LesGensFaims

The Pleasures of Nutrition

When the Spartan men would return from battle, the dedicated Spartan women would give them a glass of red wine with a rusty nail in it. After all of their blood, sweat, and toil on the battlefield, their men were low on iron. Yes, these almost-mythological warriors needed to refuel but they did it keeping their palate in mind. Again, the Greeks remind us of how to live, with from-the-vineyard libations at the center of it.

Iron is a crucial ingredient when it comes to the body’s well-being and overall health. Those who are low in iron (the dreaded anemic who is red blood cell-challenged) must battle with fatigue, among other ailments. However, the solution does not lie in a sleek and unassuming little pill or any other cheap, easy alternative like a hamburger with a fried egg on top. Quite the contrary, in fact; the cure-what-ails-you, however, does require a little imagination…and research into plant-based sources of iron.

I, myself, am anemic—-or at least was diagnosed as such about a month ago. The doctor’s prescription was to take iron supplements and increase my intake  of meat, eggs, and dairy…ho hum! A few days later, I received a long and worrisome email  from my Jewish-mother-of-a-father that listed the symptoms of anemia and encouraged me to eat more meat. He concluded his email with a slogan from perhaps the most-enduring meat-industry advertising campaign:  Molly, beef IS what’s for dinner.

I still had my doubts about my doctor’s proposed iron-enrichment measure and therefore consulted a nutritionist who has aligned her medical philosophy with the pleasures of gastronomy—-specifically, eating for pleasure rather than simply for health. It’s odd that the two are not unified, as if they were somehow separated since birth, running in opposite circles and occasionally scolding one another, when in reality they should align and reinforce one another’s higher attributes.

Yes, taking pleasure in what you eat does relate to your health. I am convinced of this and find guilt or paranoia in what you consume a waste of time, even if you have certain health conditions. There are iron-rich vegetarian solutions that leave your taste buds atingle and your iron quotient satisfied. The Spartan post-battle ritual is reminder of one of the key elements when it comes to a healthy body: pleasure. Their wine and rusty nail combo demonstrates they were aware of their deeper needs, both physically and mentally, aligning taste with a vital mineral that could in turn allow them to conquer the world all while throwing back a few.

The lesson here is to write your own prescription, seeking out ethical iron-rich foods while maintaining your gastronomical integrity. There does not have to be a quick-fix solution despite the 21st century’s industrious speed. Just don’t swallow that nail.

 

G is for Gluttony

 

Gluttony is a word that invokes immediate denial. Associated with one of the seven deadly sins, it is nothing to gloat about or promote. However, everyone has trespassed at some point in time. It is only a matter of whether the individual can be honest with himself and acknowledge the bed crumbs below his bed, empty bottles lying in the trash bin, or even see the chocolate smeared across his face. 

No doubt, it is a subjective word and entirely depends on your own lexicon of taste. Admittedly, gluttony is a word that I have come to know in the past year. I knew that studying food would require a voracious appetite plus my stomach needed to expand and my palette needed to improve. Fortunately for me, my university was conveniently located in Piedmont Italy, home to some of Italy's best wine varietals as well as only miles from the anchovy belt of Liguria. 

 The pleasure of eating well is a key element of Italian culture. However, it, too has its own roots in gluttony. After all, it was the Romans who set the bar high inventing vomatoriums so they could ride the wave of gluttony. It is not certain if this was the reason for their downfall but it certainly fell in line with the late Empire's lesser attributes of rampant corruption, incest, and other weird voodoo perhaps making the  Gothic barbarian invasion more inevitable and the Romans more vulnerable and a little soft.   

So yes, gluttony comes at a price but it also reveals some truths about human nature....we are bound to fall, to be tempted and to bite, and in this case, overindulge until both our physical and spiritual sensibilites can take these  bilious excesses no more. 

Gluttony can be tragic in the Roman sense or comical - an element that seems to escape much food writing today. I am not sure if it was or can be romantic but I am sure Shakespeare has a sonnet or two with the "G" word. Either way, gluttony, as I have learned can function as a source of gastronomical enlightenment. It teaches you many a lesson, gives you some historical perspectives, a burp, and occasionally a laugh or two. 

 

 

Breakfast of Champions

My father has many attributes: he is hard working, intelligent, brave, and extremely generous. Although there are few, he does have his vices: cigars, red wine, and road rage. The later could be mistaken for a common trait amongst many Americans – collateral damage due to the fast and furious race against time. When my Dad hits the road, he is king and he is sure to let you know it taking a Machiavellian approach, when it comes to the rules of the road. Rather than an iron fist, he has an iron foot. Subsequently, he has incurred numerous speeding tickets…. an echo of Hammurabi’s “eye for an eye". But, I suppose it's only fair.

