Nature vs. Nurture
As an adoptee the thing that astounds me the most are the moments when I become aware of the fact that I am not biologically related to my parents.
This morning I was talking to my mom on the phone about our new honeymoon venue in Kauai. My parents have stayed at this place several times, so they've got lots of suggestions on places to go and things to do. Mom commented that each community on the island has its own farmers market and we need to make it to at least one of them because it's astounding the variety of produce available, and especially the differences between the different markets in different locations on the island given what a relatively tiny island it is.
My comment was something to the effect of, "Great, I'm going to be on my honeymoon and compelled to cook because of all this fabulous, unique produce available to me." And I was only being half facetious. My mom didn't get it.
Then I decided to go to the store and pick up some food for tomorrow. In honor of our fantasy baseball draft and MLB's opening night I decided we should have food from the ballpark. By which I mean I went to Whole Foods and bought some nice sausages and demi baguettes, organic stone ground corn chips and aged ultra-sharp cheddar, russet potatoes and fresh garlic. In other words, hot dogs, nachos and garlic fries but with a distinctly gourment flavor.
I did not get my interest in gourment cooking and organic food from either of my parents. My mom's greatest contribution to my kitchen skills is imparting the wisdom to me as a child that it's no more difficult to take tomato sauce and make your own marinara than it is to go buy a jar of Ragu. But she also was in awe the first Thanksgiving I brought the pie to the meal and rather than buying a can of Redi-Whip I brought some whipping cream and opted to make my own. While at Outback Steakhouse once my father proclaimed that they probably had the best ribs anywhere.
Yet here I am constantly pushing my epicurean skills and trying new things in the kitchen. Is cooking an important part in one of my birth parents' lives, that was genetically coded down to me? Or is there some personality trait they passed down that precluces my love of cooking? Or is it all just a random occurance, because kids always have some fundamental differences from their parents?
When the psychologists frame their nature vs. nurture debates, I don't think this is what they had in mind, but it's moments like this when it comes into my mind. I may never know the answers to these questions, but at least I'll have a full stomach to distract me.
This morning I was talking to my mom on the phone about our new honeymoon venue in Kauai. My parents have stayed at this place several times, so they've got lots of suggestions on places to go and things to do. Mom commented that each community on the island has its own farmers market and we need to make it to at least one of them because it's astounding the variety of produce available, and especially the differences between the different markets in different locations on the island given what a relatively tiny island it is.
My comment was something to the effect of, "Great, I'm going to be on my honeymoon and compelled to cook because of all this fabulous, unique produce available to me." And I was only being half facetious. My mom didn't get it.
Then I decided to go to the store and pick up some food for tomorrow. In honor of our fantasy baseball draft and MLB's opening night I decided we should have food from the ballpark. By which I mean I went to Whole Foods and bought some nice sausages and demi baguettes, organic stone ground corn chips and aged ultra-sharp cheddar, russet potatoes and fresh garlic. In other words, hot dogs, nachos and garlic fries but with a distinctly gourment flavor.
I did not get my interest in gourment cooking and organic food from either of my parents. My mom's greatest contribution to my kitchen skills is imparting the wisdom to me as a child that it's no more difficult to take tomato sauce and make your own marinara than it is to go buy a jar of Ragu. But she also was in awe the first Thanksgiving I brought the pie to the meal and rather than buying a can of Redi-Whip I brought some whipping cream and opted to make my own. While at Outback Steakhouse once my father proclaimed that they probably had the best ribs anywhere.
Yet here I am constantly pushing my epicurean skills and trying new things in the kitchen. Is cooking an important part in one of my birth parents' lives, that was genetically coded down to me? Or is there some personality trait they passed down that precluces my love of cooking? Or is it all just a random occurance, because kids always have some fundamental differences from their parents?
When the psychologists frame their nature vs. nurture debates, I don't think this is what they had in mind, but it's moments like this when it comes into my mind. I may never know the answers to these questions, but at least I'll have a full stomach to distract me.
posted by Swankette at 3:08 PM
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