For each of the pieces I wrote for this class, I did have a kind of process that I went through for writing it. Before I started writing anything, I had a relatively long period of what I’m going to call “pre-writing,” for lack of a better word. Pre-writing doesn’t really work to describe it, though, because it wasn’t writing that I did. What I did was think about my piece in great detail over the course of a few days. I’d think about what I wanted to say, how I was going to say it, and all of the details that I wanted to include. For some of the pieces, I had my piece almost completely crafted in my head before I put anything down on paper.
It usually wasn’t voluntary that I would think about the assignments like this-- it’s just a habit that I’ve fallen in to. Whenever I have a big assignment or something I need to write, it’s always on my mind to some degree, and every once in a while my brain will tell me to pay attention to it for a moment, because it’s just thought of something.
This was both how I planned my written assignments and how I picked my topics. For the topics of all three of my pieces, I brainstormed on and off for several days what it was that I wanted to write about. For some, like the perfect meal piece, I came to a decision on my menu very quickly, and had several days to perfect my meal before I begun the preparation. For others, such as the memoir, I went through several bad topics before finally settling on one I liked.
This process of “pre-writing” helped me work through writers blocks quite well. I rarely found myself staring at a blank document, unsure of how to start or what to write, because I’d already overcome all of those obstacles in my head. By the time I sat down at my computer, I was ready to write. The only frustration I had was if I struggled with how to transfer something from my thoughts to the paper--wording, that is. For the most part though, I found that the writing came pretty smoothly to me throughout this course.
When it came time to do revisions, I approached things differently. I didn’t really think about what I wanted to revise beforehand. Instead, when it came time to sit down and work on my revisions, I pulled out the notes I took during the workshop and set to work. I would read through my piece once or twice before beginning on my workshop notes, to look for things that I could catch and fix on my own. After that, I would make my way through each one of the notes, look for where that was in the piece, and either make the decision to follow that bit of advice, or not. There were several times when different things people said in workshop directly contradicted each other, so I had to find out what worked best for my by myself and go with it. Other times, I didn’t agree with something that someone said, and in this case as well I would make my own decision and change my piece accordingly. While I took the feedback and comments that my classmates gave seriously, when it came down to it I wasn’t afraid to do disregard something in favor of what I wanted to do or say. When I disagreed with the feedback in this way, it made me feel quite confident in my writing, because I would feel like I was giving my writing purpose and direction.
As I reflect on my writing from this class, it’s hard to believe that I’m able to narrow everything down to some sort of “process” like this, considering the great variety of things that I’ve written during the last 10 weeks. I’ve tested my feet in unknown waters during this class, writing my first ever food review, and I was also able to fall into familiarity with the memoir. I’m happy with all of the writing that I’ve done in this class, and I will look back on this class for years to come with a fondness.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
My Perfect Meal [Final Draft]
I have a confession to make: I’ve been looking forward to this assignment for about two months. Since I first heard that I would get to cook something, I’ve been mulling over ideas in my head about what exactly the “perfect meal” would be to me. I toyed around with the thought of cooking many different dishes, trying to decide exactly what was feasible with my limited resources and small cooking space. I took ideas from many different places and people, and my menu ended up being a little eclectic. As I look back at my meal, I can’t help but see it as a sort of metaphor for my identity. Several of my dishes-- the two entrees and the desert-- had their own unique meanings for me, and the resulting meal, however odd, somehow came together in perfect harmony.
The main entree of my dinner, and the first dish that I decided on making, was a soup called Spider Soup. Contained in the beef-stock broth are no creepy crawlies, but rather beef cubes, pasta, and a wide variety of vegetables. Spider Soup has a strong history to it; it was the first dish that I ever cooked by myself. When I was in 7th grade, we did a class activity in my Home Ec class in which we listened to a song called “The Spider Song” and made up a recipe to go along with it. The result was a recipe for Spider Soup. I, of course, promptly ran home and asked my mom to let me make it. This was only the second time that I’ve made Spider Soup, and all of the familiar smells and flavors made me feel like I was 12 years old, cooking soup for my family under the watchful eye of my mother. Spider Soup represents personal history, the idea that all of our past experiences contribute to who we are today.
The next dish I prepared was Banitsa, a Bulgarian egg and cheese pie that my Grandma Zonka used to make. My grandma died when I was about three, so I don’t have very many memories of her, but the stories that my family tells about her are more than enough to supplement these missing memories. I’ve heard stories about her ingenuity (she could fix anything from scissors to televisions, and helped build my dad’s childhood home from the ground up), her strength (she and my grandpa were prisoners in an Austrian work camp during World War II before they could escape to America with their two young daughters), and of course, her cooking. She was a wonderful cook, but Banitsa is one of only a handful of her recipes that we left. I had to call my aunt for this recipe, and she gave me the “shortcut” version-- instead of rolling out my own dough from scratch, she advised me to just buy a box of fillo dough from the supermarket. Banitsa is a thin, crispy, layered pastry, and there is an elaborate song-and-dance to follow when making it. As I layered the fillo dough, cheese, eggs, and butter, I thought about my Grandma Zonka. I thought about how many times she must have made this dish, rolling the dough from scratch with a wooden dowel (because she didn’t have a rolling pin). I thought about how and why she came to the conclusion that the second layer gets two sheets of fillo dough and is sprinkled with butter, while the fifth layer has only one sheet of dough and cheese but no butter. The Banitsa represents family history, my yearning to remember where I came from and what my family went through in their struggle to assimilate to American culture, and also how thankful I am that our family recipes and traditions have survived this assimilation.
For dessert, I made homemade chocolate chip cookie dough and pretzel ice cream. The ideas for this dessert came from two different friends of mine. Growing up, one of my best friends, Katie, introduced me to eating pretzels and cookie dough together. It is without a doubt one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted, a perfect culmination of salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy. So, I’d originally planned on just making cookie dough and serving it with pretzels for a dessert. The decision to make it into an ice cream treat was a spur of the moment one. I was talking with a close friend at K, Laurel, and she mentioned that she had an ice cream maker that she was eager to use. And so, just like that, my dessert morphed into a batch of homemade ice cream with cookie dough and pretzel mix-ins. This dessert represents the way in which my friends have influenced who I am, and how important friendship is to me.
Finally, the individual ingredients that I used in this meal have meaning for me as well. I did my very best, when shopping for my ingredients, to buy as many organic and unprocessed foods as I could. The Spider Soup was made of entirely organic vegetables (with the exception of the onion and the canned peas), and the cookie dough and the ice cream were made with organic half-and-half, whipping cream, and eggs. I was raised eating some local and organic foods, but after recently hearing several food industry horror stories that are hidden from the public, it has never seemed more important to me. The kind of ingredients that I chose represents my ideals and my personal opinions about food.
With a Caesar salad and some whole-wheat rolls added in to round off the meal and help appease the vegetarians, my menu was set. After roughly three hours of cooking, I was able to sit back and dine with eight of my friends. All of my hard work definitely paid off; everything was delicious. The soup was just like I remembered it, the Banitsa was flaky, and the ice cream was sweet, creamy, and mouthwatering. I was glad to see that my friends were enjoying the food as much as I was, too. Watching so many of my friends come together and share this meal with me was a wonderful experience; we talked, chewed, and laughed together, and though I can’t speak for anyone else, I definitely left the table with a full and happy belly.
The main entree of my dinner, and the first dish that I decided on making, was a soup called Spider Soup. Contained in the beef-stock broth are no creepy crawlies, but rather beef cubes, pasta, and a wide variety of vegetables. Spider Soup has a strong history to it; it was the first dish that I ever cooked by myself. When I was in 7th grade, we did a class activity in my Home Ec class in which we listened to a song called “The Spider Song” and made up a recipe to go along with it. The result was a recipe for Spider Soup. I, of course, promptly ran home and asked my mom to let me make it. This was only the second time that I’ve made Spider Soup, and all of the familiar smells and flavors made me feel like I was 12 years old, cooking soup for my family under the watchful eye of my mother. Spider Soup represents personal history, the idea that all of our past experiences contribute to who we are today.
The next dish I prepared was Banitsa, a Bulgarian egg and cheese pie that my Grandma Zonka used to make. My grandma died when I was about three, so I don’t have very many memories of her, but the stories that my family tells about her are more than enough to supplement these missing memories. I’ve heard stories about her ingenuity (she could fix anything from scissors to televisions, and helped build my dad’s childhood home from the ground up), her strength (she and my grandpa were prisoners in an Austrian work camp during World War II before they could escape to America with their two young daughters), and of course, her cooking. She was a wonderful cook, but Banitsa is one of only a handful of her recipes that we left. I had to call my aunt for this recipe, and she gave me the “shortcut” version-- instead of rolling out my own dough from scratch, she advised me to just buy a box of fillo dough from the supermarket. Banitsa is a thin, crispy, layered pastry, and there is an elaborate song-and-dance to follow when making it. As I layered the fillo dough, cheese, eggs, and butter, I thought about my Grandma Zonka. I thought about how many times she must have made this dish, rolling the dough from scratch with a wooden dowel (because she didn’t have a rolling pin). I thought about how and why she came to the conclusion that the second layer gets two sheets of fillo dough and is sprinkled with butter, while the fifth layer has only one sheet of dough and cheese but no butter. The Banitsa represents family history, my yearning to remember where I came from and what my family went through in their struggle to assimilate to American culture, and also how thankful I am that our family recipes and traditions have survived this assimilation.
For dessert, I made homemade chocolate chip cookie dough and pretzel ice cream. The ideas for this dessert came from two different friends of mine. Growing up, one of my best friends, Katie, introduced me to eating pretzels and cookie dough together. It is without a doubt one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted, a perfect culmination of salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy. So, I’d originally planned on just making cookie dough and serving it with pretzels for a dessert. The decision to make it into an ice cream treat was a spur of the moment one. I was talking with a close friend at K, Laurel, and she mentioned that she had an ice cream maker that she was eager to use. And so, just like that, my dessert morphed into a batch of homemade ice cream with cookie dough and pretzel mix-ins. This dessert represents the way in which my friends have influenced who I am, and how important friendship is to me.
Finally, the individual ingredients that I used in this meal have meaning for me as well. I did my very best, when shopping for my ingredients, to buy as many organic and unprocessed foods as I could. The Spider Soup was made of entirely organic vegetables (with the exception of the onion and the canned peas), and the cookie dough and the ice cream were made with organic half-and-half, whipping cream, and eggs. I was raised eating some local and organic foods, but after recently hearing several food industry horror stories that are hidden from the public, it has never seemed more important to me. The kind of ingredients that I chose represents my ideals and my personal opinions about food.
With a Caesar salad and some whole-wheat rolls added in to round off the meal and help appease the vegetarians, my menu was set. After roughly three hours of cooking, I was able to sit back and dine with eight of my friends. All of my hard work definitely paid off; everything was delicious. The soup was just like I remembered it, the Banitsa was flaky, and the ice cream was sweet, creamy, and mouthwatering. I was glad to see that my friends were enjoying the food as much as I was, too. Watching so many of my friends come together and share this meal with me was a wonderful experience; we talked, chewed, and laughed together, and though I can’t speak for anyone else, I definitely left the table with a full and happy belly.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
My Perfect Meal [Rough Draft]
I have a confession to make: I’ve been looking forward to this assignment for almost the entire quarter. Since I first heard that I would get to cook something, I’ve been mulling over ideas in my head about what exactly the “perfect meal” would be to me. I toyed around with the thought of cooking many different dishes, trying to decide exactly what was feasible with my limited resources and small cooking space. I took ideas from many different places and people, and my menu ended up being a little eclectic. As I look back at my meal, I can’t help but see it as a sort of metaphor for my identity. Each of my five dishes-- two entrees, two side dishes, and one dessert-- had its own unique meaning for me, and the resulting meal somehow came together in perfect harmony.
