I am you, and you are me; and we are everyone. I asked readers to share their best and worst food memories. It’s amazing to see how many people of different generations who don’t know each other write about identical memories. Niece Ginger Jones wrote, “Memories. Yikes. What a mixed bag of worms they are, eh?”
We all have attacks of food nostalgia about favorite foods. Vicki and I both wax nostalgic about Mama’s corn pudding for which the recipe was passed down from my grandmother. Cousin Wayne Kelly still cooks the hamburger, okra and eggplant casserole that his stepmother, June Kelly, prepared. My sister Christine took her wonderful homemade noodles to special events at St. Rose of Lima in Knightstown. I was touched when they served them in her honor at lunch after her funeral.
My nephew, John Jones, wrote, “Grandma’s pork chops were the absolute best. She fried them in lard, deep enough to essentially be a deep fryer, until even the fat around the chop was crispy. I could eat those straight out of her large, cast iron skillet! YUM!!”
Oh, one could go on and on about luscious hot rolls, pies, meatloaf, hot biscuits, mac and cheese, Yorkshire pudding and other food that one had when one was young. Children are very preoccupied with food. One of the most delightful things in the Harry Potter books is the magical banquet that appeared at meals.
However, there’s another side to the story: Some mothers are wretched cooks. One wag said that his ma used a smoke alarm as a kitchen timer.
I enjoy a television commercial that depicts a boy who is told that he can’t leave the table until he clears his plate. He becomes an old man with a long white beard. This seems to be a universal practice of parents.
I love Ginger’s story: My parents made us eat what we were served. After all, kids were starving in China. I gladly would have given my food to those darn kids in China. How would my cleaning my plate help them anyway? I was forced to sit at my place at the table all night long or until I ate my liver. I eventually tried eating it and puked in my plate. Everyone remembers and especially me. One either loves liver or hates it. Personally, the only liver I eat is French pate de fois gras!
Her story brought a poignant memory of my dear little mother. After she said grace at holiday meals, she would say, “Oh, wouldn’t it be wonderful if all the starving people of the world could have this meal?”
Great-niece Juliana wrote, “I’m loving these e-mails about food. I guess I have never realized how many memories I have that involve food.” Her story is typical. I did not apparently like bread back then with meals. When everyone would leave the table, I would wrap the bread up in a napkin and hide the “evidence” under the hutch in the dining room. Since my plate would then be “cleared” I could leave the table. One time I found a half-eaten, decaying hamburger that little Vicki had hidden in her bedroom.
We had delicious fresh blackberries for dessert. Vicki wouldn’t even taste them. We went through the-you’ll-sit-here-until-you-try-them routine. Finally she took one bite and threw up. She still doesn’t eat blackberries. We promised to take the grandboys to hear the Wurlitzer theater organ at the Paramount Music Palace. Tony adamantly refused to take even one bite of a French-fried pork fritter. “Just one bite!” “No!” “But you like pork.” “No.” “Then you’ll stay home.” The others left without him. He threw himself on my lap and sobbed all evening. “If you take just one bite, Grandma will take you.” “No.”
That was the last time we tried to force a child to eat something. Just trust me: this is a war that in the long run a stubborn child will win! wclarke@comcast.net