Dylan and I take pride in being home cooks. We are lifelong learners in the kitchen, adding experience with every dish we make. Every bit of fresh, local produce we are fortunate enough to acquire, every morsel of feedback we get from friends and family, and every heartwarming memory these moments create is what really makes us thrive. Come to think of it, ever since we first met at a Meridian pizzeria, it’s really always been about food. We both believe that food connects each of us, transcending barriers, politics, groups, and cultures, to show that we can be on the same wavelength, even for just a moment. From the simplest dinners to the splendid occasions that mark the most important life events, food creates an unbreakable chain that binds us all together. Dylan and I hold this belief to our cores: Some of the most fantastic memories can be made over a plate of incredible food.

Hopping on that important event train, Dylan and I decided to make some memories and celebrate our 5th Anniversary of us meeting. We decided to do this at a restaurant that we both had never been to before: Camel’s Crossing. For being foodies, we felt a bit ashamed at not hearing about this gem, and I partly blame that on me spending a good portion (read: almost all) my life not visiting the Hyde Park area of Boise. My goodness, I was so sheltered. Thankfully, word gets around, and while popping by a stall at the Boise Farmers Market we caught wind of this hidden treasure, located on the corner of 13th St. and Alturas. We were told about a 4-course meal option that is offered every Tuesday through Saturday, where diners can pick one course from each of the 4 areas of the menu to create a meal experience. Its $49 dollars per person, which made me shake a bit (I’m a former college student still dealing with flashbacks), but Dylan and I were intrigued, so we planned it for our anniversary.

There is something to be said about first impressions, and when walking through the doors of Camel’s Crossing, I felt myself transported. The atmosphere of the restaurant was less a shining brilliance that shoved fine dining and affluence in your face, than a moody, 1920s Speakeasy ushering you into a safe space to enjoy the slight extravagances of the times. It was calming, the lighting taking away the harshness of the day and replacing it with intrigue. We were led to this plush leather booth and proceeded to order.

Slight tangent about that menu: Camel’s crossing does something with its menu that takes dining to another level. Instead of describing the process in how everything is cooked right on the menu, they instead list integral ingredients, and leave the explaining to the wonderful hostess that brings you your food. The descriptions we received seemingly enhanced our meal, filling us with wonder before each bite! Furthermore, not everything is listed as ingredients on the menu, so there is a factor of surprise with each plate that comes out in ways of accents and garnish. They also consider food allergens, so everything is produced safely. In my mind, THAT’S how you do a menu.

We ordered and proceeded to have one of the best meals we have ever eaten in the valley. Albeit, we haven’t eaten everywhere, so that might not be as impactful as, say, a food critic. Still, what we ate was more than just food: It was an experience. There was such nuance to the food that we were presented! Every bite seemingly evoked emotions or memories from each of us. This post would never end if I talked about every single dish we ate. Instead, I’d like to share my experience with one of the plates that graced our table.

**Octopus: Puttanesca, Preserved Lemon, Spring Herb Emulsion**

This dish was simply…incredible. My childhood was spent in the kitchen of my Grandmother (largely getting in the way, mind you). So, surprise, Italian food was what I grew up on. My family emigrated from Italy, and largely came from two areas: Calabria, which is the toe of the boot of Italy, and Sicily, the aluminum can of an island the boot is kicking. Their livelihoods revolved around fishing, which made seafood one of the most accessible ingredients for them. When they fled for a better life, they brought that knowledge here to the states. Three generations later, my grandmother passed on her knowledge to me. My family was tight knit and would gather for holiday meals a few times every year. Come Christmas time we would be surrounded by a veritable smorgasbord of fish dishes, and our contribution was always the same: Calamari. Grammy (and my Mother after her) instilled in me the best ways to cook the slippery little morsels of the sea, which was no simple feat! Squid are finicky little things. You either quickly sear them, or slowly cook them over hours; anything else results in a chewy, rubbery mess that no one wants to eat. Octopus is similar in its composition, though much thicker. Still, the rules of squid apply here too, only as a much more difficult ingredient. Octopus is thicker and denser than squid, making its own cooking requirements a bit more difficult to fine tune. Yet, Grammy always found a way to make these creatures delectable. There was always some sort of a tomato sauce, slow cooked for days, that imparted such a richness that complimented the Octopus. While I learned my Grammy’s techniques, I’ve never tasted anything that came close to hers outside her kitchen.

**My Grammy instilled in me my love of food.**

The octopus I ate at Camel’s Crossing brought me back to my Grammy’s Kitchen. It was the most tender octopus I’ve ever had in my life; sweet juices pouring out of the tentacle with each bite. Not chewy at all, this cut like a fine tenderloin and melted into the mouth. The puttanesca that accompanied it, mixed with the spring herb emulsion, built into a crescendo that created a cacophony of intermingling flavors. I. Was. Awestruck. The Single tentacle had been sous vide, locking in its flavor over the span of multiple hours. In each bite, I SAW our family meals; the delicious cephalopods coated in a rich tomato sauce, slow simmered over the course of days. That was here, in this single, solitary portion. In one bite, I was home. No dish has ever done that to me before. Every memory I made with my Grammy came flooding back. The first time I tried to cook, how insistent I was to learn in the kitchen, and how spectacularly I failed the first couple times. The memories of her fostering my wanting to cook in the final months of her life, just as I was coming to the age to really have cooking lessons sink in. They all flooded back. Almost 20 years on from her passing, everything was fresh in my mind.

Dylan likes to joke with me about what happened during our meal. He’ll say to me that “It looked like you found God”. Heck, I sometimes play along, saying that the title of my memoir may very well be “I Found God in an Octopus Tentacle and Other Musings”. In reality, I found my childhood. I found the reason why I started cooking in the first place. The feeling of comfort. The feeling of love. The feeling of family. How a dish from a restaurant could do that is well beyond what I thought was possible. Yet, Camel’s Crossing did that. They sat my Grammy at the table with me, and I could feel her warm embrace with every sense of my being. I’ll never forget that.

Thank you, Camel’s Crossing. For the first time in 20 years, I felt like my Grammy was with me once again.