LesGensFaims

Well Water

There are few individuals with whom I can dine. I say this without hesitation or a hint of snobbery. It's simple: People have different tastes and how they measure up over a meal can either make or break and an evening. There is one individual with whom I can always break bread. We share what you could say are similar aptitudes of taste, desires, needs, and random cravings. So when we have the rare occasion to dine or casually nibble and imbibe, I scan a wine list without fear as she scans the list of  amenable canapes or what we call in North America,"Appetizers." I have a sneaky feeling that we will reach a mutual agreement about our choice poisons and dish du jour without second guessing. There is no pleasing the other - no momentary caution of, "oh she doesn't eat this" or " I know she would really like this, but hell I hate tomatoes in winter,"  and so on. 

In the game of life, what we eat does determine to some extent what we are. Brillat Savarin's anecdote still wrings true and occasionally haunts me when I stop to think what my insides might resemble after an indulgent occasion - they might be glistening like an iridescent  extra terrestrial alien egg or perhaps they're wrapped in a moomoo covering up their wobbly bits. Without straying too far -  what we eat does determine many things, but who we eat with can determine a number of outcomes. How you enjoy food is to some extent an intimate and individual act, but I cannot think of anything that inspires more joy than sharing food with someone. It's an intrinsic part of our human existence to eat together. But, how we enjoy it and how we share that enjoyment is a whole other thing entirely.

My friend and I have some interesting common traits that  have played a subtle role in our palates' development and ability to share and always enjoy food together. It's called well water and yes, it comes from a well dug in the ground - to be exact, the soil of Albermale county where it is rocky  but the view of Blue Ridge is handsome and the sound of the bard owl's perpetual hooing question, "who cooks for you" echoes in the woods. It's home. Free Union, Virginia with a modest population of 193 inhabitants, a post office, a local country-store called Maupins where the moonpies, twinkies, and slim jims are are as old me, local garage mechanic, and lastly the resident witchdoctor, Bruce Campbell's Family practice. It's a cheerful place and one where honey suckle perfumes the air each spring and fireflies make their starry debut every year on my mother's birthday, June 1st. 

Oddly and unfortunately, Miss Gerrow and I did not cross paths during our mud pie making days. I am confident that if we had, we would have had  quite a dirty tea party that would even make the Mad Hatter blush. But, we have made up for lost time ( or so I would like to think so) and during my year in San Francisco, I noticed more and more how our taste buds were alike - from slices of piquant salami to late nights of making a mouth-watering home cooked meal wine in hand to lazy Sunday afternoons of splitting dessert at Tartine Cafe over a glass of sparkling white wine. Yes, you could say we were soul mates when it came to our choice gruels and would cackle with delight as we bit into our flakey buttery croissants over bowls of lattes. I can never watch the Godfather without thinking of that soggy Memorial Day weekend when we watched all three over spaghetti and meatballs and homemade chocolate chip cookies, and yes wine. It was a merry year of good eating, cooking, and the constant discovery of new tastes, recipes always spiced  with a sense of mutual appreciation. We would both say, "It must be that well water," and would laugh. But there is something to the weird country voodoo that lives at large in Free Union's untamed woods. It cast its spell on me and Abby at a young age.

So on this fine femme's birthday, I salute her high brow taste, sharp culinary skills, and think fondly of the last time I saw her, when we split a pastry over frothy lattes at New York's Stumptown Roasters. She knows my morning ritual well and I hers. So happy birthday dear dear friend. I raise my goblet of well water to you. 

 

Wanton Women

 

 

MFK Fisher's Alphabet for Gourmets is a fine way to quell the winter blues and her chapter "W is for Wanton" could not be more apropos.

The text's description of a seductive supper relying on tactful plotting and artful skill as opposed to stiff liquor is bound to get the blood boiling whetting the appetite for the sensual pleasures of gastronomy that only the female bird can churn. 

 Fisher describes the sexual advantage of a woman who rules the roost a.k.a her kitchen well. She is right - cooking for someone is generous, caring, and down right sexy - lard me down with love and make those biscuits extra flaky! 

Even the greatest of Venetian courtesans knew how to approach and use food to their better advantage subtly pairing the stomach and mind for the ultimate booby trap.

 Therefore, I could not resist assigning this piece for my Food Literature course that took place this past November at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, Italy. Fortunately, my students enjoyed it and we had a good chuckle, remarked on Fisher's ineffable style and beautiful prose, and discussed the symbolic gestures surrounding food and how the act of cooking goes beyond nourishment.

"There is [indeed] a communion of more than our bodies when bread and wine are broken" as Fisher asserts in the opening of Gastronomical Me. Yes, we need something to feed the the wilder, more insistent hungers - and a wanton woman is too apt to curl up at home and brood. 

 

 

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. 

via lesgensfaims.typepad.com

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.

