An Art of the Senses
They all had a collection of aprons and beat- up, old pots and pans, but there was no question, this was where everyone wanted to be, where the action was! How many family members can you squeeze into your apartment kitchen – the more, the better. The Guarinos’ and the Mauros’ craved the coming of every Sunday dinner, when aggressively awakened by searing garlic and meat, seasoned with the intruding fragrance of fresh basil, and yet the coffee had not finished perking yet. We assumed everyone’s kitchens were just like ours, where creativity partnered with nutrition and tradition. Being raised on a comfort called “food” inspired love of family and pride in heritage. Not until many years later would the subject come up of what negative effects it could have, but then maybe we just weren’t listening. We were too busy cooking and eating!
“Are we going to Aunt Josie’s today for dinner?” If you think Sunday dinners were special, the holidays brought life to a halt with the hours of cooking and preparation which went into days and sometimes weeks. We prayed for invitations to one of our eleven aunts’ houses or just looked forward to family coming over to share food and a good time. Our apartment was so small that sometimes we had to pick up the beds so everyone would have room to sit. The kids made a vertical pattern up and down the staircase which was a fun challenge, but through everything, it was all about the food and being together. I looked around and knew, even at that young age, that was what I wanted my house to be like some day, and it would.
Cooking was often looked upon as an item on the list of chores of a housewife in the 1950’s and 60’s. It wasn’t until later in life and society that it had been finally looked on as what it truly is – an art. There were a few pioneers in the television cooking industry, like Julia Child, the French Chef and the Galloping Gourmet. Today there are multiple networks featuring the art of cooking, for it is, in my humble opinion, an art of all the senses. After all, you can look at a painting, listen to music, touch a sculpture and smell fresh gardening, but you can do all those things, as well as taste, when your cooking becomes an art form.
In sophomore year of high school, Mom had to go back to work to help pay tuition for my brother and I. Aunt Mary, Mom’s oldest sister who lived on the first floor of our house had passed away, so the responsibility of taking care of Uncle Ignazio fell on us. “You are going to have to make sure dinner is on the table no later than five o’clock every day”, Mom mentioned, as she prepared for her new retail position. She wasn’t qualified for much else and would be working a few nights a week. I will leave you a note and let you know where everything is for each night’s dinner. While I had learned a lot by observing, I really had no actual training by Mom, but just been around it my whole life, so I’d give it a go.
The key was at first was to keep things simple – meat, potato and vegetable, sometimes a salad. The fans of my cooking were of great variety – Dad who could never be objective about anything I did, Uncle Ignazio, who would pretty much devour anything you put in front of him, my younger brother, who somehow developed the theory that he eats to live and not lives to eat (did we really grow up in the same house?!), and an occasional army of ants who would march in rhythm up the plastic tablecloth to the electric frying pan perched on the kitchen table, frying up some pork chops and sauerkraut, their personal favorite.
After a few days, I began to really enjoy this experience, as it proved to entice all of my sensory limits. Expansion on this new skill was the answer, which started with an educational visit to the grocery store and some farm stands. A lot of what Mom had gotten me to make came out of boxes, frozen and unfrozen, and a few cans. Watching a cooking show or two on public broadcasting television presented what REAL cooking looked like, so I followed the people in the food store who were buying real food and fresh dairy, vegetables and protein. Walking back into the house, I felt as though I had struck gold. The ambiance in our small kitchen turned to delights of the palette. There was nothing better than this new experimentation that touched the enjoyable sensory soft spots of my entire family. Mom laughed cynically when I told her what I had been doing, and more so when she came home from work. “You don’t need to worry about cooking anymore, Rosie. Our girl here, has a real knack for it.” Mom took this okay and joined in the merriment. From this day on, the household had a new head chef. I experimented, created and modified most of the recipes I had grown up on, but made sure not to try and fix anything that was not broken. Change, just for the sake of change, can have horrible results.
I noticed that I sang when I cooked. When I felt sad, I cooked. When I felt nervous, I cooked. I cooked when I was happy, anxious, depressed, and it always helped me to relax. I had found something that was better than a therapist, and the fact that I was so successful with it made me very excited. Cooking makes you feel alive because it does spark all your senses. The crack of separating fresh vegetables, the scent of spices and grilling, the rainbow colors of fresh ingredients, the feel of a successful quiche or soufflé, and finally the taste of a project well done. A level beyond what my Mom and aunts had done had come upon me, and I waited like a child on Christmas Eve night to be able to present my family with a holiday spread.
My home had been the place people hoped to be invited to and what I had dreamed about as a child. My thin and healthy younger brother, who does not believe in overeating, usually has to loosen his pants before dessert hits the table. Friends call and tell me that they are fasting before the big day, and check what is on the menu. The food that we serve in our house is a definitive welcome to those we care about. My husband, of course, is the one upon which they created the saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach”, and provides me with a great, willing and able assistant to clean up after me. He is also the caretaker of our grandiose garden and supplies boatloads of fresh veggies from May through October. This can be overwhelming and proved to burn out our stove this past season. Excess bagfuls go out to the neighbors. Supposedly, real cooks make large messes, and I seem to fit that profile.
Since cooking has become a hobby and an enjoyable past time, other opportunities to learn to cook and eat healthier have led down other paths. I chair the Alliance for a healthier generation in my school and annoy my students with how eating healthier will increase their performance in school. They do not believe me. I think sometimes that when I retire from teaching, I would like to open a restaurant, but I will probably be too tired. A neighborhood, short order luncheonette would be really cool, and I could entice my customers with a special of the day.
So one day when you are bored and have nothing in particular to do, go to the store, go home and envelop your house with something multi-sensory to warm your palette. You will guarantee yourself a creative experience.
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