LesGensFaims

Spatial Ingredients

 

 

Lately, I have grown distant from the kitchen. This is due to my recent suitcase charade of moving from one sublet to another, crashing with friends both in Berlin and Italy. I have no real space of my own, which can compromise a great deal, especially if you like to cook.

With all of this moving, I have not had a kitchen to call my own and to stock with amenities such as herbs de Provence, various olive oils, bouillon cubes, and jars of anchovies.

This past month's charade has revealed to me how important a kitchen is to our well-being. It is more than just a source of nourishment. Rather, it is a great companion and often a source of solace. It can ground us as well as reconnect us to the world.

When we are without it, we feel the pinch. Eating out can be fun but it can also get old and soon we long for the methodological chop and slice of onion and garlic, the smell of something cooking, and the strange joy we gather from sustaining ourselves.

In this absence, I have looked back fondly on my former companions of the past four years and have decided to pay tribute to them beginning with my time out west.

Kitchens are crucial to our well-being – especially as food writers. And space is a critical ingredient when it comes to cooking  - it can bring out the best or worse but in most cases forces us to be creative, which is the true joy of cooking.

Spatial Ingredients: Take 1 

Space is a critical ingredient when it comes to cooking. Over the past four years, I have become acquainted with a number of different spatial ingredients – from short and  tall ceilings to slick marble counters, efficient ovens as well as dirty ones with dodgy burners, jutting walls and odd shelves rendering me with the occasional ice pack on the eye.

You see, I have moved every year since college - four years and four moves. This has left me with a keen sense of adventure, a number of sheepish good byes, debt, as well as a variety of spatial ingredients.

My first kitchen spoiled me. It was a part of my sunny studio in the San Francisco’s Hayes Valley. It had plenty of shelves, a working oven, marble counters, gas burner, and even a dishwasher and disposable. Plus, there was plenty of space. This is the advantage of a studio – there are no boundaries and space seems to reign supreme. I continually marveled at the proximity of the stove to my bed. It was very convenient as well as oddly comforting.

I went all out for that kitchen buying pots and pans at the Macy’s President’s Day Sale. My car – actually a friend’s car was towed during this endeavor. She was furious and did not speak to me for a month so I kept to my pots.

Then there was a knife set that I found for a ripe price of $35 at World Market. It was a solid investment and soon I learned the merits of a good blade.

I especially noticed this while visiting friends in Oregon, whose knives were less than sub-par.  Struggling to chop some garlic, I whispered to my friend, Ashby, “You know World Market sells knife sets for like $30. It’s a good investment.” She turned to me and said, “I’m not at that point in my life.” I thought to myself, "I certainly am. Bring on the Cuisine art.”

San Fran was great – mainly the food and the kitchen. I got a lot done that year as far as culinary enlightenment. Yes, there were the occasional hiccups such as a clogged sink, which forced me to drain my pasta in my bathroom sink.  My friend, Abby, only laughed at my red colander sitting in my bathroom sink with pieces of ravioli lingering on the faucet. We later mused about this sipping wine on the giant pillows on my floor.

San Fran spoiled me and the spaces that followed never matched its size. However, they possessed their own virtues forcing me to be creative and adventurous. Yes, I got burnt, or should I say, burnt things, splattered batter on the wall, cut my finger, etc. However, it all turned out rather well and my guests always cleaned their plate.

Spatial ingredients can be the friend or foe depending on your approach. I have learned to be diplomatic and am now looking forward to my new space here in Berlin. 

 

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. 

A Good Appetite

 

“The primary requisite for writing well about food is a good appetite. Without this, it is impossible to accumulate, within the allotted span, enough experience of eating to have anything worth setting down. Each day brings only two opportunities for fieldwork, and they are not to be wasted minimizing the intake of cholesterol. They are indispensable, like a prizefighter’s hours on the road.”

- AJ Liebling

 

Indispensable but surely not disposable…for writers such as AJ Liebling a good appetite was a food writer’s best ally or on some occasions, a wonderful dining companion.

One finds this good appetite in Liebling’s writing which was prolific when it came to the plate. Although he followed a different meter and style than contemporary food writers, such as, Elizabeth David and M.F.K Fisher, he, too, like Fisher and David was unapologetic ( perhaps a little less gracefully), when it came to his favorite subject of food.

Which brings us back to this notion of good appetite. When I first began to read Lieblings’ memoir, Between Meals, I was struck firstly by his style and approach to food and secondly by his declaration of what makes a good food writer: a good appetite. This does not seem like rocket science but it made me think how many food writers today truly have a good appetites. I do not mean who has vices and who has virtues when it comes to food. Rather, what is your gut reaction when you see say, five different types of pate, a free whisky tasting, or stinky cheeses, for sale? Do you gag or giggle with delight? Let’s hope the later for both your writing and reader’s sake.

