Culinary Bogeyman
Some events of my childhood have had a profound impact on my life. Interestingly, most of them seemed insignificant at the time and for many years, their powerful message revealed to me only as I reached adulthood.
I must have been around 12 years old when I was served a plate of mashed acorn squash for the first time. It was one of my father's favorites, his mother's recipe, and mom had prepared it for lunch at his explicit request. While I do not clearly remember my age at the time, the weather that day or what I was wearing, I distinctly remember my instinctive odium at the sight of the gooey orange mass on my plate. I desperately looked about for starchy salvation but there was none to be had: not a single slice of bread or a measly cracker within reach to help steady my stomach. Resigned, I took up the fork and attacked the dubious substance.
It was gross. Disgusting. Foul, nauseating, nasty, repugnant, revolting, vile. How could it not be, with a name like squash? We turned this veggie's name into a verb that means "to mash into a pulp." Doesn't that sound tasty, huh? I pushed back my plate defiantly. This was not tolerated behavior in our house. While we were allowed to dislike some things, refusing an entire meal was a suicidal affront but, just like a kamikaze, I was ready to die for the cause. Father spotted my movement and very slowly lowered his fork with the terrifying deliberateness of the executioner slipping the noose around the prisoner’s neck. “You are going to eat that.” Not a question; a statement, with the soft tone, the dangerous tone. “No,” I surprisingly hear myself squeak. “It turns my stomach.” Ominous silence. Seizing the opening, I hopefully add, “I don’t mind skipping lunch.” Big mistake. “You are going to sit there until you are done eating what’s on your plate. What you are looking at is your next meal, whether it is lunch, supper or breakfast tomorrow morning.” I turned towards mom and gave her a martyred look, my last chance for appeal. Sympathy briefly flashed across her eyes but she remained silent.
I don’t know how long I sat there, stubbornly, but the food was definitely long cold by the time dad returned. He wanted to offer a deal. I knew I had mom to thank for that. “Eat half and you can go.” I knew this was non-negotiable and I also knew it was the best I would get. I nodded my agreement. Taking up my fork, I started flattening the orange goo into a large rounded patty. When I knew I could delay no more, I took a knife and started dividing it into two parts. I say two parts and not two halves because, in a desperately foolish spur-of-the-moment decision, I chose to cheat. I let the knife drift sideways ever so slightly, trying to keep the difference subtle enough to be unnoticeable by a cursory glance but significant enough to save me a mouthful or two. Dad did not say anything and I was silently congratulating myself on my ruse as I once more lifted the fork to attack the smaller portion. “Tsk tsk!” He interrupted me, smirking. “You divided, I choose.”
Looking back, a number of life lessons can be derived from that moment. The French proverb “Tel est pris qui croyait prendre” (lit. translation: He is taken who thought he could take) comes to mind. I’ve adapted it to match my personal experience and turned it into “It is unwise to think that you can outwit your father at age 12.” (but you can at age 14! More on that in a future entry.) It’s not a far stretch from that point to “Crime doesn’t pay.” Another key information was the realization that my father would never, ever look at anything cursorily. From that day forward, whenever asked to divide anything into parts, I have always made it a point (sometimes to obsessive excess) to do my absolute best to make them equal.
* * *
I have just recently started to draft a “goal list.” Some are very silly, some ambitious, some are short term and some will take a lifetime to complete. I have items in a number of categories and one of them is cooking. One of the goals I wrote down under that header reads:
Once a year, taste again a food that was previously disliked.
I strongly believe that a fear is only truly overcome if faced directly and repeatedly, when necessary. I dread the acorn squash. It is my very own culinary bogeyman. I immediately thought of it when I came up with this particular goal. I have decided that the squash will have to go first. It is the only way to take back the power that it stole from me, so many years ago.
I must have been around 12 years old when I was served a plate of mashed acorn squash for the first time. It was one of my father's favorites, his mother's recipe, and mom had prepared it for lunch at his explicit request. While I do not clearly remember my age at the time, the weather that day or what I was wearing, I distinctly remember my instinctive odium at the sight of the gooey orange mass on my plate. I desperately looked about for starchy salvation but there was none to be had: not a single slice of bread or a measly cracker within reach to help steady my stomach. Resigned, I took up the fork and attacked the dubious substance.
It was gross. Disgusting. Foul, nauseating, nasty, repugnant, revolting, vile. How could it not be, with a name like squash? We turned this veggie's name into a verb that means "to mash into a pulp." Doesn't that sound tasty, huh? I pushed back my plate defiantly. This was not tolerated behavior in our house. While we were allowed to dislike some things, refusing an entire meal was a suicidal affront but, just like a kamikaze, I was ready to die for the cause. Father spotted my movement and very slowly lowered his fork with the terrifying deliberateness of the executioner slipping the noose around the prisoner’s neck. “You are going to eat that.” Not a question; a statement, with the soft tone, the dangerous tone. “No,” I surprisingly hear myself squeak. “It turns my stomach.” Ominous silence. Seizing the opening, I hopefully add, “I don’t mind skipping lunch.” Big mistake. “You are going to sit there until you are done eating what’s on your plate. What you are looking at is your next meal, whether it is lunch, supper or breakfast tomorrow morning.” I turned towards mom and gave her a martyred look, my last chance for appeal. Sympathy briefly flashed across her eyes but she remained silent.
I don’t know how long I sat there, stubbornly, but the food was definitely long cold by the time dad returned. He wanted to offer a deal. I knew I had mom to thank for that. “Eat half and you can go.” I knew this was non-negotiable and I also knew it was the best I would get. I nodded my agreement. Taking up my fork, I started flattening the orange goo into a large rounded patty. When I knew I could delay no more, I took a knife and started dividing it into two parts. I say two parts and not two halves because, in a desperately foolish spur-of-the-moment decision, I chose to cheat. I let the knife drift sideways ever so slightly, trying to keep the difference subtle enough to be unnoticeable by a cursory glance but significant enough to save me a mouthful or two. Dad did not say anything and I was silently congratulating myself on my ruse as I once more lifted the fork to attack the smaller portion. “Tsk tsk!” He interrupted me, smirking. “You divided, I choose.”
Looking back, a number of life lessons can be derived from that moment. The French proverb “Tel est pris qui croyait prendre” (lit. translation: He is taken who thought he could take) comes to mind. I’ve adapted it to match my personal experience and turned it into “It is unwise to think that you can outwit your father at age 12.” (but you can at age 14! More on that in a future entry.) It’s not a far stretch from that point to “Crime doesn’t pay.” Another key information was the realization that my father would never, ever look at anything cursorily. From that day forward, whenever asked to divide anything into parts, I have always made it a point (sometimes to obsessive excess) to do my absolute best to make them equal.
I have just recently started to draft a “goal list.” Some are very silly, some ambitious, some are short term and some will take a lifetime to complete. I have items in a number of categories and one of them is cooking. One of the goals I wrote down under that header reads:
Once a year, taste again a food that was previously disliked.
I strongly believe that a fear is only truly overcome if faced directly and repeatedly, when necessary. I dread the acorn squash. It is my very own culinary bogeyman. I immediately thought of it when I came up with this particular goal. I have decided that the squash will have to go first. It is the only way to take back the power that it stole from me, so many years ago.
posted by Nathalie at 11:31 PM
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