Nachos
The plate arrives full with chips. We are so hungry the chips alone would suffice. Thin and crispy, light as air, but yet oh so heavy with salt. The small crystals explode on your tongue. Then the satisfying crunch of the chip, like a melody to your ears. The cheese oozes from one chip to another, almost like a mini yellow waterfall flowing over and down the mound of chips, peppers, onions, and guacamole. You analyze each and every ounce of deliciousness, attempting to see how you can possibly cram every morsel of flavor into one bite. Challenge accepted. You grab a chip, big but not overly so. Adding a little pinch of this and a dash of that until “Voila!”, The chip of all chips. Through this process you may have some spillage, stainage, and frustration, but trust me the end result is well worth the wait. Now when you finally get this miracle chip don’t be too hasty or you could lose it in a blur, literally a blur on the new white shirt you have on. This is usually followed by a
“C’mon” or in some cases (depending on how much you really like your shirt or that nacho) a “Seriously? Worst day ever!” After you have narrowly avoided or dramatically gone through this you are free to continue on your mission. Carefully eat your masterpiece and enjoy this work of art as the flavors burst in your mouth. Challenge complete.
Tomato Basil Salad
It’s summer time and the smell of grilled chicken is in the air, but before we can eat the meal we have to make my mom’s famous tomato basil salad. I eagerly watch as my mom slices through the delicate mozzarella, cutting it in a haphazard way trying to finish quickly so the chicken doesn’t burn. I wait patiently as she moves on to the tomatoes that I picked yesterday. As they come into contact with the knife they burst spewing the red juice everywhere. I think they that they are bombs exploding all over the place, and I realize they kind of are as I sneakily snatch one away popping it into my mouth. The flavor explodes.
“Elizabeth!” She calls not realizing I had been hiding behind the counter. My eyes, the only thing visible to her, get wide with excitement for I was highly anticipating this moment.
“Ready for duty.” I say, mimicking a soldier. I know exactly what I’m expected to do because it’s only like the millionth time I’ve done it, but I wait for her to say it anyways.
“Could you go get some basil leaves? Make sure you are quick.” I was already out the front door, not bothering to put on shoes. I startle my dad as I run past the grill, my feet pad on the soft ground. I reach the garden and greedily pick the basil leaves only grabbing the biggest ones. I return quickly to the kitchen where my mom patiently awaits my arrival. I slam down the leaves and out of breath from excitement I manage to sputter out “Done!” . My mother effortlessly chops them and sprinkles them over the tomatoes and Mozzarella. Finally, she drizzled them with olive oil and vinegar. I reach for the bowl not even bothering to wait for the rest of the family as I help myself to the contents within. When all that remained was the vinegar, oil, and sea salt I guiltlessly grabbed the bowl and drained it. When we make it again in the winter time the basil is not fresh and the tomatoes not handpicked, but it is till addicting. The liquid cold, but it still warms me from the sweet (and salty) summer memories.
Lobster
“Happy Birthday!” My mom yells, being excessively happy for this ungodly hour.
“Mhmmmm” I reply rolling over and shading my eyes as the lights blink on. When it comes to birthdays my family is always excited, but not for the same reasons other families are. Our focus tends to be on food rather than presents. With age my tastes became refined, and since it was my seventh birthday I got to choose anything. Unlike my older sister who was content with homemade Mac N’ Cheese I demanded nothing less than a full-fledged lobster meal. This would be the third time I had had lobster, and I. Was. Addicted. I would make my mother buy cheap imitation crab meat and I would pretend the white, tender meat was lobster, dipping it in unending garlic butter, but I knew it wasn’t and I was never satisfied. My mom joked,
“You must have salt water in your veins because all you eat it seafood.” Due to my never-ending love of lobster I had been incessantly awaiting the moment in which I could finally indulge my cravings. Finally, my dad came home with two whole Lobsters…Live.
