“Well, where would you want to live?”
“I couldn’t live somewhere where the main food was pickled fish.”
What a weird thing to say.
My friend and I were talking about not living in the US for a time, which I enthusiastically said I needed to do. Of course, living “outside of the US” is a little too broad to be meaningful, so when pressed for details I gave as my parameters: no pickled fish. Hello? This is the best I could do? That’s not a first response to a question like “where do you want to live?” Maybe 37th, maybe even 15th given my love of food, but first? C’mon. What have I got against overly salted, preserved marine creatures that it would dictate where I live or don’t live? My gut level (pardon the pun) response tells me a lot about myself. Apparently I am so completely food obsessed, so mono-focused that I have become an unromantic, apolitical, apathetic, stagnant human being.
Were I romantic, I would have said Paris or Tahiti. Were I a less trite, predictable romantic I could have said the windswept outer Hebrides or the expansive Australian Outback. Were my urgings more geo-political, I could have said Egypt to learn Arabic and about Islam. I could have said somewhere where I could work to save an ecosystem, say the Miraflor Reserve in Nicaragua. I could have simply said I wanted to go where I could hone my French, perhaps Dakar or Lyon, or where I could really establish my Spanish, such as Montevideo or Barcelona.
But I said none of these.
My only criteria seemed to involve avoiding countries that love lutefisk and matjes herring (I guess I need to avoid Minnesota as well). How sad. My geographic food determinism shows that I have narrowed my criteria for life experience to the width of a strand of bucatini.
Or, perhaps not.
Maybe the pickled fish criteria, because it really leaves out only Scandinavia and Inuit lands, shows that I am open to living almost anywhere in the world. Maybe, my immediate, off-the-cuff answer wasn’t really about establishing geographic boundaries through food. (If it were, then where was the mention of nixing locales where the populace regularly dines on tree grubs, springbok anus, or raw seal blubber?) Truly, I want to live where I can learn new things about language, culture, politics-- both of the place I visit and the place I call home. And that’s just about anywhere.
Dang it: I am romantic, engaged, open. Just not about pickled fish.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Language of Love
You know those little handmade valentines and other little “I love you” notes that you got when your kid was little? Well, I never got those. Occasionally, when the Child was a teenager, I got a card or wildflowers picked from someone’s yard. But over the last few years, since he’s been in college, I’ve been getting a lot of love notes. At least, that’s what these questions sound like to me.
“Hey, I’m in the market. What kind of mushrooms do I need if I am making a vegetable stock? Is it those dried ones?”
“I went back to that place you took me to, the Indonesian place. It was soooo good.”
“What are those noodles I like called? You know the fat ones. Yeah, yeah, the Shanghai noodles. Gotta get me some of those.”
“I went to the dimsum place today. It was totally packed. Must have been ‘cause it’s Chinese New Year. All these Chinese people ordering. Nah, I was fine. I know my my way around. I can totally handle it.”
The Child grew up with what I would consider a limited palate. His father baked and he had a lot of home cooked meals, but the range of foods was not broad. I felt it my parental duty to show him the world. To me, the way I grew up, one enters the world and becomes comfortable with its diversity through food. I introduced him to Asian cuisines—Indian, Chinese, Thai-- by bringing him curries and stir-frys to school; I took him to Asian markets and all sorts of restaurants, many where he was often the only non-Asian. I taught him to cook, and gave him cookbooks, pans, and spice collections. Over the last several years, he has developed a love of cooking, a passion for growing his own organic food, and strong commitment for sustainable eating. He now sees a grocery store the way an artist sees a palette: a place of creativity and possibility, not simply a place to pick up some milk. Just the way I see it.
While we talk about all sorts of things from the ridiculous to the profound, the Child and I talk a lot about food and eating. What I hear in these conversations is truly the language of love. Part of it is that, no matter the culture, the cooking and sharing of food is an act of care and love. In the case of parent and child, it is also something else. When they are young, our children often mimic what we do and then later rebel against it as a way to assert their own identity. But when they adopt something we have shown them or something that we too love, it not only seems to validate what we've taught but also serves as evidence of our deep parent-child connection.
