Karla's Kolumn: Can you taste that memory

Trisha Yearwood sings “The Song Remember When.” Music can bring back a lot of memories but in chatting with a longtime friend of mine over the weekend I came to the conclusion a lot of my memories center around food.

It’s the different senses that create memories for us, smell, taste, hearing, seeing and touching. I guess smell and taste are big memory sensors for me.

Our discussion began in discussing snack food, specifically pizza rolls. We both remember my mom cooking pizza rolls during sleep overs, movie night or New Year’s Eve. They were our go-to snacks.

We also remembered my dad’s love of puffed wheat with butter and salt. He loved that more than popcorn. I have a lot of fond memories of my dad with food among them.

Growing up when if it was your birthday you got to tell Mom what you wanted for your birthday dinner. Seemed like we always chose spaghetti, my father’s least favorite (next to tuna casserole or anything with cooked tuna). He would always lobby the birthday child to pick something else like fried chicken and potatoes and gravy. It never worked, after all it was our birthday.

When I went away to college, I remember, however, mom asking what I missed most and it wasn’t her spaghetti it was her fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy so that’s what we had my first night back home.

Dad was so excited, noting as empty nesters mother didn’t cook up big meals for just the two of them. (I get that, it’s not easy cooking for two but after 19.5 years I’m beginning to master it.)

My mother was a wonderful cook and baker, having had that passed down from her mother. Her sugar cookies were legendary around the Thermopolis school system.

One of my fondest memories of food and my mother was her taking me for a lime slush at Daylight Donuts after summer band practice every day.

I remember one of the first times we went out to eat for breakfast as a family the waitress asked me how I wanted my eggs, I looked confused, looked for help from my brother and sister, who provided none, and then in a shy voice replied “fried.” “Fried?” the bewildered waitress asked. “Yes,” I said, after all I didn’t want them poached or scrambled.

My brother began laughing almost uncontrollably and I, feeling I did something wrong or stupid, came near to tears. However, bless the waitresses heart, I got my eggs fried, I believe close to over medium (I can say that as an older, wiser and more sophisticate egg eater now).

Another time we went to dinner we went to a place that served soup or salad first and we joked with my sister that this was her type of restaurant because everything came separate so no food was touching. She really didn’t like food to touch, unlike my brother growing up who had a tendency to mix everything together and remark “It all goes to the same place.”

Of course, I thought to myself, yes it goes to the same place, but it is important how it tastes getting there.

And as important as it is for food to taste good going down, I believe it is also important in creating the memories, whether preparing or eating or both.

So go cook up some memories.