Season to taste

My grandfather appears to me in ice cream sundaes. Growing up, I occasionally accompanied him while he ran errands. As a reward for patience and staid hands among drawers of gleaming nuts and bolts at the local hardware store, he would take me to the nearby Friendly’s. I can’t remember if he got anything – if I had to guess, it involved peanut butter (Reese’s Pieces, or “Ree-sees Pee-sees”) – but for me, it was the same every time: Monster Mash. Mint-chip ice cream, dyed a lurid green, and hairy with whipped cream. Its maraschino cherry nose went first, then its peanut butter cup ears. And when he didn’t have anything to do or buy, I’d still get ice cream – a bland New England company’s Neapolitan or chocolate chip, it too under whipped cream and always, always, rainbow sprinkles. The final course for me, my cousins, and brothers. We sat cross-legged on a waxed picnic sheet in the living room, and were served with coffee mugs and thin silver spoons.

There are some foods and meals I’ll never forget: those sundaes, the deep bowl of mussels and salty tomato-garlic broth for my first dinner in Ireland, the eggy yellow cake with chocolate frosting and dense crumb I ask for every birthday. I navigate my surroundings using scent and taste, readily allowing food to sustain my identity, to feed my memory. (Seriously, ask any English professor of mine in the last four semesters.) So, as you may guess, I hungrily (har-har) anticipated the next memoir on my list, The Gastronomical Me by M. F. K. Fisher. The cherished American food writer, and good friend of Julia Child tells of her life in early childhood through her mid-thirties, when she settled in Europe during both World Wars. I gravitated towards this book for our like-minded gluttony. Fisher and I learn through our senses and unabashedly participate in food rituals, honoring ourselves and others. We remember using sound and sight, yes, but also scent and taste.