My food cravings often involve bittersweet chocolate ganache, sweet and perfectly ripened juicy fruit or a plate of nutty whole wheat pasta cooked al dente that is topped with a spicy-sweet homemade marinara sauce. Perhaps some of my quirkier guilty pleasures include cereal with milk - consumed multiple times throughout the day - and smoked almonds, specifically the salt that gathers at the bottom of the jar. Sometimes, though, I crave a dish not for its flavor, nor for its pleasant texture or aroma, but for reasons far less tangible or explicable.
After all, could I genuinely say that I love the salty, seemingly processed taste of the cheeseburger variety of Hamburger Helper or the overly sugared frosting on Dunkaroos cookies? I fondly recall favorite foods from my childhood, but when I taste them again 15 years later, they don't have the same effect. No longer do they hit my tongue and create sensations of immense satisfaction, but instead they bring disappointment. They are entirely different or, I suppose it is more correct to say, I am different.
Food serves far greater purposes than satiating bodily hunger; it holds the power to unify diverse people at one common table. Its preparation cultivates virtues of patience and creativity in cooks, and the fragrances, tastes and textures result in strong memories and associations that remain long after consumption. I realize that it is not so much the homemade, fluffy waffles, the Kraft macaroni and cheese, or Shirley Temples that I miss, but the people who and the circumstances that accompanied them. I miss the lazy Saturday mornings when my dad would don an apron and pull out the waffle iron he had proudly purchased, the evenings with baby-sitters who would tell me stories about college between forkfuls of cheesy pasta, the feelings of maturity and excitement when my parents permitted me to order pretty pink drinks at fancy restaurants.
My taste buds have long outgrown my childhood favorites, but I do not think my heart has gotten any older. When I attended camp in high school after a hiatus of several years, I eagerly anticipated the one meal I remembered being edible: the grilled cheese and ravioli. I was met with crushing chagrin when the meal finally made its appearance and I took a gusto-filled bite of perhaps the worst greasy, flavorless cheese sandwich and limp, canned pasta I had ever tasted. I had desperately clung to the possibilities offered by the meal I had revered as I child. By enjoying the same food, I had hoped I could travel back in time and experience camp as I had years ago: through the carefree, fun-loving lens of a third-grader.
Except that I could not. I wanted the same foods to serve as time portals to the past, but even if my boxed and canned favorites had not undergone revision - "new, improved taste!" - spurred by the manufacturers' attempt to save costs, even if the foods were made with exactly the same proportion of ingredients and by the same chef - typically my mother - I remained undeniably aware of the stark contrast between the current moment and my childhood.
I decided that this is OK, that my food preferences told stories of my life in a unique manner, which cannot fully be expressed through photographs or report cards or artwork. My culinary tastes have evolved tremendously, from breast milk to Cheerios, from boxed macaroni and cheese to roasted asparagus, butternut squash, scallops and red wine. Sixty years from now, when I am relegated to a diet of bland rice cereal and Ensure, I may be puzzled about my current enthusiasm for spicy curries and bold greens, unable to fathom why or how I enjoyed such foods.
Thinking about my childhood favorites gives me moments - however fleeting - that carry me home to Alabama, back to the warmth of my family home. They happen when I least expect it, like when I take one of the peanut butter balls my housemate offers me and the sugar-chocolate coating melts on my tongue. And for a brief moment, I am 5 years old again.
Emily's column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at e.rowell@cavalierdaily.com
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