Food, Family and Memory

My mother made perfect lox, onions, and eggs.  Except it isn’t really lox, onion, and eggs, it's nova scotia, onions, and eggs. 

And nova scotia’s best when it comes from a deli department, loose or fresh-sliced, instead of a package at the grocery store.

Read recipe...

My mother prepared us breakfast every day of the week because she was not about to send us off to school on an empty stomach. Yet the only day I really remember eating breakfast was on Saturday. Not because she cooked an elaborate spread, but because we were left to fend for ourselves. It was the one morning my parents slept in – probably only to about 8 or 9, but it seemed like all morning and it was a thrill to be without parental supervision in the dining room. My siblings and I weren’t what you’d call “skilled” in the culinary arts, but we were quite capable of pouring a bowl cereal…and that’s where the trouble started.

These were the days before whole grains, when cereal was “crack” for kids, so filled with sugar one bowl probably exceeded your daily nutritional requirements for carbohydrates. There was no fiber to be found and we LOVED it. While in grammar school, we were allowed to “request” our favorite brand, but my mother had a strict food budget, so we never knew what we were actually going to find in the cupboard. If your choice was on sale, then it was your lucky week and the world was your oyster.

Several times a week my amazing other half will call me at my office, check on me to see how my day is progressing, and then follow it up with "What would you like for dinner?" Before you think I’m the luckiest man on earth to get that phone call every day (because I am!), please keep in mind that the question should really be "Hi there; What Would You Like To Eat Tonight So That I Can Compare It To My List Of What We Have In The Kitchen Against What I Actually Feel Like Making For Dinner Depending On Several Factors Like Time, Mood, Willingness and Temperature." 

We then begin a little phone dance of niceties like "Oh, you know, whatever you want is fine" and "But that really doesn’t help me out, Matt, which is why I called" which gives way to "Whatever we bought Sunday at the Farmers Market isn’t going to last until tomorrow so make something with that" which gets a "Fine. And where will I get a recipe for what you’re talking about" and I’ll respond with "Um, improvise?" which meets a "With TAHINI, A BUNCH OF SAGE AND SHRIVELED PLUMS?!?" to which I’ll say "Oh god, nevermind, really, I’ll eat whatever you want to make. Seriously. I don’t care."

Food and death are a marvelous combination, except for when one suddenly causes the other.  In my family, news of someone’s passing usually initiates a steady stream of food delivered to the ground zero of loss.  Sandwich platters, rice puddings, and pink cardboard pastry boxes tied up with string.  These are a few of my favorite things.  The food, not the death part.

The different foods that are bestowed upon the bereaved are a reminder of the living.  Who else but the living would care enough to drop by with a Bundt cake?  Keep the pan.  I have extras for times like these.  You can look at this delivered feast as a measure of the love for the deceased.  Home made fried chicken is a great compliment; day old grocery store pie, not so much.