Process Writing

My writing process over the past 10 weeks has mostly been based on the pick an idea and run with it method. I brain stormed for each piece and then based a story and a structure around the first idea I liked. The first assignment, the memoir, required the most brain storming. Originally I wanted to base my memoir around my mom and family but it was difficult to come up with a solid foundation for this idea. I don’t remember home in concrete details, rather, the past comes to me in feelings and the usual things that happened because much of growing up is one big cloudy memory, often colored with a rosy hue. So instead, I decided to write about a dating experience because those generally involve food and can be quite memorable.

I received an unexpected amount of positive feedback from my first and second drafts but this was surprising to me because though I knew my piece was funny, it didn’t have a much deeper meaning for me. The next assignment was the perfect meal and I choose to carry over my original idea from the first paper. I decided to talk about family. I began with my mom in mind but several characters including my dad and my brother worked their way into the story and I didn’t realize until my workshop day that I had a lot of revisions to work on.

Throughout the quarter I have been frustrated by the discrepancy between how I feel about my writing and how it is actually perceived. When I thought I wrote something sub-par I came to find out that it wasn’t that bad and vice versa when I was sure I had written a winning piece. I was almost positive that my restaurant critique did not critique the food well enough but alas, that was the part that worked. I’m not sure how to work on a problem like this and maybe these instances are outliers but if anyone has insight I welcome it.

The hardest part about this class has been writing for a blog. As much time as I spend on the internet I didn’t post or comment nearly as much as I could or should have. It’s definitely a habit that didn’t quite form. But I also liked the blogs because I really enjoyed experiencing the writing of so many great writers. Although I tend to be defensive of my writing when criticized, I found that I could be much more receptive of workshop advice in our class because I respected everyone’s writing abilities so much.

A breakthrough for me was trying to focus on the most basic elements before attempting more complicated techniques. I did my best to hone in on theme and structure including transitions and subtly presenting an arc for the story. My biggest weakness in writing is saying too much with too little space and too little detail. Workshops were incredibly useful for my writing process. They don’t always work but they really worked in our class. I think what contributed to that was reading the pieces the night before and posting preliminary comments.

I enjoyed food and travel writing immensely, what a great seminar right?!

Shawarma-licious! (Review Revision)

[Written for The Index]

Nestled in-between Roma’s Pizza and the railroad tracks that intersect South Drake Road, the Lebanese restaurant, Shawarma King, welcomes people in from the parking lot. Because the sign doesn’t face the road directly, it is easy to miss.

The Chef and owner, Nidal Awad, was born and raised in the Middle East. After working as the head chef of a hotel for several years Nidal moved to the United States. He now owns Shawarma House, located on Western’s campus, in addition to Shawarma King.

Three tacky toy dispensers greet guests upon arrival—Voodoo dolls, Tattoos, and Bok Choy Boys for 50 cents a piece. A mural covers the wall facing the entrance. It depicts a serene landscape, a shepherd herding his flock near a river with mountains in the distance. Shawarma King is a seat-yourself restaurant unless you order take-out or delivery, a viable option for Kalamazoo College students, because it is only five miles away from campus.

A window behind the front counter offers a glimpse of the kitchen; two large Shawarma rotisseries give a tantalizing sneak peak of what is to come. Shawarma is made by alternately stacking strips of fat and pieces of seasoned meat (beef, lamb or marinated chicken) on a stick. Shawarma is a fast-food staple across the Arab world and in parts of Europe.

To the left of the first few tables is a mural of a Lebanese woman behind a veil, making pita over an open flame, sand and camels fill in the background. There is a jade tree on the sill of one of the giant windows among other plants and middle-eastern décor—clay pots and a water jug. A WMU flag is represented on one side of the room, supporting the Western Broncos. A couple of Shawarma King T-shirts also adorn the walls. One shows the front design while the other reveals the back.

In the back of the seating area guests can see a striking and bright rendition of the Dome of the Rock painted on the wall. Its artistic perspective is particularly interesting; it’s as if the viewer is much smaller than the building, a child maybe, representing an idea of cosmic insignificance. 

Except for the art work, the peachy orange walls and light-brown grated floor tiles leave much to be desired. Shawarma King is an unimpressive restaurant, until you try their food.

The appetizers arrive almost immediately after requested, Hummus, Falafel, and Meat Grape Leaves. The portion sizes are large. Lebanese cuisine is similar to those of many countries in the eastern Mediterranean but each country has their own variations. The portion sizes are culturally significant because a common practice in the Middle-East is hosting for groups of people in the home. This gives the meals a very communal feel. Another common practice is to begin meals with mezze, small savory dishes served with drinks that lead up to the main courses.

The Grape Leaves, rice and lamb are wrapped up in a tight leafy roll, have an interesting quality—the leaves have a texture like that of spinach but thinner and tougher. Lemon juice adds a subtle sweetness but the overall texture is somewhat dry. The Falafel on the other hand is divine. Herbs, spices and chick pea flour fried and dipped in lumpy fresh yogurt, the Falafel is crunchy and doughy in just the right proportion. It’s like a Lebanese hush puppy that’s healthier and more delicious.

Hommous is the yummy constant that keeps coming back throughout the meal. Paprika, lemon juice, parsley, onions and tomato tastes light and refreshing garnished with real Mediterranean olives, the hommous starts the meal off right.

The Lentil soup was very light, a bright yellow color, and a little salty. But the Fattoush was incredible. The house dressing was savory and not too sweet. Fried pita garnishes the Lebanese salad, like a crouton but without the intense crunch.

