Some dishes are held sacred. Family honed. Each member has their own distinct memory. A vague whiff bringing them back. It is a dish few, maybe only one has been taught well enough to cook. A recipe passed through an unknowable amount of generations. Each daughter and son enhance what was already seen as perfection. Passed down not by hand but through the nights in the kitchen with your hair parted back and a hand on your shoulder. Because it would be taboo for any relative to write it down. An impossibility for anyone because there is no true recipe. It is all known and learned by touch.
Grandmothers performing at their height. Matching the muscle memory of a professional athlete. These dinners are her moment under the lights. The whole room watching, questioning, and in awe. What’s the next step and how much longer? These sacred dishes encapsulate every person no matter how large or small the gathering is. Carrying with it the essence of who we are.
Whether it only be one or two. The countertop will be visited. As she is moving without knowing. There's minutes as if her eyes were closed cooking and looking away talking. Concerned about me, him, or her. About so and so moving back, about the room having enough chairs, asking us while cooking “Are you hungry now? Do you need a snack?” We all tell her a half hazard answer. Phrasing it just right in hopes she doesnt follow up with gossip about our own lives or questions no one knows the answer to. I’m watching her grab spices and throw seasonings. No measuring cup, no measuring at all for that matter. Every take she made was precise; there was never an adjustment. But somehow it all comes together. Like we do.
Grandmothers performing at their height. Matching the muscle memory of a professional athlete. These dinners are her moment under the lights. The whole room watching, questioning, and in awe. What’s the next step and how much longer? These sacred dishes encapsulate every person no matter how large or small the gathering is. Carrying with it the essence of who we are.
Whether it only be one or two. The countertop will be visited. As she is moving without knowing. There's minutes as if her eyes were closed cooking and looking away talking. Concerned about me, him, or her. About so and so moving back, about the room having enough chairs, asking us while cooking “Are you hungry now? Do you need a snack?” We all tell her a half hazard answer. Phrasing it just right in hopes she doesnt follow up with gossip about our own lives or questions no one knows the answer to. I’m watching her grab spices and throw seasonings. No measuring cup, no measuring at all for that matter. Every take she made was precise; there was never an adjustment. But somehow it all comes together. Like we do.
"These sacred dishes encapsulate every person no matter how large or small the gathering is."
Leaning in, trying to remember at least one step but the arduous process is so long and she is moving too quickly. One day soon I will learn the craft… or try too. Partly out of fear no one else will. The fear that smell, taste, memories, and our family language could be lost. How could I let my family dish; my time machine die away.
“Kitchen's closed”, her signature before shutting the oven door and washing her hands of whatever happens next in the convex heat. Although, we knew if anyone needed a thing, she would roll her sleeves up and tie that Bob’s Giant Burgers apron back on. As the whole room waits, every person at a certain point closes their eyes, and ever so slightly tilts their nose up to the ceiling. It is something no family member can fight--as if it's hereditary. No one fights this call all of us have without realizing we yearn for. Every family. Every member has at least one polished memory of that meal, that taste, the smell, and most likely that one night.
It is love and your family aroma at its deepest. A venture into comprehending why it tastes so damn good. How it has the ability to transport us back to. For most a time in their lives forever gone. Returning in the momentous meal but only in that meal do we live in the yearning we have inside us. It is a taste of a place in the past. A place somehow reconstructed in the flavor of that meal. Whatever that one dish may be. If you are lucky enough there may be several special dishes holding those feelings different with every fork and spoon full.
But at this dinner, one dish will teleport us to that place we all hold sacred. The same unique place reminding us of simpler, younger times or for some the comfort needed when they were at their lowest point. Then the short ting, a signal recognizable to all of us; unignorable. The sound we have been waiting for impatiently as we turned our heads quickly halting any and all conversations of catching up or commentary on every highlight from the game broadcasted on the screen only few pay attention too. The perfection about to be unveiled was of the highest importance.
The Le Creuset being pulled from the smoldering oven. Wafting a silk aroma gently rounding the room. Not from one person to the next, but instantaneously. Just then the whole room digresses into again, closing their eyes and slightly lifting their nose to the ceiling. We breathe in together the aroma of the past.
When I become a Father I will create my own scent for my children to graze in memories within times I know will be especially sweet. Knowing I can withhold the scent and bring it out, I can predict moments that bring my children together with the scent of memories.
“Kitchen's closed”, her signature before shutting the oven door and washing her hands of whatever happens next in the convex heat. Although, we knew if anyone needed a thing, she would roll her sleeves up and tie that Bob’s Giant Burgers apron back on. As the whole room waits, every person at a certain point closes their eyes, and ever so slightly tilts their nose up to the ceiling. It is something no family member can fight--as if it's hereditary. No one fights this call all of us have without realizing we yearn for. Every family. Every member has at least one polished memory of that meal, that taste, the smell, and most likely that one night.
It is love and your family aroma at its deepest. A venture into comprehending why it tastes so damn good. How it has the ability to transport us back to. For most a time in their lives forever gone. Returning in the momentous meal but only in that meal do we live in the yearning we have inside us. It is a taste of a place in the past. A place somehow reconstructed in the flavor of that meal. Whatever that one dish may be. If you are lucky enough there may be several special dishes holding those feelings different with every fork and spoon full.
But at this dinner, one dish will teleport us to that place we all hold sacred. The same unique place reminding us of simpler, younger times or for some the comfort needed when they were at their lowest point. Then the short ting, a signal recognizable to all of us; unignorable. The sound we have been waiting for impatiently as we turned our heads quickly halting any and all conversations of catching up or commentary on every highlight from the game broadcasted on the screen only few pay attention too. The perfection about to be unveiled was of the highest importance.
The Le Creuset being pulled from the smoldering oven. Wafting a silk aroma gently rounding the room. Not from one person to the next, but instantaneously. Just then the whole room digresses into again, closing their eyes and slightly lifting their nose to the ceiling. We breathe in together the aroma of the past.
When I become a Father I will create my own scent for my children to graze in memories within times I know will be especially sweet. Knowing I can withhold the scent and bring it out, I can predict moments that bring my children together with the scent of memories.
"We breathe in together the aroma of the past."
Andy Warhol was an artist in every way. It’s told he would deliberately create a scent then immediately discontinue his production. The intention to capture people's senses in a way never experienced. Then to have it taken away. There's a power coming with the control. The brilliance of an artist. Unmasking, dissipating the smoke in mirrors turning the truth towards the light. They come to the understanding of the power without taking advantage of the power and influence of it. This will be the power of my scent, my sacred dish.
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About the Author
Zane Lowe, located in the Bay Area, is a part of the Creative Writing program at San Francisco State University. He is studying to be a writer. |