Food, Family and Memory

Last night my husband Rob and I attended a meeting of the East Lansing City’s Planning Commission (because we know how to have a good time) which started at 7:00. These meetings, or at least the part with which we are concerned, usually end by 8:30 or 9:00, so we left Sam Home Alone. He is 11, we were literally 3 minutes away, and there were neighbors home.

The meeting lasted until after 10:00, and because we are very bad parents, and really wanted to be there when the vote on our issue was taken (we lost, by the way), we didn’t get home until after 10:30. (Before you call Child Protective Services, I should add that it was not a school night because he is on spring break). in the midst of getting the dogs out, making wild promises of what we “owed” him for abandoning him, and checking phone messages, Rob noticed an empty Angel Food Cake box in the kitchen,  and a sink full of dirty dishes. The kitchen table was also suspiciously sticky.

It started with cheese and frackers. Between ages three and four I switched out a rented violin for a full junior pro drum kit, and graduated to brie’n’bread in the snack game.

The drumming got more serious, and the brie’n’bread began to demand increasing attention. Unlike my gateway attachment to cheese and frackers (typically cheddar and wheat thins), snack time rocketed into a new dimension. The Brie expanded my young palate at the same time musical taste tended toward Bruce Springstein blasting from my Fischer Price turntable.

At pre-school, I made up Boss routines with long wooden blocks serving as guitars and stacks of short blocks comprising imaginary keyboards and drums, while for snack they served peanut butter on graham crackers.

The J.C.C. also dished out falafel for an Israeli appreciation day and screened foreign Sesame Street videos in which Snuffaluffagus’ heavy strides appear more like davening. Appetizing and entertaining, though if we could only have a French day along with some brie’n’bread, I thought. It just competed way too hard with the alternatives.

Peter John is my favorite cousin. He has a knack for saying, in a hilarious manner, what everyone else is thinking. At a family dinner he once joked that in the event of World War III, after the nuclear fall out, he would somehow manage to make it to my dad’s house, because it would be the only place left in Rhode Island that wouldn't run out of food.

It's true. My dad has a large basement whose food contents could rival that of any Super Stop n’ Shop or Costco. I am not sure if this is an Italian thing, or a 1950's bomb shelter thing, or because he grew up in a large family where money was not plentiful but manual labor was. I could write several posts about his canning tomatoes, pickling peppers, and stuffing sausages his whole life. I suspect there is a part of him hard-wired to always have ample amounts of food stored. Trust me, he does.

We eat Mimi’s Sauce with just about everything. Now, I am fully aware that I said “we eat Mimi’s Sauce…”

Fish, chicken, pork, burgers, fries, veggies –  Mimi’s Sauce is the condiment of choice for my kinsmen and me. It is simultaneously basic and brilliant and can be the foundation for many a saucier sauce or simply delightful in and of itself. Spread on a turkey sandwich or as a dip for Cajun steamed shrimp, I am sure you’ll find a favorite use for Mimi’s Sauce. 

Many fried chicken establishments across The South have their own “Special Sauce.” This dipping sauce ranges and varies among the different spots, carefully guarded and some establishments even charge a quarter for an extra sauce.

A quarter – that’s big money! And you know what? We pay it, because one little pack is not enough for our chicken and fries!