When I think back through my seemingly idyllic childhood, and if forced to actually ponder thoughts like, "What were not only the grandest memories but rather the deepest memories," food would certainly have been involved. Not surprisingly so as this, I'm quite sure, would be a standard response from anyone who hailed south Louisiana as their home.
Food meant home. Sure we went out to eat, but that was special, an occasion which certainly in turn meant Sunday clothes and a fancy, Commander's Palace type of restaurant. Home was the center of our universe and the family table would surely have been its epicenter. The food at the table told us who we were and where we came from, southern and southern Louisianian at that.
Our food taught us about the seasons (only crawfish were found on the table during the spring) that glossy food periodicals didn't teach us that -- it was inherent with that time and place. We traveled the world, learning of our families' travels through the Air Force by the foods we ate.
From the table we actually communicated (yes there was no texting, no instant messages, Facebook or even a rudimentary email) -- all we had was each other that we visited with and we were forced to use and develope our verbal skills just as much as our palettes matured and developed.