The main entree of my dinner, and the first dish that I decided on making, was a soup called Spider Soup. Contained in the beef-stock broth are no creepy crawlies, but rather beef cubes, pasta, and a wide variety of vegetables. Spider Soup has a strong history to it; it was the first dish that I ever cooked by myself. When I was in 7th grade, we did a class activity in my Home Ec class which resulted in the creation of a recipe for Spider Soup. I, of course, promptly ran home and asked my mom to let me make it. This meal was only the second time that I’ve made Spider Soup, and all of the familiar smells and flavors made me feel like I was 12 years old, cooking soup for my family under the watchful eye of my mother. Spider Soup represents personal history, the idea that all of our past experiences contribute to who we are.
The next dish I prepared was Banitsa, a Bulgarian egg and cheese pie that my Grandma Zonka used to make. My grandma died when I was about three, so I don’t have very many memories of her, but the stories that my family tells about her are more than enough to supplement these missing memories. I’ve heard stories about her ingenuity (she could fix anything from scissors to televisions, and helped build my dad’s childhood home from the ground up), her strength (she and my grandpa were prisoners in an Austrian work camp during World War II before they could escape to America with their two young daughters), and of course, her cooking. She was a wonderful cook, but Banitsa is one of only a handful of her recipes that we left. I had to call my aunt for this recipe, and she gave me the “shortcut” version-- instead of rolling out my own dough from scratch, she advised me to just buy a box of fillo dough from the supermarket. Banitsa is a layered pastry, and there is an elaborate song-and-dance when it comes to making it. As I layered the fillo dough, cheese, eggs, and butter, I thought about my Grandma Zonka. I thought about how many times she must have made this dish, rolling the dough from scratch with a wooden dowel (because she didn’t have a rolling pin). I thought about how and why she came to the conclusion that the second layer gets two sheets of fillo dough and is sprinkled with butter, while the fifth layer has only one sheet of dough and cheese but no butter. The Banitsa represents family history, my yearning to remember where I came from and what my family went through in their struggle to assimilate to American culture, and how thankful I am that our family recipes and traditions survived this assimilation.
The two side dishes, a Caesar salad and some whole-wheat rolls, have much less personal significance. The decision to make these things was partially arbitrary, in an effort to have a well-rounded meal, and partially influenced by my friends. Two of the friends that I invited were vegetarians and I knew that because of this, Spider Soup wasn’t going to be a big hit with them. I settled on these choices for side dishes so that my vegetarian friends would feel welcome and leave feeling full. Knowing your audience in this way is always important, whether it is in cooking, writing, or even just interacting with friends.
For dessert, I made homemade chocolate chip cookie dough and pretzel ice cream. The ideas for this dessert came from two different friends of mine. Growing up, one of my best friends, Katie, introduced me to eating pretzels and cookie dough together. It is without a doubt one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted, a perfect culmination of salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy. So, I’d originally planned on just making cookie dough and serving it with pretzels for a dessert. The decision to make it into an ice cream treat was a spur of the moment one. I was talking with a close friend at K, Laurel, and she mentioned that she had an ice cream maker that she was eager to use. And so, just like that, my dessert morphed into a batch of homemade ice cream with cookie dough and pretzel mix-ins. This dessert represents the way in which my friends have influenced who I am, and how important friendship is to me.
Finally, the individual ingredients that I used in this meal have meaning for me as well. I did my very best, when shopping for my ingredients, to buy as many organic and unprocessed foods as I could. The Spider Soup was made of entirely organic vegetables (with the exception of the onion and the canned peas). The cookie dough and the ice cream were made with organic half-and-half, whipping cream, and eggs. The cottage cheese in the Banitsa was from a Michigan farm. After ten weeks of this class, eating local, organic, and unprocessed foods has never seemed more important to me. The kind of ingredients that I chose represents my ideals and my personal opinions about food.
Once all of the cooking was said and done, I sat back and dined with eight of my friends. All of my hard work definitely paid off, and I was glad to see that my friends were enjoying the food as much as I was. Watching so many of my friends come together and share this meal with me was a wonderful experience; we talked, chewed, and laughed together, and though I can’t speak for anyone else, I definitely left the table with a full and happy belly.
The main entree of my dinner, and the first dish that I decided on making, was a soup called Spider Soup. Contained in the beef-stock broth are no creepy crawlies, but rather beef cubes, pasta, and a wide variety of vegetables. Spider Soup has a strong history to it; it was the first dish that I ever cooked by myself. When I was in 7th grade, we did a class activity in my Home Ec class which resulted in the creation of a recipe for Spider Soup. I, of course, promptly ran home and asked my mom to let me make it. This meal was only the second time that I’ve made Spider Soup, and all of the familiar smells and flavors made me feel like I was 12 years old, cooking soup for my family under the watchful eye of my mother. Spider Soup represents personal history, the idea that all of our past experiences contribute to who we are.
The next dish I prepared was Banitsa, a Bulgarian egg and cheese pie that my Grandma Zonka used to make. My grandma died when I was about three, so I don’t have very many memories of her, but the stories that my family tells about her are more than enough to supplement these missing memories. I’ve heard stories about her ingenuity (she could fix anything from scissors to televisions, and helped build my dad’s childhood home from the ground up), her strength (she and my grandpa were prisoners in an Austrian work camp during World War II before they could escape to America with their two young daughters), and of course, her cooking. She was a wonderful cook, but Banitsa is one of only a handful of her recipes that we left. I had to call my aunt for this recipe, and she gave me the “shortcut” version-- instead of rolling out my own dough from scratch, she advised me to just buy a box of fillo dough from the supermarket. Banitsa is a layered pastry, and there is an elaborate song-and-dance when it comes to making it. As I layered the fillo dough, cheese, eggs, and butter, I thought about my Grandma Zonka. I thought about how many times she must have made this dish, rolling the dough from scratch with a wooden dowel (because she didn’t have a rolling pin). I thought about how and why she came to the conclusion that the second layer gets two sheets of fillo dough and is sprinkled with butter, while the fifth layer has only one sheet of dough and cheese but no butter. The Banitsa represents family history, my yearning to remember where I came from and what my family went through in their struggle to assimilate to American culture, and how thankful I am that our family recipes and traditions survived this assimilation.
The two side dishes, a Caesar salad and some whole-wheat rolls, have much less personal significance. The decision to make these things was partially arbitrary, in an effort to have a well-rounded meal, and partially influenced by my friends. Two of the friends that I invited were vegetarians and I knew that because of this, Spider Soup wasn’t going to be a big hit with them. I settled on these choices for side dishes so that my vegetarian friends would feel welcome and leave feeling full. Knowing your audience in this way is always important, whether it is in cooking, writing, or even just interacting with friends.
For dessert, I made homemade chocolate chip cookie dough and pretzel ice cream. The ideas for this dessert came from two different friends of mine. Growing up, one of my best friends, Katie, introduced me to eating pretzels and cookie dough together. It is without a doubt one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted, a perfect culmination of salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy. So, I’d originally planned on just making cookie dough and serving it with pretzels for a dessert. The decision to make it into an ice cream treat was a spur of the moment one. I was talking with a close friend at K, Laurel, and she mentioned that she had an ice cream maker that she was eager to use. And so, just like that, my dessert morphed into a batch of homemade ice cream with cookie dough and pretzel mix-ins. This dessert represents the way in which my friends have influenced who I am, and how important friendship is to me.
Finally, the individual ingredients that I used in this meal have meaning for me as well. I did my very best, when shopping for my ingredients, to buy as many organic and unprocessed foods as I could. The Spider Soup was made of entirely organic vegetables (with the exception of the onion and the canned peas). The cookie dough and the ice cream were made with organic half-and-half, whipping cream, and eggs. The cottage cheese in the Banitsa was from a Michigan farm. After ten weeks of this class, eating local, organic, and unprocessed foods has never seemed more important to me. The kind of ingredients that I chose represents my ideals and my personal opinions about food.
Once all of the cooking was said and done, I sat back and dined with eight of my friends. All of my hard work definitely paid off, and I was glad to see that my friends were enjoying the food as much as I was. Watching so many of my friends come together and share this meal with me was a wonderful experience; we talked, chewed, and laughed together, and though I can’t speak for anyone else, I definitely left the table with a full and happy belly.
Caesar Salad
Banitsa
Spider Soup
Whole Wheat Rolls
The Perfect Meal
Cookie Dough Pretzel Ice Cream
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
The Omnivore's Delight
The final section of the Omnivore’s Dilemma was very interesting to me because it was so different than all of the other sections of the book. While the other two sections dealt with realistic and possibly food options for the average American, myself included, the third part described a lifestyle that was altogether strange to me.
Evan and I have joked before that we want to life in the woods and forage for food together, but never have I actually considered it as an actual possibility. For me to consider growing, hunting, and gathering all of my own food is almost a joke. I don’t know the first thing about hunting or gathering, and I’m not sure how much wild sustenance is roaming and growing near my home anyway, a suburb of Detroit. My family used to grow chives and tomatoes in our backyard when I was young, but that has long since become a way of the past. Nowadays, I would have no idea how to go about growing anything without some extensive research.
Reading this section was an interesting experience, because I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to emulate his actions or not. On the one hand, the thought of being completely responsible for my own food was tempting. He described the meal he ate as the perfect meal because he was completely aware of everything that had to go into making it. Especially after taking this class, that idea was a very appealing one.
The more I thought about it, though, the more pessimistic I became. I began to realize that, even if I could in theory eat a “perfect meal” of foraged food the way Pollan did, it wouldn’t exactly be the lifestyle change I was imagining it to be. Pollan wrote that it took a very long time to get to the point where he could finally complete his meal (the hunting license alone took a couple of months) and I began to wonder what he was eating during this time. No doubt, the answer to this question was corn, in varying quantities and forms. And so I found myself once again trapped in the first section, surrounded by all of this inescapable corn.
I began to realize, as he had written from the start, that this was not a viable solution to the food problem for the majority of people in the United States. It’s tempting to want to take yourself out of the food industry completely, whether as an independent farmer like Joel Stalin or as a forager like Angelo Garro, but the truth of the matter is that this isn’t really helping anyone but yourself.
To me, the most important thing still is food industry reform. Earthbound farms, for example, has industrialized their organic farming, which has resulted in a world of good; they’ve converted thousands of acres of land to organic farmland, cutting down on incomprehensible amounts of pesticides that otherwise would have been used to keep that land ready for growing. Industrialization may be a problem, but it my mind, the only realistic solutions are those that recognize the prevalence of the industrialization and aim to fix it, rather than those that cut it out altogether. Because, realistically, no one in the 21st century is going to agree to go back to the days of hunting and gathering. Getting people to buy organic, though, that’s something that still has hope.
Evan and I have joked before that we want to life in the woods and forage for food together, but never have I actually considered it as an actual possibility. For me to consider growing, hunting, and gathering all of my own food is almost a joke. I don’t know the first thing about hunting or gathering, and I’m not sure how much wild sustenance is roaming and growing near my home anyway, a suburb of Detroit. My family used to grow chives and tomatoes in our backyard when I was young, but that has long since become a way of the past. Nowadays, I would have no idea how to go about growing anything without some extensive research.
Reading this section was an interesting experience, because I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to emulate his actions or not. On the one hand, the thought of being completely responsible for my own food was tempting. He described the meal he ate as the perfect meal because he was completely aware of everything that had to go into making it. Especially after taking this class, that idea was a very appealing one.
