Meals to Remember by Gillian

Much as I like to eat, I am not any kind of gourmet. I have very simple tastes and don’t care so very much what I eat, so it comes as no surprise that I can come up with only two meals that I remember because of the actual food. Memories of any kind can be wonderful or awful, so let’s get the awful one out of the way.

I have talked before about my time in Russia. Right after it became Russia and the old U.S.S.R . broke up, I spent a few weeks on a volunteer job in Leningrad, at that moment returning to it’s old self as St. Petersburg. I stayed in a private apartment with a lovely woman named Ludmilla, and her silent soldier husband and equally silent soldiers-to-be teenage sons. The last Sunday before I was due to leave, there was a “family dinner,” the first since I had been there, to celebrate my stay with them. Ludmilla’s widowed father, who lived some miles away in one of the many little towns that dot the Russian landscape, was coming in on the train specially to meet me, and bringing rabbits he had trapped in the woods for what Betsy would term a “taste treat sensation.”

Oh whoopee. I sighed to myself, mentally squaring my shoulders, could do this. Not with the delight expected of me, and that I must try to fake, but I could do it. In England during my youth we all ate a lot of rabbit, usually scattered around in little pieces in a big stew, liberally augmented by vegetables. I was well versed in ways of wrapping the bits of meat in some vegetable matter while in my mouth, then swallowing quickly without actually chewing the meat or allowing it anywhere near my taste buds. Of course that was fifty years ago, but I was sure I retained the knack.

So, Ludmilla of course refusing my offer of help, we huddled around the only table, a small wooden one in the kitchen corner; three silent men and me, with, thankfully, a charming and garrulous Grandpa. He and I managed quite an informative conversation in spite of no common language; possibly the free flow of vodka had something to do with it. Anyway it came to a sudden end as Ludmilla approached flourishing an old pewter plate which she placed, with as much ceremony as can be mustered in a small, crowded, steamy, kitchen, not in the center of the table but directly in front of me. Ludmilla and her dad beamed at me with pride and anticipation. Even the silent ones nodded gravely in agreement.

The small head still contained accusing, though by now, lusterless, sad brown eyes. The top of the head had been cut off, exposing the brain. Beside the gruesome, pitiful, object, a tiny glass spoon rested. Everyone in the kitchen watched, silently. They had sacrificed their favorite treat for me. I knew what was expected of me. My stomach heaved. Oh please oh please don’t let me throw up. I took a long drink of water and considered doing the same with vodka but knew that would only exacerbate my digestive woes. Ludmilla, bustling housewife too busy to stand and stare, placed a huge stew-pot on the table, accompanied by an exquisitely carved trencher piled high with chunks of thick black bread. Oh, thank you God, I can do this. I put a big piece of bread beside the beleaguered bunny, picked up the spoon, raised my head, and beamed at everyone.

“Thank you; all of you. Spaciba. Balshoye spaciba.”

I sounded so sincere, I almost believed it.

I toasted each of them individually. Surely, a little vodka would help.

And after all, rabbit brains are very tiny.

OK, enough of that. On to the good memory. Betsy and I were hiking in Scotland, I suppose ten or fifteen years ago. We ended up in a delightful little town, the name of which I knew until recently when it leaked from my brain along with a lot of other stuff. We decided, not for the first time, just to get fish and chips to go for dinner. We knew there had to be a “chippie” in a place of this size, and found it with little trouble. These chip shops which are scattered throughout Britain are not a chain, they are owned by individuals, and therefore, although they all look and smell much the same and serve essentially the same things, the end product varies.

We scuttled off with our haddock and fries still scalding hot. It was cool and drizzling a little and the heat felt good as it seeped through the paper wrapping; no longer simply newspaper as in my youth, but with hygienic wax paper now inserted between the paper and the food. At least that was how that particular shop served it though sadly some have now gone to those awful indestructible styrofoam boxes. 

We found a bench in a lovely little park beside the river and beneath a big tree to keep us dry, and unwrapped our precious bundles. Why, I have no idea, but those were the best fish and chips I have had in my entire life, before or since. Betsy thought so too. We raved to each other over them. We chattered happily about how far we had walked that day. Could we possibly....? We deserved it, didn’t we....? We practically ran back for a second order.

As I inferred at the beginning, I have had many many wonderful meals worth remembering, but I love the memories for where I was and the people who shared them. Mostly I have only a very vague memory, or none at all, or what I actually ate. Collectively, my meals most worthy of recall are those Betsy and I have had while camping, and the content of them is rarely memorable. We eat very basic food and much of it gets repeated day after day, especially as we often camp for days in some spot miles from any food source. There is something so special about eating outdoors, often by a stream or river, listening to the birds twitter and sing, while gazing into the campfire with the love of your life beside you. 

How could you possibly remember what food you ate?

© March 2014

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.