Confusing thread title, I know. But let me explain.
When I was three or so, my Nana took care of my brother and me. She was a great lady, as all Nanas are. She watched us, played with us, read to us, and, most germane here, cooked for us.
She occasionally made this stuff that I absolutely loved. It was whiteish and thickish and somewhat lumpy. Sounds great, no? But anyway, I really spooned it down. Now, being three, I didn’t know what to call it. And being a Polish immigrant, my Nana didn’t either. So we called it oatmeal as it bore a passing resemblance to the stuff.
Ironically, I hated oatmeal. Wouldn’t touch it. My Nana’s culinary masterpiece was no oatmeal to me.
As I grew older, the taste of that amazing stuff stayed with me. But it wasn’t until I was nine or so, that I learned what the stuff was. Cooky’s Steak House was the setting of my epiphany. My parents suggested the rice pudding for dessert. One mouthful and WHAMMO, instant recognition. And me, at nine, transported momentarily into the child of three, lovingly cared for by his Nana.
Were you unsure of the identity of any of your childhood food favorites?