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For years, it’s been impossible to say why I insist, nightly, on setting out five plates and five forks and something hot in a pan that I’d be embarrassed by if any adult I wasn’t married to caught sight of. Though all research trumpets the importance of family dinners, I sometimes wonder if these researchers actually do it themselves. These days, our dinners usually feel like a nightly opportunity for everyone to think of new and imaginative ways to complain about the food. Generally, we begin with the four-year-old’s pronouncement, said ritually like grace, that he is allergic to all food except noodles. Following this, the eight-year-old begins the elaborate process of separating any food that has touched another, and eventually we segue into the moment when the eleven-year-old lays his cheek on the table and says he’s too tired for all this all over again. Truly, I've wondered sometimes if maybe not eating together would bring us closer, or at least spare us the nightly speech from their father: “Mom has cooked us a lovely dinner. I’d like everyone to thank Mom for the food.”