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.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
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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