My mother is one of those people who values a home cooked meal. As I was growing up, we ate almost every meal (besides lunches at school) sitting together at the dining room table. Part of this may have been because we were very poor after my father left, but I think the biggest part was that she really knew how to cook. It was only on very special occasions that we went out to eat. Looking back, I can't say that I mind having spent all those meals at our dinner table, eating the delicious offerings of my mother's kitchen.
My mother has a special ability to taste the ingredients in something. I am not talking about just tasting the combination of flavors as a whole, but a superhuman ability to eat something and name the individual seasonings used to make it. This sometimes got her in trouble. I remember one instance in which we were at some kind of fair type thing, I think it was the "Red River Festival" in Shreveport, LA. Like many fairs, they had a food building where people gave samples, all of them trying to sell their "secret" recipe. My mother found joy, perhaps too much, in trying to guess exactly what those secret recipes consisted of. It was seldom that she said anything to the vendor about what she was doing, but I guess this time she became a little drunk with power and proceeded to tell one of the people selling his "family" barbecue sauce exactly what was in it. This guy was pissed, as he should have been. He started yelling at my mother in the middle of a huge show floor. We left quickly, but I still remember that to this day.
This ability was what made my mother such a wonderful cook. She knew the tastes produced by things, so she was often able to improvise on recipes according to what spices we may or may not have had in the cupboard. One recipe which I always enjoyed was her homemade spaghetti sauce. She would start with fresh ingredients and make this saliva inducing sauce that I can still taste if I put my mind to it. The sauce was a little heavy on the oregano for most people, but for us it was perfection. I remember spending what seemed like hours watching that sauce bubble on the stove till it was just the right consistency.
If I was told that I was going to die tomorrow, I know what my last meal would be. I would ask for my mother to come and make me some spaghetti like she used to. I am not sure what else I would want, but I know that the spaghetti would be my main course.
That's so awesome. My mom has a similar cooking talent, which she uses to never ever read a recipe--somehow she just makes up the quantities for everything. It's actually not like your mom's talent at all, but it's still one of those freaky mom powers. I really like the way you worded "the delicious offerings of my mother's kitchen," sometimes I feel that wonderfully homecooked food should be a religious rite.
ReplyDeleteI think there is definitely something spiritual about cooking. If you think about it, there is a certain ritual to cooking. The lighting of the fire, the mixing of ingredients, almost everything about cooking invokes the idea of it being something much more than simply preparing sustenance.
ReplyDeleteAs such, I think that the word offerings definitely fits this context. We are presenting a sacrifice to the god of hunger within ourselves. This god is an angry god, and requires sacrifice often if we wish to prevent the destruction of what we hold most dear; our bodies.
That of course sounded much more serious than it really is, but can you imagine the thoughts of the ancients the first time they discovered they were hungry? How scared they must have been, I wonder how long it took before they figured out they just needed something to gnaw upon.