I, perhaps more than others, look for that testament, that verification of connection. Though I call him the Child, I am not his biological mother nor did I raise him. I have no children. He has a mother, step-father, and father—all of whom he loves dearly and to whom he has unwavering loyalty. Yet, somehow, over the years, he and I adopted one another. I give him both unsolicited and solicited advice, nag him, worry about him, and beam with maternal pride over his accomplishments. He chides me for my illogicalities, pokes through the veneer of my self-assumed wisdom, and yet still makes me feel I have something to contribute to his life. While I cannot take credit for anything he is or has become (really, I don’t know that any person can, parent or not), I like to think that I helped to encourage this love of food in him. But what really makes me smile when he talks about food is knowing that he’s also talking about our bond.
“Hey, I’m in the market. What kind of mushrooms do I need if I am making a vegetable stock? Is it those dried ones?”
“I went back to that place you took me to, the Indonesian place. It was soooo good.”
“What are those noodles I like called? You know the fat ones. Yeah, yeah, the Shanghai noodles. Gotta get me some of those.”
“I went to the dimsum place today. It was totally packed. Must have been ‘cause it’s Chinese New Year. All these Chinese people ordering. Nah, I was fine. I know my my way around. I can totally handle it.”
The Child grew up with what I would consider a limited palate. His father baked and he had a lot of home cooked meals, but the range of foods was not broad. I felt it my parental duty to show him the world. To me, the way I grew up, one enters the world and becomes comfortable with its diversity through food. I introduced him to Asian cuisines—Indian, Chinese, Thai-- by bringing him curries and stir-frys to school; I took him to Asian markets and all sorts of restaurants, many where he was often the only non-Asian. I taught him to cook, and gave him cookbooks, pans, and spice collections. Over the last several years, he has developed a love of cooking, a passion for growing his own organic food, and strong commitment for sustainable eating. He now sees a grocery store the way an artist sees a palette: a place of creativity and possibility, not simply a place to pick up some milk. Just the way I see it.
While we talk about all sorts of things from the ridiculous to the profound, the Child and I talk a lot about food and eating. What I hear in these conversations is truly the language of love. Part of it is that, no matter the culture, the cooking and sharing of food is an act of care and love. In the case of parent and child, it is also something else. When they are young, our children often mimic what we do and then later rebel against it as a way to assert their own identity. But when they adopt something we have shown them or something that we too love, it not only seems to validate what we've taught but also serves as evidence of our deep parent-child connection.
I, perhaps more than others, look for that testament, that verification of connection. Though I call him the Child, I am not his biological mother nor did I raise him. I have no children. He has a mother, step-father, and father—all of whom he loves dearly and to whom he has unwavering loyalty. Yet, somehow, over the years, he and I adopted one another. I give him both unsolicited and solicited advice, nag him, worry about him, and beam with maternal pride over his accomplishments. He chides me for my illogicalities, pokes through the veneer of my self-assumed wisdom, and yet still makes me feel I have something to contribute to his life. While I cannot take credit for anything he is or has become (really, I don’t know that any person can, parent or not), I like to think that I helped to encourage this love of food in him. But what really makes me smile when he talks about food is knowing that he’s also talking about our bond.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Red Repast, 2/14
This Valentine’s Day, I actually had a date. Granted it was a dinner date with 7 other people, some of whom I knew (single friends) and some whom I did not (two couples and one formerly coupled). But I am calling it a date, as it was on my calendar. The cool thing, besides the people who were there –their coolness evidenced in their being able to discuss elephant seal penises with total strangers and later to produce a photo, is that we ate red. And later, at least in my case, peed red too.
THE MENU:
After introductions, we toasted the day of love with a pomosa (pomegranate juice with champers) and immediately descended on the crostini platter (choice of spreads: muhammara, romesco, or a date/pom/goat cheese). Our transition from polite hors d’oeuvres eaters to ravaging diners happened quickly. Timbales of beet tartare on white plates demanded we take our places at the dining table. (Visually, the beet dish conjured up the stained, blood-red-on-white, virgin-deflowered thing and was more compelling than I’d like to admit; maybe I shouldn’t have read all four books in the Twilight saga.) This first dish fixed our red tack; there was no changing course. Yet, as with most things where you start out assertive, maybe a little polemical, we softened as the dishes progressed. While we never abandoned our crimson core, we accentuated with creams and greens.
