The Food I Will Miss the Most
Sometimes food becomes routine and rhythm in our humdrum life. What happens when we disrupt the rhythm?
I have always been a creature of habit. Ever since I was a young girl I had certain foods I liked, and certain foods I disliked. This is true of nearly every child, but my favorites weren’t chicken nuggets or macaroni and cheese – I loved liverwurst and crackers, the sourest of pickles, and soft-boiled eggs served in cups with a dollop of butter.
Although my tastes were strange, they were as rigid as any “picky eater”. As my childhood gave way to adolescence, my tastes changed to match those of my peers (liverwurst was traded for salty french fries), but I still had a few strongholds. One of which was my beloved morning bowl of yogurt.
A mound of yogurt topped with frozen raspberries, both bitter and sweet, giving way to a jam-like consistency as they softened from the warm kitchen air.
Some time in my teen years, I became enamored specifically with Balkan yogurt. I cannot tell you why or how it happened, but my obsession led me to a local independent grocer, which was not only the sole business that carried it, but also the only grocer in town permitted to be open on a Sunday. And so each week, my mother and I would make our prerequisite trip to the library, load up with books, and then carry on to the market to gather up the necessary goods.
I nearly ran through the neatly packed displays of imported marmite, treacle syrup, and “crisps” (it was founded by a British expat after all) to make it to the dairy case. Once I arrived at my destination, I would snatch up one (or two) tubs of the stuff, taking them into my arms like a pair of swaddled twin babies. Soon, I would relocate my mother, who was eyeing up candy and chocolates, and drop them into the small cart she was at the helm of.
The rest of the trip was rather quaint and slow, because once the yogurt was secured, I could be reassured that my week would be a good one indeed.
As we moved up and down the aisles, we took care in reading every package, pointing out new products we had never seen before. It was during this time I became enamoured with strawberry compote and wheat toast – not a very common after-school snack here in Canada, but the fragrant and fruity compote was stiff competition for the sickly sweet jam my friends enjoyed tucked into soft slices of white bread.
The Modern Age
As I moved into my adult years and entered the unfortunate realm of full-time work, the romanticism that I once had for my morning meal dissipated.
Instead, I found myself lining up with the other hoards of morning workers to hand over a portion of my wages in exchange for the working person’s morning ration: the breakfast sandwich.
Featuring a salty biscuit, an egg-like disc, a single slice of American cheese, and a few pieces of what might be described as bacon, this unpleasant, yet supremely satisfying breakfast food soon won over my tastebuds. Yet each time I took part in the ritual, I was left with a lingering sense of guilt and disgust. Still, I took my place in the line each morning, and soon added a cup of coffee – 3 cream, 3 sugar – to my morning menu.
Many years later, as I had progressed (and regressed) in socially acceptable fields of work, I found myself to be an (interim) stay at home mom. It wasn’t long though, before I began dreaming up various forms of business I could do from my home office. As luck would have it, I was able to have some success, and so for the first time since my teen years, I had the privilege of being able to enjoy my early morning routine.
I turned yet again to yogurt, but instead of thick, tangy, sour-cream-like Balkan yogurt, I found a new favorite in Icelandic Skyr. Yes, indeed, more than a decade had passed, and so there was a great variety of yogurt now to choose from!
After sampling a variety of flavors, I settled on a very lightly sweetened strawberry version. It still had that pleasant tanginess I loved, but just enough fruit and sugar to strike the perfect balance. Heaped with a handful of (fresh) raspberries – I had adult money now, after all – I could not imagine a better morning ritual.
That was, of course, until I re-discovered granola.
At some point in my teen years, I had been enjoying copious amounts of granola, but as someone who has always had the proverbial devil on my shoulder, reminding me of calories and fat grams and carbohydrates and grams of sugar, I could not overcome the crushing reality of caloric density.
Granola has long been a food I enjoyed, dating back to my vegetarian days, but once I was made aware of calories and their consequence, I gave it up in favor of “lighter” foods. Granola has had some excellent health food PR over the years, and while it is certainly full of good things (like fiber), it does contain a fair amount of calories, and it’s easy to overindulge if you’re inclined to have a voracious appetite.
But on one particular grocery trip, I found myself staring down a plastic-windowed bag, full of oat clusters and little bits of almonds. “What harm could it do?” I asked myself. I placed it in the cart, and on I went. I had no idea that this forbidden food would soon become an integral part of my breakfast obsession.
Before I knew it, I was climbing out of bed each morning with an untold joy, practically skipping to the kitchen where I would assemble the mount of perfection: thick, creamy skyr yogurt, a sprinkling of fresh berries, and a generous handful of granola.
At first, I weighed out each ingredient to ensure I wasn’t exceeding the acceptable amount, but after a while, I convinced myself I could do it by eye. I was sorely mistaken, as shortly after that, I reached a weight loss plateau despite never “cheating” and counting every calorie. It turns out that it’s very easy to underestimate granola, and I was consuming 2 or 3 times the amount I thought I was. Oops!
A lesson I learned years prior, but some lessons must be learned more than once.
Still, I could not surrender my love of granola, not now! We had been estranged lovers, united 15 years later, brought together by a shared appreciation of the humble bowl of yogurt. It was destiny. It was fate. It was preordained.
But like most good things, it was never meant to last.
Facing The Year Ahead of Me
For those who have felt an irrefutable pull towards an idea, you will understand what I mean when I say that you cannot escape. Once it is in your head, you may try and reason with it, you may try to make it go away, but in the end it always chases you down.
Such was the experience with the call to embark on this project, of which is the subject of this Substack. I will be eating local foods (and only local foods) for 12 full months. While some of the stipulations include exceptions such as a ration of oats and sugar, life as I know it will cease to exist.
My morning bowl of (imported) Icelandic yogurt with (imported) fresh berries and (imported) honey almond granola will be no longer. Perhaps in its place I will find a suitable substitute, but the chances are just as good that I will not.
And it is with both excitement and a heavy heart that I move into this new territory. While I sign up with a willing spirit, knowing full well that my shadow will not darken a drive-thru window or fast casual restaurant, it is hard to accept that this integral part of my daily routine will be sorely disrupted.
After all, it seems “healthy”, it all seems “whole.” Certainly better than the alternative gas station fare – right? Right?
I am lucky enough to be able to obtain local yogurt made with a culture from Bulgaria. Best yogurt I have ever had. I make my own granola to go with it for breakfast. Thanks for this writing.
Your commitment is inspiring!