The Secret Ingredient, Food should be food.

              So, having finished both the Dining out and eating in sections of the New Yorker book, I’ve been left with a very melancholy feel. It started out quite good, with a short, but fun and interesting look into the world of Beefsteak. This was a fun story, consisting most of BEEF & BEER.  It was uncivilized, fun, and messy sounding. But then we dive into the complete and utter opposite of this for the next few stories, and it’s a little disconcerting.

            This has for me become a book of contradictions. Perhaps that is a good thing, as the world of food is full of people who all think they’re right, and everyone else is wrong. In this way, the book greatly reflects the world, and such preconceived notions as that the best food can only be found in France. My own personal belief is something along the lines of Socrates, we’re all far too opinionated about things, doubly so when it comes to food.

            I certainly enjoyed reading some about the various meals in France, though I found myself having to look up dishes with a despairing frequency. Once or twice in a story is kind of cool, but when you have to look up more then half the mentioned dishes, the author is assuming you know more about what he or she is writing then they should. To be honest, most of these stories came out seeming a little snobbish, with a few exceptions.

            Bourdain’s small piece in fact manages to be both a little snobbish and as brutally honest as the first piece about Beefsteak. Even that though left me a little put off, as it showed a lot of the side of Bourdain that makes fun of vegetarians and disparages others just a bit too much.

            The Eating in section managed to avoid some of these issues, though brought a few of it’s own to the table (pun fully intended). It starts out with a good selection on secret ingredients, and Tripe, and each story seemed a little better told then the previous section’s. While I still had to look some stuff up, overall the authors tending to explain a bit better.

            In fact I found the story about casserole to be even a bit amusing, and not many of the stories so far had been remotely funny. Then again, those first three stories were all by the same person. But even the later ones were good, and the dialogue on the issues with cookbooks while seeming a little haughty, was also quite funny.

            I think my issue with this book arises from the fact it wasn’t written for me. These stories are written with a certain target audience in which I don’t fall. Part of the issue is I am quite blasphemous when it comes to food. I enjoy it. None of the stress of cooking ever touches me. If the meal doesn’t turn out good, well tough luck, I’ll eat it anyway. It’s not that I don’t care about other’s tastes, is that I don’t care if things turn out wrong. I roll with it. I don’t spend an hour and half deciding what to make, I pick the first things that pop to mind randomly. This book therefore ends up seeming more pretentious to someone like me then anything else. And there are some stories in it so far that aren’t like that, but as a whole, this simply isn’t the book for me.

My perfect meal

(well, here it is! tell me what you guys think. Two questions i have, is there enough tension through the piece to keep it intresting, and it's just a bit long, sod does it work at this length or should it be shorter? Oh! and i've had the damnest time getting pictures into this piece. I add them to the word doc and the entire comp freezes. I add em to the blog and firefox freezes, and then the comp freezes. X-X i've downsized the pics quite a bit, but still can't get them in. if anyone knows a way around this tell me, but might just be due to this being an old, and crappy comp.)

    The perfect meal

            It is common to hear, read, or talk about a “perfect meal.” Everyone has an opinion, and that is perhaps what makes it both such an interesting and such a difficult topic. The perfect meal for one person might be unappealing and inedible to another. To one person, the perfect meal might not even be food dependent, but is be more effected by with whom and where it is eaten. Other people might feel that the food is the only part that matters. So when challenged to make my own perfect meal, the question was not actually the making a perfect meal, but deciding in the first place what the hell I consider to be a perfect meal.

            It came down to two qualities. The first involved the food I would have to make, and in this regard it was easy enough to decide. The food would have to put forth a variety of flavors and at the same time be very satisfying. It would have to be first a meal that left you full and warm inside. Secondly, as for the feel of the meal itself, and who I ate it with, that took a little more thought. I grew up with a family that practiced a wonderful tradition: we ate together as a family. For me, there couldn’t be a lot of fuss and showiness.  It had to be a simple meal, with the family, in a casual manner.   And that is what I achieved, for more than one reason.