The service is fast, polite and knowledgeable. Kalamazoo College students who prefer Coke can find a welcome change from Cafeteria Pepsi products in their favorite cola at Shawarma. On Saturday night there is a constant stream of customers but without a sense of crowdedness.

Eastern sounding music plays in the background and is a subtle addition to atmosphere. The tambourine does not drown out the child screaming at the next table over but the Galaya almost can. The sauce is warm and comforting in this sauté of beef, fresh vegetables, herbs, and spices. The Arayas, ground beef, tomato, onion, parsley, and homemade spice toasted in pita bread is meaty and filling. However, Mixed Kabab is the entrée with the tenderest meat. The Mixed Shawarma with a side of fries is a little dry but with yogurt it moistens. The fries are thick and starchy. The beefy, light, fresh flavor of the Beef Shawarma Sandwich is a great menu item that tastes beefy but not too heavy.

The cardamom tea is a subtly sweet way to end an evening but it takes a while to brew once ordered. If there is no time to enjoy it on a first visit, try it on the second. Shawarma King isn’t a restaurant to visit only once. Whether it’s the hommous, or the Lentil soup, or the Galaya, or any of the other options available, the food is worth going back for even if it’s take-out. Go with a large group and try everything or take a few close friends and enjoy the inevitable leftovers—because it’s better than Caf food and with low prices and college discounts it’s affordable too!

Hommous—$4.50 SM, $5.50 MD, $6.50 LG

Falafel—$6.50 (10 Pieces)

Meat Grape Leaves—$6.50 (10 Pieces)

Fattoush—$4.50 SM, $5.50 MD, $6.50 LG

Lentil Soup—$2.00 (Cup), $2.50 (Bowl)

Beef Shawarma Sandwich—$2.95

Galaya—$6.95 (Beef, Chicken, or Shrimp)

Mixed Shawarma—$6.95

Arayas—$10.95

Mixed Kabob—$10.95

Lebanese tea with cardamom—$1.35

Part 3

I thought I would find a totally unique experience at Shawarma King. I expected there to be a specific atmosphere—maybe some art work involving a camel and desert sands. There were decorations that fell under this expectation like the woven pieces of fabric on the walls; one of them included a camel! But on the walls there was also a Western Broncos flag and T-shirts advertising the restaurant. The atmosphere was a Lebanese-American mixture. I didn’t think that the owners had attempted to re-create an experience but rather the atmosphere suggested that they brought pieces of Lebanon and added them to the casual American dining experience.

The market I viewed in the fictional city of Agrabah wasn’t in dissonance with my assumptions necessarily. Lebanese food is mostly constructed of relatively cheap ingredients put together in a specific way to create a satisfying dining experience. Pita, chick peas, herbs and spices are integral aspects of the cuisine. I could imagine these ingredients being picked up in a market on a street in Lebanon.

I knew that authenticity was a problematic idea even before reading “Culinary Tourism”. So when I ate at Shawarma King I wasn’t attempting to apply authenticity to my experience. However, I will say that from my view of the owners’ choice of food and place I felt that they presented an honest, or authentic if you must, sample of their culture. Especially compared to what I know of Zooroona, I was very pleased with Shawarma King’s unassuming presentation. While Zooroona purposefully puts forth an image of the middle-east I think Shawarma King puts forth an image that speaks to a certain transparency. Shawarma King clearly has a mix of east and west and it seems to be an intentional choice.

The food didn’t look “utterly foreign” as I expected it might. But it was made with ingredients I do not consume on a usual basis and they were arranged in way I would not have known before experiencing it for myself. My understanding of authenticity is inherently complicated because it’s a complicated notion.

What I heard while reading “Culinary Tourism” was that the way I had thought of authenticity before was as a static historical notion of a way something was before. Before what though and what about the unending and transformative march of time? If I can’t think of authenticity as an historical constant that can be re-created and experienced then I prefer not to think of it. I would rather speak in terms of honesty and transparency and perspectives than a mystical authenticity. And this is what I will take from this assignment and bring to future tourist experiences. When I am confronted with thinking about authenticity I plan on reframing the question. I am now more aware than ever that the only true perspective I can speak to is my own. I have to allow my synthesis to reflect this fact.

Comfort Food from Lebanon

[Written for The Index] 

The first thing to notice is the tacky toy dispensers, various tattoo options 50 cents a piece, little voodoo dolls and bok choy boys that come out of the machine down a shoot in little containers that look like flying saucers. A mural stands before waiting customers, a serene landscape depicting a shepherd herding his flock near a river and mountains in the distance.

Patrons walk past the front counter and can catch a glimpse of the kitchen scene through the order window. To the left of the first few tables is a mural of a Lebanese woman, behind a veil, making pita over an open flame, sand and heat and camels are in the distant background.

The peachy orange walls and light-brown grated floor tiles leave much to be desired. Shawarma King is an unimpressive restaurant, until you try their food.

It is a seat yourself restaurant. In the back seating area guests are greeted with a slightly off rendition of the Dome of the Rock painted on one of the back walls in the dining area. Its proportions are somewhat askew though it is quite beautiful.

There is a jade tree on the sill of one of the giant windows among other plants and middle-eastern décor like pots and a water jug. A WMU flag is represented on one side of the room, supporting the Western Bronco’s. A couple of Shawarma King T-shirts also adorn the walls. One shows the front design while the other reveals the back.

