Lunch. भोजन. La Comida.

I’m sitting at the lunch table. A grand affair from start to finish, if you ask me. 

First, we shifted the dining table out of its nook. Then we picked up the glass tabletop - my back, now officially 28 years old, feeling the weight of the glass in every step. After that, I watched three uncoordinated but determined pairs of hands replace the glass with a long wooden plank. A few minutes of huffing and puffing later, there was room for 9 and a dog. All appendages were intact, including the table’s. 

As I sit here, I’m torn between wanting to help out and just observing. I choose the latter. Not that I have much of a choice anyway; the host has implored all guests to stay put.

I am devouring the spectacle though. 

A teddy bear of a dog, panting for attention like her life depends on it, as she balances a rather intricate plush sheep in her mouth. I notice the sheep has lost a couple of seams in the little poodle’s excitement; his stitched-on smile is still intact though. 

My mum’s insisting she doesn’t need any more chili in her food, so the host can put the chili powder away; no, I insist. But the host’s beginner-level Duolingo English allows her to ignore the comment without much more debate. Three bottles of chili powder remain on the table, each of different intensity. 

My brother’s father-in-law is chattering away a dozen to a dime; my dad’s smiling and nodding. He seems interested. But I know he’s just being polite – he doesn’t speak any Spanish. 

Just now, a flash of hands, and there’s cutlery in mine. I hasten to lay out the table, but there’s another flash. The cutlery’s been snatched away and I’m back on the couch while my sister-in-law places them. 

The dog is still panting. There’s instructions flying out across the living room and from the depths of the kitchen in different languages and at different volumes. 

Pure chaos amidst interlingual anecdotes and instructions. 

Just a blend of cultures morphing into a family, bustling to get the table ready for lunch. 

And eventually, lunch does find its way to us. 100% worth the wait. I hear lip smacks and oohs and mmms of delight that I’m slow to echo because I’m busy helping myself to some morcilla and another croqueta. 

Damn those croquetas. I’m going to have to work my ass off to negate those calories. A problem for future me. Screw it. I grab two. 

The tortilla de patata is delicious but the star is the caramelised onions in the centre (not pictured here because we had 3 rounds of food, mind you). An explosion of textures and flavours in my mouth, while the top button of my jeans groans in an attempt to stay intact. 

I try a little bit of everything, swearing that I am full and about to explode. I see some chatter around the table, but mostly a criss-cross of hands passing on plates full of different tapas to each other. 

There’s a twinkle in my mum’s eye – reflected in my sister-in-law’s dad’s. 

A peaceful, content smile on my sister-in-law’s aunt’s. 

My sister-in-law’s mum is slightly nervous; I can tell. She needs to ensure we’re content and full. She’s upset that we haven’t eaten more. My belly is groaning at the very thought.

We giggle. 

There’s a lot of chatter at the table; in fact, there isn’t a single silent second, really. Not even when we’re eating. And there are 3½ languages but not a single shared one that everyone can speak and comprehend. 

Yet, we’re talking. In the que buenos, the mmms and the can you translate this?es, we’re absolutely talking. 

To me, food is nothing if not a communal experience. Sometimes it’s tough to explain it, as someone that lives her day-to-day in a family of 2 (plus one cat, who loves to eat but isn’t necessarily keen on indulging polite company at a dinner table). But a family lunch keeps you full in more ways than one, whether you’re connected by blood or choice.

Because a meal together fills more than just stomachs.

It fills the gaps between languages, between cultures, between people who were strangers not too long ago and are now family.

It turns chaos into togetherness.

And for a couple of hours, around a wooden plank that used to be a glass table, we’re all speaking the same language.