As our man Marcel so eloquently illustrated, it’s pretty much natural for most of us to be flooded with sensory memories when we inhale the aroma of some beloved or long-forgotten food–images come flooding back as quickly as a montage in a rap video.
The scent of hot chocolate? Of course: that was studying for high school metriculations, 1978. The wafting aroma of eggplant parmesan? That dinner party with my wacky room mate (ah, yes, the one my friend Ed said had a revolving door in her bedroom) in 1981. The tingly, acidic rush of champagne bubbles on the nose? The first New Year’s Eve with my HH, way back when. Oh, and the next one. And also our anniversary. Oh yeah, also my birthday. And the following New Year’s. And this past one. . . .
Yes, food certainly elicits memories for most of us. What’s weird about me, I’ve since discovered (among all the other things) is that the opposite is also true: memories elicit food. What I mean is, I tend to recall past events according to the food that was present at the time.
Just the other day, my HH and I were discussing how sweet my friend Gemini I is, to always invite us to her cottage for major holidays like New Year’s Eve or Thanksgiving. “Yeh, too bad we didn’t make it this past year,” my HH remarked. I thought for a moment, then realized we had, indeed, been there.
“Sure, we were there, don’t you remember,” I said. “It was the first time my gravy came out perfectly, no lumps. And Gemini II made that amazing Caesar salad in her huge salad bowl on the stand.” (Okay, it’s true, I didn’t call her “Gemini II,” but I did say the rest of it.) My HH had no recollection whatsoever of this. When my HH remembers places or events, he remembers them as normal people do: according to what happened, or where the place is, or who else was there.
Now, that’s not to say that I don’t recall those types of details as well. It’s just that, for me, it seems major events are distinguished by the kind of food that was present.
During our first rocky summer together, my HH and I split up twice. I will forever remember the second split, since we were at a favorite restaurant and ordered, respectively, linguine with seafood, and veggie pizza (before the days I couldn’t eat wheat). As I sat, tears streaming down my face, my HH shoveled food mechanically into his mouth as a way to stave off the rising emotion at our impending separation. Back in those days, untrained in how to emote (or even have a discussion with someone who was emoting), my HH seemed unable to utter the simple words, “But I don’t want to break up.” As a result, I sat there, immobile, crying, but not touching my food.
After a few minutes, the very solicitous restaurateur approached to inquire whether the food was not to my satisfaction (No, no it’s great, sniffle, I’m just not hungry, whimper whimper, thanks anyway, boo hoo sob sob), and then proceeded to return to the table every five minutes thereafter, sweetly attempting to encourage me to eat–anything–by placing one after the other free dishes on the table before me (I declined on the antipasto, garlic bread, and cheesecake, but did accept the wine–hey, even heartbroken, I’m no fool).
When I think of that breakup, I always think of the food involved. (In the end, that’s sort of what brought us back together again: I wrote about the incident in the newspaper, and after reading it, HH contacted me to give it one more try. In the end, what I assumed was no more than a several-night stand has endured more than a decade.)
Almost every major event I’ve experienced is somehow associated with an attendant meal, or at the least, a dish. My ultimate date with my first love, way back during the Me Generation and Excessive Everything, was a phenomenal meal at a Detroit restaurant called The Benchmark (no longer in existence, alas). A very posh place, far beyond the budget of a sweet, romantic History major trying to impress his girlfriend, they sure did know how to treat a couple. Led to wait for our table at the upstairs bar, we became so engrossed in our conversation (I know, youthful amour can do that to you) that we completely lost track of time and, before we realized it, more than an hour had passed. When we inquired whether our table was ready, the horrified maitre d’ apologized profusely and offered us a free bottle of champagne as compensation for the time lost. (That brand remains my favorite).
Later, I remember vividly the most delicious, velvety, slightly pungent and salty Cream of Olive Soup I’ve ever tasted. Was it the company that made the soup so spectacular? Or the fact that, as a starry-eyed twenty-something with very little experience in restaurant protocol, I was bowled over by the incredible opulence and extravagant service of the place? Who knows. But whenever I think of ol’ Spaghetti Ears, that dinner isn’t far behind.
And what can I say, my family is weird. (Actually, that has nothing to do with food-related memories, just a random factual statement). My sisters and I define memories based on food. Which birthday was it? Oh, yes, that’s right, the one with the Bo-Peep birthday cake. Or remember when The Nurse’s boyfriend managed to quit smoking for a year and we baked him that “Happy Healthy” cake? For years afterward, all my friends wanted a Happy Healthy when they, too, quit smoking (because in those days, everybody still smoked).
And speaking of healthy, what about the evening–the first after I’d started on my naturopath-decreed cleansing diet–that I shared a dinner with my friend Mark? We’d actually found a restaurant willing to honor my new restrictions and serve me plain, steamed, organic vegetables and steamed basmati rice–no seasonings, no flare whatsoever. Mid-meal, I sensed some lightheadedness and attendant dizziness. Within minutes, the room spun and I wasn’t sure I’d make it home. It was mid-February, snowy, and visibility was almost nil as I inched my way along the roads, gripping the steering wheel for dear life, moving no faster than 20 km per hour (that’s less than 12.4 mph, my American amigos), desperate to avoid an accident before getting back to my house. I was so weak by the time I arrived home that my HH actually had to take my shoes off for me, before I collapsed in a heap on the bed and fell into a fitful slumber for 18 hours. My first (and only negative) detox experience.
I’m not sure why I evolved this way; maybe it was the constant parade of homemade foods in our house, the kitchen as the fulcrum of our family life, the genes I inherited from my mother’s side of the family.
Whatever; I’m hoping I can establish a novel trend in 2008 and begin to associate milestones with healthy food, or–shockers!–nothing to do with food at all. How about baked sweet potatoes (one of my favorites) linked with our 11th anniversary? Or a great trail-walk with The Girls encapsulated by raw Fig & Cherry Bars (recipe in a future post)? Even better, I’d love to relate significant events to other activities entirely (and no, they don’t have to be “that” kind, you naughty ones!). Wouldn’t it be great to have strong associations with other things besides food?
Food is great, I love food, and it’s always been at the forefront of most aspects of my life, but I’ve come to learn that’s not the healthiest way to be for me. Food will always remain a central part of most social events, but maybe in the future, it can be tempered with other important markers as well. The next time I face a major challenge or triumph, I’d like to be able to connect it with something else, by making a conscious effort to focus on the people, or the place, or the things that contribute to that memory.
Still, I’ll always have a soft spot for champagne and olive soup.