LesGensFaims

Métier

 

 

I would be remiss if I did not mention MFK Fisher in this blog. I have no doubt that she inspired me to write about food. After reading the Gastronomical Me, I was convinced that I had found my métier.  Having dabbled miserably in political science, art history, and philosophy – all with the faint hope that I would someday enter “the world of ideas”, I finally gave up on the fantasy of writing. I either had no voice, no talent, or anything significant to say. It was all a disorganized regurgitation of what I thought sounded smart, savvy, or avant-garde. But I was wrong and evidentally not thinking clearly or at all for that matter. And therefore, the gates remained closed, my pen remained weak, and my mind grew increasingly sore.

You see my writing was fragmented. It failed to connect its subject matter with the reality of the world. When it did, it appeared forced and unconvincing. No doubt, it possessed some finer truths, but they seemed stale and out of date. I did not know what to do.

I noticed a change in my writing when I began working in the food industry. Soon my writing became more fluid and less forced. It’s as if it suddenly had found its natural circadian rhythm. And I found that the more I wrote, the more I began to understand food and the pivotal role it plays in our lives both as a social and emotional force for good. Yes, it was about pleasure, and taste, but also much more. My hesitation in committing to the craft of food writing began to wane and soon, I stumbled across MFK Fisher, read her biography on Wikipedia and quickly ordered the Gastronomical Me off Amazon. It arrived and I devoured it in one week. I was set and completely convinced of what I had to do.

So in the spirit of Mary Frances Kennedy, writing, and food, I pay my humble respects and leave you with some more food for thought. I have read almost everything by her and now find myself flipping through the pages of “Two Towns in Provence” a collection of essays – two of which appeared in the New Yorker.

Like MFK, I continually feel like a stranger. It comes with the territory of moving and living out of suitcases, the flux of new and old faces, endless montages of hellos and good byes all the while the memory of home looms in the background. Subsequently, I gravitate to what I know best – to what can nourish and sustain me: food. But like taste, the place, the company, and the occasion all carry a different flavor and significance once again revealing that food is more than just filling. 

 

 

Two Towns in Provence: Map of Another Town and A Considerable Tow

 M.F.K. Fisher

Often in the sketch of the a portrait, the invisible lines that bridge on stroke of the pencil or brush to another are what really make it live. This is probably true in a word picture too. The myriad of undrawn unwritten lines are the ones that hold together what the painter and the writer have tried to set down, their own visions of a thing: a town, one town, this town.

Not everything can be told, or need it be, just as the artist himself need not and indeed cannot reveal every outline of this vision.

There before us is what one human being has seems of something many others have viewed differently, and the lines held back are perhaps the ones most vital to the whole.

Here before me now is my picture, my map, of a place and therefore if myself, and much that can never be said and to its reality for me, just as much of its reality is based on my own shadows, my inventions.

Over the years, I have taught myself, and have been taught to be stranger. A stranger usually has the normal five senses, perhaps especially so, ready to protect him and nourish him.

Then there are the extra senses that function only in subconsciousness. These are perhaps a stranger’s best allies, the ones that stay on and grow stronger as time passes and immediacy dwindles.

It is with the invisible ink distilled from all these senses, then that I have drawn this map of a town, a place real in stone and water, and in spirit, which may also be realer. 

 

Les Livres

 

I’m a book lover and a book hoarder. On my last day of school, I carted twelve very overdue books back to the University library. The librarian looked up at me quizzically probably wondering where the last three were. They’re here with me in Berlin. I plan on returning them in May – my own graduation present to the University.

Recently, I re-evaluated my loyalty to les livres. Carting books from city to city was hurting my back as well as thwarting my luggage weight requirements. Was it worth the read?

So I did the unthinkable and purchased a kindle. I love books - the feel and smell of them and found it hard to reckon with my kindle purchase. Would it be the same? Probably not, but one cannot always have their cake and eat it, too. But just like we need to eat, we also need to read.

The kindle finally arrived and I quickly began downloading books. My first purchase was Vintage Did ion. I need Joan’s ineffable style and meter to remind me why writing matters, as well as how much work, I myself, have to do.

