When I was young, my paternal grandparents lived about twenty minutes from my house. My parents would frequently take my sister and me to their place on Friday night and then pick us up again the next day. They had shagbark hickory trees on their property and grandpa kept a can of nuts in the basement. My recollection is that it was a milk can from their days as farmers. I’d take nuts into his wood shop, crack the shells, and eat the fruit.
Recently, I was eating a pecan and wondering why it tasted familiar and in some ways comforting. Upon consulting wikipedia, I discovered that pecans are hickory nuts. Don’t know why I never put two and two together. Now, whenever I eat one of those, I’m immediately back in the shop.
You see, this really isn’t about food. It’s about memory; it’s about heritage; it’s about love.