Memories By The Bite

It was lunchtime, and I was far from home studying a new language, seeing new land, and eating new foods. It was 1980, and I was in Puente Alto, Chile training as a Peace Corps volunteer. Daily lunches for the new recruits took place at a long communal table covered with a flowered cloth and decorated with bowls of colorful fresh salsa. The first time I took a bite of that salsa, my palate came alive. There was a flavor that I did not recognize, and I couldn’t get enough of it. 

That flavor turned out to be cilantro, unknown in these parts at that time. To this day, when I taste cilantro, I am transported to that table, recalling the people and the place. One bite can take me back; this is the power of food memory. 

Memory is the ability of the mind to store experiences as narrative. They are the stories of our lives, rich in sensory detail. There are some survival-type biological uses for memory, but I am enchanted by the pure pleasure of evoking the past through the sites, smells, sounds, and flavors that weave through it. 

I have overnight guests coming soon, and I want to make their visit memorable. Waking up to share the break of a new day is something I love about having guests in our home, so I plan to gather around our table and linger long over a simple breakfast of thick slices of just baked sourdough bread spread on a beautiful wooden board accompanied by little dishes of jewel-toned jams and a pot of rich brewed coffee. 

It isn’t, of course, the food alone that will make the memory precious; those are details that engage our senses. I doubt cilantro would hold such a powerful place in my memory if I had had that first taste from a random grocery store purchase. Context is important; it’s part of the story. When we invite friends to our table, we are setting the stage for an event that will become a stored narrative, one that will be recalled with a wave of pleasure. 

I needed some serving pieces to present this meal, so I headed to Red Barn Mercantile. I was struck by the beauty of so many items and how those pieces can make a meal unforgettable. I found a rustic crock for butter, a wooden board for the bread, and precious little dishes for jams. As I wandered through this carefully curated shop, I felt as if I was in a warm home and almost expected to be invited to the table for something delicious that I would not soon forget. I started to recall other favorite food memories and hope these words inspire you to do the same. 

The first ripe spring melon always takes me back to visits to my favorite great aunt and uncle. Mornings were long with storytelling, sharing, and wedges of salt-laced cantaloupe dripping sweet juice over my hands. 

Travel memories are some of my favorites. I will never forget the first time I sunk my teeth into a delicate konom krok in Bangkok; the custard sliding over my tongue balanced with the surprising addition of scallion and the crunch of corn. When I eat them today, I enter a kind of time machine and am flooded with other memories of the bustling market, the golden temples, and the ubiquitous honking of cars. 

When I taste truffle, I close my eyes and return to the little restaurant in Sienna, Italy. I smell the old wood walls, hear the background music, and recall the flavor of the fresh fungi shaved over simply prepared pasta. I remember swirling a bit of that silken pasta on a fork for my husband of just a few years sitting across from me. Sharing that bite in that place made it memorable. 

I hope that one day when my overnight guests taste another’s freshly made sourdough bread sweetened with fresh jam, they will smile remembering our breakfast where the table was beautiful, the setting was comfortable, and the main ingredient was laughter.