First Food
(so it’s been a while since I’ve posted. i apologize. more essays soon.)
The first food I ever remember creating, which wasn’t made of play-doh, was when I was about three, around the time I was in preschool. If I could go back now and name it, I would give it a name that was Latin-sounding. Something that made it seem at least a little classy. The Vomitorium Maximus or something equally obscure. That way, it would at least have something going for it. If I could go back, too, I would stop myself, if only for what it probably did to my stomach afterward.
***
I was alone, roaming my house like I normally did, bouncing from room to room, staring in, leaving, and bouncing on to the next room. I talked to myself as I did this. Some kids have imaginary friends. I didn’t. I had myself and I talked to myself as if there were two of us there (this worked out great when I was playing with Legos or action figures as I had both sides, good and evil to battle) . Finally, as I made my way from the third to the first floor, I ended up in the furthest room back in the house, the kitchen. I don’t know where my mom was at this point. Watching TV, maybe. My dad was at work and my sister was at school. I was hungry.
In my mind, a lot of things already tasted good. The foods that my family kept on the lower shelves of the fridge were the best and most familiar to me—the condiments, deli meats, pickles. I ventured higher sometimes, to the shelves that stored the dinner leftovers, the milk and juices, and whatever else my parents could cram into the fridge. I wasn’t afraid to try anything at least once. In my head, I can remember picturing a picture of a sectioned-off tongue showing the different taste receptors. I saw it once on a PBS show and I hadn’t forgotten it. When I ate food, I pictured that tongue and I tried to make every piece that I tasted go to the right area on the tongue in order to fully experience the food, no matter how simple it was.
Blue cotton candy from the Saint Val’s carnival, tip of the tongue. Lemon wedges at the bar at a wedding reception where I was stuffed into a monkey suit, back of the tongue. Salted pretzel rods at snack time at my babysitter’s house, front half of the tongue, right behind the sweet spot. Every time I ate something, I catalogued it like that. When I didn’t know better, I thought in fronts and backs, middle lefts and middle rights. I still remember that tongue when I eat something new. I also tried to get as many different receptors in each meal as I could. If I was on my own, this was limited to things that didn’t involve a can opener or knives, both still forbidden. I would mash things together willy-nilly and hope for the best. I didn’t plan it, exactly, at least I didn’t see it like that back then, I just threw things together until I was full. This time though things were different. I wanted to hit every sense; I wanted to taste everything at once.
I pulled a chair over to the island counter next to the stove and climbed on up. Opening the cabinets, above the stove I was greeted with a whole new slew of items to choose from. I hadn’t ventured up onto the counter before. I hadn’t realized how many tasty things were hidden away at twice my height. Peanut butter. Raisins. We even had Spam and, since my dad ate Spam for lunch on the weekends, I liked Spam. I started grabbing things. The peanut butter came first. Then I visited the spice rack. And the lower shelves of the fridge. And the pantry by the back door. Pretty soon, I had a pile of ingredients on the kitchen table.
Now came the fun part, assembly. There was still no sign of my mom, so I continued on uninhibited. Without a knife to use, I had to pull the crusty roll apart with my hands. I got bread under my nails. It pushed up under them and, if it weren’t for the feeling of something pressing against my skin, I wouldn’t have realized it was there. It was the same color as the tips of my nails and I liked that for some reason. It made me feel like I was doing something good, I was, to sound very Zen, one with the bread. If I knew about Zen or anything beyond simple facts like the muppet babies were awesome, my best friend’s name was Anthony, and I wanted to be a teenage mutant ninja turtle when I got older, I might have even considered this back then.
Peanut butter went on first. I scooped it out of the tub with my little spoon and spread it on with the back of the utensil. That spoon, as well as the matching fork, were my all purpose tools as a kid. I used them for everything. Every meal, even holidays, those two utensils, with their white plastic handles with the little blue designs that I can only describe as Incan sun gods on them went everywhere with me. Next, I surveyed my options. I knew when my mom made sandwiches she put something creamy on the bottom or top then put meat or something more solid next so onto my sandwich went the sliced pepperoni I found in the meat drawer. Thick cut and oily, I made a line down the center of the peanut butter.
Next, I sprinkled on salt, pepper and garlic powder, the three spices my mom seemed to use on everything as a kid. I remember they were always on the dinner table. My dad would bury his food in salt. My mom would sometimes add some pepper or garlic or red pepper flakes, especially if it was on pizza. I would mimic her, shake too much on, and suffer through my first experiences with heat in food. I think. If I did, I sound like an adventuresome little kid. More likely, my mom probably brushed it off or did the time-honored motherly tradition of giving her food to her hungry child.
Finally, I added my spread my last ingredient on the other half of the bread. Mayonnaise. Thick-set and jiggly like day-old pudding, it quivered on the end of my spoon as I lifted it from the jar. Now, the thought of mayonnaise like that stresses me out to the point of giving me a complex. I can’t eat eggs and oil like that made up like that. The taste is one of those that, for me, sticks to the back of my throat, climbs onto my uvula and hangs there, gagging me until I want to throw up. Back then, though, I loved mayo. I would make mayo and ketchup sandwiches when I was hungry. It wasn’t unusual for me to eat one or two at a time, the condiments spilling over the sides of the bread and onto the paper plate below.
So I had my sandwich: peanut butter, pepperoni, salt, pepper, garlic powder and mayonnaise on a crusty roll. If it weren’t for the peanut butter, the sandwich itself might have been a passable, normal sandwich fit for a college student on a tight budget. But there was the peanut butter there to mess it all up. That sticky, full taste of peanuts invading the other flavors would ruin it for me today (that, and the overuse of mayo). But then, as a stupid kid who was ready for anything except going downstairs at night in my house because it was really dark and I was paranoid that there were either ghosts or burglars ready to kill me, I ate it. I ate the entire sandwich. Every disgusting bite. I don’t remember what it tasted like, but I ate it. I think the only reason I did eat it was because I was young and slightly dense. I liked all of those foods separately, so why wouldn’t they go well together. I had no sense of flavor combinations yet, but I was happy and at that point, that was all that mattered.