This eventually caught up with him and rather than lose more points on his license and pay a steep fee, he volunteered himself for driving school. It was the summer of 2005, when my Dad found himself in driver’s rehab flanked by other road ragers, who were mainly DC cab drivers whose original places of origin spanned from northern Africa to India. Rather, than take a back seat and snub the course, he embraced it.

There is the overplayed and not to mention overused phrase, “this changed my life” most often directed at self-flattery. Since this is not about me, but about my Dad (who never sings his own praises), I think it is appropriate and have decided to apply it to his driving school experience. Let me explain.

Prior to this course, my Dad began his day full of undaunted purpose and determination slyly placing vitamins by our cereal bowls and making sure we ate a balanced meal, while he guzzled coffee. I always tried to sneak out the door and avoid the “morning ritual” only to suddenly see my Dad standing at the door or outside scraping my car windshield as he casually handed me a banana or something he considered “to be brain food”. I would smile graciously and quietly leave cursing under my breath.

Following this driver’s ed course, I began to notice a change in my Dad – not just in how he drove (please note: he still speeds today) but more so in how he began his day. No longer was there coffee in hand come the crack of dawn. Rather, he would calmly sip water while he ate a handful of nuts. Soon a bowl of muesli would follow and then the black acid would make its debut. And for a jolt of protein, he would have some yogurt. The foundation had been laid: hydration, starches, proteins, and omega fatties and beautiful beautiful caffeine. No doubt, good things were in store for his day.

I, myself, along with my Mom would groggily stumble into the kitchen and grab our coffee and slink away as my Dad stood there eager to make conversation. By then, he had already devoured along with the nuts and water five newspapers and possibly the Economist. Although I was impressed (as well as wondered if I lay at the bottom of the gene pool), I could not handle it – nor could my mother so we would quickly grab our coffee and leave (mind you: no nuts, no water, and certainly never muesli).  We were both of the coffee and toast breeds – not to mention grumpy morning people and therefore honored our true selves though our morning ritual – as did my Dad.

 Although I was intrigued by the change in my Dad,  I did not inquire further. He seemed happy and that was all that mattered. Later, I learned of the story behind his revised his morning ritual - the driving course, being the reason.

Apparently, his driving instructor had made quite the impact beginning the first day by asking the class how they, themselves, began their day. The majority of replies consisted of “ I have a cup of coffee and then I hit the road". The instructor shook his head and suggesested that they rise earlier, have some water first and then maybe have some nuts, which were both a source of protein and fats and therefore good clean energy. Coffee was not the only option and while they did not necessarily have to go “cold turkey”, they should, at least, try to abstain for the first hour of their day.

Evidentially, my Dad took this to heart and resolved to change his own morning ritual. Since then, it has always been the same. He is the first one up drinking water and pecking away at some walnuts or almonds, while we all slumber and snore.  Soon muesli follows and then coffee with lots of milk. I wish I could commit to such a ritual. Along with reading five newspapers plus the Economist, I am more apt to have my coffee while I read the writer’s almanac poem of the day or peruse my latest kindle purchase. World events and water along with the occasional handful of almonds will follow, I assure you, but much later in the day. Despite a family history of heart disease and osteoporosis, I will stick to coffee and bread and even pastry. I can’t help it. Though when things go awry, I often wonder if my morning ritual is in need of some repair. Perhaps, so but for now I am still kicking and so is my Dad.  

 

Learning How To Eat

The first month of school, I was too scared to cook. I had finally arrived at the University of Gastronomic Sciences only to find myself, as expected, amongst like-minded people with illustrious backgrounds in food, strong opinions and taste buds.  Rather than feel inspired, I felt intimidated and suddenly found myself paralyzed when I approached the kitchen.

Prior to graduate school, I had buried myself in cookery books and back issues of Gourmet, frequented the local Charlottesville farmers’ market, while I tested recipes in the comfort of my home. This lifestyle had satisfied me and I was content drinking tea or in some cases wine with older women in the country while I casually dabbled with food. With classically trained chefs, food activists, and aficionados now by my side, I felt like a joke.

“Blast! Why was I here? What did I have to offer?”

