My first memory of food is asking my mom whether the chicken we were eating that night was, "Moose, or Deer?".
My dad hunted moose every year. That was the staple that got us through the winter. Moose burger, sausage, pepperoni, roasts.
As kids, we helped clean the moose when it arrived (usually in the back of the pickup). We removed the silver skin. That was our job. I'd take the garbage out to the shed, and the bloody stumped legs would be hanging in there, right next to the antlers. I'd stare in awe.
We always had deer in the freezer as well. Bought by my dad, or traded for some of the moose. My dad never hunted deer. He shot one years ago and it screamed.
My second early food memory is of my friend Jenny, over to my house for dinner. Jenny, who, on the bus, would pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the outside of a Doritos bag.
Jenny choked on a piece of gristle. My mom started to get scared amidst the sounds of retching. Jenny calmly stuck her entire hand in her mouth, and pulled the piece of inedible meat from her throat.
There are 3 primary influences in my food life.
My dad, the hunter, the cowboy. The experimenter. The fish soup that no one could choke down. The hand cut pasta that no one could eat. The care and love of growing vegetables in the expansive garden. He taught me that the more color on your plate, the better the meal was for you. To this day, whenever I’m home, he’ll make me Mickey Mouse pancakes. He taught me to have fun in the kitchen. To be brave and not to care if anyone thinks it is good. He taught me to play, and be excited to take on new challenges.
My mom introduced me to different ethnic foods. To spice. Curries, lentils, stews, chilies. She introduced me to coffee. One liter lattes for a 12 year old girl right before bedtime. Sugary sweet, black tar Vietnamese coffee that dripped from the filter right before my eyes. She taught me what an exquisite experience dining can be. That the best times with friends can be had around a cup of coffee. That sometimes it's ok to eat with your hands, or to sit on the floor. That it's ok to eat pancakes for supper. To always try something new; be adventurous.
My grandma. 4 foot 11. Wears jeans, rode horses, and calls tampons, "plugs". To describe my grandma would be the same as describing how I feel about food. A warm cozy blanket wrapped around my heart. The grandchildren (over 30 of us now, plus great-grandchildren) come to Boxing day breakfast, salivating at the thought of grandma's creamed turkey on the butteriest toast you can imagine. She makes it from the leftover turkey carcass we pick clean the night before. Picked clean before we scrambled and fought amongst each other for the last caramel marshmallow ball. She taught me that food is love.
Food is comfort to look forward to. Food, love, and family.
Not necessarily in that order.
My dad hunted moose every year. That was the staple that got us through the winter. Moose burger, sausage, pepperoni, roasts.
As kids, we helped clean the moose when it arrived (usually in the back of the pickup). We removed the silver skin. That was our job. I'd take the garbage out to the shed, and the bloody stumped legs would be hanging in there, right next to the antlers. I'd stare in awe.
We always had deer in the freezer as well. Bought by my dad, or traded for some of the moose. My dad never hunted deer. He shot one years ago and it screamed.
My second early food memory is of my friend Jenny, over to my house for dinner. Jenny, who, on the bus, would pick her nose and wipe the boogers on the outside of a Doritos bag.
Jenny choked on a piece of gristle. My mom started to get scared amidst the sounds of retching. Jenny calmly stuck her entire hand in her mouth, and pulled the piece of inedible meat from her throat.
There are 3 primary influences in my food life.
My dad, the hunter, the cowboy. The experimenter. The fish soup that no one could choke down. The hand cut pasta that no one could eat. The care and love of growing vegetables in the expansive garden. He taught me that the more color on your plate, the better the meal was for you. To this day, whenever I’m home, he’ll make me Mickey Mouse pancakes. He taught me to have fun in the kitchen. To be brave and not to care if anyone thinks it is good. He taught me to play, and be excited to take on new challenges.
My mom introduced me to different ethnic foods. To spice. Curries, lentils, stews, chilies. She introduced me to coffee. One liter lattes for a 12 year old girl right before bedtime. Sugary sweet, black tar Vietnamese coffee that dripped from the filter right before my eyes. She taught me what an exquisite experience dining can be. That the best times with friends can be had around a cup of coffee. That sometimes it's ok to eat with your hands, or to sit on the floor. That it's ok to eat pancakes for supper. To always try something new; be adventurous.
My grandma. 4 foot 11. Wears jeans, rode horses, and calls tampons, "plugs". To describe my grandma would be the same as describing how I feel about food. A warm cozy blanket wrapped around my heart. The grandchildren (over 30 of us now, plus great-grandchildren) come to Boxing day breakfast, salivating at the thought of grandma's creamed turkey on the butteriest toast you can imagine. She makes it from the leftover turkey carcass we pick clean the night before. Picked clean before we scrambled and fought amongst each other for the last caramel marshmallow ball. She taught me that food is love.
Food is comfort to look forward to. Food, love, and family.
Not necessarily in that order.
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