Saturday Morning
I grew up in a Southern California household where food was the enemy. My mother would make us button her up in her wedding dress each year (a 17 inch waistline, she always reminded us) to make sure it still fit her. Our dinners were stressful affairs, filled with discord, and we almost always ate the same thing: grilled lean meat (cooked indoors, on a Farberware!), green salad, baked potato. Healthy, maybe, but lacking soul, flavor, and certainly any joy.
With startling clarity, I remember almost every morsel of food I ate away from the influence of my parents. Cold pizza, the morning after a slumber party. Spaghetti at the swim team potluck! The time a friend’s older sister made homemade donuts for us, and another day took us to the drugstore to buy honeycomb candy from the long counter filled with chocolates. Fresh, ripe, sliced peaches covered in cream. Sneaking over to our Jewish neighbor’s house, to indulge in special holiday treats with names I didn’t recognize at that time. Pickled ginger and salted, dried plums in a classmate’s lunch sack. It was clear that I loved food and I loved being with the people who shared these experiences with me.
By the time I was 19, through a quirk of fate, I traveled in Italy, then Greece, then much of Europe. I was fortunate enough to live in Italy for three summers. I tumbled headfirst into a way of life embracing food, not only for nutrition’s sake, but also for the pure flavor of fresh, local ingredients and the way food brings people together for the exciting exchange of ideas and ideals. I was changed forever.
There were other influences, too. Does anyone else remember Martha Stewart’s (first?) Thanksgiving special? The one where she tucked bay leaves under the turkey skin? My god, I thought she was brilliant. (And I know I’ll be crucified for this, but SHE IS BRILLIANT!) Of course, there was no Food Network, no Slow Food movement, and nothing remotely resembling artisan bread could be purchased in a grocery store. It was a very different time, but I counted the days until my next issue of Bon Appetit would arrive. (Well, I still do that!)
Eventually, I moved to Northern California – the Wine Country, specifically – and began to grow some of my own food, make my own wine, and find any excuse to gather people around the table. Can you believe there were only a few great restaurants in the Wine Country back then? I’ve not yet taken a formal cooking class, but I’ve spent years around people who are amazing cooks. We talk about food, we cook together, and we learn so much from each other. One of my dear friends just went to culinary school after getting a master’s in Organization Development and she’s now a personal chef!
Recently, after two years of living in Austin, TX (a culinary experience of its own, and where, from sheer necessity, I discovered food blogs), I’ve returned to the Peninsula – just 25 minutes south of San Francisco. I can see the Bay on my morning walks up the hill. I have a choice of 4 Farmers Markets within 10 minutes, on different days of the week. What I see on the tables at the markets ends up on my table within hours, usually in a dish inspired by my favorite bloggers. Grape clusters drip from the pergola over my deck. I’ve got a spot in the community garden down the street, which feels quite like I’ve won the damned lottery! I’m feeling lucky these days. Very, very lucky. And I’m cooking and baking ALL THE TIME! (The cinnamon rolls above are from Orangette – Molly Wizenberg’s – recipe, as published in Bon Appetit, March 08 issue. And they are good. I mean very, very good. In a they didn’t survive 24-hours in our house kind of way.)
{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
Early experiences of food have dramatic effects on our lives. I share a similar experience, with its own twists and turns. I celebrate your path! You have taken a seed, nurtured and cared for the seedling, and now share with us a beautiful, dare I say it, fruit.