Under-Developed, Overcooked
There are two things that I associate strongly with memories and, perhaps the stronger of those two is food.
On a biological level, this shouldn't be entirely surprising. Approximately 75% of taste comes from smell and smell is the sense most strongly linked to memory due to the olfactory gland's location in the limbic system of the brain where memories and emotional responses are formed.
And there has to be something culturally primal about the association too, right? I think it was Michael Pollan that asserted we're the only species that regularly cooks its nutritional intake which makes the act of cooking one of the more basic, defining processes of humanity.
For me, personally, whenever I think of the places I've been to, the people I've known, or time periods in my life, there's some sort of food involved in those memories. When I think about elementary school, I think about those rectangular pizzas the cafeterias mass produced every Friday that had the consistency and flavor (I assume) of cardboard; the only thing I've ever encountered that could take the joy out of pizza. When I think of seeing ballgames at Camden Yards up in Baltimore, I'm thinking a mixture of smells blending from ballpark hot dogs, the pulled barbecue from the restaurants lining that brick wall, and the stale scent of hundreds of plastic cups filled to the brim with National Bohemian. Whenever I think of my mom, I think about waking up on Sunday mornings with the aroma of cinnamon rolls and bacon wafting into my bedroom from the kitchen downstairs. Mnemonically, that's where it all starts with those smells and tastes before progressing into sights and sounds.
And, speaking of my mother, a lot of my own cooking education came from learning with her. My mom was born and raised in Seoul and had no trouble in whipping up Korean cuisine; rice was as much a mainstay in my early diet as mashed potatoes and french fries (A lot of starch and carbs growing up, I guess). Arriving in the United States, she didn't really have any experience making western foods so she learned how to cook these types of foods as I grew up and I would learn right there with her. A lot of my early childhood at home was spent watching public access shows with my mom; Graham Kerr and Julia Child were as much television staples in those years as Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. And it felt like those cooks were always making either desserts or something to be baked; I guess it was just easy to throw together. As a result, a lot of what I can cook from those early days include pies, casseroles, tarts. Probably where I get my chronic sweet tooth.
As I was wrapping up elementary school, I started camping a lot more especially during the summers all up and down the Appalachian Trail. It was there I really learned how to grill if only out of necessity; only so much trail mix and jet-puffed marshmallows you can have before your taste buds die (And, truth be told, I never really liked marshmallow). If we're talking how primal cooking is in the human experience, it doesn't get much more primal than using open flame with the process. I could grill and fry just fine but couldn't season for shit at the time; that came later. A lot of those summers I think about hot dogs, burgers, and bland steaks. The latter was a holdover from my parents; we certainly grilled over the summer and it's hard (though not impossible) to fuck up prepackaged hot dogs and bacon but neither my father nor mother really added any seasoning to steaks or chicken. So as we set off fireworks with the neighbors every July, it was not uncommon to forego steak for slightly charred hot dogs (More on that in a moment) or freshly cut watermelon.
By high school, I had to cook more for myself. My dad was never really cut out for it; when I think of my father, I think tomato soup quickly warmed from the can and grilled cheese sandwiches. One in three of those sandwiches would be burned. Badly. "It builds character." my father would remark as he scraped that charred combination of Wonder Bread and American cheese from the cast iron skillet to our plates. So yeah, I had to start cooking for myself. That generally entailed something I could throw together easily that I would get multiple meals out of; usually soups and stews. Thankfully, college was on the horizon.
With college, I was taking more of a backseat in the kitchen because my roommates were (and still are) far better cooks; I would draw from those early childhood years to whip up pies, treacles, and tarts but the entrees would largely come from them between taco Tuesdays, grilling out on the weekends, and whatever flights of fancy they had. My long-running roommate Garrett was quite the risk-taker in the kitchen and those risks usually paid off. I learned a lot from silently watching him work, a lot of really basic things that they don't bother really explaining on TV. In high school, I was cooking to survive. In college, I was starting to cook for fun.
Not much by way of cooking in grad school because there just wasn't the time. I would wake up, go straight to work, go straight to class, go home and read into the wee hours of the morning. If you've never done the grad school thing, there is a whole SHITLOAD of reading involved. When I think of grad school, I think stale coffee grounds and twice-used tea bags fueling me forward. Any food I was having regularly was lost on me to fatigue and caffeine.
Living alone, I've started to tentatively get back into cooking again; without roommates, the temptation just to go out for dinner or order pizza has subsided substantially. And it's been good; there's something cathartic about cooking itself let alone the memory association. But for a semi-regular blog ostensibly focused on memory, this is where I figured I'd have to start.
