Vicarious Memories
I never actually witnessed my grandmother cooking. From a young age, I watched as she endured the inner battle of losing her memories. This didn’t stop me from imagining the experience of my grandmother making American Chop Suey, a traditional home-cooked meal. Certainly, I find myself in my father’s shoes when picturing what it would be like to salivate at the smell of fresh tomatoes and chopped garlic. Much too often, I wait impatiently for this large pot of ingredients to suddenly form into the warm, hearty pasta dish that I’ve grown to adore. While it may seem dramatic, the visualization I find through the eyes of my father of my grandmother preparing this dish, the vicarious memory forces me to witness a moment of togetherness. Within my own family, and within my father’s family growing up. Although it is difficult to grow up viewing a family member as ill, it is easy to recognize the heart and soul they used to have. I never truly witnessed my grandmother do anything but muster up my name and who I was in relation to her, but by the sound of her voice and the feeling of her touch, I knew what I was like to be gazing into her joyful eyes across the dinner table.
My father grew up in a family of eight. Two older brothers, three older sisters, and two hard-working parents. That made dinner especially difficult for his family economically, physically, and spatially. Cooking dinner meant buying a surplus of cheap, yet fresh, ingredients, planning most of the day around cooking, cleaning and serving, and then finding a place to store leftovers. My father recalled, “She would caramelized onions and tomatoes and put the meat in afterward. She usually used beef and tomato paste and then add in regular tomato sauce after.” (Kennie) I imagine the process was grueling and long, but the end product was something that you couldn’t forget. It was a moment where the chaos of living in a family of eight finally silenced for a few minutes to enjoy hearty food and each other for what it was. “It was a meal that I looked forward to because it fed a lot of people and it was wholesome. It made us enjoy a half an hour together and appreciate what we had. It made you so full that you’d have to take a late afternoon nap afterward.” (Kennie) From his eyes, I can imagine waiting in a steamy living room on a very broken in couch. The smell of sweetness and tang from cigars while the Giants or the Yankees was rolling on television. Hanging your black bottomed feet off the edge of the couch and itching yesterdays bug bites. The anticipation of eating. The salivation that comes with the thought of chewing anything. That’s what I can imagine waiting for family dinner was like. It was like watching a mad scientist discovering a new treatment for cancer in their lab. Pots and pans banging together, the sound of sizzling, mushing, and steam. The smell of each individual ingredient hitting the humid air as it was added to the pot and finally hearing the delicious words. “Dinner is ready, it’s not going to last all night so you better get it now.” Then a stampede of people would rush to a small dining room with a singular circular table and bask in the greatness of a mystery pot with a buttload of pasta and vegetables. Feeling the silence of satisfaction, joy, and ease in the air as everyone feasted and felt that feeling of togetherness deep in their soul.
I grew up in a house of three. That includes my mother, Katherine, my father, Reginald, and me. Life was mostly centered around my growth and supporting one another. It involved needing attention being spoiled from time to time, but it was an experience that made me recognize the effort it takes to raise a family. I recall one of the hotter days in August. The days where your clothes are damp from sweat right up until the sun is completely out of the sky. One of the days where the air is as thick as water, but just barely breathable so you don’t suffocate. It was also one of those days where you can’t do anything but stay still. For some people that meant watching TV for twelve hours. For other people, it meant napping for a few. For me, it meant getting my braces on and then popping a Benadryl and sleeping until sunset. The funny thing about braces is that, if you’ve never had them, you probably don’t realize what a manacle bastard they are. This was a large realization for me as I spent most of that hot August day crying into my father’s sweat-soaked shirt and sipping yogurts cups. This was a very large motif of my upbringing. Coddling was an understatement when it came to home my parents treated me, but it was something that as I grew older became a very important aspect of how we treat one another. I remember napping, and continuing to sweat while I napped on our brown 80s style couch and I specifically remember the smell of sauteed tomatoes waking me up. It’s hard to describe, but the smell of tomatoes swirling around in a saucepan just makes your tongue tingle and try to puzzle together the food it’s about to encounter. I knew that my father was making American Chop Suey that night because not only was it something that cheered me up, but it was something that I didn’t necessarily have to chew to consume. Mixed matched boxes of pasta, squishy red tomatoes, store bought sauce and spicy chilis made this dish not only something that I could enjoy but something that would just melt in my mouth without the use of my teeth. As much as I enjoyed consuming this dish, something that brought me joy was being able to witness my father enjoying making it. Even from afar you could easily see the glimmer of nostalgia and the joy of creating something that shaped his childhood. “I use ground turkey, chilies, and classic Italian sauce and tomatoes. I’ve made the recipe my own. It’s different than other chop suey dishes because a lot of people make the dish watery like my mother but I make it so it’s thicker like a stew and each bite makes you feel heavy and full.” (Kennie) This dish washed worries from your belly and instead fill you with wholesome, warm love. It made you sink into your seat and embark in a world of relaxation. It was a dish that appeared in times of distress, pain, and discomfort. It was a dish that connected me to my family rather than the little moments that caused me pain. “Whenever you come home late from dance or school and you’re tired, you always request it, and it’s a quick wholesome meal that can easily fill you up and put you to sleep. It’s something that connects you with your family.” (Kennie)
My family followed the traditional route for most of my childhood and rooted all the way back to my father’s childhood. Early Sunday family dinners, a staple meal at least once a week, and recipes that burnt a hole in your taste buds. These traditions never resonated with me until I had to endure watching my grandmother forget every habit that she built for her family. Bouncing from nursing home to nursing home for most of my childhood, it was difficult to understand why or how she couldn’t remember my name or who I was in relation to her. I have distinct memories of seeing her frequently and encountering the same conversation where she would tell me how beautiful I was and then proceed to ask me who I was. Like any good grandmother, she would ask me if I was hungry and if she could get me anything. I would want nothing more than to ask for her to cook for me, but it was something that she never had the ability to do as I grew up. By vicariously living through these moments of my grandmother in good help through my father’s eyes and by listening to the snippets of memories that flashed through her mind during our visits, I can imagine that she was a dedicated mother with all of the jobs that come with supporting a family. From my dad’s perspective, “she was such a strong woman. She always had dinner ready at the same time every day. She always fed us well and made sure we were well kept. I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish all that I’ve done without the traditions she pushed. When I made her recipes it reminds me of the values she set forward in my family and the values that I want to set forward on my own.” (Kennie)
You can learn so much through the people around you. I have so many memories of what it was like to watch my father make me dinner after dinner throughout the years, but it was more special to listen and visualize what it was like to experience the same thing from his perspective as a child. Much like stories, recipes and food can be passed from person to person and create such an important connection between people. I never got to witness my grandmother cook anything let alone witness her cohesively remember who I was. I could easily realize what a special and strong woman she was, but those memories of her cooking can only hold place in my imagination. It makes me form an appreciate for her. That I get to enjoy wholesome meals and traditions so often because she instilled that in her family values so long ago. I can look forward to coming home and enjoying a large pot of American Chop Suey with my family because she took the time and effort to expose my father to that sort of generosity so early in life. Sharing this meal commemorates her, and forces me to recognize this feeling of togetherness within my own family every time we join together to eat it. It is a cheap, easy, and certainly hearty meal, but it is something that I cannot get enough of. It sits with you for hours and encourages your stomach to yearn for it later. As I reflect on these small moments that I’ve had the privilege of having my stomach yearns for this meal and for the sound of my father’s voice and to hear how beautiful I am from my grandmother. It makes me smile and it makes me feel like home even when I’m miles away from it. That is essentially what togetherness is to me, and what this meal encompasses.
