Have you ever wondered how childhood passions become adult indulgences? I have, and this is what I have come up with…
It is no secret I love food. And no one who knows me would be surprised by that statement. I love to cook it, eat it, grow it and learn about it. It’s almost an obsession. And it does make me wonder exactly what it is about food that makes people like me so passionate.
Why is it that certain flavours or fragrances leave us salivating or compulsively coveting a specific indulgence? Why is it so difficult to visit a farmers’ market and not come home with duck rillettes, Sicilian olives or buffalo mozzarella?
Why is it almost impossible to dine at a restaurant and not order dessert, even if there’s clearly no room for it? I might say it is in the name of supporting local businesses, but who am I kidding? That thought process never even usually occurs until much later when I’m looking to justify a compulsive dining extravagance.
That said, I do have a theory. I am not sure it holds water, and even much less wine, but nonetheless, I have one. And it’s this . . .
Food is as much about the experience as it is about the pleasure of actually eating. It calls into play all of the senses — sight, sound, taste, touch and smell, added in to the environment in which it all takes place. It is a series of indulgences, moments savoured and memories created, and the added bonus is it keeps us nourished. Of course it has to be good. There is no tolerance for the mediocre, the less than average or, god forbid, downright bad.
Looking at my own food history, all of my fondest childhood memories revolve around food, and my belief systems have been formed accordingly. Each time I indulge, a little memory is re-experienced or divined. I love the smell of vanilla. It reminds me of baking marmourkuchen (a traditional German marble cake) with my mother from as early as I can remember. I love blackberries. They remind me of my dad backing the tractor trailer into the blackberry brambles where we would pick the berries for Mum’s homemade jam — one for the bucket, one for our mouths. We would emerge from the brambles with our fingers and lips stained black, our arms torn to shreds from the thorns.
I love Sunday roasts. This was a time when the whole family would be seated at the dinner table while my dad put the finishing touches to a fabulous roast dinner. With that came a sense of love and belonging. I grew up on an apple orchard in north east Victoria, so my childhood was filled with memories of abundant fresh fruit and vegetables, free range eggs, preserves of every conceivable combination as well as a European continental influence that permeated all of the dishes my family prepared. My childhood was a very pleasant one and it seems that as a consequence, most of my adult life is spent trying to emulate those wonderful childhood experiences, or rediscovering them.
I am a foodie through and through and while I am happy to enjoy the most decadent of dining experiences, I am also quite happy to savour the simplest. There is great pleasure in seeking out the plumpest of strawberries, or discovering the sweetest of tomatoes, or the most ethical of producers. They all have extraordinary tales to tell, and I sit and listen, captivated by the stories of their own journeys and food induced passions. Then, once again, I am reminded of my own.
Food is the thread that connects us with others. It is the uniting passion that inspires us to accomplish great things, even if these great things predominantly revolve around food. So that is my theory. Through seeking out childhood memories and sharing food passion with others we somehow become great indulgers of all things food and thus a foodie is born!
Post as featured in Regional Foodie Magazine – Issue 1, was written by Petra Frieser – Pebbles + Pomegranate Seeds
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