How, Where, and When I Learned to Love Good Food

by Don Hazelwood September 17th, 2025

When I think back to my childhood, food was never something I got excited about. I wasn’t picky in the sense of refusing to eat, but I was particular in the sense of keeping things simple. I liked my burgers with ketchup only. No lettuce, no onion, no tomato. Just ketchup. That was my safe zone. If anything outside of “Italian” cuisine came across the table, I’d usually pass. And even “Italian” was a stretch, because in my family, pizza night was about as far as it went. We didn’t explore the culinary world at the Hazelwood household.

Pizza night happened every Wednesday because my dad bowled that night, so my mom, my sister, and I would have a pizza delivered. It wasn’t gourmet, it was Domino’s. Nothing against my family, but nobody in our house was exactly a good cook. My mother’s mother used to make “spaghetti sauce” by stirring tomato paste into water with a sprinkle of oregano. That was the level of culinary inspiration I came from. Food was fuel, not passion. Meals were something to get through, not experiences to savor.

So it would have been hard to imagine me today, the guy who plans weekends around farmer’s markets, waits all year for tomato season, and adjusts what I cook based on what’s growing around me. But there’s one memory I can point to, one moment when it all clicked.

Of course, the groundwork was laid in college. By then, I started venturing out beyond the safe boundaries of my childhood plate. Someone grilled me a pork chop once and I almost didn’t believe what I was eating. You mean pork chops don’t have to be baked in sauerkraut? Growing up, we always had them that way, and as a kid I thought sauerkraut (or “sourcrap,” as I used to call it) was just awful. That grilled pork chop opened my eyes. Then I started adding onions and tomatoes to my burgers. Then I tried Chinese food and liked it, Mexican, Thai, etc … each cuisine seemingly better than the previous. Slowly, my taste buds stretched out.

But the moment everything truly shifted happened at a friend’s farm during one of those long summer parties. These were the kind of weekend events where people camped out, cooked together, and hung around the pool, telling stories, and playing cards. I had a habit of bringing along a tomato or two from the grocery store, slicing them up in the morning, and putting them on a biscuit. Nothing fancy, just my own little routine.

One year, though, a guy spotted me cutting into one of my store-bought tomatoes. He looked at me like I’d just committed some sort of culinary crime. “Boy,” he said, “we don’t eat those kind of tomatoes out here in the country. We eat real tomatoes.” And then he walked over to his truck and pulled out a field-grown tomato he’d brought from his farm. Seriously, as I recall he had tomatoes in his truck. He then sliced it open and handed me a piece.

The difference was undeniable. It wasn’t just sweeter, juicier, more alive, it was like tasting a tomato for the first time. At that moment, something clicked in my head. It wasn’t only about the kinds of foods I hadn’t tried as a kid. It was also about the freshness of the food itself, about eating something grown nearby, something pulled from the soil when it was supposed to be eaten.

That was the start of me becoming what I’ll proudly admit I am today: a tomato freak. I wait all year for tomato season. I’ll eat tomato sandwiches, pile them on BLTs, throw them in salads, or just slice them into quarters with a little salt. Nothing compares to that burst of flavor in the summer.

But the lesson carried me beyond tomatoes. It taught me to pay attention to seasonality. Right now, the summer fruits are just about finished, strawberries, peaches, blueberries, blackberries, cantaloupes, and the occasional raspberries. As the days shorten, apples from the mountains of NC are taking their place, and before long it’ll be sweet potato and winter squash season. I’ve learned to let the rhythm of the farmer’s market guide what I cook and eat.

It’s better for me, because fresh food picked at the peak of ripeness has more nutrients and flavor. It’s better for the planet, because eating locally means fewer food miles and less energy wasted on transporting produce halfway across the world. And it’s better for the soul, because food becomes an experience, something connected to place and time.

This way of eating has a name, though I didn’t know it at the time. It’s part of what’s called the slow food movement. The movement started in Italy in the 1980s as a reaction against fast food and the industrialization of meals. The idea was simple but powerful: take the time to enjoy food, prepare it thoughtfully, and protect local traditions and ingredients. Slow food is about more than just cooking, it’s about living in a way that values quality over speed, and sustainability over convenience.

That’s exactly what I stumbled into when that farmer handed me a slice of a real tomato. I realized food isn’t meant to be rushed or stripped down for efficiency. It’s meant to be savored, to be rooted in where you are, to reflect the seasons and the land. Eating this way connects you to farmers, to nature, and to your own community in a way no fast-food burger ever could.

Looking back, I’m grateful for the journey. From ketchup-only burgers and “sourcrap” pork chops to fresh tomatoes and seasonal meals, I’ve come a long way. My upbringing may not have offered culinary highlights, but maybe that’s why the contrast hit me so hard. Once I tasted real food, I couldn’t go back.

Good food isn’t just about taste, it’s about connection, health, sustainability, and joy. And once you experience it, there’s no forgetting it.