By the time the roast chicken came out of the oven, I had already washed my face and hands and was seated at the kitchen table, waiting for Mother to dish out supper on my plate. In the centre of the table was a steaming bowl of potatoes mashed with butter, a bowl of mixed vegetables, and the gravy boat with the chip missing from one corner, filled with the best gravy anyone could ever make.
Knowing Father would be in directly, she had carved the chicken rather quickly. It wasn’t cut neatly, but that didn’t matter as it would still taste good. Everything about farm life was time related, like the milking of the cows, feeding and watering the animals, planting the garden, cutting the hay, and harvesting. Even when it came to the kitchen, Mother served supper every night at five o’clock sharp.
Dad had been working in the field all afternoon, yet he’d unharnessed the horse and walked into the kitchen just minutes before supper hour, walked to the sink to wash up, and sat at the head of the table precisely at five. He never said much while we ate. Even after getting washed up, he looked hot and tired. For us on the farm, the five o’clock supper wasn’t just a meal. It was the only time during the busy day that we were together as a family. However, I remember one exception to the five o’clock timing. That was the day the stovepipe from our sawdust-burning kitchen stove caught on fire just minutes before supper was placed on the table. Thankfully, Mother and Dad were able to put the fire out quickly, so supper was only delayed for a bit, but for me it was a scary time.
Being only five had its moments, but even at that age, my brother and I had chores to do after supper. Quite often I had to be reminded of what I was to do.
Sunday was my night to go to the henhouse and gather the eggs; Mondays, I helped Mother clear the supper table; Tuesdays, I swept the kitchen floor; Wednesdays, I helped dry the dishes as Mother washed, except for any pots and pans, Mother took care of those. Thursdays, I helped Mother set the table; Fridays, I would go with Dad to the barn, and after the milking was done. I’d take some milk to the barn cats, and on Saturdays I’d help Mother with the dusting in the living room.
Years have passed much too quickly, but I’ll fast-forward my story to 2025. It’s just me and my husband now, as our sons have all grown and have homes and families of their own. Our supper is brought out of the oven, or a frozen meal out of the microwave. I look down at our cat Annabelle and tell her it’s time to go tell Dad it’s time for supper, hers and ours. Annabelle has developed a technique all her own where she goes in next to Dad’s chair, turns her back to him, and shakes her tail as if it was a rattle.
Old habits are hard to break, as supper is still served around five o’clock. The two of us have stopped eating at the kitchen table, and the tablecloth has turned into paper towels on our trays. We have a little conversation, but basically, it’s our TV time.
As I write this, I wonder when the last time was when we all ate together as a family. I’m 75 now, and I honestly can’t remember what year it was, but it was one Christmas when the two oldest grandchildren, now married, were young and full of life, and of course we were much younger then too. My husband carved the turkey, which was well done. There were pots on the stove with mashed potatoes, vegetables, homemade dressing, and gravy. Serving dishes on the counter held an array of cheese, sliced tomatoes and cucumber, cranberry sauce, and dinner rolls. Everyone took turns filling their plates. After the turkey dinner, there was apple or mince pie for those who still had room.
Then we sat around and reminisced as our three sons told stories of the times they remembered most. Now that was a family supper I shall always remember, and it too was served at 5 o’clock.
Share Your Experience
Thank you for letting me share this memory with you. Writing it down brought back so many feelings—the smell of Mother’s gravy, the sound of Dad washing up at the sink, and yes, even that scary stovepipe fire!
It’s funny how something as simple as supper at five o’clock can become such a cornerstone of family life. Those farm meals taught me that gathering together matters, even when—or maybe especially when—everyone is tired and busy.
What about you? Do you have a family mealtime memory that’s stayed with you all these years? Was there a set time when everyone gathered, no matter what? Maybe a particular dish that meant “home” to you? And how do your family meals look today compared to your childhood?
Bill and I would love to hear your stories about family suppers, whether it’s a cherished memory from decades ago or a tradition you’re keeping alive today. Reply to this email or share your story in our Facebook community.
Sometimes the simplest traditions—like supper at five o’clock—become the memories we treasure most.
Warmly,
Marilyn
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Born and raised in Nova Scotia, Marilyn and Bill met and married in 1972. Having raised 3 boys and accumulated a respectable number of grand-children and great-grand-children, she wrote her first book and published it in 2024. A collection of short stories titled The Kendricks of Glasgow Junction. She is contributing short stories about growing up in Nova Scotia to this website and will be publishing a collection of them in the near future.