I have a gift. It’s of dubious value in any job other than the one I have. I remember meals, dishes, what people ordered. On my own wedding day, I barely remember who I talked to, what the readings were and what music played (alright, the processional was “Here Comes the Sun.” Cheesy, but true.). But I remember grilled lamb with fig tapenade, fillet of red snapper with mojo verde, filo triangles with portobello mushrooms and goat cheese (sadly, not as good as they sounded) and, for dessert, spiced nut cake with white chocolate buttercream (a little dry).

It’s all in there, crowding out state capitals, the chronology of American presidents and lots of basic algebra. But I started thinking about my earliest food memory. How far back can I go? And this is what I came up with.

A camping trip (the only kind of trip my impoverished grad student-hippie parents took), heading up to Gold Rush country in an old sky-blue Dodge called Captain America. It’s dawn, I’m sprawled across some of the backseat, my baby brother is actually in a playpen my parents have rigged somehow in the back. No seatbelts in sight, but hey, it’s the ‘70s. I’m vaguely aware of the flatulent engine noise ceasing, then after a few minutes of silence, the smell of cinnamon rolls filling the car. They seemed big-as-your-head (but, also given that it was the ‘70s, they probably would be dwarfed by today’s Cinnabons), sticky with white icing, each segment peeling away to reveal a moister, more cinnamony inner segment, the center eye so sweet, so cinnamony that it’s almost painful to eat. Afterward, the fingers each get licked, then wiped surreptitiously across the flagging interior of the old Dodge.

On that same trip we went to a ghost town. In the gift shop, my six-year-old eyes fell upon a package of old-fashioned licorice candies. Black centers flanked by neon-pink nougat, little black gummy centers completely studded with tiny purple beads of sugar. Shiny coils like perfect black snakes. I had to have them. Indulged, we loaded back into Captain America and I had the crushing disappointment of licorice’s tar-and-rubber venom.

OK, dear reader, tell me of your earliest food memories.