As a food writer, or let me be honest, an aspiring food writer, I try to keep my appetite in check. When I landed in Milan last week, I promptly went to the airport café ordered a cappuccino and a cornetto. Later, I confessed this to my friend, Paolo, who replied, that is the first sign of becoming Italian. Perhaps, so? I go cross-eyed when I think about nationality these days. Nevertheless, that cappuccino and cornetto marriage seemed like the appropriate thing to do. There was no question or doubt but rather a simple gut feeling: I am back in Italy, therefore…

This happened later that evening with old school cronies where we celebrated our reunion with a variety of Piemontese and Langhe wines. Was my head a little fuzzy the next day, perhaps so. But I think it was worth the bite, sip, gulp, or whatever.

That day was a prime example of a good appetite. There was no question I would eat and drink Italian – Piemontese to be exact and I would enjoy it. My two month hiatus had left me missing Nebbiolo, acciughe en salsa Verde, panna cotta, vitello de tonnato, agnoletti con burro e salvia (what is it about butter and sage), and Italian espresso. I had reinvigorated my appetite – jogged my Italian sensibilities when it came to food and drink, which proved indispensable in those brief bittersweet six days. 

Summer Reading: Take 1

Anyone interested in escaping mainstream food writing, should pick up a copy of The Penguin Book of Food Drink, edited by food writer and Chairman of the Oxford Symposium, Paul Levy.

This anthology demonsrates that there is a significant strand of English literature that takes food and drink as its subject.  With essays from both the British and American vernacular, we find a style of food writing that is erudite, tenacious, and endlessly curious. From the works of Elizabeth David, Claudia Roden, Jane Grigson, MFK Fisher, John Thorne, and AJ Liebling, you can be sure to find something that suits your palette and piques your mind.

And with summer on the horizon and the inevitable montage of barbeques and outdoor imbibing, this may be the perfect compliment even for those beach body conscious souls. 

 

The First Time I Saw Paris

 

“Madame, Your husband called again.” Like the majority of all men ranging from young adolescent males (some of which included my own high school guy friends) to the very old, our Parisian hotel concierge was in love with my mother. She looked up graciously hiding the pain of a torn ACL. “Would Madame like some ice?” Before she could reply, he clapped his hands and turned up his nose, “I will bring it to your chamber en moment.”

Yes, we had come to Paris despite my mother’s current handicap. Her New Year’s resolution “to get in shape” had met its demise on the country club tennis courts in early January. Whap whap and snap snap, she tore her ACL and spent the next two months on the couch, reading and drinking copious cups of tea, while she dreamt and I believe, dreaded her upcoming trip to Paris. Nevertheless, she was determined to go in order to show her daughter that AP Art History, American Literature, and French, were not just course requirements or prerequisites for college admittance. Rather, they meant something more and this mother wolf, ever determined, sacrificed herself with the hopes of making me a little higher brow.

Hobbling along the banks of the Seine, waking up early, and staying out late, she indulged all of my curiosities from the right to the left bank. No doubt, she was a true mother wolf through and through– but one with a wounded paw.

While my mother was in terrible pain, I was in complete awe. I did feel horrible pushing her in a wheelchair through the Pompidou Centre but could sense her delight at my reactions to paintings of Mirot, Dali, and Magritte and later my excitement at the discovery of Sylvia’s Beach’s Shakespeare and Company bookstore.

Later, I would reward her with little gifts of pate, creamy cheeses and wine back at our hotel.  I would stuff my face while she popped ibuprofen and took swigs of her Cote du Rhone. Our American interpretation of French room service was certainly a sight for sore eyes. But we did not care and instead cackled with delight.

Soon, we would hear a knock at the door. It would inevitably be the concierge come to check up on Cher Madame. Like school children caught red handed scarfing down stolen chocolate bars, we would shuffle around the room, wiping the crumbs off the bed while we carefully hid the wine. Soon, the concierge would wheel in a little tray carrying a silver bucket of ice. He knew us as the pauvres americaines but we knew him as Mr. Eyebrows.

Our nickname was not meant to be malicious or condescending. We loved Mr. Eyebrows and simply acknowledged the fact that he embodied everything that a Mr. Eyebrows should – from his impeccable pressed and tailored outfit to his slender Jiminy cricket physique to his shiny bald head, his wispy white eyebrows were the perfect compliment. Without them, he would have been lacking in some final touch.

