March 10, 2011
By Julia
Food has become purely functional in my life. I live alone, I often eat alone. I stand over the sink at home, eat crackers from my office desk drawer, or catch some fast food on a quick trip off-campus between teaching and an evening rehearsal. I sometimes wonder if I’ve forgotten how to really relax over a meal. But it wasn’t always like this. I grew up “ethnic” Mennonite, which in my household meant 3rd generation American with Russian Mennonite forebears. We didn’t always eat “Mennonite” at home, but, oh, just wait for Grandma’s house. Grandpa lived there too, but I wonder if we called it “Grandma’s” house because of the food. Going to “Grandma’s” house always meant a meal. We sat around the long table with the other relatives, white tablecloth, ice tea, home-canned pickles and olives, curry and rice (the missionary influence), or borscht, or verenika and German sausage, zweibach always, homemade jam. In a sort of mathematical equation, even if the rest of the meal was fairly generic, the zwiebach meant it equalled Mennonite. If we stayed for evening “faspa,” we might get bubbet; not my favorite, but “ethnic,” therefore “good.” I remember childhood as being a long love of sitting at the table with a roomful of relatives, playing “seafood” with the cousins, laughing, joking, practicing witty repartee in the company of others, and all while getting fat and full off the deliciousness that was Grandma’s cooking.