The more I thought about it, though, the more pessimistic I became. I began to realize that, even if I could in theory eat a “perfect meal” of foraged food the way Pollan did, it wouldn’t exactly be the lifestyle change I was imagining it to be. Pollan wrote that it took a very long time to get to the point where he could finally complete his meal (the hunting license alone took a couple of months) and I began to wonder what he was eating during this time. No doubt, the answer to this question was corn, in varying quantities and forms. And so I found myself once again trapped in the first section, surrounded by all of this inescapable corn.
I began to realize, as he had written from the start, that this was not a viable solution to the food problem for the majority of people in the United States. It’s tempting to want to take yourself out of the food industry completely, whether as an independent farmer like Joel Stalin or as a forager like Angelo Garro, but the truth of the matter is that this isn’t really helping anyone but yourself.
To me, the most important thing still is food industry reform. Earthbound farms, for example, has industrialized their organic farming, which has resulted in a world of good; they’ve converted thousands of acres of land to organic farmland, cutting down on incomprehensible amounts of pesticides that otherwise would have been used to keep that land ready for growing. Industrialization may be a problem, but it my mind, the only realistic solutions are those that recognize the prevalence of the industrialization and aim to fix it, rather than those that cut it out altogether. Because, realistically, no one in the 21st century is going to agree to go back to the days of hunting and gathering. Getting people to buy organic, though, that’s something that still has hope.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Saffron Restaurant Review Final Draft
Most people who attend Kalamazoo College have heard of the infamous “K-Bubble.” K students are notorious for being unwilling to leave campus for things like shows, parties, and even restaurants. Despite this, Saffron, an Indian restaurant which is located just northwest of campus on West Main, is often visited by students from Kalamazoo College. Saffron is near and dear to the hearts of many K students, but after paying a visit to the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet, it’s hard to understand exactly why this is the case.
Saffron, which describes itself as a restaurant of “Fine Dining Indian Cuisine,” has a classy and open atmosphere. The artificial lighting within the restaurant is dim, but the large windows at the front of the establishment allow sunlight to stream in and help keep the place lit. The walls are covered in beautiful works of art, all of which seem to fit with the restaurant’s Indian theme. The walls and furniture are mostly dark shades of brown and beige, but bright, vibrant orange and red accents pop out periodically. Saffron serves a diverse crowd of patrons, who range from couples on intimate dates to large family gatherings.
Saffron offers two distinct dining options. A lunch buffet is available during the day, running from noon until 2:00 or 2:30 (depending on the day of the week). The restaurant closes after this is over. The next few hours are spent preparing for dinner, and Saffron reopens for the evening at 5:00. Saffron’s ten dollar lunch buffet will be covered exclusively in this review. Despite the high-class atmosphere and quality service, this buffet was unremarkable and altogether failed to satisfy.
The buffet table, which sat in the center of the restaurant, had only 10 chaffing dishes clustered atop of it. Upon further inspection, it became clear that almost half of these were filled with side dishes or deserts. The array of entree choices was limited, especially when one considers the typical abundance of choices associated with all-you-can-eat buffets, and several of the dishes proved to be disappointing. Thus, the grand total of worthwhile options only came to about three, a disappointingly low number.
Two different kinds of rice adorned the buffet table, a yellow one which was dubbed “Saffron Rice” and a white one described as “Plain Basmati Rice.” However, had it not been for the stark color difference, these two dishes would have been very difficult to tell apart. The yellow rice, which promised spice, was almost flavorless, as was the basmati rice. The rices served the purpose of mixing with the other dishes well, but were disappointing and bland when eaten in solitude. Next to the white rice sat a dish filled with Naan, Indian flatbread. It was fluffy, flavorful, and delicious; one of the saving graces of the buffet.
There were only two meat options on the table, Tandoori Chicken and Lamb Keema. The Tandoori Chicken seemed to be made from high quality meat; it was juicy, fresh, and perfectly flaky. It was definitely one of the more tasty options available, but even this dish had its drawbacks; the seasonings were sparse, usually covering only one side of each chicken cube, and it was sometimes hard to taste the spices at all. The Lamb Keema, on the other hand, did not have the same potential; it had the appearance of elementary school cafeteria ground taco meat, complete with a dull film which developed over the top the longer it sat out on the buffet table and a questionable orange liquid that leaked from it. Sampling this unappetizing goop is inadvisable; it was much too tangy, and the only real distinguishable taste was that of the lamb itself.
The Channa Saag, a dark brown vegetarian dish filled primarily with chick peas, was the spiciest thing on the buffet. This was not saying much, however, as the spice only begins to appear after several bites. The Channa Saag had a thick, porridge-like consistency to it. The chick peas were well-cooked, and though this meal had decent flavor to it, it did not linger; the only perceivable aftertaste was the twang from the heat.
A similar dish, the Mutter Paneer, was filled with peas and white rectangular lumps that turned out to be a type of cheese. This had a consistency closer to soup, and was actually quite delicious. It was not very spicy, and it had two distinct and strong flavors to it, one from the sauce and the spices and one from the peas themselves. The Mutter Paneer was particularly good when spooned onto a piece of the sensational Naan, and ended up being the only worthwhile entree on the buffet table.
The only cold dish aside from the dessert was an array of fruits and vegetables called Saffron’s Sensational Salad. Despite this cute wordplay, the salad was anything but sensational. It was a bizarre mixture of flavors; it paired apples and grapes with onions and tomatoes and covered the whole thing in oil, vinegar, and pepper. The ingredients were all visibly fresh and beautiful, but this awkward mixture of flavors was not well executed.
A lunch at Saffron is typically finished off with the buffet’s only dessert, an almond rice pudding called Badami Kheer. This sweet dessert was absolutely phenomenal. This was, without a doubt, the highlight of the buffet. It looked rather unappetizing, and may have been easy to accidentally pass up due to its dull white color and runny consistency. Once it is tasted, though, all of these negative opinions fall away. It was rich, sweet, and creamy, with soft pieces of rice and little bits of almonds providing a contrast of texture. This dessert was well worth it, but the bliss one can find in washing away the rest of the buffet’s flavors with this final dish doesn’t speak too well to the buffet’s quality as a whole.
The service at Saffron, like the decor and atmosphere, is top-notch. The servers are friendly and sociable, but also courteous; they did not hover near the tables when they were not needed, allowing the opportunity for serious conversations to bloom between patrons. The buffet, too, was replenished regularly. Fresh food continued to be put out on the buffet table even within five minutes of the buffet’s closing time.
All in all, Saffron had a strange dichotomy about it. It was well-maintained, the food was fresh, and the atmosphere was positive and peaceful. Despite all of these things, though, the food was, for the most part, unsatisfying. The few good dishes were not enough to counter-balance the general blandness and lack of choices that the buffet had, especially as the two best dishes were a side dish and a desert. The short walk and manageable price tag are a strong incentive for K students to venture to Saffron for a meal, but students should be prepared to either fill up entirely on bread and dessert or leave disappointed.
Saffron, which describes itself as a restaurant of “Fine Dining Indian Cuisine,” has a classy and open atmosphere. The artificial lighting within the restaurant is dim, but the large windows at the front of the establishment allow sunlight to stream in and help keep the place lit. The walls are covered in beautiful works of art, all of which seem to fit with the restaurant’s Indian theme. The walls and furniture are mostly dark shades of brown and beige, but bright, vibrant orange and red accents pop out periodically. Saffron serves a diverse crowd of patrons, who range from couples on intimate dates to large family gatherings.
Saffron offers two distinct dining options. A lunch buffet is available during the day, running from noon until 2:00 or 2:30 (depending on the day of the week). The restaurant closes after this is over. The next few hours are spent preparing for dinner, and Saffron reopens for the evening at 5:00. Saffron’s ten dollar lunch buffet will be covered exclusively in this review. Despite the high-class atmosphere and quality service, this buffet was unremarkable and altogether failed to satisfy.
The buffet table, which sat in the center of the restaurant, had only 10 chaffing dishes clustered atop of it. Upon further inspection, it became clear that almost half of these were filled with side dishes or deserts. The array of entree choices was limited, especially when one considers the typical abundance of choices associated with all-you-can-eat buffets, and several of the dishes proved to be disappointing. Thus, the grand total of worthwhile options only came to about three, a disappointingly low number.
Two different kinds of rice adorned the buffet table, a yellow one which was dubbed “Saffron Rice” and a white one described as “Plain Basmati Rice.” However, had it not been for the stark color difference, these two dishes would have been very difficult to tell apart. The yellow rice, which promised spice, was almost flavorless, as was the basmati rice. The rices served the purpose of mixing with the other dishes well, but were disappointing and bland when eaten in solitude. Next to the white rice sat a dish filled with Naan, Indian flatbread. It was fluffy, flavorful, and delicious; one of the saving graces of the buffet.
There were only two meat options on the table, Tandoori Chicken and Lamb Keema. The Tandoori Chicken seemed to be made from high quality meat; it was juicy, fresh, and perfectly flaky. It was definitely one of the more tasty options available, but even this dish had its drawbacks; the seasonings were sparse, usually covering only one side of each chicken cube, and it was sometimes hard to taste the spices at all. The Lamb Keema, on the other hand, did not have the same potential; it had the appearance of elementary school cafeteria ground taco meat, complete with a dull film which developed over the top the longer it sat out on the buffet table and a questionable orange liquid that leaked from it. Sampling this unappetizing goop is inadvisable; it was much too tangy, and the only real distinguishable taste was that of the lamb itself.
The Channa Saag, a dark brown vegetarian dish filled primarily with chick peas, was the spiciest thing on the buffet. This was not saying much, however, as the spice only begins to appear after several bites. The Channa Saag had a thick, porridge-like consistency to it. The chick peas were well-cooked, and though this meal had decent flavor to it, it did not linger; the only perceivable aftertaste was the twang from the heat.
A similar dish, the Mutter Paneer, was filled with peas and white rectangular lumps that turned out to be a type of cheese. This had a consistency closer to soup, and was actually quite delicious. It was not very spicy, and it had two distinct and strong flavors to it, one from the sauce and the spices and one from the peas themselves. The Mutter Paneer was particularly good when spooned onto a piece of the sensational Naan, and ended up being the only worthwhile entree on the buffet table.
The only cold dish aside from the dessert was an array of fruits and vegetables called Saffron’s Sensational Salad. Despite this cute wordplay, the salad was anything but sensational. It was a bizarre mixture of flavors; it paired apples and grapes with onions and tomatoes and covered the whole thing in oil, vinegar, and pepper. The ingredients were all visibly fresh and beautiful, but this awkward mixture of flavors was not well executed.
A lunch at Saffron is typically finished off with the buffet’s only dessert, an almond rice pudding called Badami Kheer. This sweet dessert was absolutely phenomenal. This was, without a doubt, the highlight of the buffet. It looked rather unappetizing, and may have been easy to accidentally pass up due to its dull white color and runny consistency. Once it is tasted, though, all of these negative opinions fall away. It was rich, sweet, and creamy, with soft pieces of rice and little bits of almonds providing a contrast of texture. This dessert was well worth it, but the bliss one can find in washing away the rest of the buffet’s flavors with this final dish doesn’t speak too well to the buffet’s quality as a whole.
The service at Saffron, like the decor and atmosphere, is top-notch. The servers are friendly and sociable, but also courteous; they did not hover near the tables when they were not needed, allowing the opportunity for serious conversations to bloom between patrons. The buffet, too, was replenished regularly. Fresh food continued to be put out on the buffet table even within five minutes of the buffet’s closing time.
