Sometimes I have a memory, a sensory etching, of a very particular flavor experience that I can not replicate. No matter how many German chocolate cakes I’ve sampled in my life, not one of them was exactly like my grandmother Velma’s. She used actual cake flour and real German chocolate. We hand-picked the pecans for the icing while we watched TV together. Her finished cake had a perfect flavor and texture balance, producing a sensory delight I can vividly recall but have never recaptured.
The pursuit of such exacting taste requirements is occasionally achievable. I often bake cookies from scratch, even though it’s a terrible hassle. I just can’t accept the organic goo that masquerades behind that noun in the stores. I know what a cookie should taste like and since I have the power to make that happen, I won’t settle for less.
Yesterday I called my mother to ask for some cooking advice. I had been craving some down-home fried okra for a while now, but have never found a restaurant that does it to suit me. Finding some fresh okra at the farmer’s market that morning, I decided to try my hand at it.
I have a rule against frying at home, but sometimes rules must be broken.
I questioned my mother on her usual process. Did she coat the pieces with egg? “I’ve done that sometimes,” she says, “but sometimes I don’t. I don’t really like the egg much. But you need something…” I pressed on. Did she mix flour with the corn meal, or not? “I’ve done it both ways,” she said. “Sometimes I add some flour, but I like more corn meal.” I’m getting a little confused. When questioned on the particulars, she offers a suggestion of a 2:1 mix, but sounds a bit vague.
“And I’ve got Crisco,” I told her. “I want the real thing.”
“Well I sometimes used Crisco. Or Wesson oil. Whatever I had. I don’t fry much anymore either.”
By that point the irony was laughable. The source of my “one true sense-memory taste” of mother’s fried okra was this ‘maybe/maybe not, this or that, whatever is at hand’ approach to its preparation. So much for the persistence of memory.
My okra turned out great. It was golden brown, crunchy outside, fresh and toothsome inside. It left a greasy mess to clean up and I won’t do it again soon, but I really enjoyed it.
Still, though, it didn’t taste quite exactly like my mother’s. What can you do?