My ancestors have been showing up in my kitchen all week.
From quiet presence
to tenacious tug
to unrelenting pull.
I find myself roasting chickens, making HUGE pots of vegetable broth,
chicken stock,
stew.
Now mind you, there are only two of us here in this humble abode, my beloved and me. My husband, who I affectionately call “white on white,” doesn’t always partake of my culinary creations so there is a WHOLE LOT of food floating around my kitchen right now.
I thought perhaps I was simply creating my own special brand of aroma therapy.
I love the smell of soup simmering on my stove top, especially in the winter months. Then, last night, I received an email from my sister informing me that Hospice is, once again, wrapping its arms around my beloved father. This is good news. Really. We are all so very grateful to have these angels involved in his care.
Yet, there is a tug on my heartstrings.
Deep feelings arise in me as I feel the energy of my ancestors guiding my father into the next phase of his end-of-life process. Deep feelings arise in me as I wrap myself in the comfort of the rich tradition of “food is love” that both he and my grandmother passed on to me. No wonder I’m making soup. . .
I Remember
I remember chestnut trees.
Enormous tree tunnels
on Tenth Street.
And grandpa hitting the trees with a stick.
A rain shower of chestnuts
hammering us
as we scurried around him
gleefully
filling brown paper bags.
21 grandchildren
I remember the snap of green beans
fresh from the garden
and grandpa’s
hands fashioning stakes to hold up
the tomato plants laden
with
juicy
red
ripe
weighty
tomatoes.
I remember sauce on Sunday.
HUGE pots of tomato sauce
simmering on Grandma’s stove
made from those LOVEgrown tomatoes
and flavored with . . .
Sausage
Spareribs
Meatballs
Braciola
All the meat
she didn’t eat
during the Depression.
I remember lemon.
Lemon cake.
Lemon pie.
Lemon cookies.
Grandma pining for the lemon trees
she left behind her
in the old country.
Grandma pining for the family
she left behind her
in the old country.
I remember Saturday trips to the Columbia Market
with my dad.
Big rounds of Provolone cheese
hanging from the ceiling in ropes.
Cheese that smelled like cheese.
Me with big blue eyes of wonder
taking in every sight, scent and sound.
He wanting me to taste, touch, see, smell
every inch of that market
so that he could live it through
my eyes, too.
I remember tiny little snails crawling up
and over the sides of
great
big
whiskey
barrels.
And making the connection
for the first time ever
that THOSE were the same shells
swimming in
grandma’s sauce.
I remember being happy
to leave the snails for
the adults
while I enjoyed
macaroni and butter.
Your turn. I remember. . .
46 thoughts on “I Remember. . .”
What a beautiful post, Sue Ann. I can almost smell your grandma’s kitchen. 🙂 and see those beautiful lemon desserts. For us it was blueberry. There were lots of blueberries growing around my grandma’s house and it seemed she was magical in the kitchen. I remember looking in the fridge and seeing NOTHING to eat. When I told her it seemed there were instantly molasses cookies and a sauce cooking on the stove. She passed away 6 years ago and we are so thankful for Hospice too. It allowed her to stay home comfortably. She was able to visit with friends up to the night before. And the next morning at around 6a my mom came in to her room, held her hand and heard her last breathe. I’m keeping you and your dad in my thoughts. Lots of love, Cami
Blueberries! I’ll bet you had blue fingers, too, Cami. I love the warm memories we share of our grandmothers’ kitchens. Magical is a beautiful word to describe the goodies that materialized in those loving hands. I’m so glad your grandmother had a peaceful passing. Thank you for your kind words.
Sue Ann, I felt like I was right next you, walking down memory lane. I love the memories you have shared. The love you have for your Grandparents, your Dad and the garden. My thought while reading was ” no wonder she loves to cook!”
Bittersweet memories enveloping your mind and heart strings.
As always, thank you for sharing your thoughts.
Yes, Haidee, I come by it honestly. Yet, I fear I lost a few too many years in that kitchen. You might say I’m making up for lost time.
She Remembers…
She doesn’t remember exactly when she forgot…
But suspects it was a slow and insidious problem that began when she abandoned herself and started succumbing to the opinions, criticisms and demands of others.
Then her first child was born.
She decided that it would be easier to bury herself in motherhood than it would be to stand next to what she needed to feel whole and alive.
