Food for thought: food as love

I find it to be such a tender thing to read or listen to someone recalling memories of foods they would eat when they were younger. How they tell of the dinners that they would eat, the comfort in them, the dishes of their homeland. The food aromas that would waft through their home, the smells that to this day transport them back to that time. But listening to these tales sometimes leaves me feeling a little left out. Despite always eating very well as a child, generously, with both parents being great cooks and food always an important thing in our household, my memories of the meals we would actually eat at home evade me. 

I have always been a good eater thanks to being raised with the mindset of it being ok not to like something so long as you try it first. And so I tasted everything. I enjoyed discovering new foods that I liked, being adventurous, impressing my adult relatives by ordering a bucketful of mussels for dinner as a seven year old. But I was always a ‘grazer’, picking at things throughout the day, snacks here and there. As a child I struggled to sit down long enough to eat a full plate of dinner, my wandering mind itching to leave the dinner table and resume whatever game I’d created for myself. So perhaps this is why I don’t have very solid memories of meals that my mum and dad would lovingly prepare, but instead have a wealth of memories when it comes to the snacks I would graze on, and the favourites of my nearest and dearest. 

I remember my mum’s pavlova, how it was her go-to dessert to prepare to bring to family and friend dinners. I remember sitting on the kitchen counter watching mesmerised, as she whipped the egg whites and golden caster sugar by hand and dotted little sticking points onto the baking sheet with the tip of the whisk. I remember how she would always make a few extra little quenelles with the left over mixture that I would revel in scoffing soon after it had been removed from the oven. 

And I remember her walnut and ginger meringue dessert that she would make when my grandparents came for dinner because it was my grandpas favourite. 

I remember when desserts were brought out at family dinners, and how I would often opt to create my own ‘dessert’ instead of chopped up apples drowned in a pool of fresh pouring cream at family dinners. 

I remember my excitement and love for cereal, an instant meal that I could make for myself, a bounty of flavours and textures to choose from. I remember how it made me feel so very independent to be able to feed myself despite being seven or eight years old. 

I remember the once-a-wardrobe-now-kitchen-cupboard, a dark wood with small details engraved all over, that would stand nobly in our kitchen like a shining beacon, home to all snacks and dry products. I remember how open that door and drag a dining chair over to climb onto, allowing me to reach the paper bag of strawberry bonbons hiding on the top shelf.

I remember the mini chocolate Swiss rolls that were a staple treat in on the snack shelf of that cupboard, how they would be nestled in beside the Wagon Wheels and cherry bakewell tarts. 

I remember on a weekend afternoon, how I would run down stairs after hearing my mum arrive home, hoping to see the white box from our local bakery sitting on the kitchen counter. Opening up the box lid to reveal my favourite strawberry tarts, shining with their syrupy ruby-red glaze.

I remember if my mum was away for a weekend and it was just me and dad home, our routine of going to the video shop in town and picking a movie each. How we would stop at the petrol station on our way home to pick up some treats – dad always choosing a Crunchie, and I a little Fudge bar and a Caramac, my mum’s favourite, to be waiting for her when she got home. 

I remember sitting on my aunts driveway in summer, eating my way through a bag of salted pistachios, their shells neatly piled next to me and my mouth puckered from the salt.

And I remember the dessert of tinned peaches and vanilla ice cream, that my granny would hand to my grandpa for dessert every evening, an unspoken routine. I remember recognising how she handed it to him tenderly; witnessing food as love.