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silveradeptMy palate is fairly dead. I know this because I have eaten food that has been finely and delicately spiced with many things, and I can't taste any of them. Salt, yes, pepper, yes, and things like garlic and onions, yes, but the rest? Not likely. So I don't build a lot of food memories, really, at least, not based on when I came across the most sublime chocolate truffle and savored it for minutes on end. No, my food memories tend to be the time that I found I actualyl liked coleslaw, thanks to a $5 per diem and a fish and chips vendor who clearly had it going for them in terms of coleslaw. The fish, as I remember, was forgettable, but the coleslaw was excellent - and it was the closest to $5 that any of the food merchants had that might have been a filling meal. So it's not really a food memory, per se, because the memory is more "Huh. I found something that fit the budget. And apparently, I like good coleslaw now, which I never would have known had I not been trying to spend as little as possible."
Similarly, talking about waffles on Sunday morning at the house isn't really about the waffles - there were plenty of them, and they kept coming until everyone had had their fill (or we ran out of the big batch of batter), but it's not really about the waffles - it's about reading the Sunday paper, especially the comics section, after having rolled out of bed at a late (for me) hour, compared to the very early rise-and-shine that happened during the week for schooling (or for work - sad as it is, the wake-up times for both were about the same time), and looking forward to a day of doing very little, oft-ruined by my father's insistence that some of his knowledge about tools and such be passed on to his son. Knowledge that has been useful, despite my myriad attempts to not learn it at the time.
Bridge mix while playing Pinochle, Turtles and Girl Guide Cookies during Boggle, the ever-impressive spread of baked goods (and liquors) available on 24 December, green room snacks while waiting in between musical acts (as the audience went through the various courses of dinner), which leads to its own memory of trying very hard not to break out laughing while the wig of a male actor was torn off during an unscripted moment in "Sisters", much to the appreciative laughter and applause of the audience...
...anyway, the memories are never about the food. I suspect that's true for most people, actually - the food is what was on the table, but the memory is what happened at dinner, or how the food was really just a prop to use for the playtime that was the real main course, or this, or that. The actual memories, the part that hurts or brings a smile to one's face, those are the things we want when we go back to the food. Or try to stay away from it, thinking it will make us popular and pretty again.
We eat to recall the memories, and we eat to try and bury them.
Similarly, talking about waffles on Sunday morning at the house isn't really about the waffles - there were plenty of them, and they kept coming until everyone had had their fill (or we ran out of the big batch of batter), but it's not really about the waffles - it's about reading the Sunday paper, especially the comics section, after having rolled out of bed at a late (for me) hour, compared to the very early rise-and-shine that happened during the week for schooling (or for work - sad as it is, the wake-up times for both were about the same time), and looking forward to a day of doing very little, oft-ruined by my father's insistence that some of his knowledge about tools and such be passed on to his son. Knowledge that has been useful, despite my myriad attempts to not learn it at the time.
Bridge mix while playing Pinochle, Turtles and Girl Guide Cookies during Boggle, the ever-impressive spread of baked goods (and liquors) available on 24 December, green room snacks while waiting in between musical acts (as the audience went through the various courses of dinner), which leads to its own memory of trying very hard not to break out laughing while the wig of a male actor was torn off during an unscripted moment in "Sisters", much to the appreciative laughter and applause of the audience...
...anyway, the memories are never about the food. I suspect that's true for most people, actually - the food is what was on the table, but the memory is what happened at dinner, or how the food was really just a prop to use for the playtime that was the real main course, or this, or that. The actual memories, the part that hurts or brings a smile to one's face, those are the things we want when we go back to the food. Or try to stay away from it, thinking it will make us popular and pretty again.
We eat to recall the memories, and we eat to try and bury them.
