Postcard From the Edge of Memories

I got a postcard from my daughter the other day. It brought me to tears: the small handwriting, the beauty of the colors on the obverse, the overwhelming sensibility of it all. I know. I’m getting weepy and sentimental in my dotage.

Among the things that flooded into me was the notion of trying to cook dishes that take us back: to moments in time that are dear. It’s not an original notion, of course. It’s probably the aim of most folks who work in the kitchen, professionally or not. My daughter reminded me of one recently, from her childhood: the smell of iced espresso I would make for us in the morning (really, did I really give my young daughter iced espresso?). And that takes me back to when I was about that age, loving the particular smell of salami and eggs, which I ate regularly until one day, at the age of 6, our dad took us all back to his childhood in New York and a plate of salami and eggs slid aggressively across the table in The Stage Deli and went crashing to the floor. I can still hear dad telling me it was not my fault.

I think there are a few dishes on my menu that can transport: sauteed okra and tomatoes are one. The taste of fried chicken another one if I get it just right. I am seriously thinking of ordering grits from Anson MIlls in South Carolina to evoke that dish as well, despite my focus on local ingredients. Sometimes, the power of memory overrides even the best-meaning of philosophies.