When I initially decided to take Food and Travel Writing, I knew that it was a class that interest me greatly and help me develop a style of journalistic writing that I had not previously experienced but was curious about. While I looked forward to this class with great energy and enthusiasm, I didn’t see it at first as an incredibly challenging course. My mind changed from the moment I stepped into the classroom, not only because it did become a challenging environment where we were encouraged to think critically in discussion and to read texts thoughtfully, but because it challenged me the most as a writer.
I had always envisioned myself being able to write about food and location fairly easily. How hard could it be? You simply had to provide the reader with rich descriptions and details. But it was much harder than that. I found myself struggling to describe to others the very real experiences or memories that I had, unable to share with them my feelings and why the topics I chose to write about where so important to me.
For my process writing, I really want to focus on the larger assignments that we work-shopped in class and revised on our own. This is not to say that I did not take away anything from my reading responses, but is because it would be incredibly difficult to go as in-depth as I would like to with as many pieces of writing as we completed for this course.
Workshop for me was something that I didn’t look forward to but that I knew was very important for both the development of my piece as well as the development of me as a writer. I loved getting input from everyone but I disliked how the focus was on me in a way that was forced and much like pulling teeth. I also felt like most of the time, I knew what people were going to say because they were the holes I too, had seen in my piece. There were times though that I really appreciated workshop, like when something was pointed out to me that I hadn’t noticed before, my view was challenged, or an idea I hadn’t considered was brought forward.
The challenge really began with my memoir. I had this incredibly rich and memorable experience that I wanted to share with others, yet I kept them at an arms length. It was never something that I did intentionally but it was something that happened in effect of how I was examining the experience. This became a trend in all of my pieces in this class. It was incredibly frustrating to recognize this but not know how to address it without confronting the bigger picture that was causing it.
Like all writers, my writing is greatly connected to the events that take place in my life and the challenges that I am facing. Once I realized that I was keeping my readers at a distance, I knew that there was something deeper that I needed to face. I wasn’t letting people in for a reason, and that was being reflected in my writing. So slowly, with deliberate effort and focus, I tried to open up and expose myself, and the experiences I was trying to describe in my writing, in a raw and real way. It was frustrating to reconstruct all of my pieces over and over again, in attempts to reveal the meaning I had taken away from the experience, only to realize I had did it again, and had completely glossed over the real point I wanted to show.
Listening to everyone’s feedback became extremely helpful, and critical to my understanding of that gaping hole in my writing. Yes, the words were there, and they flowed beautifully, but where was the meaning? Why did everything fall flat? When I started addressing that emptiness in my writing, I was finally able to face it in my own life. It was a painful and excruciating process, like extracting one stinger at a time and examining it until my head hurt. It’s difficult because my breakthrough in my writing and in this class came alongside a huge breakthrough in my thoughts and life at large, which is something that is personal and very hard to explain. Something had happened in my life that made me shut up my heart and mind from the world, drawing the blinds on any opportunity to share those experiences in a way that would be rewarding, for both the reader and me.
It’s a delicate process, and it’s not one that I have mastered yet. But slowly and surely, I am getting there. I think that my final revisions greatly reflect the effort I have put forth to overcome this obstacle in my writing, and in my life. I’m starting to understand it and be able to work with it, which is definitely heading in the right direction. All of this has really made me realize what I will face continuously as a writer in my life. My experiences and the events that happen in my life will constantly be entering into my writing, which is a good thing, but it is something that I need to learn how to manage. I can’t gloss over everything with pretty words and soft language. I have to say what needs to be said, and I think that I need to care about the reader’s development and understanding as much as I care about my own.
It’s been wonderfully challenging, and I am sure that I will carry those challenges on after this class has ended. I am so grateful that this class has made me face the music more than once, and helped me to understand what it is that writers do, and how they do it well. Writing, after all, is not quite like riding a bike. It is like trapeze, something that must be artfully learned, practiced, and understood. This class taught me how to fly, but more importantly, it taught me how to stand tall and climb each rung of the ladder up to the platform, every time I fell.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Perfect Meal (Revision)
Tucking into the perfect meal is a sensory experience surrounding the conversation, the company joining you, the mood of the atmosphere, and the food.
When considering my own perfect meal, I knew that I wanted to prepare a meal that I was somewhat familiar with, but that would also push the boundaries of my own abilities in the kitchen. I wanted it to be both familiar and new to me, a meal that would be exciting and challenging for me to make.
The happiness of others is something that has always mattered greatly to me. When I see that others are satisfied, I take more joy and pleasure out of the experience. My idea of a perfect meal is one that I can share with close friends, creating a meal that they will all enjoy. While my own taste matters, I think that there is more enjoyment in exploring different types of foods and getting creative in the kitchen in order to fit the needs of everyone. It is more gratifying then simply pleasuring the self with a dish that only I prefer.
In this place and time, I wanted nothing more than to share this meal with my housemates, bearing in mind their particular tastes, allergies, and overall relationship with food. I fully knew that they could provide the warm atmosphere and conversation I needed to make the perfect meal an experience that would carry over to the dinner table.
With a little thought and creativity, I finally came up with my menu. First, there would be a spinach salad with feta cheese, red onion, and balsamic vinaigrette. Then secondly, for my main dish I decided on gnocchi in creamy white wine tomato sauce, served with freshly baked baguette. Gnocchi is something that I have never ventured to cook before, and I was glad to have the opportunity to finally try my hand at it. Together, the salad and the gnocchi were something that my vegetarian housemates could enjoy without having their lifestyle choices compromised.
The recipe for the creamy white wine tomato sauce was one I had acquired the last time I was home. My mother and I paired the sauce with colored radiatori, pasta shaped like little radiators that my sister brought back from Italy. For me, this recipe is reminiscent of home, recalling a family meal that we were all able to sit down and enjoy after a long time apart. It was a meal accompanied by an exchange of stories and experiences, along with the excitement of being back together again. I wanted to revisit this meal, to experience it in a different setting, cooking it away from home for my close friends, to see what kind of experience this meal could possibly generate.
The preparation went smoothly, and I was able to really appreciate the process of cooking the meal, partly owning to the company of good music and friends streaming in and out of the kitchen. Our kitchen is fairly disorganized and one often finds their self compromising, cooking in warped pans, wondering if the baguette will fit in the oven, and serving pasta in mismatched bowls and mugs alike. Creating this meal was chaotic, as I tried to time everything just right for when everyone would arrive home for dinner.
One of the complications I faced was that sauce that goes over the gnocchi has a spicy sausage that is supposed to be added in the very beginning, sautéed with the onions, garlic, and white wine. Since three of my housemates do not eat meat, I improvised by sautéing the meat with onion and butter towards the very end. While the meat ended up a little more crispy than I would have liked, I was able to add it to the sauce after first serving the vegetarians. It added another layer to the dish, creating a subtle spiciness and change of texture, and I was happy that I decided to include it for everyone else.
Turning off the stove, I left the heat of the kitchen feeling relieved but anxious to see how everyone felt about the meal. When I came around the corner, a table that had been cluttered with books, homework, laptops, coffee cups, and breakfast dishes was now lit with candles, set for dinner, and surrounded by my eight housemates, who are chatting about study abroad. When I look back on this meal, it is already inextricable from the events of that morning, when each of us eagerly tore open our study abroad acceptance letters, an event that became one of many seasonings that truly made the meal I prepared that evening, feel perfect for us all. At that moment I felt a deep appreciation for the girls that I live with, unable to imagine sitting down for this meal with any girls quite as strong, smart, enthusiastic, and fun as them.
The bread and salad sit in the middle, with olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. We pass around the colorful bowls and cups filled with gnocchi and share with everyone what each of us is thankful for. This is something we have always done together when we share meals together at home. It creates an intimacy at the dinner table, where we can talk collectively about the struggles that we are facing as well as the exciting and wonderful things that are happening in our lives. When taking my first bite of gnocchi, I pause and look around to see everyone’s reactions to the dish. There are expressions of surprise and contentment in finally having a well put-together meal after several weeks of eating what is convenient and quick.
It grows quiet as everyone savors their own favorite part of the meal. I smile, and take my first bite. It is even better than I remember. The gnocchi itself is soft and smooth, complimented by the rich, creaminess of the red sauce which coats the gnocchi evenly with each bite. The sauce alone is incredibly flavorful, nothing like the experience one gets after dumping a can of Prego Classic Italian sauce over spaghetti noodles after minimal preparation. The white wine tomato sauce is bold and noticeable, combining the punchy taste of fresh basil with the tangy, semi-sweet dry white wine. With the accompaniment of hot baguette and spinach salad, the meal is flawless, its effortlessness in every forkful a reflection of the very effort it to put together in the kitchen.
There is something about the splatter of red sauce on the stove as it simmers in a pan and the stack of dishes in the sink afterwards that are comforting. You feel accomplished that you have brought everyone together to eat a satisfying meal. I like knowing that I have made others happy, filled their stomachs with good food, and have been able to share the experience of making the perfect meal with my housemates, girls who have become my close friends over time through experiences like this. When we are alone we eat to live, but when we are together, we are reminded to take pleasure in our experiences and to push away from the table, feeling a little more content and fuller each time.
When considering my own perfect meal, I knew that I wanted to prepare a meal that I was somewhat familiar with, but that would also push the boundaries of my own abilities in the kitchen. I wanted it to be both familiar and new to me, a meal that would be exciting and challenging for me to make.
The happiness of others is something that has always mattered greatly to me. When I see that others are satisfied, I take more joy and pleasure out of the experience. My idea of a perfect meal is one that I can share with close friends, creating a meal that they will all enjoy. While my own taste matters, I think that there is more enjoyment in exploring different types of foods and getting creative in the kitchen in order to fit the needs of everyone. It is more gratifying then simply pleasuring the self with a dish that only I prefer.
In this place and time, I wanted nothing more than to share this meal with my housemates, bearing in mind their particular tastes, allergies, and overall relationship with food. I fully knew that they could provide the warm atmosphere and conversation I needed to make the perfect meal an experience that would carry over to the dinner table.
With a little thought and creativity, I finally came up with my menu. First, there would be a spinach salad with feta cheese, red onion, and balsamic vinaigrette. Then secondly, for my main dish I decided on gnocchi in creamy white wine tomato sauce, served with freshly baked baguette. Gnocchi is something that I have never ventured to cook before, and I was glad to have the opportunity to finally try my hand at it. Together, the salad and the gnocchi were something that my vegetarian housemates could enjoy without having their lifestyle choices compromised.
The recipe for the creamy white wine tomato sauce was one I had acquired the last time I was home. My mother and I paired the sauce with colored radiatori, pasta shaped like little radiators that my sister brought back from Italy. For me, this recipe is reminiscent of home, recalling a family meal that we were all able to sit down and enjoy after a long time apart. It was a meal accompanied by an exchange of stories and experiences, along with the excitement of being back together again. I wanted to revisit this meal, to experience it in a different setting, cooking it away from home for my close friends, to see what kind of experience this meal could possibly generate.
The preparation went smoothly, and I was able to really appreciate the process of cooking the meal, partly owning to the company of good music and friends streaming in and out of the kitchen. Our kitchen is fairly disorganized and one often finds their self compromising, cooking in warped pans, wondering if the baguette will fit in the oven, and serving pasta in mismatched bowls and mugs alike. Creating this meal was chaotic, as I tried to time everything just right for when everyone would arrive home for dinner.
One of the complications I faced was that sauce that goes over the gnocchi has a spicy sausage that is supposed to be added in the very beginning, sautéed with the onions, garlic, and white wine. Since three of my housemates do not eat meat, I improvised by sautéing the meat with onion and butter towards the very end. While the meat ended up a little more crispy than I would have liked, I was able to add it to the sauce after first serving the vegetarians. It added another layer to the dish, creating a subtle spiciness and change of texture, and I was happy that I decided to include it for everyone else.
Turning off the stove, I left the heat of the kitchen feeling relieved but anxious to see how everyone felt about the meal. When I came around the corner, a table that had been cluttered with books, homework, laptops, coffee cups, and breakfast dishes was now lit with candles, set for dinner, and surrounded by my eight housemates, who are chatting about study abroad. When I look back on this meal, it is already inextricable from the events of that morning, when each of us eagerly tore open our study abroad acceptance letters, an event that became one of many seasonings that truly made the meal I prepared that evening, feel perfect for us all. At that moment I felt a deep appreciation for the girls that I live with, unable to imagine sitting down for this meal with any girls quite as strong, smart, enthusiastic, and fun as them.
The bread and salad sit in the middle, with olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. We pass around the colorful bowls and cups filled with gnocchi and share with everyone what each of us is thankful for. This is something we have always done together when we share meals together at home. It creates an intimacy at the dinner table, where we can talk collectively about the struggles that we are facing as well as the exciting and wonderful things that are happening in our lives. When taking my first bite of gnocchi, I pause and look around to see everyone’s reactions to the dish. There are expressions of surprise and contentment in finally having a well put-together meal after several weeks of eating what is convenient and quick.
It grows quiet as everyone savors their own favorite part of the meal. I smile, and take my first bite. It is even better than I remember. The gnocchi itself is soft and smooth, complimented by the rich, creaminess of the red sauce which coats the gnocchi evenly with each bite. The sauce alone is incredibly flavorful, nothing like the experience one gets after dumping a can of Prego Classic Italian sauce over spaghetti noodles after minimal preparation. The white wine tomato sauce is bold and noticeable, combining the punchy taste of fresh basil with the tangy, semi-sweet dry white wine. With the accompaniment of hot baguette and spinach salad, the meal is flawless, its effortlessness in every forkful a reflection of the very effort it to put together in the kitchen.
There is something about the splatter of red sauce on the stove as it simmers in a pan and the stack of dishes in the sink afterwards that are comforting. You feel accomplished that you have brought everyone together to eat a satisfying meal. I like knowing that I have made others happy, filled their stomachs with good food, and have been able to share the experience of making the perfect meal with my housemates, girls who have become my close friends over time through experiences like this. When we are alone we eat to live, but when we are together, we are reminded to take pleasure in our experiences and to push away from the table, feeling a little more content and fuller each time.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
A Sweet and Sticky Sixteenth Birthday Breakfast (Memoir Final Revision)
When I open my eyes, I can feel the water moving below me. I get the sensation that I am floating. It is quiet. I can smell the subtle trace of brewed coffee and I feel the gentle ushering of a breeze on my face as it slips in through the back door. For a moment, I breathe it all in. Rays of sunlight wash over the room. I listen to the clap of water against the rocky shore and the gentle waves rolling in and out of the little cove, rocking the boat back and forth.
