Food of Love

J & I just finished watching an episode of Good Eats where the subject food was popcorn. Not surprisingly, the recommended method of cooking wasn’t air popping or microwave – it was on the stove-top. He used a stainless steel bowl, but I always used to use a Dutch oven with cover.

Grandma used to use a high-sided skillet with a lid, the only thing it ever got used for, that I saw. When I was a kid, I remember watching her making the popcorn, shaking the skillet violently back and forth on the electric burner. It made a dreadful racket, really, and the burner was red hot. I was fascinated. This pre-dated microwave popcorn, but still – popcorn came from the air popper and from movie theaters. That’s it.

She made it that way nearly every night, after dinner. It went into a white plastic bucket (the only thing it ever got used for, as well) with butter or oil and salt. I think she took a bowl for herself, but the bucket went beside Grandpa’s chair. I remember an old plastic coffee mug, stained from years of use, sitting on the black ceramic standalone ashtray. I remember getting a bowl for myself, too. Strangely, I can remember how it tasted.

I love to cook. I wonder – do I love to cook because I have these memories of food and family, or do I have these memories because I love to cook and bring them to mind? I’m leaning toward the former, if only because I eat like a bachelor when I’m alone. I need someone to cook for, to share with, before I get involved and invested.

Food means friends. Food means family. Food means home.

Today is the 15^th anniversary of Grandpa’s passing. That’s getting to be a long time, almost half of my life. It’s been an annual undertaking to take a moment to reflect, to look back and then to look forward. (Last year’s entry is in the archives on this site. If you want to see further back, let me know.)

In the entries from the last few years, I’ve been thinking much about beginning a new life with JoAnna, with our own family (just us so far, thanks), and putting one foot in front of the other, walking the walk along the right path. I always give Grandpa credit for inspiration to live a responsible life, to do what needs to be done for the sake of people who depend on you.

For all that I’ve said over the years thinking about Grandpa and his life and legacy, it occurred to me over the holidays this past year just how much I have been drawing from my Grandma. I think it must have been plain to see for a while, but distance adds perspective, and most of the time I’m stuck behind my eyes.

I haven’t explicitly made a goal to add her recipes to my repertoire, but it certainly seems to be happening that way. I make the roast duck and stuffing for Thanksgiving. I bake the coffee-can rye bread that is traditional in our extended family. I make enough loaves for everyone to take some home from the holidays (or any other visit, for that matter). I even made scratch sweet dinner rolls that do a passable impression for Grandma’s. I’m working on other standards, from the porcupine meatballs to applesauce to apple desserts. There are probably some that I’m missing.

In one sense, I’m chasing the past and trying to recapture a little spark from the memories of growing up, of visiting Grandma and Grandpa. I do get that some of the time, when a taste or texture or smell resonates particularly well.

That’s something to work for, but that only works for me, and maybe my close family who share some of the same memories. Even then, our experiences aren’t the same. (My cousins have different memories of Grandma’s rye bread. They lived closer and got it fresher. The bread we got had been frozen and the texture is different, more crumbly. I think it’s better when it’s fresh, but it isn’t the same.)

Ideally, though, I’m trying to kindle the same feelings of home and family, to create new bonds. The past, the memories – all become fertile soil to grow upon, to expand and adapt as needed. The cherished recipes are starting points with room to grow. The recipes aren’t as important as the people who gathered together and shared them.

I already know that my rye bread is different from Grandma’s and will continue to evolve over the years. It may be my bread now, but I still call it Grandma’s bread.

Thanksgiving dinner has also changed. With JoAnna’s family joining mine, we have more people to feed. There’s also turkey in addition to the duck, because that’s what is tied to the memories in her family. It’s another wrinkle, a few more logistical details to work out. I’ve volunteered us to host the festivities for the foreseeable future, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It just seems right.

I don’t know that Grandma felt this way about food and family. I have no doubt that I’ve idealized her memory in the same way that I have with Grandpa’s, though I think that’s the way the mind works as time passes. I think that she did, though. If nothing else, I know that I happened to catch a cooking show on popcorn, and it took me back to a summer night at the farm house, watching and learning.

I’m not sure where this year’s entry will fit along the spectrum, but it’s what I have right now. This is about the sharing. It’s about the community. It’s about the together, the support, the changes and the ever-changing path. It’s about family.

Comments

[Jim]

I love reading your annual grandpa entry.

True story: today i was reading a book about buddhism, and tha author mentioned taking an annual stock of your life, and all the regrets and pain that you feel like you might need to try and balance out in the coming days.

the first thing i thought of was your grandpa posts. i can see the weird navy blue and yellow typing of the old d-x site clear as day. i do hope you have all of those, that they didn't disappear like metraboy.

can i invite myself to your thanksgiving sometime? i've never had thanksgiving duck. in fact, i may have never had duck!