            With this much decided, next up was the menu. I chose to ignore the synergy between foods. I am well aware that some foods go better with others; I just don’t particularly care about that myself. Food is food is food.  With this in mind, I picked four very different and very good foods to have together. The first choice was easy- bread machine bread. I grew up with the stuff; it’s infectious and delicious scent, and wonderful fluffy warmth. Now it would be my turn to make it. Speaking of childhood favorites, my mind quickly turned to broccoli with melted cheese. This mix had been a long-standing favorite of mine, and also was healthy! Halfway there, I needed now only a dessert and a meat.

            Picking which meat I would use for this meal was complicated. I’m a great lover of meat, and a self-proclaimed carnivore. Would it be tender pork chops, or simple and delicious chicken legs? There were far too many choices, so I decided to go in another direction: fish. With fish it’s much easier, since I really only like tuna and salmon, and salmon won out in the end. One more item, dessert. For the longest time I’ve enjoyed making dessert. Be it cookies or cake, it was one of the best parts of baking for me. When I found out we had a box of red velvet cake, I dropped the idea of making chocolate cake to try the red velvet, something I’d never made before. The menu was set. But a bigger question now loomed before me.  It’s been a good while since I’ve last cooked. Would I be able to make this meal?

            Once Friday came around, I rolled out of bed and got to work answering that rather scary question. It started early, as the bread machine bread takes a while to cook. I got a ride home and went about figuring out how to do this. For the longest time I’d considered the bread machine to be some big, complicated process. From what little I knew, making bread by hand was far from simple, and even with the aid of a machine, in this case, I thought it would be rough. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Much to my delight and enjoyment, it became a simple task. All that was needed was to add the ingredients: flour, yeast, water, salt, oil, and a few other things all put into the machine and then left to bake. There was a touch of disappointment that it wasn’t as complex as I thought, but that was easily overcome by the calming simplicity of it. I liked that it wasn’t some large arduous task to make such good bread, but instead an act that merely required a few moments, the right ingredients, and the will to do it.

            Returning to college, I went through classes, my mind back on the bread churning away in the machine, being baked to perfection. That had gone smoothly enough, but what I was really worried about was the other three components. Broccoli can be touchy, and gross when over-cooked. Salmon burns easily, and I’d never attempted red velvet cake. It wasn’t long though, before I ended up confronting all three. But before I did, one other task remained. Upon returning home I pulled a fresh, warm, fluffy loaf of bread from the bread machine. One part down, three to go.

            The cake came next, the mix asking for the usual suspects: eggs, water, and oil. I don’t use a set of beaters to mix batter; I do it by hand with a spoon. It takes longer, but just feels right. It’s while I’m mixing that I see something unusual. For those who haven’t had red velvet cake before, it’s called “red” velvet for a reason. I looked down and was stirring a mixture that was unsettlingly blood red. Into the pan the batter went, and into the oven the pan went. Better to not ponder on just what it looked like at that point. What came out of the oven was a fluffy, incredibly rich, dark red cake, which more then made up for its initial appearance.

            The salmon was easier, thankfully, and less disturbing. It simply was plopped down into the pan, lathered with olive oil and broiled for ten minutes, poked and cut a bit, and then cooked for another ten or so. It was by far the simplest part of the meal to make. The broccoli on the other hand, was a bit more interesting. First, having washed and separated the pieces, I needed to cut and chop it into manageable bits. Being the adventurous soul that I am, I found the butcher’s cleaver and went to work. Despite the overkill of using that knife, it actually worked quite well, requiring only one or two quick chops. The cut broccoli was then tumbled down into the pan with some water, covered and left to cook. Timing here was essential, and at the critical moment, the pan was pulled from the heat. Now a rich, vibrant green, the broccoli was drained and put back into the pan, then mixed around with copious amounts of cheese and margarine. The meal was ready.

            So then we sit, just my parents and I, with my sister away at a cake decorating class.  She’s getting quite good at this art. The meal certainly didn’t disappoint. The bread was incredibly fluffy on the inside, and crunchy/crumbly on the outside.  The salmon came out wonderfully, flavorful and soft, unburned in most places. Finally the broccoli mixed well with the cheese, making a tasty combination. One plateful fills me up with ease, thanks in part to the filling properties of the bread.