I let the blankets slip away as I sit up and stretch. The aroma of coffee is stronger now. My feet find the cool tiled surface of the floor. I stare out the broad windows of the houseboat at the shining, gossamer waves of Lake Powell. It is vast enough to be mistaken for the sea. A maze of rock juts out of the water far off into the distance. Like a sky at sunset, the rock’s many layers reveal the depth of the water year after year in soft pinks, rustic reds and oranges.
Inside the houseboat, there is one small bedroom that my parents share and a bath that one passes on the way to the back deck. My sister and I sleep in the breakfast nook, which is towards the front of the boat. The deep corner booth table unfolds into a bed that is ideal for sleeping in late, with its spacious cushions and fort-like feel. The kitchen is at the heart of the boat. It is a cohesive space; open enough for me to see everything from where I stand near the breakfast nook.
My eyes spot the gleam of the coffee pot, next to the stove. Sand clings to my bare feet as I pad across the room. It is a comfort. A coffee cup waits for me, set aside by someone who truly understands love. I lift the pot from its cradle, feeling the gentle pull and slosh of its contents: half a pot more.
Clasping the cup with both hands, I hold it close, watching the steam spiral upward. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich, bold contours of flavor. I feel the room dissolve as I raise the cup and the warm liquid rushes towards my lips. The world comes back into focus, sharper this time. It is not the caffeine kicking in so soon, but rather my deep contentment spreading from my stomach outward.
I peer out the glass doors of the front deck, facing the shore. The sand is quiet and untouched. I pause and listen, soon hearing the soft murmur of conversation winding its way to me from the back deck of the boat. The door is open a crack; my dog watches me as I approach. Immediately I feel the heat of the wooden deck on my toes as I move into the sunlight, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature. It’s a good day to swim.
“Happy birthday!” They holler, bursting out of their chairs. Grinning, my dad opens his arms to me and gives my organs a good squeeze before kissing my cheek. Daisy, my yellow lab, has kisses for me too. My sister winks at me and laughs as my mom gets that look in her eye, and gives me a hug and a kiss before making a beeline for the kitchen. We all know she’s disappeared to get tissues, under the pretense of cooking breakfast. It’s one of the consequences of being the baby in the family. When I settle into her abandoned chair, I hear the tinkle of M&M’s dropping into a bowl and I smile. M&M pancakes—my sixteenth birthday request.
My dad perched on a cooler, my sister and I in folding chairs, chat about past birthday years. We laugh about the time my sister dropped her princess cake in her lap when she was holding it for a picture. After performing a little plastic surgery on it, my mom cut the cake, the plastic princess figurines still smeared with chocolate frosting.
Sipping my coffee, I listen to my dad tell stories about his own childhood, while watching the water ripple like melting glass. He tells the story of him breaking his arm while messing with a tractor when he was sixteen, and the one about him and his cousin foolishly dropping a bee hive and running, before the swarm caught up with them. I look up at the porcelain-fired sky, painted like the color of a robin’s eggs, speckled with sunlight, and feel entirely at ease.
When the pancakes come, they are glorious. My mom appears at the back door with a plate in hand.
“Here you go, birthday girl,” she says, opening the screen door and handing it to me.
I smile to myself when I see the number sixteen written on my pancake, made of colorful, melting M&Ms. The pancake itself is admirable. Golden brown and perfectly round, I can tell it will be fluffy. It takes a special talent to wield a spatula in hand and flip a pancake at precisely the right moment. For years I sat, perched on the countertop and wearing my pajamas, watching my mom pour pancake batter into a pan and cook five, sometimes six pancakes in a row without burning a single one.
She taught me how to tell when a pancake is ready to flip, by watching the air bubbles in the batter spiral inward until they reached the center. One time, when I poured too much batter in the pan and got ready to flip it, the half-cooked pancake wobbled on the spatula and sadly, with a turn of my wrist, it only made it hallway into the pan. Trial and error, my mother would always say when we were cooking together.
My dad takes our empty coffee cups and disappears into the kitchen to refill them. He comes back just in time for my first bite, holding one cup with creamer and the other without. I take the darker one and hand the other cup to my sister. Now I am ready. With a little syrup and a great appetite, I take my first bite. It is warm and light enough to dissolve in my mouth, with a melting gooey inside as freckled as my face. I love the sticky flood of syrup and that feeling of being made whole again as the pancake grows smaller, and I grow fuller, bite-by-bite. It is something to savor. Leaving a pool of syrup behind, I lick the chocolate paste from my fork and settle back into my chair, fully satisfied.
Closing my eyes, I soak up the sun and think about how it is moments like this that we let slip by, unacknowledged. Later on, these moments resurface in our lives in the form of nostalgia, and become something that we both cherish and deeply long to return to.
The memory of my sixteenth birthday will always be connected to the dawning of a new phase in my life, as I try to imagine what a Michigan winter will be like, and all that I will learn at Kalamazoo College. The anticipation of it is exciting and scary all at once, and I know that everything is on the verge of changing. I open my eyes and reach for my coffee cup. My dog is sprawled at my feet, panting slightly. She looks up at me, tail wagging on the deck. My mom and dad are talking about going to Rainbow Bridge tomorrow if the weather is nice and my sister is braiding her hair. My face feels warm from the sun and I smile, taking it all in, and knowing that the memory of this day will be turn out to be the greatest birthday gift of all.
I let the blankets slip away as I sit up and stretch. The aroma of coffee is stronger now. My feet find the cool tiled surface of the floor. I stare out the broad windows of the houseboat at the shining, gossamer waves of Lake Powell. It is vast enough to be mistaken for the sea. A maze of rock juts out of the water far off into the distance. Like a sky at sunset, the rock’s many layers reveal the depth of the water year after year in soft pinks, rustic reds and oranges.
Inside the houseboat, there is one small bedroom that my parents share and a bath that one passes on the way to the back deck. My sister and I sleep in the breakfast nook, which is towards the front of the boat. The deep corner booth table unfolds into a bed that is ideal for sleeping in late, with its spacious cushions and fort-like feel. The kitchen is at the heart of the boat. It is a cohesive space; open enough for me to see everything from where I stand near the breakfast nook.
My eyes spot the gleam of the coffee pot, next to the stove. Sand clings to my bare feet as I pad across the room. It is a comfort. A coffee cup waits for me, set aside by someone who truly understands love. I lift the pot from its cradle, feeling the gentle pull and slosh of its contents: half a pot more.
Clasping the cup with both hands, I hold it close, watching the steam spiral upward. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich, bold contours of flavor. I feel the room dissolve as I raise the cup and the warm liquid rushes towards my lips. The world comes back into focus, sharper this time. It is not the caffeine kicking in so soon, but rather my deep contentment spreading from my stomach outward.
I peer out the glass doors of the front deck, facing the shore. The sand is quiet and untouched. I pause and listen, soon hearing the soft murmur of conversation winding its way to me from the back deck of the boat. The door is open a crack; my dog watches me as I approach. Immediately I feel the heat of the wooden deck on my toes as I move into the sunlight, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature. It’s a good day to swim.
“Happy birthday!” They holler, bursting out of their chairs. Grinning, my dad opens his arms to me and gives my organs a good squeeze before kissing my cheek. Daisy, my yellow lab, has kisses for me too. My sister winks at me and laughs as my mom gets that look in her eye, and gives me a hug and a kiss before making a beeline for the kitchen. We all know she’s disappeared to get tissues, under the pretense of cooking breakfast. It’s one of the consequences of being the baby in the family. When I settle into her abandoned chair, I hear the tinkle of M&M’s dropping into a bowl and I smile. M&M pancakes—my sixteenth birthday request.
My dad perched on a cooler, my sister and I in folding chairs, chat about past birthday years. We laugh about the time my sister dropped her princess cake in her lap when she was holding it for a picture. After performing a little plastic surgery on it, my mom cut the cake, the plastic princess figurines still smeared with chocolate frosting.
Sipping my coffee, I listen to my dad tell stories about his own childhood, while watching the water ripple like melting glass. He tells the story of him breaking his arm while messing with a tractor when he was sixteen, and the one about him and his cousin foolishly dropping a bee hive and running, before the swarm caught up with them. I look up at the porcelain-fired sky, painted like the color of a robin’s eggs, speckled with sunlight, and feel entirely at ease.
When the pancakes come, they are glorious. My mom appears at the back door with a plate in hand.
“Here you go, birthday girl,” she says, opening the screen door and handing it to me.
I smile to myself when I see the number sixteen written on my pancake, made of colorful, melting M&Ms. The pancake itself is admirable. Golden brown and perfectly round, I can tell it will be fluffy. It takes a special talent to wield a spatula in hand and flip a pancake at precisely the right moment. For years I sat, perched on the countertop and wearing my pajamas, watching my mom pour pancake batter into a pan and cook five, sometimes six pancakes in a row without burning a single one.
She taught me how to tell when a pancake is ready to flip, by watching the air bubbles in the batter spiral inward until they reached the center. One time, when I poured too much batter in the pan and got ready to flip it, the half-cooked pancake wobbled on the spatula and sadly, with a turn of my wrist, it only made it hallway into the pan. Trial and error, my mother would always say when we were cooking together.
My dad takes our empty coffee cups and disappears into the kitchen to refill them. He comes back just in time for my first bite, holding one cup with creamer and the other without. I take the darker one and hand the other cup to my sister. Now I am ready. With a little syrup and a great appetite, I take my first bite. It is warm and light enough to dissolve in my mouth, with a melting gooey inside as freckled as my face. I love the sticky flood of syrup and that feeling of being made whole again as the pancake grows smaller, and I grow fuller, bite-by-bite. It is something to savor. Leaving a pool of syrup behind, I lick the chocolate paste from my fork and settle back into my chair, fully satisfied.
Closing my eyes, I soak up the sun and think about how it is moments like this that we let slip by, unacknowledged. Later on, these moments resurface in our lives in the form of nostalgia, and become something that we both cherish and deeply long to return to.
The memory of my sixteenth birthday will always be connected to the dawning of a new phase in my life, as I try to imagine what a Michigan winter will be like, and all that I will learn at Kalamazoo College. The anticipation of it is exciting and scary all at once, and I know that everything is on the verge of changing. I open my eyes and reach for my coffee cup. My dog is sprawled at my feet, panting slightly. She looks up at me, tail wagging on the deck. My mom and dad are talking about going to Rainbow Bridge tomorrow if the weather is nice and my sister is braiding her hair. My face feels warm from the sun and I smile, taking it all in, and knowing that the memory of this day will be turn out to be the greatest birthday gift of all.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
The Perfect Meal
Setting out to make the perfect meal is no easy task. We live in a society where perfection is constantly strived for and even expected. Yet how does one achieve perfection, and more specifically, how does one cook a perfect meal? I believe that perfect is a relative term. Like a recipe handed down from generation to generation, each time a meal is made by another generation’s hands, it will taste differently. Even when the same hands prepare a recipe, each time it is made, it will be different, as a result of our current state of mind, who’s kitchen we are cooking in, whether or not we are in a rush, who we are cooking for, and many other factors. No meal is ever the same because taste involves more than just one of our senses; it encompasses a whole experience.
When I set out to make the perfect meal, these were my initial impressions. I decided not to strive for perfection, but to find perfection in the imperfections I experienced along the way. I knew that in order to really experience a perfect meal, I needed to focus my energies on the process of preparing a meal, taking in each task as it presented itself to me, and being fully present in the kitchen. Most importantly, after discovering my initial impressions of the implications of making the perfect meal, I needed to reflect on what I could accomplish with what I had, and to determine what would lead me to creating the experience of a perfect meal.
When considering the meal itself, I knew that I wanted to prepare a meal that I was somewhat familiar with, but that would also push the boundaries of my own abilities in the kitchen. In other words, I wanted it to be both familiar and new to me, a meal that would be exciting and challenging for me to make. Additionally impacting my decision was the consideration of who I wanted to share the meal with, bearing in mind their particular tastes, allergies, and overall relationship with food. In this place and time, I wanted nothing more than to share this meal with my housemates, fully knowing that they could provide the warm atmosphere and conversation I needed to make the perfect meal an experience that would carry over to the dinner table. While I was somewhat restrained since two of them are vegetarians and one is gluten-free, I knew that I wanted to cook something that everyone would appreciate and enjoy.
With a little thought and creativity, I finally came up with my menu. First, there would be a spinach salad with feta cheese, red onion, and balsamic vinaigrette. Then secondly, for my main dish I decided on gnocchi in creamy white wine tomato sauce, served with freshly baked baguette. Gnocchi is something that I have never ventured to cook before, and I was glad to have the opportunity to finally try my hand at it. The recipe for the creamy white wine tomato sauce was one I had acquired the last time I was home. My mother and I paired the sauce with colored radiatori, pasta shaped like little radiators that my sister brought back from Italy. For me, this recipe is reminiscent of home, recalling a family meal that we were all able to sit down and enjoy after a long time apart. It was a meal accompanied by an exchange of stories and experiences, along with the excitement of being back together again. I wanted to revisit this meal, to experience it in a different setting, cooking it away from home for my close friends, to see what kind of experience this meal could possibly generate.
The preparation went smoothly, and I was considerably thankful to live in a house with a well-supplied kitchen. I was able to really appreciate the process of cooking the meal, partly owning to the company of good music and friends streaming in and out of the kitchen. Our kitchen is fairly disorganized and one often finds their self compromising, cooking in warped pans, wondering if the baguette will fit in the oven, and serving pasta in mismatched bowls and mugs alike. Yet this is part of the beauty of creating this meal, the little imperfections that make the evening meal memorable for us all. There is something about the splatter of red sauce on the stove, from the gurgle and pop of it simmering on in a pan, and the stack of dishes in the sink afterwards that is comforting. Even more so, it is comforting to sit down at a table and pass the salad and bread around, to hear from each person what they are grateful for, their faces glowing in the candlelight. I like knowing that I have made others happy, filled their stomachs with good food, and have been able to share the experience of making the perfect meal with my housemates, girls who have become my close friends over time through experiences like this. When I look back on this meal, it is already inextricable from the events of that morning, when each of us eagerly tore open our study abroad acceptance letters, an event that became one of many seasonings that truly made the meal I prepared that evening, feel perfect for us all.