All in all, Saffron had a strange dichotomy about it. It was well-maintained, the food was fresh, and the atmosphere was positive and peaceful. Despite all of these things, though, the food was, for the most part, unsatisfying. The few good dishes were not enough to counter-balance the general blandness and lack of choices that the buffet had, especially as the two best dishes were a side dish and a desert. The short walk and manageable price tag are a strong incentive for K students to venture to Saffron for a meal, but students should be prepared to either fill up entirely on bread and dessert or leave disappointed.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
The Complicated life of Corn (and Grass)
Because of the cancelled class from Tuesday, I’ve decided to treat this reading response as a combined response to the first two parts, and the book in general. First, for the few broad comments I have about the book. Simply put, I love it. It is educational, but doesn’t read like a textbook in any way. Pollan’s writing is clear, his explanations are simple and easy to follow, and he adds in just the right amount of humor to make the book feel light when it needs to, without taking away from the urgency of it. He’s writing about complicated, important things, and he pulls it off amazingly.
The first section of this book, about corn, had me both angry and terrified as I was reading it. It definitely made me think about junk food in an entirely new way. All of the reasons I’ve always considered for not eating processed foods were health reasons-- too much fat, too many calories, too much sodium, etc. I’ve never thought about it from any other perspective before, and after reading this section, I have to wonder why that is.
Pollan addresses many different aspects of the processing of food that I’d never considered before. Supporting and consuming processed foods has a great negative impact on many different things besides your own personal health. Corn processing is damaging the farming industry, the environment, and the economy. Pretty much every step that corn takes from a field in Iowa to a Chicken McNugget, as is the path shown in the book, harms someone new along the way.
In addition, reading about how we’ve taken the food out of our food, so to speak, was really alarming to me. Pollan helped make it clear to me how far away we are from the days when eating real, wholesome, natural foods was an everyday occurrence. The talk about how processed food was all about being one step ahead of nature and demands was alarming; I’m honestly a little bit scared for where our culture is heading after reading this book. What’s next? Willy Wonka’s meal-in-a-pill? I feel like all of America is just one short step away from turning into a giant blueberry.
The second section of this book had a slightly different effect on me. When I started reading, I felt like I was taking a breath of fresh air. The story of Joel Salatin’s farm was very reassuring. Here, finally, was someone who knew what they were doing! This is how it is supposed to be--cows eating grass, grass being fertilized by nature, and the whole system working in harmony!
I soon began to realize that this was hardly the norm, and that this second part of the book wasn’t going to be as filled with wonder as I had been hoping. The discussions about industrial organic foods and the flaws in these systems was shocking to me. It namedropped some brands that I’ve always trusted (my precious Horizon milk uses factory farms?!) and I began to realize how loose of a term “organic” really is. Apparently you don’t have to actually let your chickens roam in order to call them “free range” or shy away from all processing in order to call it “natural.” Once again, I came away from this reading feeling uneasy, lied to, and all-together appetite-less.
The first section of this book, about corn, had me both angry and terrified as I was reading it. It definitely made me think about junk food in an entirely new way. All of the reasons I’ve always considered for not eating processed foods were health reasons-- too much fat, too many calories, too much sodium, etc. I’ve never thought about it from any other perspective before, and after reading this section, I have to wonder why that is.
Pollan addresses many different aspects of the processing of food that I’d never considered before. Supporting and consuming processed foods has a great negative impact on many different things besides your own personal health. Corn processing is damaging the farming industry, the environment, and the economy. Pretty much every step that corn takes from a field in Iowa to a Chicken McNugget, as is the path shown in the book, harms someone new along the way.
In addition, reading about how we’ve taken the food out of our food, so to speak, was really alarming to me. Pollan helped make it clear to me how far away we are from the days when eating real, wholesome, natural foods was an everyday occurrence. The talk about how processed food was all about being one step ahead of nature and demands was alarming; I’m honestly a little bit scared for where our culture is heading after reading this book. What’s next? Willy Wonka’s meal-in-a-pill? I feel like all of America is just one short step away from turning into a giant blueberry.
The second section of this book had a slightly different effect on me. When I started reading, I felt like I was taking a breath of fresh air. The story of Joel Salatin’s farm was very reassuring. Here, finally, was someone who knew what they were doing! This is how it is supposed to be--cows eating grass, grass being fertilized by nature, and the whole system working in harmony!
I soon began to realize that this was hardly the norm, and that this second part of the book wasn’t going to be as filled with wonder as I had been hoping. The discussions about industrial organic foods and the flaws in these systems was shocking to me. It namedropped some brands that I’ve always trusted (my precious Horizon milk uses factory farms?!) and I began to realize how loose of a term “organic” really is. Apparently you don’t have to actually let your chickens roam in order to call them “free range” or shy away from all processing in order to call it “natural.” Once again, I came away from this reading feeling uneasy, lied to, and all-together appetite-less.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Pizza Day at Mangia Mangia
This is going to be a pretty random blog post, but I just felt like sharing with the class. This weekend, Evan came up to K to visit, so on Friday night we decided to walk downtown and honor pizza day together. We ate at Mangia Mangia and split a pepperoni pizza. It was a very classy joint and a different take on pizza day than we are used to, but it was a definitely a great night! Here's a picture of the partially eaten pie:
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Saffron Restaurant Review
Most people who attend Kalamazoo College have heard of the infamous “K-Bubble.” Our students are notorious for being unmotivated and unwilling to leave campus for things like shows, parties, and even restaurants. Despite this, Saffron, an Indian restaurant located just northwest of campus on West Main, is somewhat of a hot spot for students who do wish to pop the K-Bubble and adventure off-campus.
Saffron, which describes itself as a restaurant of “Fine Dining Indian Cuisine,” has a classy and open atmosphere. The artificial lighting within the restaurant is dim, but the large windows at the front of the establishment allow for sunlight to stream in and aid in the lighting of the restaurant. The walls are covered in beautiful pieces of artwork, all of which seem to fit with the restaurant’s Indian theme. The walls and furniture are mostly dark shades of brown and beige, but bright vibrant oranges and reds pop out periodically as accents.
Saffron offers two distinct dining options. A lunch buffet is available during the day, running from noon until 2:00 or 2:30 (depending on the day of the week), and the restaurant closes after this is over. The next few hours are spent preparing for dinner, and Saffron reopens for the evening at 5:00. I’ve only had the opportunity to eat at Saffron’s lunch buffet, which, despite the high-class atmosphere and expensive price-tag, was altogether unremarkable.
The buffet table, which sat in the center of the restaurant, had only 10 chaffing dishes clustered atop of it. Upon further inspection, it became clear that almost half of these were filled with side dishes or deserts. The array of entree choices was limited, and most of the dishes proved to be disappointing.
Two different kinds of rice adorned the buffet table, a yellow one which was dubbed “Saffron Rice” and a white one described as “Plain Basmati Rice.” However, had it not been for the stark color difference, these two dishes would have been very difficult to tell apart. The yellow rice was almost flavorless. The only thing that keeps me from calling it bland was the presence of the plain rice to which I could compare it. Perhaps this was intentional though; the rices served the purpose of mixing with the other dishes well. Next to the white rice sat a dish filled with Naan, Indian flatbread. It was fluffy, flavorful, and delicious; one of the saving graces of the buffet.
There were only two meat options on the table, Tandoori Chicken and Lamb Keema. The Tandoori Chicken seemed to be made from high quality meat; it was juicy, fresh, and perfectly flaky. It was definitely one of the more tasty options available, but even this dish had its drawbacks; the seasonings were sparse, usually covering only one side of each chicken cube, and it was sometimes hard to taste the spices at all. The Lamb Keema, which sat to the left of the Tandoori Chicken on the buffet table, was rather disgusting to look at. It had the appearance of elementary school cafeteria ground taco meat, complete with a dull film which developed over the top the longer it sat out on the buffet table and a questionable orange liquid that leaked from it onto the rest of my plate. I decided to sample this unappetizing goop against my better judgement; it was much too tangy for my taste, with the only real distinguishable taste being that of the lamb itself.
The Channa Saag, a dark brown vegetarian dish filled primarily with chick peas, was the spiciest thing on the buffet. This is not saying much, however, because I could only begin to taste the heat in this dish after a couple of bites. The Channa Saag had a thick, porridge-like consistency to it. The chick peas were well-cooked, and though this meal had a full flavor to it, it did not linger; the only perceivable aftertaste was the twang from the spice.
The Mutter Paneer was a similar dish filled with peas and white rectangular lumps that I was later told was a type of cheese. This had a consistency closer to soup, and was actually quite delicious. It was not very spicy, and it had two distinct and strong flavors to it, one from the sauce and the spices and one from the peas themselves. The Mutter Paneer was particularly good when spooned onto a piece of the sensational Naan.
The only cold dish (besides the dessert which I’ll get to later) was an array of fruits and vegetables called Saffron’s Sensational Salad. Despite this cute wordplay, the salad was anything but sensational. It was a bizarre mixture of flavors; it paired apples and grapes with onions and tomatoes and covered the whole thing in oil, vinegar, and a spice that may have been pepper. The ingredients were all visibly fresh and beautiful, but this odd mixture of flavors was not well executed at all.
The final dish which I sampled was the Badami Kheer, an almond rice pudding. This sweet dessert was absolutely phenomenal. This was, without a doubt, the highlight of the buffet. It looked rather unappetizing-- it was white and runny and not well-distinguished from the buffet’s other contents--and I almost passed it up. The second I tasted the first bite, though, was bliss. It was rich, sweet, and creamy, with soft pieces of rice and little bits of almonds providing a contrast of texture. This desert was well worth it, and I was glad that this was the last flavor in my mouth.
The service at Saffron, like the decor and atmosphere, was top-notch. The servers were friendly and sociable, but also courteous; they did not hover near the tables when they were not needed, allowing the opportunity for serious conversations to bloom between patrons. The buffet, too, was replenished regularly. I caught the tail end of it, but fresh food continued to be put out on the buffet table even within five minutes of the buffet’s closing time.
All in all, Saffron had a strange dichotomy about it. It was well-maintained, the food was fresh, and the atmosphere was positive and peaceful. Despite all of these things, though, the food was, for the most part, unsatisfying. The few good dishes were not enough to counter-balance the general blandness and lack of choices that the buffet had, and it’s doubtful that I would go back of my own accord.
Saffron, which describes itself as a restaurant of “Fine Dining Indian Cuisine,” has a classy and open atmosphere. The artificial lighting within the restaurant is dim, but the large windows at the front of the establishment allow for sunlight to stream in and aid in the lighting of the restaurant. The walls are covered in beautiful pieces of artwork, all of which seem to fit with the restaurant’s Indian theme. The walls and furniture are mostly dark shades of brown and beige, but bright vibrant oranges and reds pop out periodically as accents.
Saffron offers two distinct dining options. A lunch buffet is available during the day, running from noon until 2:00 or 2:30 (depending on the day of the week), and the restaurant closes after this is over. The next few hours are spent preparing for dinner, and Saffron reopens for the evening at 5:00. I’ve only had the opportunity to eat at Saffron’s lunch buffet, which, despite the high-class atmosphere and expensive price-tag, was altogether unremarkable.
The buffet table, which sat in the center of the restaurant, had only 10 chaffing dishes clustered atop of it. Upon further inspection, it became clear that almost half of these were filled with side dishes or deserts. The array of entree choices was limited, and most of the dishes proved to be disappointing.
Two different kinds of rice adorned the buffet table, a yellow one which was dubbed “Saffron Rice” and a white one described as “Plain Basmati Rice.” However, had it not been for the stark color difference, these two dishes would have been very difficult to tell apart. The yellow rice was almost flavorless. The only thing that keeps me from calling it bland was the presence of the plain rice to which I could compare it. Perhaps this was intentional though; the rices served the purpose of mixing with the other dishes well. Next to the white rice sat a dish filled with Naan, Indian flatbread. It was fluffy, flavorful, and delicious; one of the saving graces of the buffet.
