Carol’s Column

Devastating dialogue at the Dinner Drama

Some traditions never die.

Take eating. Especially family eating.

Who invented the family dinner? The one the psychologists, psychiatrists and sociologists maintain is so important for bonding human relationships.

One noted behavioural scientist was recently on record propounding the opinion that a family should always enjoy the main meal of the day together as this should be a time for meaningful communication, family interaction and togetherness.

I thought of that behavioural psychologist a few weeks ago as the Lazar family enacted the 4 497th act in the continuing Drama of Dinner.

The scenario; a peaceful, warm happy family of six plus two dogs, one cat, two-and-a-half goldfish, a field-mouse called Arthur and a resident spider, sitting cosily around a large, merrily laid table with a splendid centrepiece of wilting zinnias.

The background effects are subtle — dogs scratching, a cat meeowing, a Parktown prawn chirping in the sideboard and the sound of heavy breathing. Hayfever, flu, sinus, nasal drip, adenoids, you name it and we’ve got it.

I proudly open the broken-hinged door of my stove and whip out a super-economy surprise called Minchentti a la Bordello. It is mince and noodles cunningly decorated with capers and green peppers.

My three sons, temporary refugees from university, are delighted with the sight of some genuine home cooking. “Aw, Ma, let’s go out to supper,” says Jamie.

“Why don’t you jump in the lake,” I retort angrily, upon which Jamie stands up.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To jump in the lake.”

It is at times like this that I clench my false teeth and pray to Gumpel Magoel, a wailing Dervish of ancient times.

I dish up quickly not wanting to keep my hungry little family waiting. Naturally, they are complimentary about my culinary achievements. “This tastes like braised sawdust,” says my husband.

Conversation is brisk and intellectual. “Shut your mouth.”

“Take your elbows off the table.”

“Use a fork not your hands.”

Then. “If Jesus came back to earth would He be Jewish or Christian?” asks my daughter of the sea urchin eyes and ethnic sandals.

“Nicky, that is a very touchy issue,” says her second brother Ralph.

“He’d obviously be Jewish,” says Jamie authoritatively, “which would mean the entire Christian religion might have to reconvert to Judaism.”

Barry nods his agreement. “It could cause problems,” he says sagely. Oldest sons tend to be sage.

Our neighbour, a drummer in the Defence Force, begins a drum roll that causes the paint to fall from the ceiling onto the wilting zinnias. They do not look nice.

“Must you eat with your mouth?” says my third son to his older brother.

From religion we move to sex. “Did you know that an amoeba is able to pleasure himself?” says Ralph.

“Herself,” retorts Nicky.

“Itself,” says Barry.

And it’s back to religion. “God is definitely a woman,” says Nicky, at which stage the phone rings.

“It’s David Falkow,” says Ralph.

“No, David Falkow is not God. God is a woman, I read it in the latest Ms magazine,” states Nicky categorically.

Just then, the doorbell rings and I duck under the table because my lengthy nose is twitching allergically which means it is probably our friendly summons man.

It is and he is in a jovial mood. “Hello, Mrs Lazar,” he says with a chuckle in his adam’s apple, “can I join you under the table. Why have you a sheepskin rug on your head,” he asks as he follows me the length of the table’s nether regions.

“Woof, woof,” I reply but he is not fooled for a moment and gives me a summons anyway. And then sits down to dinner and regales us with fascinating tales of how people avoid receiving their summonses.

At the table, there is something different and I cannot work out what it is. Until I hear Barry’s voice on the phone and look more closely at his seat where our dog Henry the Hog is sitting quietly eating the mince on noodles.

“What a gentleman he is,” I murmur, “he would be at home at the Rand Club.”

“Precisely,” says my husband.

■