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.
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