Soul Food

More and more, scientists are using DNA to explain everything from shopping patterns to how you vote.  I come from a time when upbringing and environmental factors had a huge edge in the “nature vs. nurture” debate.  I firmly believe that I would be very different today had I been adopted by California hippies, or raised by wolves--genetic code notwithstanding.   I am not denying that my recycled genes are responsible for everything from my green eyes to my musical ability, but beyond these phenotypic expressions I put a lot of stock in the power of upbringing.

I offer food preferences as my scientific evidence.  There are foods that I learned to eat in my own home growing up that would be a tough sell on any outsider.  These are things that even my own husband—who will eat anything from the stinkiest of cheeses to haggis—will not touch.  Nonetheless, I crave them on occasion, particularly when I am sick or in need of a hug. My husband, on the other hand, revels in foods that I cannot abide.  We are forever trying to get each other to enjoy foods from the other side.

Take the eponymous “Weiss-burger.” This is an unlikely concoction that my father would fix for dinner on Saturday nights before he and my mother went out, leaving us home with a babysitter.  It has its origins in his own childhood home, where his very thrifty and culinarily-challenged mother attempted to make dinner for 4 on half a shoestring.  It is made by spreading a thin layer of chopped hamburger meat on toasted white bread, much like the way you would smear peanut butter.  (If you do not toast the bread first, it will break apart as you spread the meat.) An open-faced sort of sandwich, it was then broiled until the meat was brown and cleaved to the bread. 

A decade into their marriage, my father’s palate became enlightened by my mother's cooking.  The version of “Weiss-burger” that he prepared for us included a little seasoning (garlic salt) that, no doubt, my grandmother (she of the bland hand) would have omitted.  For presentation, my dad squeezed ketchup over the top of the finished product in the shape of a W, emphasizing its name.  This dreadful-sounding meal should have been off-putting, but my father sold it to us as a treat to be desired, later adding a slice of American cheese to make it more “luxurious.”   It was as fun and casual as eating a slice of pizza.  Today I find the idea of this burger to be somewhat ridiculous, yet I confess that even while I write about it my mouth is watering.  It evokes more than a certain flavor.  It brings back images of well-groomed children, freshly bathed in printed pajamas, making promises to behave that would never be kept.

Contrast this with mincemeat, one of the flavors of my husband’s youth that I find so disgusting I nearly gag just thinking of it.   I have only known mincemeat to come in jars—once assuming it to be some waste product of the industrial food revolution.  Apparently, there are people who make mincemeat on purpose, boiling up suet and dried fruits with brandy, mace and cloves.   My husband dreams of mincemeat pie, placing it high above chocolate and other confections on his personal dessert-meter.  I have tried mincemeat pie and it is most definitely an acquired taste, needing to be imprinted on a child in his formative years in order to be palatable.  My husband’s lingering appreciation for mincemeat stems from indoctrination early in his youth and a sensory connection to holidays.  It does not prove the existence of a genetic predisposition. 

Take for example my husband's relationship to foods "of the tribe."  My husband has a general distaste for gefilte fish and matzoh brei, foods that I learned to eat from early childhood. On the other hand, he has a particular love of borscht, chopped liver, and tsimmes (stewed root vegetables with flanken and prunes)—foods of the Diaspora for which he could have no genetic predisposition.  I give him credit, as I would not let any of those "treats" touch my lips.

On a simpler note, I grew up with a particular affinity for noodles tossed with butter and cottage cheese.  This dish has its origins on my maternal side.  My (other) grandmother prepared this as a side dish to salmon croquettes—pancakes of canned salmon fried in oil.  In a kosher household, salmon croquettes were a common dairy dish (fish is considered a non-meat, or pareve, food that can be consumed with dairy).  She would make sea shell noodles out of a sense of culinary irony, the seashell shape making an apt thematic accompaniment to fish.

As a kid, I learned to love the creamy texture of buttery noodles tossed with cottage cheese, or "noodles and cheese," as my mother called it.  In college, I would occasionally make myself this dish by tossing cafeteria line noodles with cottage cheese from the salad bar.  After college, it was a staple in my apartment and to this day there are seashells tucked away in my pantry.  My husband decided early on in our relationship that this dish had no redeeming value (or taste, for that matter), so it remained a solitary pleasure until my kids came along. Although son refuses to partake, my daughter discovered the power of this dish to sooth and comfort.  As a result, it is known as “girl noodles” in our home—a treat to be enjoyed when the guys are off doing guy stuff and the girls are home watching Pride and Prejudice. 

The foods of my kitchen have always spoken volumes to my children, instilling in them a sense of love and worth far beyond that which can be communicated with words.   These, and other unique foods from my kitchen, shaped their values as adults even though those values expressed themselves in different ways.  My daughter is vegan; she places great emphasis on freshness and the farm-to-table qualities that I have tried to instill.  My son, by contrast, is a big fan of the bacon-double-cheeseburger, and yet he has high standards for seasonings and complexity in the foods he chooses and cooks.  Neither of them has tastes that would suggest a genetic connection to their parents.  Both were raised raised thousands of miles from their grandparents.

I am constantly hit with proof that there is no hiding from your DNA.  Judging by the “déjà vu” comments that appear each time I post a photo of my daughter, it is clear that there is much about my children’s destiny that was determined by a genetic road map.  On the other hand, I reject the notion that our children’s tastes and moral code are inherited, rather than nurtured, traits.  Along with my genes, I hope my kids appreciate that I have taken the time to pass down my experience and my wisdom—along with a few of their favorite recipes.