Gag Me with a Ritz Cracker

Last week I was offered a slice of apple pie that I refused to eat. Actually, it was not really apple pie, but pie made with Ritz crackers disguised to taste like apples. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against crackers. My favorite comfort food of all time is fried matzos. But deliberately choosing to use my mouth for a chemistry experiment, instead of for the geshmak I feel when I bite into a warm morsel of tart apple? That's cockamammie!

My father, Christmas 1981

Mom turned goyem each Dec. 25, always making glazed ham with pineapple rings and Maraschino cherries

In sharing this experience with my grown daughters, and reflecting on other times that we have had similar reactions to recipes, I'm thinking that this is more than just a case of culinary snobbishness. Call me obsessed with family history and finding my ancestors, but I believe that food preference is part of our DNA.

All the years we lived in Portland I craved food prepared by Horst Mager of the Rhinelander restaurant. Years later, when I filled in the blanks on my pedigree chart with names like Ehrmanntraut and Weinmann, my enthusiasm for German style red cabbage all made sense.

The Modesto Goodriches, about 1999

Enjoying their Christmas tradition of Cioppini
right to left: Chuck Goodrich, his niece Dawn Pratt, her husband Rich Miller

There's currently a lot of interest in the genealogy world about tracing family roots using DNA testing. Simply swab the inside of your mouth to collect skin cells, submit to a reputable company, and you're that much closer to finding your ancestry. But I believe there's an easier way to cut to the chase: check out the family cookbook and traditions involving food.

Case in point: pastrami. Picture a cold pastrami sandwich made with mayonnaise---no, wait---a cold pastrami sandwich made with mayonnaise AND white bread. If this makes you cringe, then we're probably genetic cousins.

Here are some more of our family traditions: cream is whipped shortly before it is served, not scooped out of a plastic tub that has been left to defrost on the kitchen counter. Pancake batter is made with milk, eggs, oil, and preferably buckwheat flour. Macaroni and cheese is baked in the oven until the top is brown and the edges are bubbly.

Jell-O pudding is something you are forced to eat while confined to a hospital bed, not a dessert to serve guests. Chili does not come in a can, and neither does spaghetti. Years ago, as a tired, single mother, I picked up a box of dehydrated potato flakes at the grocery store to help simplify meal preparation. My children were convinced that I had finally lost my mind and would be forever farblondget.

If you are familiar with the oxymoron REAL BUTTER, and say it regularly when ordering at restaurants, then I have a feeling that you are not offended by this post. For the rest of my readers, blame my tastes on heredity, and please help yourself to another slice of pie.

copyright 2008 by Kathleen Stewart Goodrich