By all indications (the soundtrack from “Rushmore” is playing), this Sunday dinner is emanating tenderness, affection, nostalgia, romance. As the pork finishes, I summon my beloved to the table: I lift my soon‑to‑be 1‑year‑old son into his high chair for what has become our traditional Sunday dinner together.

It may not be the most romantic of Sunday dinners but I must say, we make the best of it.

Sunday dinner preparation begins with music, as does most anything in our home since we don’t have a television. There is little to distract us from one another or from the music. And at this juncture in our lives, I get to play DJ, saturating our small home with my favorite tunes. The Sunday play list tends to be Beatles‑ and Grateful Dead‑heavy, with a smattering of Little Feat, The Who, Grandaddy and Pavement.

Being a single mom is not easy. If it weren’t for my passion for food, my son’s healthy appetite, Wilco, the Beatles, The Who and my other favorite music, I sometimes wonder how I’d get by day to day. But I was determined, from the beginning, to make food and music a priority in our lives. So far, this strategy has served us well.

My son will be a year old Oct. 5 and already he knows to touch his sippy cup to my wine glass at the start of the meal for a “cheers.” I grew tired of struggling with him and wiping his face after a few messy bites of dinner, so I taught him to wipe his own mouth–something he does with great pleasure even if ineffectually at times. He’s also happy to wipe the corners of my mouth if I have a bit of stray mashed yams lingering there. He claps with glee and laughs when he sees I am beginning dinner preparation. He watches curiously each time I lift the lid on the grill, and listens while I explain the current state of our smoky meat.

Before I chop each fruit or vegetable, I tell him what it is, let him hold it, smell it, and sometimes he does attempt a premature tasting. I let him. It’s never too soon to know what the rind of a lemon tastes like, the skin of a mango, the hard ball of cabbage that will slowly soften with butter and apple cider into what he will later consume with delight. It’s almost like having an apprentice. Granted, he’s a captive audience, but for now, he seems to like my own little food show.

As his birthday approaches, I can’t help but recall the meals I ate during the week leading up to his birth. When labor was imminent, the nurses encouraged me to eat one “last supper” before the program really started to roll. Listening to Flaming Lips and devouring outrageously spicy Thai food, I was excited, ready.

I shall spare the details of an “eventful”  birth and subsequent complications and write, instead, that music and food prevailed, even as we spent some time in the hospital. I can recall a fine cup of tea while holding my son, singing all of “Abbey Road” to him while the disc spun on our little CD player. A week in the hospital and I never fired up the television. I didn’t want to. We spent that time getting to know one another, eating (my deep appreciation for those who brought real food to me that week), and listening to music that will forever remind me of my first week as a mother.

I sang to him, told him what I would cook for him when he was old enough to eat. I spent those days in the hospital with music always in my ears and my sights on how we would enjoy eating together.

So, here we are one year later. Sunday dinner, my son and me: flowers on the table, candles, bread, a lovely pork tenderloin, a myriad of side dishes, “Rushmore” playing, candles lit and wine and sparkling water poured.

My son will understand the importance of a family dinner–even if that dinner encompasses just the two of us. He will know that it takes some enjoyable preparation, some patience while grilling, some restraint while dining. He will learn that music has a place in all this–be it the Ramones or Miles Davis.

I don’t know what he’ll do for a living when he grows up. He may be a soccer player or a writer, a chef or a musician. It doesn’t matter.

For now, I am content with our dinners together. I know there will come a time when I won’t have the luxury of these moments. My son will be busy with sports, or music and, eventually, one‑on‑one dinners of his own, probably not with me. Yes, I’ll take what I can get: the “mmm ...” when he particularly enjoys a taste of something, the clapping during meal preparation, the excitement when I play his favorite songs. I’ll take it all right now.

Gabba gabba hey!