            Last comes the cake, which is beautiful both in color and taste now. Thick, incredibly rich, and with a rather unique flavor, it requires little with it. Sitting back, very full, very satisfied, and very happy, I question myself. Is this what I wanted it to be? Was this meal indeed perfect? By the criteria I set it certainly was. It was homely, close and simple, eaten with just my parents and me. It filled us all right up, and offered several different and good tastes. Yet, more importantly for me, perhaps then any of those categories, I’d made it myself. I found then, sitting and resting after this perfect meal, that what made it more than just a good meal was that I’d made it myself and shared it with my family. That pride in having managed to cook an entire meal, with the instruction and help of my parents to be sure, but still, to have cooked it myself, was wonderful. A sense of responsibility and pride, these spices made the meal perfect.

 

Revised memoir

(here it is! )

There are a lot of meals I remember having with my family. We almost always ate together, and we all always participated in the making of the meal. This tradition became very valuable to me, especially in hindsight, and I can think of one particular meal that shows why. This meal actually started to be made the day before it was eaten. It started, with a bowl.

I open the off-white fridge door, and spot a large, ceramic bowl that is brown on the outside and white on the inside. The top is covered with a clouded plastic wrap to keep the contents safe, but I already know what lies within, and what it signifies. Pie. Even then, at age 13 I had quite the love for pie, especially homemade. My father’s pie starts here the day before it is cooked. He gently goes about making the dough, balling it up, and then refrigerating it. Slumbering within that covered bowl now is a large sphere of pie dough, a wondrous promise of tastiness to come.

            The next day rolls around, and the menu is already decided upon. Not for any occasion other than our shared desire to make something different and nice for this weekend, the meal will be warm beef stew, bread machine bread, and apple/pear pie--the fate of the dough glimpsed yesterday. Things kick off with the bread; the ingredients gathered and mixed by my father. The process is easy enough, but in its simplicity, the sheer act of creation, joy is found. My father takes the bread dough; kneading pressing it into the bread machine, to be further stirred, mixed, and then cooked.

            Now comes the first real involvement for me. I stand in front of the kitchen sink with a small soft green plastic and metal peeler in one hand and apples, carrots, potatoes in the other. My small but vital job is easy enough. Never have I nicked myself with the peeler, so I stand there, peeling away the skins of apples, and the rough, bumpy coats of potatoes. There’s a calming sense to it. This is not writing an essay, doing math homework, studying complex biology. This is simple bliss. There’s no pressure as things move along at a steady pace, and the slow rhythm of shearing off the outer coats of these fruits and veggies becomes almost calmingly hypnotic.

            Soon, though, it comes to an end. I pass along each white, naked piece of food to be chopped up into shards, chunks, or in the case of the carrots, coins. Apples and pears, sliced just so, get tossed together by my father with a mixture of sugar, cinnamon, corn starch, and a happy smile binding them together. A lovely, handmade crust settles on top, and my mouth can’t help but water at the sheer beauty of it. My father slides it with great care into the oven, and then the focus moves elsewhere.

            Now the only thing to be finished is the stew itself, which is made by my mother. The meat is first slashed and sliced deftly into manageable pieces, and placed in the pot to brown and sizzle along with spices: basil, bay leaf, sage, and marjoram. A master of spices and cooking in general, my mother always smiles when she makes stew, and those who eat it can’t help but smile as well. Then chunks of potato, coins of carrots, a tumbling golden cascade of corn, one after another, each ingredient leaps into the vat-like pot on the stovetop. Finally, my mom turns to cans of crushed tomato and tomato puree adding both before the lid comes down. Things are left to cook for hours, peacefully bubbling away.

            It is funny almost; the waiting game is always easiest at the start. We’ve finished all this, I’ve had lunch, and I settle in to read or play a game. But after a few hours, the scents have become to strong to ignore. As festive and as inviting as any parade, these scents march through every corner of the house. The scents of cooking meat, the warm, almost fluffy scent of bread, and a deeper, sweeter, indescribable scent of pastry and sweet fruit; homemade pie fill the house. There is no escaping these scents, and the desire they incite.

            Despite the wait, the end result is always worth it. The stew, over the course of the day, becomes a thick, luscious broth of meat, tomatoes and veggies that practically melt away in your mouth. The bread, pulled from the bread machine by my father and eagerly examined by my sister and I, radiates warmth and the promise of both a fluffy center and a crisp, crunchy crust. Lastly, the pie is pulled free, shimmering with heat, almost too beautiful to eat.

