Diary of Why posted an entry today about what an awful cook her mother is. This is a subject that I really love. I feel like the food that one grew up eating says so much about a person, and just as I love hearing stories of their family history (where they came from, how they got here, what happened once they got here, etc) I also love hearing about what their family dinners consisted of.
As I commented on in Miss Diary's post, my mom did a great disservice to my reserve of traumatic childhood stories by actually being a very good cook. The only thing I remember refusing to eat was curry, but that's just because I hated the taste of curry until I was older and my palate matured a bit. But really, just as it is today, I'd pretty much eat anything as a child. Chicken hearts and liver, cow tongue sandwiches, hell, the local sushi joint would provide me with a booster seat and specially fashioned easy-to-use chopsticks so I could eat raw fish and fish eggs along with the rest of my family.
It wasn't until I was a little older, maybe 9 or 10, that dinner went from the family (mom, sister, brother, myself) sitting around our little kitchen table, talking and laughing about the day's events, to my mother having to work late and us being instructed to "fend for yourself", that dinner turned into PB&J's in front of the television. I still miss that time we spent together. If I had known how hard it would be to capture that feeling again, that special sensation of belonging to this ultra exclusive group of people - people who totally got your humor and who made you laugh so hard you'd snort milk out of your nose - I don't think I would have been in such a hurry to grow up.
Since I sadly don't have any horror stories from my mother's repertoire of recipes, I'll tell you my very favorite. My mom makes The. Best. pancakes I've ever had. She has this huge skillet that she must have gotten as a wedding present (it's that old) and on it she makes these tiny cornmeal pancakes. "Breakfast for dinner" is one of the best concepts ever, in my opinion, and we'd never have these pancakes for actual breakfast. No, these miniature pancakes would always be the perfect cozy dinner, piled high on our plates and consumed rapidly with a huge pour of maple syrup. We'd compete to see who could eat more, which usually ended in a tie between myself and my equally thin older brother - our slender figures always masked our bottomless appetites.
Now tell me, what were your family dinners like? And don't hold back on the horrid details.