She told herself this was noble.
But the truth is, she gave too many pieces of herself away.
Bit by bit.
Until she wasn’t much more than an empty, unhappy shell.
So, just like winter, she went to sleep
And stayed there for a very long time.
Her soul began to stir and whisper to her in her sleep.
It wasn’t until many years passed that she could finally hear her dreams…
And that is when she began to remember.
She remembered a time when she was not at war with her body.
When she didn’t resent or restrict it for being different from what she wanted or for needing her love.
She was accepting of who she was.
She remembered a time when food was fun and uncomplicated.
When a cookie and a hot coco was truly a treat.
There were no rules or restriction when it came to her hunger.
She embraced her appetite.
When she dreamed some more, she remembered when
she wore 2 piece swim suits, cut offs and halter tops.
All while being free of the “kind” opinions of others.
She felt comfortable in her own skin and she was safe within herself.
While she was asleep, she remembered when she could do cartwheels, handstands and bridges.
Spontaneously and for fun.
She remembered how it felt to do Death drops off the high bar. Climb the highest trees she could find and
Ride her 10 speed with no hands for long stretches.
Even through the curves.
This was also when she remembered that the thought of skydiving was not a goal too lofty or impossible.
And that one time she sang a Silence Night solo to an auditorium full of people.
She remembered she was beautiful and fearless.
In this dreaming, her spirit showed her a medley of her bravery…
Of when she climbed to the top of Half Dome
How she was determined to be a writer
When she swam 2 miles in the deep blue ocean
Repelled off a 150 foot drop
Guided rafts down class 3 rapids
Piked 3 tons of concrete out of her new garden
And birthed 2 of her 3 babies at home
and all on instinct.
She did these things because she didn’t know she couldn’t.
As she dreamt these things, she slowly started to wake up to her life.
In this groggy moment, she remembered…
That she is me.
And all that she was is WHO I am today…
And so much more than I could know when I was in my winter sleep.
Now not only do I remember, but I know….
I need myself.
That I can create the peace I need with the shift of a thought
or a simple breath
I can choose to not live like a prisoner and stay small.
Claiming joy and my sovereignty is my path to living my embodied life.
And, once and for all, cultivating nourishment and creativity are strategies for health and sanity.
I am saying YES to all of it.
With open eyes I remember that self-trust is synonymous with self love.
And that I deserve my own best kindness.
After all these years my spirit and heart are still indomitable and powerful beyond belief.
(Even if I not longer feel compelled to do Death drops off the high bar.)
And when I trust and listen to my heart, I know how to heal my life one piece at a time…
Back into wholeness.
I am saying YES to all of it.
~ Shelby Frago
Exquisite piece, Shelby. Exquisite life. Oh my! I felt myself soar with you here. Me, the cautious one. Me, the one who did not learn to swim until she was 21 years old. YOU.ARE.INSPIRING. Yes, I SEE and HEAR and FEEL your intrepid joy. I feel so fortunate to witness this unfurling. Thank you for sharing this gorgeous piece of writing with us. Thank you for sharing your heart.
Thank you, Shelby. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Now, if only I could remember my own SELF more often…
Your post took me back and made me remember (the glorious, the painful, the plain awful – and the grace and peace of healing). I read your post just before falling asleep after an 18 hour day and dreamt about my Mom who passed away 7 years ago.
As a young child, I remember Mutti always bustling about the kitchen – always baking and cooking – always moving. The kitchen was a wonderful place filled with the aromas of my favorite foods. I remember sauerbraten, plum cake, sauerkraut, pork, cucumber salad, potato pancakes, Christmas cookies.
I remember the separation – having to “cook” as a fifth grader. The kitchen was a sad place. Microwaved steak, mac-n-cheese, Doritos, and pizza were our new normal. Food became an unhealthy escape.
Semi-annual visits to Mutti in Germany brought with it REAL FOOD again. I remember savoring each meal. Food was a comfort again.
I remember my parents re-uniting as we finished high school. Once again, food played a role. We spent the summer before college binging on fresh tomatoes and strawberries we picked ourselves. They were heavenly. Just spending the time together in the kitchen had healing power. I remember Mutti sending me care packages in college with Germany treats, homemade raspberry jam, and my favorite German cookies.
I remember Mutti baking 4 cakes and tons of cookies and transporting them from Wisconsin to Florida, for the reception after my senior recital – because I wanted the comfort of having her food there.
