When I was a child I was quickly pressed into the concept of sharing at the dinner table. The youngest and therefore most tyrannised in a family of 6 children, one had to eat speedily in order to avoid the inevitable fork of authority from an elder sibling who realised that you had a tasty morsel or two on your plate that they could take advantage of. 
Even father's prayers were not exempt from the errant fork that somehow found it's way to my precious meal - stealing away the best bits of grub. The irony of thanking God for the goods He'd provided evidently lost on my kin, or perhaps understood more literally than I ever could. 

I fought, of course, with words and sometimes deeds - I was a scrappy wretch after all, and goodness knows I love dinner. But after a while, one came to accept that procrastination begot deprivation and either ate hastily or accepted that one would be obliged to 'share' their plate with the quicker and hungrier. 

When I grew up to share a meal took on a new meaning. Working for pittance per hour garnered a modest wage and meant that college lunchtimes at the pub would only be affordable if you split the cost and consumption of your fish and chips with your English Lit classmate who hopefully wasn't as peckish as you. 