The appetizers arrived almost immediately after they were requested, Hummus, Falafel, and Meat Grape Leaves. The first thing to notice before the taste is the incredible portion sizes. Lebanese cuisine is similar those of many countries in the Eastern Mediterranean but according to my Lebanese friends, it’s the best. The portion sizes are culturally significant because a common practice in the middle-east is to be host to group of people. This gives the meals a very communal feel which is also why it begins with mezze, small savory dishes, leading up to the main courses. Once the taste hits you this becomes even more important because you’ll want to keep coming back for more.

The Grape Leaves had a unique flavor—rice and lamb are wrapped up in a tight leafy roll. Lemon juice adds a subtle sweetness but the overall taste is somewhat dry. The Falafel on the other hand is divine. Herbs, spices and chick pea flour fried to perfection and dipped in lumpy fresh yogurt, the Falafel is crunchy and doughy in just the right proportion. It’s like a Lebanese hush puppy that’s tastes healthier and more delicious. And in the east it it’s different wherever you go—quick, easy, and plentiful Falafel is sold from small shops set up out in the open like hotdogs in American big cities.

Hommous is the yummy constant that keeps coming back throughout the meal. Paprika, lemon juice, parsley, onions and tomato tastes light and refreshing garnished with real Mediterranean olives, the hommous starts the meal off right.

The Lentil soup was very light, a bright yellow color, and a little salty. I have had better. But the Fattoush was incredible. The house dressing was savory and not too sweet. The fried pita was better than any crouton in this middle-eastern salad.

The service continued to be fast, polite and knowledgeable. I was delighted to find Coke on the drink list rather than Pepsi. On Saturday night there was a constant stream of customers and if dining in isn’t for you they also deliver take out.

On to the main courses, eastern sounding music in the back ground is a subtle addition to atmosphere, as Beef Galaya, Arayas, Mixed Kabab, Mixed Shawarma and a Beef Shawarma sandwich are some of the best. The tambourine doesn’t quite drown out the child screaming at the table next to me but the Galaya almost does. The sauce is excellent in this sauté of beef, fresh vegetables, herbs, and spices.

The Arayas, ground beef, tomato, onion, parsley, homemade spice and toasted in pita bread, is full of flavor and well spiced. Mixed Kabab is the tenderest meat on the table. The Mixed Shawarma with fries fell a little flat—a little dry but with yogurt it has a good flavor and the fries are as well done, thick and potatoey. But the beefy, light, fresh flavor of the Beef Shawarma sandwich is a great menu item that tastes homey and full of mom’s love. The cardamom tea took too long to try but Shawarma King isn’t the kind of place you only visit once.

Expectations

I loved Aladdin growing up. And I think I actually watched the old VHS more in my teenage years than I ever did before the age of 10. There isn’t much dining that takes place in the film but in the fictional city of Agrabah street vendors sell melons, pistachios, sugar dates and figs as well as apples.I wanted to try middle-eastern food for my restaurant critique because it is one of the only cuisines that I don’t have many preconceived notions for. I have many notions of the middle-east but they do not surround its food. I know that lentil soup is a must try when I visit Shawarma King, a Lebanese restaurant on S. Drake in Kalamazoo. I had considered going to Zooroona instead, they also serve Lebanese/middle-eastern cuisine, however, the owners of the place are actually Pakistani. I expect the food to look utterly foreign. The majority of the dishes on their menu, I have never heard of before. But one of the reasons I chose Lebanese food was that two of my close friends are half Lebanese and I’m hoping that they will be able to decipher, make excellent ordering suggestions as well as eat a lot of food that I can then sample.

 I pretty nervous about the project—to write a restaurant review. I will have the added challenge of going into the ordeal with strep throat, a very painful condition that causes loss of appetite and exhaustion. It’s hard to believe but yesterday I finally went to the health center to antibiotics for the walking pneumonia or bronchitis I’ve had for a month straight and today, the second day of my antibiotic regime I have clear white spots mocking me from on top of my tonsils saying, you can’t win! You are doomed to be sick until the end of the quarter, maybe longer, only time will tell! I’m going to the doctors before dinner; hopefully they can give me some relief. For now I’m just glad that I have several friends, two of them Lebanese, with great appetites to assist and guide me.

I have tried one Lebanese selection however, and that is there cardamom coffee. My friend Aaron has made it several times and I am excited to try Shawarma King’s version!

Love, Mom

We hadn’t had a family dinner in a long time. When we gathered together at home on a Sunday afternoon not too long ago, childhood memories floated back to me and I was reminded of how much I miss it when I am away at college. My family, our guests and I, all crowded around a lovely piece of patio furniture, meant for four but seating eight instead. We used to have a brown rectangular dining table, more fit for indoor dining, but after my brother bought a house my mom gave him the table as part of his house warming present. The piano behind where my dad sat looks unassuming, like always, a backdrop for the wall. It was used as an extra surface for the dinner rolls that night. My dog Piper and the two cats, Cally and Tiger, hovered anxiously around the table legs. “Dig in”, my mom said as she ran to the kitchen for one more thing—honey, essential for bread rolls. I was over zealous with the serving spoon, as I often am, and I knew as soon as I tasted the first hardy bite of my perfect meal, Beef Bourguignon, and my eyes looked down at my ample helping, that I had taken too much.

The veggies and the button mushrooms had been purchased by my mom at our local grocery, Wagoner’s, except for the pearl onions. I picked up those up from Meijer on my way out of Kalamazoo. When I arrived in Lawton and walked up the front steps, brick and crumbling, my mom ran out to greet me and to help carry in my laundry. Bringing home the dirty clothes is a natural routine for any college sophomore staying home for an evening.