A perfect meal is so much more than accurately following a recipe. It is learning to accept that we do not have control over the perfection of our meal entirely. Even when we are cooking, our ability to create a delicious meal depends upon our experience in the kitchen and whether or not we have previously made the meal we are cooking. With each meal, comes a unique form of energy. We bring our daily lives to the dinner table every night, along with current events, past experiences, and our given relationships to the people we are sharing the meal with, all of which we often have little power over. It is what we choose to do with these components that matters, allowing us to shape what we individually define as the perfect meal. Like beauty, perfection is in the eye of the beholder and is closely tied to our acceptance. Tucking into the perfect meal is a sensory experience surrounding the company joining you, the conversation, the mood of the atmosphere, and the food. We eat to live, but we also live to take pleasure in our experiences and to push away from the table, feeling a little more content and fuller each time.
When I set out to make the perfect meal, these were my initial impressions. I decided not to strive for perfection, but to find perfection in the imperfections I experienced along the way. I knew that in order to really experience a perfect meal, I needed to focus my energies on the process of preparing a meal, taking in each task as it presented itself to me, and being fully present in the kitchen. Most importantly, after discovering my initial impressions of the implications of making the perfect meal, I needed to reflect on what I could accomplish with what I had, and to determine what would lead me to creating the experience of a perfect meal.
When considering the meal itself, I knew that I wanted to prepare a meal that I was somewhat familiar with, but that would also push the boundaries of my own abilities in the kitchen. In other words, I wanted it to be both familiar and new to me, a meal that would be exciting and challenging for me to make. Additionally impacting my decision was the consideration of who I wanted to share the meal with, bearing in mind their particular tastes, allergies, and overall relationship with food. In this place and time, I wanted nothing more than to share this meal with my housemates, fully knowing that they could provide the warm atmosphere and conversation I needed to make the perfect meal an experience that would carry over to the dinner table. While I was somewhat restrained since two of them are vegetarians and one is gluten-free, I knew that I wanted to cook something that everyone would appreciate and enjoy.
With a little thought and creativity, I finally came up with my menu. First, there would be a spinach salad with feta cheese, red onion, and balsamic vinaigrette. Then secondly, for my main dish I decided on gnocchi in creamy white wine tomato sauce, served with freshly baked baguette. Gnocchi is something that I have never ventured to cook before, and I was glad to have the opportunity to finally try my hand at it. The recipe for the creamy white wine tomato sauce was one I had acquired the last time I was home. My mother and I paired the sauce with colored radiatori, pasta shaped like little radiators that my sister brought back from Italy. For me, this recipe is reminiscent of home, recalling a family meal that we were all able to sit down and enjoy after a long time apart. It was a meal accompanied by an exchange of stories and experiences, along with the excitement of being back together again. I wanted to revisit this meal, to experience it in a different setting, cooking it away from home for my close friends, to see what kind of experience this meal could possibly generate.
The preparation went smoothly, and I was considerably thankful to live in a house with a well-supplied kitchen. I was able to really appreciate the process of cooking the meal, partly owning to the company of good music and friends streaming in and out of the kitchen. Our kitchen is fairly disorganized and one often finds their self compromising, cooking in warped pans, wondering if the baguette will fit in the oven, and serving pasta in mismatched bowls and mugs alike. Yet this is part of the beauty of creating this meal, the little imperfections that make the evening meal memorable for us all. There is something about the splatter of red sauce on the stove, from the gurgle and pop of it simmering on in a pan, and the stack of dishes in the sink afterwards that is comforting. Even more so, it is comforting to sit down at a table and pass the salad and bread around, to hear from each person what they are grateful for, their faces glowing in the candlelight. I like knowing that I have made others happy, filled their stomachs with good food, and have been able to share the experience of making the perfect meal with my housemates, girls who have become my close friends over time through experiences like this. When I look back on this meal, it is already inextricable from the events of that morning, when each of us eagerly tore open our study abroad acceptance letters, an event that became one of many seasonings that truly made the meal I prepared that evening, feel perfect for us all.
A perfect meal is so much more than accurately following a recipe. It is learning to accept that we do not have control over the perfection of our meal entirely. Even when we are cooking, our ability to create a delicious meal depends upon our experience in the kitchen and whether or not we have previously made the meal we are cooking. With each meal, comes a unique form of energy. We bring our daily lives to the dinner table every night, along with current events, past experiences, and our given relationships to the people we are sharing the meal with, all of which we often have little power over. It is what we choose to do with these components that matters, allowing us to shape what we individually define as the perfect meal. Like beauty, perfection is in the eye of the beholder and is closely tied to our acceptance. Tucking into the perfect meal is a sensory experience surrounding the company joining you, the conversation, the mood of the atmosphere, and the food. We eat to live, but we also live to take pleasure in our experiences and to push away from the table, feeling a little more content and fuller each time.
Monday, February 27, 2012
The Right to Look
Polland’s final section of “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” deeply resonated with me, especially his discussion and contemplation of the ethics of eating animals. This subject is central to our understanding of the omnivore’s dilemma and is located at the heart of my own personal dilemmas with eating meat. There are many writers—some advocated for animal rights or welfare, others being intrigued philosophers and scholars—that have written about the ethics of eating animals. Their works are numerous, often enlightening, or at the very least, educational.
Polland, however, was able to do something differently. His approach to the subject was exceptionally transparent, relatable, and comprehensible. In his hands he grasped the puzzle pieces of understanding the food industry, the vegetarian’s dilemma, animal suffering as well as state of happiness, and the principle of killing. These are all puzzle pieces that I have been holding for quite some time now. I am aware of the cruelty that takes place in CAFO’s and on the kill floor. I understand and recognize that animals can suffer and feel pain as well as joy. I have experienced the vegetarian’s dilemma, a feeling of alienation from one’s own culture and heritage that is hard to explain, but nonetheless existent.
As for the principle of killing, Polland describes it in a way that helps us all understand how humans have been able to look their food in the eye as they kill it and eat it with the “consciousness, ceremony, and respect they deserve.” We have lost that consciousness, ceremony, and respect with the introduction of the food industry, and swiftly our right to look was taken away. What Polland describes is the animal experience. While we can never truly know how the cow, chicken, or pig experiences life and death, we can come close to understanding their time on earth by first understanding ourselves, and secondly by viewing these animals in nature.
When there is no knowledge of the coming of death, there is no fear. When Polland talks about the man with the PETA bumper sticker who decides to kill his own meat and watch it die, he see’s that while the animal suffers temporarily, it does not look at him accusatorily or experience fear. It simply lives a content life on Joel’s farm and then dies, in good hands, where consciousness and attention are given at the bird’s slaughter.
I have no qualms about killing animals when it is done in a humane and respectful way. Like all creatures on earth, we are a form of predators who once relied on the necessity of meat to provide us with the nutrients we needed to survive. So now, we many not need meat to survive, but it is innate and integrated into our culture as human beings. To give up something that we have been granted to have from the start of mankind is not impossible and many choose to do it. But for some, that feeling of alienation, the burden and dilemma of being vegetarian or vegan is altogether too much. What I crave is consciousness. I feel that Polland has at last laid the puzzle pieces out in front of me forming at last a whole and conceivable image. Human’s can meet in the middle. The experiences steer 534 had in life and death, and many other animals slaughtered for the populations desire for meat are not pleasant and far from natural.
While I cannot end the fate for many of these animals, I can choose to make decisions that, as an individual that I can live with. Will I ever eat another chicken nugget?—I’m sure that I will. But why not strive for transparency? Why not look elsewhere towards the places where animals are allowed to live a happy and natural live and are brought to a civil, humane end void of brutality? While it is not entirely realistic to separate myself entirely from the meat industry that surrounds me, I have options and I can make a choice to forgo the masked cruelty of that industry, and to look for more sustainable, humane ways of eating meat. I want to eat animals with “the consciousness, ceremony, and respect they deserve”, to regain my right to look, and to nourish my body with food that I have given conscious and deliberate thought to in an honest, and ethical way.
Polland, however, was able to do something differently. His approach to the subject was exceptionally transparent, relatable, and comprehensible. In his hands he grasped the puzzle pieces of understanding the food industry, the vegetarian’s dilemma, animal suffering as well as state of happiness, and the principle of killing. These are all puzzle pieces that I have been holding for quite some time now. I am aware of the cruelty that takes place in CAFO’s and on the kill floor. I understand and recognize that animals can suffer and feel pain as well as joy. I have experienced the vegetarian’s dilemma, a feeling of alienation from one’s own culture and heritage that is hard to explain, but nonetheless existent.
As for the principle of killing, Polland describes it in a way that helps us all understand how humans have been able to look their food in the eye as they kill it and eat it with the “consciousness, ceremony, and respect they deserve.” We have lost that consciousness, ceremony, and respect with the introduction of the food industry, and swiftly our right to look was taken away. What Polland describes is the animal experience. While we can never truly know how the cow, chicken, or pig experiences life and death, we can come close to understanding their time on earth by first understanding ourselves, and secondly by viewing these animals in nature.
When there is no knowledge of the coming of death, there is no fear. When Polland talks about the man with the PETA bumper sticker who decides to kill his own meat and watch it die, he see’s that while the animal suffers temporarily, it does not look at him accusatorily or experience fear. It simply lives a content life on Joel’s farm and then dies, in good hands, where consciousness and attention are given at the bird’s slaughter.
I have no qualms about killing animals when it is done in a humane and respectful way. Like all creatures on earth, we are a form of predators who once relied on the necessity of meat to provide us with the nutrients we needed to survive. So now, we many not need meat to survive, but it is innate and integrated into our culture as human beings. To give up something that we have been granted to have from the start of mankind is not impossible and many choose to do it. But for some, that feeling of alienation, the burden and dilemma of being vegetarian or vegan is altogether too much. What I crave is consciousness. I feel that Polland has at last laid the puzzle pieces out in front of me forming at last a whole and conceivable image. Human’s can meet in the middle. The experiences steer 534 had in life and death, and many other animals slaughtered for the populations desire for meat are not pleasant and far from natural.
While I cannot end the fate for many of these animals, I can choose to make decisions that, as an individual that I can live with. Will I ever eat another chicken nugget?—I’m sure that I will. But why not strive for transparency? Why not look elsewhere towards the places where animals are allowed to live a happy and natural live and are brought to a civil, humane end void of brutality? While it is not entirely realistic to separate myself entirely from the meat industry that surrounds me, I have options and I can make a choice to forgo the masked cruelty of that industry, and to look for more sustainable, humane ways of eating meat. I want to eat animals with “the consciousness, ceremony, and respect they deserve”, to regain my right to look, and to nourish my body with food that I have given conscious and deliberate thought to in an honest, and ethical way.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
A Roadside Review of Gorilla Gourmet (Revision)
Food truck culture is not a new concept to places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, and Portland, but it is fairly new to the Midwest. In a small city like Kalamazoo, food truck culture does not exactly have a striking presence. Nevertheless, Gorilla Gourmet is making its way into the hearts and stomach’s of locals and students alike.
Best discovered on foot, Gorilla Gourmet is a flavor rich for the passerby, who happens to pause and notice the winking open sign in the side window of a truck colored much like the weather, this time in February. A black and white gorilla stares at you as you deliberate the menu specials for the day, written brightly on a wipe board in saucy handwriting.
Located at 305 Oakland Boulevard, Gorilla Gourmet offers a variety of freshly-made favorites, ranging from Asian inspired tacos, vegetable soups and black bean chili’s made from scratch, to cheese sandwiches with an unexpected twist, combining bacon with avocado and smoked cheese, for example. While a great majority of their food is Asian inspired, this food truck isn’t afraid to be eclectic and adventurous when it comes to serving up food that endeavors to creatively intersect and merge different cuisines. They describe their food as, “Kalamazoo's best street food. International in scope and not restricted by flavor.”
Although their specials vary daily to keep flavors fresh and interesting, there are a few favorites that frequent the menu. The mega-veggie quesadilla deemed El Monstro, is an XXL flour tortilla filled with melted cheese and slaw for the veggies, all for $6. Also for $6, customers can order Gorilla Grinders. Much like a Philly steak sandwich, Gorilla Grinders are served hot and messy, with the meat enveloped in a melted layer of cheese.
Customers can choose between smoked pork loin and beef brisket. Prepared somewhat differently, the pork loin is garnished with spicy slaw and pepper relish all nestled in a toasted bun, while the smoked beef brisket option is topped with onions, mushrooms, and pepper-jack cheese, also in a toasted bun. Upon the first bite, it is apparent how seriously Gorilla Gourmet takes their meat, slow roasting it to an expert level of perfection where it falls off the bone or is smoked until tender, and taking care to marinate it in their own peppery sauce till it peaks in flavor.
Poblano Pork Tacos are another popular choice on the menu, simply comprised of slow braised shoulder with spicy slaw on corn tortillas. A single order gets you three small tacos for $7. While the meat is tender and seasoned lightly, the coleslaw—a throw of crisp lettuce, carrots, onion, and peppers—distracts from the experience and takes away from the flavor of the meat. The tacos are finished with a spray of hot sauce that delivers a fiery flavor throughout. The Poblano Pork Tacos many not shock your taste buds but are nevertheless satisfying and well worth the price.
After a first visit, it becomes apparent what it is that keeps Gorilla Gourmet in business, and keeps customers coming back for more. Street food is exciting, appealing to a certain sense of adventure that takes little effort to satisfy, being so close to home. At Gorilla Gourmet, they stick to the basics, cook your food right in front of you, and use fresh, local ingredients that taste even better than they look.
At Gorilla Gourmet, owner and chef Noel Corwin is friendly and tries to get to know his customers. He is rather chatty as he prepares an order, happy to have someone to talk to and to share his passion with. One drawback to Gorilla Gourmet is that their hours frequently change. Corwin says that weather often decides when they are open. To help get the word out when their stove is hot, Gorilla Gourmet relies on social media through Facebook and Twitter, where they let friends and followers know what they are serving up that day and how long they will be open for. Another drawback is they do not currently accept credit cards, but they plan to in the near future.
With its close proximity to K College’s campus and exceptionally low prices, Gorilla Gourmet is attractive to the average college student’s taste and their budget. Experimental with their flavors and openly friendly to their customers, Gorilla Gourmet helps individuals feel at home even on the side of the road, giving their customers a flavorful experience they want to return to. Messy and adventurous, Gorilla Gourmet may be unexpected and a little unconventional, but it is well worth the trip to see what specials they are cooking up for the day, and to try some hot and tasty street food that you have likely never tried anywhere else before.
Best discovered on foot, Gorilla Gourmet is a flavor rich for the passerby, who happens to pause and notice the winking open sign in the side window of a truck colored much like the weather, this time in February. A black and white gorilla stares at you as you deliberate the menu specials for the day, written brightly on a wipe board in saucy handwriting.
