One of the World's Greatest Eaters
how my dad taught me to love food
My dad loves food so I love food. It’s been like that since I was little. He would leave very early for work each morning and would grab some toast as he snuck out the door. It was the 90s and thus everything was low-fat or fat-free. My dad ate his whole wheat toast without butter on it, so I did the same thing. It didn’t matter that I was 6 and absolutely did not enjoy my extremely dry toast; if he liked it then naturally, I liked it too. When my brother refused to eat the crust from his sandwiches my dad declared they were his favorite part and would gobble them up. My brother sat unmoved but me? Suddenly the crust was my favorite part of a sandwich too. I was his shadow in every way. Anyone who knows us eventually comments on how I am exactly like him. It cannot be helped; we have the same brain and goofy memory. Add in the fact that I was his biggest fan, and you can’t separate what is nature and what is nurture. As I grew up, my dad’s sense of adventure became my sense of adventure, his love of good food became mine. Bad habits and good still show up in me constantly that have their roots in the Davis side of my family. I can’t shake them even if I wanted to. This week was my dad’s birthday, and my lifelong obsession with food is all because of him.
My dad grew up in Bartlesville, Oklahoma and has an unshakable love of canned green beans to show for it. His passion for food has none of the snobbiness that can make other food lovers unbearable. If it tastes good, that’s good enough for him. He can tell you the first time he tried something, the best version he’s ever had, and everything else under the sun with rapid clarity and precision. Lucky for me, I inherited this trait too. I grew up hearing all about his culinary adventures, his great meals, unusual finds, and forever favorites. He talked to me late in the evening when he’d get home from work, and I absorbed all his stories, working them into my memory as though they were my own. He’d tell me about his grandmother and aunts making farmhouse dinners with what they grew and the chickens they slaughtered. I’d hear about the Lebanese steakhouses that dotted Oklahoma in his youth and made him love tabbouleh.
My favorite were his tales of what he ate when he lived in Bogotá, his first home outside of Oklahoma. Almojábanas and arepas were a revelation and cemented his love of exploring the world through food. I didn’t grow up regularly eating fast food but when we did go out to eat as a family, we’d grab Thai, Salvadoran, Afghani, Vietnamese, Burmese, whatever amazing food we could find. No spot was too small or too out of the way if my dad wanted to try it. I didn’t realize how special that was until I saw how little most people knew about food when I went to college. I couldn’t understand their lack of curiosity.
My dad always has a dish or restaurant recommendation handy for whomever happens to be in earshot. I wish I could tell you that I am any different, but we both use our Rolodex memories to pester everyone into eating what we think is best. Oh, you don’t want to hear about the history of a certain dish while you’re eating it? Then you best not sit next to either of us. We’ve been collectively annoying the hell out of my poor mother for decades. The only place where my father and I differ in our food obsession is that I love to cook. He is capable in the kitchen, but his starring role is always as the person who helps craft the menu and as the most enthusiastic eater. Even leftovers were treated with reverence in my house. There was no meal too small to enjoy.
My dad spent a lot of time at his Aunt Pat’s house when he was a kid. She was a force and prodigious cook like so many women of her generation. When she died in 2018, I flew to Oklahoma to attend the funeral alongside my mother and father. Afterward, I was going through her cookbooks taking photos of all the family recipes and of dishes I had grown up hearing my dad talk about nonstop. Of course, he loved her fried okra but the strawberry cake and butterscotch cake were the childhood treats he talked about most. As I flipped through the pages, right there in the margins of so many of Aunt Pat’s recipes was my dad’s name, Larry. It showed up more frequently than anyone else’s, including her own kids. Clearly Aunt Pat loved cooking for my dad as much as he loved eating everything she served up. I don’t know if she knew how much he talked about her food so many decades after he last tasted it, but I can’t imagine a better testament to showing and receiving love. That’s what good food is, a chance to show one another that our happiness and satisfaction matter to each other. Whether you’re dining out at a family-run restaurant or cooking at home, making and eating good food is always an act of love.
My family isn’t overly affectionate. You won’t catch us hugging and crying every time we part. We aren’t big gift givers and don’t celebrate birthdays with any particular gusto. We’re much too practical and straight forward for all that. But every time we cook for you, over order at a restaurant, or bully you into trying a new dish, we’re really saying I love you. It’s subtle but the longer I am alive the more I’ve come to appreciate this trait my dad and I share. It’s funny when you don’t realize how much of yourself, what you think of as your intrinsic personality, is really just a continuation of all those late in the evening chats with your dad. I took what he taught me and built a life. You might not think your kids are listening to you, but they are. They will think of these conversations for decades and then have similar ones with their own children. That is the best kind of family tradition. My love of food, epistemic curiosity, and gift of gab all come directly from Larry. Without him, I never would have stumbled into a career in food, written 5 cookbooks, or have this newsletter. I couldn’t be more grateful for that. He did pretty good for a boy from Oklahoma with a big appetite.
Happy birthday Dad. The next dinner is on me, I know just the spot.
Tomorrow, paid subscribers are getting a great spring, one pot recipes full of lime and coconut. What could be better? Nothing, that’s what. Not on the list? Come on over.
Did someone in your life inspire your lifelong love of something? Is your dad also a great eater? Let’s talk about it in the comment!
xoxo,
Michelle
First of all, this made me cry: “ …but I can’t imagine a better testament to showing and receiving love. That’s what good food is, a chance to show one another that our happiness and satisfaction matter to each other. Whether you’re dining out at a family-run restaurant or cooking at home, making and eating good food is always an act of love.” I inherited my love of food and cooking from my mom, and nothing makes me happier than a house full of people eating something I’ve made them, what joy to take care of people in this way!
I loved this.
My grandmother was my connection to food and cooking. My home life wasn't great so any opportunity to be at my grandmother's place was relished. Even without it being a refuge, Grandma Dora was my favorite person in the world along with my grandfather.
She had that unique capacity to make anything taste good. Somehow or another, her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the best on earth.
I have many cherished memories of sitting at her little kitchen table, stirring ingredients together for a cake or cookies. She would always let me crack and separate the eggs. (When I became vegan years later, she was a little disappointed but she understood I was always going to do what felt right to me -- I was her granddaughter, after all.) We would sit at the table, talk, bake, play cards, eat cookies and enjoy each other's company. Food was love, but it was really connection, and that has carried me through my life. What I wouldn't give to sit in that little kitchen again with my grandma, my grandpa eating her chicken noodle soup, humming happily. Nothing better!