Growing up in a New England household, there was a proper dining etiquette. Of course, in those days, the family sat down and ate together: Father carved the meat, mother served the rest of the goop, and polite dinner conversation followed. There was a balanced meal every evening - meat, starch, vegetable, and - without fail - dessert. Every schoolday, a lunchbox with a sandwich, a cookie or two, an apple and a thermos of milk. Reliable. Comfort food on a daily basis.
As such, there were certain expectations. Toast was carefully and uniformly buttered crust-to-crust. Hot dog rolls were New England style and had to be buttered on the exposed sides for proper grilling. Grilled cheese (American, of course) sandwiches were on white bread (buttered, again, crust-to-etc.). There was pride involved.
Spam was scored in a diagonal pattern, given a brown sugar glaze, dotted with cloves and lovingly baked. You declared how many franks you wanted for franks and beans every Saturday so none would be wasted. Pancakes were in the shape of your initials.
The little things counted.
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