Located at 305 Oakland Boulevard, Gorilla Gourmet offers a variety of freshly-made favorites, ranging from Asian inspired tacos, vegetable soups and black bean chili’s made from scratch, to cheese sandwiches with an unexpected twist, combining bacon with avocado and smoked cheese, for example. While a great majority of their food is Asian inspired, this food truck isn’t afraid to be eclectic and adventurous when it comes to serving up food that endeavors to creatively intersect and merge different cuisines. They describe their food as, “Kalamazoo's best street food. International in scope and not restricted by flavor.”
Although their specials vary daily to keep flavors fresh and interesting, there are a few favorites that frequent the menu. The mega-veggie quesadilla deemed El Monstro, is an XXL flour tortilla filled with melted cheese and slaw for the veggies, all for $6. Also for $6, customers can order Gorilla Grinders. Much like a Philly steak sandwich, Gorilla Grinders are served hot and messy, with the meat enveloped in a melted layer of cheese.
Customers can choose between smoked pork loin and beef brisket. Prepared somewhat differently, the pork loin is garnished with spicy slaw and pepper relish all nestled in a toasted bun, while the smoked beef brisket option is topped with onions, mushrooms, and pepper-jack cheese, also in a toasted bun. Upon the first bite, it is apparent how seriously Gorilla Gourmet takes their meat, slow roasting it to an expert level of perfection where it falls off the bone or is smoked until tender, and taking care to marinate it in their own peppery sauce till it peaks in flavor.
Poblano Pork Tacos are another popular choice on the menu, simply comprised of slow braised shoulder with spicy slaw on corn tortillas. A single order gets you three small tacos for $7. While the meat is tender and seasoned lightly, the coleslaw—a throw of crisp lettuce, carrots, onion, and peppers—distracts from the experience and takes away from the flavor of the meat. The tacos are finished with a spray of hot sauce that delivers a fiery flavor throughout. The Poblano Pork Tacos many not shock your taste buds but are nevertheless satisfying and well worth the price.
After a first visit, it becomes apparent what it is that keeps Gorilla Gourmet in business, and keeps customers coming back for more. Street food is exciting, appealing to a certain sense of adventure that takes little effort to satisfy, being so close to home. At Gorilla Gourmet, they stick to the basics, cook your food right in front of you, and use fresh, local ingredients that taste even better than they look.
At Gorilla Gourmet, owner and chef Noel Corwin is friendly and tries to get to know his customers. He is rather chatty as he prepares an order, happy to have someone to talk to and to share his passion with. One drawback to Gorilla Gourmet is that their hours frequently change. Corwin says that weather often decides when they are open. To help get the word out when their stove is hot, Gorilla Gourmet relies on social media through Facebook and Twitter, where they let friends and followers know what they are serving up that day and how long they will be open for. Another drawback is they do not currently accept credit cards, but they plan to in the near future.
With its close proximity to K College’s campus and exceptionally low prices, Gorilla Gourmet is attractive to the average college student’s taste and their budget. Experimental with their flavors and openly friendly to their customers, Gorilla Gourmet helps individuals feel at home even on the side of the road, giving their customers a flavorful experience they want to return to. Messy and adventurous, Gorilla Gourmet may be unexpected and a little unconventional, but it is well worth the trip to see what specials they are cooking up for the day, and to try some hot and tasty street food that you have likely never tried anywhere else before.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Blade by Blade: Examining the Industrial Organic
In the second part of “The Omnivore’s Dilemma”, Michael Pollan focuses on the pasture, noting how tied it is to human existence. While all flesh used to be grass, now a great deal of it is corn, thanks to our thriving food industry that is able to find every use imaginable for corn, from diapers to Twinkies. But as for the pastoral, Pollan spends a great deal of time in the second section of his book looking at how farm’s like Joel Salatin are very different from any USDA organic labels in the supermarket.
Pollan’s examination of the organic industry is at first, very discouraging. Consumers are, yet again being tricked by companies pocketing the money from their profits at the expense of a nation’s health. Like the term “authentic”, “organic” has come to mean many things, but with each welcoming of a wider definition of the word, it comes to mean much less in the eyes of the consumer. Who can we trust? Where do we turn to for food that is safe, unlabeled, and wholesome?
Reading this section of the book was difficult. After fully realizing the pitfalls and mercilessness of the food industry in the first part of “The Omnivore’s Dilemma”, I was absolutely fine with turning my back on the industry (for the most part), and looking towards the future of organic foods. Yet that too is an industry, as Pollan points out; an industry that has been infiltrated by the same crooks, finding shortcuts to quicker cash, and turning out to be not-so-earth-friendly as one would think.
Pollan is not afraid to get out there and investigate. He does the dirty work for us. Our job is to sit here and read every word of his report with horror. The ways in which he breaks down Whole Foods is fascinating, especially considering that their walls are covered with pictures of farmers who no longer provide food for the consumers of Whole Foods. The organic movement started off considerably hopeful, resisting the pull of the food industry for a great deal of time. But as the demand for organic foods grew, growers found they couldn’t supply the demand on their own without turning to industrial tools. And so, the organic industry was born.
Now, much larger companies own many of these once small and proud growers. While some companies work to improve the food industry and make organic growing more efficient, there are still many companies that fight to make the term “organic” as elastic as possible and to push the envelope as far as they can, without drawing too much attention to themselves.
While Pollan’s exploration of the organic industry doesn’t exactly leave one filled with an overwhelming sense of hope, he does lay out many of the positive as well as negative aspects of the industry, leaving the reader with a somewhat better sense of how to navigate it. What Pollan does best though, is that he provides the reader with awareness—one of the greatest tools we have against the food industry.
Pollan’s examination of the organic industry is at first, very discouraging. Consumers are, yet again being tricked by companies pocketing the money from their profits at the expense of a nation’s health. Like the term “authentic”, “organic” has come to mean many things, but with each welcoming of a wider definition of the word, it comes to mean much less in the eyes of the consumer. Who can we trust? Where do we turn to for food that is safe, unlabeled, and wholesome?
Reading this section of the book was difficult. After fully realizing the pitfalls and mercilessness of the food industry in the first part of “The Omnivore’s Dilemma”, I was absolutely fine with turning my back on the industry (for the most part), and looking towards the future of organic foods. Yet that too is an industry, as Pollan points out; an industry that has been infiltrated by the same crooks, finding shortcuts to quicker cash, and turning out to be not-so-earth-friendly as one would think.
Pollan is not afraid to get out there and investigate. He does the dirty work for us. Our job is to sit here and read every word of his report with horror. The ways in which he breaks down Whole Foods is fascinating, especially considering that their walls are covered with pictures of farmers who no longer provide food for the consumers of Whole Foods. The organic movement started off considerably hopeful, resisting the pull of the food industry for a great deal of time. But as the demand for organic foods grew, growers found they couldn’t supply the demand on their own without turning to industrial tools. And so, the organic industry was born.
Now, much larger companies own many of these once small and proud growers. While some companies work to improve the food industry and make organic growing more efficient, there are still many companies that fight to make the term “organic” as elastic as possible and to push the envelope as far as they can, without drawing too much attention to themselves.
While Pollan’s exploration of the organic industry doesn’t exactly leave one filled with an overwhelming sense of hope, he does lay out many of the positive as well as negative aspects of the industry, leaving the reader with a somewhat better sense of how to navigate it. What Pollan does best though, is that he provides the reader with awareness—one of the greatest tools we have against the food industry.
Monday, February 20, 2012
The Streets Are Paved With Corn
How does one adequately respond to Michael Pollan’s, “The Omnivore’s Dilemma”? Pollan evokes a sense of urgency that has left me unsure of what to do next. So, all of these things are wrong with our food, our nation, our environment, and the world. What exactly am I supposed to do about it? I’m sure he will get to that later, but I can’t help feeling somewhat impatient when faced with the very dilemma his book is titled after. Let’s just say it’s a bigger dilemma than standing in front of my closet in the morning and trying to find something to wear.
I am a very conscious eater. I like to know where my food has come from, and I prefer to buy organically when I can afford to. I am not one for processed foods, but if I am craving something, I usually don’t hold back. Everyone has their favorites. Oreos and peanut butter: that’s where it’s at. Or Blizzards. I have mad love for Blizzards. Girl Scout Cookies? They’re like crack. Don’t tell me your not addicted to Thin Mints. For goodness sakes one of my favorite foods is pancakes (don’t even get me started on banana pancakes), and man, can I cook up a good pancake. That takes some skill in my mind. For these reasons, I don’t really consider myself a health freak, but I do care about where my food is coming from and how it is impacting others and this planet.
Naturally, I am more prone to lean towards eating healthier foods, since they give me more energy and taste better. When I became a vegetarian a few years back, I did so after doing a lot of research. This wasn’t an “I don’t eat my dog, so why would I eat a chicken?” kind of decision. In some ways—yes—I was advocating for animal rights. But it was so much more than that. It was a lifestyle choice that could impact the world in a really small, teeny-weeny, itty-bitty, diminutive way. But I was sixteen and I was making a statement. So I went with it.
I’ve learned a lot since then. I’m not a vegetarian anymore, but I am still very conscious of where my meat comes from. Growing up, my dad had antlers hanging on our living room wall. Yes, antlers. It horrifies me more now than it did then. But I love that side of nature, the part where we hunt our own meat and appreciate where it came from. It’s much more intimate and meaningful than a hamburger from McDonalds that is only 15% real beef. My dad is a Colorado native and goes hunting almost every season. I love a good steak or hamburger. I’m crazy for ribs. I’ve tried almost every animal that walks, stalks, fly’s, and is hunted in Colorado. I love living out in the west and being so close to nature. It really provides you with a new perspective and makes you think about what you are eating.
So where am I going with all of this? I’m not sure. I’m hoping that Michael Pollan can help me out with that one. This book makes me depressed, angry, and sad, yet it also makes me hopeful for change. I’m overwhelmingly impressed with his amount of detail, starting back to the start of not only humanity, but also to the roots of nature and the progress of civilization, whether it is good or bad progress. I hate that things are like this today, I really do. But now I want to change them, even if it’s just one small step at a time. Right now, all I can do is yell out “I hate corn!” to my housemates while reading this book and mumble about how it is even in my toothpaste. But what will I do tomorrow? What will we all do tomorrow?
I am a very conscious eater. I like to know where my food has come from, and I prefer to buy organically when I can afford to. I am not one for processed foods, but if I am craving something, I usually don’t hold back. Everyone has their favorites. Oreos and peanut butter: that’s where it’s at. Or Blizzards. I have mad love for Blizzards. Girl Scout Cookies? They’re like crack. Don’t tell me your not addicted to Thin Mints. For goodness sakes one of my favorite foods is pancakes (don’t even get me started on banana pancakes), and man, can I cook up a good pancake. That takes some skill in my mind. For these reasons, I don’t really consider myself a health freak, but I do care about where my food is coming from and how it is impacting others and this planet.
Naturally, I am more prone to lean towards eating healthier foods, since they give me more energy and taste better. When I became a vegetarian a few years back, I did so after doing a lot of research. This wasn’t an “I don’t eat my dog, so why would I eat a chicken?” kind of decision. In some ways—yes—I was advocating for animal rights. But it was so much more than that. It was a lifestyle choice that could impact the world in a really small, teeny-weeny, itty-bitty, diminutive way. But I was sixteen and I was making a statement. So I went with it.
I’ve learned a lot since then. I’m not a vegetarian anymore, but I am still very conscious of where my meat comes from. Growing up, my dad had antlers hanging on our living room wall. Yes, antlers. It horrifies me more now than it did then. But I love that side of nature, the part where we hunt our own meat and appreciate where it came from. It’s much more intimate and meaningful than a hamburger from McDonalds that is only 15% real beef. My dad is a Colorado native and goes hunting almost every season. I love a good steak or hamburger. I’m crazy for ribs. I’ve tried almost every animal that walks, stalks, fly’s, and is hunted in Colorado. I love living out in the west and being so close to nature. It really provides you with a new perspective and makes you think about what you are eating.
So where am I going with all of this? I’m not sure. I’m hoping that Michael Pollan can help me out with that one. This book makes me depressed, angry, and sad, yet it also makes me hopeful for change. I’m overwhelmingly impressed with his amount of detail, starting back to the start of not only humanity, but also to the roots of nature and the progress of civilization, whether it is good or bad progress. I hate that things are like this today, I really do. But now I want to change them, even if it’s just one small step at a time. Right now, all I can do is yell out “I hate corn!” to my housemates while reading this book and mumble about how it is even in my toothpaste. But what will I do tomorrow? What will we all do tomorrow?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A Roadside Review of Gorilla Gourmet
Gorilla Gourmet is best discovered on foot. It is a flavor rich for the passerby, who happens to pause and notice the winking open sign in the side window of a truck colored much like the weather, this time in February. A black and white gorilla stares at you as you deliberate the menu specials for the day, written brightly on a wipe board in saucy handwriting, propped against the passenger side doorstep.
Kalamazoo’s only food truck, Gorilla Gourmet has a lot to live up to. Will it be the spark that will ignite food truck culture in the city of Kalamazoo? Probably not, but that doesn’t deter them from cooking up some hot and tasty dishes for the locals.
Food truck culture is not a new concept to places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, and Portland, but it is fairly new to the Midwest. In a small city like Kalamazoo, there is a question of whether or not food truck culture will thrive. In the winter months, pedestrians are far and few in between, rushing to do their errands and get to an end destination. Standing outside in the cold—whether it is snowing, raining, or generally bleak—and eating a taco, does not appeal to many individuals. In the summer months there is a greater opportunity for business; that is if a food truck can make it through the unsympathetic Michigan winter. Can Gorilla Gourmet stand up to the challenge? So far they have been successful, huddling close to K College and Western Michigan’s campuses, and heavily relying on hungry students to spend a few bucks for lunch.
Located at 305 Oakland Boulevard, Gorilla Gourmet offers a variety of freshly made favorites, ranging from Asian inspired tacos, vegetable soups and black bean chili’s made from scratch, to cheese sandwiches with an unexpected twist, such as combining bacon with avocado and smoked cheese, for example. While a great majority of their food is Asian inspired, this food truck isn’t afraid to be eclectic and adventurous when it comes to serving up food that endeavors to creatively intersect and merge different cuisines. They describe their food as, “Kalamazoo's best street food. International in scope and not restricted by flavor.”
