Making a Life
How Anne Levesque Dalton Adapted Through Tradition
Dinners have been different this year and last. For many, 2019’s weekly traditions have become a distant memory. Preparing multicourse meals lost its value when there was no one else at the table. Celebrations came and went with cautious excitement, and milestones became harder to appreciate against the relentless groundhog day effect of the pandemic.
The quiet solitude and repetitive nature of quarantine revealed what we took for granted in the past and made clear what we hope to accomplish in the future. There have been many sobering moments, but hopefully, out of those times, we’ve become more intune with what fulfills us as individuals. For me, it’s dinners with people I cherish. My favorite dinners are made by my grandmother, Anne Levesque.
Entering her home, you’ll find a chaotic kitchen and her 5’1” frame covered in a flour-smudged apron. Don’t let the mess fool you. As soon as you smell her rosemary-dressed pork chops or see the Brandy in the Bananas Foster catch flame, you understand the precision and care behind the craft and, in that moment, you know you’re in the company of someone who has plenty of practice and a true gift for taste and timing.
Then, you notice her table. A perfectly arranged spread of sophisticated Southern food with hot rolls, soft butter, a seasonal vegetable, and a slow-roasted protein, traditionally located among seasonal place settings, lit candles, and fresh flowers. She creates an intimate tablescape for us to relax and share with and hear from others.
My grandmother’s life has been very beautiful -- on paper, in photographs, and, truly, as a whole. As the daughter of a successful farmer in rural Arkansas, her childhood home was the area’s historic local meeting spot. Her family got the news from their radio and shared it with a community of neighbors that stopped by daily to go over current events and get their caffeine fix from my great grandmother’s perpetually- percolating coffee pot. At noon, they would serve dinner to accommodate the farming schedule, and friendly conversation fed them as much as their favorite menu item, leg of lamb.
Beauty, however, often comprises growth and persistence through periods of tragedy. Before my grandmother was seven, shortly after the birth of her healthy baby sister, her mother, Cissa, caught the tragic virus everyone dreaded. Once diagnosed with polio, she was sent to live in a rehabilitation center, encapsulated for months in an iron lung that assisted her breathing. She was eventually left reliant on a wheelchair. Cissa’s physical ability and routine were turned upside down by what felt like a stroke of bad luck. Still, dinner needed to be on the table each night.
For much of my grandmother’s life, dinner was prepared for a happy family of four: two children and two parents. With a convalescent mother newly limited in capacity, this meant my grandmother and her sister had to quickly become independent and responsible. Helping out around the house, preparing meals, hosting, and performing well in school were simultaneous priorities. Her autonomy and drive contributed to an early high school graduation and aided her in the next phase of her life.
When she left for Duke University at age sixteen, she met my grandfather, Ed, another sixteen-year-old freshman. They eventually graduated, married, and moved east when Ed was accepted into Johns Hopkins University Medical School. While in Baltimore, Anne Levesque had three children and supported the family by teaching school and lifting the spirits of colleagues with dinner parties, in ways seemingly indulgent but fundamentally economical. While other home chefs during this era were sticking to the basics of mid-century American cookbooks with meatballs and crisp wedge or gelatin mold salads, the smell of leg of lamb filled their apartment. Her skills of cooking and hosting were generationally ingrained after years of learning alongside her mother and other family members in the kitchen.
My great-grandmother’s bout with polio altered the path of our family history in many ways, but adaptation stems from embracing change in adversity. This life-changing event could be why my grandmother is still devoted to crafting the perfect, balanced meal for us today. Cooking was her way to experience fine dining on a budget. It was her way of showing love. Cooking Cissa’s recipes was a way for my grandmother to connect with her mother from afar and take care of her own family. There’s a lot to learn from generations before and after us, if we listen.
When my family gathers at my grandparents’ home, every sentence interrupts another. It can be hectic, but there is a precious gift within this ritual: fast-paced conversation sharpens ideas and delivery and ensures everyone at the table learns from the experiences of others. My grandparents are great storytellers, and especially when working as a pair, they make strong use of observing, listening, and quick wit to turn otherwise routine conversation into an artform. We learn from a personal perspective of history.
Tradition can sometimes hold a community back. Rituals can help hold a community together. Familiarity and routine are powerful tools for standing still, reflecting, and evolving. Home means different things to different people, but discovering its meaning for someone else, close neighbor or distant relative, is what makes a group gathering for dinner such an intimate and binding experience. Could a lack of discourse over dinner have weakened bonds and pushed us all further apart?
During the year and a half spent skipping holidays and forgoing familiar family rituals, I’ve found myself reflecting upon how other generations grounded themselves during challenging circumstances. When forced to redefine traditions in times of great change, what values will my dinner table reflect? Can I adapt as well as Anne Levesque?