 

The Holy Trinity

My Catholic upbringing has slowly worked its way into my subconscious this week beginning with gastronomy's seven deadly sins. Gluttony is definitely one of them and I am certain that Addiction and Craving are culprits, too. Greed is Gluttony's longstanding  partner in crime reminding us that too much of a good thing may invoke the wrath of……. 

This week's New Yorker seemed to be on the same wavelength. Its weekly cartoon montage inevitably brought some humor but this time to the table with its 'The Holy Trinity' - cartoon of butter, sugar, and salt - perhaps the real reason why we say grace. Either way, it's a laugh as well as subtle reminder of the bare necessities when it comes to food: the basics. This rarely crosses the mind or enters the food publishing world. The focus tends to lay with trends: artisnal craft, wines, and where to dine. It's all good but it has to begin somewhere and if it is indeed "artisnal" then it must come from scratch and therefore pay tribute to the "Holy Trinity". Whether it's in your cellar, million dollar kitchen in the Hamptons, or your dusty pantry along with your mouse traps, we need that sugar for the creme brulee, the butter for the bernaise sauce, and the salt for that juicy hanger steak. 

This cartoon reminds us that the "Holy Trinity" is the  reason and basis for why we make food taste good. "Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor" is both an adage as well as  reminder of the Three Little Pigs and their demise by the scheming Big Bad Wolf . He knew those "pigs" had plenty of sugar to lend….fatal attraction, no doubt. But, sugar is a key ingredient for many recipes as is salt and butter. These staples can take you far and aid you in those culinary endeavors that may seem too lofty. Plus, they add warmth and ambiance and even endearing clutter to your home. I am only sorry that olive oil and garlic were not included. Perhaps, they are lingering in purgatory. I am confident they will get there soon. Both are healing as well as taste enhancing.  Plus, they are both good for the skin, nausea, and the occasional hangover. Yes, roasted garlic and olive oil can give you that jolt that the watery coffee across from your office cannot. 

 Either way, cross yourselves, and think about the gastronomical basics and their ability to uplift your palette. Amen.

 

 

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. 

 

 

The Food Writing Life

Back in December, Dave Eggers, writer and writing instructor, wrote a short opinion piece in the Washington Post discussing “ the writing life”. Echoes of both Joan Didion and George Orwell’s essay, ‘Why I Write’ came to mind. However, Eggers’ piece was a little less serious and leavened with humor. No doubt, he, like Orwell and Didion, is serious about his craft but he also acknowledges the hiccups and doldrums that grace his “writing days”. Rather, than brood, he muses on the trials and tribulations of being a writer. How it is not “easy come, easy go”, when it comes to constructing the perfectly powerful sentence, to completing an article (on time), or even finishing a novel that one day will be considered a tour de force.

 

Reading Eggers piece made me laugh as well as reminded me of some enduring truths that exist amongst the writing milieu – namely our daily routines. While I would like to think that I sit pensively at a desk or a café all day long constructing words of wisdom about life, its own trials and tribulations, inanities and tragedies, fleeting romances,  implications and greater significance, I am afraid I do not. And with food writing, I find it even more difficult since the distance between the plate and pen are often out of reach.

 

This is the trick with food writing and one that I constantly battle with…. daily. Since I am not cooking, tending my garden (I have one plant), milking cows or herding sheep everyday but sitting on my derrière chained to a desk, thinking about food and its greater implications, all the while I sip copious amounts of tea and coffee and even occasionally forget to eat!

 

Then I sit back and think the whole food-writing thing is a farce and I, myself, am a faux food writer who over intellectualizes food rather than gets her hands dirty.

 

“Oh shit! I missed the farmer’s market because I was working against a deadline, meeting with an editor, or in general have too much work to do”

 

I find these “hiccups” part of my quotidian writing life and it worries me. I call food my muse or métier when in fact it could not be farther from me. This is madness, I think, and I should just quit the whole thing and be honest with myself.

 

But I am honest with myself and therein lies the trick of being a good food writer: honesty - that word that every writer should put under his or her pillow at night whether they write about food, the Middle East, or short story fiction.

 

Honesty must be part of a food writer’s daily gruel and grind. If there is integrity in your writing, if you are able to look the dead fish in the eye, gut it, poach it, and eat it, then your writing will not suffer. Actually, it will go in the opposite direction, making various connections from the experience of your first day in the Valle D'Aosta with strangers who quickly became friends, the trout monger at the foot of the mountain, who with a diligent whap whap and strong iron rod, handed you four fresh and recently departed river trout, and how you learned to gut a fish and to not squeal, to eat it, and to witness  a culinary wizard ask for the skins so she could make fume and to think that this is really cool.