While Gorilla Gourmet has many flavors to offer, its menu is limited and frequently changes. Even more frequently changing are their hours. Gorilla Gourmet owner and chef, Noel Corwin, says that weather often decides when they are open. Some days they are open from morning until late at night, and others they stay open only for a few hours into the afternoon. This unpredictability is frustrating at times for customers, but to help get the word out when their stove is hot, Gorilla Gourmet uses social media through Facebook and Twitter. Their Twitter, however, is quite unreliable, as it hasn’t been updated since July. Gorilla Gormet’s Facebook page, on the other hand, is the best way to find out not only if they are open, but also what they are serving up that day.
After a first visit, it becomes apparent to most people what it is that keeps Gorilla Gourmet in business, and what keeps customers coming back for more. Street food is exciting and it appeals to a certain sense of adventure that takes little effort to satisfy. At Gorilla Gourmet, they stick to the basics, cook your food right in front of you, and use fresh, local ingredients that taste even better than they look. Unlike the high-in restaurant chefs who express their creativity in the perfected presentation of their food, Gorilla Gourmet keeps their food art abstract, trusting the palate to work its magic accordingly. Even better, at Gorilla Gourmet, Noel Corwin is friendly and tries to get to know his customers. He is rather chatty as he prepares an order, happy to have someone to talk to and to share his passion with.
The taste and quality of the food at Gorilla Gourmet exceed the messy presentation by far. Somehow though, the imperfect presentation and the mess that proceeds as one takes their first bite makes customers feel at home. With its close proximity to K College’s campus and exceptionally low prices, Gorilla Gourmet deals out a good reason to stay open for business, attractive to the average college student’s taste and their budget.
Although their specials vary day to day, there are a few selective freshly made favorites that often reappear on the menu. The mega-veggie quesadilla deemed El Monstro, is an XXL flour tortilla filled with melted cheese and slaw for the veggies, all for $6. Also for $6, customers can order two different types of Gorilla Grinders: smoked pork loin with spicy slaw and pepper relish on a toasted bun or smoked beef brisket with onions, mushrooms, and pepper-jack cheese on a toasted bun. Much like a Philly steak sandwich, Gorilla Grinders are served hot and messy, with the meat enveloped in a melted layer of cheese. Upon the first bite, it is apparent how seriously Gorilla Gourmet takes their meat, slow roasting it to an expert level of perfection where it falls off the bone or is smoked until tender, and taking care to marinate it in their own peppery sauce till it peaks in flavor.
Poblano Pork Tacos are another popular choice frequenting the menu, simply comprised of slow braised shoulder with spicy slaw on corn tortillas. A single order gets you three small tacos for $7. While the meat is tender and seasoned lightly, the coleslaw—a throw of crisp lettuce, carrots, onion, and peppers—distracts from the experience, taking away from the flavor of the meat. The spray of hot sauce covering the slaw unevenly delivers a fiery flavor throughout, leading to a seemingly unsatisfying imbalance that lessens the enjoyment of the overall experience, although it is not entirely joyless, as no slow braised shoulder done right could be.
Experimental with their flavors and openly friendly to their customers, Gorilla Gourmet helps individuals feel at home, even on the side of the road, giving their customers a flavorful experience that makes them want to return. While it is risky to own a food truck in Kalamazoo, even in the dead of winter Gorilla Gourmet does its best to stay open for customers brave enough to venture out for a hot and savory meal that is cheap and close by. Messy and adventurous, Gorilla Gourmet may make you work for your food and have you guessing when it is open, but it sure lives up to its name.
Kalamazoo’s only food truck, Gorilla Gourmet has a lot to live up to. Will it be the spark that will ignite food truck culture in the city of Kalamazoo? Probably not, but that doesn’t deter them from cooking up some hot and tasty dishes for the locals.
Food truck culture is not a new concept to places like Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, and Portland, but it is fairly new to the Midwest. In a small city like Kalamazoo, there is a question of whether or not food truck culture will thrive. In the winter months, pedestrians are far and few in between, rushing to do their errands and get to an end destination. Standing outside in the cold—whether it is snowing, raining, or generally bleak—and eating a taco, does not appeal to many individuals. In the summer months there is a greater opportunity for business; that is if a food truck can make it through the unsympathetic Michigan winter. Can Gorilla Gourmet stand up to the challenge? So far they have been successful, huddling close to K College and Western Michigan’s campuses, and heavily relying on hungry students to spend a few bucks for lunch.
Located at 305 Oakland Boulevard, Gorilla Gourmet offers a variety of freshly made favorites, ranging from Asian inspired tacos, vegetable soups and black bean chili’s made from scratch, to cheese sandwiches with an unexpected twist, such as combining bacon with avocado and smoked cheese, for example. While a great majority of their food is Asian inspired, this food truck isn’t afraid to be eclectic and adventurous when it comes to serving up food that endeavors to creatively intersect and merge different cuisines. They describe their food as, “Kalamazoo's best street food. International in scope and not restricted by flavor.”
While Gorilla Gourmet has many flavors to offer, its menu is limited and frequently changes. Even more frequently changing are their hours. Gorilla Gourmet owner and chef, Noel Corwin, says that weather often decides when they are open. Some days they are open from morning until late at night, and others they stay open only for a few hours into the afternoon. This unpredictability is frustrating at times for customers, but to help get the word out when their stove is hot, Gorilla Gourmet uses social media through Facebook and Twitter. Their Twitter, however, is quite unreliable, as it hasn’t been updated since July. Gorilla Gormet’s Facebook page, on the other hand, is the best way to find out not only if they are open, but also what they are serving up that day.
After a first visit, it becomes apparent to most people what it is that keeps Gorilla Gourmet in business, and what keeps customers coming back for more. Street food is exciting and it appeals to a certain sense of adventure that takes little effort to satisfy. At Gorilla Gourmet, they stick to the basics, cook your food right in front of you, and use fresh, local ingredients that taste even better than they look. Unlike the high-in restaurant chefs who express their creativity in the perfected presentation of their food, Gorilla Gourmet keeps their food art abstract, trusting the palate to work its magic accordingly. Even better, at Gorilla Gourmet, Noel Corwin is friendly and tries to get to know his customers. He is rather chatty as he prepares an order, happy to have someone to talk to and to share his passion with.
The taste and quality of the food at Gorilla Gourmet exceed the messy presentation by far. Somehow though, the imperfect presentation and the mess that proceeds as one takes their first bite makes customers feel at home. With its close proximity to K College’s campus and exceptionally low prices, Gorilla Gourmet deals out a good reason to stay open for business, attractive to the average college student’s taste and their budget.
Although their specials vary day to day, there are a few selective freshly made favorites that often reappear on the menu. The mega-veggie quesadilla deemed El Monstro, is an XXL flour tortilla filled with melted cheese and slaw for the veggies, all for $6. Also for $6, customers can order two different types of Gorilla Grinders: smoked pork loin with spicy slaw and pepper relish on a toasted bun or smoked beef brisket with onions, mushrooms, and pepper-jack cheese on a toasted bun. Much like a Philly steak sandwich, Gorilla Grinders are served hot and messy, with the meat enveloped in a melted layer of cheese. Upon the first bite, it is apparent how seriously Gorilla Gourmet takes their meat, slow roasting it to an expert level of perfection where it falls off the bone or is smoked until tender, and taking care to marinate it in their own peppery sauce till it peaks in flavor.
Poblano Pork Tacos are another popular choice frequenting the menu, simply comprised of slow braised shoulder with spicy slaw on corn tortillas. A single order gets you three small tacos for $7. While the meat is tender and seasoned lightly, the coleslaw—a throw of crisp lettuce, carrots, onion, and peppers—distracts from the experience, taking away from the flavor of the meat. The spray of hot sauce covering the slaw unevenly delivers a fiery flavor throughout, leading to a seemingly unsatisfying imbalance that lessens the enjoyment of the overall experience, although it is not entirely joyless, as no slow braised shoulder done right could be.
Experimental with their flavors and openly friendly to their customers, Gorilla Gourmet helps individuals feel at home, even on the side of the road, giving their customers a flavorful experience that makes them want to return. While it is risky to own a food truck in Kalamazoo, even in the dead of winter Gorilla Gourmet does its best to stay open for customers brave enough to venture out for a hot and savory meal that is cheap and close by. Messy and adventurous, Gorilla Gourmet may make you work for your food and have you guessing when it is open, but it sure lives up to its name.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Go Gorilla or Go Home
Food trucks have become a culture entirely of their own. After Matt’s choose your own adventure presentation, I found myself fascinated with food truck culture, and even more amazed that I had never experienced eating at a food truck, save the childhood ice cream cone when the musical truck drove through my neighborhood on hot summer days. What have I been missing out on? Food truck culture is growing by the minute, gaining popularity through social media devices such as twitter, where you can follow your favorite local haunts to find out where they are parked every day.
It’s a culture rich with flavor, adventure, creativity, and the bare minimum. You can take your food with you anywhere at any time, no need to tip the server, or follow any rules. It’s a culture seemingly for the tourist, but open to anyone from the cubicle dwellers, streetwalkers, and serious shoppers, to real-estate owners and highbrow business owners. Food truck culture is looking for anyone, and ready for everyone. My “vivid entryway into another culture”? Local food truck Gorilla Gourmet.
Gorilla Gourmet appeals to younger generations, college students out and about on foot with a few dollar bills hot in their pockets to spend. The only known food truck in Kalamazoo, Gorilla Gourmet, is up with social media, their latest Facebook status: “Good day Kalamazoolanders! Blue skies + sunshine > cold. On the menu today; Poblano Pork tacos, Vegan Curry Carrot soup, El Monstro and both Gorilla Grinders=Get It.....” I couldn’t be more thrilled for this opportunity to finally find out what all the fuss is about. If you’re interested, you can also follow Gorilla Gourmet on twitter @GorillaEATS. Give me until Sunday night and I can tell you if it is worth it.
Am I skeptical? A little. Does that change the fact that I am wildly excited to have an opportunity to eat out of a truck and write about the experience? Not one bit. I feel a little like Anthony Bourdain, on a crazy hunt for a new, thrilling food experience. Except Gorilla Gourmet just happens to be right down the street, which is quite a convenience. My expectations? They make your food right in front of you. It’s hot and fresh, spicy, and full of mouthwatering flavors. At least that’s how I picture this going down.
Rumor around the block is that Gorilla Gourmet’s street food is not only cheap but pretty good too. Although I am not familiar with the entire extent of their menu, tacos and cheese sandwiches appear to both be taken seriously at this food truck. I’m not exactly one of the people who is terrified with the idea of eating food that came out of the back of a truck but I did grow up with my dad, a man who will eat anything, but never fails to point out a cutely named truck pulled to the side of the road and call it a roach coach. I’m also certain that he has tried the food and it’s as bad as he says it is. But Colorado isn’t Los Angeles. The only food truck culture around where I am from is worth worrying about. But this is Kalamazoo and who would pass up the opportunity to eat from a truck called Gorilla Gourmet? Sometimes we have to get our hands a little dirty and just take our chances. Let’s face it, tacos are messy
It’s a culture rich with flavor, adventure, creativity, and the bare minimum. You can take your food with you anywhere at any time, no need to tip the server, or follow any rules. It’s a culture seemingly for the tourist, but open to anyone from the cubicle dwellers, streetwalkers, and serious shoppers, to real-estate owners and highbrow business owners. Food truck culture is looking for anyone, and ready for everyone. My “vivid entryway into another culture”? Local food truck Gorilla Gourmet.
Gorilla Gourmet appeals to younger generations, college students out and about on foot with a few dollar bills hot in their pockets to spend. The only known food truck in Kalamazoo, Gorilla Gourmet, is up with social media, their latest Facebook status: “Good day Kalamazoolanders! Blue skies + sunshine > cold. On the menu today; Poblano Pork tacos, Vegan Curry Carrot soup, El Monstro and both Gorilla Grinders=Get It.....” I couldn’t be more thrilled for this opportunity to finally find out what all the fuss is about. If you’re interested, you can also follow Gorilla Gourmet on twitter @GorillaEATS. Give me until Sunday night and I can tell you if it is worth it.
Am I skeptical? A little. Does that change the fact that I am wildly excited to have an opportunity to eat out of a truck and write about the experience? Not one bit. I feel a little like Anthony Bourdain, on a crazy hunt for a new, thrilling food experience. Except Gorilla Gourmet just happens to be right down the street, which is quite a convenience. My expectations? They make your food right in front of you. It’s hot and fresh, spicy, and full of mouthwatering flavors. At least that’s how I picture this going down.
Rumor around the block is that Gorilla Gourmet’s street food is not only cheap but pretty good too. Although I am not familiar with the entire extent of their menu, tacos and cheese sandwiches appear to both be taken seriously at this food truck. I’m not exactly one of the people who is terrified with the idea of eating food that came out of the back of a truck but I did grow up with my dad, a man who will eat anything, but never fails to point out a cutely named truck pulled to the side of the road and call it a roach coach. I’m also certain that he has tried the food and it’s as bad as he says it is. But Colorado isn’t Los Angeles. The only food truck culture around where I am from is worth worrying about. But this is Kalamazoo and who would pass up the opportunity to eat from a truck called Gorilla Gourmet? Sometimes we have to get our hands a little dirty and just take our chances. Let’s face it, tacos are messy
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
What the Tourist Remembers
After reading the excerpt from Lucy M. Long’s Culinary Tourism, I found myself thinking about my own experiences with tourism and how food can serve to shift ones perspective of a given culture, and what is viewed as acceptable or familiar. When I was still in high school, I traveled abroad with an organization that’s highest aim was to bridge the gap between different countries and to value cultural differences around the world. This program allowed me to travel with a group to several European countries, in a short amount of time. I was reminded of this experience not simply because I was unashamedly a visible tourist while abroad, but because I inherently experienced the perception of otherness through food and other mediums while abroad that Long focuses on for several passages of Culinary Tourism.
What was unique about my experience was how food became a sort of medium. There were ways in which we could experience the otherness of a culture, by tasting the foods that were traditional and favored in the given country. As Long points out, this is a large part of the tourist’s experience. However, since I was a part of a group organization, our menus were often planned out for us. Interestingly enough, restaurants that hosted us, often tried to “Americanize” our dining experience. It was their way of making us feel at home and welcoming us. I cannot tell you how many times we were served French fries and hamburgers. Sadly, the presentation of these meals made me miss home even more and crave the authentic tastes of my home country. But even more so, I wanted to experience the food of that culture. I didn’t want them to make me feel at ease or home in their culture, I wanted to experience that sense of otherness, to try different foods that might shift my way of thinking and open my taste buds to a whole new level of acceptance and familiarity.
