“Yes, just don’t touch the stove”
I was blessed with this interesting mix of an upbringing. My mother’s side is full of Italian and German blood, while my father is Canadian - where I was born. There was this beautiful blend of two separate cuisines that really helped shape my love and/or lust for food. It was the kindle that lit the burner which would shortly after burn the hairs right off my fucking knuckles.
When I was young, Easter, Birthdays and Christmas were just a few of the pubes on the scrotum of “wog family gatherings”. My grandmother would turn her 8 seater dining room table into this fuck-off 20 seater by adding a table on both ends. Take Christmas for example - my parents, my sister and I would show up to my gran’s at around 3. As soon as you got to the front door you can smell the sugo (tomato based pasta sauce) on a low simmer - and the fragrance of it doesn’t just tap you on the shoulder, tip it’s hat and say “hello”. It grabs you by the nipples and puts your face right into it’s TITS. The garlic, the basil, that rich fucking tomato smell. You know exactly what I'm talking about - and if you don’t, go down to your local wog’s house and hide in their front yard amongst their shrubs and educate yourself you fucking mook.
Eventually, dinner is served. There are plates of food riddled up and down the table - garden salad, veal and chicken schnitzels, sauerbraten, sausages, bruschetta, the infamous potato salad (I never really liked it but my sister still swears by it), these crazy german dumplings - knodel, if I recall correctly. You sort of get the picture, I guess. These were all met with a first course of pasta, once finished you can go absolute HAM on the above + more (not to mention the fresh sourdough).
As I grew up, things eventually slowed down and the family didn’t get together as much anymore. All the cousins started working, uncles and aunts moved away, the list goes on. Yada yada, sad story - who cares.
After my parents divorced, Christmas and Birthdays were no longer about the glorious “Birthday boy/girl”. They were about saying “fuck you” over the phone to your ex-spouse while simultaneously fighting for custody of you on your birthday. Oh the fun. But again, there were several occasions where my old man made this great ham steak with pineapple and maple syrup glazed - fuck me silly it was incredible. I remember that sweet kick to the face like it was yesterday.
The only time I can ever really remember experiencing that warm tingle of accomplishment when cooking/preparing something, was when my mother let me make macaroni and cheese for lunch one weekend. She was recently separated from my father and I knew that her new partner was coming over that day for lunch. Now, I was around 11 at the time, and remember my Ma standing over me and guiding my hands and dictating everything I should be doing. I don’t really know what my thought process was, but as I was finishing stirring in the powdered KRAFT cheese I asked Ma:
“Hey, let’s put some ham in here?” Normally, it would’ve been a statement - but cooking was so foreign to me at this stage that it came out as a question. Mum allowed it, so I shredded some ham and threw it into the pot. To mum, it was just me adding ham to mac and cheese, but to me - I was an inventor.
I’m pretty sure my mum thought I was an absolute spastic - coasting off of this one achievement for 2 or 3 days. But I had soon enough decided that one way or another, I wanted to be a chef when I grew up.
Fuck everyone
-R