There were only two meat options on the table, Tandoori Chicken and Lamb Keema. The Tandoori Chicken seemed to be made from high quality meat; it was juicy, fresh, and perfectly flaky. It was definitely one of the more tasty options available, but even this dish had its drawbacks; the seasonings were sparse, usually covering only one side of each chicken cube, and it was sometimes hard to taste the spices at all. The Lamb Keema, which sat to the left of the Tandoori Chicken on the buffet table, was rather disgusting to look at. It had the appearance of elementary school cafeteria ground taco meat, complete with a dull film which developed over the top the longer it sat out on the buffet table and a questionable orange liquid that leaked from it onto the rest of my plate. I decided to sample this unappetizing goop against my better judgement; it was much too tangy for my taste, with the only real distinguishable taste being that of the lamb itself.
The Channa Saag, a dark brown vegetarian dish filled primarily with chick peas, was the spiciest thing on the buffet. This is not saying much, however, because I could only begin to taste the heat in this dish after a couple of bites. The Channa Saag had a thick, porridge-like consistency to it. The chick peas were well-cooked, and though this meal had a full flavor to it, it did not linger; the only perceivable aftertaste was the twang from the spice.
The Mutter Paneer was a similar dish filled with peas and white rectangular lumps that I was later told was a type of cheese. This had a consistency closer to soup, and was actually quite delicious. It was not very spicy, and it had two distinct and strong flavors to it, one from the sauce and the spices and one from the peas themselves. The Mutter Paneer was particularly good when spooned onto a piece of the sensational Naan.
The only cold dish (besides the dessert which I’ll get to later) was an array of fruits and vegetables called Saffron’s Sensational Salad. Despite this cute wordplay, the salad was anything but sensational. It was a bizarre mixture of flavors; it paired apples and grapes with onions and tomatoes and covered the whole thing in oil, vinegar, and a spice that may have been pepper. The ingredients were all visibly fresh and beautiful, but this odd mixture of flavors was not well executed at all.
The final dish which I sampled was the Badami Kheer, an almond rice pudding. This sweet dessert was absolutely phenomenal. This was, without a doubt, the highlight of the buffet. It looked rather unappetizing-- it was white and runny and not well-distinguished from the buffet’s other contents--and I almost passed it up. The second I tasted the first bite, though, was bliss. It was rich, sweet, and creamy, with soft pieces of rice and little bits of almonds providing a contrast of texture. This desert was well worth it, and I was glad that this was the last flavor in my mouth.
The service at Saffron, like the decor and atmosphere, was top-notch. The servers were friendly and sociable, but also courteous; they did not hover near the tables when they were not needed, allowing the opportunity for serious conversations to bloom between patrons. The buffet, too, was replenished regularly. I caught the tail end of it, but fresh food continued to be put out on the buffet table even within five minutes of the buffet’s closing time.
All in all, Saffron had a strange dichotomy about it. It was well-maintained, the food was fresh, and the atmosphere was positive and peaceful. Despite all of these things, though, the food was, for the most part, unsatisfying. The few good dishes were not enough to counter-balance the general blandness and lack of choices that the buffet had, and it’s doubtful that I would go back of my own accord.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Saffron Pre-Dining Expectations
For my restaurant review, I have decided to eat at the Indian restaurant Saffron. Because of some conflicts with timing that I’ve run into, I will be eating the lunch buffet at Saffron rather than ordering off the menu at dinner time.
I have only been to an Indian restaurant a few times in my life, and all of them were so long ago that it is hard for me to remember exactly what they were like. My dad talks a lot about how we used to go to a Sunday lunch buffet at an Indian restaurant once in a while, but I only remember one of these times and have little memory for what the place was actually like. Thus, going to Saffron will definitely be a gateway for a new and mostly unexplored culture for me.
I have never been to India, or any other country in Asia at all for that matter. I have very little experience with the Indian culture, though I have always found it interesting, and I am excited for what this meal will be able to teach me about Indian culture. One of my best friends in high school was Indian, but I learned little about the culture through her. She did not embrace her heritage very openly, and tried to assimilate into American culture as much as she could. Thus, while I’ve been in some sort of contact with Indian culture in the past, I feel surprisingly uninformed and uneducated about most aspects of the culture, including the food.
Because I am not very knowledgeable about Indian culture, I am not really sure what to expect from this meal. I have never been to Saffron before, and I therefore have no knowledge or expectations about what the inside of the restaurant looks like. All of my expectations are pretty random and irrational, but I might as well explain them at any rate. I’m expecting the light to be dim for some reason, and for the interior to be filled with deep, warm colors. I know that it is a buffet, so I imagine one wall will have the buffet table along it and the dining tables will surround this.
I don’t really know what to expect with the food, either. I have heard that Indian food is spicy, and I am a little bit nervous for this. I am not the biggest fan of spicy food. Rather, it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that I do not have a high tolerance for it. I’m nervous for how the buffet aspect will affect this, because I know it will mean that I won’t be able to ask for lower heat, but I am sure that I will be able to handle it. If nothing else, this will be another entryway into the Indian culture that I will be able to get from this experience. All in all, I am very excited to eat at Saffron, and can’t wait to learn and experience all of these new things through this form of cultural tourism!
I have only been to an Indian restaurant a few times in my life, and all of them were so long ago that it is hard for me to remember exactly what they were like. My dad talks a lot about how we used to go to a Sunday lunch buffet at an Indian restaurant once in a while, but I only remember one of these times and have little memory for what the place was actually like. Thus, going to Saffron will definitely be a gateway for a new and mostly unexplored culture for me.
I have never been to India, or any other country in Asia at all for that matter. I have very little experience with the Indian culture, though I have always found it interesting, and I am excited for what this meal will be able to teach me about Indian culture. One of my best friends in high school was Indian, but I learned little about the culture through her. She did not embrace her heritage very openly, and tried to assimilate into American culture as much as she could. Thus, while I’ve been in some sort of contact with Indian culture in the past, I feel surprisingly uninformed and uneducated about most aspects of the culture, including the food.
Because I am not very knowledgeable about Indian culture, I am not really sure what to expect from this meal. I have never been to Saffron before, and I therefore have no knowledge or expectations about what the inside of the restaurant looks like. All of my expectations are pretty random and irrational, but I might as well explain them at any rate. I’m expecting the light to be dim for some reason, and for the interior to be filled with deep, warm colors. I know that it is a buffet, so I imagine one wall will have the buffet table along it and the dining tables will surround this.
I don’t really know what to expect with the food, either. I have heard that Indian food is spicy, and I am a little bit nervous for this. I am not the biggest fan of spicy food. Rather, it’s not that I don’t like it, it’s just that I do not have a high tolerance for it. I’m nervous for how the buffet aspect will affect this, because I know it will mean that I won’t be able to ask for lower heat, but I am sure that I will be able to handle it. If nothing else, this will be another entryway into the Indian culture that I will be able to get from this experience. All in all, I am very excited to eat at Saffron, and can’t wait to learn and experience all of these new things through this form of cultural tourism!
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Culinary Tourism
When Marin handed out this reading in class last week, she’d mentioned that it was very different from the types of readings we’ve had so far. As soon as I started reading this piece, it became clear that this was going to be the case. The tone of the writing felt more philosophical, or like it was something that was meant to inform rather than entertain, and as I read I found that it seemed to serve its purpose; it got me thinking.
I was surprised to read how much research and thought has gone into the concept of tourism. I’d always thought that vacations were a pretty simple concept, but reading the introduction especially made me realize that it, like anything else, can be broken down and studied by the right group of people. I found it interesting that one of the main definitions for tourism was something that was supposed to be a departure from the normalities of everyday life. I found myself looking back on vacations that I’ve taken throughout my life, and found that this was oftentimes the case. Going on a trip to a different or exotic place can be an excellent way of breaking the mundane routines of life, and both vacations that I took with family and vacations that I’ve taken alone or with friends often served this very purpose.
Moving on to the more central idea of the article, and moving from the introduction to chapter one, I was also very interested by the idea of food as tourism. We’ve talked a fair amount in class about using food as a way of experiencing different or unknown cultures, and so this was a relatable point for me to read about. The fact that culinary tourism can mean one of two things was interesting to me-- it could either be exploring food while traveling or using food as a way to travel vicariously.
This idea of traveling through food contrasts with some of the other things that we’ve read and discussed in class, though. In reading The Reporter’s Kitchen, we read about and discussed the idea that food generally does not travel well. Reading Long’s different ideas on this matter was a nice eye-opener. While Kramer discussed the idea that food is often confined to a location, and is impossible to perfectly replicate outside of a particular setting, Long disagrees. She seems to think that food can actually act as a vessel for travel-- that we can experience new places through food itself.
Finally, I found the section which discussed “The Ethnic Other” to be very interesting. I’ve never really noticed it before, but it is true that a lot of products consciously make the decision to either play up the ethnicity of something completely or entirely downplay it. The pictures on page 25 really caught my eye and drove home the point for me; I’ll admit that I eat a lot of Ramen noodles, and while I’ve always considered it to be Oriental, when compared to the Thai Kitchen package, the Ramen does look very bland and Americanized.
I was surprised to read how much research and thought has gone into the concept of tourism. I’d always thought that vacations were a pretty simple concept, but reading the introduction especially made me realize that it, like anything else, can be broken down and studied by the right group of people. I found it interesting that one of the main definitions for tourism was something that was supposed to be a departure from the normalities of everyday life. I found myself looking back on vacations that I’ve taken throughout my life, and found that this was oftentimes the case. Going on a trip to a different or exotic place can be an excellent way of breaking the mundane routines of life, and both vacations that I took with family and vacations that I’ve taken alone or with friends often served this very purpose.
Moving on to the more central idea of the article, and moving from the introduction to chapter one, I was also very interested by the idea of food as tourism. We’ve talked a fair amount in class about using food as a way of experiencing different or unknown cultures, and so this was a relatable point for me to read about. The fact that culinary tourism can mean one of two things was interesting to me-- it could either be exploring food while traveling or using food as a way to travel vicariously.
This idea of traveling through food contrasts with some of the other things that we’ve read and discussed in class, though. In reading The Reporter’s Kitchen, we read about and discussed the idea that food generally does not travel well. Reading Long’s different ideas on this matter was a nice eye-opener. While Kramer discussed the idea that food is often confined to a location, and is impossible to perfectly replicate outside of a particular setting, Long disagrees. She seems to think that food can actually act as a vessel for travel-- that we can experience new places through food itself.
Finally, I found the section which discussed “The Ethnic Other” to be very interesting. I’ve never really noticed it before, but it is true that a lot of products consciously make the decision to either play up the ethnicity of something completely or entirely downplay it. The pictures on page 25 really caught my eye and drove home the point for me; I’ll admit that I eat a lot of Ramen noodles, and while I’ve always considered it to be Oriental, when compared to the Thai Kitchen package, the Ramen does look very bland and Americanized.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Some Comments on the Critiques
Because there were so many articles that we had to read for today, I am going to do my best at just highlighting some of the general things I noticed and some high points from a couple of them. Otherwise, I’m sure, this blog post would be unbearably long, repetitive, and most likely boring.
A trend that I noticed in the reviews by Sifton that I was particularly fond of was the way in which he was able to extend the critiques to talking about so much more than simply how the food at a particular restaurant tastes. In the review of Osteria Morini he gives background about just which part of Italy the food at this restaurant is inspired by. In the review of Kenmare, he spends some time talking about the owners and founders of the restaurant, so that we can fully understand the origins of this particular establishment. All of the background information and sidenotes in these reviews helped to give me the feeling that he really knew what he was talking about, and that if I read his reviews carefully enough, I’d soon know exactly what I was talking about as well.
Another trend in his writings that I liked was his habit of commenting and reviewing more than just the food at each restaurant. He often commented on the atmosphere and the service as well, things which I rarely think about but which I know are equally as important aspects of the dining experience.
