Food and Childhood

My early childhood was spent in the Deep East Texas backwoods, in a farmhouse we shared with my great grandmother. My mother took care of my "Grandma" who was very old with long white hair and skin like tracing paper. I remember distinctly her small, green bottle of smelling salts. I also remember the kitchen, my mother and Aunt Willie (who was a true saint and is a story for another day) cooking together.

We had cattle so there was almost always beef, fried chicken and cornbread and big pots of collard greens. I remember shucking corn by the basket and shelling black eyed peas by the bushel. There was a lot of salty, a lot of fried. The women in the kitchen were the emotional constant in my chaotic and sometimes violent little world. Is it any wonder I grew up to love cooking and being in the kitchen?

The cooking of my childhood followed my family out of the Texas backwoods and into the cities where I grew up. I was well into high school before I tasted whole wheat bread. I knew nothing but well-done steak until I went away to college. I didn't have a bagel until my twenties.

Although my ideas about food have changed radically since I grew up, I still crave the comfort foods of my youth. If I have a really bad day, I am much more likely to reach for something fried and salty (oh, my mother's homemade french fries!) than ice cream.

The lesson I carried with me from that old steamy kitchen is this: no matter what you cook, cook it with love. With love even the worst cooking disasters can be salvaged or you can always, lovingly, order a pizza.

Thanks, Mrs. G., for giving me the idea.