At first, I pitied his abnormal childhood. I couldn’t help comparing his memories to my own

Illustration: Dov-Ber Cohen

"My mom doesn’t cook much, so we ate out all the time when I was growing up,” my chassan said nonchalantly. “It was great.”

We were sitting in Ken’s Diner in Skokie, Illinois, and I was doe-eyed and horrified all at once.

“This is the taste of my childhood right here,” he said between bites of his burger.

I looked down at my chicken salad, stupefied. At 20 I had yet to partake in the daily “dysfunction wars” of today. Widespread social media access, increased health awareness, and our own thrashing insecurities have created a situation where mothers are constantly second-guessing their own shortcuts. (I’m a completely dysfunctional mother if I feed my children instant noodle soup… Will Child Protective Services show up if I serve fish sticks for dinner two nights in a row?)

But I was human, and the thought of eating out for dinner every night was appalling. I wondered how a restaurant could provide the same emotional nourishment as a home cooked meal? Poor chassan.