I followed him into the smoke.
My father-in-law has been smoking his own meat for decades, something he learned growing up in the remote mountains of Croatia, where it finds its way into everything: soups, stews, omelettes. I know this because I subsisted on its many versatile variations on my visits to the country, nary a vegetable in sight.
There's a process and you can't cut corners or you'll either get sick or wind up with a chewy hide and lose a few fillings along the way: getting the right cuts, the salting, the gentle smoking for days. It's by no means quick and the antithesis of how I prepare my meals. If a dish takes more than 45 minutes from start to finish, I am not interested.
But standing there with him in the smoke (with my eyes watering and sinuses screaming), I was curious why this tradition was so important to him and I started asking him questions. I learned more about his childhood in one afternoon than I had in years of polite Sunday visits.
My mother-in-law is the same, she shows her love through what she cooks. A pot will arrive unannounced at my house and if we're not home, it will rest wistfully on my kitchen counter until one of us lifts the lid to inspect its contents. A call arrives in the evening, "did you and the boys eat the pasta?" The answer is always a resounding yes, because anything else would hurt Mum's feelings.
I started to wonder why food carries so much for her, so I began asking: Did they have enough growing up? Was there something she only had on special occasions? What did her own Mum cook when she was small? And like the smoker, the questions opened a door I hadn't realised was closed.
This is what I keep coming back to. When we visit our parents or our in-laws or our grandparents, the conversation so often skims the surface. How's work? How are the kids? How's the bathroom reno? All fine, all necessary, but rarely the stuff we'll remember.
Food is the easiest way in. It's already on the table, in your hands or on the stove. There is no need to manufacture a moment, it’s already there.
A few questions worth keeping in your back pocket for your next visit:
- Where did you learn to make this?
- What did you love to eat as a child? What did you hate that Mum or Dad made you have?
- What did you eat on special occasions?
- What did your family cook when you were little?
Even better, help them prepare the meal. There's something about a shared activity, hands busy, side by side, no eye contact required, that loosens stories that wouldn't come across a table.
I've started doing this on our weekly visits with my in-laws and I'm always surprised by what comes out. How they married on the run. Arrived in Australia and lived in a tin shed in Carnarvon while they worked on a farm for a few cents per hour. The family and traditions they left behind but still carry with them well into their 80s, the smoked meat, the pasta.
The kind of things that get lost if no one thinks to ask.
So next time you're sitting across from someone you love, look at what's on the plate. There's probably a story in it, waiting.