Finishing our first plate and leaving little beet juice Rorschachs in our wake, we fell willingly into the red reverie before us. Delicate, fresh made pasta with a simple but sweet home-garden tomato sauce; sautéed red chard with blood orange, avocado and pine nuts; salad with red pears and red onions; and cheesecake. Where’s the red in cheesecake, you ask? Duh, there isn’t any and, no, we didn’t add red food coloring (we saved that for later). The beyond-the-beyond quadruple cheesecake was made Valentine’s compatible by studding it with chile “sparklers” and topping it with red chile jam (there was also an onion and apple chutney to accompany it, which must have been red in its raw state but was now the color of nutmeg—just eat, don’t evaluate the chromatics on this one). Luckily we had plenty of resveratrol (read: red wine) to combat the cholesterol now flooding our arteries.
None of us can believe that after all of that (including second and third helpings of cheesecake), we had room for dessert. Actually, we didn’t. But we were on the path, we could not fall away now. We were blue staters committed to doing the red journey—we heeded our President’s call for bipartisanship, for steadfastness in difficult times. Out came the cherry clafoutis and the red velvet cupcakes. To further bolster us, there was a bowl of red hots, more cheese (it wasn't red but it WAS cheese--'nuff said), and a couple of un-red chocolate bars (the latter snuck into our meal under the joint Hershey/Hallmark food proviso of 1954).
ALWAYS TALK ABOUT THE NEXT MEAL WHILE YOU'RE STILL EATING
The meal was such a success, we started to imagine the Purple meal, the Yellow and Blue meal (will I then pee green?), the Orange meal. I’m all for it. With Red, we not only got fantastic eats, we heard all about large sea mammal sex organs. I can’t recall the last time the term “os-penis” (a.k.a. os priapi or baculum) made its way into my dinner conversation. I can’t wait to see what the other colors bring out…or should I say, up?
THE LESSON
Love isn’t a holiday; it’s a feast day!
THE MENU:
After introductions, we toasted the day of love with a pomosa (pomegranate juice with champers) and immediately descended on the crostini platter (choice of spreads: muhammara, romesco, or a date/pom/goat cheese). Our transition from polite hors d’oeuvres eaters to ravaging diners happened quickly. Timbales of beet tartare on white plates demanded we take our places at the dining table. (Visually, the beet dish conjured up the stained, blood-red-on-white, virgin-deflowered thing and was more compelling than I’d like to admit; maybe I shouldn’t have read all four books in the Twilight saga.) This first dish fixed our red tack; there was no changing course. Yet, as with most things where you start out assertive, maybe a little polemical, we softened as the dishes progressed. While we never abandoned our crimson core, we accentuated with creams and greens.
Finishing our first plate and leaving little beet juice Rorschachs in our wake, we fell willingly into the red reverie before us. Delicate, fresh made pasta with a simple but sweet home-garden tomato sauce; sautéed red chard with blood orange, avocado and pine nuts; salad with red pears and red onions; and cheesecake. Where’s the red in cheesecake, you ask? Duh, there isn’t any and, no, we didn’t add red food coloring (we saved that for later). The beyond-the-beyond quadruple cheesecake was made Valentine’s compatible by studding it with chile “sparklers” and topping it with red chile jam (there was also an onion and apple chutney to accompany it, which must have been red in its raw state but was now the color of nutmeg—just eat, don’t evaluate the chromatics on this one). Luckily we had plenty of resveratrol (read: red wine) to combat the cholesterol now flooding our arteries.
None of us can believe that after all of that (including second and third helpings of cheesecake), we had room for dessert. Actually, we didn’t. But we were on the path, we could not fall away now. We were blue staters committed to doing the red journey—we heeded our President’s call for bipartisanship, for steadfastness in difficult times. Out came the cherry clafoutis and the red velvet cupcakes. To further bolster us, there was a bowl of red hots, more cheese (it wasn't red but it WAS cheese--'nuff said), and a couple of un-red chocolate bars (the latter snuck into our meal under the joint Hershey/Hallmark food proviso of 1954).
