My middle and high school years were mostly fueled by meals of convenience and little care. Breakfasts consisted of cereal or nothing and lunches would be at school. I can barely remember dinners. If my mom was around, she would drive me to Taco Bell after school so I could buy myself a meal with the money I earned from working at Dairy Queen. Making our way through the drive thru lane became almost like a daily ritual and time spent together in the car.
I ate candy for lunch in middle school. Using all the loose change I could scrounge up to avoid using that god awful red ticket in my pocket, that all the low income kids received to get a hot lunch at a discount. I would have rather died or lived at the dentist’s office (I have 3 crowns, 1 implant and a few fillings) than stand in that line!
It wasn’t always like that though. My mother was an amazing cook.
She would spend several hours a day in the kitchen cooking. Creating meals, creating smells, creating moments that stick with me today. The odd mixture of dinner and cigarette smoke mingling through the air, that only I could miss. Serbian cuisine is heavy on the belly (and arteries) and hard on the eyes but when it’s a part of your culture and upbringing, the craving is in your heart and soul.
Everything she cooked, she cooked from scratch. Tomatoes stewed and peeled, broth simmering for hours, cabbage pickling, dough rising until it was time to be kneaded. Nostalgically recreating meals from her childhood or ambitiously working on something newly discovered from this foreign land.
We always had family over, my mom going all out. My great grandmothers handmade table cloth would be ironed and draped over the table, then carefully adorned with appetizers, main courses and sides, my mom proudly in a dress, heels and modest apron – hair and make up on point. My dad was most certainly drunk and my mom was definitely pissed but I soaked in the importance of being together and feeding each other.
A home full of family and food was a home full of love. These moments are some of my most cherished childhood memories. The food, the smiles, the people, the laughter and all the effort. The very act of keeping the ones you love, alive.
My mom gave up cooking after the divorce, frustrated by having always been an insignificant and unappreciated house wife. Tired from years of creating lavish meals that my dad never appreciated. Meals were an expectation and eventually became a burdensome chore and when he left she threw cooking in the trash. In her sadness and ignorance, she couldn’t disassociate his response to her cooking with my great need for it. Our full warm kitchen turned cold and dark and I was left hungry.
I spend a lot of time feeding my family. Maybe not quite making everything from scratch, definitely not smoking and for sure not wearing heels but I am in the kitchen most of the day cooking and it’s special to me. Creating, fermenting, kneading, chopping, baking, measuring, spilling and sometimes persuading nourishment into my family. I want them to feel the ritual of gathering together at the table. The importance of cooking. Eating from my heart and hands every day. Understanding that food is life and food is love. Like our relationships with each other, our relationship with food should be meaningful and mindful. Not quick and easy, stripped of the things our bodies and souls need, rather like all good things, it requires work and attention. Obviously, I’ve strayed a bit from the style of cooking and eating I was raised on and focus more on giving our bodies the food we need. Here, we eat to live – not live to eat.
In my early adulthood, I struggled quite a bit with cooking and eating. I was quite determined that I hated cooking and food. I thought I was terrible at it and food was only going to make me fat anyway, right? Perhaps that was a coping mechanism for unhealed scars or maybe I just didn’t have anyone worth cooking for, myself included. I have gone hungry and I have over eaten. I’ve burned and cut myself, over and under seasoned, overcooked and even served food quite raw but eventually I found myself back to my early memories as a child, at my mothers feet in the kitchen.
I’m afraid you probably won’t see me at my son’s game or my daughter’s practice. I won’t be driving all over Illinois (or anywhere else) chasing the competitions modern day society tells us and our kids we need to chase. I encourage them to pursue their passions and hobbies but I’ll be at home, cooking them dinner.
I thanked my mom recently for showing me the importance and beauty of feeding your family. I thanked her for all the dinners and the lunches and breakfasts. I told her she was an amazing cook. I hope she really heard me and may it bring her some peace. May she feel her presence in me and my children each time I place a warm meal before them.
