I came across a question yesterday asking what food, taste, or scent immediately transports you to a place, or a memory, or a person.

Well, that’s an easy one. The harder part is limiting the response so it doesn’t become a novel.

Let’s see. There was dad’s god-awful bologna roast that he was so very proud of. A huge chunk of bologna that he would stuff with peppercorns and then put on a cookie sheet in the oven and roast. It was a dangerous thing to eat, not only because of the massive amount of grease, but the peppercorns that could break a tooth. I’m sure it was also dangerous to cook because of all the fat. Dad loved it.

Then there was dad’s other masterpiece which was fried pork chops with a can of pork and beans poured over the top.

Of course, the dinner that caused PTSD in my younger sister: mom’s liver and onions.

Oh, mom’s ‘goulash’ which we all loved. When the ketchup bottle was getting low enough that only an inch or two of ketchup remained, we could anticipate goulash. She’d add water to the bottle, shake it up, pour it over hamburger, add elbow macaroni, and there you were. Goulash. Add some cheese and it was a cheap gourmet meal for five kids.

I’m sure you can see why my husband cooks our dinners.

Aunty, on the other hand, spoiled us kids. Layered fruit jello with the corresponding fruit added, so you had a rainbow in a bowl. Little Nilla Wafers carefully frosted and with sprinkles. A huge platter of fried chicken with a corresponding smaller plate of fried smelt in case there wasn’t enough chicken to go around. Smelt. Their little eyes watched you while you ate. There was always enough chicken.

I once attempted to make homemade Hollandaise sauce. I curdled the eggs and the butter separated and it was like grease. Dad, needless to say, loved it.

Luckily, I have Art. Smoked brisket and fantastic lasagna with spinach and herbs. Stromboli and gumbo, Cajun potato salad and fish. Barbecue and prime rib.

Then there’s my sister who is vegetarian and makes the best zucchini boats with rice and herbs. And buckwheat pancakes. And her steelhead with molasses and soy sauce and spices.

Would I love buckwheat pancakes or lasagna if they were made by anyone else? Probably, but they definitely wouldn’t be as good. It’s obviously the cook, the home, the company, the sense of love, and the memories that make everything taste to much better.

Except for bologna roast. I loved my dad, I cherish memories of him, but really, that stuff was just horrible.