ALWAYS TALK ABOUT THE NEXT MEAL WHILE YOU'RE STILL EATING
The meal was such a success, we started to imagine the Purple meal, the Yellow and Blue meal (will I then pee green?), the Orange meal. I’m all for it. With Red, we not only got fantastic eats, we heard all about large sea mammal sex organs. I can’t recall the last time the term “os-penis” (a.k.a. os priapi or baculum) made its way into my dinner conversation. I can’t wait to see what the other colors bring out…or should I say, up?
THE LESSON
Love isn’t a holiday; it’s a feast day!
Friday, February 6, 2009
My Wonderful Cheese-tastic World
Last night I met up with a few friends for drinks at our town’s schwankiest bar, known not only for its three star restaurant but also for its cleverly named and complexly concocted drinks. Being more of a traditionalist in the winter, I tend to go for the warming bourbon and whiskey cocktails. (In fact, the bar’s former mixologist-extraordinaire knew me as the “brown liquor girl.”) While I was waiting for my Sazerac to further ennoble the fab mahogany bar, one of my drinking companions, another brown liquor girl, started pulling all sorts of things out of her purse. It was as if the ghost of Let’s Make a Deal’s Monty Hall had suddenly appeared at the end of the bar and whispered that he would give her $50 if she could find a Matchbox car in the depths of her handbag. She unfolded her clenched fist and deposited a motherload of lollipops on the bar. (“Seems a little rude to be cleaning out your purse at the bar,” I thought to myself and was momentarily fearful that a used, crumpled tissue might flop onto the bar next. Eeeww.) “Maple bacon lollipops,” she announced. “Perfect swizzle sticks for bourbon.” Immediately my estimation of her did a 180; she went from commonplace purse-fumbler to Felix, the cat with the magical bag. What other treasures had she to bestow upon us? I didn’t have to wait long. Before my Sazerac could anoint its white linen cocktail napkin, a perfect puck of aged goat cheese was set squarely in the middle. Cheese as party favors???!!! This woman is a goddess. I quickly stowed away the little crottin in MY purse (and wondered if there ever was a French Monty Hall who asked contestants if they had a hunk of gruyere or knob of Alsatian muenster dans la sac). The evening was filled with more little treasures, not edibles necessarily, but morsels of food chat such as the term “to brickle.” (See below.) I can’t believe I live in such a world where cheese and maple bacon lollipops flow freely from women’s handbags. It’s Wonka-world for grown-ups.
[To brickle: This verb apparently means to make sounds as part of the act of tasting. This is not to be confused with the sounds that come after the tasting as an estimation of the flavors; those are the “mmmms” and “yumms” and “aahhs” of which we are all familiar. Rather, it is the making of noises which, in a brickler, are integral to the act of tasting itself and are unique to the taster. Thus, I am told, there are bricklers and non-bricklers. I imagine this is a sort of genetic trait, like whether you have attached or free earlobes. Of course, I was immediately concerned about my own status as a brickler—was I or wasn’t I?—and if it was a good or a bad thing. My mind then jumped to whether brickling only concerned sound-making when trying food or if bricklers were people who made sounds at other times, like when they…Whoa. This is a PG/R blog, can’t go down that X-rated road...]
[To brickle: This verb apparently means to make sounds as part of the act of tasting. This is not to be confused with the sounds that come after the tasting as an estimation of the flavors; those are the “mmmms” and “yumms” and “aahhs” of which we are all familiar. Rather, it is the making of noises which, in a brickler, are integral to the act of tasting itself and are unique to the taster. Thus, I am told, there are bricklers and non-bricklers. I imagine this is a sort of genetic trait, like whether you have attached or free earlobes. Of course, I was immediately concerned about my own status as a brickler—was I or wasn’t I?—and if it was a good or a bad thing. My mind then jumped to whether brickling only concerned sound-making when trying food or if bricklers were people who made sounds at other times, like when they…Whoa. This is a PG/R blog, can’t go down that X-rated road...]
