Whenever I cook one of my Grandma’s recipes, a goofy grin spreads across my face as my nose registers the odors emanating from the kitchen. Whether I’m baking her dinner rolls, making cucumber salad, or creatively building a bundt pan to bake her sour cream coffee cake; I can’t help but think of her house. By the time I take a bite of the familiar food, I’m fully smiling and saying aloud, “It tastes like Grandma’s house!”
As a peripatetic person, specific foods always become associated with certain periods of my life. Kiwis obviously will always bring up memories of New Zealand, as will cold cereal in tupperware, PB&J, and applesauce bread. Breakfast burritos (potatoes, refried beans, Lots of bacon, eggs, salsa, and some cheese) make me think of Tutakoke field camp and how my boss Thomas would deliver them to us while we sat watching for migrating birds for 2 hours every morning.
Delicious fresh peaches make me think of post-hunting stops at the Oakland County Farmers’ Market with my dad in Michigan’s autumns. (I even called him from NZ to let him know I was thinking of him as I ate a peach from a farm stand down there.) Persimmons bring up memories of Thanksgivings in California. Raspberry wheat beers remind me of the Pub on UAF’s campus.
Tonight I wanted a beer after thinking about all my issues with our society for the majority of the afternoon. With delight I pulled an Alaskan White from the fridge, took a sip, and declared, “It tastes like home!”
