"Well, I... I think that it... that it wasn't enough to just want to see Uncle Henry and Auntie Em... and it's that if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard; because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with." - Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz
I'm always amazed where people's memories will take them. I used to give an assignment to my students on the last day of class. Everyone always wanted to have a party and I'm not one to go against the masses, especially when food is involved. However, it was a class after all and there needed to be some "educational" tone to the gluttony. I assigned the students the task of bringing in a dish from their childhood, one that had a story attached. As we ate, we shared the history of the dish they brought but in reality it was so much more. As we feasted on lasagna and Irish Stew and yes, even Kentucky Fried Chicken, what they shared were really the stories of their lives. It was a remarkable feast.
A couple of weeks ago in writing group, being the food obsessed Italian that I am, I threw out the topic of a memorable meal. "Write about a meal you remember," I told them. I thought about sitting at my grandmothers dining table with extended family, my grandparents and my aunts and uncles, surrounded by more food than seemed humanly possible, eating and talking and listening to stories. It turns out, many of my childhood memories involve food.
It turned out to be a good prompt. Like that assignment many years ago, it was a remarkable feast.
My fondest memory about a meal I enjoyed was in the summer of 1972, Louisiana. I was six years old, living with my grandparents, mother and five brothers. I was the youngest. My brothers said I was a total drama queen, but I disagreed with that diagnosis.
That summer I wanted to be adopted or find a new family. No one paid attention to me unless I played stupid football or baseball. I was so angry that I told my grandma that I was running away from home. She made me a bag lunch, tied it on a stick and gave me a water canteen. All the things a girl needed to run away with. She kissed me and hugged my and said “Goodbye, baby”. Then, an hour later, I heard pots and pans clicking and clacking and the smell of garlic and onions tickled my senses.
Today, onions and garlic are my favorites to cook with. Oh my God, the smell of fried chicken made me want to cry. Greens and yams on the stove and Grandma’s cornbread in her favorite iron skillet had my pulse racing. After sitting under that hot porch, it seemed for days, I asked my grandma if I could run away tomorrow. She said, “Yes child, tomorrow is fine.” I ran in the house and took my spot at the table and I never asked to run away again. Amen!