A brief history of me would take too long to write. My thought is that you’ll learn a little bit about me here and there. Starting with some of the more happy memories I have, specifically involving food and the hearth. I feel it is important to have a good relationship with food. I didn’t always . . . Which led me to eating garbage, which led to me feeling like garbage. I also am a victim of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, which is absolutely no fun. And a rollercoaster of weight issues. So, food is important to me.
I had a sister who passed away in 2010 from years of emotional and substance complications. She was 33. It was the single most depressing moment of my life, hands-down, no questions asked. Though I’m not here to talk about grief, it is important to mention this. Megan was my best friend during childhood, she would often babysit me for my parents. Her babysitting me included crafting, listening to The Muppet Movie soundtrack, and baking.
Megan often baked chocolate chip cookies when we were home together. There’s already something so magical about baking or cooking with somebody. You’re creating something together, something that can make someone else happy or cheer them up. Throughout the years, Megan taught me how to bake all sorts of cookies. Sugar cookies, gingerbread cookies, and even brownies and butter scotch “blondies.” As she had two children of her own that became more like little brothers to me, we were always looking up recipes and imagining new things to bake and cook.
And there was my Mother. Nothing in our house was more magical than her cooking. Her vegetable soup or homemade pizza invigorated the senses. She used fresh herbs from her garden, such as basil and rosemary. I remember she used to have me smell the mint leaves, which woke me right up. Sometimes on Sundays, she would make a big breakfast for all of us. There were pancakes, bacon, eggs… The salty and buttery smell made everyone’s mouth water. It was a time for togetherness. Her food during the holidays included sweet honey hams, homemade lasagna, and even an occasional shepherd’s pie. Every time Mom spent the day in the kitchen, you knew the day would end in us gathered at the dining table, talking and laughing, maybe even a sibling fight once in a blue moon.
Nothing – nothing beat her bread. A base white bread, probably from King Arthur’s Flour. Sometimes it was made into pizza dough, and sometimes made into Cinnamon bread. She had me help her at a young age in the kitchen. I would stand on a stool. Her hand gently landed on my back as she watched me sprinkle flour on the countertops. I would help her knead it. She would cheer me on, “Yay, Mandy!” It was so special to learn from her how to knead dough and bake it until golden brown. This produced a perfect crunch and pillowy body. If she used it for pizza, there would be so much – at least two 9” x 13” pans filled to the brim with cheese pizza and pepperoni. I think I recall her making a half with peppers and onions for my Dad. (I’m salivating just thinking about the melted cheese and sweet tomato sauce.)
Now I’m 37 with a 10 year old son who wants barely anything to do with the kitchen. He’s baked with me before, formed meatballs, and even learned a bit about the history of garlic and why it’s considered a spiritually protective vegetable.
It was not just for vampires. (Check out this short article on its history.) Garlic is widely used by various spiritual / religious sects. In the Italian heritage, it was custom to leave garlic above or on the door frame to bring in good luck and cast away negative energies. I’m half Italian, half Irish, and I definitely have my garlic stored near the doorway to my kitchen. (I absolutely lean more to my Italian Heritage.)
Though I would love to make more memories with Bastion, I know the love for cooking isn’t for everyone. As long as I can teach him the basics, I feel like I’ve done a good job. I know deep down he wants to learn my gravy (sauce) recipe, which I will gladly hand down to him.
Yes, I say “gravy.” Fuggedaboutit!
A kitchen can hold so many emotions. I’ve definitely cried in my share of kitchens, laughed, even danced. In my parent’s old house during my high school years, I would sing and dance in the kitchen when no one was home. I’d maybe eat a couple cheese-spread crackers, crack open a cold orange soda, and just release my emotions through creative outlets. There was a nook at the front of the house when you walked in, right before it opened into the dining room and kitchen. Mom eventually put a computer there, where I’d learn how to better achieve creative writing and reading. Our kitchen really was the hearth of the home.
As we venture on into this journey together, I invite whomever is reading to comment and share their favorite or most meaningful kitchen memories. I would love to hear and start a conversation.
Hope to hear from you soon!