What I recall most about my trip was the food and how tied it was to culture. Although we experienced several badly prepared, “Americanized” meals, there were also times in which I was able to really immerse myself in a given culture, through the experience of food. I remember sitting in a café with my friends in Paris, dividing a glazed scone hot from the oven between us, and sipping of thick, creamy lattes. When we took a ferry from England to Ireland, I remember the fish and chips, how they didn’t have Ketchup available but slathered their fries with mayonnaise instead. I recall trying Escargot for the first time, and thinking how it really did taste like a buttery gummy bear, like Chris off of Gilmore Girls described in one episode. I remember the soft mold of Belgium chocolate, the richness of the white and dark swirls shaped into tiny objects from shells to high-heels. What I regret the most about my trip is not taking every opportunity I had to experience the food of each culture I entered into. If I could go back, I would buy the Belgium waffles from the street vendor in Brussels, and eat the crepes and baguettes in Paris. Now, I tell myself, I have to go back. After all, you cannot fully experience a culture if you leave with an empty stomach.
What was unique about my experience was how food became a sort of medium. There were ways in which we could experience the otherness of a culture, by tasting the foods that were traditional and favored in the given country. As Long points out, this is a large part of the tourist’s experience. However, since I was a part of a group organization, our menus were often planned out for us. Interestingly enough, restaurants that hosted us, often tried to “Americanize” our dining experience. It was their way of making us feel at home and welcoming us. I cannot tell you how many times we were served French fries and hamburgers. Sadly, the presentation of these meals made me miss home even more and crave the authentic tastes of my home country. But even more so, I wanted to experience the food of that culture. I didn’t want them to make me feel at ease or home in their culture, I wanted to experience that sense of otherness, to try different foods that might shift my way of thinking and open my taste buds to a whole new level of acceptance and familiarity.
What I recall most about my trip was the food and how tied it was to culture. Although we experienced several badly prepared, “Americanized” meals, there were also times in which I was able to really immerse myself in a given culture, through the experience of food. I remember sitting in a café with my friends in Paris, dividing a glazed scone hot from the oven between us, and sipping of thick, creamy lattes. When we took a ferry from England to Ireland, I remember the fish and chips, how they didn’t have Ketchup available but slathered their fries with mayonnaise instead. I recall trying Escargot for the first time, and thinking how it really did taste like a buttery gummy bear, like Chris off of Gilmore Girls described in one episode. I remember the soft mold of Belgium chocolate, the richness of the white and dark swirls shaped into tiny objects from shells to high-heels. What I regret the most about my trip is not taking every opportunity I had to experience the food of each culture I entered into. If I could go back, I would buy the Belgium waffles from the street vendor in Brussels, and eat the crepes and baguettes in Paris. Now, I tell myself, I have to go back. After all, you cannot fully experience a culture if you leave with an empty stomach.
Monday, February 6, 2012
So It Goes-Take Two
When I open my eyes, I can feel the water moving feet below me. I get the sensation that I am floating. It is quiet. I can smell the subtle trace of brewed coffee in the sole of the boat, and I feel the gentle ushering of a breeze on my face as it slips in through the back door. For a moment, I breathe it all in. Rays of sunlight wash over the room, and tangle in my hair. I listen to the clap of water against the rocky shore and the way it whispers against the boat in currents, rolling in and out of the little cove, and rocking the boat back and forth like a mother with her child.
I let the blankets slip away as I sit up and stretch. The aroma of coffee is stronger now. My feet find the cool tiled surface of the floor. I stand up and look around. For a moment, I stare out the broad windows of the houseboat at the shining, gossamer waves of Lake Powell, a lake vast enough that it could be mistaken for the sea. A maze of rock juts out of the water as far as one can see, sunburned as summer vacationers. Like the colors in the sky at sunset, the rock’s many layers reveal the depth of the water year after year through shifts in soft pinks, rustic reds and oranges, and the occasional white-blurred line.
On the inside of the houseboat, there is one small bedroom that my parents share and a bath that one passes on the way to the back deck. My sister and I sleep in the breakfast nook, lined with sunlit windows towards the front of the boat. The deep corner booth table unfolds into a bed that is ideal for sleeping in late, with its spacious cushions and fort-like feel. At the heart of the boat is the kitchen, up against one wall with a center island for the sink, marbled countertops and mahogany cabinets for stashing food above. Directly across is a camel colored leather couch for lounging in. It is a cohesive space, open and airy enough for me to see almost everything from where I stand near the breakfast nook.
Closing my eyes, I lean back and stretch. When I open them, my eyes immediately catch on the gleam of the coffee pot, next to the stove. I pad across the room, sand clinging to my bare feet with each step. It is a comfort. A coffee cup waits for me, set aside by someone who truly understands love. I lift the pot from its cradle, feeling the gentle pull and slosh of its contents: half a pot more. Cup in hand, I let the sacred liquid flow into my cup, appreciating the dark allure of its amber color, the many tones it conceals like a copper penny, but always guaranteed to bring good luck.
It is a morning ritual in my family. Always, when I was little, the smell of coffee would linger on my dad’s breath as he whispered good morning into my ear or swooped in to kiss my forehead, my eyes fluttering open to the smell intrinsic to my father’s love. At our local breakfast haunt, my sister and I would order mugs of hot chocolate towered high with whipped cream, but always I would long for coffee. It meant you were grown up, that you didn’t have to ask are we there yet on a road trip, because you already knew how much further. It meant that you read the newspaper at breakfast, leaving behind the half-moon rusty-colored rim from your coffee cup that said you had been there.
Clasping the cup with both hands, I hold it close, letting the steam curl into upward spirals. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich, bold contours of flavor. I feel the room dissolve as I raise the cup and the warm liquid rushes towards my lips. Divine. The world comes back into focus, sharper this time. It is not the caffeine kicking in so soon, but rather the sudden but complete and tingling feeling of warm content, spreading from my stomach outward.
On Saturdays, my sister and I would curl up on the couch with our coffee and watch Gilmore Girls late into the day. Sometimes, when we go back home now, we try to carry on this tradition, slinking out of our rooms in our pajamas, bleary eyed, reaching for our coffee cups and talking of dreams as we wait for the coffee to brew. But it is never the same as it was before. We are only imitating what it was like before we went away to school and came back changed, disconnected from one another after living in our separate worlds. It is our way of resurfacing, breaking the seal of the present and pretending for a while that we can go back to how things were when everything was simple. At the center of all this, we hold onto our coffee cups in our laps, watching episodes of Gilmore Girls that we have seen so many times before, but continue to cherish.
I can’t remember when I started liking coffee. How the bitterness seems to warm your insides, the intense flavor bold and exact. My mom and my sister take theirs with cream and sugar. I take mine black and untouched, like my dad. There is a lot that you can learn about a person, just by knowing how they take their coffee in the mornings.
I peer out the glass doors of the front deck, facing the shore. The sand is quiet and untouched. I pause and listen, soon hearing the soft murmur of conversation winding its way to me from the back deck of the boat. The door is cracked; my dog watches me as I approach. Immediately I feel the heat of the wooden deck on my toes as I slip into the sunlight, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature. It’s a good day to swim.
The first words on their lips, “happy birthday” feel warm. Kisses from my dog, pinches from my sister, and sure enough, a bear hug from my dad. My mom gives my arm a squeeze then makes a beeline for the stove. When I settle into her abandoned chair, I hear the tinkle of M&M’s dropping into a bowl and I smile. M&M pancakes—a perfectly reasonable sixteenth birthday request.
It was the summer I spent in the in-between, a recent high-school graduate waiting for the approach of my next four years at Kalamazoo College, far away from home and from everything I had come to know. So I sat there soaking up the sun and waiting—waiting for M&M pancakes and for the far-off distance of fall to close in on my summer.
The three of us, my dad perched on a cooler, my sister and I in folding chairs, chat about past birthday years, and he starts to tell stories of his own childhood. Sipping my coffee, I would listen, and watch the water ripple like melting glass. He told the story of him breaking his arm while messing with a tractor, and the one about him and his cousin dropping a bee hive and running, but not quite fast enough for the swarm. These are the stories that I remember. What I remember more is looking up at the porcelain fired sky, painted like the color of a robin’s eggs, speckled with sunlight.
I remember walking to the edge of the boat in a daze, sitting down on the metal frame, and dangling my feet in the cool morning chill of the lake water—mesmerized—and watching tiny fish dart into patches of lighter blue then back into the shadows. I remember changing into my swimsuit before breakfast and lying parallel to the water eyes closed, letting the breeze lick my belly and tousle my hair.
When the pancakes came, they were glorious. Warm and light enough to dissolve in your mouth, with a melting gooey inside as freckled as my face with M&Ms. I loved the sticky flood of syrup, and that feeling of being made whole again as the pancake grew smaller, bite-by-bite. It was something to savor. Leaving a pool of syrup behind, I licked the chocolate paste from my fork and settled back into a dream-like state.
I remember waking later, flat on my back on the edge of the boat, feeling the pulse of heat run through my veins. I stood up, braced myself for the sudden coldness that was to come, and dived off the back of the boat. It was like slipping into a dream. I floated on my back for a while then dove to the bottom again before surfacing to pull myself up onto the hot deck where I would lay, shaking like a leaf, water spreading like a star around me as I attempted to dry.
Lake Powell, I would say later with a sigh. That day was one of those moments in life that you could live in forever, content in the before and after. Consciously, you try to soak up every moment, every flash of ecstasy you can get before it is too late, and the moment is gone—passed. The day passed, just like that. A flux between sun and water, a day marked on a calendar, not for what it was every year, but for what it became that day. The details slip between the cracks of my memory, but are summoned when something reminds me and I wish I could have stayed there longer.
I like to think back on the crackling fire that night as we roasted marshmallows, smoke filling the air, our shadows dancing across the fiery rock of the enclave—a beach to ourselves—as we laughed, gorged ourselves on sticky s’mores, and lived. That night, I saw my first two shooting stars tear across the sky, one right after the other. I let my wishes trail behind them like bright ribbons in the sky, their color fading into the night, but never lost. Now, I let my memories trail also, tied to the experiences I have had, and connected to who I am now. It was in this starlight that I realized how wonderful the in-between can be, the safety and content of it, but more importantly, it is moments and entire memories like this that are essential to our existence, as they become our vehicle for living.
I let the blankets slip away as I sit up and stretch. The aroma of coffee is stronger now. My feet find the cool tiled surface of the floor. I stand up and look around. For a moment, I stare out the broad windows of the houseboat at the shining, gossamer waves of Lake Powell, a lake vast enough that it could be mistaken for the sea. A maze of rock juts out of the water as far as one can see, sunburned as summer vacationers. Like the colors in the sky at sunset, the rock’s many layers reveal the depth of the water year after year through shifts in soft pinks, rustic reds and oranges, and the occasional white-blurred line.
On the inside of the houseboat, there is one small bedroom that my parents share and a bath that one passes on the way to the back deck. My sister and I sleep in the breakfast nook, lined with sunlit windows towards the front of the boat. The deep corner booth table unfolds into a bed that is ideal for sleeping in late, with its spacious cushions and fort-like feel. At the heart of the boat is the kitchen, up against one wall with a center island for the sink, marbled countertops and mahogany cabinets for stashing food above. Directly across is a camel colored leather couch for lounging in. It is a cohesive space, open and airy enough for me to see almost everything from where I stand near the breakfast nook.
Closing my eyes, I lean back and stretch. When I open them, my eyes immediately catch on the gleam of the coffee pot, next to the stove. I pad across the room, sand clinging to my bare feet with each step. It is a comfort. A coffee cup waits for me, set aside by someone who truly understands love. I lift the pot from its cradle, feeling the gentle pull and slosh of its contents: half a pot more. Cup in hand, I let the sacred liquid flow into my cup, appreciating the dark allure of its amber color, the many tones it conceals like a copper penny, but always guaranteed to bring good luck.
It is a morning ritual in my family. Always, when I was little, the smell of coffee would linger on my dad’s breath as he whispered good morning into my ear or swooped in to kiss my forehead, my eyes fluttering open to the smell intrinsic to my father’s love. At our local breakfast haunt, my sister and I would order mugs of hot chocolate towered high with whipped cream, but always I would long for coffee. It meant you were grown up, that you didn’t have to ask are we there yet on a road trip, because you already knew how much further. It meant that you read the newspaper at breakfast, leaving behind the half-moon rusty-colored rim from your coffee cup that said you had been there.
Clasping the cup with both hands, I hold it close, letting the steam curl into upward spirals. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich, bold contours of flavor. I feel the room dissolve as I raise the cup and the warm liquid rushes towards my lips. Divine. The world comes back into focus, sharper this time. It is not the caffeine kicking in so soon, but rather the sudden but complete and tingling feeling of warm content, spreading from my stomach outward.
On Saturdays, my sister and I would curl up on the couch with our coffee and watch Gilmore Girls late into the day. Sometimes, when we go back home now, we try to carry on this tradition, slinking out of our rooms in our pajamas, bleary eyed, reaching for our coffee cups and talking of dreams as we wait for the coffee to brew. But it is never the same as it was before. We are only imitating what it was like before we went away to school and came back changed, disconnected from one another after living in our separate worlds. It is our way of resurfacing, breaking the seal of the present and pretending for a while that we can go back to how things were when everything was simple. At the center of all this, we hold onto our coffee cups in our laps, watching episodes of Gilmore Girls that we have seen so many times before, but continue to cherish.
I can’t remember when I started liking coffee. How the bitterness seems to warm your insides, the intense flavor bold and exact. My mom and my sister take theirs with cream and sugar. I take mine black and untouched, like my dad. There is a lot that you can learn about a person, just by knowing how they take their coffee in the mornings.
I peer out the glass doors of the front deck, facing the shore. The sand is quiet and untouched. I pause and listen, soon hearing the soft murmur of conversation winding its way to me from the back deck of the boat. The door is cracked; my dog watches me as I approach. Immediately I feel the heat of the wooden deck on my toes as I slip into the sunlight, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature. It’s a good day to swim.
The first words on their lips, “happy birthday” feel warm. Kisses from my dog, pinches from my sister, and sure enough, a bear hug from my dad. My mom gives my arm a squeeze then makes a beeline for the stove. When I settle into her abandoned chair, I hear the tinkle of M&M’s dropping into a bowl and I smile. M&M pancakes—a perfectly reasonable sixteenth birthday request.
It was the summer I spent in the in-between, a recent high-school graduate waiting for the approach of my next four years at Kalamazoo College, far away from home and from everything I had come to know. So I sat there soaking up the sun and waiting—waiting for M&M pancakes and for the far-off distance of fall to close in on my summer.
