No, no. This is not another House Hunters recap. It’s about food. Well, not just food – about how what we eat has changed through the decades.
My sainted mother, long gone, prepared many of the same types of things, week in and week out. A pot roast, a “boiled dinner” peculiar to New England, the famed tuna casserole or fish sticks on Friday nights because, of course, we couldn’t eat meat. All of it was wonderful at the time and the stuff of fond memories today. I certainly haven’t been able to claim food deprivation at any point in my life. While my daughter was growing up, her taste palate, to paraphrase Dorothy Parker, “ran the gamut from A to B”. There were about four, possibly five things she’d eat happily – ice cream figured prominently, with an extensive list of foods she’d regard as if they were sautéed spider webs. Surprisingly, when it came to dining out, her meal was fully half of the tab, having ordered something like swordfish. New parenting had taken hold, replacing our era of “you’ll eat what’s put in front of you or go hungry.” We were all afraid that our children would turn into stick figures, Child Welfare would descend, and it couldn’t possibly end well.
Hitting college, and being away from home, she became more adventurous. How wonderful for her as we, her parents, reflected on everything we’d eliminated for years because “she didn’t like that.” Asian food, for example, never crossed our door because, honestly, it would have received an indifferent sniff, nor did things like avocado, eggplant, interesting fruits and vegetables. To this day, both she and her cousin regard any breed of squash as a toxic substance, best placed in a subterranean silo in the Midwest. In a side note, my wife too has a rather narrow perspective on vegetables – most were off limits anyway, so it wasn’t overly burdensome for us. Now, however, as an adult, Little Missy is a food sophisticate, mixing exotic ingredients with the assurance of Rachael Ray. This, coupled with a fine working knowledge of healthy foods and lifestyle are a double-edged sword of highly admirable and really annoying. She’ll send us pictures of elegant little breakfasts she’s whipped up that would have elicited horror in her teens. Most of the time, this is all fine as she lives hundreds of miles away. However, this discerning taste palate comes home to visit from time to time.
A while ago, she informed us about a wonderful creation she’d made that was quite tasty. It was a variation on Shepherd’s Pie. We all know Shepherd’s Pie, right? Hamburg or ground lamb, corn and perhaps another vegetable, mashed potatoes on the top. Let’s not screw with a classic here, I say. But nay, nay. This one was made with, and I quote, “sweet potato mash and coconut milk.” Wait, what? Ok, sweet potatoes might be a stretch but I could at least give it a taste. Coconut milk? Really? I don’t think this qualifies as “Shepherd’s Pie”. Maybe a Palm Tree Pie, for those agile islanders climbing trees to fetch coconuts. Add a few macadamia nuts to the top and you’d have something a Highlander could blow out the window with his bagpipes. Even finding coconut milk is a chore. I located coconut oil, then coconut water – of course in different isles. Finally had to ask at Customer Service, and they didn’t know either. That’s our daughter, who has now blissfully switched coconut milk, almond milk, and other non-cow milks that are “much better for you” at a cost roughly of gold bullion. Must be because almonds don’t give as much milk as cows. Sure, we all know that a two pound coconut gives up about two teaspoons of thin liquid, but who even saw that potential in almonds? Aren’t they little, hard, nut things? Some farmer in North Africa is gazing across acres and acres of almond trees at 5 AM, saying to himself, “time to milk the almonds”. Grinding them into milk hardly seems worth the effort. Of course, I’m not a big “nut” person anyway. Save the walnuts and pecans for furniture, I say. Over the last couple of years, we’ve sampled cauliflower crusts for pizza, which are actually pretty good and an interesting texture. Until Pillsbury puts out a cauliflower crust that I can just unroll, though, I doubt I’ll be boiling, pulverizing, shaping, and toasting cauliflower crusts any time soon. She made an elaborate egg concoction one morning with side orders of roasted sweet potato bites. “Dad – try this, you’ll really like it.” I did like the sweet potatoes, although I’m not really tempted by them at 7 AM. She was off to a spin class at 8, so early it was. Truth be told, I wouldn’t go to all that work at any hour, but daybreak in particular. I’m not an early breakfast person. Long about 10, I can enjoy breakfast (in a nice restaurant), but it’s pretty much coffee up until then. She has introduced us to a number of new things that are, as she indicates, “quite tasty”. We had a watermelon salad for dinner one night, a warm summer evening, that was delicious. So, I’m not discounting much of new cuisine that comes our way, although I wish I’d patented the term “wilted” when I had the chance, because I inadvertently brought the concept to full flower. We tried kale once. It’s green, it’s leafy, but so is swamp grass. Enough said. On our visits to DC, where she lives, our daughter’s recommended that we try Ethiopian, Albanian, Indian, and other worldly cuisine. She told me about her friend John’s purchases at a farmers market for what she described as kind of a “Turkish stew”. Ok, then. “Dad, I know you’d like it if you just tried it.” I know. I might and that, frankly scares me. Coming home to New Hampshire where the Ethiopian and Turkish flavor palates have not really taken hold will be, well, unsatisfying. So, to quote myself, “I’m thinking . . . . . no.”