When we settled ourselves in the kitchen, ready to turn whole foods into fractions, I was eager to finally be cooking with my mom. I had never cooked on my own before and it wouldn’t be a perfect meal if I didn’t have company. My mom was an obvious choice, after her long years of feeding a family of five and never once complaining. To me she is the best cook around.

I remembered to wash my hands before we began all the chopping that had to be done. I started by slicing the taut red bell peppers while my mom turned the heat on under our flour coated meat. My mom poured a glass of wine and the winter sun shining through the kitchen windows made the drink sparkle. She peeled carrots in the sink as I moved on to the purple onions. I kept thinking about how my chopping skills would be useless to a trained chef but also how it didn’t matter. It would taste delicious either way. The carrots were my least favorite to cut up because they were much tougher than the other ingredients and I always ended up banging the knife against the cutting board trying the whole time to be gentle but falling short each time.  

Dinnertime togetherness had been a requirement for most of my life and the chopping made me think about how noble my mom’s efforts had been—trying to keep us at the table while we were pulling away. Mandatory family dinner slowly disappeared as high school and sports took over my life and then in turn, did the same to my sister Nicole two years later. My brother Joel is two years older than me but he doesn’t have the same tendency to put too much on his plate. Dinnertime eventually degenerated into serve your self at your convenience dinners in front of the TV. I was excited to be bringing the family back to the table, even though it was only for one night.

Joel sat between me and his girlfriend from Chicago, Tieren. On my right sat Aaron, my close friend from Kalamazoo College. Next to him sat Nicole and her boyfriend Brandon followed by my mom and dad. Everyone enjoyed the meal. To my siblings and their guests I surmise it was mostly just another free meal from a familiar kitchen with an extra helper, me. But for me and my parents, I know that it was precious time together at home. Aaron was happy to be supporting my cooking endeavors and he is quite a foodie so when he said it was delicious I knew it was true.

I had been overwhelmed the week of the assignment—to make the perfect meal and write about it. I was sick again, second time in five weeks. Since my mom is my closet collaborator in life, I knew she wouldn’t see my request for help as laziness, though I admit it felt that way. But either way, my idea for the perfect meal had more to do with family and friends than any specific dish. The important part was being home and cooking with my mom.

She even picked out the recipe. She recently revisited her interest in Julia Child and her cooking, first with the viewing and then the purchase of the movie Julie and Julia and later by acquiring the cook book, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. The recipe she found, however, came from food.com and was a variation on the famous stew that Julia Child is known for. She sent her findings in an email:

Hi Baby!

Went looking for some main dish mushroom recipes ... and one of them listed was a variation on Julia Child's Beef Bourguignon (basically, a yummy beef stew) - the variation being that it is EASIER and much less time consuming to make.

Love, Mom

I had just read Michael Pollen’s adventures in foraging for mushrooms from The Omnivore’s Dilemma so when I had called my mom about the project and asked her for her help I informed her that fungi was a requirement. I acquired a taste for mushrooms around the age of 10 simply because of their unique taste and texture. My dad always insisted that they were the food of the gods and so I fell in love with their mysticism too. I knew my parents and I would appreciate the little decomposers, and that was what really mattered. Instead of beef though, I had the idea to use venison. An old work friend of my dad’s fills our freezer with the stuff every year and I thought it would go well with the mushrooms; I wanted to aim more toward the forest instead of the pasture, especially after watching Food Inc.

It all looked so beautiful mixed together in the large roasting pan we used to cook the stew in. First the peppers were added, little red rubies brightening up the meat. Next the purple onion pieces and the chunks of carrot followed by the mushrooms and a bay leaf. Finally, my mom and I pealed the small pearl onions, the size of ping-pong balls. She didn’t know it but we were competing for the fastest peeler award. There flaky outsides were difficult to remove and I wanted to make sure I did the most work. I knew how much work she had done for this meal, and I wished I had done more but at the same time, I knew that she really didn’t mind. Giving up her time and energy for others is a common practice for my mom. She does this. I can only hope that I will grow up to be as unselfish as my mom one day. As she rushed off at five o’ clock to work a shift she recently picked up on Sunday nights to make paying tuition easier, I mustered up the strength to do some work for her. I prepared to tackle the dishes, a minuscule token of gratitude for her unmatched awesomeness as my mother.

CYOA: Bizarre Foods

I want to talk about Bizarre foods in relation to food shortages for my adventure. I  found this article and I was really interested in talking about the possibility of using untapped 'bizarre' food sources in countries such as America. I am referring specifically to insects, rodents, spiders, and other similar sources of unused calories. I found an Andrew Zimmerman video from his show, Bizarre Foods, that briefly discusses the option of rodents as a viable menu option or this video that discusses bugs. The article I found talks about food riots and how the imminence of a disaster depends on each seasons harvest. The problem is a global one, not always salient in American society. So my question do you think American could or would ever develop an interest in eating bizarre foods in order to help out the global food supply issues. I honestly don't know if I could change my eating habits so drastically but such a cause. Like most things the change would have to be gradual but as the Global food supply article suggests, we might not have much time. The green movement seems to be here to stay but would it go so far as to seek out bizarre foods? What are your thoughts?

These quotes are directly from the article--my highlights:

"For Malthus, famine was inevitable because the math of human existence did not add up: the means of subsistence grew only arithmetically (1, 2, 3), whereas population grew geometrically (2, 4, 8). By this analysis, food production could never catch up with fertility. Malthus was wrong, on both counts."

"The problem is not just the number of mouths to feed; it’s the quantity of food that each mouth consumes when there are no natural constraints."

