Favorite foods are more memory than taste. The smell and the flavor take us back to a time that was sweeter. It is the memory that we long to taste. Salmon is one of those foods for me.
I grew up poor and hungry on a diet of ketchup sandwiches and chicken noodle soup. Sometimes we had a special treat we called Salmon Stew. We pronounced it SaL-mon with the letter “l”. For decades I wondered what this mystery dish was and how I could recreate it. I was quite embarrassed when I realized that my mysterious dish was just a can of Salmon (no l) a can of milk and some saltine crackers. Seems simple enough now, but as a child I loved this meal. It meant there were other groceries in the house. There was milk and butter, bread and bacon. Salmon stew was just the fist meal that signaled a full pantry.
I can’t cook fish and I don’t eat fish. It’s not because of the taste. I like fish. It’s because I have an unnatural fear of fish bones. The fear is so overpowering that it makes enjoying the meal impossible. I chew every morsel till eating becomes tedious. Even then, I’m afraid to swallow. When I was young I didn’t know that Salmon was fish so I ate without fear. Once I found out - it lost all its appeal.
Then my son cooked a special birthday dinner for me. He’s a Seattleite and cooking salmon along with knowing the eight different categories for rain are required knowledge for a voter’s registration card. He spent the day at Pike Place Market shopping for fresh veggies and just the right cut of fresh salmon. He baked it in tin foil smothered in spices and served it with fresh asparagus and bread. After dinner, we took a short walk to the local Internet café for a fancy espresso, cheesecake and some conversation. Jazz playing in the background. It was a wonderful evening and one of the best birthdays’ I can remember. It wasn’t just the food but the affection with which it was prepared.
A few years later, my son offered to bring me another salmon dinner since he was making it for a new girlfriend. I was delighted and like a child waiting for a special treat, I planned my day around this meal. I heard the cooking sounds from the kitchen and waited as patiently as I could but after waiting for hours, I finally called to see what the delay was. He was irritated by the call. Told me that I had misunderstood. If he had any leftovers, he would bring them over the next day. I behaved like a child and cried like a child. “But I’m hungry, and I’ve been waiting all day” I said. It only made him angrier. “I’m having dinner with a female companion. What will she think if I leave to bring dinner to my mother” he snarled at me.
It was more than hunger. We had been at odds for a long time. We just weren’t connecting with each other. Misunderstandings dominated our conversations and I longed for the days with we seemed to have a natural rapport. The salmon reminded me of those days when things came easy. Days when his love and support were given freely. When he wasn’t ashamed of being kind to me. I waited for the salmon like a child waits for Santa. It would be proof that I had been nice and not naughty.
The next day when he delivered the cold fish, I had lost my appetite. I didn’t eat salmon again for a long time. It had become just like any other fish – too many fish bones. And they stick in my throat.
One of the gifts of aging is the memory loss. Too many facts clutter the brain and we have to start sorting them out. We repeat the ones we enjoy and let go of the ones that make us unhappy. At least I am. It requires so much effort to carry around all those grudges. I’d prefer to travel light. Besides it seems unfair to remember someone based on the worst thing they did and not the best. So I cherish the first birthday salmon feast and I’ve all but forgotten all about the cold fish.
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