� � � � Weeknights, no matter who was able to be there, we ate at the dinner table. Sometimes this meant that it'd be just Dad and I eating whatever meal he'd gone out on a limb and tried, reading from a newspaper article or Runner's World magazine meal suggestion. Other nights, though rarer, Mom'd be there, my sister would come over, and we'd all sit in our regular spots. Sometimes I'd have friend there too and guests would spill off the table onto the counter nearby and teenage boys would sit perched on high stools, hunched half over their meal and half toward the main attraction at the table.
� � � � On Sundays, the chicken would be put in the oven before Mass and once home, we'd ketchup the carcass and heap mushy baked carrots, potatoes, and celery all around. At night, we'd have the "fun" meal of the week. Maybe fajitas or tacos or a "Mexican" chicken casserole that amounted basically to a dip for chips (it was my favorite).
� � � � Saturdays were the exception to most of the meal rules. It was the only day that breakfast was prepared, if at all. The errant pancake or flop of French Toast would only make appearances sometime between Kid Video and the CBS Storybook. Most often, the special breakfasts were a result of the presence of a sleepover guest. My mother always seemed to be out to impress them early on, but after they'd been around the block a couple of times, she'd give up and would sleep through the morning. Since she wasn't much of a cook, this worked out well for them since I'm sure our Bisquick-cakes were no match for Phyllis Rustin's homemade ones or Virginia Clark's $20 donut money and underage driving allowances. Saturday dinner was one of the few meals of the week that was often absent. It was a fend-for-yourself kind of meal most times. Yet, it had its exceptions too. It was also the only night that cook-out foods were had. This was true across the board pretty much. No matter whose house you were at on Saturday night, you were sure to have a burger, hotdog, or the occasional steak.