Suddenly, this memory will surface, after your fifth cup of coffee one fine day or depending on the time, a stiff glass of wine. The important part is whether you remember it not just vividly but honestly. This will allow you to convey some truth about that unique experience rather than just paint a pretty and appetizing picture.

 

And this is the real merit and pleasure of taste when it comes to food and probably a food writer’s best ally besides appetite: experience - how we remember things, how we make them our own and how we continually draw upon them and incorporate them into our daily writing life whether we are sometimes cognizant of it or not. Experience has that Proustian tick working its way under our bellies and into our subconscious allowing something to catch and take hold. 

 

Here, you ( i.e. the food writer) begin to see how honesty and experience work together and function as the pillars of your daily writing life. They allow you to go beyond the daily motions of life and especially as a food writer, they allow you to go beyond your taste buds, down through your gut until they begin to rest somewhere in the back of your head until one glorious writing day, this small sliver from the montage of your strange and ever-evolving life will resurface oddly re-grounding and reconnecting you to the plate, even if you happen to be sipping coffee and indulging in cigarettes.

 

Outlaw Cook

John Thorne’s Outlaw Cook is a must have for your gastronomical library. His writing is refreshing, informative, and very modest.

 

There is less pomp and more circumstance in Thorne’s writing. He takes you on a gustatory journey beginning with his early year’s in Manhattan’s lower east side where he skimmed the poverty belt as well as learned how to eat. Whether perfecting his omelet flipping technique or wandering through Chinatown to frequenting the Empanada stands, Thorne discovers that there is more to just being a writer in the Big Apple. Rather, it involves a little sustenance, which soon becomes his muse.

 

The rest of Outlaw Cook, demonstrates that Thorne is an authority on food he is just  a very modest and laid back one, which makes him even more appealing. While he invests in a wood oven stove for some serious bread making, he is also relaxed about the annals of gastronomy and takes pleasure in stirring a pot of chili with a beer in hand. Whether the dish is a success or gastronomical landmark does not matter so much. Rather, it is the process and probably the company, too.

 

In his chapter titled, On Not Being A Good Cook, he simply states:

 

Professional food folk, especially, are confused and sometimes upset by my lack of interest in the sorts of competencies that most interest them. Why do I write about food at all if I’m not an expert in the art of good cooking, nor do I want my readers to be? Because I think you don’t have to be a good cook, or even aspire to be one, to be an interested cook.

 

Here, the reader begins to see that the author is wise and ahead of his years surpassing the foodie snobs and elites proving that simple interest and appetite are all a good food writer needs.

 

Les Gens Ont Faims

 

There is the presumption that because you write about food, you are somehow a skilled and superior cook. I am afraid this is a falsehood and now I would like to put the record straight. If one writes about something, it does not mean that person embodies every aspect of it. If you write about art, are you in fact Cezanne? No, probably not and far from it. No one is but you understand the significance of his work and perhaps identify with the fact that he was a late bloomer while Picasso was not. The main thing is your writing which is your art.

When people realize that I write about food, they assume I can cook anything or identify the different appellations of wines. It’s unlikely and while I do have a wealth of knowledge about some things – I am no expert or culinary wizard.

More so, I am not very detailed in the annals of my metier and prefer to observe the people who are the actual cooks, producers, oenophiles, etc. They gives me my fodder and not to mention my food. So I resolve to wash the dishes aka write, when they are done.

Of course, I do lament that I am not a better cook or a more organized and trained one for that matter. Everything I know is from experience, from watching my Mom, to simply flipping through cookbooks and deciding what looks good, or eating out one night at restaurant thinking to myself – I could cook this at home. I suppose the gut reigns supreme but I don’t go out of my way to push my culinary skills to the test in order to improve my writing. If I did, I would be fooling myself and I would forget my key ingredient: people.

So, I stay interested in food mainly by observing the people in it -their raison d’être, their background, their favorite things to eat and to cook – what makes them tick is far more interesting to me than learning the differences between a béchamel and hollandaise sauce.

Why people do things? How people eat? How they treat and view food and incorporate into their lives – however subtle or profound it may be. It’s curious how much it can reveal about a person, a place – think of the seasons.

From time to time, certain details can be interesting – some clue down a dark alleyway and suddenly you are enlightened. Admittedly, I was happy to learn that marmalade did not come from oranges but from quince, when I was in Portugal. That was defintely interesting, as was our overzealous and often domineering tour guide, Victor and our jamon loving bus driver, Pepe.

My point is that because I am not a very good cook (I am disorganized, messy, and I always leave the grocery list at home) or spend the wee hours of the night studying the Oxford Companion to food that I am a bad food writer. It's just that my focus and inspiration lies elsewehere and it still includes food – just a little differently.

Rather, it is with the people – les gens ont faims (the hungry people) both inconnu (unknown) and connu (known). Afterall, they let me taste food a second time. 

 

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.