So… while scrolling Facebook, I came across a post via My Love For Cooking (she’s kind of adorable) that had me all aflutter. It was about Childhood Memory Foods, in essence.
I have to confess I didn’t read the whole thing because I became super-distracted by the food memories swirling through my head. I realized I had to chronicle them STAT. Hopefully the topic will get you equally fired up… and, I realize your own food memories won’t be easily contained to the comments so… if you’re so inspired… write a bit about your own food memories, and let’s have a little linky party!
Use whatever format you like. There are a million posts out there (I prefer the ones on Stepcase Lifehack) on the fact that perfect is the enemy of done. Search and read them. I realize that every single item on my list of 12 memory foods is worthy of a full post, and I could have allowed that to derail this post and this thought process. Instead, I’m giving you snippets on each one. That means that you are reading this post right now, instead of it dwelling in my list of blog ideas. Perhaps I’ll go back and elaborate at some point, but… for now, done is better than perfect. That’s why they aren’t in any particular order or with any particular rhyme or reason.
8. Fried Eggs. Most of my life, I ate scrambled eggs for breakfast, and that was lovely. My egg repertoire also included deviled, hard-boiled and poached for a brief fancy spell after Mom bought me some pretty egg-poachin-devices. Occasionally while growing up, I’d eat at a greasy spoon with my Dad (like Smitty’s in Wenatchee, WA which burned down repeatedly but was THE place) and he would order “basted” eggs. That sounded awfully fun. Turns out that was basically over (as in the flipping) easy (as in runny) or medium (a little less so). All of these were basically great in my book, and a rare treat. And then I married a man who offered to fry me an egg, and my life changed. Let me say this: I don’t know how on earth to order it when I go out in public, but I basically want every single egg ever served to me to turn out exactly the way my husband makes them, which is so difficult to communicate to a harried waitress. It might very well be my request for a last meal if I’m ever placed on death row. Heed this advice: find and marry someone willing to occasionally and adeptly fry you an egg, and you will be the luckiest person on the planet. Besides me.