Thinking about my growing up Hungarian, I have specific food memories, which I know every single culture on the planet has…the comfort food of childhood. Noodles, dumplings, and pasta, it keeps us alive, but when it’s made just right, it’s the most sublime, perfect mouthfeel and chew, delicious meal on the planet. The wheat protein, with or without egg, makes a nutritious dish. Coated with a sauce or simple combination of ingredients makes it magical, it’s what memories are made of.
Little Andie. Konini street. A rat ate the bread!
The bakery wasn’t all that far away, just all the way down the hill and only a quarter of the way through town. I was quite mature now, (almost 6) so I was sent to fetch our loaf of bread. With this loaf, my mother made my father’s daily work sandwiches, and when it got…
Wheat, poppies, body, and soul.
I am slowing down so I can appreciate the food before me. The food that grows for me outside, and the food brought to me by the labors of many other souls. To feel the enormity of what actually is behind every ingredient I’m working with. The salt flats, the transport, the farmer and fisherman. The people in the factories. The support network for those people. All the centuries of people who learned and taught how to use herbs and spices.