by Judy Schultz
Over a long lifetime I’ve developed a few quirks, but the one I’ve had the most fun with is my admitted obsession with food.
Critics have pointed it out with each book I’ve written, including one waspish review of my first novel that said I should stick to recipes and leave the real writing to the pros. Ouch!
Still, one of my favourite retirement projects was a book of short stories called Best Served Cold. Lots of food, revenge, several poisonings, one roasting, that sort of thing.
A little history. I was born weighing only four pounds. A priest was called re: emergency baptism of an expiring infant. My mother told the priest to get lost, I would be fine as soon as I ate. She was right, but I’m still hungry.
About that. The first cookbook I bought with my own money was called The Joy of Cooking. Good name. I love to cook, and I like people who cook for the fun of it, for the pure joy of feeding family and friends. Some of my best friends and a few of my heroes have also been food-obsessed: chefs, bakers, gardeners, farmers, writers, plus some extremely talented amateurs. They tell great stories, play their favourite music too loud while they cook, and they can feed all comers with a package of dry spaghetti and a big salad.
Food is history, and our sense of smell is the key to memory. I never smell oatmeal on a winter morning without remembering my grandfather, never peel a tangerine without recalling a long-ago Christmas.
Hamburger with fried onions? I’m six years old at the Brandon Fair, begging my dad for one of those burgers.
The deep, dark aroma of a good Barolo? I’m somewhat older, in Italy, and a white truffle is being shaved over hot scrambled eggs.
Whether it’s hamburgers with fried onions (yum) or a ritzy Barolo with truffles, the sense of smell is everybody’s magic carpet. It operates out of the fight-or-flight portion of our brain, the amygdala, and while the wrong smell can produce fear, loathing or absolute terror in an unhappy few, for most of us the smell of food or wine has exactly the opposite effect: it evokes pleasure. Fond memories, happy occasions, old comforts, people and places we’ve loved.
The smell of freshly baked bread? I’m nine, it’s Saturday, my wretched piano lesson is over, my dog and I share a thick slice of fresh bread puddled with butter, sprinkled heavily with crunchy brown sugar. To this day, it’s the reason I can never pass a good bakery without going in for a loaf.
Over the years this tough little magazine, The Tomato, has collected its own community of the obsessed. We’re collectively known as foodies. We love to eat, to drink good wine, to cook, to read about food and wine, to talk about remembered meals, or what we’ve just eaten, or drunk, or what we’re about to cook or eat or drink.
Call it obsession if you wish. I’d rather call it passion.
We can’t live fully without it. We’re lucky to have it.
Bon appetit, Tomato people.
