Memories are tricky things. They slowly sway around in your mind and step into sharp focus when you least expect them. They are not necessarily about cataloging the truth, but about taking a mental and physical snapshot of a moment and, in that way, memories become singularly unique to each person.
When I was 9 years old my family moved from Winnipeg, Manitoba to Dallas, Texas. People often raise their eyebrows at this and comment on what a huge shift it must have been. That is an understatement.
When I lived in Winnipeg I was surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends down the street. My favorite times were the long afternoons we would spend with my maternal grandparents. My grandmother is Welsh and moved to Canada after meeting my grandfather during World War II when she was a nurse and he an injured soldier. Her Welsh sensibilities always had us children being productive and doing something. We would help her shell peas, trail my grandfather around his garden or be left to practice the wood burning techniques he had taught us with some old wood and a magnifying glass.
Then, we would all come together for dinner. I don't actually remember what we had for dinner, but I specifically remember dessert. She made amazing date and oat squares (she calls them matrimonial squares) or maybe a lemon bundt cake with a sweet tart lemon glaze that would gently pool at the bottom of the cake and we would swipe off the plate with our fingers when she wasn't looking. Sometimes it was a big bowl of ice cream. Maple ripple was my grandfather's favorite. And sometimes it was a big bowl of strawberries with a small bowl of sugar next to it. I wasn't much for believing that fruit was really dessert, but when I dipped those strawberries in sugar it was more than enough for me. I loved how the sugar stayed a little crunchy against the soft berries and the sugar bowl would slowly become tinged pink. I could never believe how good, sweet, ripe...perfect they tasted.
The last few weeks have brought local strawberries to my farmers market. Stopping to buy a quart one day the farmer told me to lean in and smell them. They were picked at 4am that day and were the essence of strawberry. In a moment I was back sitting at my grandmother's table in the house she still lives in, in a t-shirt and shorts, blissfully unaware that those long afternoons were about to become only memories.
I did the only thing I thought was right. I came home, put a bunch of strawberries
on a plate, poured a little bowl of raw sugar and added a spoonful of mascarpone cheese to the plate (I guess some things can change a little.)
As I savored the crunchy sugar against the sweet berries and rich mascarpone I let my mind wonder about how much these memories played into my decision to work in the culinary world. Would different childhood memories have altered my future?
I suppose it's impossible to know, but by the time I finished my plate, my spirit felt a little lighter. It was the best quart of strawberries I have every bought.