The three of us, my dad perched on a cooler, my sister and I in folding chairs, chat about past birthday years, and he starts to tell stories of his own childhood. Sipping my coffee, I would listen, and watch the water ripple like melting glass. He told the story of him breaking his arm while messing with a tractor, and the one about him and his cousin dropping a bee hive and running, but not quite fast enough for the swarm. These are the stories that I remember. What I remember more is looking up at the porcelain fired sky, painted like the color of a robin’s eggs, speckled with sunlight.
I remember walking to the edge of the boat in a daze, sitting down on the metal frame, and dangling my feet in the cool morning chill of the lake water—mesmerized—and watching tiny fish dart into patches of lighter blue then back into the shadows. I remember changing into my swimsuit before breakfast and lying parallel to the water eyes closed, letting the breeze lick my belly and tousle my hair.
When the pancakes came, they were glorious. Warm and light enough to dissolve in your mouth, with a melting gooey inside as freckled as my face with M&Ms. I loved the sticky flood of syrup, and that feeling of being made whole again as the pancake grew smaller, bite-by-bite. It was something to savor. Leaving a pool of syrup behind, I licked the chocolate paste from my fork and settled back into a dream-like state.
I remember waking later, flat on my back on the edge of the boat, feeling the pulse of heat run through my veins. I stood up, braced myself for the sudden coldness that was to come, and dived off the back of the boat. It was like slipping into a dream. I floated on my back for a while then dove to the bottom again before surfacing to pull myself up onto the hot deck where I would lay, shaking like a leaf, water spreading like a star around me as I attempted to dry.
Lake Powell, I would say later with a sigh. That day was one of those moments in life that you could live in forever, content in the before and after. Consciously, you try to soak up every moment, every flash of ecstasy you can get before it is too late, and the moment is gone—passed. The day passed, just like that. A flux between sun and water, a day marked on a calendar, not for what it was every year, but for what it became that day. The details slip between the cracks of my memory, but are summoned when something reminds me and I wish I could have stayed there longer.
I like to think back on the crackling fire that night as we roasted marshmallows, smoke filling the air, our shadows dancing across the fiery rock of the enclave—a beach to ourselves—as we laughed, gorged ourselves on sticky s’mores, and lived. That night, I saw my first two shooting stars tear across the sky, one right after the other. I let my wishes trail behind them like bright ribbons in the sky, their color fading into the night, but never lost. Now, I let my memories trail also, tied to the experiences I have had, and connected to who I am now. It was in this starlight that I realized how wonderful the in-between can be, the safety and content of it, but more importantly, it is moments and entire memories like this that are essential to our existence, as they become our vehicle for living.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
The Complexity of Food Culture
Adam Gopnik’s piece, “Is There A Crisis In French Cooking?” provided me with a space to consider how deeply intertwined cooking is to culture and the many ways in which we make use of our food to demonstrate a certain pride or statement about our culture. When looking at our own culture and nationality, I cannot help but pause and consider how absent food culture and tradition are in this country. It is more than a matter of age, as Europe is much older than America, but more a matter of trying to escape from the ties of European cuisine we came here with, and attempting to create something entirely different.
America is often viewed as a melting pot of different cultures, traditions, religious beliefs, backgrounds, and more. We come from every corner of the world and bring with us the culture we are accustomed to, in order to make the place we are in now feel like home. Our differences and the vastness of our country’s exploration of cultures are what have identified us as a nation independent from others. While we have given ourselves a national identity that enables us to be seen as unique and independent from Europe, we seemingly lack roots for food culture and tradition. To fill this void, American’s are very well known for using food as a statement.
Food can be used as an exploration, statement of nationalism of pride, defense, or power. As Gopnik touches on in “Is There A Crisis In French Cooking?” food in American is most often used as a statement of power. As Americans, we are always looking to do something bigger and better, to create something new and unfound. Our world of food and cooking is competitive and declarative. We like everything to be fast, efficient, and provocative to consumers. The food industry is what drives our economy and gives people an appetite to create as well as consume.
In his piece, Gopnik discusses the polar differences between American cuisine and French cuisine, yet he spends more time talking about the culture of French cuisine and how differently they view food and cooking. For the French, food is less an industry than a culture. The aim is more for nourishment and pleasure instead of entertainment and profit, which drive the world of food and cooking in America. The French possess tradition and deep roots from their heritage that America lacks.
While American’s strive to create something tangible for everyone, creating the allusion of a culture, France possesses a culture from the very start. American’s are constantly trying to escape their national culinary tradition, to lose the traditional ways of cooking and presentation of dishes from the past. We want to create something new and push the envelope even further. On the other hand, the French desire to hold onto their heritage and take pride in the traditions of their French cuisine and culture.
Gopnik’s piece is one that helps us to realize how culture and traditions are formed and what role food plays in our nationalism and pride. He brings to our attention the ways in which food can be used as a statement, especially in America where we are constantly attempting to re-create and lose the culinary traditions of the past. Understanding these concepts are what help us to see nations and cultures in different lenses, allowing us to derive meaning and appreciation from a diversity of food culture and tradition around the world.
America is often viewed as a melting pot of different cultures, traditions, religious beliefs, backgrounds, and more. We come from every corner of the world and bring with us the culture we are accustomed to, in order to make the place we are in now feel like home. Our differences and the vastness of our country’s exploration of cultures are what have identified us as a nation independent from others. While we have given ourselves a national identity that enables us to be seen as unique and independent from Europe, we seemingly lack roots for food culture and tradition. To fill this void, American’s are very well known for using food as a statement.
Food can be used as an exploration, statement of nationalism of pride, defense, or power. As Gopnik touches on in “Is There A Crisis In French Cooking?” food in American is most often used as a statement of power. As Americans, we are always looking to do something bigger and better, to create something new and unfound. Our world of food and cooking is competitive and declarative. We like everything to be fast, efficient, and provocative to consumers. The food industry is what drives our economy and gives people an appetite to create as well as consume.
In his piece, Gopnik discusses the polar differences between American cuisine and French cuisine, yet he spends more time talking about the culture of French cuisine and how differently they view food and cooking. For the French, food is less an industry than a culture. The aim is more for nourishment and pleasure instead of entertainment and profit, which drive the world of food and cooking in America. The French possess tradition and deep roots from their heritage that America lacks.
While American’s strive to create something tangible for everyone, creating the allusion of a culture, France possesses a culture from the very start. American’s are constantly trying to escape their national culinary tradition, to lose the traditional ways of cooking and presentation of dishes from the past. We want to create something new and push the envelope even further. On the other hand, the French desire to hold onto their heritage and take pride in the traditions of their French cuisine and culture.
Gopnik’s piece is one that helps us to realize how culture and traditions are formed and what role food plays in our nationalism and pride. He brings to our attention the ways in which food can be used as a statement, especially in America where we are constantly attempting to re-create and lose the culinary traditions of the past. Understanding these concepts are what help us to see nations and cultures in different lenses, allowing us to derive meaning and appreciation from a diversity of food culture and tradition around the world.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
The Lemon-Chocolate Bread
From Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink, Calvin Trillin’s article, “The Magic Bagel” left me thinking about how certain foods are inextricable from specific memories, places, events, and times in my life. Trillin’s quest to find the perfect bagel struck me as a comical yet tender gesture that I can easily recognize. Especially after leaving home for college, I often associate certain foods and restaurants with home. They are experiences and tastes that cannot be found here. Even the recipes my mother and I cook together at home cannot be replicated here because the meal is missing the quintessential company, mood, and association of home.
Home: the smells, the tastes, the familiarity. After living in Kalamazoo for nearly two years now, K is very much my home away from home. There are places like the Crow’s Nest with their crispy golden breakfast potatoes dipped in Ketchup, thick slices of banana bread, and egg scrambles generously laden with vegetables and cheese all piled onto a plate with a mug of steaming coffee on the side. The rustic brick walls, waxy wood floors, local artwork hanging on the walls, and back cellar feel of the place you get climbing the stairs, bring an element of charm that grows on you each time you walk in the door.
At home, back in Colorado, we have our regulars, places we return to every time my sister and I come home from college. They never fail to deliver the food experience that we are craving. We are endlessly changing, but there is a security in being able to always return to a meal that is familiar and constant when we are surrounded by a world that is always changing. When I am on the ski slopes, I find reassurance in the cup of rich hot cocoa that awaits me when we ski right up to the lodge and go inside to check and make sure our toes haven’t frozen together. If we’re at Breckenridge resort, it’s the overpriced greasy food at Maggie’s, a lodge that squats at the base of peak nine that I rely on for fuel and old times sake.
When I think of Trillin’s hunt for bagels, I think of lemon-chocolate bread. Every summer, they would come, crawling in from the baking sun to set up their white tents early on Saturday mornings, hammering in the stakes for the signs pointing to the farmer’s market. From the mountains to the plains, they came with cases of Palisade peaches and Rocky Ford cantaloupes, bundles of snap peas that could slice the air quicker than a knife, and watermelons that were so juicy they would seep through your fingers and leave a puddle at your feet. They roasted chili peppers right before your eyes, the fire churning in its metal cage, filling the air with smoke, its piquancy enough to make your eyes water, and your mouth, even more so. Harvested honey, fresh dairy milk, pasta noodles in every shape and color imaginable, and of course—the man selling the bread out of russet-colored wicker baskets.
How could you possibly pick? Pumpernickel, rye, Ciabatta, wheat, sourdough, white cranberry—but then—there was the lemon-chocolate bread. At first we found it an absurd combination, until it filled our mouths, white chocolate filling the small cavities of the delicate white bread, and the detectable taste of summer lingering, an incredibly light hint of lemon speckling the bread that lingered after each swallow. Needless to say, we found ourselves reaching again and again for another wedge of perfect bliss that was all ours, that became our little secret.
But when the heat of the summer goes out as quickly as it came, we are left with our remembrances of bread, the fruits harvested in our land, and our memories. Every once in a while, I remember the taste of the bread’s filling, it’s sweet yet elegant taste, and how it seemed to use the heat of the day to its advantage, melting into an indulgence enjoyed in the shade of the trees with my family, that was and still is, matchless entirely. I cannot help but think how someday I too might also have to hunt for something magical—the lemon-chocolate bread—in order to remember.
Home: the smells, the tastes, the familiarity. After living in Kalamazoo for nearly two years now, K is very much my home away from home. There are places like the Crow’s Nest with their crispy golden breakfast potatoes dipped in Ketchup, thick slices of banana bread, and egg scrambles generously laden with vegetables and cheese all piled onto a plate with a mug of steaming coffee on the side. The rustic brick walls, waxy wood floors, local artwork hanging on the walls, and back cellar feel of the place you get climbing the stairs, bring an element of charm that grows on you each time you walk in the door.
At home, back in Colorado, we have our regulars, places we return to every time my sister and I come home from college. They never fail to deliver the food experience that we are craving. We are endlessly changing, but there is a security in being able to always return to a meal that is familiar and constant when we are surrounded by a world that is always changing. When I am on the ski slopes, I find reassurance in the cup of rich hot cocoa that awaits me when we ski right up to the lodge and go inside to check and make sure our toes haven’t frozen together. If we’re at Breckenridge resort, it’s the overpriced greasy food at Maggie’s, a lodge that squats at the base of peak nine that I rely on for fuel and old times sake.
When I think of Trillin’s hunt for bagels, I think of lemon-chocolate bread. Every summer, they would come, crawling in from the baking sun to set up their white tents early on Saturday mornings, hammering in the stakes for the signs pointing to the farmer’s market. From the mountains to the plains, they came with cases of Palisade peaches and Rocky Ford cantaloupes, bundles of snap peas that could slice the air quicker than a knife, and watermelons that were so juicy they would seep through your fingers and leave a puddle at your feet. They roasted chili peppers right before your eyes, the fire churning in its metal cage, filling the air with smoke, its piquancy enough to make your eyes water, and your mouth, even more so. Harvested honey, fresh dairy milk, pasta noodles in every shape and color imaginable, and of course—the man selling the bread out of russet-colored wicker baskets.
How could you possibly pick? Pumpernickel, rye, Ciabatta, wheat, sourdough, white cranberry—but then—there was the lemon-chocolate bread. At first we found it an absurd combination, until it filled our mouths, white chocolate filling the small cavities of the delicate white bread, and the detectable taste of summer lingering, an incredibly light hint of lemon speckling the bread that lingered after each swallow. Needless to say, we found ourselves reaching again and again for another wedge of perfect bliss that was all ours, that became our little secret.
But when the heat of the summer goes out as quickly as it came, we are left with our remembrances of bread, the fruits harvested in our land, and our memories. Every once in a while, I remember the taste of the bread’s filling, it’s sweet yet elegant taste, and how it seemed to use the heat of the day to its advantage, melting into an indulgence enjoyed in the shade of the trees with my family, that was and still is, matchless entirely. I cannot help but think how someday I too might also have to hunt for something magical—the lemon-chocolate bread—in order to remember.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
So It Goes
When I open my eyes, I can feel the water moving feet below me. From this, I get the sensation that I am floating. It is quiet. I can smell the subtle trace of brewed coffee in the sole of the cabin, and I feel the gentle ushering of a breeze on my face as it slips in through the back door. For a moment, I breathe it all in. Rays of sunlight wash over the room, and tangle in my hair. I listen to the clap of water against the rocky shore and the way it whispers against the boat in currents, rolling in and out of the little cove, and rocking the boat back and forth like a mother with her child.
I let the blankets slip away as I sit up and stretch. The aroma of coffee is stronger now. My feet find the cool tiled surface of the floor and my eyes immediately catch on the gleam of the coffee pot, next to the stove. Sand clings to my bare feet as I pad across the room. It is a comfort. A coffee cup waits for me, set aside by someone who truly understands love. I lift the pot from its cradle, feeling the gentle pull and slosh of its contents: half a pot more. Cup in hand, I let the sacred liquid flow into my cup, appreciating the dark allure of its amber color, the many tones it conceals like a copper penny, but always guaranteed to bring good luck.
Clasping the cup with both hands, I hold it close, letting the steam curl into upward spirals. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich, bold contours of flavor. I feel the room dissolve as I raise the cup and the warm liquid rushes towards my lips. Divine. The world comes back into focus, sharper this time. It is not the caffeine kicking in so soon, but rather the sudden but complete and tingling feeling of warm content, spreading from my stomach outward.
