cook for three. Some evenings when hubby works over, band practice goes late and I have an evening appointment, the meal time population dwindles to one for supper.
We are easing toward the empty next. Our family stomach has shrunk. Milk sours by the gallons before it is consumed. The refrigerator overflows with dried left-overs leaving the little room for fresh food. Boxes of cereal grow stale on the shelves next to loaves of bread sporting fuzzy beards of mold. The spaghetti sauce bought on sale sits unopened.
It has taken two years, but I am beginning to learn how to cook for three.
The first year, I made huge skillets full of cornbread that dried into hard tack before I tossed the remainder to the birds. This second year, I open a cute little mix that fills six muffin tins and hope they are all eaten.
Last year, I made vats of stew and stored the leftovers in the freezer for months. This year, I pulled out the two-quarter pan and planned the left-overs for those suppers of two.
Originally, I frosted loaf cakes and ate more than my share. Now I make half a batch of cookies and share the left-overs with friends.
Too soon we will end with two. I’ve never cooked for that few.
I’ll learn if I have to, but, if you have a couple of hungry kids to spare …