In August, I celebrated my birthday at Cherry Street Cellar. My husband, Lyle, and I shared chilled corn and cucumber soup with crab that sparked such noticeable praise that diners at the next table joined in, having also just enjoyed it. Then Lyle smiled between bites of steak frites with Béarnaise butter, creamed greens, and glazed shallots, and I enjoyed a delicate Maryland crab cake with Three Creeks Farm cherry tomato and cucumber salad, marinated zucchini, smoked yogurt, and toasted bulgar. Then we tasted each other’s dishes. Both were marvelous.
Going out to eat is fun for many of us, but as someone who loves food as an art, a soulful act, a daily activity, as history, and a special kind of appreciation of the present, sometimes a night out is really a treat. This was that kind of evening.
When I was growing up in Columbia, every year my parents made me and my sister, Tracy, homemade birthday dinners. Our birthdays are exactly two weeks apart in the heart of summer, close enough that we received a gift at each other’s celebration. But we got to choose our own dinner.
This year, I remembered, as I do each year, the big deal of those homemade celebrations. I remembered how much I looked forward to selecting what my parents would make for our family, how that choice was mine to make, but one that we would all enjoy.
Until this year, I hadn’t thought much of that aspect of the memory. But now, I know that as much joy as choosing the feasts gave me, I was also quietly thrilled when my feast made my sister and parents happy. Now our mom is gone, and our dad is in Memory Care, so I understand why that part of the memory is meaningful.
I remember four meals the most: Lasagna with Italian salad and garlic bread, stuffed shells with the same accompaniments, Steak Diane with twice-baked potatoes, and Caesar salad, and chicken piccata with linguine with garlic and olive oil, and baked stuffed tomatoes. Our parents cooked dinner most days, so homemade meals weren’t rare. I get a kick out of realizing how successful they were at making our family summer parties a big deal, and how appreciative we were.
The meals they made were thoughtful, but they weren’t outlandish, fancy dishes they’d never made before. We didn’t ask for pheasant under glass (though, looking at the recipe, I think they might have made it if we had). And we didn’t ask for food — or more specifically, combinations of foods — they didn’t want us to eat. If we’d selected mac and cheese with French fries and donuts, I doubt they’d have made it. We chose dishes they made regularly. Dishes that were favorites.
I love making food choices, both when I cook and when I dine out. My memorable dinner at Cherry Street Cellar was so enjoyable in part because of the accompaniments the chefs made for serving the crab cake. But it’s also fun to dine at a restaurant like Murry’s, where a diner can make their own combinations. In my Murry’s experience, Bob’s bobs — listed as an appetizer but that I love as an entrée — goes with a dinner salad with Italian dressing plus tomatoes; lemon pesto chicken goes with broccoli; and chicken poblano goes with black bean corn salsa.
Those choices sometimes vary, but have stayed surprisingly consistent, particularly considering food fads. Often, food fads operate on scarcity mentality or elimination as opposed to a focus on enjoyment, appreciation, and balance. Our family tried a few food fads in the ‘70s and ‘80s — cutting back on salt, trying Meatless Mondays, and low-fat everything — but mostly I remember balance.
Early on, when I named my birthday dinner, my request was probably simply lasagna or chicken piccata. But the sides and salads my parents served with my entrée were vividly memorable. The dishes I chose, in my parents’ hands, became full, intentional, colorful, textural, well-rounded, from-scratch, homemade meals, with lots of freshly chopped parsley and freshly shredded parmesan.
Some school night evenings, when Tracy and I had to return to Hickman for band practice or another school meeting or activity, our mom would make a quick supper for just the two of us. She’d make something simple from scratch, or, when we had several busy nights a week, she’d prepare a Stouffer’s frozen entrée with a salad and/or vegetable. We looked forward to those simple meals, too, because they were infrequent and therefore interesting; they were just for the two of us, and probably because they required a lot less work. But I realize now that even those rushed suppers were purposeful.
Each year, when I celebrate my birthday, I feel a connection to my childhood. I bet many of us feel a similar connection; a birthday is one way we each learn about who we are, where we come from, and that we’re each a unique individual. But as I get older than I feel, I appreciate the relationship with a time when I couldn’t comprehend a grown-up life.
Back then, I couldn’t understand adequate gratitude for all the time in front of me. I think a lot about that now. At some point, a few or so decades in, time starts to feel less endless. So, daily, I try to admire the present. There are countless worthy ways to frame time. One of my favorites is making food choices — some simple, others more complex, some planned, others instant; some are a la carte, and they make a composition.