Finally, though this really doesn’t need to be said, the way in which he described food was incredible. Everything he described sounded appetizing--unless he didn’t want to portray it that way--and the descriptions were vivid, clear, and well-crafted. The reader very easily got the sense that he knew what he was talking about when it came to food, as of course he should as the New York Times food critic. His tone was overall clear and easy to read, and reading all of these reviews left me unbelievably hungry.
Switching gears slightly, I’d also like to make a few comments about Gael Greene’s advice to a 10-year-old budding food critic. This was one of my favorite pieces that we read. The voice was clear and humorous, respectful yet sarcastic. Some of the things she said came across very tongue-in-cheek to me (does she really expect him to develop a new video game to profit from) yet all of the advice she gave rang true somehow. The main messages in this piece were clear-- in order to be a food critic, you must know food and know it well. You need experience, knowledge, and practice. Her advice was solid and helpful. However, judging from the return letter from Oscar at the end, I kind of got the feeling that he didn’t get some of the jokes, which shows that despite who the letter was addressed to, I was much more a member of the intended audience than Oscar was, at least at age 10.u
A trend that I noticed in the reviews by Sifton that I was particularly fond of was the way in which he was able to extend the critiques to talking about so much more than simply how the food at a particular restaurant tastes. In the review of Osteria Morini he gives background about just which part of Italy the food at this restaurant is inspired by. In the review of Kenmare, he spends some time talking about the owners and founders of the restaurant, so that we can fully understand the origins of this particular establishment. All of the background information and sidenotes in these reviews helped to give me the feeling that he really knew what he was talking about, and that if I read his reviews carefully enough, I’d soon know exactly what I was talking about as well.
Another trend in his writings that I liked was his habit of commenting and reviewing more than just the food at each restaurant. He often commented on the atmosphere and the service as well, things which I rarely think about but which I know are equally as important aspects of the dining experience.
Finally, though this really doesn’t need to be said, the way in which he described food was incredible. Everything he described sounded appetizing--unless he didn’t want to portray it that way--and the descriptions were vivid, clear, and well-crafted. The reader very easily got the sense that he knew what he was talking about when it came to food, as of course he should as the New York Times food critic. His tone was overall clear and easy to read, and reading all of these reviews left me unbelievably hungry.
Switching gears slightly, I’d also like to make a few comments about Gael Greene’s advice to a 10-year-old budding food critic. This was one of my favorite pieces that we read. The voice was clear and humorous, respectful yet sarcastic. Some of the things she said came across very tongue-in-cheek to me (does she really expect him to develop a new video game to profit from) yet all of the advice she gave rang true somehow. The main messages in this piece were clear-- in order to be a food critic, you must know food and know it well. You need experience, knowledge, and practice. Her advice was solid and helpful. However, judging from the return letter from Oscar at the end, I kind of got the feeling that he didn’t get some of the jokes, which shows that despite who the letter was addressed to, I was much more a member of the intended audience than Oscar was, at least at age 10.u
Monday, February 6, 2012
Pepperoni Love [Final Draft]
My boyfriend Evan and I are not the kind of couple you’d see in the movies. Our eyes didn’t first meet across a crowded room. He doesn’t shower me with flowers and chocolates, nor do we spend our dates walking along a quiet beach at midnight. Instead, our relationship is relaxed and comfortable. We try to keep things fresh and fun rather than prescribed and perfunctory. We usually spend our time together playing video games or hanging out with mutual friends. We also play a lot of ping-pong and are trying to learn sign language together. Perhaps one of the most noteworthy things that we do together, though, is eat pizza.
It may be a little odd to have pizza be a uniting element in a relationship, but somehow it never bothered me. Pizza has always been one of my favorite foods. When I was growing up, though, it was in somewhat short supply. My penny-pinching parents would often scoff at my requests to order pizza for dinner. The few times when they consented to my wishes, the pizza was a wonderful treat. I never got tired of how the gooey cheese, sweet tomato sauce, and zesty pepperoni flirted in my mouth with every bite.
When I first met Evan the summer before my freshman year of college, I didn’t know that he shared my passion for pizza. We met at a bonfire at my friend Brian’s house, and the only foods we shared that night were hot dogs and s’mores.
The first time Evan and I hung out together, though, on our first quasi-date, we made a pizza. He had prepared the dough and sauce ahead of time, and when I got to his house he plopped a hunk of moist, white goop on the countertop in front of me and told me to knead it. I’d never kneaded dough before, and my hands were clumsy as I pushed tentative indents in the dough with my fingertips. He shook his head and showed me the correct technique, using the heels of his palms to achieve a more even shape. We switched off a couple times until the dough was sufficiently flattened, and then piled on the sauce, cheese, and pepperoni.
The pizza was far from circular, and my inexperienced kneading led to an inconsistent thickness in the crust. Still, when we put it in the oven, my mouth was already beginning to water. The pizza’s aroma filled the house a few short minutes into cooking, and it was damn near torture to endure the waiting. My stomach growled loudly, voicing its impatience.
When the pizza was finally ready to eat, I eagerly grabbed a plate and cut myself a large slice. Evan, on the other hand, hung back. Wasn’t he going to have any? I asked him. He just shook his head and said he wasn’t hungry. Then why on Earth did we make pizza if he wasn’t planning on eating it? I asked. He smiled and gave a small shrug.
“I like watching people eat,” he’d told me. When I asked him why, he shrugged again and said, “Food makes people happy. I like seeing that.” And of course, he added, he knew it would be fun. I smiled and took a bite of the pizza, looking down slightly to hide my blush. I was suddenly self-conscious, nervous that he was watching me eat and very embarrassed about how I looked. I thought if he was going to be that way I might as well give him a show; I smiled as much as I could, hoping that he’d be able to see how happy I was. I don’t remember how the pizza tasted, but looking back that was hardly the most important part of that day.
This pizza was the first of many that Evan and I have since shared. A few weeks later, he explained to me his family’s tradition of “Pizza Day,” which was a simple enough concept. Every Friday night, his family would order pizza for dinner. They never had the same pizza twice; every week it was different toppings, different crusts, and different restaurants. As simple as it was, to me it was nothing but magic.
And so, pizza became a link between us, a shared love which served as a foundation for our budding relationship. Every once in a while, I’d come over to his house on a Friday night and he’d give me a piece of cold pizza from the nearly-empty box that sat out on the counter. We’d listen to the song “Pizza Day” by the Aquabats as we ate the pizza together. I’d joke that they wrote the song just for him. Other times, we’d split the cost of a Hot N’ Ready from Little Caesars and eat it together, no matter what day of the week it was.
During Christmas break of my sophomore year, Evan and I made another pizza. This time, he let me do all of the fun parts. I helped him make the dough from scratch, and got to watch it rise before my eyes in the saran-wrap-covered tupperware that we placed it in at the back of his counter.
The tomato sauce was my favorite thing to make. Evan had bought a large can of Hunt’s skinned, whole tomatoes and told me it was my job to do the preliminary processing; I got to crush them into a pulp with my bare hands. Each tomato burst with a satisfying squishing sound as I squeezed them between my fingers. Pulp, juice, and seeds squirted out of each little ball, as if their insides were eager to become sauce. Evan laughed at me for finding such glee in this simple task, but I couldn’t help myself. It was just downright fun.
Standing in Evan’s kitchen and watching him knead pizza dough once again, I found myself becoming lost in memories. I thought back to the last time we’d made pizza together, more than a year previously. The difference in mood between the two experiences was striking. So much had changed in the time between, and yet somehow so much was the same, as well.
We were no longer the giggly 17 year olds we were when we met. We had more than a year of long-distance relationship experience under our belts, and the sense of closeness and familiarity between us was almost as palpable as the pizza dough. We were seasoned now, spiced with basil and oregano like the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove. Evan’s three cats were still weaving their way through our legs as we cooked, but I looked at them now as old friends. His parents and brothers, too, were no longer strangers to me.
It may be a little odd to have pizza be a uniting element in a relationship, but somehow it never bothered me. Pizza has always been one of my favorite foods. When I was growing up, though, it was in somewhat short supply. My penny-pinching parents would often scoff at my requests to order pizza for dinner. The few times when they consented to my wishes, the pizza was a wonderful treat. I never got tired of how the gooey cheese, sweet tomato sauce, and zesty pepperoni flirted in my mouth with every bite.
When I first met Evan the summer before my freshman year of college, I didn’t know that he shared my passion for pizza. We met at a bonfire at my friend Brian’s house, and the only foods we shared that night were hot dogs and s’mores.
The first time Evan and I hung out together, though, on our first quasi-date, we made a pizza. He had prepared the dough and sauce ahead of time, and when I got to his house he plopped a hunk of moist, white goop on the countertop in front of me and told me to knead it. I’d never kneaded dough before, and my hands were clumsy as I pushed tentative indents in the dough with my fingertips. He shook his head and showed me the correct technique, using the heels of his palms to achieve a more even shape. We switched off a couple times until the dough was sufficiently flattened, and then piled on the sauce, cheese, and pepperoni.
The pizza was far from circular, and my inexperienced kneading led to an inconsistent thickness in the crust. Still, when we put it in the oven, my mouth was already beginning to water. The pizza’s aroma filled the house a few short minutes into cooking, and it was damn near torture to endure the waiting. My stomach growled loudly, voicing its impatience.
When the pizza was finally ready to eat, I eagerly grabbed a plate and cut myself a large slice. Evan, on the other hand, hung back. Wasn’t he going to have any? I asked him. He just shook his head and said he wasn’t hungry. Then why on Earth did we make pizza if he wasn’t planning on eating it? I asked. He smiled and gave a small shrug.
“I like watching people eat,” he’d told me. When I asked him why, he shrugged again and said, “Food makes people happy. I like seeing that.” And of course, he added, he knew it would be fun. I smiled and took a bite of the pizza, looking down slightly to hide my blush. I was suddenly self-conscious, nervous that he was watching me eat and very embarrassed about how I looked. I thought if he was going to be that way I might as well give him a show; I smiled as much as I could, hoping that he’d be able to see how happy I was. I don’t remember how the pizza tasted, but looking back that was hardly the most important part of that day.
This pizza was the first of many that Evan and I have since shared. A few weeks later, he explained to me his family’s tradition of “Pizza Day,” which was a simple enough concept. Every Friday night, his family would order pizza for dinner. They never had the same pizza twice; every week it was different toppings, different crusts, and different restaurants. As simple as it was, to me it was nothing but magic.
And so, pizza became a link between us, a shared love which served as a foundation for our budding relationship. Every once in a while, I’d come over to his house on a Friday night and he’d give me a piece of cold pizza from the nearly-empty box that sat out on the counter. We’d listen to the song “Pizza Day” by the Aquabats as we ate the pizza together. I’d joke that they wrote the song just for him. Other times, we’d split the cost of a Hot N’ Ready from Little Caesars and eat it together, no matter what day of the week it was.
During Christmas break of my sophomore year, Evan and I made another pizza. This time, he let me do all of the fun parts. I helped him make the dough from scratch, and got to watch it rise before my eyes in the saran-wrap-covered tupperware that we placed it in at the back of his counter.
The tomato sauce was my favorite thing to make. Evan had bought a large can of Hunt’s skinned, whole tomatoes and told me it was my job to do the preliminary processing; I got to crush them into a pulp with my bare hands. Each tomato burst with a satisfying squishing sound as I squeezed them between my fingers. Pulp, juice, and seeds squirted out of each little ball, as if their insides were eager to become sauce. Evan laughed at me for finding such glee in this simple task, but I couldn’t help myself. It was just downright fun.
Standing in Evan’s kitchen and watching him knead pizza dough once again, I found myself becoming lost in memories. I thought back to the last time we’d made pizza together, more than a year previously. The difference in mood between the two experiences was striking. So much had changed in the time between, and yet somehow so much was the same, as well.