            My sister and I set plates and napkins around the table.. Drinks are poured and napkins placed at each spot, as my mother lights the candles one by one. Once again, the simplicity of the day shines through. Nothing has to be stressed or rushed, just a peaceful calmness so rarely present in our hectic lives. Everyone sits down before this lush panorama of food; it is time for the meal.

            Now the meal itself begins, and we all dig in with great eagerness. The meat has been cooked to perfection, in a melody of flavors, from potato to tomato. Homemade bread is either dipped in stew, or enjoyed on its own, and either way is incredibly satisfying. In this world of fast food, easy fat fried or grilled to death, there is something lost. The simplicity and satisfaction that only making your own dinner can provide seems to surpass all.

            Stuffed as well as any turkey, we sit back and rest for a long moment, letting things settle, and chatting happily. Then someone rises, the pie is fetched, along with fresh, cold vanilla ice cream. To each still-steaming, warm slice of pie, a large scoop or two of cool ice cream is added. The sweet, warm taste of pears and apples flows well with the smooth, lovely flavor of vanilla ice cream. The whole sweet concoction is intoxicating, both warm and cold at the same time, each bite is savored till it’s all finally finished. Despite how the week may have gone for any of us, this meals has made it a good week. Simple, delicious, and made by us all, there’s no better meal then this.

the omnivore's delimma

            As our time with Pollan comes to a close, I find myself both surer and more confused of my eating habits. Some of what he had to say really struck hard with me; I never knew for instance, just to what degree the corn craziness went in America. Also, I never had a clue about industrial organic, and how different that could be from the original ideal of Organic. Now here in this last section, he’s presented us with another truly interesting concept, and one I had no clue about before: The Omnivore’s Dilemma.

            This thought, that we are more susceptible to food confusion due to our ability as Omnivores to eat just about anything is fascinating. I can see how in our day to day life, presented with so many food choices as we are, it makes perfect sense that we could easily get confused, end up eating what ever is easiest on us, which very well may not be the best choice in terms of health.

            Also, I must congratulate Pollan because he’s one of the few who in simple discussion of the ethics surrounding us and meat eating, got me to really think about whether it is right or wrong to eat meat. I’m still in the school of omnivores, I like veggies, but I’m a meat eater to. I think that in today’s world though, it’s not such a simple choice anymore. Due to a large variety of factors and experiences, I’ve come to be very comfortable with the moral choice of eating meat. But where it used to be a simple choice, I think now as people are becoming more aware of the conditions our food animals have to endure, through books like this one, people are having to face the facts.

            Pollan manages to outline all the arguments and counterarguments for both sides, and in doing so, really makes you think about which side may be right, or which side you are on. For me, the fact that there are carnivores in nature makes it simpler. While I disagree with how we treat cows, and chickens, and while I think we should improve their living conditions and treatment, I still intend to eat them because it’s just…natural.

            All of the moral debate brought up by him aside, taking a look at the book as a whole, I really enjoyed reading this. While he does do a good job of spacing out the science, due to his writing style and methods, it can get very slow at times. Even then though, it remains quite interesting. Where Bourdain delved a little into where our food comes from, Pollan does so to a much greater degree.  Also, in diving into where our food comes from, Pollan focuses much more on the psychology of eating. He looks at what drives us to eat the way we do, and while he doesn’t offer any answers, he does do a good job of clearly showing us what is wrong with our methods. Overall, I’m very glad I got the chance to read this book.

is organic actually organic?

            We are presented with quite the moral quandary right from the get go in this part of the book. Suddenly something that has been a stable standby for years, the term “organic” may not have the meaning or the relevance we’ve thought it had. I honestly had no clue, none at all, that this was even possible. I’d bought rather fully into the ideal and idea that Organic food must be organic, couldn’t be anything else. Boy, was I wrong.