I remember a year of breakfasts before dawn after college and daily packed lunches. I felt the love she put into each dish, each sandwich, each dessert. I remember watching Mutti sail about the kitchen singing along with my recital tapes – singing art songs and arias off-key with gusto. She was so proud – and so was I (of her).
I remember the suddenness of Mutti’s illness – the sudden silence in the kitchen. Back were the days of microwaved meals – but this time with Dad cooking. I remember him doing his best to take care of her the way she had taken care of him.
I want my children to remember that cooking together is a joy, that cooking food is a pleasure – and not a chore. I want my children to love different foods and above all to sing in the kitchen. Yes, I even want my children to remember the time they spent with me in the kitchen.
Thank you for reminding me to remember.
May God bless you, Sue Ann, and give you His peace, healing and comfort. I pray that your father’s passing is peaceful. You are in my prayers.
“I want my children to love different foods and above all to sing in the kitchen.” Somehow I just know they are going to do just that. Thank you for sharing both the joy and the sorrow in these memories, Michele. I bow.
michele, chica… ♥
the stories you and Sue Ann share here are indeed holy ground.
#shoesoff
I remember being a little girl playing at my grandmother’s house with my cousins. We would jump in the pool and do our little antics and then come inside where grandma would have buttered toast with sugar on top. I can’t imagine that is all she fed us… but that is what I remember those white pieces of fluffy bread loaded with butter and tons of sugar on top. they were the bomb. I loved them.
I also remember my grandma sitting on the kitchen floor with big bowls, mortar and pestle and tons of canisters around her. It smelled of Thai chiles and other weird stuff. Looking back… she was making curry paste and putting them into jars to sell. It ‘s what grandma did. I don’t think she made curry for us, or maybe she did… I’m just not sure curry was high on my list of things I wanted to eat as a little girl. And now as an adult, every now and then I get into a curry kick and when I do make curry it reminds me of my roots. my heritage. the culture I grew up in.
In my mom’s kitchen, I remember my mom lovingly make two version of each meal. The kids version for my brother and I, and the adult version for my mom and dad. The kids version was delicious to me. According to my mom, the kids version was without the flavor and spices. And the parents version was with the seasonings and chiles. yeah, who’d want seasonings and chiles as a kid. I do remember having lots and lots of water or milk when I’d venture to try my parents bowl of food. yikes. Thai dishes are HOT.
I also remember my mom boiling lots of carrots. I’m not sure why she kept burning the carrots. but I came to know the smell of burnt carrots. and then someone would scream to let my mom know that the water was gone and there was a lot of black on the bottom of the pot and carrots stuck to it. I think sometimes she would still try to save it and cut the black parts off and still serve us the carrots. They were gross. Those carrots may not have been charred black but they still had the burnt taste all over them.
And now, I am appreciating when my mom cooks. She hasn’t been cooking lately. I wish I had savored the times when she would make Pad Thai for family gatherings and sometimes just because my brother and I were visiting. I feel sad that at one Thanksgiving dinner, I had put the Pad Thai platter in the oven and the glass platter broke. I was heart broken. I felt so sad that my mom had chopped and prepared all day to make this large platter of Pad Thai, and because of something I had done… the platter was ruined. I was so heartbroken that somehow I still took some of the Pad Thai off the top of that platter and ate it. just to make myself feel better that it wasn’t all ruined. In hindsight, probably not the safest thing to do. but it was where I was emotionally in that moment. Mom hasn’t made Pad Thai in the past year or so. I’m not sure of when she will again. But I do know that whatever meal she cooks I will savor the love and taste of the meals she makes.
I loved seeing this window into your childhood, Shirley. I appreciate the rich cultural heritage you describe here and the spaciousness I feel when I see your mother preparing the kid version and the adult version of your meals. I see such a beautiful “honoring” of the child. I am reminded of my macaroni and butter meals in Grandma’s kitchen. There was was never any push to eat the tomato sauce. I think my grandmother just knew, intuitively, that I would “grow into” those flavors and textures. The Pad Thai story! Oh my, I can only imagine how mortified you were. Thank you so much for this glimpse of your childhood kitchen and your food life.
Sue Ann,
What beautiful and heartfelt thoughts about your love of family and your life growing up!