My second purchase was Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink. Now, if you love food writing –sharp, witty, unforgettable food writing, this is your cup of tea. It is a fabulous read spanning from restaurant reviews, portraitures, to short story fiction about ego and taste. It’s delightful.

So in the spirit of food and reading, I have decided to share. Ogden Nash nails this one – women, food, and body image. Big gulp. Dainty bite.

Enjoy.

 

CURL UP AND DIET

Ogden Nash

Some ladies smoke too much and some ladies drink too much and some ladies pray too much, But all ladies think that they weight too much. They may be as slender as a sylph or a dryad, But just let them get on the scales and they embark on a doleful jeremiad;

No matter how low the figure the needle happens to touch, they always claim it is a least five pounds too much, No matter how underfed to you a lady’s anatomy may seemeth,

She describes herself as a Leviathan or Behemoth

To the world she may appear slinky and feline but she inspects herself in the mirror and cries,

Oh I look like a sea cow or a manatee,

And if you say, No, my dears she says you are just lying to make her feel better and if you say, yes, my dear, you injure her vanatee,

And in any case her eyes flow like faucets,

And she goes out and buys some new caucets.

Once upon a time there was a girl more beautiful and witty charming than tongue can tell,

And she is now dangerous raving maniac in a padded cell,

And first indication her friends and relatives had that she was mentally overwrought

Was only day when she said, I weigh a hundred and twenty seven, which is exactly what I ought.

Oh, often am I haunted

By the thought that somebody might some day discover a diet that would let ladies reduce just as they wanted,

Because wonder if there is a woman in the world strong –minded enough to shed ten pounds or twenty,

And say, there now, that’s plenty;

And I fear me one ten-pound less would only arose the craving for another,

So it wouldn’t do any good for ladies to get their ambition and look like somebody’ fourteen-year old brother,

Because having accomplished this with ease,

They would next want to look like somebody’s fourteen-year-old brother in the final stages of some obscure disease,

And the more success you have the more you want to get rid of it,

So then their goal would be too look like somebody’s fourteen-year-old brother's ghost, or rather not the ghost itself, which is fairly solid, but a silhouette of it,

So I think it is very nice for ladies to be lithe and lissome,

But not so much so that you cut yourself if you happen to embrace or kissome.

1935, The New Yorker

 

The Devil's Cup

Height is a great advantage but when you’re twelve and taller than every boy in your class, it is a curse. It was the middle of 6^th grade and I was already approaching 5’8, which left me to peer over boys’ shoulders at awkward middle school dances. Did I need to feel more self-conscious at that age? No, not really. 

My height extended its reach beyond middle school and plagued me at my local dance studio. Apparently, I was too tall for any of my desired roles. I would voice my casting complaints to my teacher, Mrs. Gregory, who would purse her lips look at my gangly body and  reply,  “You’re too tall. Wouldn’t you like to be snow flake or a toy solider?”

“No, actually, I would prefer to be a toy doll, mouse, or even Clara?"

She would shake her head, “Molly, you’re too tall for them.”

And so every Nutcracker season, I would either find myself marching in polyester garb with a fake gun in my hand  or dancing as a white snowflake. I hated both roles. 

Ah! The doldrums of pre teen height. They were unbearable. I would later voice my frustrations to my best friend Anna, who had no sympathy, as she was shorter.

“Enjoy it. Be glad.” She would say sitting cross-legged like Siddhartha in her Mom’s garden shed.

Soon, we would mount our bikes and head downtown for Italian sodas and candy cigarettes while we plotted how to later take over her mom’s garden shed. We needed a clubhouse and I needed to shrink.

One day, her brother heard my complaints and suggested that I try coffee.

“Coffee will stunt your growth.” He said.

“Really? But I don’t like coffee…”

He looked at me “but you don’t like being tall either."

I saw his point and quickly resolved to start drinking coffee the next day. This took some time to adjust to, as I preferred milky tea or hot chocolate at the time. Coffee was bitter, black and uninviting. Plus, I was not allowed to drink it in the comfort of my home.

But fate was on my side as there was a coffee house conveniently located on my way to the downtown ballet studio.

