From Rice to Cornbread and Biscuits

During the 1970's and 1980's, in the small town of Bend, Oregon, our family of six went to mass at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church. On our way home, we stopped for donuts at the supermarket on the corner of Third and Revere Street. After devouring our sugary treat, we headed back home and Mom started cooking the delicious Sunday Dinner. 

I often helped my mom cook, Italian and Mexican dishes were her favorites. I hated chopping onions because my eyes filled with tears, but I was always up for grating cheese. The meal always included a main dish, green salad, vegetables like green beans, broccoli or asparagus, and rice. The dinner could be beef stew, lasagna, enchiladas or spaghetti and the Nakada family always had rice. Dad is Japanese and he grew up eating rice with every meal, and my white mom kept his tradition. She wasn't a big fan of Japanese food, but she always made rice for Dad.

Sunday Dinner was a tradition for the whole family that was not broken very often. My older brother, Chet, kept the house lively. My younger brother Mitch and I, the middle siblings, were generally the quiet ones, and often kept to ourselves. My sister Nori, the baby of the family, was full of passion and energy, constantly in the middle of whatever was going on. Dinnertime during the week was rarely eaten together because all four kids played sports and we had practices or games at different times. Sundays were a day off from sports, no matter what league or season we were in. It was the day of the week that we were guaranteed to be together, expected to be home, and we always sat down to eat with one another.

Before we started eating, we had to hold hands and thank God for the food. There were times I was annoyed (usually with Chet) and the holding hands consisted of one of my fingers barely touching one of his. At our dinner table there was never a dull moment. Often two people would be talking at the same time, and with six people, there could easily be two or three different conversations going at once. It was a noisy time. People interrupted and talked over one another especially when it came to arguing about the backyard basketball or wiffle ball game.

If the conversation went in the direction of Dad’s past, we usually heard stories of what happened in “camp”. When Dad was 12 years old, his family was torn away from regular American life and put in Japanese internment camps, Heart Mountain in Wyoming and Gila Rivers in Arizona. These were unforgettable years. The Nakada family had to leave everything, their house, school, and friends to live in an army-like barrack with a pillow and mattress made of straw from a barn. They lived in terrible conditions without heat or air conditioning, ate in a cafeteria, and used public toilets and showers for three years. The Nakada’s went from eating dinner as a family in their home to eating cafeteria style with hundreds. Families were no longer together because the kids would sit with their friends. At the beginning of camp, they didn’t serve rice and there was no fresh produce. The Japanese farmers started growing their own fruits and vegetables and fought to have rice. Dad always reminded us that we can lose “things” in this world, but nobody can take away your character and dignity. The message was to judge people for their hearts, not by the way they look or for their material possessions.

Moving away to college, the longing for my family was always magnified on Sundays. We had a weekly phone call every Sunday evening, but it could never replace my longing for family dinners. Through conversations with friends, I realized other families didn't have rice with every meal. College dorm food was edible and convenient, but I would have given anything for a bowl of rice with homemade lasagna.

Fast-forward to a couple of years after college, I met my husband. After attending church at First A.M.E in Seattle, we were always starving because church lasted three hours, not the one hour mass to which I was accustomed. Damon’s mom, Bernice always made delicious Sunday Dinners just like my mom did. I would change out of my church clothes as quickly as possible, and see how I could help in the kitchen. I learned how to flavor dishes without salt to help combat high blood pressure. I hadn’t peeled garlic before and don’t know how I ever survived without it. Being in the kitchen was a fun way to bond. My mom’s kitchen felt hectic with lots of loud talking, but the Flennaugh kitchen didn’t ever feel rushed and had quiet conversations. I enjoyed teaching Bernice how to make homemade guacamole. It was a perfect way to get to know my soon-to-be mother-in-law.

After years of being on my own, it was a treat to have an all you can eat, delicious home-cooked meal. I would eat way too much and always regret that last serving I had. Some of my favorites were pot roast or pork chops, always with a rich homemade gravy.  Occasionally there was rice, but I didn’t miss the times that it wasn’t served. Almost every meal had moist fresh cornbread or melt-in-your-mouth homemade biscuits, always straight from the oven. 

It was surprising to me that Flennaugh dinners were so quiet. There were moments with pauses in the conversation. It was unusual to me that everyone listened and took turns talking. I’m thankful I could hear every word because Damon’s parents’ time as students at the University of Washington was fascinating. 

Damon’s dad was the first African American to graduate from the UW Dental School and was president of the UW Board of Regents. Dr. Flennaugh was the first black dentist in Seattle, and was the dentist to the Seattle Seahawks for over 20 years. 

Bernice met Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., was host on an educational TV show “In and Out of the City” and taught elementary school in Kirkland on the eastside of Seattle. This was a very white part of town and in the 1960’s it was hard to find a place to live. It wasn’t easy being the only African American teacher. Some parents didn’t want their kids being taught by an African American, but after they realized what a fantastic teacher Bernice was, people were begging to get into her class.The day MLK was shot, a student teacher said, “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. He was nothing but a troublemaker anyway.” Obviously, she was not thinking about how that might come across to Mrs. Flennaugh. 

The resilience, grit and determination the Flennaugh’s showed reminded me of the Japanese phrase “Shikate go nai” which means “it can not be helped”. Dad explained when there is nothing you can do about a situation, you need to move forward. Do not dwell on what you can’t control. Damon’s parents showed courage and perseverance and it reminded me of the Nakada’s. Both families endured hardship yet didn’t hold bitterness for the pain they endured. They continue to approach life with optimistic attitudes and hearts filled with joy. 

Now that I am a parent, the tradition of home-cooked Sunday Dinner has been hard to keep up over the years. We often eat out together after watching one of our kids play a basketball or soccer game. Our family dinner table is a little on the quiet side, but whenever our extended families gather it’s rowdy and reminds me of my childhood. We don’t eat rice with our spaghetti anymore, but memories of Sunday Dinner will always be remembered and will continue to shape our lives.

By Yukiko Nakada Flennaugh

Yukiko lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband Damon, daughter, Nicole and son, Trejan. She is passionate about mental health awareness, equity for women in sports and coaching high school girls basketball. 

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