I Remember:
Feelings of belonging, thoughts of happiness and joy as I slid across the hardwood floor in my “jammies”.
The ebb and flow of conversation of the grown ups still at the dinner table while I lay in bed – put there by my Mom or Dad with a loving kiss on the cheek and a look of great love in their eyes.
The smells from the kitchen as my Mom cooked dinner – she really did not like to cook but always had a hot meal on the table for all 8 of us! Every night my father told her what a wonderful meal it was – no matter what.
As my brothers and I grew up the wonderful after dinner conversations around our large table that always had at least one or more additional people there. Conversations that ranged from our school classes to solving world hunger (no kidding!) But there was always love and laughter.
Racing through our meals to be sure we could have seconds of our favorite dishes – a habit all of us have worked very hard to remedy!
But most of all …. I remember the wonderful feeling of love surrounding me and my brothers always- no matter what we did or how much trouble we created – we were loved.
What a great legacy I was given and am happy to say that I am passing it on….
“Every night my father told her what a wonderful meal it was – no matter what.” So very beautiful, these words, this window into your childhood. I can almost hear the murmur of voices at the dinner table long after the meal was cleared away. How lucky are we that you are bringing this luscious legacy into the world through your work. Thank you for gifting us with your words.
I remember… a little six year old girl happily stomping up the stairs to the second floor shouting, ”Grandma! I am here!” And the kindest Grandma in the world asking, after giving the little girl a big hug “What would you like for dinner?”
The little girl who was very aware of her own importance answered “I want steak!” The well done steak was followed by the most heavenly smelling and tasting apple pancakes and the little girl sat at the end of the table in the big chair feeling the warm love of her Grandma.
I remember the little girl ringing on the neighbor’s doors asking to be invited in, then chatting for a while and being served candies. Not being afraid of speaking a language that wasn´t her mother tongue either. And proudly telling her mother “Mum, I love myself”
I remember a ten year old girl happily waiting for Christmas while unpacking the big wooden boxes filled with blood oranges wrapped in silky paper and smelling the smaller boxes filled with plum-filled pastry that absolutely had to be enjoyed with cold milk because that was how Dad did it. Then putting the boxes into the kitchen cupboard not to be eaten before Christmas Eve.
I remember Sunday evenings in the winter when the same little girl asked her Dad to please, please show the films he had been filming the whole summer with his 8 mm camera. Her Mum made toast with mushrooms and cheese served with hot black tea and sugar. And they all sat around the dining-room table in the dark watching the films Dad had taken, laughing and longing for it to be summer again. If the little girl was lucky her two elder sisters or elder brother were at home and joined them.
I remember a teenage girl trying to like the macrobiotic dinner her Mum had made. Mum now trying out every new diet there was. And the girl longed for the times when dinner used to be macaroni and corned beef with ketchup. And a big pile of pancakes with blueberry sauce for dessert.
I remember a teenage girl with ugly glasses studying hard while every morning drinking the carrot juice her Mum had prepared for her to give her energy, vitamins and strength to follow through with the important final exams.
I remember a young girl moving away from home to go to University in a town tens of miles away. The very same town this young girl, now a middle aged woman lives in. The first years in her new hometown the young girl lived on vegetarian food mainly eaten at the only vegetarian restaurant there was. The meals being paid for with food coupons her Mum provided her with.
I remember a young woman being invited for dinner by her then future husband eating absolutely heavenly tasting pasta with pesto for the first time in her life, and then being sick the rest of the evening due to a severe nut allergy attack.
I remember the young woman having her first and only child, a daughter, seventeen years ago feeling miserable at motherhood, not knowing anything about how to take care of babies. The father of the child, himself a far better cook than the young woman making her a wonderful dinner with Greek meatballs spiced with cardamom and cinnamon. Serving her spicy infusions to drink to help the breast milk flow better.
I remember the young woman enjoying countless of dinner parties, surprise parties, birthday parties, people speaking all kinds of languages coming over to enjoy a good meal the young woman´s husband loved to serve. Feeling she finally belonged.
I remember the young woman getting older and more concerned. Wondering why her husband always was the one being so drunk at all the dinner parties. Wondering why he was drunk almost every day, but still making wonderful food.
I remember a middle aged woman moving to a bigger apartment with her family so that their daughter finally could have a room of her own. There were fewer dinner parties, fewer people visiting and while her husband ´s appetite for alcohol seemed to escalate it lessened for making food.
