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The Dutch deli

Food-Memory

I grew up in a small town of immigrants mostly from various parts of central, eastern, and northern Europe. Many of our neighbours were second and third generation Mennonites, with a few Dutch families sprinkled here and there. We were the outsiders, which was honestly a great way to grow up.

If I wanted to be extra honest, I would say that we were white trash. We had an old pickup sitting on blocks in the front yard. Our driveway was gravel. Well, it was mostly weeds and some ravel, always in a state of disrepair. The driveway led back to the back yard, which had a shed and two lean-tos, each filled with firewood and spiders. The shed itself had a lonely extension cord strung to it from the house, powering two old chest freezers. Beyond the shed was a small garden and a chicken coop with a sagging roof. Beyond the coop was an empty field that occasionally housed goats or sheep, all backing on a dyke separating us from a canal and swampy land.

The term white trash didn’t quite fit who we were. My mom was Métis, or mixed-blood. A muggle. My dad was Scottish, separated by several generations from the homeland and identity. When people caught a hint that we were even partly Métis, there were jokes and sideways glances, so we avoided talking about it. We identified as Canadian, or rural Canadian, but we always felt like outsiders.

Our small town had a single corner store, a gas station, a credit union, and a deli. The deli was fantastic. We didn’t visit it often, and I imagine that it was too expensive for our modest lifestyle. But when we did visit it, the food was sublime. I remember pillowy soft kaisers, fragrant swiss cheese, and tender and savoury meats. Mustard, onions, pickles, and fermented cabbage. I loved it! I’ve always appreciated the value of a good deli, which these days are difficult to find in our area.

Deli sandwiches were the pinnacle of cuisine for me at the time. Deli sliced swiss cheese tasted nothing like bulk block cheddar, the only cheese I knew. The sliced turkey was moist, and deeply flavourful, in stark constrast to the perfunctory holiday Turkeys cooked past oblivion out of the 1960s mindset of pasturizing food. The mustard was sharp, the sprouds fresh and earthy. It was the perfect sandwich.

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Garbage plates

Food-Memory
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Slick spaghetti with a hint of oregano

Food-Memory
I remember an old cast aluminium pot, handed down from my grandparents. It was pockmarked, with a patina of polymerized oils in the depressions. It once served as a pressure cooker that exploded in my grandmother’s kitchen, so it no longer had a lid. The handle was loose and the bolt seized, making it a death trap when loaded with a hot sauce. This pot was mostly used for my mom’s frugal spaghetti sauce, which was a simple combination of beef, puréd tomatoes, and just a hint of oregano, salt, and pepper.

The smells of India

Food-Memory
As our small town evolved, more families moved in from all over the world. I remember one family bought my best friend’s house. It was something like 15 acres of fallow land, with a large house that was built at the pinnacle of their grandparent’s careers. The house was grand, with 10 bedrooms, two kitchens, a library, conservatory, and countless other amenities that I found fascinating as a kid who lived in a tiny 2 bedroom turn-of-the-century home.