"How's the chowder?" asks my colleague. She sits across the table, absorbed in a bowl of borscht.

"Pretty great," I say. It really is deliriously good; a velvety cream base brimming with fresh cherrystone clams. I'm working through it slowly and savoring every bite. She lifts her spoon and poises it before my bowl, eyebrows raised. "Mind if I taste it?" she asks.

My eyes land on her spoon, which shimmers moistly, and then dart around wildly in a quick search for a spare utensil. I stall. "Uh ... OK. Sure." But I regret the words as soon as they tumble from my mouth. Her spoon disappears into my chowder. My heart sinks and my appetite abruptly evaporates.

Neurotic as it may sound, I can assure you that nobody who drinks tap water in Syria, eats raw chicken and generally snubs the use of antibacterial soaps is paranoid about indeterminate "ick" factors. Nevertheless, there are some things by which I am grossed out and feel don't need to be shared by spoon on soup contact, such as my friend's entire immune arsenal or the cold sore on my cousin's lip. I don't want my date's fork pawing at my pasta or a renegade pair of chopsticks stabbing at my sushi. Go away. Leave me be.

Let me clarify this: I love sharing food. If sharing is caring, then sharing food is perhaps the most distilled expression of love. Most of us were raised on family-style meals, replete with serving utensils and common sense policies such as "no double dipping," and continue serving them at home; they are indispensable in households divided between white- and dark-meat lovers, those who hound leftovers at 3 a.m., and those who always want seconds — or thirds.

As Western eating habits have traveled eastward to begin eclipsing Asian tables, restaurants that specialize in a tradition of shared food continue to gain popularity in the U.S. Some of Santa Fe's most popular restaurants are tapas bars and sushi houses that serve food from plates intended for sharing, and the recent demise of the fantastic dim sum brunch at Mu Du Noodles briefly moved me to consider relocating to a city with better brunch options. The relentless popularity of portable foods is concurrent with the decline of communal meals and family-style dinners at home.

There's a lot to like about portable, fast and convenient: the last breakfast burrito I ate was smothered in aluminum foil instead of chile, and some of my favorite things to eat in Santa Fe are sandwiches, such as the veggie burger at Tree House, the pollo sandwich at Torino's, the chicken sandwich at Pasqual's (though all three are too gloriously messy to be considered portable). Is it possible that foods not made for sharing are symptomatic of our obsession with speed, brevity and individualism?

In our house, we had a relaxed clean-plate policy supported by the logic that with family-style eating, there's no pressure to put more food on your plate at any one time than you are willing to eat.

Research has consistently indicated that the act of regularly sharing meals with family and friends produces happier people with better health, more successful relationships and stronger bonds. Even those of us who revel in solitary dining can usually appreciate it more when it's a choice rather than a necessity.

But in 2009, I ate more meals on my feet while leaning against the kitchen counter than I care to admit. And though I love Middle Eastern mezze and it remains my preferred way to eat, I have a history of being too disorganized and too gluttonous to generate a steady supply of hummus, baba ghanouj, tabbouli, fattoush and a half dozen other dishes, for spontaneous snacking, random houseguests and actual sustenance.

New Year's resolutions are often hackneyed and ill-fated. Lose the good-time gut left over from the holiday season, go to yoga, keep a journal, be a better friend, be a harder worker, and don't take any wooden nickels. After a hedonistic spell, it can feel like guilt is the gift that just keeps giving.

Last year, I made a resolution to waste less food. Consequently — and my friends will attest to this — my fridge and cupboards are embarrassingly empty. I shopped daily for the few things I felt like eating that day and kept little else around; a cruel fate for anyone who stopped by at midnight in search of a cocktail and a snack. "Popcorn or sauerkraut?" I'd offer. "Take your pick."

In 2010, I'd like to be more balanced about it. Despite my love of sandwiches, I'm making this the year of the Family Supper, both in contempt and in celebration of our overzealous autonomy. I'm not going to fear leftovers or CSA programs. And I'm not going to worry about having friends over for a dinner of absolutely delicious sandwiches.