Food Glorious Food!!

I love to eat. Everything about food excites me. I hesitate to say it is a passion, obssession whatever trite definition you can tack on it. It is all-encompassing. It has been a part of my Kleenex moments in life. It has even over-shadowed a few. Cases in point:

We were in London and I was giddy at having reservations at Bibendum, which at the time was "it". I was busy planning my eating that evening I didn't notice Snark professing undying love and waving a big engagement ring in my face. See what I mean.

I knew he was my soul mate because, as a wedding present, he took me to three of Conde Naste's top restaurants in the world.

I made sure every plate of food at my reception was hot. I know because I went around asking. Snark made sure the booze did not run out.

My fondest memories of food involve my family. We would sit around my grandmother's dining room table and be served platters of food. There is nothing better than the food I grew up on. Biryanis redolent with lamb and mint, fish pie, marrow (It is in now, but I was gnawing on the marrow bone as long as I can remember. SO HA!), cool yogurt with little pieces of fried potato and the peppery bite of cilantro, meat fry or crispy shrimp that was stir-fried with chilies. For dessert a trifle with gobs of heavy cream and custard, creme caramel with all the kids fighting over the caramelized bit on top, or if the cook was in the mood, we would have home-made rum-raisin ice cream.

We would be there for hours and then retire to the veranda. The adults would wander to the garden to smoke and have an after dinner drink while we ran around till the mosquitoes were unbearable.

I have thought of my last meal. It would be lime rice and shrimp fry. That is comfort food to a girl that has the heart of an Indian but grew up American.

My mother was a great cook. I say "was" not because she has passed but because she has stopped cooking. Any woman who had cooks and never stepped in the kitchen until she moved to this country has to have the ability to cook, in the genes. After all, she is her mother's daughter. My grandmother is a phenomenal cook. She throws things together, and it turns out perfect. She came to visit last year, and Snark gnashed his teeth and wept the day she left.

I didn't step foot into a kitchen until I married. My mother thought he would give me back when he found out I didn't know how to microwave. The first meal I served was Stouffers cabbage rolls. Not a bad meal ... if they had been cooked through. Fortunately, I redeemed myself and have turned into a passably good cook, but I would rather eat.

I moved from a state where food and family go hand in hand. There is nothing like hanging out before a Mardi Gras parade eating your friend's white beans, her brother-in-law's jambalaya and sucking down a cold beer before you go shake it for beads. I, however, shake it for a few minutes then sneak back to the food table for dessert.

My children are developing certain tastes. They are typical children. They like bland, bland, bland. But there is a little chink. They love chicken curry and slurp up that delectable Vietnamese soup Pho. I didn't know whether to be angry or proud when my daughter declared to my friend that she only likes her dad's homemade pizza, shunning the Freschetta that my friend had baked.

I pretend that I don't care about what we eat when I got out. But it is a sham. I care deeply. I don't want mediocre. I want something that soothes my soul and satisfies me. To me food is the central part of my life.