In the opening song from the musical "Oliver Twist" Lionel Bart pens, "Food, glorious food! Hot sausage and mustard" and then he continues to list the cullinery delights of the day. I learned this song well when the choir class I was in during high school sang this song in the production of Oliver Twist. To this day the words of that song always come to mind whenever I indulge in the delightful pleasure of preparing those tastebud tantalizing treasures called food.
I love food. It adds volume to my pleasure and comfort to my pain. It shares my sorrows when I am sad and is the frosting (pun intended) to my joys. There's something soothing about cooking. Assembling the parts and pieces that are the ingredients to the end result of something that is not only pleasing to the eye but a pleasure to the palate, brings an amazing sense of accomplishment.
Growing up I took for granted how my mother seemed to do this so effortlessly every day. Now that I am the artist in the kitchen, I appreciate what she did. Each time I create some tasty delight I am puffed up with pride. She just did it without making a big deal out of it.
It's amazing how as the aromas fill a kitchen they awaken so much nostalgia that it becomes thick and tangible. Long forgotten memories become real events that can be recreated with the sauteeing of an onion or the melting of a stick of butter. Stirring a thick pudding made from scratch takes me back to my mother's kitchen as the smooth aroma of vanilla and scalded milk wafts into my sinuses. I hear the voices and feel the warmth that was our little kitchen and it's almost like being there with her again. I can watch the fluffy white Crisco melting in the skillet and hear Mom's big metal spoon banging against the pan. I see the chicken popping and sizzling and I see our old gray and chrome kitchen table, my brother tipped on the back legs of his chair, licking the dripping juices from his fingers as he devours a crispy chicken leg.
I love food. I love the textures and the tastes and the smells of it. But most of all I love the way it can reach inside the deepest parts of my memory and bring forward things I didn't know were still there. There are conversations that happen over the preparation of food that can't happen any other place. Things like, "the pepper is behind that big bag of Hershey's kisses." and my secret chocolate stash is discovered. Who doesn't think of family when they smell a turkey cooking, or anxious days anticipating the arrival of Santa Claus when they smell cinnamon and cloves?
I sometimes feel bad for people who have decided that food is the enemy. I wish it didn't have to be so. I know that sometimes food can be wicked and with the indulgence comes the consequences. I see those with the shapely legs and tiny waists and think maybe I should not have made such a friend of food, but I am what am and to deny myself the pleasures that come from the preparation, sharing, and enjoyment of food would be to deny the essence of who I am. So, I will continue to admire those who have the self control and discipline to banish food to a place of shame and to deny themselves the pleasures that it can bring. As for me, I will continue to embrace it and allow it to permeate every aspect of my life as one of my most treasured guilty pleasures.
I love food. It adds volume to my pleasure and comfort to my pain. It shares my sorrows when I am sad and is the frosting (pun intended) to my joys. There's something soothing about cooking. Assembling the parts and pieces that are the ingredients to the end result of something that is not only pleasing to the eye but a pleasure to the palate, brings an amazing sense of accomplishment.
Growing up I took for granted how my mother seemed to do this so effortlessly every day. Now that I am the artist in the kitchen, I appreciate what she did. Each time I create some tasty delight I am puffed up with pride. She just did it without making a big deal out of it.
It's amazing how as the aromas fill a kitchen they awaken so much nostalgia that it becomes thick and tangible. Long forgotten memories become real events that can be recreated with the sauteeing of an onion or the melting of a stick of butter. Stirring a thick pudding made from scratch takes me back to my mother's kitchen as the smooth aroma of vanilla and scalded milk wafts into my sinuses. I hear the voices and feel the warmth that was our little kitchen and it's almost like being there with her again. I can watch the fluffy white Crisco melting in the skillet and hear Mom's big metal spoon banging against the pan. I see the chicken popping and sizzling and I see our old gray and chrome kitchen table, my brother tipped on the back legs of his chair, licking the dripping juices from his fingers as he devours a crispy chicken leg.
I love food. I love the textures and the tastes and the smells of it. But most of all I love the way it can reach inside the deepest parts of my memory and bring forward things I didn't know were still there. There are conversations that happen over the preparation of food that can't happen any other place. Things like, "the pepper is behind that big bag of Hershey's kisses." and my secret chocolate stash is discovered. Who doesn't think of family when they smell a turkey cooking, or anxious days anticipating the arrival of Santa Claus when they smell cinnamon and cloves?
I sometimes feel bad for people who have decided that food is the enemy. I wish it didn't have to be so. I know that sometimes food can be wicked and with the indulgence comes the consequences. I see those with the shapely legs and tiny waists and think maybe I should not have made such a friend of food, but I am what am and to deny myself the pleasures that come from the preparation, sharing, and enjoyment of food would be to deny the essence of who I am. So, I will continue to admire those who have the self control and discipline to banish food to a place of shame and to deny themselves the pleasures that it can bring. As for me, I will continue to embrace it and allow it to permeate every aspect of my life as one of my most treasured guilty pleasures.