"As of 2006, there were eight hundred million people on the planet who were hungry, but they were outnumbered by the billion who were overweight. Our current food predicament resembles a Malthusian scenario—misery and famine—but one largely created by overproduction rather than underproduction. Our ability to produce vastly too many calories for our basic needs has skewed the concept of demand, and generated a wildly dysfunctional market."

"What we are witnessing is not the end of food but a market on the brink of failure. Those bearing the brunt are, as in Malthus’s day, the people at the bottom."

"For Patel, it is a short step from Western consumers “engorged and intoxicated” with cheap processed food to Mexican and Indian farmers committing suicide because they can’t make a living. The “food industry’s pabulum” makes us all cogs in an evil machine."

"Too many years—and, in the West, too many subsidies—are invested in the setup of big single-crop farms to let producers abandon them when the going gets tough"

"Our insatiable appetites are not simply our own; they have, in no small part, been created for us. This explains, to a certain degree, how the world can be “stuffed and starved” at the same time, as Patel has it. The food economy has created a system in which some have no food options at all and some have too many options, albeit of a somewhat spurious kind."

"Pollan offers a model of how individual consumers might adjust their appetites: “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” As a solution, this is charmingly modest, but it is unlikely to be enough to meet the urgency of the situation. How do you get the whole of America—the whole of the world—to eat more like Michael Pollan?"

"The good news is that one developing country has, in the past two decades, conducted a national experiment in a more sustainable food system, proving that it is possible to feed a population less destructively. Farmers gave up synthetic fertilizers and pesticides and replaced them with old-fashioned crop rotations and mixed livestock-crop operations. Big industrial farms were split into smaller coöperatives. The bad news is that the country is Cuba, which was forced to make the switch after the fall of the Soviet Union left it without supplies of agrochemicals. Cuba’s experiment depended on its authoritarian state, which commanded the “reallocation” of labor from cities to farms. Even on Cuba’s own terms, the experiment hasn’t been perfect. On May Day, Raúl Castro announced further radical changes to the farm system in order to reduce reliance on imports. Paul Roberts notes that there is no chance that Americans and Europeans will voluntarily adopt a Cuban model of food production. (You don’t say.) He adds, however, that “the real question is no longer what a rich country would do voluntarily but what it might do if its other options were worse.”"

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2008/05/19/080519crat_atlarge_wilson#ixzz1FN0AZAff

That Don't Impress Me Much

I could get into Michael Pollen's writing in the Omnivore’s Dilemma but this is was too much. Every dining out section from Secret Ingredients made me want to give the bird to the next pretentious person I came across. The writing was aimed toward an audience that, of course, has been to France or knows the French language. It seems that you can’t be a true "foodie" unless you make it your life's passion or have enough money to make it a secondary one. I did enjoy the first story, All You Can Hold for Five Bucks, because of its history, though I didn't particularly appreciate the attention to sexism. I also liked the nostalgia and the attention to detail.

That same attention to detail however was exhausting and confusing in the subsequent chapters.

I was so surprised by how much I disliked reading the works of A.J. Liebling (A Good Appetite and The Afterglow) that I wasn’t even sure how to pin point all the reasons why. What appeared to be precise detail, I realized with the help of Anthony Lane’s piece, Look Back in Hunger from the dining in section was actually annoying and distracting trains of thought—well thought out and complexly presented trains of thought but confusing nonetheless. 

In the chapter on M. Point, The Finest Better and Lots of Time, he says, “you can’t think of money, or you’re licked from the start” (23). I have trouble with this statement, as well as with the assumption that people have the time in their lives to make cooking such a priority. I agree that cooking is an art form. However, it seemed in the first few chapters of the dining out section the authors expected that every one should want to partake in the creation and admiration of cooking as an art. I felt condescension and pretention as I read Mitchell, Wechsberg, Liebling, Gopnik, Bourdain and Harrison—especially Harrison, his telling of the 50 course meal he partook of seemed unconscionable to me.

The section I appreciated the most was Anthony Lane’s, Look Back in Hunger, from the dining in section. I felt that this author and this story was actually on my side while the others from dining out seemed to be attacking me. I think Lane’s piece reads the most honestly. I enjoyed his characterization of Martha Stewart and his reference to David Cronenberg! Like Liebling he covered a lot of ground in his article but he did so without making me feel overwhelmed. I had never considered cookbooks before but now that I have I think Lane gets it mostly right.

For the Love of Mushrooms and Family

We didn’t say grace, but we were together. I think my mom decided that was more important. Venison, vegetables, fungi, a bottle of wine and a class assignment brought my parents and their children to the dining room Sunday afternoon. My sister Nicole, my brother Joel and I all brought our significant others as guests. Eight people sat crammed together sitting at various parts of a round glass table, the piece of patio furniture was there in place of a modest wooden table that would have fit our group more comfortably had my mother not given it to my Joel, a proud new homeowner. Three bottles of sparkling grape juice stood elegantly in front of my sister and I, next to the main dish. We would soon fill our glasses greedily with the fine taste of sophistication, competing for maximum consumption, a tradition that goes back to the first New Year’s Eve celebration I can remember. When my decision to make my perfect meal solidified on a variation of Julia Child’s Beef Bourguignon I knew my dad would enjoy it as much as I would because of all the mushrooms. I was nervous about the assignment until I made a phone call.

I’d been sick for what seemed like an age, but dramatics aside, it had actually only been a few days. Regardless, I wasn’t in the mood to do much of anything, period. But it was imperative that my mission be completed regardless of how I was feeling. I had been sent on a quest to make the perfect meal. To begin with, I knew I would need a cohort—I called my mother.