I had no culinary background nor was I a strict locavore as I had a long history of lapsing at Virginia country stores for my occasional fix of barbeque chips and a coke. And I certainly did not qualify as a gourmand despite my deep ardor for pate and all forms of patisserie. Was I even a foodie for that matter or a glutton? During that first month, I had serious doubts about my relationship with food. Was it real, authentic, or loyal? I had no idea.

If anything was true, I went with my gut. I was simply interested in food – curious about its hold on me and the inspiration and pleasure I drew from it. I was aware of its political implications and drawn to its ability to connect a wide variety of concerns. But was that enough? It felt weak amidst the backdrop of my classmate’s achievements, fierce passions, and knowledge. 

My lamentations eventually morphed into thoughtful reflection. Soon, memories of my own culinary awakening emerged. San Francisco 2008, when I had the pleasure of skimming the poverty belt.

Here, I would spend my days plotting how to derive the most pleasure from each meal. This was not some gluttonous misadventure as my portions were usually and only affordably small. Consequently, I learned how to eat and developed a newfound appreciation for food. Since it was on my dollar, my dime, I had to make it worth the bite. Sometimes, I failed other times I triumphed. Either way, I began to learn and to understand more about the merits of taste and its invaluable connection to my appetite’s well being.

Looking back, I felt slightly jealous of my former self – not because she was slimmer, younger, but because she was still naïve about food. I had just emerged out of the abyss of culinary confusion following college, which had followed boarding school, where eating disorders were rampant and ten diet cokes per day were considered the norm.

This had always bothered me. “Hell! I thought. “This is down right Orwellian.” But I was too feeble to break away and remained a lowly cog in the system where I absorbed the status quo like osmosis.

But life after boarding school and college was different. Here, I found myself alone in a new city, living in a bungalow studio, and working in a grocery store. I sliced meat at the Bi-Rite grocery store in the Mission district of San Francisco and I loved it.

My arms were stronger and leaner than ever but my sense of taste was tenacious and keen. This grew with time and soon I developed a new taste for food that was easily surprised and endlessly curious.

Here, it became clearer to me that food was not simply a vehicle –“fuel” as my Dad, often asserted to get one from point a to point b. Of course, I recognized its nutritional value but I found that view of food quickly bored and discouraged me. Furthermore, I felt confused by the nutritional jargon often found in popular diet books. It seemed like a simple science – an equation that if you added one thing then another you would get this. Honestly, what was a calorie? What was the real threat? I remember hearing people in college and in high school praising diet coke because it had zero calories? What did that even mean? That it was devoid of nutritional value and taste? Where was the appeal in that? But, everyone drank it.

Working at Bi Rite, I would reflect on the dark ages as I indulged in cured meat, slipped slices of cheese from the cheese monger, and even tasted wine out back on my lunch break. With each taste came a handful of information – not how much fat was in the cheese or how many calories were in the mortadella. Rather, it was about who made the mortadella, its significance both to San Francisco and to the Italians who migrated there and why we used it in the muffaleta sandwich. I learned where the cheese was made, why they used goat milk and where it was sourced. Even the wine I guzzled came with a history and soon, I knew the producers in Sonoma by name, their back-story story and personal philosophy.

Standing at the meat counter, I would point out wine to customers as well as answer their questions. Soon, I realized that I knew more than how to consume. Rather, I knew how to eat. Consequently,I was very full – both of knowledge as well as a new sense of taste.

Soon, I found myself easily satiated by simple things, smaller portions, and usually with wine. There was little wanting, little craving, and soon my hierarchy of taste fell into place. I went with my gut but also with my mind. The two were on par for once – with a mutual understanding of each other’s needs and desires as well as their connection to food. It was no longer a matter of nutritional or caloric content but rather a matter of taste.

With these memories fresh in my mind, I quickly relinquished my fear that I was a “flailing foodie”. No doubt, I was qualified to be at the University of Gastronomic Sciences even if I did fancy a coke and bag of bbq chips once in a blue moon.

Soon, I charged forth unabashedly using anchovies in everything to indulging in gelato. I even attempted to make tonno di conglio while sipping Rose from a recent trip to Puglia.

But by mid-summer, I still did not feel like a real gourmand nor could I pinpoint what kind of “foodie” I was. But it did not matter.

When we learn how to eat, we become much more than a “foodie”, gourmand, or expert. Rather, we learn how to live, how to adapt our needs to the world’s rather than vice versa.

Here, we become new citizens of the world who are aware of the virtues and pleasures that lie in food. If we are simply cognizant of this fact, no labels – nor doubts need apply. 

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.