We were no longer the giggly 17 year olds we were when we met. We had more than a year of long-distance relationship experience under our belts, and the sense of closeness and familiarity between us was almost as palpable as the pizza dough. We were seasoned now, spiced with basil and oregano like the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove. Evan’s three cats were still weaving their way through our legs as we cooked, but I looked at them now as old friends. His parents and brothers, too, were no longer strangers to me.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Choose Your Own Adventure: Food and Art
For my “Choose Your Own Adventure” piece, I decided to take a slightly different path than the normal one up to this point; rather than talk about an article or a food phenomenon, I decided to post a link to a video that I first saw several months ago. I was at my friend’s house over the summer when we stumbled across this video, and we watched all three of the installments, Eat, Learn, and Move. The thing that really strikes me about this particular video, Eat, is the way in which it uses such simple concept, food, as a topic for such an impressive artistic showcase. Not only does all of the food in this video look appetizing, but the creativity and novelty of the concept behind the video adds something new and special to it. Seeing this video got me thinking about food’s role in art. Painting bowls of fruit is one of the most stereotypical still-life arrangements, and as seen here, food can truly add life to documentaries and other forms of new-media art.
What is it about food that lends itself so well to art? Is it the vibrant colors and shapes? Or is it simply its universality that makes any work of art that much more relevant to the viewer? As art continues to evolve and reshape itself, how will the role of food change, if at all?
Here is the video, entitled Eat
What is it about food that lends itself so well to art? Is it the vibrant colors and shapes? Or is it simply its universality that makes any work of art that much more relevant to the viewer? As art continues to evolve and reshape itself, how will the role of food change, if at all?
Here is the video, entitled Eat
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Beefsteak Musings
Reading this article and learning about beefsteaks, something about which I had no knowledge prior to reading about it now, left me thinking about several different things. I was very surprised to hear that the beefsteaks was a popular thing so long ago--very early in the 20th century, and possibly even before that. This was so hard for me to believe because it seemed to me that the whole beefsteaks concept was very modern. We’ve talked a lot in this class about the American extremist food culture, and we’ve always addressed it as a relatively recent development. However, reading this article shed a new light on the situation. The beefsteak dinners were very similar to these kinds of extremist food contests, but seemed to exist a hundred years before their time. The guests gorged themselves on as much steak and beer as they could possibly eat; the combination of red meat with alcohol was reminiscent of “Epic Meal Time” in my mind. It was so interesting to see this kind of thing has been around for much longer than I had realized.
One thing from this article that made me a little upset to read, on the other hand, was the parts where it talked about how “women ruined beefsteaks.” I found this very insulting and sexist, and it made me upset to read. I realize that the changes in beefsteak protocol happened around the same time that women began to attend them, but it seemed very generalizing and offensive to blame all of this on women. If men had not wanted these changes to have been made, why did they have to go along with them? I’m not sure whether the author was trying to represent an anti-female mindset of the times or whether it was his genuine opinion that women have a habit of messing things up in this way, but I was insulted by it and unhappy to read about it during this part of the article.
When I reached the end of the reading, I was in for a big surprise. The article was written in 1939! I’d had a feeling that it might be old, but I was imagining a date somewhere in the 1960’s, as was the case with some of the other articles we had read. I’d never imagined that I was reading something so historic! Looking back on the article with this context in mind, some of the things that took me by surprise are even more surprising than they had been, and some are less so. The concept of a beefsteak still manages to amaze me, and I am still very interested to see that extreme eating was a trend much before I assumed it had emerged. The anti-feminine undertones of the text seem more appropriate to me knowing that it was written roughly 75 years ago. All-in-all, this article was one of the most interesting ones we read, in my opinion, and it definitely served its purpose of opening my eyes to an experience that I had previously not been knowledgable of.
One thing from this article that made me a little upset to read, on the other hand, was the parts where it talked about how “women ruined beefsteaks.” I found this very insulting and sexist, and it made me upset to read. I realize that the changes in beefsteak protocol happened around the same time that women began to attend them, but it seemed very generalizing and offensive to blame all of this on women. If men had not wanted these changes to have been made, why did they have to go along with them? I’m not sure whether the author was trying to represent an anti-female mindset of the times or whether it was his genuine opinion that women have a habit of messing things up in this way, but I was insulted by it and unhappy to read about it during this part of the article.
When I reached the end of the reading, I was in for a big surprise. The article was written in 1939! I’d had a feeling that it might be old, but I was imagining a date somewhere in the 1960’s, as was the case with some of the other articles we had read. I’d never imagined that I was reading something so historic! Looking back on the article with this context in mind, some of the things that took me by surprise are even more surprising than they had been, and some are less so. The concept of a beefsteak still manages to amaze me, and I am still very interested to see that extreme eating was a trend much before I assumed it had emerged. The anti-feminine undertones of the text seem more appropriate to me knowing that it was written roughly 75 years ago. All-in-all, this article was one of the most interesting ones we read, in my opinion, and it definitely served its purpose of opening my eyes to an experience that I had previously not been knowledgable of.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Pepperoni Love
It’s a little odd to think about pizza as being a uniting element in a relationship. Me and my boyfriend Evan aren’t exactly the kind of couple you’d see in the movies. We don’t exchange flowers and chocolates, or take walks along a quiet, mesonoxian beach. Instead, among other things, we eat pizza.
Pizza has always been one of my favorite foods. When I was growing up, though, it was in somewhat short supply. My penny-pinching parents would often scoff at my requests to order pizza for dinner. The few times when they consented to my wishes, the pizza was a wonderful treat. I supplemented my pizza cravings with alternatives as often as I could. I loaded my mom’s shopping cart with pizza bagels and pizza pockets from Meijer’s freezer aisle. I tried my best to buy lunch when my school cafeteria had pizza on its menu. I just couldn’t get enough of the stuff. I never got tired of how the gooey cheese, sweet tomato sauce, and zesty pepperoni flirted in my mouth with every bite.
When I first met Evan the summer before my freshman year of college, I didn’t know that he shared my passion for pizza. We met at a bonfire at my friend Brian’s house, and the only food we shared that night were hot dogs and s’mores.
The first time Evan and I hung out together, though, our first quasi-date, we made a pizza together. He had prepared the dough and sauce ahead of time, and when I got to his house he plopped a hunk of moist, white goop on the countertop in front of me and told me to knead it. I’d never kneaded dough before, and my hands were clumsy as I pushed tentative indents in the dough with my fingertips. He shook his head and showed me the correct technique, using the heels of his palms to achieve a more even shape. We switched off a couple times until the dough was sufficiently flattened, and then piled on the sauce, cheese, and pepperoni.
The pizza was hardly circular, and my inexperienced kneading led to an inconsistent thickness in the crust. Still, when we put it in the oven, my mouth was already beginning to water. The pizza’s aroma filled the house a few short minutes into cooking, and it was damn near torture to endure the waiting. My stomach growled loudly, voicing its impatience.
When the pizza was finally ready to eat, I eagerly grabbed a plate and cut myself a large slice. Evan, on the other hand, hung back. Wasn’t he going to have any? I asked him. He just shook his head and said he wasn’t hungry. Then why on Earth did we make pizza if he wasn’t planning on eating it? I asked. He smiled and gave a small shrug.
“I like watching people eat,” he’d told me. When I asked him why, he shrugged again and said, “Food makes people happy. I like seeing that.” I smiled and took a bite of pizza, looking down slightly to hide my blush. Evan only ate a small piece of the pizza, but he said he enjoyed it even more because of that.
This was the first of many pizzas that Evan and I have shared. A few weeks later, he explained to me his family tradition of “Pizza Day.” It was a simple enough concept; every Friday night, his family would order pizza for dinner. They never had the same pizza twice; every week it was different toppings, different crusts, different restaurants. To me, this sounded magical.
And so, pizza became a link between us, a shared love which served as a foundation for our budding relationship. Every once in a while, I’d come over to his house on a Friday night and he’d give me a piece of cold pizza from the nearly-empty box that sat out on the counter. We’d listen to “Pizza Day” by the Aquabats as we ate the pizza together. I’d joke that they wrote the song just for him. Other times, we’d split the cost of a Hot N’ Ready from Little Caesars and eat it together, no matter what day of the week it was.
During Christmas break of my sophomore year, Evan and I made another pizza. This time, he let me do all of the fun parts. I helped him make the dough from scratch, and got to watch it rise before my eyes in the saran-wrap-covered tupperware that we placed it in at the back of his counter.
The tomato sauce was my favorite thing to make. Evan had bought a large can of Hunt’s skinned, whole tomatoes and dumped them all into a bowl. It was my job to do the preliminary processing; I got to crush them into a pulp with my bare hands. Each tomato burst with a satisfying squishing sound as I squeezed them between my fingers. Pulp, juice, and seeds squirted out of each little ball, as if their insides were eager to become sauce. Evan laughed at me for finding such glee in this simple task, but I didn’t care. It was one of the most enjoyable cooking experiences I’ve ever had.
Standing in Evan’s kitchen and watching him knead pizza dough once again, I found myself becoming lost in memories. I thought back to the last time we’d made pizza together, more than a year previously. The difference in mood between the two experiences was striking. So much had changed in the time between, and yet somehow so much was the same, as well.
We were no longer the giggly 17 year olds we were when we met. We had more than a year of long-distance relationship experience under our belts, and a sense of closeness and familiarity which seemed almost as palpable as the dough. We were seasoned now, spiced with basil and oregano like the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove, and more solidly grounded in our relationship. Evan’s three cats were still weaving their way through our legs as we cooked, but I looked at them now as old friends, practically my own pets. His parents and brothers, too, were no longer strangers to me.
It’s hard not to be mindful of changes as I look back on our relationship, but I know that some things will always be constant. The toppings, crusts, and seasonings of our relationship may change, but, like Pizza Day, we’ll always have a strong foundation to fall back on.
Pizza has always been one of my favorite foods. When I was growing up, though, it was in somewhat short supply. My penny-pinching parents would often scoff at my requests to order pizza for dinner. The few times when they consented to my wishes, the pizza was a wonderful treat. I supplemented my pizza cravings with alternatives as often as I could. I loaded my mom’s shopping cart with pizza bagels and pizza pockets from Meijer’s freezer aisle. I tried my best to buy lunch when my school cafeteria had pizza on its menu. I just couldn’t get enough of the stuff. I never got tired of how the gooey cheese, sweet tomato sauce, and zesty pepperoni flirted in my mouth with every bite.
When I first met Evan the summer before my freshman year of college, I didn’t know that he shared my passion for pizza. We met at a bonfire at my friend Brian’s house, and the only food we shared that night were hot dogs and s’mores.
The first time Evan and I hung out together, though, our first quasi-date, we made a pizza together. He had prepared the dough and sauce ahead of time, and when I got to his house he plopped a hunk of moist, white goop on the countertop in front of me and told me to knead it. I’d never kneaded dough before, and my hands were clumsy as I pushed tentative indents in the dough with my fingertips. He shook his head and showed me the correct technique, using the heels of his palms to achieve a more even shape. We switched off a couple times until the dough was sufficiently flattened, and then piled on the sauce, cheese, and pepperoni.
The pizza was hardly circular, and my inexperienced kneading led to an inconsistent thickness in the crust. Still, when we put it in the oven, my mouth was already beginning to water. The pizza’s aroma filled the house a few short minutes into cooking, and it was damn near torture to endure the waiting. My stomach growled loudly, voicing its impatience.
When the pizza was finally ready to eat, I eagerly grabbed a plate and cut myself a large slice. Evan, on the other hand, hung back. Wasn’t he going to have any? I asked him. He just shook his head and said he wasn’t hungry. Then why on Earth did we make pizza if he wasn’t planning on eating it? I asked. He smiled and gave a small shrug.
