Ancestry Magazine

Taste, see, feel, smell, hear. Where else but the kitchen, where the central dramas and basic building of a home and life take place, so embraces all the senses? The heft of a well-used knife, the aroma of onions and garlic in olive oil, the laughter or arguments over a meal. Food has the power to take you back to a particular moment, a particular place, and recreate it for you. Perhaps this is why foods are such an important part of our ethnic and family heritage: they bring us to a remembrance of things past, and they help bring the past quickly to the present.

Immigration historian and culinary studies specialist Donna Gabaccia points out that food traditions are a key part of a family cycle. “The loss of an older generation,” she says, “is a constant—and sad—because it is the losing of a connection to a loved one and the past.” But particular foods help remind us of the loved ones we’ve lost, says Gabaccia.

It’s true for me. Whenever I see a lentil, I think of my grandfather, whose bland lentil soup—administered with urgency like cod liver oil—remains a source of mirth among his grandkids. He died when I was young, but, nevertheless, those humble little beans even today remind me of the brief but important role Grandpa played in my life.

Why? Because, whether we’re aware of it or not, when we express our heritage through food, whether by creating or even just remembering the cuisines of our families’ native cultures, we move closer to the experiences of our families before us: what they ate, how they prepared it, and how specific foods were integrated into their lives.

Community
When was the last time you attended a celebration that didn’t include food? In our society today, just as it did centuries ago, food connects us to community. Heritage foods even more so.

Our family tables have long been set on the premise of turning sustenance into story. And drawing our attention to the role that foods and meals play in developing our own personal histories is a goal of the Kitchen Sisters, Nikki Silva and Davia Nelson.

In their book, Hidden Kitchens, Nikki and Davia document how communities unintentionally and oftentimes unexpectedly unite and bond around food: a church Burgoo barbecue, a late-night cooking unit of Brazilian cab drivers in San Francisco, an Indian chimichurri truck outside a hospital on New York’s Upper West Side, a group of homeless men in Chicago surviving with a George Foreman grill. Nikki and Davia’s veritable stew of stories shows how cooking and eating fill more than a physical need—they also fill a human need for connection.

As Nikki told me, “We hear a lot of news about how divided we are as a nation. But in these food events, people come together to share. They learn about each other, they’re generous and inviting. It’s made me want to cook more, to make my foods meaningful to my family.”

Davia takes that concept a step further. “Whole family histories are in the kitchen,” she says, “where people make food of the place they’re in or the place they left. The stories may be hidden until you look for them. But the kitchen is a place where you encounter new things. It is a gathering place. A place of discovery.”

“The dying of family meals has coincided with the increase of self-help books,” adds Nikki. “Why? The kind of info [in self-help books] used to be transmitted through stories, often at the table. Communities fall apart when they lose the glue that holds them together, and the kitchen is the glue.”

Sadly, the food heritage of many families is indeed being lost. But by striving to keep food traditions alive, we also strengthen the unity of the group for whom the tradition is meaningful.

Tradition
The spirit of community and belonging that food brings can span time. Thelma Barer-Stein, food and culture consultant and author of You Eat What You Are: People, Culture and Food Traditions, tells how immigrants beyond the third or fourth generation who are no longer struggling for mere survival and no longer integrally part of the immigrant community, feel nostalgia for their parents’ and grandparents’ food traditions. They miss, she says, the closeness of the communities their parents were part of.

According to Thelma, when these great-grandchildren of former immigrants prepare and eat a special food, they’re rekindling their faded cultural identity and reclaiming part of their cultural heritage. And, because cooks change and adapt recipes, over time the present take on a family recipe may bear little resemblance to the original immigrant recipe. That, however, is good—and proof that each generation is giving part of itself to the tradition it is inheriting.

Nikki’s first-hand experience with family recipes reflects this as well. Her father, Ernie, “kept cooking because it was a tradition,” she says. “He died a year ago, and now for the first time I’m putting my hands on his dishes. I held them and thought, I’m not sure I remember all of the right ingredients he used. Can I continue this? But then I thought, my kids need to share in this ritual. These foods represent their grandfather to them—a way of remembering him and his story.”

Food traditions can symbolize many beliefs—social, personal, familial, or cultural—but the important fact is that, regardless of why, these traditions are always carried on by a person, and usually in honor of someone else.

My friend Mao brought his wife, Gretel, whom I’d not met, to our house one Christmas Eve. Gretel, from Jamaica, felt a bit shy and was terribly homesick. When I asked her what she would be doing for Christmas back home, she wistfully mentioned eating salt cod. So when she saw Ana cooking up some bacalhau for dinner, Gretel’s face lit up. Her shyness fled. Her whole experience changed: Christmas and a sense of home were delivered to her that night on a plate.

Story
Above all, food is a story. We tell stories about catching food, preparing food, and eating food. We tell stories while enjoying food. From plow to plate, a dish of food represents a series of personal struggles, challenges, and events.

Eating is fundamental to life. Telling stories is fundamental to community. And for each of us who is conscious of our heritage and anxious to pass it on, remembering that the kitchen is where we learned who we are and how we fit into the world is fundamental to celebrating our families. Yes, all of that—and more—is hidden in the kitchen.

Andrew Bay develops cultural geography and social science reference materials for ProQuest. When he’s not working or writing, he can be found indulging in foods from both near and far or, on occasion, justifying those indulgences by hiking or camping.