Nostalgia Again

I'm no more immune from the pleasures and traps of nostalgia than anyone. Nor would I want to be.

Today's aromatic topic: chicken and rice.

Lately I've been having strong visualizations and scent memories of Grandma Fieata's chicken and rice. My memory is spotty enough that I can't claim to be certain if I'm even remembering that this was her dish, rather than Mom's. (Sorry Mom.) For someone who really likes food, that's a surprising admission. What I do remember is how all of that chicken fat (and butter too?) created something fattening and beautiful.

The good news: my re-creation of this chicken and rice memory was successful. Tasty even with brown rice and I suspect loads less fat. I can't say precisely what in me was getting fed.

It's not unlike me to remember a swirl of sensations without an anchor. Often, what is the essence remains ghostly for me. The only solid thing I remember here is the electric pan. This tired warhorse was called into service for chicken and rice as well as kidneys and rice, if I remember correctly.

Kidneys and rice wasn't just a budget choice. The Italian folks I grew up with had a sincere love for the internal organ. And skin too, as long as it was roasted crispy. I always felt deep down that eating organs was just taking it a bit too far. Kidneys struck too clinical a chord for me, but I liked the texture so I ate them anyway. This food acceptance was unusual for me, one of the pickier child eaters on the planet. This was a clear exception to my dainty eating patterns. Maybe it was a perception that as misfit as I was, if I ingested organ meat, I'd not be completely non-ethnic. Even Grandma's stunning venison heart in marinara couldn't get me completely over this visceral hump.

I'm surprised that I've not been overwhelmed by these savory flashes of nostalgia since I find myself in Medford, Oregon rather than Seattle, Northeastern Ohio or any other place. When you sincerely try to change your life, every little life thing is open to inspection, every gain, every loss. Memories rub up against me and give me pause and I move on. I have to in spite of the invitation to each specific lovely longing. Nostalgia is fine. I accept it as a type of quick warm memory but I have to take care not to warp it into an inaccurate emotional mythology.

It's kinda like being continually visited by a version of Scrooge's spirits of the Past, Present and Future. What happened versus what do I think happened. I am not Scrooge, thankfully; and the Ghost of Christmas Future no longer has its claws in my bones. I'd say, metaphorically, and at the risk of too much schmaltz, that Tiny Tim is still living and there's enough coal to warm the future. On this Christmas morning, that fine young lad brought me just a few chicken parts, not the biggest bird in the shop. But that seems enough for now.