            In the end, like many other things, Organic became industrial. Pollan gives us a detailed history lesson in why exactly the organic movement fell to industrial standards. In a way, I can see why I happened, people have to make a living, and at the time, it seemed that going industrial was the only way to keep up. But there’s also the fact that now, the industrial organic food is no longer even what I would rightfully call organic. When synthetic flavorings are fully allowed, and letting a chicken roam for the last week of its life are the standards, the food produced a faux pas form of organic, organic in title alone.

            I got rather heated, rather angry about all this. Though Pollan explains why it happened, and does so calmly, I couldn’t believe it half the time. Perhaps part of this anger is from being deceived, believing as I did that those big name organic foods were actually organic. But it also makes me wonder. In all modesty, I like to think of myself as fairly well informed. Yet I knew nothing of this, so, how many Americans out there are frantically buying food labeled as organic and charging extra just to get something that isn’t really what it claims to be?

            Pollan points out the literary gymnastics performed by the writers of the organic labels, where they write everything they possibly can to convince one that this food is actually organic. Such is something that is to be expected from industrial anything in America, a side effect of capitalism at that. It’s not bad per say, but it is deceitful at best, in that fashion of not directly lying but not telling the truth either.

            Now, Pollan does give us hope though, or perhaps, a counterexample. Further into this part, we get a view into the ecologically based farm on which he stayed for a week. In this farm, everything is balanced, in a natural way. Chicken manure keeps the grass growing strong, grass keeps the cows strong, and the cow manure keeps the chickens strong. It’s cyclic, I believe Pollan even describes it as being looped, and that’s a good way to see it.

            This farm is truly organic, not perhaps due to lack of synthetics, but in how it functions. This farm functions on the basis of natural principles. It’s amazing to think that this entire farm is fully self sustained and doesn’t require much of anything but what it has to run. This is how we should be farming, this is what the title “organic” should invoke, working with nature, not against it, to create the food we require.

Children of the Corn...O-O

            As I read through this first part of the Omnivore’s Dilemma, one thought ran through my head again, and again. “Oh dear god, this means…this means we’re all children of the Corn!” For those that don’t know it, children of the corn is a gory, old horror film that I think has been remade several times. Either way, while we certainly are not psychopathic killers, we are indeed children of the Corn it seems.

            It is absolutely fascinating to me that we can trace Carbon through and figure out what percentage of us, came from corn. I’ve known for a long while about C4 plants, but I never realized they took in a certain carbon isotope. This book has already succeeded in not only teaching me about where our corn comes from, but also a good bit of the biology behind it.

            As for how it is written, while a little thick to read, it remains very interesting, and is well written. For the amount of actual science, be it agricultural, biological, or chemical, it’s often spread out into fairly manageable chunks. This lends well to the book itself, and makes it a bit easier of a read. Not only that though, the descriptions from animals to cornfield remains very riveting.

            On that note, while the whole first section was fascinating, what really caught my attention was the subsidation of corn, and how the government more or less trapped Corn farmers in a cycle they cannot get out of. It really struck me just how bad off some of them must have it. When you have to overplant your fields just to barely manage to pay off your bills, it’s time to find a solution. But because of how the system is currently set up to benefit the companies and not the farmers, there is no easy way out of this.

            For how pervasive corn is in our diet, it’s almost a tragedy that those that grow it for us have been treated this way. Sadly, I can see where it’s headed, most likely with large companies buying out farms one by one, and industrializing them, till there are no more farmers left. And I think that will be a very real tragedy, as farmers at least have some incentive to live peacefully with the land around them, large companies defiantly won’t, and the amount of pollution and over taxing of the land will only get worse.

            All in all, this book has been quite the read so far. I honestly am greatly looking forward to diving deeper into this interesting world set forth for us. I hope to learn even more about where the meals I eat in the café come from, and how things work.

memory of a meal

         The first memory that springs to mind is actually one of the day before the meal itself. It’s of opening the off-white fridge door, and spotting a large, ceramic bowl that is brown on the outside and white on the inside. The top is covered with a clouded plastic wrap to keep the contents safe, but I already know what lies within, and what it signifies. Pie. My father’s pie starts the day before, as the dough is made, balled up, and refrigerated. Slumbering within that covered bowl is a large sphere of pie dough, a wondrous promise of tastiness to come.

