It is true that food can convey a sense of place, geographically and temporally, if made well with regionally-specific ingredients or with a culturally-revelant recipe. I have come to feel this more and more as we choose to cook with fruits and veggies primarily sourced from Western New York State– our food is literally coming from the land/the space surrounding us. Yet, since moving into 99 Clay Ave., I have often felt an additional association to place, one that cuts deep into my most fond memories of eating and cooking as a kid, for the physical space in which I cook every day is the same space where my Grandmother Celeste poured her heart into every meal, pie, or can of peaches that she generously fed to her family day in and out.
Not only did I grow up eating spaghetti and meatballs, Bisquick pancakes, and cherry pie at the same kitchen table as I dine at now with Ben, but I spent much time perched on the corner counter watching Gram peer into a pot of simmering sauce, or elevated to proper working-height on a stool built by my Grandfather, so that I could peel apples and roll out dough for apple pies that Gram and I loved to create together.
Each time I relive these experiences from my past, like baking a pie or sitting down to eat a can of preserved peaches (my absolute favorite treat from Gram’s pantry), the sight, smell, and tastes bring me back to the days when this kitchen was her kingdom, and these meals her loving creations. In this way, food and where it is prepared and enjoyed offers much more than sustenance, it gives each of us a way of remembering and reflecting on our past, and it provides those of us who have shared a meal together before with a collective memory and sense of place and time.
Eating cuts to the core of who we are, to those experiences we have had over food throughout our lives, and by doing so it nourishes our body and spirit, and ties us to a moment or place.Like the way a song can bring you back to the first place you heard it, or a whiff of X cologne brings to mind your first lover, eating in what is now my own kitchen sometimes transports me via time machine to 1995, when eating a bowl of grandma’s peaches after climbing the old oak tree was the most perfect way to spend a Saturday afternoon. And on a Sunday morning baking with Ben, I find myself remembering those days with a grin and a tear, as we together carry on the tradition of creating collective memories over the food we share.
Note: These amazing photos of our Apple-Pear pie were taken by Rob Walsh, who helped us create yet another fond memory in the kitchen. Last week he came equipped with all his photo gear to document our latest efforts at pie baking. And he took all the photos on the same corner counter where Gram rolled out her pie dough and where I sat, legs dangling, as we waited for a chicken to roast or a pie to be pulled steaming from the oven.
Pachamama Farm 