I Love You, Let's Eat!

Over the years, I've certainly turned eating into an art form, so why not cooking? It's not my fault, I come by it naturally. From as far back as I can remember, food has been a form of creative expression, a solace and a demonstration of love. And it goes back way further than that. I come from a long line of food lovers; a long line of ancient foodies before "foodie" was even a word.

Most of my favourite childhood memories of my father centre around food, cooking it, sharing it, eating it. Despite having a full-time job in the military, he did all the cooking. No matter what we were doing, food was always there. For example, when I was 5, maybe 6, I spent all week waiting for Friday night to come. That was the night Daddy and I "camped out". We got out our sleeping bags, placed them in the living room, watched Grand Prix Wrestling at 11:30pm (quite a late hour for me at the time) and nibbled on treats he'd cook. I shudder now at some of them, baked bean and cheese toasted sandwhiches and fried chicken gizzards, but at the time, they tasted like the best things ever. I was his mini me, and what he ate, I ate. I remember the glee with which I'd watch my mother wrinkle up her nose and say, "I don't know how you can eat that," each and every weekend. She didn't quite get it. Then my father would reply, "you don't know what you're missing!" We'd munch and chat and enjoy watching wrestling, then fall asleep in our sleeping bags.

The next morning, we'd always go shopping. I loved shopping with my father, but what was even better than shopping was what happened once we got home. Saturday afternoons were a time for cooking. That was when the mixing bowls, spatulas, wisks and mixers came out in full force. My father could make anything and baking seemed to be his speciality. I'd stand by, eagerly anticipating a bowl or a beater to lick, and marvel at his handiwork. He never measured anything. Never. He'd toss a bit of this, some of that, a pinch of something else, and some of that "doohickie over there" in and the result would always be pure magic! To this day, I can't seem to replicate his fudge or his chocolate cake with peanut butter icing.

And while he cooked, he'd tell me stories about his grandmother, Ada, who he called Granny Dymond. He had been very close to her, even living with her for a time as a young boy. It was there, at her knee, that he learned to cook. She could make anything, according to him, and like him, never found the need to measure anything; she cooked by "feel", he said. And anytime you arrived at her door, you could count on something both nourshing and delicious, from homemade baked beans and brown bread to a nice slice of apple pie. That doesn't sound fancy, but during the depression and the Second World War, in small town Canada, it was a little slice of heaven. There were countless times passers by, including the local minister, would "happen to be in the neighbourhood" on a Saturday evening for a visit, knowing exactly what was on the stove and knowing they'd be welcome to a plate. That's just how it was then, food was love. It was care for your fellow human. It was a way to share when you had nothing else to share. To this day, I still wonder if the world's problems could be solved with food. Just imagine it, a huge feast, all religions, all races, all creeds, all genders, sitting down, breaking the proverbial bread and having a chat whilst enjoying gastronimic delights. You just can't hate someone and love their food at the same time, you just can't.

Granny Dymond passed away in 1979. I don't have any memory of her, but I'm told she met me as an infant and that she said I had bright eyes and would be very tall. Well, 2 out of 3 ain't bad (I'm not tall). She not only taught my father how to cook, she also passed her passion for food down to her daughter, my grandmother, a fine cook in her own right and someone I never did get to meet. Thea died in July of 1971, just as I was making my world debut.

And then there was me. I've always been a creative sort. I've also always been very sensitive, but struggled to share my emotions with those around me, mostly due to undiagnosed Autism. Food became a safe place for me to create and to show the love I have for others. Rest assured, an invite to my table is my way of saying I love you.

The kitchen, for me, isn't only a place to complete the necessary chore of nourishing myself and those around me, it's a place where I can be myself, where I can dare to be different, to try new things, and where I can feel close to my father and my ancestors that have gone before me. It's a place where I can connect, simultaneously to those around me, my family and my roots. It was a place, that as a struggling single mother of 3 boys, I could give them something a little more than the typical. It's where I could sheid them from the harsh face of poverty. And when I joined the rank and file as a lawyer in a corporate firm, it was the place I could break out of the box and express myself. It was a place I could give my terminal father a bit of joy as he faced his fate. It was a way I could belong to something greater than myself.

Food always challenges me. There's always something to learn, something new to try. If I go to a restaurant and have something I like, I'll go home and find a way to replicate it. If I see something on T.V. that looks good, I'll give it a try, often with my own unique twist. And just like my father, his mother and his grandmother before him, there's no point asking for a recipe because I don't measure. There's an instinct there, somthing bred firmly into my DNA that just "knows" and loves food.

And the creative journey continues, now more out of necessity than anything. Don't get me wrong, I still love to cook and to craft both delicious and beautiful masterpieces in the kitchen, but this ancestral labour of love has now taken on new meaning with a new challenge. About a month ago, a seemingly out of the blue, potentially fatal dairy allergy threatened to take the love of my life away from me as he gasped helplessly for breath after supper. I have never felt so terrified or so helpless in my life. Luckily, the ambulance came and he made it to the ER in time and came home armed with a diagnosis.

The fear continues inside me to this day and I've resolved to prepare everything he conusmes right here in my kitchen. Dairy - free cooking has been a challenge and a huge adjustment, but we're adjusting, and I have the opportunity to whip up some new concoctions. He's a huge sweet lover, so I made him a version of chocolate chip cookies he could eat. They were a hit!

And the story doesn't end there. I somehow managed to pass down my love of food and the art, or craft, of creating it, to my children, all fine cooks in their own right, with a flair for the creative. Their friends seek them out for nourishment and solace just as those that came before them sought me, and on and on. They're the 5th generation of foodies, creating inner peace, expressing themselves and showing love through food, I think Granny Dymond would be proud.