When I was growing up, my mom worked as a credit manager for a well-known spice conglomerate.   Every day after school, I’d catch a quick whiff of her and instantly know what spice they were processing at the plant.  Even though she worked in a separate building from the factory, she’d still, uh, bring work home with her.

Black pepper days were the worst, she’d say.  She’d complain she was coated in a fine layer of pepper dust.  I always despised when they were packaging curry at the plant.   In small doses, it’s fine.   Otherwise … blech!  Curry permeates and then permanently invades any airspace.   The aroma (read that: smell) would tend to linger on, near or around my mom no matter how many showers she took or spritzes of perfume she’d spray.  To this day, my dad can’t be near the smell of curry without cringing.

Sometimes Mom had a spring in her step.  Those were vanilla extract or lemon verbena days.  She liked working there and made some good friends over the years.  And sure there were a lot of perks, like free spices from time to time.  Or random test recipes that somehow included 46 different spices in varying amounts.

I am forever adding spices to every dish I make.  It reminds me of my mom.  I don’t know if she would be proud … or appalled.  For instance … this morning’s oatmeal had a dash of ginger, a sprinkle of nutmeg, a healthy dose of cinnamon and a light dusting of something called Pumpkin Pie spice.

A tasteless meal is the work of the devil. I simply cannot handle bland food.   Call me Emeril, because it must have a kick.  Or else.  I think my mom’s palate has changed over the years, and not for the better.  She can cook up a storm, but rarely anything with a lot of spice in it anymore.   Case in point, even though she probably has a lifetime supply of cumin, she refuses to so much as try it.   One time my mom and I had a full blown argument about how much garlic I put in a dish.   She will, however, add a sprinkle of paprika to her deviled eggs though, so I know she’s still get a little boom in her bada bing.

So here’s to every chef or chef-in-training out there who goes a little nutty with the nutmeg or psycho with the saffron.  More power to you.  And if you have any ideas how to breathe  new life into my mom’s meatloaf … lemme know.  I’d be eternally grateful.