Often when I think of food, the thing that springs to mind is not flavors, textures, or aromas. While I consider myself a foodie, someone who happily slaves away in a hot kitchen all day, who revels in the sights and smells of the grocery store or spends too much time choosing the wine, or who manhandles the fish at the market and gives it a good whiff before taking it home, the sensory experience comes secondary. The thing that springs to mind before anything the five can pick up is the memory associated with a dish.

When I was small, I sat at the table with a dish of stewed rhubarb doused in cream waiting for my Nana’s bread rolls to be cool enough to handle. My love for the flavors of sweet tart fruit, pungent grassy cream and warm bread are inextricably enmeshed with my love for her, how special I felt to be able to be the first to taste any of these freshly made foods, and the feelings of good derived from spending time with someone who didn’t view me only as the impetuous four-year-old I was, but someone who treated me as if I were just a small version of one of her friends. Even now, if I smell these foods, even each on their own, I’m emotionally back at that kitchen table. I just feel good.

I grew up in a rural community–almost a family compound. My parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins, we all lived within about two miles of one another. We grew food, not to sell, but for our own meals; we raised a few animals, again, just enough to feed us and a few neighbors. We touched our food every day, and in my case sometimes named, petted and played with it.

When I was about six or seven, my family had 2 pigs installed in a pen with a large run. When I met them for the first time, I fell hard. Pink and mischievous and friendly, they gently took the proffered apples from my hand. The more vocal of the two I called Oinkum, and the other, the one with the floppy ears I named Pighound. I could tell my parents were worried about our burgeoning relationship, that maybe sometime down the road they would have on their hands a pork-resistant child or worse, a vegetarian. I visited the pigs often, always bringing apples, petting their heads through the fence as they munched, careful to keep my fingers away from their frenzied chewing. My mum and dad made no bones about the purpose of our keeping Pighound and Oinkum–once they were large enough, we would kill them and eat them. They would be the roasts, chops and bacon that we’d eat throughout the winter. They also taught me that if that was what was to become of an animal, it was important to care for it and give it the best life possible.

I was never told that “today was the day” but I do recall the first time I realized I was eating my friends. I asked, “Is this Pighound or Oinkum?” Yes, came the reply, followed by a long silence, particularly for a six or seven year old. I’m sure my parents were thinking, “Well, here it comes.” But it didn’t. Instead I said, “I’m glad I fed them all those apples. It’s very sweet.” I’m sure for my parents it was a disaster averted, but for me it was the realization of the intimate connection with my food that most of us don’t have now, and that I don’t really have any more either.

Now that I’m all grown, I think that I’ve replaced that connection with my love of feeding other people. I try to prepare most of our meals at home and have friends and neighbors over as often as possible. It’s nothing for me to spend the day shopping, sauteeing, deglazing, stuffing, mashing, drizzling, plating. Maybe it’s a throwback to my upbringing, the good memories of big family meals, seeing my family hunched over plates enjoying a feed after a day of work, then the heaps of post-meal nappers in various states of recline, but I think there’s nothing a person can do that’s more nurturing than feeding another. Breaking bread is something that’s so ingrained in our human culture that you can’t but take pleasure in knowing that you’re nourishing your loved ones for another day. You talk, you share, you pass the plates around. And while there is warmth and good smells, tastes and textures, when it comes to food my five senses take a back seat yet again.