A taste of home

One fine warm evening here in Omaha, I was out taking the air and simply luxuriating in the many summer smells surrounding me. The rain earlier in the day left a freshness and a potentecy to the fragrances. There was the grass, the trees, and the dirt all combined into that unique scent that is made only by green growing things. And the light, sweet smell of honeysuckle frosted on top of the rest. The warm moist air was an appropriate medium for the gentle smells and their lingering presence.

Now, you must realize that I grew up with most of this. My house in MI was two miles out of town and surrounded by farmers on three sides. Soft grass, sweet wildflowers, and mild summer evenings, robins making low passes and white tailed bunnies hopping in the open. It’s all brought back memories of memories for me. And yet, my first thoughts were not nostalgia for my home-no-longer, but of food.

The whole experience made me think of potatoes. Why potatoes? Well, come take a walk with me, and you'll see why. This whole last year I've been at school in Houston and frighteningly discovered that potatoes are not the staple food for all civilized cultures. Well, that statement is perhaps premature, as I'm still questioning whether proper love and appreciation of potatoes is a requisite for any culture to consider itself civilized. But, back to my narrative, I was introduced to rice, beans, pasta, tortillas and other abberations as acceptable substitutes for the otherwise standard "meat and potatoes" one would expect on a menu.

Not that rice or pasta is bad--heaven forbid that I speak ill of Cajun chili on rice, and may I lose my right hand if I remember not spaghetti and marinara! But when the exotic fling has passed, there shall be potatoes again on the table. French (or freedom, if you please) fries, potatoes chips, roasted, grilled, baked, with butter, in soup, in breakfast tacos, with cheese, with cabbage, for breakfast, for lunch, for dinner, or, finally, at their simplest and their noblest: mashed and served with meat and gravy. They are the quintessential food.

I was surprised again, this time with delight, that the cafeteria here in Omaha was generous with its use of potatoes and it was easy to find one of several dishes which included this most excellent ingredient. There was point to this digression. I know there was. I don’t go off on digressions unless there is a point to them. Everything has a point you see. The connections are there, even if hidden from the first glance. Why, take the example of a summer evening in the Midwest and potatoes—no obvious connection, at first glance, but just think for a moment and it all comes together.

You see, potatoes are the perfect comfort food. They are everything a home should be: warm, soft texture, they go with everything, and always should be take with a grain or two of salt. That was my same experience walking that evening in the late Nebraska sun: soft, easy, savory, comfortable. They say that people here in Nebraska—and the Midwest in general—are nicer people than out east or west, and I’ll agree to that (as long as we make the distinction between nicer and better). After a while, you soak in the environment around you and…well, you become as mild as a summer sunset and as sweet as the scent of honeysuckle. Comfort foods and a comfy evening for comfortable people.

Now, some of you might be basking in the glory of your native northern lands or perhaps filled with nostalgia for a childhood home. I, for one, am nearly filled with nausea. SOMEBODY PASS THE SALSA! What do people do around here to “kick it up a notch”? I refuse to live in a Thomas Kinkade landscape.

My memory returns to the hills, and fields, streams, and smells of my home. The sun burns off the moist-sweet dew and leaves the sharp, bright, tangy smell of grass and soil. This is no stove-top, savory-soft dumplin’s—this is smoked and open grilled barbeque. The fact that we describe jalapenos, BBQ sauce, chili, salsa and our typical weather as “hot” is no coincidence; it’s climate conditioning.

As further proof for this theory, I would have you eat what the kitchen staff here in Omaha calls “tacos.” It would be a cruel proof, because whatever it is that they serve us, it is not tacos. It is some bland, savory, casserole-looking dish made with canned cheese, plagiarizing the name of that noble Tex-Mex food. And don’t get me started about their so-called “chili.”

And that is my theory. Any comments on its validity or absurdity are welcome.