I remember a middle aged woman finally growing up when her husband lost his job and his driver´s license at the same time and the woman suddenly became the sole bread winner in the family taking care of everything from handling bills to making the dinner. Mustering up the courage to take her driver´s license so there could be at least one person in the family being able to drive the car.
At what point did the little girl stop asking? At what point did the young girl loose her courage? At what point did the teenage girl loose here sense of absolute self-worth and confidence? At what point did the woman stop following her desires without guilt or apology?
It is time for the woman now soon to be fifty to start asking again, start getting her courage back, start loving herself unconditionally and start following her desires with no guilt and no shame.
Love,
Carina
Your words carry so many memories, Carina, both beautiful and heart wrenching. I see that child with so much confidence and so much joy around food become the teenager “trying” to like macrobiotic dinners and carrot juice to please her well-intentioned mother. Yes, I know that place, too. I can smell the cardamom and cinnamon, a spicy metaphor for the deep contrast between the macrobiotic meals of her youth and the celebratory meals of her marriage. My heart becomes heavy as I witness her husband’s departure into the shadow comfort of alcohol. And, I want to leap with her here as she reclaims the courage to start loving herself unconditionally and following her desires with no guilt and no shame. Brava!
I remember the smell of onions being sautéed on a Sunday afternoon as I came running in the house after being outside. My Dad shared the cooking duties and, when it was his turn, he would just pull anything he could find from the pantry and the fridge. He made the most incredible meals from what seemed like not much of anything at all. He loved to cook!
I remember the aroma of a roasting turkey on Thanksgiving Day, and the feel of the smooth, creamy mashed potatoes, dripping in gravy, on my tongue. I remember the happiness and the laughter as we sat around the table. I remember so many holidays where food was the focus but family and friends were the “glue.”
I remember when it all changed when my Mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer at the age of 44. Unfortunately, that was before Hospice and I remember taking care of my Mom so she could stay at home. I was 16. I remember thinking of all the wonderful meals she had made for us over the years, and offered to try to duplicate some for her, but the only thing she could swallow was Cream of Wheat cereal. So I practiced and practiced and practiced until I got the consistency exactly the way she liked it (or so she said).
I remember the first Thanksgiving Day without my Mom. It looked pretty bleak. My Dad had bought a turkey but he had to go off to work, leaving just my brother and me. I managed to get the turkey in the oven but I knew it would never smell or taste as good as all the other ones I remembered. Still, I had to make the effort, and when my Dad got home that night, the three of us would try to enjoy a Thanksgiving meal.
I remember when the first snowflakes began to fall that Thanksgiving Day of 1971 in upstate New York. They began falling harder and faster and, before I knew it, we had at least a foot of snow, then two! My Dad was forced to turn around and come back home, and right behind him was my oldest brother and his wife. Our neighbors came over with a pie and to see how we were doing, and a couple of my neighborhood friends stopped over. Before long, we had a full table of people for Thanksgiving dinner! This is a true story, and I will never forget that day as long as I live. My Mom may not have been physically there but she was absolutely there in spirit!
I remember stopping over to see my Dad after I had grown up and had a home of my own. As soon as I walked in the door, I knew he was making his world famous chicken soup. Nobody made chicken soup like my Dad did! I have tried, but it’s always missing something.
I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my Dad in the house where I grew up – each of us with a bowl of his soup – as we talked. “Mangia, mangia” he would say. How I miss that chicken soup.
Aggy, the words “Mangia, mangia” are very familiar to me as well! Eat, eat. We don’t hear that often enough. I loved your Thanksgiving story and I’m sure your mother was smiling to see her family gathered around that table on a blustery winter day. (Are you sure we weren’t neighbors?) I love it that your Thanksgiving story became one of your fondest memories. What a gift. I just finished the last of the chicken soup I made this past weekend and then I opened my computer to your beautiful post. Serendipity for sure.