We’re not really followers of many television cooking shows or the food network. Any recipe that has a number of “brown for two to three minutes, then set aside while you . .” or has more than six steps total is pretty much out of the running, no matter how attractive the picture looks. We are fascinated by the Great British Baking Show, mostly because I can enjoy watching safe in the knowledge that I’ll never, ever, bake anything they do. So, it is absolutely captivating. Squatting in front of the oven, checking to see if things are “turning a nice golden brown” would require the jaws of life to get me back up. I don’t do “golden brown” so much as “dark mulch”. “It’s a good bake” has become part of our lexicon, though not often achieved. Perhaps maybe I need more gadgets. The show stoppers are amazing works of art and architecture. I’m always impressed with the combinations of flavors that these adventurous people put together. “I’m using plums, carrots, mincemeat, and just a few tablespoons of motor oil to add moisture, with a crust of caraway seeds and birch bark.” Then I hear Mary saying, “oh, this is lovely – the motor oil comes through nicely and the bark gives it a nice, crispy texture.” Paul will of course tell the baker that the crust is uneven, undercooked, and the motor oil has separated from the mincemeat. He’s typically the ‘bad cop’ of the judging team. If the viewer looks closely, you’ll see the contestants’ hands begin to shake uncontrollably as he approaches their cooking stations. I always feel the need to save a little dessert until we’ve tuned in, even if it’s only the inadequacy of a couple of cookies so I won’t have to rush out and find a 24 hour emergency bakery.
As we older folks progress through life, not only do our tastes change but our senses to food diminish too, which is quite sad, really. I remember with amusement visits from my great uncle Herb, who when I was in high school was in his late 80’s. He’d remark that apples just didn’t taste like or give off aromas as did the ones he remembered on the farm in his youth. My mother would ask, “Herb, don’t you think that’s because your senses of taste or smell are not what they were?” No, he didn’t think so. He hadn’t lost anything – it was clearly the apples that had lost their quality. Must be all those chemicals they were using. Herb didn’t wash much, nor did he launder his clothes regularly, so it’s safe to say his sense of smell had been gone for years. He also complained that, on his travels to New York City, which he did from time to time by bus from his home south of Boston, many of his familiar haunts had disappeared, and “it was hard to find a good 90 cent plate of beans anymore.” This was in the 1970’s, but still, was anyone but he even looking? The mere thought does unpleasant things to the digestive track.
The upscale nouvelle cuisine folks have made it easier for us seniors, what with the lighter, more delicate, dare I say teeny tiny fare. Remember the days when we’d bring home half because we couldn’t eat it all? Not so in these fine establishments. I could eat two dinners in these places and still need a snack shortly after. I have a theory that restaurants charge in reverse proportion the size of the servings. The more it costs, the less you get. Meat suppliers need not slaughter whole animals – strategic surgery here and there would supply some of these places for weeks. In a fashionable new bistro in DC a few years ago, the menu offered a scallop appetizer that looked appealing. My daughter and I decided to share it so we wouldn’t spoil our appetites for dinner. We need not have worried. Our server proudly delivered one, yes, ONE lonely broiled scallop about the size of a quarter handsomely arrayed with sprinkles of tiny bonsai greenery and something brownish drizzled back and forth across the plate. I should have scheduled time with my personal trainer to work that off.
I'm Thinking...No! 