On a biological level, this shouldn't be entirely surprising. Approximately 75% of taste comes from smell and smell is the sense most strongly linked to memory due to the olfactory gland's location in the limbic system of the brain where memories and emotional responses are formed.
And there has to be something culturally primal about the association too, right? I think it was Michael Pollan that asserted we're the only species that regularly cooks its nutritional intake which makes the act of cooking one of the more basic, defining processes of humanity.
For me, personally, whenever I think of the places I've been to, the people I've known, or time periods in my life, there's some sort of food involved in those memories. When I think about elementary school, I think about those rectangular pizzas the cafeterias mass produced every Friday that had the consistency and flavor (I assume) of cardboard; the only thing I've ever encountered that could take the joy out of pizza. When I think of seeing ballgames at Camden Yards up in Baltimore, I'm thinking a mixture of smells blending from ballpark hot dogs, the pulled barbecue from the restaurants lining that brick wall, and the stale scent of hundreds of plastic cups filled to the brim with National Bohemian. Whenever I think of my mom, I think about waking up on Sunday mornings with the aroma of cinnamon rolls and bacon wafting into my bedroom from the kitchen downstairs. Mnemonically, that's where it all starts with those smells and tastes before progressing into sights and sounds.
And, speaking of my mother, a lot of my own cooking education came from learning with her. My mom was born and raised in Seoul and had no trouble in whipping up Korean cuisine; rice was as much a mainstay in my early diet as mashed potatoes and french fries (A lot of starch and carbs growing up, I guess). Arriving in the United States, she didn't really have any experience making western foods so she learned how to cook these types of foods as I grew up and I would learn right there with her. A lot of my early childhood at home was spent watching public access shows with my mom; Graham Kerr and Julia Child were as much television staples in those years as Sesame Street and Mister Rogers' Neighborhood. And it felt like those cooks were always making either desserts or something to be baked; I guess it was just easy to throw together. As a result, a lot of what I can cook from those early days include pies, casseroles, tarts. Probably where I get my chronic sweet tooth.
As I was wrapping up elementary school, I started camping a lot more especially during the summers all up and down the Appalachian Trail. It was there I really learned how to grill if only out of necessity; only so much trail mix and jet-puffed marshmallows you can have before your taste buds die (And, truth be told, I never really liked marshmallow). If we're talking how primal cooking is in the human experience, it doesn't get much more primal than using open flame with the process. I could grill and fry just fine but couldn't season for shit at the time; that came later. A lot of those summers I think about hot dogs, burgers, and bland steaks. The latter was a holdover from my parents; we certainly grilled over the summer and it's hard (though not impossible) to fuck up prepackaged hot dogs and bacon but neither my father nor mother really added any seasoning to steaks or chicken. So as we set off fireworks with the neighbors every July, it was not uncommon to forego steak for slightly charred hot dogs (More on that in a moment) or freshly cut watermelon.
By high school, I had to cook more for myself. My dad was never really cut out for it; when I think of my father, I think tomato soup quickly warmed from the can and grilled cheese sandwiches. One in three of those sandwiches would be burned. Badly. "It builds character." my father would remark as he scraped that charred combination of Wonder Bread and American cheese from the cast iron skillet to our plates. So yeah, I had to start cooking for myself. That generally entailed something I could throw together easily that I would get multiple meals out of; usually soups and stews. Thankfully, college was on the horizon.
With college, I was taking more of a backseat in the kitchen because my roommates were (and still are) far better cooks; I would draw from those early childhood years to whip up pies, treacles, and tarts but the entrees would largely come from them between taco Tuesdays, grilling out on the weekends, and whatever flights of fancy they had. My long-running roommate Garrett was quite the risk-taker in the kitchen and those risks usually paid off. I learned a lot from silently watching him work, a lot of really basic things that they don't bother really explaining on TV. In high school, I was cooking to survive. In college, I was starting to cook for fun.
Not much by way of cooking in grad school because there just wasn't the time. I would wake up, go straight to work, go straight to class, go home and read into the wee hours of the morning. If you've never done the grad school thing, there is a whole SHITLOAD of reading involved. When I think of grad school, I think stale coffee grounds and twice-used tea bags fueling me forward. Any food I was having regularly was lost on me to fatigue and caffeine.
Living alone, I've started to tentatively get back into cooking again; without roommates, the temptation just to go out for dinner or order pizza has subsided substantially. And it's been good; there's something cathartic about cooking itself let alone the memory association. But for a semi-regular blog ostensibly focused on memory, this is where I figured I'd have to start.
