Confessions of a Foodie

Do you have a favorite food that is so tightly wrapped up in your memories, that just to think about it makes your mouth water and your heart ache? Well, I do. That would be my Grandma’s chicken and dumplin’s (In the south the ‘g’ is silent!)

Growing up, my grandma (actually all of my grandparents on both sides) lived next door to me. It was a great arrangement because I got to grow up seeing my grandma everyday. Well, every Sunday my parents, my sisters, and I would come home from church to find a feast waiting for us on Grandma’s table.

We would gather around her tiny table, give thanks for the bountiful dinner, and gorge ourselves on Grandma’s soul food. My favorite dish that Grandma made was her chicken and dumplin’s. Grandma’s dumplin’s were like no other. She made them from scratch every time. Her hands holding raw dumplin’s like a clothesline holding damp towels, she would gingerly drop those precious squares of dough into chicken stock that still to this day I cannot duplicate.

Like I said Grandma’s dumplin’s were like no other, because most pots of chicken and dumplin’s are filled with puny, little excuses for dumplin’s that are more akin to a noodle than a true dumplin’. Grandma’s were big and fat and CHEWY. And that was the way I liked them. The rest of you can have Mary B’s. I want Mandy Louise’s!

It’s funny how food can touch us in such a deep way. You may wonder what I mean by this statement. Well, as I write these words, the memory of those meals floods through me, and I am transported back to my Grandma’s kitchen and tears fill my eyes. You see I haven’t been in Grandma’s kitchen in almost 5 years, and there will never be any going back.

Grandma passed away about 18 months ago, and even before that Alzheimer’s stole her ability to prepare a meal for the family she loved. So now I sit and remember those wonderful meals my family shared sitting around Grandma’s table eating heavenly chicken and dumpin’s. And though Grandma never wrote down a single recipe, and I never did grasp her explanation of a dash of this and a bit of that, one day, I will recreate her most amazing dish. And I will share it with the world, so that Grandma’s soul food can live on through me. I love you Grandma.

I pride myself in being a lover of all types of food. From the classic American cheeseburger to Moroccan delicacies, I savor each and every morsel. So tell me, how did I end up with a child who would eat macaroni and cheese for breakfast lunch and dinner? I guess taste in food is just another behavior that is learned.

I guess now that I think about it, I didn’t really have a choice in the matter when it came to being picky. I grew up in one of those households where I had to finish everything on my plate. No matter what it was on said plate. So after being forced to eat such atrocities as liver, lima beans, and brussel sprouts, I am now an adult who actually enjoys eating such notorious delectibles.

In fact, I attribute my vast love of food to the very thing I hated doing as a child. Trying something new and potentially disgusting. So today I find food an adventure, one that I hope continues to be ever changing.

But back to my problem at hand, my pesky, picky-eater of a son. Let me tell you a little about him. Nathan is 4 years old and absolutely fearless, much to the chagrin of his parents! Nathan’s crazy antics in his playtime are endless and abounding. Too bad his sense of adventure does not extend into his diet.

Nathan’s dream food is mac ‘n’ cheese. But wait we’re not talking just any cheesy mac, oh no! Many a times, I’ve made my sweet boy a made-from-scratch, filled-with-love, home-made bowl of macaroni & cheese, only to have my beautiful son tell me, “No, Mommy, I want the blue one.” That’s right we’re talking about that preservative filled, just add milk, butter and powder, blue boxed mac ‘n’ cheese that’s been around for decades! Nate doesn’t even have the decency to be a snob about it either. He doesn’t even care if it’s Kraft or generic. (I blame his father for this discretion.)

So I often wonder how on Earth I’m going to instill the same love of the unknown, in my picky, picky son. As much as it kills me, and as much as I said I would be different when I became a parent, I guess I’ll just have to torture him like my parents tortured me. So my son may complain about how his evil parents force him to try new foods, but in the end if he learns to appreciate new things, then all the whining and fake tears were worth it. And after all, I still turned out ok!