When someone asks, “Which food instantly transports you to childhood?” I don’t just think of flavor—I think of crackling campfires, sticky fingers from picking blueberries, and the music of laughter echoing off lake water.
It starts with the scent of my mom’s homemade bread rising in the oven—earthy, warm, and full of promise. The moment it came out, it was a race. My dad, and cousins Bob, Dick and Glenn, would playfully argue over the heel of the loaf—the prized crusty end—especially when paired with my mom’s canned banana peppers. Somehow, that bite felt like a full meal, packed with love and tradition.
But it wasn’t just the bread—it was what Mom did with it. From the same dough, she’d tear off little pieces, fry them to golden perfection, and turn them into the most irresistible fried bread balls. My niece Kim and I would savor them warm, dripping with butter, then rolled in cinnamon and sugar until our fingers were sticky and our hearts were full.
And then, there were her homemade mincemeat cookies—soft, spiced treasures made with her own green tomato mincemeat, canned with care and love. They didn’t last long, especially with my niece Melissa around. She’d devour them with the kind of joy only a child (or a true cookie lover) could bring to the table.
Food was never just food in our house. It was legacy. I remember my mom in the kitchen, rhythmically churning our neighbor Bill’s thick cow’s milk into butter. Or sipping that same milk ourselves—so creamy, it was practically a dessert.
We’d gather at Red Wing cottage, the firelight dancing over faces familiar and dear. That’s where the homemade “Crow’s Foot” came out—a warm apple cake smothered in drawn butter sauce, so rich it felt like winter and summer had met in one pan.
And my sister Candy’s blueberry pie? The taste is inseparable from the memory of picking those blueberries ourselves, squatting in the brush with fingers stained purple, earning money for new school clothes and savoring the moment we’d earned our sweet reward.
These aren’t just dishes. They’re roots. They’re reminders that childhood wasn’t made of grand gestures but of quiet rituals soaked in love. They remind me who I was, and how much of that girl I still carry inside—especially when the oven hums and memories rise like steam.
So tell me—what food brings you home?
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