“I’m coming home on Sunday”, I said, “and I want to make dinner for the family. Can you help me?” The next day I got an email with an idea for a recipe.

Hi Baby!

Went looking for some main dish mushroom recipes ... and one of them listed was a variation on Julia Child's Beef Bourguignon (basically, a yummy beef stew) - the variation being that it is EASIER and much less time consuming to make.

Love, Mom

I was ecstatic when I received this message in my inbox. On the phone, I had asked my new partner in cooking to look for recipes with mushrooms as a major ingredient. I was planning on doing the same so we could compare notes, but she beat me to it. I went to food.com and checked out the recipe, which basically meant looking at the pictures. The images were appealing and I decided that Beef Bourguignon sounded splendid—though I’m not sure how it actually sounds, phonetically, that is, because I am not familiar with French pronunciations.

This all happened during the dark ‘middle-week’ when I came back from class and slept until morning between fits of coughing and cold sweats. By Thursday I had another favor to ask. In my darkened sick room I picked up my dorm phone and hoped my mother wouldn’t mind collecting the ingredients for me. She knows I’m on a budget as well as on a figurative death bed, in the throes of the flu, so she gladly accepted my plea. But before hanging up we ran through the guest list. My parents, along with Nicole and her inseparable boyfriend, Brandon, would be there for sure as well as myself and my boyfriend, Aaron, we’re quite inseparable ourselves sometimes. The big question was, “Should I invite Joel”? Only you if I wanted to, my mother replied. With trepidation I decided he and his girlfriend Tieren were invited as long as he truly wanted to attend. One of the most memorable moments I can convey to describe my trepidation goes back farther than my memory but it’s caught on tape!

Joel and I are on the back porch of our house, it’s the same back porch that’s snowy and wet today but in the home video the summertime sunshine has us in our bathing suits playing around a tub of water where a single dirty wash cloth calls to us both. I reach into the water grasping for the gray ball of fun and filth while Joel does the same. He beats me to it. Holding the cloth triumphantly in one hand and a rusty sprinkler that looks an awful lot like a dagger in the other, I stand defeated. I give it one more try but as soon as I make my move Joel shouts, “No!”, and in a terrible moment of suspense you watch helplessly as Joel winds up his arms to strike. The scene ends with a comedic slap to my face with the wash cloth. There’s a fine line that floats somewhere between siblings and rivalry for Joel and I.

Sunday came too quickly. I had barely gotten to sleep before the sun was streaming through the windows of my dorm room. My mom inadvertently gave me a wake up call. She rang around 9:30; I let her leave a voice mail, my alarm was set for 10, she asked me to pick up a final ingredient, pearl onions. I wasn’t sure where to get pearl onions but after stopping at a local grocery, Meijer, I was set.

The chopping and the slicing commenced as soon as I walked through the door—we were on a time line. My mother recently began picking up shifts at the local gas station, Lawson Oil Co., it’s because my Kalamazoo College tuition didn’t get easier to pay when I started my sophomore year. Her shift started at five and the pearl onions caused me to arrive at 12:30. I love my mom. We’ve had our rough patches and shared regrettable words but it’s not unfortunate that the school I chose to attend is only 20 minutes away from my hometown, Lawton, Michigan. I still call her every week and I cry to her on the phone when I’m fighting with my roommates or dealing with my most recent life crisis. I’m only 19 but she offers me a glass wine, I know this means she trusts me. My mother is a strong Christian. I don’t talk to her about everything but sometime around my senior year of high school, when she was about to lose me to my inevitable future, I noticed that even though she hated my lack of church attendance and my strong interest in boys, among other things, our bond as people and as mother and daughter was stronger than religious pressures. 

After putting the final touches on the stew my mother slid the large pot to the back of the oven. We were halfway there so when I sat down in the living room to relax my dad wielded the remote as usual, and chose an interesting show to pass the time. During the hour and a half it took to cook the meal my dad and I watched an old 1973 movie, “Don’t Look Now”. The surprise ending coincided perfectly with the climax of delicious aromas wafting out of the kitchen. When the gnome-like creature with the red cape chopped at John Baxter’s neck ending the film, I was smiling. My dad’s idiosyncrasies used to receive a different reaction but these days I’ve come to appreciate his antics. When he talks to me about his good old days or his most recent leftist political opinions for a straight hour unprovoked by any particular interest it cracks me up.

Joel and Tieren arrived during the psychic thriller and Aaron arrived shortly after. Brandon had been at the house all-day—inseparable. We all sat down to the table, several of us straddling a leg. The bread and noodles had been cooked by my mother and the honey was out, to go with the bread—a favorite of my siblings and I, something we all have in common. All the ingredients came from our small town grocery store, Wagoner’s. I am almost certain that there is no local food to be found at the establishment but one piece of our meal I am proud to say, came from the wild outdoors. The beef in our recipe had been replaced with the venison killed and processed by one of my dad’s old work. Every year he gives our family a generous portion. The mushrooms and the venison together gave the meal a gamey flavor that no one complained about. There were some mushroom haters but I didn’t mind that since they left more for me.

My mom rushed off to work and my dog Piper got a walk in the fading sunshine from me and Aaron. The stew and at a least a half a bottle of red juice filled my stomach to the brim long after Aaron drove his borrowed car back to school. I would leave tomorrow morning, me and my Toyota Camry weren’t in a hurry. That night Joel took off without a goodbye, Nicole and Brandon ran upstairs to hide together in solitude, I remember that need. My dad and I watched the TV together a while longer, the living room was where I wanted to be.

