By José Dominguez, May 20, 2021 — The dining table was for me and the rest of my brothers a school of good manners and etiquette. My father was in some way solemn and respectful to his traditions. His constant supervision of our eating manners left an imprint on us. To begin with, he had to be the first person to take a seat and had to be at the table headboard. My mother’s place was to his right with the task of supervising the cookery movements from the kitchen and serving the food. The kitchen was an independent room out of our sight.
The routine started with our hand cleaning. All food had to be eaten. By any means, we had to protect the table cloth from food or drink spills. There were no special plates. Cutting the food had to be done with mastery to prevent any spills. We ate in small portions. We never talked when chewing. We were prohibited to clean the plate with bread or tortillas. [We were taught] “Don’t interrupt conversations.” Tacos were on a special plate so we were not allowed to do tacos with our food. We had to say, “please” when asking for something, not to play while eating, etc. After the first plate was done my mother ran to deal with the next until dessert was served. Of course, with aging, my father became less strict and more permissive.
Nevertheless, when married, Maria and I were invited to live with my parents and in a way, some formalities were not strictly reinforced. Since Maria did not know all the details of our home table culture, she had to learn it. She sat beside my father’s left side, meaning that she was the most important person after my parents.
On one occasion, the dessert was mango and my mother included the special trident that we always used to hold, peel and eat that tropical fruit. Nobody told her how to use it but she managed to copy my movements. First, she put pressure on the mango so it could not move. Next, she took the trident and her task was to find the central piece that we called “hueso” or “bone” in English. Several times she tried to hit the target but was frustrated in her trials. So, she decided not to fail and applied more pressure to the mango and more pressure to the trident, and voila!! The mango flew through the air and landed on my father’s lap. My mother was horrified, I was in suspense, Maria was begging for pardon, and my father was laughing with all the strengths of his lungs. The solemnity was broken and Maria became more and more close to my father, mostly because of her willingness to help in any endeavor needed to keep our family well attended. She was so supportive that my father, in one unusual confession, told her in front of me: “Maria, I always had the dream of a daughter but God gave me 6 sons. With you I have received the daughter I never had. Thank you.”