I have often heard that
food is tied to memory. The New York Times article reflecting on this connection muses, "In many ways, a great dish is like a great memoir: in both, the salty, the bitter, the sweet and the tart must be in perfect balance to succeed." For many of us, the taste, smell, and sight of a meal can recall a memory, transporting us through time and space to a connected experience that nestled itself in our consciousness. So often, food spurs the affect of safety; this is why we are drawn to what we call "comfort foods."
I think the "comfort" that comes from enjoying these foods does not come exclusively from the pleasure we experience by tasting fat, sugar, or salt, but also because we have a sense of connectedness to something. We are reminded, through visceral experience, of a time when we were content.
I am lucky to have many of these memories. I remember making flour tortillas with my Abuelita early in the morning while the rest of the family was asleep, her skilled hands transforming soft dough into pillowy tortillas. I love my Gramma's decadent mac and cheese, and our wonderfully elaborate and beautiful Christmas dinners in Boston. I used to request my mom's savory chicken simmering in tomato sauce with olives and carrots. The first time I really experimented with cooking, I doctored Hunt's plain tomato sauce with liberal amounts of black pepper poured over spaghetti- my brother used to request "my special spaghetti sauce".
In college, I refined my cooking skills. I hosted my first dinner party, and prepared Margherita paninis for my roommates and our dates before a sorority formal dance. I lovingly rubbed garlic on the hot toasted bread, tearing bits of floral basil to melt between fresh mozzarella and razor-thin slices of tomato.That meal wasn't just the result of an equation of studied recipes, fresh ingredients, and food chemistry. To prepare that meal, I gave a part of myself. Somehow, with the love I put into my cooking, the result is usually much greater than the sum of the parts. This love is where the meaning comes from; this is where the memories are.
Last week, I bought some blood oranges on a whim. I am not a
fruit bat like my roommates, but I knew I wanted to make something special with this orange. I settled on making a blood orange salad, drawing inspiration from this
recipe from Joy the Baker. This is a simple salad, but I hesitated when I began to prepare the orange. I wanted to recreate the gorgeous orange pinwheels from Joy the Baker, but was afraid to peel the orange with a knife. I was afraid I didn't have the skill to separate the peel without piercing the flesh of the orange.
As I held my paring knife against the orange peel, I remembered watching my Papa peel fruit. Hands steady, Papa worked his way around an apple or orange, taking away the bitter peels so we could enjoy the sweet fruit. I had never attempted this technique, but I imitated my Papa: start at the top, and move slowly around, separating the peel in a smooth, circular motion. Peeling that orange took me back to a place thousands of miles away, and many years ago, when my Papa would carefully take away the bitter, and keep the sweet. He still does, even if he isn't close enough to peel my oranges for me anymore.
Blood Orange Salad
1 blood orange
Handful of toasted walnuts
Sprinkle of feta cheese
Spring greens or spinach
Fruity olive oil
Fresh-cracked black pepper
Salt
Peel the orange over a bowl to catch any orange juice. Carefully slice into pinwheels. Whisk orange juice (squeeze a pinwheel into the bowl if you didn't spill any juice) with a fruity olive oil, salt, and pepper. Toss with feta, nuts, and greens.
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