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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 11:30 pm (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 sandwiches 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…