Thank you Sue Ann. I loved your memories that you shared as well. That Thanksgiving truly did a complete turnaround for me, and yes, it really is one of my fondest memories. I had never seen snow accumulate so quickly! We were used to a lot of snow where I grew up (back then, anyway) but the rate at which it came down made it impossible for the road crews to keep up with it. I’ll never forget it. People were snowshoeing and cross country skiing (and snowmobiling, too) to get around. Most of the roads were impassable. My Dad was a bus driver for Adirondack Trailways and nothing was moving so he was able to come back home. I always feel like I have to say it’s a true story whenever I tell it because it almost sounds like a Disney movie, doesn’t it? I like to believe that my Mom had something to do with that snow 🙂
Chicken soup is the best! I’m still working on my Dad’s “recipe” – someday I’ll figure out what’s missing. I’m also still working on my Mom’s “recipe” for homemade pancakes which were more like thick crepes which we put fruit on instead of maple syrup. Yummy! They never used recipes, of course. It was always in their hands and hearts and minds. It’s really hard to transfer that to another person, especially if that person doesn’t have inborn culinary skills! (that’s me!) I also got shortchanged on the sense of direction thing. Both of my parents had an excellent sense of direction and could find their way anywhere. Me? I get lost going around the block – literally. When I walk into a room where I’ve never been before, I have to make a mental note of which way to turn when I come out, otherwise I will usually turn the wrong way! At least, when I get lost, I see a whole host of things I wouldn’t normally have seen if I hadn’t gotten lost! 🙂
I loved your talk with Jen. I was at the Creative Joy retreat with you. It was simply magical. A truly life-changing “ten years.” 🙂
Sending you hugs and healing thoughts as you help your Dad pass into the next chapter of his journey. It is never easy – no matter how prepared for it you think you are. My heart aches for you, but the memories will get you through and they are what you will cherish the most.
Yes, a life changing “ten years” for me, too. And your story reminds me of the Blizzard of ’77! I was in college and there was a driving ban on the roads and all we could do was cook and eat and play board games. Heavenly.
aggy – i cannot believe how many similar stories we share: from hearing “mangia mangia” at the table, to losing my mom who held us all together to cancer, to trying to find my way out of a room! the tears were flowing as i read your words. thank you for the lovely glimpse into your life.
I remember Sundays at Nanas house. Nana and Grandpa lived there, so did Nanas father Papa Louie, and Grandpa’s sister, Aunt Lena. And Aunt Marylou was still living home.
Seemed normal to me, all of those people living in the same house. Grandpa used to grate the parmesan, he would look away so I could sneak a chunk and then yell to Nana that there was a mouse in the house stealing his cheese.
Aunt Lena would be in the basement making pasta shaped like little hats.
And then for dinner, there were always even more people there. Uncle Mike was always there, and from the day I was born until the day he died he used to look at his watch and yell to me “five minutes!” and I had to run over and give him a kiss. I was in my late 40’s when he died, and a year before he said to me “you must have thought I was such a pest”. I told him how unbelievably special it made me feel.
Such amazing memories. Thanks Sue Ann!
Thank YOU, Karen for sharing a slice of your childhood with ME. I suspect our childhood food memories are very similar. Oh yes, the freshly grated parmesan cheese. I still buy Pecorino Romano!
What a lovely post Sue Ann!
I remember walking over to my next door neighbors house (we called them grandma and grandpa because that’s what they were, even though not by blood).
Grandma would give me one of her homemade sugar cookies from the freezer and I would plop onto their rocker, eat my cookie, and fall asleep…. during this I could smell something scrumptious coming from the kitchen as she baked a rhubarb pie or something else yummy.
I love this memory, Kathleen, thank you. I bow to the neighbors who felt like grandma and grandpa and the special place they held in your life and in your heart. I enjoyed a felt sense of safety in your words, that you felt cozy and warm and safe in that rocking chair, falling asleep to the aroma of pure love. Exquisite.
Sue Ann, that was beautiful. I have wonderful food and cooking memories from my childhood. I think that’s why I went into the culinary field years ago. Thanks so much for sharing.
Thank YOU for reading and responding to this post, Cheryl. I’d love to hear about those memories from your childhood.
