My grandfather's garden, my grandmother's table
I love everything about food. From seed to harvest, from cutting board to the plate. The scent of herbs and spices, colors on the plate, textures on the tongue, the melding of flavors. I even love washing the dishes.
This love of food was nurtured by my grandparents who had a small farm. I remember where each fruit tree was in the orchard - apples, peaches, apricots, damson plums, Bartlett and Bosc pears, sour cherries. There were grapes, currants, gooseberries, blueberries and walnuts. The winesap apples were my favorite.
In the garden were onions, cabbages, tomatoes and sweet peppers, carrots, green beans and wax beans, sweet corn, varieties of lettuce and endive, sweet potatoes, snap peas, radishes, strawberries, cucumbers for pickles, and winter squashes. There was a kitchen garden with scallions, cherry tomatoes, parsley and dill.
My grandfather made it an adventure to show me how the plants changed from day-to-day, from season-to-season. There were flowers everywhere. Bleeding hearts in the spring, roses, lilies, gladiolus, snapdragons and flowering portulaca. All these years later the wisteria and mimosa continue to bloom, and the roses still scent the air around the porch of what is now my cousin's home.
My grandmother made delicious, simply prepared food often featuring Szeged paprika and sour cream that are prevalent in Hungarian cooking. She preserved the bounty of the garden and orchard, and she could always find a "job" for too-small hands that wanted to help. From her I learned the meditation of tipping green beans and shelling peas, the invitation to quiet conversation on the porch while we peeled apples on a late summer evening, the excitement at the burst of flavor from the plum dumplings in winter. She taught my fingers how to stretch the strudel dough that we would fill with sour cherries from our trees. With my grandfather I developed muscles and patience to crack and shell the walnuts that would go into my grandmother's pastries.
My grandparents shared with me their reverence for the land and the seasons. They loved growing and harvesting, and even more, they loved having everyone around the kitchen table sharing a meal. From them I learned that it is our connection to each other through the food we share that truly nourishes us.
Whether it's a Thanksgiving feast or a simple bowl of soup, every time we eat we are in communion with the soil that nourished the seed, with the farmer who coaxed the seedling along, with the sun and the rain that helped it to grow, with the migrant worker who labored at the harvest, with the volunteer at the soup kitchen who prepared the meal . . . with the grandfather who carried the bucket of corn for his grandchildren to spill for the chickens . . . with the grandmother who taught her grandchildren how to make a pie . . .
It is my privilege to share your food journey with you.
This love of food was nurtured by my grandparents who had a small farm. I remember where each fruit tree was in the orchard - apples, peaches, apricots, damson plums, Bartlett and Bosc pears, sour cherries. There were grapes, currants, gooseberries, blueberries and walnuts. The winesap apples were my favorite.
In the garden were onions, cabbages, tomatoes and sweet peppers, carrots, green beans and wax beans, sweet corn, varieties of lettuce and endive, sweet potatoes, snap peas, radishes, strawberries, cucumbers for pickles, and winter squashes. There was a kitchen garden with scallions, cherry tomatoes, parsley and dill.
My grandfather made it an adventure to show me how the plants changed from day-to-day, from season-to-season. There were flowers everywhere. Bleeding hearts in the spring, roses, lilies, gladiolus, snapdragons and flowering portulaca. All these years later the wisteria and mimosa continue to bloom, and the roses still scent the air around the porch of what is now my cousin's home.
My grandmother made delicious, simply prepared food often featuring Szeged paprika and sour cream that are prevalent in Hungarian cooking. She preserved the bounty of the garden and orchard, and she could always find a "job" for too-small hands that wanted to help. From her I learned the meditation of tipping green beans and shelling peas, the invitation to quiet conversation on the porch while we peeled apples on a late summer evening, the excitement at the burst of flavor from the plum dumplings in winter. She taught my fingers how to stretch the strudel dough that we would fill with sour cherries from our trees. With my grandfather I developed muscles and patience to crack and shell the walnuts that would go into my grandmother's pastries.
My grandparents shared with me their reverence for the land and the seasons. They loved growing and harvesting, and even more, they loved having everyone around the kitchen table sharing a meal. From them I learned that it is our connection to each other through the food we share that truly nourishes us.
Whether it's a Thanksgiving feast or a simple bowl of soup, every time we eat we are in communion with the soil that nourished the seed, with the farmer who coaxed the seedling along, with the sun and the rain that helped it to grow, with the migrant worker who labored at the harvest, with the volunteer at the soup kitchen who prepared the meal . . . with the grandfather who carried the bucket of corn for his grandchildren to spill for the chickens . . . with the grandmother who taught her grandchildren how to make a pie . . .
It is my privilege to share your food journey with you.