Soon, Hyperion Espresso became my second home. Unaware and overwhelmed by all of the coffee choices, I eased into my addiction by sampling a different coffee each day - from the regular cup of Joe to the frothy lattes, foamy cappuccinos to the mochas with whip cream on top, I grew to know them all very well.

After much coffee consumption, eye twitching, and sleepless nights, I decided that the latte was for me. Again, fate was on my side as the coffee house owners, Steve and Dan, were fresh from Seattle and knew how to do coffee right.

My first latte set the standard and from 6^th grade on, I became a coffee connoisseur and snob.

If I had the time, I would sip my oversized latte at Hyperion indulging in an almond croissant (please note: this is not the diet of most ballerinas), while I wondered if the local college boys thought, I, too was in college. This was very unlikely and soon my musing would turn to fear of being found out.

My Dad’s downtown office was one block up the street and the probability of seeing him or even one of my Mom’s chatty friends was very high.

But I could not bear to grow anymore. I continued with my grand plan and somehow managed to keep it a well-hidden secret during that initial year. 

Soon, my coffee exploit morphed into addiction and I found myself craving coffee outside of Hyperion Espresso. Sometimes I would have an occasional headache and discovered tea could appease me....for a little while. Now, I desired and craved the black acid. It was my devil's cup and when no one was in the kitchen, I would slyly pour the remnants of the coffee pot into an inconspicuous milky mug.

Addiction aside, the real question was whether I was growing? I was unsure. I did notice that my knees no longer hurt but I still towered over the boys. With a coffee addiction underway, I assumed that something would spark and soon I would be an elegant 5’5. But I had my doubts and they were correct. I did not shrink nor am I sure if I truly stunted my growth as I grew another inch leaving me at 5’9.

Who knows maybe I would have been six feet tall? Doubtful. But if one thing is certain, it is my loyal addiction to coffee. From lattes to an ole cup of Joe, I need it regardless of my height. From my humble beginnings at Hyperion Espresso, I have learned to enjoy and savor it all. 

 

NO MEAT

In the spirit of Lent, I think it appropriate to relay some stories from the family crypt. A trip down South on meatless Good Friday lays our scene. Three hungry boys, one angry Dad, one meek mother, and an older sister wishing she were elsewhere……

 

Growing up in a male dominant family, my brothers’ appetites dictated the majority of our family meals.  As meat was the only thing that could satiate their endless appetites, it became our ritual mealtime staple. From pot roasts to grills, I felt like my family completely embodied the “ Beef is what’s for dinner” 1990s advertising campaign.

However, in the Season of Lent, meat became less prominent. Like all good and guilty Catholics, my family – much to my brothers’ chagrin – would abide by the Meatless Friday Ritual. Yet, as I moved further away from home immersing myself in collegiate life, I found myself eating less meat and thinking less of Lent.

During the spring of my Junior year, I agreed to join my family for Easter vacation. Charleston, South Carolina would be our Easter Basket for the weekend. The inevitable stop at “South of the Border” would allow my father and my brothers to stock up on ammunition – i.e. fireworks so that come Sunday, all of Folly Beach would be resurrected. Traveling on Friday – in particular, Good Friday, I suspected that my Mom had packed tuna sandwiches for lunch. As a college student, I was amenable to anything, as my taste buds had dwindled under the massive consumption of cheap booze and junk food.

After crossing into North Carolina, we pulled in for a pit stop at Subway. As my greedy brothers rallied for their stinky steak and cheeses and Italian heroes – no doubt something most meaty and foul - my mother turned around and said, “Now boys, it’s Good Friday, so you can only get tuna.” Rather than obliging, a parade of protests ensued, “ We hate tuna,” “Tuna stinks”.

As the protests grew louder, I noticed how quiet my father had been. Usually, he would rally behind my mother throwing lighting bolts like the king of gods, Zeus. Loving one’s father also meant fearing one’s father and my Dad successfully fit this bill. However, he had remained quiet leaving my mother to argue with her meat manic boys. Perhaps, Dad wanted a Steak and Cheese sandwich as well? Or maybe he, too, hated tuna? Who knew – the man never complained. Food was food to him – a simple fuel to get from point a to point be.

