Is a Food Picture Worth a Thousand Memories?

“The fondest memories are made when gathered around the table.”

I am not sure who said this, or even who may have said it first, but I’ve seen the quote all over social media through the years. I’ve even posted it elsewhere, because well, it’s true. At least in my family, it’s always been true.

Indeed, some of my best memories were made gathered around a table. Which got me thinking about all those great meals of my life where a photo was never taken… (yes, showing my age!) I think of all the great holidays at my grandmother’s house, the ordinary lunches where my mom would make grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup, or even the great school lunches and breakfasts served by the wonderful ladies at the Harlandale High School cafeteria back in the 80’s.

Our individual memory is a not so funny thing—as it fades away with time and age, leaving us as we grow old, and gone forever as we leave this earth. As I get older, I even realize that I remember things a bit differently than they actually were, or I see things larger or smaller or even more significant than they ought to be. That song I swore was a hit in 7th grade actually wasn’t released until I was in 8th grade. The huge hallway from elementary school or the large yard in our old house are both a lot smaller than they are in the dreams of my memory.

I wonder if remembering food is the same? Am I not remembering correctly when I smell fresh tomatoes that instantly remind me of my grandpa’s summer garden? What about the smell of tamales cooking in my grandmother’s kitchen? Her tortillas? The hot tea with honey and lemon that she’d quickly brew up for all of us whenever any of us had even the slightest or insignificant cough? And I wonder if I did have photographs of all of those meals, would I remember them better? Would the reds be as red as I remember and the plates just as blue and white? Would I see what I remember as my grandmother Sara’s soft beautiful hands more clearly if I had a picture of her holding a plate of any of her great dishes?

I wonder.

In the last eight years or so I’ve likely taken more photos of food (and everything really) than all four of my grandparents took of all of their children, or their vacations, or their entire lives. That is actually very likely. And that was before I decided to blog about food! In fact, since 2010, when I got my first iPhone, I’m pretty sure I’ve taken more photos of my dogs than there are family photographs of the entire generation before me. Maybe some find that sad, and I am not going to get into that so much here, but I will say that I won’t apologize for taking so many photos of my dog, or my everyday life. Or my food.

I do wonder how it affects memory, though. If I see a photo from my childhood, I can’t remember my hair incorrectly. I can’t forget what our house looked like, or forget how often my brother’s hair was messy. A photo seems to me to emphasize memory. It validates that day, that time, that outfit, our smile, the way we looked at our mom or dad as they stood in front of us with the camera. It seems to make a memory clearer. We can actually see it. It seems to make it more real.

I was born in 1970, the oldest child in my family, which means my parents probably took more photos of me as a baby than they did of my siblings. But even then I could maybe only fill a regular sized photo album (do they still make photo albums?!) with all the photos taken of me from my childhood. Fast forward to today and I have thousands and thousands of photos saved in digital albums just on Facebook and Instagram.

I’ve always loved taking photos. My dad bought me a Polaroid camera when I was 8 years old, and of course that film was pretty expensive and so every photo taken was done so very carefully. (I still remember a time when my little brother wasted two photos from one of my film pack cartridges—and yes, I was mad. Brothers!) My dad also bought me a 35mm camera for my 10th birthday. Through those early years, I saved any money I  had in order to buy film and to get pictures developed. I took silly pictures of friends, of my usually dirty brothers and always had a willing model in my cute baby sister. That 35mm camera had one of those detachable flashes that slid onto the top of the camera, so it allowed me to take—what I though at the time—were great photos no matter where I was. I had that camera throughout high school and into my 20’s. By then disposable cameras were all the rage. They were easy, cheap and pretty convenient. I always loved when a wedding or party would have those yellow cameras on the tables so guests could take their own photos of the occasion. So much fun! And how neat to see the festivities through the eyes of someone else. I loved the idea of saving all of those memories. I think I’ve always thought of photos as being a part of memory.

So much so that I’ve often thought it sad when someone doesn’t have photos of their childhood. How do they know what they looked like? I had a boss who didn’t have a photograph of herself taken until she was a young adult. When she talked about her childhood, it seemed like it was just a blur. She was just a blur. She wondered if she had blonde hair. Her parents were gone by then, and she had never thought to ask them when they were alive. That story always made me feel sad for her.

I suppose it would be silly to be just as sad about not having photographs of food from my childhood. Or my teenage years, or even young adult years. I do actually have a handful of photos from the early and mid 90’s where I did take photos of food, or of my cousins and I making food. It may not be as important as seeing my face as a baby or seeing how young my parents looked on their wedding day, but I do wish I had photos of many of my favorite food memories to remember them more clearly.

What are some of those many great food memories I have from childhood and early adulthood? I can remember eating fresh Gulf shrimp in our house on the beach in High Island, a ripe red tomato with thick salt in Laredo, my grandmother’s chicken and rice with perfectly refried beans and homemade tortillas at the McDougal house, my dad’s perfect omelets with extra cheese just for me (everyone else wanted his famous pancakes), shrimp and/or roast beef poboys in New Orleans, my mom’s chocolate chip cookies waiting for me when I got home from school, my first perfect bowl of clam chowder in Boston, the best lobster ravioli in Chicago, one of the best steaks I’ve ever had in Sevilla, the perfect (and I mean perfect) blueberry pie I made myself for my 30th birthday, and the cochinillo asado—one of the best meals of my life (it was 2001, not that long ago but still no photo!!!) in Madrid at Sobrino de Botín. Sigh. None of those meals had photos taken of them. It doesn’t make them less real, but I do wonder if my memory plays tricks on me. Not just with those memories, but with others like them. Am I just remembering the color of my favorite carne guisada more brown than red? Were my mom’s cookies not as perfectly chewy as I remember them being? Will kids these days have clearer memories because they take pictures of every plate of food, of every haircut, or every day of their lives? Will their first days of each school year be more memorable because their parents took photographs of them holding a “first day of school” sign or will each birthday or every other month of infancy be more memorable? One month old, two months old, three months old…with that matching onesie and 50 photos posted all over social media? Okay, maybe that sounds a little sarcastic, obviously infants won’t remember anything, but I do wonder how it will affect future memories. Or future stories when they reminisce about days at their grandparents, or treats lovingly made and waiting for them after school. I don’t know, and can’t know, but I do wonder. 

I wonder if I can write future blog posts or stories about my grandmother’s table if I don’t have a photo of the many plates we enjoyed while sitting around it. Maybe in some way it makes those memories more special, because they are harder to grasp, take more effort to see. They have to be felt more than imagined or seen. And because of that, they can’t be forced, but rather might occur at a random moment. An aroma brings back the memory of that one Thanksgiving or birthday. You never know when you’ll be reminded, and so when you are reminded, it’s that much more special. Maybe it was like many years ago and hearing your favorite song on the radio when that was the only way you’d likely ever hear it; iTunes didn’t exist and you didn’t have the luxury of owning all the albums or cassettes of your favorite band. It was random and you took great pleasure in turning up the volume and singing along. Or maybe it’s like a dream where you catch a glimpse of someone long gone, or barely hear their laugh, or just see their face before you wake up, yet you swear it seemed so real and you wish you could fall back asleep to see them again.

Maybe some of the cooking I do is my way of recreating many of those food memories. It’s a small and easy way of keeping those dreams alive or turning up the volume of my memory and singing along in the kitchen…all while remembering how soft my grandmother’s hands were no matter how many times she held the rolling pin to make tortillas.

I guess I don’t need a photograph to remember after all.