Memories of Food

There is a very strong link between food and memory. The term used to describe this link is called food nostalgia. There is a theory that the hippocampus in our brain developed over time to store these vivid memories of food. These memories developed out of necessity as our hunter-gatherer ancestors had to rely on these memories for where and how they found food. It was quite literally a matter of survival. Our food nostalgia isn’t linked to our literal survival, but it does strongly connect us to highly impressionable moments that we experience along the way.

I was very fortunate to have two parents who were good cooks. My mother always prepared well rounded delicious meals. One Christmas she gave all of us a handwritten collection of all of the favorite dishes she made over the years. I still have it and refer to it often. It is falling apart and is stained with various fallout from meals I have prepared. I think of my mother ever time I reach for it, it is the equivalent of the Velveteen Rabbit. Every time I make something from her cookbook it transports me back to my childhood dinner table. It was a wonderful ritual that was so important to our family. The dinner table was lively and entertaining. It brought us all together for a moment. I love to cook, but for me it is a spiritual grounding and I cook at my leisure not out of demand for a family who expects it! I think if I had to cook every night for an expectant family I would have a different relationship with cooking. I witnessed my mother’s relationship to cooking change over the years while I was still at home.

I was the youngest of four. For years I was like an only child since everyone else had commenced their journeys into adulthood. My mother no longer had to cook for six. She became more creative and adventurous to the point where she and my father enjoyed the kitchen together. I remember coming home from school on a Thursday evening to a duck hanging in our kitchen. My parents were making Peking Duck. They were coating the duck with honey and other ingredients while it hung for three days in our kitchen. They roasted it on Sunday and the three of us sat down to a wonderful feast. I remember brushing plum sauce on my Chinese pancake with a scallion. The umami experience of the crispy duck skin, the tender flavorful meat and the sweetness of the plum sauce was a combination I will never forget.

My parents enjoyed the entire process of creating, setting a beautiful table and serving mouthwatering meals. I have very strong food memories which revolved around the holidays, particularly New Year’s Eve. My dad would spend all day making pasta, French bread, clams casino, vichyssoise, zabaglione. Obviously, no particular theme, just a great reason to eat, gather and savor.

On the converse, leftover pot roast brings up unfavorable food memories. It was Halloween, 1973. I was all dressed up in my scary monster costume. I had slip on ugly warted feet, a mask that looked like I had one eye dripping down my face, exquisite fright! I was anxious and excited about the massive fortune of candy that I would collect. However, I was not allowed to leave the dinner table until I finished my meal. Everyone else had eaten and I was still there staring at the left over pot roast resting on my plate. My mother would not let me leave the table until I ate everything. I was pleading for her to let me be excused. My friends rang the door bell to retrieve me to go trick or treating. My mother wouldn’t budge. I was gagging on the pot roast and crying. She was tough and to my recollection so was the pot roast. I was finally excused from the table, but too late to join my friends so I went out trick or treating alone. I hate leftovers. Leftovers connect me to my childhood Halloween trauma!