Eating Food History

I was never much into history until we moved to Belgium in 1998. Our second floor apartment was about 20 minutes from the French border, in the tiny town of Ghlin, and came complete with a yard full of chickens, one studly rooster and a house cat.

Our neighbor kept a rickety old horse, whom we affectionately referred to as “the glue horse.” The poor thing, with its frumpy back and clumsy hooves, looked as though it had been rescued from a glue factory and spared for a lazy life on our neighbor’s muddy farm. We spoiled the glue horse rotten with carrots and apples every afternoon, rain or shine.

Time stood still, it seemed, in Ghlin, with cobblestone streets and houses with thatched roofs. Thursdays the fish monger would drive through the bumpy streets, announcing his arrival over a staticy bull horn speaker.

I worked at the public affairs office for the 80th ASG, which was one of the main air bases Hitler used during World War II. The houses closest to the runway displayed 60-year-old battle scars from Hitler’s orders to level the roof lines so the cargo and bomber planes, heavy with fuel and artillery, had enough clearance to chug and cough their way into the sky.

World War II is still very much alive in Belgium, with annual festivals and marches to commemorate events, honor the fallen, the survivors, the heroes, and celebrate freedom. When you live in this part of Belgium, you are immersed in a living history book. Living it, rather than reading it, makes you appreciate everything you have. It makes you cry. It makes you want to learn more. I did all of those things during our three years there, often.

Wanting to capture and hold on to that history, we started collecting antiques. Two of my favorite pieces from Belgium are my 1930(ish) egg beaters. Food was my connection to the old and new, the then and now. It still is. Food made history come alive for me.

This weekend, we went antiquing in Mt. Dora, Florida, where I found a stash of vintage silverware, mismatched and charming, for two dollars. When we got home, I washed each fork, knife and spoon by hand, and rubbed off a bit of the tarnished years. Some pieces were sterling, some were silver plated. I stared at them for a long time, wondering where they came from, who owned them.  I imagined, with such fancy pieces, these could have been the belle of a family holiday gathering or Sunday dinner.

No matter their rocky road from loving home to dusty shoe box, they’re here with me now, safe and sound. I’m not sure of their past history, but they will certainly be a part of mine, with a rightful place next to my egg beaters.

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