If anything, our nickname was meant to be endearing, as his kindness to my mother was unexpected. Prior to my visit, I had heard horror stories of Parisians turning up their noses at Americans. But Mr. Eyebrows liked us, despite our nationality, bad French, and awkward dress – no doubt because of my Mom. With her Hermes scarf, blond coiffed hair, and beige raincoats, she was a handicapped Catherine De Neuve – effortlessly elegant on those damn crutches. Perhaps, it was the good wine, fatty cheese, or countless pastries, but she glowed.

As Mr. Eyebrows looked forward to seeing my mother each day to delivering her petit silver buckets of ice to proudly announcing my Dad’s messages, I looked forward to the Hotel de Suede’s, breakfast.

During my five days in Paris, I became a convert of the morning meal. Prior to that, I ate breakfast like I did homework – dutifully but without thought. My mindset was this, “ If I am to survive the day, ace that AP exam, and make it through field hockey practice, I must eat breakfast whether I desire it or not. So I would march downstairs and eat the morning gruel at St. Catherine’s. This usually consisted of scrambled eggs that were either overdone and dry or undercooked and runny. If so, I would doss them in ketchup and sprinkle it with massive amounts of salt and pepper. I could jolt my system a little more with sides of bacon, sausage links, greasy biscuits, and deep-fried French toast sticks.

And there was always cereal for those weight conscious gals such as Smart Start, Special K, and Raisin Bran along with options of white starchy bagels and cold cream cheese. It is no wonder to me now that I did not like breakfast then nor knew how to properly begin my day. At home, my breakfast ritual was hurried and tasteless. It wore on me like boarding school life eventually did. All I wanted was a cup of coffee and a big of hunk bread with some marmalade or raspberry jam.

Paris granted me this wish. Miles away from St. Catherine’s, I would rise early excited for breakfast a la Parisian style, saunter downstairs, and wait patiently in the breakfast room while I quietly observed the guests from the self-important BBC film crew to the French guests reading Le Monde.

Soon I could hear the rickety elevator ascending from the basement kitchen, the brass doors would slowly slide open and soon Mr. Eyebrows would emerge wheeling out a small silver tray filled with slender pots of dark strong coffee, pitchers of steamed milk, and a basket of assorted croissants, brioches and breads all accompanied by various comfitures that clearly were not Smuckers grape jelly.

I adored this breakfast marveling at its simplicity and subtle elegance. Yet, I was unable to pinpoint what exactly it was I loved – was it the café au lait and the novelty of drinking coffee out of bowl? Or was it the warm bread and buttery pastries that outshone any bagel or doughnut back in the states? Perhaps, it was the homemade jam?  It was hard to say.

Looking back now, I see that my mother was right to take me to Paris. It was the perfect introduction to the charms of Europe – culture, art, language and history all in one bite. More importantly, it revealed to me the subtle elegance and artistry that lies in food - beginning with something as simple as le petit dejeuner.

The French are the masters of this. From the disciplined pastry chefs to the diligent Mr. Eyebrows who deliver their work later that morning, it is evident that food is more than just fuel. For them, it is a way of life  - a way to honor the hours rather than pass them by allowing one girl to always remember the first time she saw Paris. 

 

The Pig

 

I would be lying if I said that the pig does not resonate deeply with me. If any animal symbolizes this past year’s unabashed gustatory exploration (and occasional overindulgence), it may as well as be the pig.

Since my program commenced last May, I have grown quite fond of the pig. Despite my complaints from study trips, where meals consisted entirely of pig ranging from the cured meats to greasy chorizos to elegantly whipped rilletes and pates, I always managed to clear my plate and come back for more.

Even my refrigerator in Berlin is testament to my loyalty to the pig. After a late lunch and lazy afternoon, I felt slightly peckish around 9 last night. I looked in my fridge, only to find: milk, butter, bread, pate, and salami. Need, I say more?

When it comes to the pig, I am proud to say that my fellow classmates held their ground this year.  This was particularly evident during our meat tasting class - where we tried almost 30 cured meats. My friend and classmate, Luca did not hide his enthusiasm that day. At one point, I swear I saw him skipping to and from class ecstatic for the next round. During the second half of the tasting, I noticed our teacher; Professor Marconi’s blue eyes get sharper as we tasted more meat.

No doubt, this beast has a strange hold over us. So in honor of the pig and the first day of May, here is some poetry for all you “dancing pigs” to marinate on:

 

The Pig

It was the first of May

A lovely warm spring day
I was strolling down the street in drunken pride,
But my knees were all a-flutter,
And I landed in the gutter
And a pig came up and lay down by my side.

Yes, I lay there in the gutter
Thinking thoughts I could not utter
When a lady passing by did softly say
'You can tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses' — And the pig got up and slowly walked away.

"The Pig" by Anonymous

 

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.