High School Horror

Did I really just ask Valarie Gipper, “Does Matt Kuhn have a girlfriend?” I had been at Mattawan High School for just one week before asking my fellow classmate and potential friend. Why, why, why did I feel compelled to ask her that? Val giggled and said no, she had known Matt for a long time and thought of him as a brother. When her ride pulled up to the curb in front of the school she smiled and waved goodbye while I pondered the unsavory feelings swirling in my stomach.

I didn’t even know Matt, but I sat next to him in English and that somehow was enough to make me interested. I pushed thoughts of cute boys aside to consider my predicament. I had a problem. I was obsessive and compulsive about surveying every new location for potential romance. To this day I still can’t comprehend the reason behind that impulse. I must have had an overactive biology or something. I don’t like to admit it. Since then, I have traveled far from that sunny afternoon in many respects. Boys don’t consume my thoughts as they used to—I think it was boredom more than anything else that caused me to become enamored with such frequency.

Back then, I had left my little town of Lawton for excitement, adventure, and a fresh start my junior year of high school. What I found was anxiety and a whole new social world to navigate. Mattawan was comprised of roughly one thousand strangers. My second hour English class alone was full of potential connections. Matt Kuhn was in Miss Stuut’s AP English class, one of his friends, Mike Reiter, intrigued me—in other words, he was on my radar too. Mike had a stutter. He was tall and had a floppy brown head of curly hair. I’ve always had a knack for developing a romantic interest in silly-somewhat-smart-but-awkward-guys. I remember I would cringe whenever he would try to make a point during class.

He would circle the point he was trying to make, like a vulture, but he never seemed to be able to go in for the kill. Meanwhile, I was doing my best to catch the eye of this dark haired muscle man in my chemistry class. As winter formal drew near I was hoping for an invite from someone. Soon after I realized my chemistry crush wasn’t going to ask me, Mike walked up to my locker. “W-would you want to go t-to formal with me?”, he posed the question. I said, “yea, sure.”

I shouldn’t have said yes. I should have found a group of girl friends to go with. I could have gone by myself or I could have skipped the whole ordeal. It wasn’t worth it. To be honest I think I nudged him into asking because I knew he took an interest in me and I wanted a date. Why, oh why, did I want a date so badly? But I said yes, so I figured, ‘I’ll get the dress and he’ll make the reservations and it’ll be a semi-successful night’.

He didn’t make reservations. He picked me up at my house the night of the formal dance. The roads were horrible that night—really slick with snowy white visibility. We had to drive slowly even though he brought his mom’s big, black, four wheel drive gas guzzler. We unfortunately ran out of talking points before we were even halfway into town. His plan was to tag onto another groups’ reservations at Carraba’s but it didn’t work.

We arrived at Carraba’s, a fancy Italian restaurant. After opening my car door, Mike rushed to the door of the building to open that as well. What he didn’t realize was that his first priority might have been to steady my arm as I trudged through the snow and slick ice in open-toe heels. Luckily, I didn’t fall. Once inside, I stood awkwardly in the doorway while Mike talked with his friends. When he shuffled back toward me with the bad news I was relatively unaffected. I hadn’t been set on a fancy dinner and I was eager to get to the dance. I spotted Fazoli’s across the street and suggested we go there.

Fazoli’s is Italian too but quite incomparable to Carraba’s. The neon signs and bright red booths leave much to be desired if you’re looking for cheap cuisine grander than fast food. I had been to Fazoli’s a handful of times and had always appreciated its unassuming food and laid back appeal. We stepped through the double door entry way and I suddenly felt all too visible in my shiny gold formal wear. We were seated immediately, that is, we seated ourselves. This wasn’t surprising, considering we were the only customers.

I ordered my usual—Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. I don’t recall what Mike ordered. He talked about the golf team, in which I held zero interest, and the conversation quickly degenerated. “So, how did you do on that paper?”, I asked. “How was reading The Scarlett Letter?” and “Did you like it?”, were my follow up questions. It was terrible. And consequently so was the food. I choked it down while the scrawny, brown-eyed boy in front of me struggled to form the simplest of conversations with me. The slimy noodles went cold faster than they ever had before. The Alfredo sauce was flavorless and lacked the creaminess promised by the menu’s picture. Even the endless bread sticks held no appeal. Although, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if my Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo had been prepared by a famous chef that night, I still would have had a rough time enjoying it with Mike as my company.

When we finally arrived at the dance I stayed with Mike long enough to see if his dancing skills were any better than his conversational abilities. He was more of a conversationalist. Looking back, I may sound harsh but what made the night so bitter was knowing that I would have had more fun on my own.

           

Dilemma--Part 3

I really liked what Pollen did in this last section. It made me think about whether or not I would have the ability to kill my own food. It made me crave mushrooms and I learned that stock comes from bones. I thought that the last part was also the most interesting of all the sections because we get so many human perspectives and characters.

Pollen's experience as a hunter was immensely intriguing. He begins to see the world in terms of food like he had never done before. I think in this section Pollen gives his reader a little break to stop feeling guilty and realize why we're at such a disadvantage. Being an omnivore is inherently stressful! And we're supposed to have older wiser generations to teach us food culture so we don't have to be so anxious. But in America we don't have a nationally way of eating that isn't bad for us. We have never had a stable national cuisine writes Pollen. So I can give myself a break but then I also have to start being smarter than latest food fad. I definitely remember "Fletcherizing" in middle school! What a terrible idea!

