“You’ll Spoil Your Dinner!”
Taste is personal, and everyone has their favorites and no-go’s when it come to food and drink. For me, after that one time I woke up face down on the cold concrete of some stranger’s garage, the THOUGHT of having tequila sends shivers down my spine. And that’s what it’s about, really: memories, good and bad, that shape our tastes.
Taste has been studied by a lot of really smart people, and the conclusion seems to be that taste is universal among all humans, but that exposure and experience guides us through our likes and dislikes. Textures and flavors have associations to us even if we’re not aware, and getting forced by our parents to clean our plate of nasty canned mushrooms may make us mushroom averse today as adults. We may not be cognizant of all the reasons we have preferences, but I guarantee they could all be mapped to an event or events.
It isn’t just food, either, but shapes, smells or a particular object can hold lots of memories. For me, the smell of fresh tomato leaves, especially when crushed in my hand and given a good whiff, reminds me of my Grandma Casañas. She was a great gardener, but nothing was particularly special about her tomatoes. It was just a moment that got stuck in my head, the sun shining in my eyes as she worked the small terrace of our home, picking tomatoes in her signarture black poncho.
Just last week, my other grandmother, Susan, passed away. We called her Nana. She was very dear to me, but I don’t have a lot of food memories around her. While my Cuban grandmother was always making her amazing empanadas, croquetas, and serving up the best Cangrejo Enchilado I’ve ever had, my Nana was generally celebrating the miracle of the microwave oven. We’d eat a lot of cold sandwiches, canned tamales, and frozen Hungry Man meals at Nana’s house, though she always brought out a Waldorf Salad for the holidays.
Nonetheless, there’s a powerful food memory I cherish about her.
Forty years ago, when I was a little boy, my Nana would take my brother and I on RV excursions with her second husband, Bob. On more than one occasion, we’d drive up to Port Orford, Oregon from the Bay Area, where we lived. The trip was always great fun, and we’d look forward to collecing agates and Japanese net floats on the beach. One day, my brother Jeremy and I were heading into town with Bob to grab something to repair the RV. “Don’t eat anything when you’re out, you’ll spoil your dinner,” she yelled at us from the door of the motorhome as we made our way into town. Bob had other ideas, and we made a stop at a little diner where he ordered us a big slice of blueberry pie to share. It was peak summer and the blueberries were fat and juicy, the pie sweet and luxurious, encased in a flaky buttery crust. But we left evidence of our betrayal on our faces and shirts, with big stains of blue smeared all over.
We got back to the camp and right away, the gig was up. Hands on her hips, Nana asked us if we had some pie. We emphatically shook our heads no until she demanded we show her our tongues. We stuck out our bright blue tongues and she just burst into laughter! She gave us both hugs and mimed an angry grandma with a wagging finger.
That memory has stuck with me and my brother for four decades, and there isn’t a time that I see blueberries that it doesn’t pop in my head. It’s been an amusing story to me, but now that Nana is gone, it’s become much more than that. It’s a comforting reminder that connects me to her and will keep her close to me forever. To take it a step further, I asked my good friend and local tattoo artist Brian Wilson to help me mark this memory on me, as I’ve done for other relatives passed. We settled on a slice of blueberry pie with a scroll that says “You’ll Spoil Your Dinner.”
I left the shop after the tattoo and got into my car, hung my head, and sobbed for a while. After a good cry, I met my brother for lunch and we talked out some of our feelings for Nana I was having a hard time saying out loud. We’ll miss her, bottom line. We love her so much.
I’ll always have a reminder of my beautiful Nana whenever blueberries pop-up. Every blueberry pie is an opportunity to tell that silly story and keep the memory of her alive in my mind.
Beyond it’s cultural and nutritional importance, food can be a powerful and personal way to keep your loved ones with you beyond their departure. I’m thankful for that, and you’ll be seeing blueberry pie on the menu very soon.
