Food and memories

Before switching on the TV, my son makes sure he is holding the remote control for the DVD player.  He sits down, puts his favorite pillows on his lap, and waits impatiently for the player to load the disc.  He then presses either the past forward or the rewind button to go to the part of the film he wants to watch.  For about half an hour or so, he will watch the same series of scenes repeatedly.  This is how he usually spends the break from our homeschooling sessions.


It was during one of these breaks that I had to endure watching, over and over again, that scene in the animated film Ratatouille where the food critic, Ego, is served Remy's version of the classic French vegetable dish, tastes it, and recalls how his mother comforted him with a bowl of ratatouille when he was a child.  I first saw the film several years ago but I didn't have much interest in food at that time, so the scene, while poignant, was not something I could relate to.


Now that I am cooking for my son almost daily, I have learned about the power of food to open floodgates of memories.  When I was growing up, while my older sister was in school and my little sister was in her crib, I would often stay with Nanay in the kitchen as she prepared food.  That was the only way I could deal with boredom from not having any playmate and from being barred from watching TV.  Nanay was my father's unmarried sister who took care of me and my sisters while our parents were working.  Nanay was also my real first teacher, and it was from her that I learned to read, write, and count.  Her tales, the pleasant mix of aroma from the ingredients that she was keeping in the pantry, and the honor of being the first member of the household to taste the dish she was preparing, kept me coming back to her kitchen.  Tasting the food I prepare often evoke memories of the time I spent in Nanay's kitchen and I feel the urge to compare the dish I prepare with what she served me decades ago.  I am also reminded of myself as a child whenever my son goes in the kitchen to check on what I am doing -- grabbing my arms to force me to show him what's inside the bowl, holding my hands as I whisk eggs, placing his hands a few inches on top of the cake left on the counter to cool, trying to stick a finger in the batter, sitting on my lap as I cut brownies to make sure he gets his slice.


Perhaps food has the ability to make us remember because it has, in the very first place, the capacity to create memories.  Perhaps what drives me to cook, aside from making sure that my son is getting the right nutrition and gets used to eating different types of food, is the hope that through the food that I create I am also building delightful memories for him that, decades later, familiar flavors and aroma can easily evoke.