Before the beginning...

My relationship with food was determined even before I was born.  My parents were teenagers living in Amsterdam during World War 2 and survived the "hunger winter" of 1944-1945.  Dealing with the constant hunger caused by the Nazi's pilfering of the Dutch food to Germany was a theme often talked about in my house when I was growing up.  In fact, if I ever complained about being hungry, I would hear the appropriate retort of "you don't know what hunger is!" 


Dutch ration cards

It was during that time that my dad's pet rabbit became dinner.  Maybe that was always the plan, but I believe he thought it was a pet, not destined to be his meal.  I think my father's family survived the war because my grandfather had some sort of foresight that caused him to buy and store cigars before the war.  During the war he traded them for food.  My mother had a more difficult time and tells tales of cooking dried beans someone had acquired that wouldn't get soft no matter how long they were cooked (they were very, very old!), of stealing a carrot from a farmer's stand out of pure desperation, of the horror of the final winter without heat, without water and without food.  The situation was so bad that if by some miracle some food was found, in order to cook it, any wooden object that could be found (including door frames and attic beams) had to be chopped into matchstick sized pieces to fuel a makeshift stove made out of a coffee can. My mother did eventually spend some time outside of the city at a farm where she was able to eat more regularly.

Even after my parents got married in 1950, meat was still only available in limited quantities, and in my years growing up at home meatballs were an inexpensive regular and a favourite (always with a little nutmeg, and not before we each had a little taste of the raw ground beef!)  My parents always taught us to clean our plates, I would have to take another boiled potato to mash and suck up the leftover gravy on my plate, I guess because bringing a plate back to the kitchen that had leftover gravy on it would be a waste!  I'll never forget the sound of my dad's fork scraping over his plate getting the last of the food off.  Without exageration, I tell you that his plate was often so scraped it could be put directly into the cupboard without anyone ever thinking it was still dirty!


My parent's kitchen in Amsterdam after the renovation in 1968 (still referred to as the "New Kitchen"!)

It probably had a lot to do with the times, but I don't think my mom was an adventurous cook.  The vegetables she made were always overcooked and the favourites were Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, kale and cabbage.  She also served a lot of meatballs.  And then the nightly starch - potatoes and gravy, potatoes and gravy or potatoes and gravy.  I don't believe my parents enjoyed a meal if it didn't have gravy.  My parents were always thankful though, they remembered when they didn't have anything to eat. 

It wasn't until we moved to Canada that my mom started showing an interest in recipes and variety.  She enjoyed some cooking shows on television and she also credits her time at Weight Watchers with teaching her about portion sizes and trying new recipes.  After my dad died in 1983 she started relying on a lot of frozen food and even today her tastes are simple and easily satisfied.


The Canadian kitchen.  This home was a place of pride and joy for my parents.

I cook very differently than my mother ever did.  I like to cook from scratch, I like to try new things, but I have a lot of limitations on my ingredients.  And there is a story about how all that came about.  Well, I'll start that journey on another day.  For now, as you eat your next meal - eetsmakelijk!