Eating for three

It takes a village to feed a child. And her parents.

By Jamie Passaro

February 28, 2007

• E-Mail to a friend
• Print Friendly

I vaguely remember someone walking around during our baby shower with a clipboard. People were signing something? Signing up for something, maybe? I was busy soliciting advice on childbirth and unwrapping so many soft, pale-colored things. Eight months pregnant, I could focus on only two questions: When would the baby arrive, and how much would it hurt?

After she did arrive, on a sunny August morning, and the labor pains were quickly replaced with euphoria and a hunger like I’d never known, I was thrilled to discover that the clipboard had indeed been a sign-up sheet. Our friends had organized dinners for us for the next three weeks.

Meals delivered to our house every day meant that my husband, Bob, and I got to spend whole days in bed with this wondrous new member of our family. They meant we felt taken care of, and we got to pass those warm feelings on to our daughter, Olive. They meant we didn’t go to the grocery store once during Olive’s first month.

Meals for three weeks also meant we got to introduce Olive to a new friend almost every day. This was mostly great; at its best, we got to look forward each day to a visit with someone from the Land of A Full Night’s Sleep. But I have to admit that there were days when we didn’t want to share Olive, when all we wanted to do was eat dinner, go to bed, and stare at her some more.

The author and her baby.

Our need to spend time with just the three of us was surprisingly fierce. I realize now that this was normal, and no one expected anything different. Except maybe us. We’d always had an open-house policy for friends. And now there was a beautiful baby to show off, celebrating to do, and so much good food to share. Seeing friends to the door before 10 p.m. – friends who were used to staying until all of the bottles were empty and the hours got small again – was new for us.

During Olive’s first weeks, I wanted to memorize everything. In a small notebook, I scribbled down every first, every visitor, every meal. Everyone interpreted the concept of delivering dinner a little differently, and the notebook documents both what we ate and how each meal reflected each friend.

Melissa and Joel brought the first meal: a Southwestern-style quiche, a loaf of locally made bread, a salad with goat cheese, pears, and pecans, two cans of Guinness, two bottles of sparkling water, and chocolate-chip cookies.

Melissa had organized all of the meals; she also patiently rescheduled when I needed to slow them down after our refrigerator became too full (thanks in part to Grandma the Grocery Fairy, who left us jars of olives, jugs of juice, and Ziploc bags full of treats almost daily). This is the same Melissa who works 40 hours a week outside the home and is mom to Milo and Liam and giver of many parties. Did I mention her cookies were homemade?

Like Melissa and Joel, most friends visited with us for half an hour or so and left their food. They brought dishes like spinach torta, lentil soup, and enchiladas, all of which could be eaten right away or frozen for later. Sometimes dinner included dessert, like Ann’s cornmeal cake with rosemary syrup and fresh strawberries. (Granted, I was awash in happy hormones at the time, but this was one of the yummiest cakes I’d ever tasted.) Pastries and fruit made a great breakfast the next morning. Brian brought fondue, perfect for Olive’s first rainy night. Doe brought fruits and vegetables from her garden, along with marinated tofu for grilling and homemade berry cordial.