Food is nourishment. Food is love. Food is war. Food is indispensable. Food is harmful. Food is power. Food is hunger. Food is human. Food is animal. Food is global. Food is scarce. Food is abundant. Food is food.
My daily routine (most days):
Wake up at 4:45 an and feed the dog.
Fill 2 bowl with fruit.
Go to the gym.
Return for breakfast: eat prepared fruit plus oatmeal or amaranth or quinoa and beans or sweet potato or bread and avocado or leftovers from dinner. Coffee and hot tea, lots of water.
Husband off to work.
Household chores then shower, reading and writing for a couple of hours.
Plan for lunch, alone or with friends and a walk, couple of hours.
Afternoon nap, 30 min max.
Catch up on calls and mail.
Eat dinner, conversation, TV, sleep.
My life revolves around food. Writing about, preparing, feeding, eating, talking, fearing, reading, watching, denying, enjoying, accepting, loving, living.
Which came first, an obsession that lead to a preoccupation or a preoccupation that led to an obsession? It probably doesn’t matter since both outcomes are the same. My life revolves around food.
Since my earliest memories in childhood involve food, I have to make the familial connection to two people in my life who introduced me early on to this earth’s bounty: my father George and my grandma Dora, both no longer with us. My cultural identity can be traced through the food that they were instrumental in introducing me to.
I came into my father’s life both as an instrument of hope and renewal. Born not long after his shattered life was beginning to rebuild, after tremendous losses and inexplicable horrors, after experiences no human should endure, after the Holocaust that altered his mind and his body. One of a handful who survived, my father returned from concentration camp to his home town, a walking cadaver. His stomach was destroyed by starvation and he tolerated only light mostly boiled foods in small quantities. I didn’t realize till later that he was living out his desires for delicacies he could never digest through me. He delighted in the newest market selections as he closely watched my reaction and encouraged experimentation. I was thus exposed early on to goose liver slowly roasted then spread on fresh bread like butter, or goose cracklings made with just a hint of Hungarian Paprika and a pinch of salt. There were platters of Duck and Chicken roasts and bowls of red cabbage and fried potatoes, some available in season or preserved for long winters. And lots of cakes, breads and pastries…ours was after all part of the Austro-Hungarian way of cooking. In the fall, I enjoyed freshly pureed chestnuts swirled with sugar and cocoa, or hazelnut cookies spread with fresh raspberry jam, or walnut and raisin bread for breakfast washed down with hot cocoa. Occasionally, I accompanied my father to the local coffee shop where I ordered either a slice of the famous Hungarian Dobos Torte or a Napoleon with hot chocolate and freshly whipped cream of course.
At Grandma Dora’s where I spent summers as a child, the mood was different and food preparation involved a lot of work. I remember helping the cook pick fresh carrots or potatoes from the large garden along with parsley and tomatoes or other ripe selections. She also coralled the fattest chicken in the yard and reached under the hens for a supply of eggs. Water had to be hauled from a well and milk was delivered at the crack of dawn as flour was kneaded into loaves and placed above the stove to proof. Large pots simmered on the stove and I would hide out in the walnut tree from where I observed my brother and cousins performing their little battles of Cowboys and Indians always ending in someone running to Grandma tears.