As my brothers’ protests grew louder allowing all of North Carolina to hear how much the Hannon boys hated tuna, I noticed my Dad clutching the wheel tightly. I knew the storm was coming. Suddenly, he flew around with a bright red face circling a mouth that screamed, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO MEAT!” As he did this, he floored the Suburban into reverse, slammed into the Subway “Enter” sign and peeled out of the parking lot.

The whole car was silent as the echo of “NO MEAT!” rang in our meals. Meat – that prominent mealtime star – had fallen. A sacrifice had been made and a fight won, proving that appetites are no match for the faith that binds us come Lent. In a season of sacrifice, we are reminded that such passions must sometimes take a back seat and enjoy the low tide. 

 

 

Les Gens Inconnus: Rock Lobster

“The best food is in Hong Kong. I try to go back every two years just to eat. The food is very special unlike anything in this world. I miss it.” 

It's 4am. I am riding in a cab through East Berlin and I suddenly find myself transported to China and its rich food culture as my overeager cab driver proudly relays stories of his homeland.

“Well, I will put it on my list.” I replied.

“Where you come from?”

Here it was: the dreaded question for every American living abroad. I murmured, “The U.S.”

“Ah! They have good lobster there. I really want to go there and eat lobster.”

Having been abroad for almost a year, I had received a variety of responses regarding my nationality – some good, some bad, and some occasionally very ugly. In all my encounters, this was by far the most bizarre. Unsure of how to react yet curious about my own country’s reputation when it came to lobster, I decided to continue our conversation.

“Well, it is pretty expensive.” I replied assuming that he meant the lobster in Maine or the pricey Cape Cod lobster rolls for $18 a pop.

“No no” my cab driver replied contradicting me. “I heard there is a place where you can eat all the lobster you want for very cheap.”

“My God,” I thought. He’s talking about Red Lobster – that American seafood chain that I had only seen in landlocked cities. The sight always made me gag. There was nothing more unnatural than fast food – but seafood fast food was a kind of fast food barbarism.

And Red Lobster was not the only culprit. There were other chains such as, Captain D’s and Long John Silvers. As to who ate it, I was unsure.

But people did eat it – a lot. I distinctly remember noticing a line wrapped around the Captain D’s Caroline Street building in downtown, Fredericksburg.

“What is the deal?” I thought as I drove by knowing quite well that my best friend, Anna’s great aunt, “Auntie” (I never knew her actual name) loved Captain D’s – and was known to often frequent the local Fredericksburg chain for her fried fish fix. That was one person. But who else ate this slock? The seafood probably came from China itself – shipped out compliments of Hong Kong. 

The cab driver’s response amused me as well as exposed me as a snob. I had assumed he meant Cape Cod’s lobster rolls or other high dining fruits de mere.  I had failed to consider his income status or real knowledge of American gastronomy. How could he?

This sweet man, who loved to eat, wanted his lobster but at a low cost. However, he was willing to spend the money to fly to the U.S. with the sole purpose of eating lobster – all you can eat for that matter. Oddly, I understood his desire to dine one day at Red Lobster. It made complete sense to me. Although I had no desire to ever eat at Red Lobster, I was no different than him in my own pursuit and study of food. I had chosen to study in Italy and then write and study more in Berlin mainly because of the food. Like him, I traveled with my gut.

As we weaved through Mitte into my neighborhood of three weeks, Kreuzberg, we continued to talk about the merits of American lobster and Hong Kong’s rich and diverse cuisine. Soon, we were friends and then he suddenly asked me if I missed home.

He is a funny one I thought, “Well, yes of course. But I am happy here. And my parents are coming to Italy in June.”

“Ah, your parents miss you. They want to see their daughter so they come to Italy.”

 “Yes or they just want to eat.” I replied.

We both laughed.

Soon, we pulled up to my apartment and he opened the door for me. I had not been able to make him out in the dim light. He was short  – a little portly with a smiling round face and big glasses. He reached out his pudgy hand and we shook.

“Enjoy your stay in Berlin. You will eat well.”

“Thank you. I hope you make it to the U.S. for your lobster.”

Suddenly his eyes grew big as his lips slowly began to curl like Dr. Seuss’ the Grinch, “ Oh I will!” With that, he hopped back in his cab and sped off and suddenly my lobster loving cab driver from Hong Kong was gone.