By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3
One of the many reasons we love food, other than survival and taste, is how it intertwines and defines the progression of our lives. So, can you capture your life in five foods? Let’s find out.
Crackers and Cool Whip in the 70s: At age 4, I didn’t know daycare, but I did know Mrs. Fischer, who watched me and her two grandkids during the day while our moms worked at the local bank. She fed us sauerkraut and kielbasa for lunch with apricot kolache for dessert, and she and her husband, Mr. Henry, taught us how to play dominos as soon as we could count.
Their granddaughter, Stacey, was my very first friend. When Mrs. Fischer needed us to clear out so she could mop the kitchen, she’d hand us a sleeve of Saltine crackers and a tub of Cool Whip, and then she’d point us toward the back steps. We’d sit side by side outside the screen door, dipping each cracker into the Cool Whip and feeling like we had the fanciest treat on Earth.
Tuna fish in second grade: The rule in my elementary school’s cafeteria was that we had to try at least a bite of everything on the tray. And that was okay until the day the tray included a blob of tuna fish. I could not. Would not. Not with a goat, not in a boat. My teacher said I’d have to sit there until I tried the blob, which is when I realized I’d grow old and die right there at the table because I couldn’t force down what looked and smelled like cat food. All my senses recoiled from it.
When she asked why I wouldn’t try it, I told the first deliberate lie I can remember. “I’m allergic,” I said. She responded, “And if I call your mother and ask if you’re allergic to tuna fish, will she say yes?” I stared up into my beloved teacher’s face and solemnly nodded my head in a lie that stunk nearly as bad as the tuna. She let me go to recess, and, to this day, I don’t regret it. I feared that horrid wet blob of shredded fish much more than my mother.
Apple fritters in the 80s: My dad, who was a landscaper and a tree trimmer, usually worked on Saturdays. During my teen years, I slept through most Saturday mornings, but there was one thing that could get me out of bed. Dad would stop by the house and bring a small bag from the local donut shop into my room. I’d open it, and the smell of a hot Apple Fritter would drift out. “If you want to eat it, you’ve gotta get up. I brought you chocolate milk to go with it.” Then he’d bound outside, climb into his dump truck, and drive off to shape up a sycamore tree. That’s why every Apple Fritter since the 80s reminds me that my dad loved me (and Apple Fritters, too).
Macaroni and cheese in the 90s: When I left home for college, I could hardly wait to become a sophisticated woman of the world. After a few months of feeling like a tiny fish in a scary sea, I was eager to spend a weekend back home. The night before any weekend visit, my mom would call to ask what I wanted to eat when I got home from the four-hour drive. The answer was always Kraft Macaroni and Cheese with English peas on the side. Something about that simple comfort food let me slip back into the familiar safety of my childhood cocoon. And now, it’s what my daughter asks for when she comes home from college, too.
Brisket sandwiches and blackberry cobbler in the 2000s: The early part of the decade was a blur of three babies and very little sleep. I drank so much caffeine during those days that our youngest baby once pointed to a can of Dr. Pepper and said, “Mama!”
But by the last half of that decade, Tom and I were taking our little ones for summer weekend trips to a small lake town in the Ozarks where we’d swim, swing, play putt-putt golf, and eat at a small yellow cafe that serves burgers, brisket sandwiches, soup, cobbler, and ice cream. A married couple owned and operated it – and still do – and their food and hospitality were always the cherry on top of our favorite memories.
So now it’s your turn. If you close your eyes and rewind the past few decades of your life, which foods help tell your story? Here’s hoping your trip down mealtime memory lane makes your heart dance and your mouth water.
Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.
