Nosing Around Memory Lane

Smell is one of the strongest memory triggers.

The browning of a gravy roux mixed with the heating of lard plus the earthy undertones of fresh vegetables equals a quick trip to my dad’s home state of Missouri circa 1980.

When my dad shared stories about growing up in Lexington, he talked about the people, the land, and the food. He talked a lot about food, especially family dinners and church potlucks.

He talked about eating catfish, frog legs, rabbit, squirrel, chicken, and a lot of other things that never graced my childhood table or appeared on any menu at any Southern California restaurant we’d visited. I honestly thought he was kidding about half the stuff he ate.

I remember a family vacation when we packed up our baby blue station wagon with faux wood paneling and headed east to visit Dad’s family. We stopped little and ate in the car along the way. Mom would make ham and cheese sandwiches on thin-sliced white bread. The best part was when she put several Lay’s potato chips into the sandwich. The salty crunch was amazing. (I occasionally add chips to my sandwiches to this day.)

When we arrived in Lexington, I swear my aunt Doris never left the kitchen. I mean, I know she did, but it seemed like she was forever in there chopping, stirring, seasoning, watching, roasting, and tasting all the dishes in the various pots and pans.

Aromas wafted from those pots and pans that I’d never smelled before in my young life. And when I finally got to eat things, they tasted like things I’d never tasted before because I hadn’t.

The first time I ever ate frog legs was at my aunt Doris’, and I decided that if I were to ever eat them again, it would have to be hers.

Part of the trip included going fishing with my dad, cousins, and Uncle Wayne. I’d fished before and caught a nice ten-inch rainbow trout sitting on the edge of a beautiful mountain lake.

This fishing trip we were after catfish from the bottom of a murky river. I wasn’t sure I really wanted to eat anything that lived in the river and looked like an alien. I was wrong.

Uncle Wayne’s fried catfish is on paper one of the simplest recipes on the planet: flour, cornmeal, salt, pepper, garlic salt, lard. I have learned that next to love lard is one of the best things for cooking. (There should be some public service announcement here about cholesterol.)

I don’t even remember how many pieces of fish I ate that day, but they were all good. I’ve tried catfish at different restaurants and it’s not the same. It’s either missing love or lard or both.

My dad ate from morning to night and never seemed to gain an ounce. And, no matter how much he’d eaten, he’d always have room for dessert. “There’s always room for Jell-O,” he’d say. And there pretty much was.

I’ve been lucky enough to travel around the world and try all sorts of different foods. The best are always those that come from a home kitchen. Those smells help to recall not only comfort food but also comforting connections.

Looking to build the idea of comfort and connection into my story, the easiest and most universal way seemed to be through food—specifically the potluck. So, I reached out to my Missouri family to ask for their help.

When I told them I was writing a book inspired by my dad’s childhood in Lexington in the 1950s, they were eager to help. They sent me recipes for chicken and noodles, frozen coleslaw, barbeque chicken, chicken casserole, buffalo chicken and potato casserole, and of course aunt Doris’ Fried Rabbit and Gravy and Uncle Wayne Fried Catfish. And don’t forget the desserts chocolate supreme, apple cobbler, fruit cocktail cake, and more.

As they shared the recipes with me, I could see my aunt Doris’ kitchen, I could smell the food on the stove, and I could feel the love.

Don’t feel left out, I’m including a copy of the Show Me Potluck recipes in my newest book. (You can chose to leave out the lard, but keep the love.)