“I like watching people eat,” he’d told me. When I asked him why, he shrugged again and said, “Food makes people happy. I like seeing that.” I smiled and took a bite of pizza, looking down slightly to hide my blush. Evan only ate a small piece of the pizza, but he said he enjoyed it even more because of that.
This was the first of many pizzas that Evan and I have shared. A few weeks later, he explained to me his family tradition of “Pizza Day.” It was a simple enough concept; every Friday night, his family would order pizza for dinner. They never had the same pizza twice; every week it was different toppings, different crusts, different restaurants. To me, this sounded magical.
And so, pizza became a link between us, a shared love which served as a foundation for our budding relationship. Every once in a while, I’d come over to his house on a Friday night and he’d give me a piece of cold pizza from the nearly-empty box that sat out on the counter. We’d listen to “Pizza Day” by the Aquabats as we ate the pizza together. I’d joke that they wrote the song just for him. Other times, we’d split the cost of a Hot N’ Ready from Little Caesars and eat it together, no matter what day of the week it was.
During Christmas break of my sophomore year, Evan and I made another pizza. This time, he let me do all of the fun parts. I helped him make the dough from scratch, and got to watch it rise before my eyes in the saran-wrap-covered tupperware that we placed it in at the back of his counter.
The tomato sauce was my favorite thing to make. Evan had bought a large can of Hunt’s skinned, whole tomatoes and dumped them all into a bowl. It was my job to do the preliminary processing; I got to crush them into a pulp with my bare hands. Each tomato burst with a satisfying squishing sound as I squeezed them between my fingers. Pulp, juice, and seeds squirted out of each little ball, as if their insides were eager to become sauce. Evan laughed at me for finding such glee in this simple task, but I didn’t care. It was one of the most enjoyable cooking experiences I’ve ever had.
Standing in Evan’s kitchen and watching him knead pizza dough once again, I found myself becoming lost in memories. I thought back to the last time we’d made pizza together, more than a year previously. The difference in mood between the two experiences was striking. So much had changed in the time between, and yet somehow so much was the same, as well.
We were no longer the giggly 17 year olds we were when we met. We had more than a year of long-distance relationship experience under our belts, and a sense of closeness and familiarity which seemed almost as palpable as the dough. We were seasoned now, spiced with basil and oregano like the tomato sauce that was simmering on the stove, and more solidly grounded in our relationship. Evan’s three cats were still weaving their way through our legs as we cooked, but I looked at them now as old friends, practically my own pets. His parents and brothers, too, were no longer strangers to me.
It’s hard not to be mindful of changes as I look back on our relationship, but I know that some things will always be constant. The toppings, crusts, and seasonings of our relationship may change, but, like Pizza Day, we’ll always have a strong foundation to fall back on.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
The Myth of the Perfect Meal
Because this is my only reading response about Anthony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour, I feel compelled to first address the obvious things about this read, some of which we covered in class on Tuesday. His writing is wonderfully smooth and engaging, and the book flew by as I was reading it. It was easy to get caught up in his descriptions and stories, and my curiosity of what he could possibly be doing next kept be reading. His tone and wit only added to the pleasant experience; I wanted him to tell me his stories.
The thing about the second half of the book that really got me thinking, though, was towards the beginning, when Bourdain was in Tokyo. The main premise of this book, of course, is to search for the “perfect meal.” It wasn’t until I reached the chapter on Tokyo that I realized I had been expecting him to find it. As I read through the first half of the book, I kept making mental notes of each place he visited and each meal he tasted, filing them away as if I would have to later judge and evaluate them for perfection. Reading the Tokyo chapter completely discredited this mindset, a mindset which I hadn’t even been fully aware of.
What was it about the Tokyo chapter that made me come to the conclusion that the perfect meal is truly a myth, unattainable and impossible to pinpoint no mater what anyone else says? Simple. I despise seafood.
My whole life, people have urged me to try seafood, to just eat a little bit, but I just can’t stomach it. I’m not sure what it is about fish and seafood that is so repulsing to me, but something about it makes me want to be sick. I hate fish, I hate shrimp. I hate oysters. I hate clams, I hate mussels. All of it, absolutely all of it, disgusts me. I was more disgusted by the description of the cutting up of the 400-pound tuna fish than anything he said about the pig being gutted. Because, to me, pigs are supposed to be eaten. Fish aren’t. This isn’t a blind hate, either-- I’ve tried just enough seafood dishes to come to my conclusion that it’s just not for me, thank you very much.
So, knowing my abhorrence for seafood, you can probably imagine what it was like to read “Tokyo Redux.” While seafood had been featured in plenty of other dishes throughout the book, the overabundance of catfish and clams in this chapter was too much for me to handle. I was absolutely incapable of comprehending how anything that features seafood to this extent could ever be dubbed “the perfect meal.”
Yet as I was reading this section, I was also struck by how, had the ingredients been anything else, the meal would have seemed wonderful. It was fresh, artfully prepared, and made from the highest quality ingredients available. It should have sounded good! Bourdain said that it was not only the best sushi and seafood he had ever eaten, but also one of the best meals he had ever eaten, period. This left me with mixed feelings; it was something I could understand on the one hand, and something I simply could not comprehend on the other.
So I came to the conclusion that no matter what anyone else has to say about the matter, “the perfect meal” is a myth. Food and taste are much too subjective to try to make a science out of it. There is no one answer to the question of what the perfect meal is. Because, if it came down to the choice between Bourdain’s gourmet sushi meal and a burger or two at the 24-hour diner near my house, I would undoubtedly pick the burgers.
The thing about the second half of the book that really got me thinking, though, was towards the beginning, when Bourdain was in Tokyo. The main premise of this book, of course, is to search for the “perfect meal.” It wasn’t until I reached the chapter on Tokyo that I realized I had been expecting him to find it. As I read through the first half of the book, I kept making mental notes of each place he visited and each meal he tasted, filing them away as if I would have to later judge and evaluate them for perfection. Reading the Tokyo chapter completely discredited this mindset, a mindset which I hadn’t even been fully aware of.
What was it about the Tokyo chapter that made me come to the conclusion that the perfect meal is truly a myth, unattainable and impossible to pinpoint no mater what anyone else says? Simple. I despise seafood.
My whole life, people have urged me to try seafood, to just eat a little bit, but I just can’t stomach it. I’m not sure what it is about fish and seafood that is so repulsing to me, but something about it makes me want to be sick. I hate fish, I hate shrimp. I hate oysters. I hate clams, I hate mussels. All of it, absolutely all of it, disgusts me. I was more disgusted by the description of the cutting up of the 400-pound tuna fish than anything he said about the pig being gutted. Because, to me, pigs are supposed to be eaten. Fish aren’t. This isn’t a blind hate, either-- I’ve tried just enough seafood dishes to come to my conclusion that it’s just not for me, thank you very much.
So, knowing my abhorrence for seafood, you can probably imagine what it was like to read “Tokyo Redux.” While seafood had been featured in plenty of other dishes throughout the book, the overabundance of catfish and clams in this chapter was too much for me to handle. I was absolutely incapable of comprehending how anything that features seafood to this extent could ever be dubbed “the perfect meal.”
Yet as I was reading this section, I was also struck by how, had the ingredients been anything else, the meal would have seemed wonderful. It was fresh, artfully prepared, and made from the highest quality ingredients available. It should have sounded good! Bourdain said that it was not only the best sushi and seafood he had ever eaten, but also one of the best meals he had ever eaten, period. This left me with mixed feelings; it was something I could understand on the one hand, and something I simply could not comprehend on the other.
So I came to the conclusion that no matter what anyone else has to say about the matter, “the perfect meal” is a myth. Food and taste are much too subjective to try to make a science out of it. There is no one answer to the question of what the perfect meal is. Because, if it came down to the choice between Bourdain’s gourmet sushi meal and a burger or two at the 24-hour diner near my house, I would undoubtedly pick the burgers.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Stealing Ronald McDonald's Dinner
Before I start critiquing the first 9 chapters of Stealing Buddha’s Dinner, I want to be sure that I make the point of how much I enjoyed them. Bich Minh Nguyen is a wonderful writer, and her memoir has been pleasant and enjoyable to read. The story is relatable, detailed, and personable, and it is partially because of these traits that reading it almost made me disgusted and somewhat depressed.
As I read stories about Nguyen’s early childhood, I was struck by how much she equated fitting in in the United States with eating the “right kinds” of food. She talked many times about her obsession with such “American delicacies” as Hamburger Helper, Toll House cookies, and Wonderbread. Reading such an intense and detailed narrative about a young immigrant’s obsession with finding her American identity through unhealthy, processed foods only affirmed my pre-existing opinions about America’s poor reputation.
Reading Nguyen’s memoir felt backwards to me. I was shocked when the Vietnamese dishes her grandmother made were described with distaste and resentment--I only wish I could be so lucky as to sample half of the foods she described. I had my own turn at distaste and resentment, though, when she described the various processed, packaged, and fast foods that she revered as an unattainable ideal. As the daughter of a working mother who was also quite a poor cook, I am all too familiar with these “American foods,” and my attitude towards them is little less than disgust.
It was shocking and sad to read, over and over again, Nguyen’s impression that true Americanism lay in the consumption and familiarity with these sorts of fatty, unhealthy foods. The story of the child who boasted about eating at McDonald’s three times a week was especially poignant--how can something that sounds so disgusting to me be so exciting for her, a child who lived a mere 20 years and 150 miles away from where and when I grew up.
The beauty of Nguyen’s writing was that in spite of all of these differences of opinion between myself and her, her memoir was extremely relatable for me. I could understand how her ache to belong could cultivate itself in such a way. I could understand her longing to fit in with the blonde, pig-tailed children around her. And, although I disagreed with it vehemently, I could understand how her need for approval could lead to such an obsession with American foods. It wasn’t Nguyen that I was upset with in any way, it was American culture. Because any society which encourages children to gorge themselves on candy, cookies, ice cream, and processed foods just for the sake of fitting in is, in my opinion, flawed beyond comprehension. All I can hope is that it is not flawed beyond fixing.
As I read stories about Nguyen’s early childhood, I was struck by how much she equated fitting in in the United States with eating the “right kinds” of food. She talked many times about her obsession with such “American delicacies” as Hamburger Helper, Toll House cookies, and Wonderbread. Reading such an intense and detailed narrative about a young immigrant’s obsession with finding her American identity through unhealthy, processed foods only affirmed my pre-existing opinions about America’s poor reputation.
Reading Nguyen’s memoir felt backwards to me. I was shocked when the Vietnamese dishes her grandmother made were described with distaste and resentment--I only wish I could be so lucky as to sample half of the foods she described. I had my own turn at distaste and resentment, though, when she described the various processed, packaged, and fast foods that she revered as an unattainable ideal. As the daughter of a working mother who was also quite a poor cook, I am all too familiar with these “American foods,” and my attitude towards them is little less than disgust.
It was shocking and sad to read, over and over again, Nguyen’s impression that true Americanism lay in the consumption and familiarity with these sorts of fatty, unhealthy foods. The story of the child who boasted about eating at McDonald’s three times a week was especially poignant--how can something that sounds so disgusting to me be so exciting for her, a child who lived a mere 20 years and 150 miles away from where and when I grew up.
The beauty of Nguyen’s writing was that in spite of all of these differences of opinion between myself and her, her memoir was extremely relatable for me. I could understand how her ache to belong could cultivate itself in such a way. I could understand her longing to fit in with the blonde, pig-tailed children around her. And, although I disagreed with it vehemently, I could understand how her need for approval could lead to such an obsession with American foods. It wasn’t Nguyen that I was upset with in any way, it was American culture. Because any society which encourages children to gorge themselves on candy, cookies, ice cream, and processed foods just for the sake of fitting in is, in my opinion, flawed beyond comprehension. All I can hope is that it is not flawed beyond fixing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)