What is enough?

What we’re talking about when we talk about enough and why there’s no universal answer.

“Barbara, we don’t have any more room in here.”

My grandfather holds a white casserole dish, tin foil crinkling between his oven mitts. He surveys the tabletop crowded with other casserole dishes, bowls, plates, cups, and tubs like someone who thought they’d finished work for the day only to have a stack of papers dumped on their desk.

“Well Bob, you’re just going to have to find a place for it. Move something around.”

He groans. I jump in and make space between the rolls and coleslaw by butting a glass bowl right up against my plate. “I bet it would fit right here.” 

We all eventually find our seats and tuck ourselves into the table. I take it one dish at a time, careful not to let my food touch. (You too?) 

After I stop grazing, my grandmother asks, “Well, have you had enough, Bird?”

"I'm so full I can't eat anymore. It was delicious." 

My grandmother beamed.

But later, I asked myself, what is enough?