Is it possible the belonging lives in my taste buds?
I resented my dad every time he flew to visit us in NJ, he would make us take him to an old Yiddish restaurant in downtown Manhattan where he would always order the same plate..... it’s not until now that I know that right there and then, he was recognizing himself, recognizing where he was from, where he had come from. In that plate was his mother and his ancestors, was his identity and belonging.
Back to today, I am in Uruguay with my kids for the first time and I find myself fanatically trying to push down their throats every bit of food that I love, miss, and cherish.
I recognize that through this vorágine I am trying to feed them identity, to recognize through their recognition a little bit of belonging and bloodline.
Ravioles de ricotta, tucco, tarta de puerro...
In every bite I recognize my dad, my home, my being. It is that, that I am eating, it is my dad and my history, it is me as a part of something bigger.
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