Wow, it’s been so long I’m not sure I remember how to do this <rolls up sleeves> but here we go just the same.
My adopted mother is Hungarian. That means when I was growing up there was always a lidded crock of opaque bacon grease in the back of the fridge, sauerkraut in the crisper drawer and sour cream in, well, everything. While I’d be the last to suggest that sour cream doesn’t belong in everything (rumor has it as a child I’d actually request the stuff in lieu of ice cream) I can honestly say I got some mixed messages about food from a young age.
Like most bored women her age, my mother struggled with her weight. I think. I know for fact she struggled with mine. When I was young my mother saw my weight as a personal affront as she was already so preoccupied with her own. While one week she’d be frying things in lard, the next there was nothing in the fridge but some carrot sticks. She tried every fad diet on the market and, by virtue of trickle-down body image (if you recall, everything trickled down in the 80’s) so did I. Not that I wanted to, by the way. I’d like to point that out. No kid wants to live on cottage cheese and melba toast or pull out her lunch at school only to find a rye cracker and a diet coke. (and since when has diet coke ever been a good idea?!? I mean, really, I might as well have come to school with a brown bag of Virginia Slims, a pack of matches and a little napkin note that said willpower!)
I think my mother was expecting her cabbage patch kid to grow into a Barbie doll, and I just wasn’t wired that way. My sister, also adopted (no relation) was somehow blessed with blond hair, blue eyes, a perfect metabolism and the most obnoxious of human traits, picky eating. You guessed it, she stayed stick thin. I, on the other hand, well, didn’t.
In the intervening years I’ve done a lot of soul-searching, trying to determine which, if any, ideas of body image I grew up with were worth keeping around. I’ve had to remove a lot of negativity from my life (including, unfortunately, my parents). I’ve learned the fine art of moderation in all things (even sour cream). I’ve also come to enjoy cooking for my partner. We both struggle with the food=love concept. Now though I exercise it a little differently. Because I love her, I cook meals from whole foods without processed crap or chemicals or GMOs or excess fat because I want to keep her and that beautiful heart of hers healthy for as long as I can.
I think that’s a distinction my mother wasn’t able to understand. To her, food had always been good for you. The foods she grew up with were based on traditions that had been handed down for centuries. They came from places where the people were tied to the land and always had been, where the only food people had came directly from the earth. The high consumption of meat and dairy was balanced with all manner of vegetable and grain and had served to keep entire populations alive and healthy for as long as anyone could remember.
In the American diet of the 1980’s especially, saw a shift in the nutritional paradigm. (Remember how our plates used to look? I sat down to an incomplete peace sign every night with some wilty, sludge of canned spinach occupying the smallest wedge.) My mother’s rich familial traditions couldn’t have anticipated the changes in the modern diet that included frozen vegetables in “cheez” sauce, pizza rolls, chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs or Lipton Noodles and Sauce among others. We were, all of us, slowly falling victim to the processed food revolution. Once processed foods began taking the place of real foods, our plates began growing even more lopsided. And so did we.
Ultimately I’m pretty sure I can’t even blame my mother for falling victim to convenience and clever marketing. Sure I emerged from childhood with a warped view of food and my own body but, really, I was a girl. To a certain extent, we all did. These days I take pride in my ability to distance myself from both unhealthy thinking and unhealthy food. I have to be careful though not to throw the baby out with bathwater.
It’s funny the direction this post has taken. I just set out to write a blog about how I had rye toast this morning for breakfast. It’s true. It was perfectly toasted and I enjoyed it immensely and that was the bulk of what I wanted to tell you. It doesn’t seem like much but the humble caraway seed, the flavor that most completely embodies for me all the flavors of my childhood, the seed that once caught in my throat like the bitterest pill…is actually pretty tasty.
When I finally had to make the decision to stop communicating with my parents, one of my biggest regrets was that I hadn’t gotten some of the family recipes first. I know that may seem shallow but it’s about connection. Those are the flavors of my childhood and, despite her shortcomings, my mother was a hell of a cook. I think it’s funny that after all the conflict, the disappointment and the wistful remembrances of childhood lost, I can still think back to some of the food and smile. Regardless of what might have happened later, these dishes were once prepared for me with love.
That’s what food can be. For a long time I rebelled against anything that reminded me of those awful later times. I wouldn’t go near a paprikash if you paid me. But I can’t help it; some people have a sweet tooth, my teeth are sour, fermenty, creamy and meaty. Those are the flavors I gravitate toward no matter how hard I try to reshape my palate. I’ve traveled the world and experienced some amazing flavors but, at the end of the day, especially when I’m tired, I’m always going to return to my roots. I guess that’s really the message. We all need to embrace our roots.
Life is about feeling and sharing the things that make us happy. When I want to tell my lover about my childhood, I break out the sauerkraut and that’s okay. It’s my tradition now to do with what I will. And someday, when I feed my children the things that make my palate sing, I will be giving them myself. It’s my job to cook with honesty and joy from the depths of my being and experience.
My new mantra? May I feed the people I love with mindfulness and joy so that they may be nourished in body and spirit.
I can grow stronger and more beautiful when I love the seed that I was and the tree I am becoming. No Exceptions!
Now go out and realize your joy!
And while you’re at it, make yourself some toast.
Kim Goes Green 