A Date With Nana

Arroz con Pollo

I’m not sure it’s true that sensory memory is short term as described by some scientist.   Since my own sensory memories tend to be more explicit and long lasting.   

 I’m certain we all experience sensory recollections of some kind or another.  We hear a song and are reminded of a loved one or special event.  Perhaps you’ve driven through some town or have seen a photo of people gathered in a square and before you know it your mind is catapulted back to a time in your personal history when you visited a similar place.  Without even realizing it you conjure up pictures of who was with you and what you were doing.  Have you ever eaten a certain dish or food and some long lost memory  washes across your mind? 

  When I was about six years old, my sister, brother and I had a babysitter who watched us after school.  She had three children of her own, all about our same ages.  On occasion our babysitter used to bake these chocolate cookies with powdered sugar on them.  I loved those cookies! 

But it wasn’t until I was a grown adult participating in a cookie exchange that I remembered that babysitter and those kids.  There they were, those delightful confections with their contrast of colors and their soft, sweet, crackly tops sitting on an over-sized holiday platter.  Then I remembered. 

It had been raining outside, so we were forced to play indoors, all six of us. Pin the tail on the donkey.  The kids spun me around so many times I became extremely dizzy, fell and hit my face on the footboard of the over-sized bed that took up almost the entire room.  My chin split open and the bleeding started.  I cried dramatically of course.   The other kids hurriedly escorted me out of the room and clamored in explanation what happened.  I was immediately tended to by the babysitter who armed herself with a dampened cloth, tape and gauze.  Best of all, I was consoled with one of the Chocolate Crinkle Cookies she had been baking that afternoon.  The other children were awarded cookies too, for thinking on their feet so quickly, (they left out the part about spinning me around too many times).   That entire memory emerged from the depths of my mind just from seeing cookies at a holiday exchange years later.  

But recently I’ve been having a most unique sensory memory, an olfactory memory.  Like a recurring dream, it happens over and over.  The first time I had this particular sensory memory I had disembarked from the airplane at SFO and was making my way towards the large, glass doors to board the Super Shuttle.  I was not yet outside when it hit me. 

 Suddenly the scent of garlic, olive oil and arroz con pollo filled my nostrils.  I was momentarily stunned.  I looked around the myriad of people surrounding me.  No one was walking and eating from a to-go-box nor was I within sight or smell of a food court.  I couldn’t figure out how or from where I was picking up on the smell of my Nana’s chicken and rice, with bits of bacon and small capers.  I shook my head as if to clear my mind, thinking the smell would go away.  But it didn’t.  That aromatic comfort I associate with my grandmother only increased as I exited the building.  I was outside and the scent was as strong as ever.  How can I still be smelling Nana’s cooking when I’m outside, I wondered. 

 I had flown in from Vegas to visit my brother who was in the midst of his battle with cancer, so I reasoned perhaps Nana was with me.  Kind of hitchhiking along to see how Lawrence was doing for herself.  You know how you come up with crazy, esoteric  explanations during moments such as these.  I was sure that’s what was happening.   As I stood on the curb waiting for my blue limo I continued breathing deeply, trying to discern where the scent was coming from.  I intently watched the passers-by but could see I was the only one who detected the scent.  Trust me if anyone else had been inhaling the aroma of that delectable dish, they would’ve exhibited obvious signs of salivation. 

Finally I boarded the van and then it was gone.  I rode in silence to my mother’s house never mentioning the strange event when I arrived.  Two weeks later, when I flew into SFO it happened again.  I strolled past airport security on my way to passenger pick-up, and there was Nana’s chicken and rice, in vaporous form.  Floating under my nose and tickling my taste buds.  Now, for some magical reason, every time I fly home, and meander my way through SFO airport, towards the curb outside to await my ride, there’s Nana’s chicken and rice.  Strange though it is, it makes me smile. 

Nana has been gone for over 40 years.  But my memory of her cooking, her style of preparation and her love of watching us eat, remains prominent.  I am fortunate enough to  have her wooden mortar and pestle in my own kitchen.  Whenever I’m cooking up something of great importance, I make sure I pound that fresh garlic, olive oil and salt in her well-seasoned vessel.  As a child I licked the pestle now I only hold it up to my nose, inhale deeply and the memories come flooding back.  It’s wonderful.  I miss her.  I miss her cooking.

But if Nana were still here with us and I was to prepare a meal for her, what would I make?  My pumpkin bouillabaisse?  My French cassoulet?  Would I dare cook up her chicken and rice in hopes it would measure up?  Maybe.  I do remember she had a sweet-tooth. 

It’s just a fantasy, but if “Nana in San Francisco,” unexpectedly took a seat at my table for dinner I think I would start the meal off with an appetizer of home-made guacamole and tortilla chips.  My guacamole would have plenty of chunky avocado, fresh lime and cumin seed.  The chips I would make from corn tortillas, cut into sharp triangles, drizzle them with olive oil and season them with kosher salt and herbs de Provence.  Then I’d crisp them up to perfection in the oven.

 For our entrée, my chicken and cheese enchiladas might serve to impress her.  Soft Gordita-flour tortillas stuffed with a freshly roasted, shredded chicken and a blend of cheeses.  One batch prepared with a white sauce, bubbling hot with a chili verde salsa to accentuate the dish and offer a pleasant high note.  The other batch would be smothered in a smoky red sauce so dark and lusty Nana would ask if it was adobo.  Black olives, dollops of more guacamole and streaks of crema Mexicana would enhance the taste and visual appeal.   

Since my enchiladas are somewhat heavy, I would stick to her simple salad of iceberg lettuce, quartered, diced tomatoes and snips of green onions.  A simple dressing of olive oil and vinegar with a pinch of salt is all she would need.

To “fill in the cracks” as she used to say, and satisfy her sweet tooth, a small plate of fresh fruit, shortbread biscuits and stuffed dates.  She loved dates.  Soft and chewy, with a rich history of culinary uses going as far back as Pre-historic Egypt and Mesopotamia.  The ancient Egyptians enjoyed the date for its sweet flavor and even used it to manufacture wine.  Harvested from the date palm tree, dates can be used as a digestive aide, are rich in potassium and are reported to be a super-food for the development of healthy bones. 

While Nana and I sip our espresso and enjoy our sweets, I would explain what a Blog site is.  And that I’m on the letter “D” this week, hence the Dates.  Nana would nod her head and widen her eyes in interest.  She would tell me how she had never had dates split in half and stuffed with a blend of mascarpone cheese, honey and fresh orange zest topped with a slivered almond.  Small, simple and sweet ~  Yes, I believe Nana would approve.   Wait until she tastes my dates wrapped in bacon!!  * Recipes for Dates to follow later this week.  

Hmmm, Stuffed Dates?

Horn-rimmed glasses - always in style!