            The day rolls around, and the menu is already decided upon. Not for any occasion other than the desire to make something different and nice for this weekend, the meal will be warm beef stew, bread machine bread, and apple/pear pie the fate of the dough glimpsed yesterday. Things kick off with the bread, ingredients mixed, stirred together by my father. The process is easy enough, but in the simpleness of it, the sheer act of creation, joy is found. Bread dough now is kneaded and pressed into the bread machine, to be stirred, mixed, and cooked.

            Now comes the first real involvement for me, standing in front of the kitchen sink, a small soft green plastic and metal peeler in one hand, apples, carrots, and potatoes in the other. My small, but vital job, is easy enough. Never have I nicked myself with the peeler, so I stand there, peeling away the skins of apples, and the rough, bumpy coats of potatoes. There’s a calming sense to it. This is not writing an essay, doing math homework, studying complex biology. This is simple bliss. There’s no pressure, things are moving along steadily, and the slow, calming rhythm of shearing off the outer coats of these fruits and veggies becomes almost calmingly hypnotic.

            Soon though it comes to an end, each white, naked piece of food passed along to be chopped up into shards, chunks, or in the case of the carrots, coins. Apples and pears, sliced just so, are combined with a mixture of sugar, cinnamon, and corn starch, binding them together. A lovely, handmade crust settles on top, and one’s mouth can’t help but water at the sheer beauty of it. It is slid with great care into the oven and the focus moves elsewhere.

            Now the only thing to be finished is the stew itself, which is made by my mother. The meat is first, slashed and sliced deftly into manageable pieces, and placed in the pot to brown and sizzle along with spices: basil, bay leaf, sage, and margoram.  Then chunks of potato, coins of carrots, a tumbling golden cascade of corn, one after another, each ingredient tumbles into the vat-like pot on the stovetop. Finally, cans of crushed tomato and tomato puree are added and the lid comes down. Things are left to cook for hours, peacefully bubbling away..

            It is funny almost; the waiting game is always easiest at the start. We’ve finished all this, I’ve had lunch, and I settle in to read or game. But after a few hours, the scents begin. As festive, and as inviting as any parade, these scents march through every corner of the house. Cooking meat, the warm, almost fluffy scent of bread, and a deeper, sweeter, indescribable scent of pastry and sweet fruit; homemade pie. There is no escaping these scents, and the desire they incite.

            Despite the wait, the end result is always worth it. The stew over the course of the day becomes a thick, luscious broth of meat, tomatoes and veggies that practically melt away in your mouth. The bread, pulled from the bread machine, radiates warmth and the promise of both a fluffy center and a crisp, crunchy crust. Lastly, the pie is pulled free, shimmering with heat, almost too beautiful to eat.

            Places are set, and things cleared away, clean, swept and put in place. Drinks are poured and napkins placed at each spot, as my mother lights the candles one by one. Once again, the simplicity of the day shines through. Nothing has to be stressed or rushed, just a peaceful calmness so rarely present in our hectic lives. Everyone sits down before this lush panorama of food; it is time for the meal.

            Now the meal itself begins, and we all dig in with great eagerness. The meat has been cooked to perfection, in a melody of flavors, from potato to tomato. Homemade bread, is either dipped in stew, or enjoyed on its own, and either way is incredibly satisfying. In this world of fast food, easy fat fried or grilled to death, there is something lost. The simplicity and satisfaction that only making your own dinner can provide seems to surpass all.

            Stuffed as well as any turkey, we sit back and rest for a long moment, letting things settle, and chatting happily. Then someone rises, the pie is fetched, along with fresh, cold vanilla ice cream. To each still-steaming, warm slice of pie, a large scoop or two of cool ice cream is added. The sweet, warm taste of pear and apples flows well with the smooth, lovely flavor of vanilla ice cream. The whole sweet concoction is intoxicating, both warm and cold at the same time, each bite is savored till it’s all finally finished.

            This meal comes to mind easily, yet is only really representative of something very important to me in my life. My family rarely ate out; we preferred to almost always make our own meals. This not only helped draw us together as a family, it was also a rich, and fulfilling experience everyday, and provided a quality of tastes and satisfaction that fast food can never match.  These meals were about being together, as a family, and about enjoying good, well-made food, both things to be cherished.