by Ethan Bowlen

There was a small, rickety wooden stool tucked in the corner of the kitchen, sitting beneath the white landline telephone mounted on the wall. Here, I would perch at the counter’s edge and follow along with my mother as she cooked; she would give me micro-portions of her ingredients, and I would do my best to imitate whatever she was creating.  We would chat in silly French accents and create lighthearted dramas as we worked on pies, cookies, spaghetti or lentil stews. I had a favorite wooden spoon and mixing bowl, but I especially loved the rolling pin and how intentional and productive it felt to roll out the doughs of floury desserts. Elsewhere, I went by “Ethan,” “E,” or “Ebay.” While I was with my mother in the kitchen, in my family’s first home on Bawden Street in Ketchikan, Alaska, I was “Monsieur le Chef.”

Although my alter-ego “Monsieur le Chef” only truly came alive during the brief period between the ages of four and five years old, my times as he are the oldest and most palpable memories of food I can recall. I still smell the light, sweet fluffiness of various flours and doughs, dusting the countertop and my face and hands; I can still see the kitchen, the sun basking the countertops beneath the wide windows that overlooked our small and wild Alaskan garden; I can still feel the muscles of my mouth tighten joyously with long ago smiles and giggling chit-chats shared while I sat on that stool, rolling pin in hand.  With the memory of Monsieur le Chef comes a gentle cascade of sensory experience, as well as an overwhelming nostalgic appreciation for the childhood that I lived and for the people who made it so.

My first and most formative food memories were given to me by my mother, ultimately through whom Monsieur le Chef was born. She gave me agency and pride in my culinary creations, however rudimentary and fantastical they may have been; she taught me that work and skill-building did not have to be a chore, and that, with the right company and the right attitude, one could find enjoyment and pride in the completion of tasks. Unfortunately, these lessons were recently remembered and for the majority of my youth I remained quiet, passive and reserved.

I’ve only just rediscovered a serious passion for food and the sensory experiences that are intrinsic to eating. Thinking now in earnest on my relationships with food and the people who shaped my perceptions of it, the passion was always there— it just went unaddressed and sat unfueled. I am older now and thus memory does not flood, but crops up in anecdotal river teeth, fuzzy pictures with sporadic instances of vibrant sensorial clarity. Beginning with my culinary origin as Monsieur le Chef in the kitchen with my mother, I can then trace my love of food and the dimensions of my palate best through other guardians from my youth. Through my father and the parents of my childhood friends, I became further acquainted with the dynamics of food, household kitchen cultures, and family.

At my childhood home, my father was the master of breakfast and a man of simple yet flavorful taste, indulging in cereals and pancake mixes and bacon on the stove. Although they more or less came straight from a box, I don’t believe that I have had pancakes better than the ones my dad used to make. When I would stay the night at a friend’s house, I would miss having breakfast at home, though there was always much to be gained at these fresh and diverse locales.

Health was to be had at Alec’s home, no doubt his father’s profession as a physician played a role in this culinary factor. For a long time, a persistent ribbing of Alec referenced an instance in which Andy, his father, became very upset with him after discovering Alec had eaten more than two Oreo cookies.  At Sy’s home across the channel on Pennock Island, we ate Dutch Babies made by his parents, Peggy and Paul, topped with powdered sugar and lemon juice; I always felt especially privileged to spend mornings at this dining table, with the rich flavor of these light and fluffy cakes mingling with the scents of salt spray and fresh air as we looked out at the ocean and the mountains.

In retrospect, I can see that these two locations in addition to my immediate home were where my passion for food first took root. Each household, each cook, had an individual set of characteristics, systems, and sensations to add to the food that was prepared for eager young mouths. I am only now beginning to make my journey back to who I was when I was Monsieur le Chef, and in recognizing those in my life who have influenced my palate and my culinary perceptions, I will try to cultivate a more active and intimate relationship with food.