I peer out the glass doors of the front deck, facing the shore. The sandbar is quiet and untouched. I pause and listen, soon hearing the soft murmur of conversation winding its way to me from the back deck of the boat. The door is cracked, my dog—white as the sunlight—watches me as I approach. Immediately I feel the heat of the wooden deck on my toes as I slip into the sunlight, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature. It’s a good day to swim.
The first words on their lips—happy birthday—feel warm. Kisses from my dog, pinches from my sister, and sure enough, a bear hug from my dad. My mom gives my arm a squeeze then makes a beeline for the stove. When I settle into her abandoned chair, I hear the tinkle of M&M’s dropping into a bowl and I smile. M&M pancakes—a perfectly reasonable sixteenth birthday request.
The three of us, my dad perched on a cooler, my sister and I in folding chairs, chat about past birthday years, and he starts to tell stories of his own childhood. Sipping my coffee, I would listen, and watch the water ripple like glass close to hot coals, trying to escape. He told the story of him breaking his arm while messing with a tractor and the one about him and his cousin dropping a bee hive and running, not quite fast enough for the swarm. These are the stories that I remember. What I remember more is looking up at the porcelain fired sky, painted like the color of a robin’s eggs, speckled with sunlight.
I remember walking to the edge of the boat in a daze, sitting down on the metal frame, and dangling my feet in the cool morning chill of the lake water--mesmerized--and watching tiny fish dart into patches of lighter blue then back into the shadows. I remember changing into my swimsuit before breakfast and lying parallel to the water eyes closed, letting the breeze lick my belly and tousle my hair.
When the pancakes came, they were glorious. Warm and light enough to dissolve in your mouth, with a melting gooey inside as freckled as my face, only my face didn’t write out the number sixteen as precisely. I loved the sticky flood of syrup, and that feeling of being made whole again as the pancake grew smaller, bite-by-bite. It was something to savor. Leaving a pool of syrup behind, I licked the chocolate paste from my fork and settled back into a dream-like state.
I remember waking, flat on my back, feeling the pulse of heat run through my veins. I stood up, braced myself for the sudden coldness that was to come, and dived off the back of the boat. It was like slipping into a dream. I floated on my back for a while then dove to the bottom again before surfacing to pull my chilled muscles up into the warmth of that deck where I would lay, shaking like a leaf, bleeding water across the deck that spread out around me like a star as I attempted to dry.
Lake Powell, I would say later with a sigh. That day was one of those moments in life that you could live in forever, content in the before and after. Consciously, you try to soak up every moment, every flash of ecstasy you can get before it is too late, and the moment is gone—passed. The day passed, just like that. A flux between sun and water, a day marked on a calendar, not for what it was every year, but for what it became that day. The details slip between the cracks of my memory, but are summoned when something reminds me and I wish I could have stayed there, enclosed in the in-between.
I like to think back on the crackling fire that night as we roasted marshmallows, smoke filling the air, our shadows dancing across the fiery rock of the enclave—a beach to ourselves—as we laughed, gorged ourselves on s’mores, and lived. That night, I saw my first two shooting stars tear across the sky, one right after the other. I let my wishes trail behind them like bright ribbons in the sky, their color fading into the night, but never lost. Now, I let my memories trail also, bright ribbons tied to experiences and wound tightly around my fingers, connected to who I am. It was in this starlight that I realized how wonderful the in-between can be, the safety and content of it, but more cardinally, it is moments and entire memories like this that are essential to our existence as they become our vehicle for living.
I let the blankets slip away as I sit up and stretch. The aroma of coffee is stronger now. My feet find the cool tiled surface of the floor and my eyes immediately catch on the gleam of the coffee pot, next to the stove. Sand clings to my bare feet as I pad across the room. It is a comfort. A coffee cup waits for me, set aside by someone who truly understands love. I lift the pot from its cradle, feeling the gentle pull and slosh of its contents: half a pot more. Cup in hand, I let the sacred liquid flow into my cup, appreciating the dark allure of its amber color, the many tones it conceals like a copper penny, but always guaranteed to bring good luck.
Clasping the cup with both hands, I hold it close, letting the steam curl into upward spirals. I breathe in deeply, taking in the rich, bold contours of flavor. I feel the room dissolve as I raise the cup and the warm liquid rushes towards my lips. Divine. The world comes back into focus, sharper this time. It is not the caffeine kicking in so soon, but rather the sudden but complete and tingling feeling of warm content, spreading from my stomach outward.
I peer out the glass doors of the front deck, facing the shore. The sandbar is quiet and untouched. I pause and listen, soon hearing the soft murmur of conversation winding its way to me from the back deck of the boat. The door is cracked, my dog—white as the sunlight—watches me as I approach. Immediately I feel the heat of the wooden deck on my toes as I slip into the sunlight, my skin prickling from the sudden change of temperature. It’s a good day to swim.
The first words on their lips—happy birthday—feel warm. Kisses from my dog, pinches from my sister, and sure enough, a bear hug from my dad. My mom gives my arm a squeeze then makes a beeline for the stove. When I settle into her abandoned chair, I hear the tinkle of M&M’s dropping into a bowl and I smile. M&M pancakes—a perfectly reasonable sixteenth birthday request.
The three of us, my dad perched on a cooler, my sister and I in folding chairs, chat about past birthday years, and he starts to tell stories of his own childhood. Sipping my coffee, I would listen, and watch the water ripple like glass close to hot coals, trying to escape. He told the story of him breaking his arm while messing with a tractor and the one about him and his cousin dropping a bee hive and running, not quite fast enough for the swarm. These are the stories that I remember. What I remember more is looking up at the porcelain fired sky, painted like the color of a robin’s eggs, speckled with sunlight.
I remember walking to the edge of the boat in a daze, sitting down on the metal frame, and dangling my feet in the cool morning chill of the lake water--mesmerized--and watching tiny fish dart into patches of lighter blue then back into the shadows. I remember changing into my swimsuit before breakfast and lying parallel to the water eyes closed, letting the breeze lick my belly and tousle my hair.
When the pancakes came, they were glorious. Warm and light enough to dissolve in your mouth, with a melting gooey inside as freckled as my face, only my face didn’t write out the number sixteen as precisely. I loved the sticky flood of syrup, and that feeling of being made whole again as the pancake grew smaller, bite-by-bite. It was something to savor. Leaving a pool of syrup behind, I licked the chocolate paste from my fork and settled back into a dream-like state.
I remember waking, flat on my back, feeling the pulse of heat run through my veins. I stood up, braced myself for the sudden coldness that was to come, and dived off the back of the boat. It was like slipping into a dream. I floated on my back for a while then dove to the bottom again before surfacing to pull my chilled muscles up into the warmth of that deck where I would lay, shaking like a leaf, bleeding water across the deck that spread out around me like a star as I attempted to dry.
Lake Powell, I would say later with a sigh. That day was one of those moments in life that you could live in forever, content in the before and after. Consciously, you try to soak up every moment, every flash of ecstasy you can get before it is too late, and the moment is gone—passed. The day passed, just like that. A flux between sun and water, a day marked on a calendar, not for what it was every year, but for what it became that day. The details slip between the cracks of my memory, but are summoned when something reminds me and I wish I could have stayed there, enclosed in the in-between.
I like to think back on the crackling fire that night as we roasted marshmallows, smoke filling the air, our shadows dancing across the fiery rock of the enclave—a beach to ourselves—as we laughed, gorged ourselves on s’mores, and lived. That night, I saw my first two shooting stars tear across the sky, one right after the other. I let my wishes trail behind them like bright ribbons in the sky, their color fading into the night, but never lost. Now, I let my memories trail also, bright ribbons tied to experiences and wound tightly around my fingers, connected to who I am. It was in this starlight that I realized how wonderful the in-between can be, the safety and content of it, but more cardinally, it is moments and entire memories like this that are essential to our existence as they become our vehicle for living.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
The Art of Savoring
A rich narrative of food and place, “A Cooks Tour” is a world of experiences one is able to tangibly hold in their hands to be read anywhere, at any given time. Constantly pushing the envelope Anthony Bourdain’s narrative is raw, meaty, transparent, insightful, and at times hard to read. His voice transcends beyond the page and the usual limitations of memoir, allowing the reader to immerse him or herself in the streets, kitchens, traditions, and lives of another people who breathe and live a culture very different from our own.
The appeal is strange—following a crude, sometimes insensitive, obscene, and often belligerently drunk guide through a string of countries as he attempts to secure and wholly describe the perfect meal with exact detail. Yet there is so much more to Tony. There is an essence, an edge. Led by passion, curiosity, and intention, Tony will cause you to feel each experience, emotion, recountal, portrayal, confession, and determination with exactitude, to no avail. To engross oneself in his narrative is to commit to the journey with him—and to do so with one’s head, palate, heart, gut, and self entirely.
It is a book that makes you think about food, culture, people, location, humility, perception, consummation, satisfaction, and the cross-stitches of life. Toni teaches us all how to savor every intrinsic part of life and the experiences that come with it. His words leap off the page and evolve into new ideas and realizations surrounding the significant questioning of how we connect as humans and derive satisfaction from our life experiences. Toni is a writer that bears it all, exposing every flaw of character and conscience, creating a transparency that allows his acquisitiveness and deeply felt compassion to fall across the page, shadowing his every remark, recollection, and contemplation.
Tony travels, as one should. Not with a map, travel book, or itinerary, but with deliberation, consciousness, and an adventurous spirit. What makes his narrative fresh and crisp is his bold and intrepid ways; his undaunted and defiant attitude towards new food and cultures. It’s contagious and nearly intoxicating to read and be a part of. Tony lives in the strife, intimacy, and mess of life, endeavoring to untangle the complexities of life and the many ways that we take pleasure in particular experiences surround food, culture, and connections to other people. He turns every experience on its head and examines it for what it is worth both in personal value as well as societal.
Tony is nostalgic. He is someone who can pause within a given moment and appreciate all that it can offer him in sensory and memory. Each chapter in the book takes us through another vein of possibility and manifestation. Linked to place, they are separate entities that come together to help us better understand the significances of high stakes in life and the austerity of daily influences in our life and how we can shape those experiences to our liking or genuine curiosity.
“A Cooks Tour” is all about the ingredients of life and how our experiences come together as a whole in forming our perception, identity, and cultured self. Our guide, Tony, with his fiery personality and wandering ways not only gives you a kick in the pants to get out and experiencing the richness of life, but also causes you to consider how your collective experiences thrown together over heat have led to a recipe of individuality, a precise finesse that is constantly transforming and evolving, depending on the ingredients we add and take away from life.
The appeal is strange—following a crude, sometimes insensitive, obscene, and often belligerently drunk guide through a string of countries as he attempts to secure and wholly describe the perfect meal with exact detail. Yet there is so much more to Tony. There is an essence, an edge. Led by passion, curiosity, and intention, Tony will cause you to feel each experience, emotion, recountal, portrayal, confession, and determination with exactitude, to no avail. To engross oneself in his narrative is to commit to the journey with him—and to do so with one’s head, palate, heart, gut, and self entirely.
It is a book that makes you think about food, culture, people, location, humility, perception, consummation, satisfaction, and the cross-stitches of life. Toni teaches us all how to savor every intrinsic part of life and the experiences that come with it. His words leap off the page and evolve into new ideas and realizations surrounding the significant questioning of how we connect as humans and derive satisfaction from our life experiences. Toni is a writer that bears it all, exposing every flaw of character and conscience, creating a transparency that allows his acquisitiveness and deeply felt compassion to fall across the page, shadowing his every remark, recollection, and contemplation.
Tony travels, as one should. Not with a map, travel book, or itinerary, but with deliberation, consciousness, and an adventurous spirit. What makes his narrative fresh and crisp is his bold and intrepid ways; his undaunted and defiant attitude towards new food and cultures. It’s contagious and nearly intoxicating to read and be a part of. Tony lives in the strife, intimacy, and mess of life, endeavoring to untangle the complexities of life and the many ways that we take pleasure in particular experiences surround food, culture, and connections to other people. He turns every experience on its head and examines it for what it is worth both in personal value as well as societal.
Tony is nostalgic. He is someone who can pause within a given moment and appreciate all that it can offer him in sensory and memory. Each chapter in the book takes us through another vein of possibility and manifestation. Linked to place, they are separate entities that come together to help us better understand the significances of high stakes in life and the austerity of daily influences in our life and how we can shape those experiences to our liking or genuine curiosity.
“A Cooks Tour” is all about the ingredients of life and how our experiences come together as a whole in forming our perception, identity, and cultured self. Our guide, Tony, with his fiery personality and wandering ways not only gives you a kick in the pants to get out and experiencing the richness of life, but also causes you to consider how your collective experiences thrown together over heat have led to a recipe of individuality, a precise finesse that is constantly transforming and evolving, depending on the ingredients we add and take away from life.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
What is it that makes a great dining experience?
For some, it is solely the quality of the food at hand, and the attention brought to its preparation and presentation. For others, it is more than that. Eating is universally recognized as an experience in which we can choose to fully engage our senses, or to not. For me, a great dining experience largely revolves around the people that I am surrounded by, the conversation and mood at the table, and the overall environment that I am in. The enjoyment of a meal is greatly influenced by small, independent factors like these, and whether or not they will assimilate into an enjoyable dining experience to be remembered. Yet what happens when we throw ourselves into a completely new and unique environment? What senses or details dominate the experience or hold your attention? Why are there restaurants that prize eating in the dark, underwater, or in the sky and what is the appeal? In order to be able to answer these questions, we must first come to understand what it is that turns a dining experience into a great one, for us as individuals, as well as in a collective sense.
We're going on an adventure.
Hello foodies. I came across a very interesting read the other day on unique dining experiences and thought that we could take a closer look at it and have a meaningful discussion about it in class on Thursday. Think of it as food for thought. I'll share some of my own thoughts surrounding this article here in a bit!
http://mogultheory.com/2011/01/top-5-unique-restaurant-experiences/
http://mogultheory.com/2011/01/top-5-unique-restaurant-experiences/
Monday, January 9, 2012
Get HYPED!
You're excited. I can tell. This is going to be SUCH a great adventure. You are fascinated already and like me, you know that my adventure is going to spark the most epic discussion of your K college career. YES, it's going to blow you mind and NO, I can't tell you. Not yet at least. But aren't you excited now? I have given you the greatest gift of all: something to really look forward to in class on Thursday. Yes, yes I know. You were already looking forward to it. But now we get to go on an adventure together; you can't beat that. Prepare to be astonished. Oh yes, it's going to happen and I can promise you that it will be MIND BLOWING. Stay tuned for further details, my dear foodies!
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