Out the back, by the clothes line

On Sunday I ate a grape, and I liked it.

I don't often eat grapes and perhaps I know why this is: grapes are one of my sacred foods.

Grapes don't do much for me in terms of flavour.  I mostly eat the small dark ones. Not necessarily muscats, but perhaps preferably so.  Grapes appear to have a very particular impact on me, and it is this impact which I don't want to dilute. That is why I don't eat them often.

As I bit into the first grape, which was my first grape in months if not close to a year, memories burst into my mind with surprising freshness.  I grew up around grapes, not in a wine making scenario, but rather household vines which were planted by my grandparents and had grown to cover the entire backyard.  These vines not only provided decent shade for weekend BBQs but also an endless supply of grapes every autumn, before dropping them all over the floors and making a mess of the entire place.  There was around a dozen varieties of grapes in those vines, and each variety occupied a different section of the yard.

I think I was the family member who least enjoyed the grapes. The vines I loved, but grapes fell on the cusp of my food spectrum, and I failed to indulge in their abundance.  I did however have my favourites.  These were the sweet muscats which grew close to the clothes lines and had none of the tartness which the paler grapes had.

My palate has certainly changed over the years, and I've grown to enjoy a number of fruits and veggies, and yet grapes still fall in the blurry edges.  What's different now is the powerful memories they conjure, the general vibe of what it felt like to grow up surrounded by family under the shade of these vineyards.

There are a few dishes which conjure these type of gustatory-inflamed memories and I am trying to manage my consumption of them to ensure their impact doesn't dissipate through over use.  I fear that indulging in these memories will make them fade quicker and I won't have them to remind me of what's gone by.

I recently made a roast chicken on rock salt (pollo a la sal) which had a similar reaction.  Even though there is nothing particularly incredible about roasting a chicken on an inch-high layer of rock salt (other than its deliciously crispy skin!) it was the closest thing I had to tradition when I was growing up. It was almost a Saturday ritual to have pollo a la sal for lunch, before being let out to destroy the world, and now this dish probably comes the closest to helping me retrieve those moments.

For whatever reason, memories helped along by either smell or taste, appear to be incredibly intensified.  Perhaps due to my life as an immigrant, nostalgia has become a powerful force.  As such, grapes, along with various other foods, have taken on a greater role and I look forward to eating them (occasionally) forever.  At least until google can recreate our reactions to them through other means.

Buen provecho!