By Kimberly Kaye
In the name of composing a seasonally appropriate “food piece” which, ideally, avoids clichéd lauding of family fruitcake recipes or life latke lessons, I’d like to share something somewhat different with this worldly community of artists. I stumbled recently across a food related tradition practiced in Thailand, an exercise in giving that I feel is certainly notable at this time of year -- without dripping the gooey and forced sentimentality featured in the mainstream media.
Several weeks ago I learned that before their deaths many Thai natives prepare handcrafted miniature cookbooks -- tiny notebook collections of personal and favorite recipes, food related anecdotes, and personal tips for mealtime success, compiled over years of serving family and friends. These books, often ornate in design and accented by the uniqueness of homemade craftsmanship, are then distributed to friends and family -- at the author’s funeral.
While discussion of a funereal party-favor may seem morbid to some, I am captivated by the premise and its timeliness. These books are the epitome of the perfect gift. Thoughtful, ageless, infinitely appropriate no matter the occasion, they are filled with personal gems of the world’s most universal pleasure (food). More importantly, they provide those separated from you (willing or unwillingly) by any distance with a guide to recreating old memories ... and conjuring new ones.
I am, admittedly, no greatly valued authority on food. I am not a chef. I do not own restaurants or travel to the remotest corners of the earth to sample authentic fare prepared by native hands. I have not been to culinary school, and it is doubtful that The Food Network will ever approach me about my own series. I am simply a chef’s daughter. I know food from the perspective of an omnivore who has been privy, both through birthright and seemingly endless employment in the restaurant industry, to the inner workings of how we eat. I have served and been served, seen failures and triumphs, and tasted both. With that in mind, what I can say with authority is this: no where else in the world will a triumph be as meaningful, or a failure so enjoyed, as in a home kitchen.
This is why the idea of a little book, penned by a person you care about rather than a culinary expert, is beautiful. Even if you cannot, or will not, cook at all, just holding this sort of item can bring back a rush of memories -- and regardless of whether the food was bad or good, you’ll find the feeling stirred up by those meals were generally the latter.
I appreciate the value of both memory and memories, particularly when cooperating with one another. Though I am by no means old, I do cope with mild memory loss as a result of a chronic illness. It’s nothing serious, just enough to frustrate on certain days, but it startles when you go to recall a simple item and find it has left your inventory. On some bad days, I find that food helps fill in the gaps (as smell is the strongest sense linked memory, this presumption is actually very logical); I don’t go reaching for my iPod or new jewelry to help hold on to what is slipping; I hope that my father will come home smelling like garlic and herbs, that my mother will be eating fragrant chocolate in her favorite chair after work, that there will be strawberry jam or peanut butter on hand to remind me of my sister, these scents acting as a glue so that everything in my head will stay there.
I have, if you haven’t already noticed, digressed into somewhat gooey sentimentality. The point is that the Thai have the right idea. Maybe it’s telling that the books are their final gift -- saving the best for last. I’m not saying you should return every gift you get this season, mumbling alarmingly about “cookbooks” under your breath while the family looks on in concern. The lesson is to take what you will from this tradition into the New Year, to pass along that spirit as time goes on. There’s been plenty written already about the best gifts coming from the heart -- I’ll spare you.
But maybe the best gifts also come from (the spirit of) the kitchen.
Love it.
Posted by: Maria Lo | 12/25/2006 at 07:38 PM