A classmate wrote — not the one who tied me to a tree — and asked if I remembered him. I knew him the moment I saw his distinctive name in the e-mail address. As RR recalled, I was his first girlfriend. He was not, I must report, my first boyfriend; that was Rusty, back in nursery school. I arrived at school one day and saw a younger man with a blond crewcut putting the pots and pans in the refrigerator. “You must be a bachelor,” I said. “You need a woman.” Ah, why did it get so much harder to find men after I turned five?
But, yes, RR, I remember you and am flattered that you thought of me as your girlfriend, although tickled that you say you liked girls in glasses, as I didn’t get those until fifth grade. And I almost died laughing to find out that our principal had a nickname, Mrs. Fattyburger. I guess I was too much of a goodie-goodie to know that.
But what I am most struck by is your memory of the peppermint candies my family always had at hand. I hadn’t thought of those for years, but then — they were always there, so I didn’t value them much. Brach’s peppermint discs in individual plastic wrappers. The neighbor kids, Mary Pat and Jackie Monaghan, begged for them, but I seldom ate one. Like all kids, I yearned for the things that were scarce in my family’s larder. Brach’s toffees, for example, in chocolate and vanilla and maple. Or the Hershey bars that were reserved for my father, although you could finish one off if he left a few foil-wrapped squares behind in the sofa cushions. I liked walnuts, which we had only at Christmas, and peanut M&M’s, which I was allowed to buy at the Giant on our weekly Friday afternoon shopping trips. I liked chocolate drop cookies, purchased after trips to the dentist. I liked — but the point is made. I liked everything but those peppermints.
Why did other people always seem to have better food? Nora Ephron writes of the amazing goodies in a friend’s house in her essay on breasts; Melissa Bank does the same thing in THE WONDER SPOT. In Dickeyville, the best pantry of all time belonged to the Cohens, where my sister and I babysat. It was, in fact, memories of the Cohens’ culinary wonders and the self-imposed rules my sister and I instituted that led to a story called The Babysitter’s Code, which then led to To the Power of Three.
Who had the best kitchen in your neighborhood? Or was it a relative, many miles away? What treats seemed extraordinary in the homes of others?
All I can think of are the tortillas at Leon Altamirano’s house. They were store-bought, but his family made them directly on the burner, moving them back and forth so they wouldn’t stick.
I don’t remember whether the bacon tongs were their idea or my improvement, but if my kitchen has that nice odor of scorched tortilla and the tongs are in the sink, you know I’ve been thinking about Leon.
I remember when I was about 8 – I had my friend Stephanie over to spend the night. I decided to make her a bagel and cream cheese, a common staple in my home. She had NEVER laid eyes on a bagel, much less cream cheese, much less together. She was enamored. She couldn’t get over this new taste sensation. I remember thinking “it’s just bagels and cream cheese”. But it really is funny how someone else’s house can hold such appeal in the manner of food.
All I can think of are the tortillas at Leon Altamirano’s house. They were store-bought, but his family made them directly on the burner, moving them back and… wait.
That’s not my memory.
Whenever we’d visit my dad’s Aunt in St. Louis, the first words out of her mouth would be “want something to eat?” As a first generation Italian, she always had something really wonderful brewing on the stove. Her house had the smell of Italian seasoning baked into it.
Spending time on the farm when I was a kid, wilting from the sweltering humidity in the sweaty middle of nowhere, too lethargic to even crack wise, and then the watermelon. Just about the time we had become small kid-puddles, my grandmother would come out to the picnic table under the shade tree, and slice it open for us.
I can still remember so clearly the sticky juice on my hands and dribbling down my chin. Spitting seeds at my cousins. Throwing the rinds to the hogs. And then being re-energized enough to dive back into the dark piney woods of southeast Texas for another (imaginary) boyhood adventure.
