Food is another Word for “Love”
This month contains a celebration of love and of my mom – together – so I thought I’d share a bit about her this February. You see, my mom was born on Valentine’s Day, and was consequently named “Valerie”. Whether her arrival on a day of love plays a role in it or not, she does love deeply. Though her love and care appear in many forms, perhaps her best language of love is “food”.
Food. I thoroughly enjoy partaking of it, but I do not relish the lead up to that ingestion. Though I am so grateful for the abundance of incredible food available to me so conveniently nearby, I truly dislike the act of grocery shopping. Armed with my shopping list, I can still manage to get lost in the aisles, and price comparisons, and manage to bring home the wrong version of something despite having spent 5 minutes staring at the options and thinking I picked the right one – if I was even able to find it! Furthermore, I am not a chef. I have no natural inclinations toward food preparation; I have a very plain palate; and, even following recipes with precision does not guarantee a successful outcome. Cooking stresses me out, and the quest to have all the dishes hot and ready simultaneously is one that continually eludes me.
The well-used dining room table, set up for another elegant feast.
My mother, on the other hand, excels at all things food-related. From the sourcing and procuring of delicious food (usually at very prudent prices), to the storage of said food, to the preparation and serving of it, she sails though the tasks with a calm, controlled, enviable knowing. Even if something goes awry (for example, if I’m trying to help prepare a meal), she has a number of trusty remedies at the forefront of her mind. The kitchen is her domain, to be sure. And she is not stingy with it, or its bounties.
Growing up, I was exposed to a lot of food preparation as we often had guests over, and because we were fortunate enough to have a mom that could stay at home rather than rushing off to work. Her work was that of General Manager of the household. Consequently there was ample opportunity for me to learn the cooking ropes from her. She tried to share her wisdom. Unfortunately, I was highly unmotivated. Why pay attention to an unpleasant task that someone else could, and would do better than me? I learned the few things I cared about, and, sadly, took little interest in the other tasks. I believe one of my first accomplishments was learning how to stir cream of wheat into the water smoothly so I wouldn’t get lumps in my porridge. I remember being frustrated that my hands couldn’t seem to work independently of each other (one pouring, one whisking) with the ease and agility of my mom’s.
My mom has compiled an epic recipe book over the years. It is a well-worn volume of great historicity, highly used and travelled (truly it’s gone from Canada to Zambia to New Zealand and probably a bunch of places in between). Evidently it started off as a 49¢ trigonometry notebook. Oh, but greater days were ordained for it!
The one thing I did enjoy in the kitchen was baking. Perhaps because baking is a fairly specific science and doesn’t allow much (or any) room for improvising, I found I could better handle it. In addition, being a sweet tooth, I was far more inclined to figure out how to prepare cookies to eat than I was about learning to cook Brussels sprouts. The truth is that to this day, my mom’s recipe book frightens me, even if I’m trying to use it for the most standard baking. In it are pages upon pages of hand-written recipes. Though my mom’s cursive is attractive and legible, the book is devoid of organizational structure, and bears yellowing glue marks (from inserting additional notes, newspaper clippings, backs of food labels) making it nigh impossible to read the text. And if those things weren’t enough, there are the “helpful” notes that are far too vague for a novice like me. “Just a pinch of salt.” “Only stir until the surface is glossy.” How glossy?? I remember lamenting to my mom when I did try to use this book, “what does this mean??” pointing to some mystery instruction therein. So many notes lacked reference points and quantifying factors (e.g. a pinch) thus providing me with great challenges.
Two page spreads of the infamous recipe book
What I loved about that recipe book was that when it came out of it’s drawer, I was likely (whether a kid, teen, or even adult), to receive tastes of dough, or required to help “clean off” a spatula or spoon. As I kid busy playing, oblivious to the baking going on, when I stumbled into the kitchen I was extra delighted to discover that mom had saved me a few little cookie dough balls on the counter, because she knew her cookie fiend daughter would eventually appear. She genuinely loves through the language of food!
It’s no surprise then that she still finds ways to love me with food, even though we don’t live near each other anymore. Even when I was travelling after college, I was thrilled and amazed to receive care packages of her homemade baking – robust, travel-worthy treats, packed with care so ensure undamaged delivery (down to Chile, for example!). Now, such packages still make their way from Southwestern Ontario to Ottawa, but she’s come up with a new tactic. When my parents visit, she not only leaps into helping prepare meals (or completely doing so, unaided), but also stocks our larder with victuals. This Christmas my folks visited and just this week my husband inquired about a package of cookies that I know I didn’t buy, but that found their way (along with many other items) into our pantry, covered in my mom’s fingerprints! If a visit happens near Easter, she has been known to hide chocolate eggs (in vast quantities) throughout the house (or if unable to do so, she will recruit local help!). Weeks after Easter last year, I was riffling through a filing cabinet and stumbled upon the mother lode (pun fully intended): a 1 lb. solid chocolate bunny literally filed away for my ecstatic discovery! And guess what: such things do indeed make me feel very, very loved!
1 lb REAL chocolate bunny that mom planted in my filing cabinet
Whether it’s bringing homemade muffins to the mechanics at her garage, inviting friends over to dine, or delivering a multi-course, ready-for-heating-up dinner to someone in need, or loading up her kids for the trip back home, my mom cannot be stopped from loving with food. Her food gifts have warmed the hearts, bellies, and lives of countless people - friends, strangers, and heck – if she had any, I bet enemies would benefit from the love prepared in her kitchen too! I feel tremendously blessed to both be the recipient of her love-in-food’s-clothing, as well has having the privilege to see others blessed by it. She is unrivalled in this gift of hers, and I could write many more pages about it. However, what needs to be said is I’m so grateful for her and esteem her highly for the way she uses her skills and passions to make the world a far happier place. She is a great inspiration for me. And though my skills are not the same as hers, I’ll do my best to try to imitate her generosity of spirit.
I love you, mom.
And I love your chocolate chip cookies.
