Going Home

One of my sisters and I went back to our roots this past weekend.

We have both lived in Colorado for over 30 years, but we still think of the town in Nebraska in which we grew up as “going back home.” As we drove around the town, which has doubled in size since we lived there – from around 10,000 people to now over 20,000 – we both recalled memories around the things we saw. We remembered people, events, sadness, fears, and joy. I learned about things my sister did as a child I had known nothing about, and she learned the same kinds of things from me. She was naughtier than I.

Many of our memories revolve around food. As we drove by the house in which we grew up, we noted how much smaller it is than we recalled. We wondered how our mother would cook meals for our family of six in such a small kitchen. We pondered about where she might have gotten the wonderful produce we ate every summer. We couldn’t remember her ever going to a farmer’s market, and yet each summer we munched on homegrown green beans and golden yellow sweet corn. It’s a farm community, as are most towns in central and eastern Nebraska, so she probably got the produce directly from the farmers who would come into our family bakery every Saturday to stock up on bread and pastries for the week.

We listened to family stories told by some of our cousins who still live in that area. One cousin talked about how talented a baker my father was. “The donuts were so light you almost had to tie a string around them or they would float away!” she said. I recall that they sold for 65 cents a dozen – remarkable when you think that you couldn’t buy a single donut today for that price.

My sister and I ate dinner, not once, but twice, at the steak house where we celebrated most of our birthdays. When we walked in, we noted that not that much has changed in the 30 years since we moved west. Red leather chairs, tables with wood veneer, and the waitresses (for that’s what they are – not servers, not waiters, not wait staff) still bring out the food on a push cart. We each ate beef the first night, and fried chicken (well, actually it’s broasted) the second night. Our side dish was a little bowl of spaghetti that tasted exactly as it had when we were children.

This particular restaurant always had the most delicious Italian dressing I’ve ever tasted. I was so happy to learn that the dressing has not changed one iota. I bought some to bring home, and asked the waitress if she could find out the recipe for me, as it is something I have wondered about my whole adult life. (That, by the way, is not hyperbole. I have looked on the Internet on a number of occasions to see if I could find their recipe.) She came back shortly and said, “oil, cider vinegar, onion, and garlic.” Really? No special herbs? No cold-pressed extra virgin olive oil? No Dijon mustard? Now my goal is to try and recreate it.

It was a wonderful weekend in which we learned more about our mother, who died when she was only 68. Seeing where she grew up and becoming acquainted with her childhood helps us understand ourselves better.

It was good to go home.