The Utah food scene in the ’70s was abysmal. The state’s greatest culinary achievement was Arctic Circle’s fry sauce, followed closely by green Jell-O salads filled with pineapple or shredded carrots or (retching noises) cottage cheese. 

I was a kid during that decade and my mother was a whiz at preparing trendy 1970’s cuisine. She mastered the crushed-saltine meatloaf. She casseroled the heck out of tater tots, cream of mushroom soup and ground beef. Her chicken-fried steak (hamburger patties covered in smashed cornflakes and slathered with A-1 sauce) was a weekly staple.

In a rush, she’d chop up a jarful of dried beef, mix it into a cream sauce and dump it on toast. The sodium content of that meal is still wreaking havoc on my kidneys. 

Going out to dinner was a luxury for our family, which included me and four siblings. So that left Mom with the difficult task of feeding six people every night with whatever we had in the cupboards. Mom would sit at the table, clenching her jaw, and I knew better than to complain about the tuna and potato chip casserole. But I still did.

Eating at a restaurant was an event. I have vague memories of eating at Restaurant Minoa, a Greek place in Salt Lake, wearing my Sunday best and feeling very adult when I ordered the halibut (which I didn’t eat because I found a fishbone and refused to eat, and my parents got mad and we never went back).

I also remember trying Chinese hot mustard for the first time. I smothered my char siu pork in the creamy sauce, put it in my mouth and regained consciousness three hours later.

Most of our dining out was at places like Shakey’s, with its deliciously crispy pizza crust, or A&W drive-in, with food trays clipped to the car window and frosty mugs of root beer. There was also Dee’s Hamburgers in Murray that featured a creepy clown sign and cheap burgers. 

Church dinners played a big part in my childhood. The potluck free-for-all was a Russian roulette of food poisoning. We knew whose overcooked ham was sprinkled with cat hair, and how to avoid potato salad that had been left in the sun. But the dessert table was fair game with its chocolate sheet cake, spice cookies and lemon bars. I didn’t even care if they were covered with Siamese fur. 

We also subsisted on Mormon wedding fare; miniature paper cups filled with butter mints and peanuts, and grape Kool-Aid spiked with 7-Up.

 But my favorite childhood dining memory was going to Chuck-A-Rama with my grandparents. We’d go on Sunday (which mom didn’t approve of but which wasn’t a sin if you were with your grandparents) and the all-you-can-eat buffet was laden with piles of fruits and salads and meats and desserts, gleaming under fluorescent lights like an offering to the gods. 

We’d load our plates and eat until we were dizzy. Then we became Grandma’s partners in crime. Although signs at Chuck-A-Rama said taking food home was strictly forbidden, Grandma told each of the grandkids to get a fried drumstick or chicken breast, and a scone. She’d wrap the food carefully in napkins and walk out of the restaurant as nonchalantly as Al Capone. 

Now, the bland food of my childhood is replaced with tasty cuisine from all over the globe. But I often miss my childhood dinners with everyone sitting around the table. Although it’s still a hard “No” to tuna casserole, with or without potato chips.