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I Am Not A Cat Lady
I have limits. Many in fact. But not when it comes to the fridge and pantry. I’m like the food equivalent of the cat lady. You know: those women who have way too many cats? Well, I got too many cats in the fridge, if you will. Right now, this very moment, I have:
thick cut bacon, a few apple-chicken breakfast sausages, two chicken breasts, eggs, leftover Spanish shrimp (i.e. shrimp sautéed in garlic, onions, Spanish paprika, sliced onions—paste this in your browser http://www.metroactive.com/bohemian/06.14.06/dining-0624.html for my article on Spanish paprika and for the recipe), fresh tofu puffs, gobs of good cheese, a bunch of broccoli, a head of cauliflower, and assorted lettuces from the garden. And this doesn’t even take into account the condiments and liquids. The kicker is that, like the cat lady, I live alone. Why am I hoarding food? Well, I’m not. I am fortifying my creativity with its necessary tools. Each of these ingredients represents the opportunity to create. Yesterday I made an omelet of scallions, potato and those shrimp for breakfast; for dinner, a steak with a wild mushroom sauce over arugula from the garden. The night before, fresh tofu puffs braised in oyster sauce with broccoli. For lunch today, fresh crab and avocado over garden lettuces. (See, I didn’t mention the crab or the steak as being in the fridge because I ate them; so UNlike the cat lady, I thin my herd.) So part of the reason I have so much stuff is that I can’t actually eat more than a portion at one sitting. Of course, I always make more than one portion (let me mention—again—that I am part Chinese and feel the need to make enough to feed 6 or 8 well) and so always have loads of leftovers. Don’t worry, I do share (I made a maitake mushroom and chard lasagna and a vegan butternut squash soup garnished with toasted cumin squash seeds for friends the other night). But at the heart of all this is that I really like to cook. Supermarkets are to me what sheaves of Pantone colors are to designers: ah the possibilities! Cooking is transformational for the cook and the eater. In a larger sense, food is my longing and my fulfillment. It is my passport to other peoples & cultures. It is how I share and serve, how I connect to the earth. It is my meditation and my extravagance. (I wonder if that’s how cat ladies explain their compulsion?)
thick cut bacon, a few apple-chicken breakfast sausages, two chicken breasts, eggs, leftover Spanish shrimp (i.e. shrimp sautéed in garlic, onions, Spanish paprika, sliced onions—paste this in your browser http://www.metroactive.com/bohemian/06.14.06/dining-0624.html for my article on Spanish paprika and for the recipe), fresh tofu puffs, gobs of good cheese, a bunch of broccoli, a head of cauliflower, and assorted lettuces from the garden. And this doesn’t even take into account the condiments and liquids. The kicker is that, like the cat lady, I live alone. Why am I hoarding food? Well, I’m not. I am fortifying my creativity with its necessary tools. Each of these ingredients represents the opportunity to create. Yesterday I made an omelet of scallions, potato and those shrimp for breakfast; for dinner, a steak with a wild mushroom sauce over arugula from the garden. The night before, fresh tofu puffs braised in oyster sauce with broccoli. For lunch today, fresh crab and avocado over garden lettuces. (See, I didn’t mention the crab or the steak as being in the fridge because I ate them; so UNlike the cat lady, I thin my herd.) So part of the reason I have so much stuff is that I can’t actually eat more than a portion at one sitting. Of course, I always make more than one portion (let me mention—again—that I am part Chinese and feel the need to make enough to feed 6 or 8 well) and so always have loads of leftovers. Don’t worry, I do share (I made a maitake mushroom and chard lasagna and a vegan butternut squash soup garnished with toasted cumin squash seeds for friends the other night). But at the heart of all this is that I really like to cook. Supermarkets are to me what sheaves of Pantone colors are to designers: ah the possibilities! Cooking is transformational for the cook and the eater. In a larger sense, food is my longing and my fulfillment. It is my passport to other peoples & cultures. It is how I share and serve, how I connect to the earth. It is my meditation and my extravagance. (I wonder if that’s how cat ladies explain their compulsion?)
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