Red Jello in Milk

I recently read two short articles on the relationship between food and cultural identity. We all have those meals which bring back childhood memories; for some people it's cooked cabbage, for others pinto de gallo, and yet for others maybe it's a simple pb&j sandwich. I have two, both of which I can no longer eat due to being a vegetarian, yet just the thought of them whisks me back to my childhood. The first may sound like the absolutely worst meal on the planet, but for me it was the thing I asked to eat on my birthday every single year while growing up- canned ham (yes, canned ham), mashed potatoes (from powder), and a Maraschino cherry glaze (literally just the juice from the can warmed up on the stove). This overly processed, salt ridden, diabeticly sweet, concoction of foods would be enough to turn most people into raw vegans, but for me it was my grandma's speciality and I loved it. This connection between food and ones childhood is a connection that transcends age, race, culture,and any other form of separation. In his article Eating White, Nicholson tells about his mothers relationship with white food and how when he eats white food memories of her come flooding back. This relationship with food is one that everyone has, whether it be the smell of warming Maraschino cherry juice on the stove, or a piece of white bread with white cheese, food has the ability to transcend the present and recreate the past with every single bite. But food is more than just memories, it is also culture and identity. My grandmother made for me what I like to thinks of as the most American dessert possible- red jello and milk. Every time I visited her and my grandfather we had the exact same routine, first we would go thrift store shopping for what seemed an eternity and then, when I finally thought I would surely die of boredom, we would return to their home where we would sit down at the kitchen table. My grandmother would then open the fridge and pull out her giant metal bowl of red Jello, which was as much of a staple of her house as the constantly smoking cigarette which hung from her lips. She would then break the Jello up and then pour ice cold milk all over it until the only red that could be seen were the little red islands floating that broke off from the main part and were floating in a sea of white. She would then hand out spoons and the three of us would feast on red and white, until all that was left was a small puddle of milk with little pieces of red Jello that were impossible to catch with the spoon, this was the moment I waited for, this is when I got to lift the giant cold metal bowl to my lips and drink the flavored milk. While I know red Jello in milk isn't a staple in every Americans diet, for me, it is summertime in the great Mid West. It is for me, just as American as apple pie, fireworks, the 4th of July, and Uncle Sam. In another article I read, Home Run- My Journey Back to Korean Food author Ahn remembers similar experiences with his mother cooking in the kitchen, experiences that for him are as Korean as they are individual identity. His relationship with Korean food keeps him connected to his cultural identity and allows a tool for him to share his culture with his son. Food can do a great many things, for some it brings back memories of loved ones, for others it keeps them grounded in their heritage in an every expanding global community. For me it does both, food acts as a medium between me and my loved ones and keeps me grounded in what I consider my roots of Middle America.