I didn’t have a grandma in my kitchen . . . but I do have many memories of my dad in my kitchen…. that have been passed along through the generations. I remember my friends knowing to come to my house on Sunday morning around 11am, just as I was getting up. You’d think it was to see me, but nope, it was to experience my Dad’s pancakes, each one made in a special shape to do with that person…. all heaped with maple syrup, eggs, bacon,… and a table surrounded in laughter…. So lovely to walk down memory lane… and to see yours and others here…. thanks Sue Ann
Elizabeth, I so loved hearing your story about the pancakes. I love the image of your dad making pancakes, each one in a special shape to honor and delight the eater, yes? Priceless. I’ll bet he was a very special dad. “And a table surrounded in laughter.” Here’s to more of that in our lives.
simply beautiful, sue ann. (i especially adored this line: “He wanting me to taste, touch, see, smell every inch of that market so that he could live it through my eyes, too.”)
and i too remember eating macaroni with butter – after my italian grandmother spent the entire day lovingly preparing her exquisite secret-recipe red sauce for her homemade mostaccioli! she never minded though and mixed me a special separate bowl.
and i also remember hearing those exact words “the old country.” my grandma missed her family and her birthplace too. (and i was lucky enough to visit italy last fall, to see the house she was born in/grew up in.) wow. your post certainly conjured up a lot of memories for me.
April, I’m sure our grandmothers are smiling to see us enjoying the foods we weren’t quite ready to eat as our palates developed and matured. I love it that we share the same food roots.
Wow, that was so beautiful! I can almost smell the delicious soups and food from your kitchen. Food and family are inextricably intertwined.
Thank you for sharing your heart as your angels watch over you and your family!
Thank you, Susie, and yes, food and family are, indeed, intimately connected. I am so grateful I have those memories to draw on when the current of my life becomes more than I can bear.
What a beautiful post! Wow. Thank you. <3
Thank you for stopping by, Bonnie. I would love to hear your food story!
Sue Ann, this post and all the fabulous stories, though often poignant and heartbreaking, are also such a celebration of love and life and sensuality. It makes me sad to think of the kitchens of my childhood, where stingy seems to be the word that comes to mind. No wonder I was incurably drawn to my best friends kitchen where there was always way too much too eat, and you could just open the fridge and find what you wanted.
It’s bringing to mind how that same stinginess gets played out in my own kitchen, under the guise of being healthy.
This has brought up a lot to ponder, to journal about, to taste and toss out the parts that have soured. To defrost the flavours that bring joy and love.
Thank you, Cathy, for your thoughtful response to this post. And yes, I too, experienced that same deprivation cycle in my own life, where I used the sanctioned “healthy eating” lifestyle to deprive myself of foods that would have nourished me deeply even though they were not on the “approved” list. This half of my life is really a “return” to food. I really believe we can eat healthfully without making ourselves crazy or in your words, being “stingy” with food. I am reminded of so many of my clients who had those kinds of restrictions placed upon them as children and who, consequently, grew up with a rebel energy that undermined their health as they over indulged in all of the foods they weren’t allowed to eat at the hands of their confused yet well intentioned parents. It’s a delicate balance for sure and one that I continue to unravel.
Exquisite, Sue Ann … just beautiful!
Thank you for stopping by, Patricia!
Sue Ann, after I read through each beautiful memory (yours and in the comment section), I felt like weeping… and celebrating… and cooking. You’re such a balm to my soul. xo
Kim, my friend, YOU have been a balm to MY soul these past few years. Who would have guessed a photograph of chocolate waffles could give birth to such a beautiful foodie friendship?
Beautiful!!
I remember soup as well. Yesterday and today. I got good at soup when my children were little and I cooked in fits and starts. I put the spices in their left over baby food jars and played with them to have them smell the insides of the jars. To guess the colors and textures. To dump in an amount into the big pot I would serve to the dozens of guests we would have along with the big loaf of bread I baked.
We always had the party come to us because we were the only ones with kids. That way we could have adult play with no child care. The kids stood on a chair to help stir and add things one by one to the pot.They sliced slowly and felt grown up because I let them use a knife.
Thank you for this wonderful trip along memory lane.
I remember … the smell of freshly baked bread.
Thank you for such a lovely post!
What a wonderful trip down memory lane, Sue Ann. Thank you! I remember the pungent smell of garlic and vinegar when I walked in the house on the days Nana made pork chops. Pounding herbs and spices in the mortar and pestle. Rubbing marinade on the meat and into the holes Nana cut into it. The pop of the chop hitting the oil. The way they glistened as they rested on the plate. Biting into a piece of fat on the crispy chop (Dad made mom trim all the fat but he didn’t tell Nana how to cook) and the way it melted thickly in my mouth, thinking this was too delicious do I really get to eat this part, too? Nana pats my face. “Si, mamita. Eat, darling.”