Yes I am a Bowie fan so shoot me.
Yesterday I was asked what home meant to me. I was being interviewed for a project about identity and at first I could not answer. I went through the mental list of Iran, nope (well, kinda), Armenia nope -I've only been there once but am willing to investigate that further, Canada, nope (certainly not Toronto), and then an image flashed in my mind, one of food and laughter...so much food, so much drunken laughter, and wine, and more food, laughter and wine. The image that came to mind was my aunt's Christmas parties, where all 25 of us would pile into her Ajax home, which she still lives in, and eat until we were in pain- another Armenian requirement. And so the obvious and truest answer was food. Food was home to me. An Armenian said food; shocking, I know but wherever we have lived, our family and our food has been the only constants. In Iran, the cuisine was a no-brainer, then in Greece while we were immigrating, again we cooked and ate primarily our foods, in Canada; same, and even when I was in Korea and Bulgaria, I impressed my colleagues with my culinary skills, driving to multiple supermarkets in Gwangju to buy the tiny bunches of parsley from every store, so I could make our Christmas quiche (kookoo sabzi). And don't even ask how many non-stick pots I have bought all over the world to make Tah-dik (literally translated it means Pot bottom. See photo below). Without tadik, the dinner was not complete.
My friend Allison used to marvel at the fullness of my Korean-sized fridge, never being able to find things, whereas I could reach in and pull out anything with my eyes closed. Then she came to visit in Canada and opened my moms North-American-sized fridge and started laughing. "Now I understand" she said, and we both knew what she meant. My husband has the same issue with. me. If I can see and inch of the glass shelving in my fridge, I need to go shopping. Each time I visit my sister, I check her fridge and its the same PACKED TO THE VERY FRONT. My husband knows a bigger fridge will only mean I will buy more food. It's our way. I have seen bare fridges in Armenian homes; my aunt Lily has a very clean and organized fridge and I get it, her entire house is that way. But when I see others with bare fridges, my immediate thought is sadness, or that they cannot cook, or that food is only a necessity to them and not a love, or a way of showing love.
Alison and I would go to Seoul or Busan to find Basmati rice. Our food pilgrimage! My first package I requested from home was spices. When I was in Bulgaria, I scoured the shops for curry powder etc. If I couldn't find what I liked or needed, the place was less "home" to me. My home was a hub where meals were served, as was mom's home. I miss those days.
Someone told me last year that they remember my mom cooking, and in the kitchen all the time. Yes, mom was a single mother, putting two girls through school on a single salary. She cooked because it was good, and cheap and reliable. Pizza or takeout were novelties we indulged in after we had part time jobs. My mom was the queen of stretching the dollar because she had to, and because she came from a culture where credit did not exist, so she never carried a balance on her credit cards. I wish I could say the same for myself.
Mom used to power cook. If she made cutlets, she made 20, so everyone could be fed when they needed food. If she made potato salad, she made enough for an army. I don't remember not having something home-made to snack on as a child. She even cooked for our cat, who lived to be 20. She baked too. I still miss her baking, and everyone still talks about her Roulette (see photo). Mom would learn recipes from others, and then make the same ten times better, whereas dad would open the fridge, pull out whatever was on the brink of spoiling and make a concoction that everyone would lick they chops at. He was talented that way, and put chili powder in everything.
A few years back my Aunt Lilly gave me her china set, the very same she used to serve Christmas dinner. It meant the end of an era to me, and taking it came with a sadness I did not expect. Last night when I said food and remembered those dinners (which were actually lunches) I got quite teary realizing even those days had ended. As I approach fifty, I see that a lot of things have changed and will never go back to how they used to be, and all these changes really leave me wondering where and what home is.
Yesterday I was asked what home meant to me. I was being interviewed for a project about identity and at first I could not answer. I went through the mental list of Iran, nope (well, kinda), Armenia nope -I've only been there once but am willing to investigate that further, Canada, nope (certainly not Toronto), and then an image flashed in my mind, one of food and laughter...so much food, so much drunken laughter, and wine, and more food, laughter and wine. The image that came to mind was my aunt's Christmas parties, where all 25 of us would pile into her Ajax home, which she still lives in, and eat until we were in pain- another Armenian requirement. And so the obvious and truest answer was food. Food was home to me. An Armenian said food; shocking, I know but wherever we have lived, our family and our food has been the only constants. In Iran, the cuisine was a no-brainer, then in Greece while we were immigrating, again we cooked and ate primarily our foods, in Canada; same, and even when I was in Korea and Bulgaria, I impressed my colleagues with my culinary skills, driving to multiple supermarkets in Gwangju to buy the tiny bunches of parsley from every store, so I could make our Christmas quiche (kookoo sabzi). And don't even ask how many non-stick pots I have bought all over the world to make Tah-dik (literally translated it means Pot bottom. See photo below). Without tadik, the dinner was not complete.
My friend Allison used to marvel at the fullness of my Korean-sized fridge, never being able to find things, whereas I could reach in and pull out anything with my eyes closed. Then she came to visit in Canada and opened my moms North-American-sized fridge and started laughing. "Now I understand" she said, and we both knew what she meant. My husband has the same issue with. me. If I can see and inch of the glass shelving in my fridge, I need to go shopping. Each time I visit my sister, I check her fridge and its the same PACKED TO THE VERY FRONT. My husband knows a bigger fridge will only mean I will buy more food. It's our way. I have seen bare fridges in Armenian homes; my aunt Lily has a very clean and organized fridge and I get it, her entire house is that way. But when I see others with bare fridges, my immediate thought is sadness, or that they cannot cook, or that food is only a necessity to them and not a love, or a way of showing love.
Alison and I would go to Seoul or Busan to find Basmati rice. Our food pilgrimage! My first package I requested from home was spices. When I was in Bulgaria, I scoured the shops for curry powder etc. If I couldn't find what I liked or needed, the place was less "home" to me. My home was a hub where meals were served, as was mom's home. I miss those days.
Someone told me last year that they remember my mom cooking, and in the kitchen all the time. Yes, mom was a single mother, putting two girls through school on a single salary. She cooked because it was good, and cheap and reliable. Pizza or takeout were novelties we indulged in after we had part time jobs. My mom was the queen of stretching the dollar because she had to, and because she came from a culture where credit did not exist, so she never carried a balance on her credit cards. I wish I could say the same for myself.
Mom used to power cook. If she made cutlets, she made 20, so everyone could be fed when they needed food. If she made potato salad, she made enough for an army. I don't remember not having something home-made to snack on as a child. She even cooked for our cat, who lived to be 20. She baked too. I still miss her baking, and everyone still talks about her Roulette (see photo). Mom would learn recipes from others, and then make the same ten times better, whereas dad would open the fridge, pull out whatever was on the brink of spoiling and make a concoction that everyone would lick they chops at. He was talented that way, and put chili powder in everything.
A few years back my Aunt Lilly gave me her china set, the very same she used to serve Christmas dinner. It meant the end of an era to me, and taking it came with a sadness I did not expect. Last night when I said food and remembered those dinners (which were actually lunches) I got quite teary realizing even those days had ended. As I approach fifty, I see that a lot of things have changed and will never go back to how they used to be, and all these changes really leave me wondering where and what home is.
 |
| Aunt Lily at the table where the Christmas meals were served. |
 |
| Aunt lily making lunch for my sister and I last December |
 |
| L to R: Jackie, Terry and Lily. |
 |
| Tah-dik |
 |
| Lilly making tah-dik. |
 |
| Roulette (sliced) , also known as log cake |
 |
| Kookoo |
Comments
Post a Comment