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Over the last year, I’ve been endeavouring to understand why food has such an impact on me, beyond just enjoying deliciously cooked food. Food has become so much more than just simply cooking, it is tied into memories, a place in time, to people and certain scenarios.
The first time I understood this was when I read Almost Home by Fanny Singer. It’s a daughter’s recount of food and memory. Singer’s mother is the famous chef and restauranteur, Alice Waters; in the book, she explores how food and her relationship with her mother are ultimately intertwined. This memoir profoundly impacted me. It was Christmas time, 2020. We had just gone into another lockdown, and I was once again off from work, and seeking comfort in an uncertain time. I was in a phase of really beginning to love cooking, so my partner brought it for me as a Christmas present. I spent Christmas Day and Boxing Day devouring each page. The way she described how moments of her life were punctuated by her mother’s rituals and relationship to food, sparked something within myself. For example, the way her mother would burn rosemary anytime she went to a new place on holiday, or came home after time away. Or her signature way she cooked eggs in an egg spoon; and the distinct smell of her mum’s kitchen…it made me think about all the ways food brought comfort to me, in the rituals and practises of my own family.
Memory 1: Grandma’s Kitchen
My most formative cooking and food memories go back to my grandma’s kitchen. Her kitchen always smelt like cake batter and the smell of her old whisk (the smell of her old plug-in-the-wall whisk is the smell I associate with her). Every Wednesday we would bake cupcakes and cover them in colourful icing sugar, green, blue, and pink. But, what I remember most — and I have the fondest memory of — is the time she cooked French Pancake with lemon curd. There is something so special about this meal to me. I can still smell the French pancake, and how I lathered on the lemon curd (perhaps overzealously). It was the first of only two times I have eaten French Pancake with lemon curd, and I don’t know if I will again. Although I am a good cook, I am by no means a baker, not like my grandma. To achieve that French Pancake would most likely taint the precious memories I have.
This memory reminds me of a simpler time, when life was slower, where sitting around the table enjoying homemade cakes and desserts on second-hand plates with a cup of tea or coffee was enough. Now, whenever I cook, I relish in the joy of these simple moments which are enough; I don’t daydream of being somewhere else, but I am wholly present to the joy of sitting with a homemade cake and a cup of tea.
Memory 2: Homemade Bread
I don’t think many things bring as much comfort as the smell of homemade bread coming out of the oven; the smell wafting through the kitchen and curling its way around the home, enticing family members to the kitchen table for warm bread slathered in butter. This is something my mum used to make when we were kids. She would add the ingredients to the bread maker, then we would wait patiently. The smell of cooking dough filled the kitchen and made my sister and me feral with anticipation. Then the timer would go off, and my mum would carefully take the bread out of its safe home, like a babe that has been gestating. Then we would wait for it to cool — perhaps the most tortuous part. Finally, when the bread was still warm and steaming, she would cut us a thick slice (because the thicker the better) and spread it on salted butter (generously). This would melt and seep into the bread and air pockets.
These moments are special because to be cooked for, with love and intention, is such an expression of love. It was the joy of a moment shared; to experience something with another, to understand what they were thinking and feeling, because you felt the same. To cook with the thought of someone else in mind is such a devotional act. It was something, my mum, my sister and I shared, together. A menage of women, bound by blood and a shared love of homemade cooking.
Memory 3: My Winter Squash
It’s autumn. The leaves have turned a beautiful golden and burnt orange; the air is tinted with the smell of leaves that have fallen to the floor and rain on concrete. It’s the time of the year when the markets are full of brightly coloured vegetables to match the colours of the season, in particular, my favourite being squash. This memory is a relatively recent one and in particular, from last autumn. I had just splurged on a gorgeous blue La Creuset pot, and I was feeling excited to start cooking in it. I wanted something hearty, nourishing and in-season. The first thing that came to mind was squash. These golden, green, orange and yellow balls of delight are the epitome of autumnal cooking.1 I decided to make a tomato, bean, and squash stew. Against the blue of the pot, the colours of the squash and other vegetables popped with vibrancy. I was adding something golden to my days, as they began shifting towards darkness.
The ritual of making this dish weekly throughout the autumn and winter months provided me with an anchor; a ritual that guided me through the colder months by imbuing my day with colour and intention. I would look forward to cooking in the evening; putting on a podcast, chopping the vegetables, the aromatic smell of olive oil, the simmer coming from the pot, the way the squash would melt in my mouth (crown prince squash is the best for this).
These moments may seem mundane, but they mean something to me. They were an anchor, a ritual that brought me comfort — they still do. The last couple of days have started to feel cool, the air crisp. It’s time to bring out the blue pot again, to make new memories.
By Hannah
Side note, this year my mum grew 46 squashes on her allotment! You can imagine how excited I was to take some home with me after a trip back to see family.