Grape Squeeze

My mother with the three girls... I'm the smiley one on the right

Very recently my daughter said to me that I am the best cook in the whole entire world. I had been reading her a menu I have been developing for a future four course wine dinner I am preparing, and she begged me to save her some left overs. I know that she said this with utter heartfelt sincerity too because I glanced at her to read her facial expression, and witnessed reverence blended with pride and just a hint of despair. I get it. This love of combining and savouring flavours can be as much of a blessing as it can be a lifelong curse.

My mother did not teach me how to cook when I was growing up. This statement perplexes most people when they learn that I grew up on a rural farm in a Mennonite family. How can this have happened? Well, the simple explanation isn’t sinister at all. You see, the Mennonites are also known for their extraordinary organizational skills, with everything having a place and everything being in its place. The kitchen was my mother’s domain. To have three giddy little girls in there alongside her ‘helping’ with food preparation… this just wasn’t ever going to be part of the program. When we got older she allowed us to cook things ourselves from time to time, but she would always remove herself far, far away from the scene of the inevitable kitchen carnage until every single last sauce coated pot was gleaming again and the countertops sparkled in recovered innocence.

Here's me honing some of my kitchen skills when I was four

So my mother did not teach me how to cook. I cannot say that this was a failure on her part though because I learned from her something that I consider much more important: she taught me what tastes good. My mother was an incredible cook, and the gravy smothered, potato accompanied dishes she turned out were just steps away from the culinary gates of heaven. Boy did we ever eat well, and me especially as photos of my chubby childhood bear witness to my obvious enjoyment of my mother’s kitchen mastery. The only gourmet treason I recall was the time when she disguised chicken liver (which I hate) as breaded beef cutlets (one of my favourites). I am still stunned when I remember the blatant deception of this. But whatever… this was sleight of hand at its finest I suppose. The worst part was that after I took my first bite of the enormous helping I had personally lavished upon my plate and discovered the treachery, I was forced to finish the majority of it. I suppose there was a lesson in there somewhere for me. I recall there being a lot of tears on my plate by the end of the meal too.

When I moved out on my own for the first time, I think I spent about two weeks on cold cereal with milk and cheese and crackers. I was somewhat puzzled as to what to eat. After that short period of mental regrouping I got to work. On my tight student’s budget I purchased mostly ramen noodles, but every night was a feast of discovery as I cleverly minced and combined an array of ingredients to add to my bowl of soup. I believe my first addition was ketchup upon the recommendation of a ketchup-loving friend, but I quickly progressed to sauteed vegetables and bits of seared meat. Pretty soon I was putting together tasty meals devoid of all ramen. The evolution has never stopped. Eventually I did coerce my mother into divulging the secrets of some of her more famous Mennonite dishes. The funny thing is that when I asked her how much of a certain ingredient to add she would invariable say something like, ‘a handful’ or ‘until the dough feels right’. When I got her to show me, I began to understand the art of cooking with your heart, by touch, by taste, and with inspiration.

This is me in my kitchen today... everything and nothing has changed

I have become a little bit obsessed with the combining of flavours ever since, and when I realize that I have both the time and energy to create something special in the kitchen, my mind begins to stack together ingredients as I mentally inventory the cupboards and refrigerator. A recipe begins to build in my imagination so that by the time I get behind the counter, I am eager and excited to begin.

The sharing of food has become one of my favourite ways of expressing my adoration for those closest to me. I get up early on Saturdays to bake muffins and scones for my teenagers so that the gentle aromas lifting from the oven will find them in their beds and remind them that they are loved. I pour extravagance into the annual Thanksgiving feast for my extended family because I want them to know that they are worth every moment of effort to me. I also cook for my best friends, because I believe that doing this feeds more than just our physical bodies.

It was probably ten years ago now that I added wine to my list of life’s most enjoyable ingredients. Ah, you knew I would get around to talking about wine, didn’t you? It still isn’t really an ingredient that I add into my cooking as much as it is a condiment I use alongside my meals to complement and enhance both the enjoyment of the food and the company I’m in. I have found on many occasions that a carefully chosen glass served with a thoughtful and deliberately prepared dish can elevate both of the elements on the table to an experience beyond what a haphazard combination can do. I love that feeling where a sip of wine after a bite of food somehow makes perfect sense, and commences a love song of sorts upon the palate. Then a few more bites and a few more sips follow, creating a sensual crescendo that swirls higher and higher until it releases its sweet music into the atmosphere surrounding the table. Because, once you have that perfect harmony of flavours and textures kissing the inside of your mouth, and you look across the top of your wine glass to the person you have chosen to share the experience with… well… passions will ignite. And who doesn’t love a good show of fireworks enhanced by that press your thighs together and shift in your chair type of tingle?

How is it then that what should be considered a blessing, this innate ability to craft euphoria by combining and transforming humble ingredients of the earth, has become something of which my daughter and I are both leery? Well, think about it… if it’s delicious we will want to eat it. And not just a little bit of it, a lot of it. So, when I make something that is particularly amazing, I always have that ‘Oh Dear God’ eyes rolled back moment immediately followed by the ‘Oh Shit’ acknowledgement of almost certain defeat, knowing that it will be difficult to restrain my food passion. My daughter also knows that the more delectable the creation, the more fervently I will try to convince her and my son to make quick work of gobbling it away so that it can cease to torment me. Corpulence is not the look we are sporting anymore, so with food and more recently with wine, it’s always been a total love-hate thing.

But enough with the idle confessions. Who wants to come over for dinner?