“Rock a bye baby in the treetop when the wind blows the cradle will rock.” We sang to the lobsters like we were singing a lullaby to a baby. When we found out they fall asleep once exposed to cold we couldn’t resist ourselves. Secretly I think I sang because I loved it just as much or more than a baby. Then a thought occurred to me, what was the last thing they would remember? Would it be the calm and peaceful serenity that the cold brought to them rushing over them like a wave or possibly the scorching heat of the boiling water? The thought made me sad, but then I remembered that I would get to eat them and the sadness quickly dissipated.
The lobsters went in the pot a strange purple brown color, and came out a bright vibrant red. It reminded me of a shiny red balloon, something any normal seven year old would be happy with on their birthday. When it came time to eat I was beyond ecstatic. I was moronic bordering on crazed. The extraction of the meat from the claws did not faze me as I cracked them open and quickly devoured its contents. The tail on the other hand I took another approach, slowly savoring every morsel, dipping in it garlic butter and enjoying every moment. When I finished I looked up at my family with a big childish grin and most likely mass amounts of butter all over my face, I realized that without the delicious food and the content feeling in my stomach this would still be the best birthday ever, but the lobster was still appreciated.
Peanut Butter Pie
My sister was always a slow eater, and I always thought that this was to my advantage, but in truth I admit it will probably be my undoing. Since she was the tortoise and I was the hare when it came to eating I, on occasion, borrowed her food. As I say this I can practically hear her screaming,
“It is stealing not borrowing!” The moral of the story is I probably eat my plate and a solid portion of her plate every meal. Yes, I am admitting that I will probably be morbidly obese one day due to my love of food and the excitement of stealing it from my sister. When it comes to my “borrowing” tendencies I’m not greedy, I mean I make sure my sister doesn’t die of starvation or anything. The only time I ever become voracious to the point of heartlessness is when my mom whips out her famous peanut butter pie. I know this may sound insensitive, but I would probably kill for an extra slice of my mom’s pie. I would do anything to get a taste of the super-rich, creamy caramel colored peanut butter. Not to mention the pure white whipped cream, reminding me of the snow on the tippy tops of mountains, and the childish craving to eat its minuscule icicles. I have two distinct memories with this godly food.
On Thanksgiving my family had longingly awaited the peanut butter that had become something of a tradition, so when the time had come for dessert they were unexpectedly disappointed. Not because the pie didn’t taste good, trust me it was stupendous, but because of their portions. What they didn’t know was that I had stolen the pie while they were off doing their grown-up stuff and eaten almost all of it. Being my kindhearted self, I left them an entire slice. It was hard, but I restrained myself from eating that last piece, in fact I didn’t touch it all. Ok, that’s a lie, I did happen to accidentally scoop half the whip cream off while closing the container. Followed by a,
“Whoops, well I guess I have to eat this whip cream now. I can’t let it go to waste!” So as my family angrily ate their sixth of a slice of pie, some with frosting some without, I sat contently in the corner. Let me just say that they were more mad when I threw it all up on the car ride home.
“What a waste.” My dad murmured to himself, furiously attempting to scrub the puke stains off of his car seats.
“Yeah!” My sister agreed, referring to me rather than the pie.
My other memory includes loss. It was my dog. No, he didn’t die, but he came close when he decided to smash his tiny white face completely into the scrumptious pie. You can’t blame him, I often find myself wishing that I could dive into one of those pies face first; at least he had the gumption to go through with his plan, no matter what the consequences were. And there were consequences. Mostly screaming, possibly tears on my part, and a lot of mean glares. Unlike the time when I stole the pie, he felt guilty and whimpered, tail down, ears flattened to his head, all the way to his crate where he stayed for the remainder of the night. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy every second of it though, I saw that look in his eyes as he came up with puffy cream all over. His face contained pure joy, until he noticed I was watching.
“No Barnaby no! Why? Do you not love me?” In that moment I could almost hear him say
“I do love you. I just love peanut butter pie more.” He managed to get one more, good mouthful in before weall got to him. This was the one day I envied my dog, and it was all because of the pie. The pie that had the
ability to make man and man’s best friend betray each other for just one bite.
No comments:
Post a Comment