Last Friday, when the tributes, reminiscences and spiritual acknowledgements at our neighbour Ronnie Egan’s funeral came to an end, many of us retired to the basement hall of the church for conversation and, well, refreshments. There was lots of coffee and tea and something to tide everybody over. The banquet tables were laid out with veggies and dip, cheese and crackers, fruits and sweets and, of course, sandwiches.
“What else?” I heard someone say. “Ronnie wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, but to have egg-salad sandwiches.” And it’s true. Ronnie, like so many of her generation, often felt compelled to prepare something to eat as part of any event – whether a visit from friends in her living room or sustenance for bingo players at the Legion on Thursday nights.
Whether it’s following a sombre ceremony, such as a funeral or a celebration of life, or symbolizing the fruits of our harvest at Thanksgiving, it’s no surprise that food gives us nutrition, energy, sustenance and perhaps most important of all, comfort. When I’m feeling ill – whether from a miserable cold or a debilitating strain of flu – nothing offers me more comfort than a bowl of piping hot soup. I always remember that old Vaudeville routine about two Samaritans coming across a sick man.
“This man is nearly dead!” says the first man.
“Give him some chicken soup,” the other suggests.
“At this stage, I don’t think it’ll help.”
“It wouldn’t hurt.”
I remember a while ago, I actually searched on the Internet and in more traditional ways (in some of our hard-copy cookbooks) for evidence that chicken soup helped anybody fight off anything, a cold of influenza, for example. Nothing. No evidence whatsoever. For me, however, somehow it was the physical sensations that soup provided – the steam up the nostrils, the soothing sensation on the back of the throat, and the warmth in the belly – that at least alleviated the symptoms. It was food for comfort, even if it had no medicinal value at all.
Of course, the other satisfaction food provides is in the preparation. I don’t have many specialties as a chef. I enjoy barbequing, no matter what the season. I used to make bread, until I realized that my wife was a much better baker than I. And occasionally I concoct a dessert called Ice Box Cake, a wild combination of sliced bananas, a layer of graham wafers, and chocolate and vanilla pudding. It came in very handy in Edmonton one year, when the TV station where I was appearing wanted to publish a cookbook of dishes prepared by some of its on-air broadcasters. It suddenly became Broadcasters’ Ice Box Cake.
The one dish I truly enjoy preparing is spaghetti and meat sauce. There’s nothing unique about any of the ingredients or in any of my preparations. I guess it’s just the tactile sensations of chopping up onions and garlic, cooking the meat, adding the sauce ingredients and timing everything to be ready when the pasta reaches the right consistency. Again, it’s not rocket science, but it is satisfying to make and to eat.
We’re fortunate in Canada to have four distinct seasons. Most of us associate foods with each. For me, spring tastes are those of the first garden vegetables, such as the first shoots of wild or cultivated asparagus or the first Ontario strawberries. Summer delivers a multitude of flavours, but one of my favourites is that of fresh corn and, yes, since I’m the outdoor cook, barbequed burgers, steaks and eggplants are my favourites. In the fall, it’s hard to beat McIntosh apples. And I associate hot stews with winter.
Then, there were always the specialties associated with specific holidays. “The year’s almost over,” I used to remind my mother. “Time for bacon-wrapped dates on New Year’s Eve.” For me it was the best way to kick off the early hours of a new calendar year.
After my mother died in 2008, my sister and my wife, who had both learned to cook one her Greek food specialties – spanakopita (spinach pies) – decided to keep one of her cooking traditions alive. Each December, they designated a day between Christmas and New Year’s to assemble in a kitchen and cook the dish for holiday meals. The last couple of years, our daughters have joined the cook-a-thon. And this year, even the grandchildren got involved.
“We should call it ‘Spanikopalooza,’” daughter Whitney suggested.
Last weekend, after Ronnie’s funeral, Jayne and I got away with members of my oldtimers hockey team for a tournament in Niagara Falls. Not surprisingly, our two-day escape is spiced by favourite food moments too – a night out for a steak and wine overlooking the falls, and a Saturday morning breakfast at Basell’s Restaurant.
Like so many important food moments during the year, cooking and eating with friends or family members always leaves a good taste in the mouth and the memory.