Tunafish sandwiches with the crusts cut off at my grandmother’s house. And her silver dollar pancakes that we stacked more than 6 inches high. I will never be able to reproduce her blueberry muffins, although I’ve gotten the banana bread down pretty well.
And when I was 7 and my sister 5 we spent the summer with my grandmother and her sisters on Oland, an island off the coast of Sweden, in the house my grandmother was born in. In the field next door we found miniature strawberries that we strung on long grasses. They were sweet and tart at the same time. I’ve never had strawberries like that since.
When my family lived in Germany and I was in about the 5th grade, I went home with a friend for lunch one day and had fried balogny sandwiches. I loved them and went home with her for lunch as often as I could. Later I learned they are a “speciality” of some parts of the southern United States. I haven’t purchased balogny in years, but now that I remember those sandwiches…………………..
My friend Steve’s family was LOADED. They had a ton of cool things and always took us out for lunch after church on Sunday. There are two food things I remember about this family. The first was when we’d go to Burger King and I was allowed to get whatever I wanted. I always got the chicken sandwich combo meal or a Whopper because when I went with my parents they’d only get me a hamburger and make me share fries with my sister.
But the coolest thing Steve’s family had at home was a sandwhich maker. This was just as they were coming out and I was in awe of the amazing power and potential of that little machine. And being the curious boys that we were, ran every combination of bread and filling through that machine.
Now I own one and its in the trunk of my car because I never use it…
This brought to mind for me the nights that I would stay at my grandmother’s house and have the best breakfasts in the world the next morning. I don’t know if it was a special technique or the pan she used or what, but my mom’s mom made the best scrambled eggs and she always got the bacon just right. I don’t eat bacon anymore and rarely eat eggs, but I’d make an exception if my Grammy was still alive and cooking.
No one in my neighborhood ate well except the Chinese families, and I turned up my nose at most of what they ate, not yet understanding that garlic wasn’t a dried powder in a Lawry’s bottle. It’s the Brach’s candies that really evoke childhood for me. My mom would buy an assortment occasionally, though she always seemed defensive about it, as if she had sinned by spending money on something she enjoyed. I thought they must be terribly expensive when I was little. There were caramels, those white nougats with the jelly blobs like stained glass, hard butterscotch candies in brilliant orangy yellow wrappers, gummy orange slices, those weird coconut pink, white, and brown ones only my mom and I would eat, and the toffees, which also came in orange, something pink, and coffee, in addition to the flavors Laura mentioned. I loved them most of all, and once eaten, had to peel the foil bit off of the plastic wrapper. Wweet, sticky candy and shiny foil was like Christmas any time. We also had a big bowl of nuts for Christmas, as one did. Nuts were a fancy treat, not a food. Now I have a bowl of shelled nuts next to me at work for munching (just had a few), but they still seem special. I can remember the first time I had cashews. Maybe because they only came shelled we never had them at home. My best friend’s mom bought some one day, no doubt because of something in Sunset magazine. Mrs. Schneider wanted to live like those people did, sipping juices by the pool, making festive party platters with avocados and kiwis, and growing her own raspberries, but she never pulled it off. She had the neighborhood’s first Amana Radarange and the orange Le Creuset pans and every other new kitchen gadget, but never seemed to actually cook much, and their backyard was just weeds and dog turds, until Lady, the bad-tempered beagle, escaped and disappeared. I was by there a few years ago and the house was in pitiful condition and they still had the same yellow 1974 Dodge van in the driveway, so she never lived the Sunset dream life we all aspired to in California. She was a nice woman and I’m sorry I made her cry once over a cold chisel. I hope she’s been happy with how things came out.
The Granatis were an Italian family living at the end of the cul-de-sac for only a brief period. They always had ice cream in the refigerator *that the kids could eat whenever they wanted!* Same thing for the Oreo cookies. We were in awe . . .
We lived in Walnut Creek, and when I was a kid we still had remnants of walnut orchards near the house. It was sure nice to always be able to find a snack when you wanted one, and I love walnuts to this day.