Humans are a silly, unpredictable, imperfect species. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thankful to be a part of all of that imperfectness. On a regular basis, we make mistakes that force us to learn more about our work, our daily lives, and the love that even the most hardened of hearts looks for while we continue to breath. And we make every attempt to remember these feelings when the people that we have shared them with leave our lives, whether it is on a permanent basis through death, or because of relationships that have moved on, disintegrated, or, were built on foundations that were not strong enough to last.
Portions of this “remembrance”, those thoughts that strike a cord in our cortex when presented, are the songs and music that thread their way through a relationship. Most all of us can dredge up memories when listening to music that was special in a relationship. I still get weepy when hearing “Dust in the wind” by Kansas, “Let it be” by the fab four, and a host of other song titles. Another association that most of us overlook, even though it plays a significant role in our subconscious, is the role that food, more specifically, meals, play in our fond, and at times, forgettable memories.
The family recipes that are passed down from generation to generation, the deserts and salads that we only enjoy at holiday gatherings, and the carefully crafted sauces that make our taste buds soar are just a small part of how we bring meals into our memories. But an even more extraordinary example of this are the meals that define a relationship. Just as a song can bring on an eruption of thoughts about those that have helped to define our lives, and who we are, I hope to demonstrate with a few short sketches, that meals have the same effect.
Salted Oatmeal
The large Catholic family of eight children that I grew up in survived on oatmeal and hot chocolate as a morning breakfast. There would be the occasional cooked apples during the fall months after harvest in Nebraska City, when a bushel of Jonathans could be had for four dollars, but for the most part, it was limited to a bowlful of the hot cereal. And for all the years that I had consumed that morning oatmeal, it was prepared with just a dab of margarine, a spoonful of sugar, and a small amount of milk. Attending a private school through the eighth grade did little to expose me to the idea that there might actually be other ways to prepare hot cereal. Life has a way of changing our minds.
I sat behind Debbie in the first math class of my high school years. An elderly teacher taught it by the name of Miss Buell, and it really presented no more of a challenge than the seventh grade math that I had studied in private school. But Debbie, with her long dark hair that smelled of fresh shampoo, her small, delicate features, and her shy, elusive personality presented an entirely different situation. Attending a public high school already presented a miasma of new, strange, and incredible experiences. But this slight girl with a gift for numbers, deep brown eyes, and a shy but wonderful smile was by far the most consuming. And she would remain that way throughout my senior year, becoming one of the most enduring marks on my personality.
In 1974, Debbie was a sixteen-year-old activist from a divorced Jewish family. She was involved in every club, group, and association that had even the slightest impact on the social environment, and gave each the attention it deserved. Consummately organized, soft but well spoken, and absolutely adorable, I was elated when she approached me one afternoon in the bustle of the hallway between classes, and in a mater of fact way, asked me to the Sadie Hawkins high school dance. The bumbling, underdeveloped, roundabout charm of my boyish personality had somehow managed to communicate that I was interested in her! And I am still thankful that it was more than just a hormonal elevation that attracted me to her.
The dance proved to be the start of a young relationship that would see us exchange the wonders, privileges, and passions of adolescence with each other. It was an equation that, in the terms of the chemist, was balanced. Her drive, motivation, and discipline awakened in me the desire to become more than just another left-handed high school pitcher, more than just another vein in the student body. And my curious young male passion inspired a feeling of acceptance, and openness in her. I admired her when she would accept yet another award, or present a gift to the school, and she admired my ability to teach her the art of French kissing. And, even as young adults, we were passionate with each other, finishing our homework in as little time as possible so that we could spend time exploring each other in an innocently intimate way. Kissing for what seemed like hours, sharing the warmth of each other’s hands, yet never letting go of the sensibility that now defined us as a high school “couple”.
It was on a Saturday morning that I had stopped by her house to meet her for an extra curricular event that now eludes me. She was preparing a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and asked if I would like one as well. The familiarity of it struck me as a warm embrace, until she produced a saltshaker, and proceeded to sprinkle it lightly over the bowl she had prepared for herself. I looked puzzled, and she asked me why I appeared that way. Telling her that I had never seen anyone add salt to oatmeal after it had been cooked, she gave me an equally quizzical look. We laughed. And I remembered.
We would both graduate from high school and, because of scholarships and different abilities, go in different directions. But over the years, it has proven to be an enduring friendship that was based on mutual admiration, respect, and the resolve to stay in touch. And we have. She has a wonderful family, and resides on the East coast. If I ever meet another woman who puts salt on her oatmeal, I will have to accept it as an omen of good fortune, and hope that it results in an equally enduring relationship.
