Growing up I was surrounded by food. Luscious smells, textures and tastes. My family gathered, constantly, it was expected, it was what we did. My maternal Irish grandmother, Mary Ellen or Mamie as she was known to all, continuously had a pot of something simmering on the stove. Her cookware was stained and heavy with a dull silver finish - not my fancy Le Creuset of many colours that I now own. She was born Christmas day 1898 and raised nine children during the depression. I cannot imagine the hardship and how different her life was compared to mine. I can still see her by her pot, large wooden spoon in hand, slowly stirring away (usually with a cigarette poised). Her repertoire of recipes were simple and honest and a direct reflection of needing to “make ingredients go far” to feed many. I can taste her tomatoe macaroni soup (heavy on the macaroni, not meat), robust chilli (with lots of beans) and what she called BBQ Hamburgers (which were sloppy joe’s, her style). Every Saturday the pot was on, and you were expected to come, before or after your ballet class, grocery shopping, house cleaning - and if you didn’t make an appearance, you got a phone call. It was a time to pause, to reflect, to connect with aunts, uncles, cousins and as I got older I dragged a friend or two along.
I try to continue the tradition of door always open and the “soup” is on. From family to friends to neighbours and colleagues - share a meal, spark an idea, have a conversation. What we do around our “tables” however they look, is how we nourish our bodies and our souls.
