Today’s Daily Prompt is to describe your favorite food and why.
Mine has actually been occupying most of my fridge space these past few weeks, sitting in a huge cast iron pot that weighs more than I do. Inside, you’d find beef stew. We’re talking the hearty kind. We’re talking the kind that’s nice and thick, none of this watery, tea colored stuff. We’re talking hours of simmered roux. We’re talking meat, potatoes, and carrots, because to mix green, competing flavors like peas and green beans is just pain juvenile.
We’re talking the kind of stew I can still smell in my old house, the one with the yellow den walls and slanting ceiling, the one I was raised in. We’re talking the kind of stew that brings me back to hopping off the dusty bus steps, a smell that always clung to my uniform. The smell that brings me back to running up our long driveway at Garrett’s heels, and into the carport door, right into the kitchen. And mom would always be there, right there when you got in, standing over the stove with an ancient, wooden spoon in her hand. I can still hear Oprah in the background, a staple of our arriving home ritual. And the roux would be tracing its way up the spoon handle, barely revealing itself. But I would know what was cooking long before I reached the pot. That warm smell would wrap me like a blanket. Maybe it’s because that smell was always related to my mother’s face, finding us in the doorway with a big, beautiful, constant smile.
Whatever the reason, it is one of those foods I will never tire of, one of those foods that makes any bad day bearable, but most importantly, it is one of those foods I hope to stay home to cook someday, waiting to hear the sound of little tennis shoes coming through the door.