That's only one of the many memories I cherish of growing up when the American family, and my family, still existed. Unfortunately, they seem to have gone the same route as waffle irons, meat grinders, formal dinners, and the 5-cent Pepsi.

At Christmas, my immediate family (those of us who are still ambulatory that is) gathered as usual to open presents. Shortly after we began, I couldn't help remarking: "Well, this is a fine group -- Grandma, the widow, Dad the widower, my sister the divorcee whose kids are in Hawaii with their "ex-father," me the professional bachelor, and Butler the neutered cat. We could start our own swinging singles bar."

Grandma almost choked on a chocolate Christmas ball, Dad grunted, my sister grinned, and Butler calmly finished shredding the paper off of her stocking present before she threw it at me. (There used to be a time when a cat knew her place and had some respect for her elders.)

It wasn't always like this. We were a family once, and I have especially fond memories of Dinnertime when I was a child. We ate exactly at six because my father's stomach was as punctual as the Erie Lackawanna railroad. If Ike and Mamie had walked through the door at 6:05 with the U.S. Cavalry at their heels, they would have had to wait until we finished unless Mom thought a Presidential speech might encourage us to join the "Clean Your Plate Club." It wouldn't have unless the Cavalry ate peas.

My sister, who was a teenager then, had the responsibility of setting the table with linen tablecloth and napkins, which she had ironed, napkin rings, which our dog Socks had chewed, china, and the family silverware, which is now stored in the family vault like many members of the family.

Nowadays, children are liable to eat dinner after they have put their parents to bed. And, if asked, they will tell you that linen is a city somewhere in Europe and napkin rings some kind of medieval jewelry.

Mom and Dad placed the food on the table, fetched the last of several Manhattan cocktails from the kitchen, and sat down. I realized years later that Manhattans were the reason they were able to eat the broccoli.

My father sat at one end of the table, which was called the "head" because he sat there. My mother sat at the other end, known as the "foot." One day the table was turned around but they sat in the same places. That's why I flunked anatomy.

Dinnertime was generally a very civil affair. Mom and Dad always waited until later to shout at each other; they never quarreled on empty stomachs.

As Mom dished out the mashed potatoes, Dad asked what we did in school that day. For 20 years he asked that question, and for 20 years we gave him the same answer: "Nothing." We substantiated this with our report cards.

My little brother poked our sister in the ribs throughout the meal. He thought that was the "neatest" thing in the world. Years later, after my sister married, her husband drew me aside and asked if I knew anything about the dent in her side. I think he believed me when I told him it was her navel.

Dinnertime was also the root of all of my feelings of inadequacy. My father, like many men, believes there are some things a man has to do in life. These manly duties include developing a sixth sense for lightbulbs burning at the other end of the house, crying only if mortally wounded or watching Bambi, knowing what nail should be used when, and knowing how to carve the meat.

By these macho standards, I'm a failure. I don't save on electricity until the bulbs burn out, I get teary-eyed if the mailbox is empty, I've been known to hang pictures with carpet tacks, and any meat I "carve" is ready for croquettes.

I can still see my father, with a look of resolve on his face, standing above the platter of meat, poised like a surgeon whose self-respect hangs on the quality of the first slice. After careful study, he always proceeded to cut a perfect slice, lifting it with the carving knife and placing it neatly on the plate. I never could understand all this fuss for something that was going to be in my mouth in a few seconds.

When I was a little older, Dad took me out back to have a talk. To this day, I wish he had told me everything he knew about carving rather than everything he knew about sex. (It was a short talk.)

Perhaps it's just as well that times have changed. The burden of being able to carve in front of a group after drinking several Manhattans can crack all but the most stalwart of men. And knowing when to say "Don't touch the waffle iron" takes years of training that only the most dedicated of parents can acquire.