Blood, Bones, and Butter

Every time I open a bag of tortilla chips, I'd love to reach for the homemade salsa we ate on our front porch in Woodburn. When it rains, I'd cry for the pan dulce we tried in Cuernavaca. Once I'm wandering hopelessly down the wine aisle in Kroger, I'd give anything to be drinking that wine poured in Due Santi.

I'm not alone in wanting to relive these food memories. There's a chapter in Gabrielle Hamilton's memoir Blood, Bones, and Butter where she makes a list. Among other experiences to savor in her new restaurant, she wants to dress the table in brown butcher paper, Cuban wedding china, and plates of her mother's recipe for veal marrow.

An accomplished chef, Hamilton has perfected the veal marrow. More importantly she has perfected the art of writing about it. She has pared her memories down to the essence. She takes us back to her first kitchen - her French mother's domain. She walks us through the drudgery of her early catering jobs. Finally, she travels to Italy and introduces us to her mother-in-law's Italian market.

Hamilton's reflection on her own childhood has inspired me to serve my children something more substantial than a reheated chicken nugget; we've been trying to be a little more adventurous. Perhaps one day they'll remember eating Mutsu apples they've just picked, spreading cherry jelly on their breakfast muffin, or sipping hot ginger-lemon tea on a cold, windy autumn day in Michigan. If they don't, I will.