 "Failing to appreciate that how we eat, and even how we feel about eating may in the end be just as important as what we eat"--Page 100

To me this dilemma keeps coming back to our mind-set which is often the hardest to change. It's hard for me to imagine America without snacking but in France, according to Pollen, they just don't do it. And the worst is the blurring of the line between nutritional supplements and food. Sitting down to eat isn't even important to us anymore. I remember growing up that every dinner was a sit down at the dining room table dinner. My mom worked around our sports schedules and youth group meetings and even if we only sat down long enough to scarf our food and give the family a brief update on our lives we still sat down for family dinner. But over the years this ritual died out and dinners were reduced to eating together but separate connected only by the television set. We got busy. It was fun at first but I quickly began missing those family dinners.

Grass is Great!

The second part of Micheal Pollen's book was a beautiful vision of how I could relate to my food. But the impossibility of a food revolution really brought my spirits down. And when farmer Joel didn't want to talk about the city folks who don't have the option of buying from Polyface, or farms like it, I was even more disheartened. It made me think back to a lecture that was given at Kalamazoo last quarter as a first-year seminar. Richard Heinberg, the journalist and educator, speaking about climate change and shortages and other ecological issues, told the attendees (mostly freshman) that one way young people could effect powerful change was to become farmers. I recall that the audience laughed and scoffed a little, thinking there was a catch, but he was serious. He was seriously telling young adults who pay sky-high tuition at a prestigious college in hopes of having a successful and financially comfortable future to go out into the world and farm. But after reading part of the dilemma I am convinced that that is exactly what would help bring the movement against the industrial food system to a higher level.

Of course, I don't think that will be my path; farming is just so much work. And to have a farm as intricate and specific as Joel's farm would mean no vacation time. It would mean physical labor for most of the day on most days. I was enthralled and impressed by the amount of work put forth by Joel and just two farm hands everyday. To be a farmer like Joel you would need to be smart, well read and well informed, physically and mentally strong, creative and inventive. You would need determination and endurance not only to wake up but then to get through the rest of the day too. Although farming requires a variety of tasks from hour to hour and day to day I think my biggest challenge if I were to farm would be restlessness. Staying on the farm would get lonely I imagine. All these thoughts swirled while I read the chapters on farmer Joel and vaguely considered a future in agriculture. The story down on the farm intrigued me so intensely because the fact that organic isn't really what I thought it was is what concerns me the most about the insight Pollen has given in this section.

"The biggest problem with alternative agriculture (includes organic farming) today, is that it seeks to incorporate bits and pieces of the industrial model and bits and pieces of the artisanal model. This will not work...In the middle of the road, you get the worst of both worlds."--Allan Nation, Stockman Grass Farmer

The middle of the road is the worst because it is as lacking in transparency and as active in indirect dishonesty as the industrial food system. Selling out is what I like to call people like Gene Kahn. He is so comfortable with his decision--it was infuriating. "It wasn't successful", said Kahn on page 153 referring to a cooperative community and a local food system. The systemic problem seems to be the ingrained belief that food is a commodity to sell and profit on like any other commodity. So in addition to being farmers we need to be able to spread the idea that food is something different. 

Fettuccine Alfredo VS. Raw Eggs--Memoir

Before

People are the common denominator of any meal for me and also the best predictor of the success of a meal. Before my junior formal in the winter of 2007, Fazoli’s had always been a good food experience for me, the few times I’d dined there anyway. My family had occasionally frequented the joint and my usual was the Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. It’s a creamy dish that is fun to eat. I liked the flat noodles and, of course, the unlimited bread sticks that taste like a fluffy butter and garlic combination on a soft stick reminiscent of bread that melts in your mouth. One day my grandmother took me there after a shopping trip we’d taken to buy clothes for my birthday.

We both ordered the Alfredo, I knew better than to request the adult size and opted instead for the child’s portion—my grandma didn’t know better and so she ended up with leftovers that are about two rungs up from McDonald’s leftovers on the ladder of comparison. That day I had ordered, for the first time, their new frozen lemon drink. I drank it slowly in order to savor each sip. It was a good day in a decent and satisfying restaurant. But my feelings toward Fazoli’s would soon change.

Winter formal was coming up and I didn’t have a prospective date. It was my first year at Mattawan High School and I definitely could scrounge up a few crushes but there wasn’t anyone that I was particularly interested or close to. I wasn’t really worried about it, I thought I would probably just skip because I planned on attending my old high school’s formal the weekend after either way. But, to my excitement, Mike Reiter a goofy looking, but still moderately cute boy from my English class walked up to my locker about two weeks before the event and asked if I’d like to go with him. I said yes.

I shouldn’t have said yes. I should have found a group of girl friends to go with or hell I could have gone by myself or really, I didn’t have to go at all. That’s how bad it was. To be honest I think I nudged him into asking because I knew he took an interest in me and I wanted a date. But he wasn't all that attractive and he wasn't a terribly interesting person to talk with mostly because we had little to nothing in common. But I said yes so I figured, ‘I’ll get the dress and he’ll make the reservations and it’ll be a semi-successful night’.

He didn’t make reservations! And, expecting him to do the honors, neither did I. He picked me up at my house the night of formal. The roads were horrible that night—really slick and snowy white visibility. We had to drive slowly even though he brought a four wheel drive big black something or other and we unfortunately ran out of talking points before we were even half-way into town. His plan was to tag onto another groups’ reservations at Carraba’s and it didn’t work. We were on Westnedge and our non-reservation options were Applebee’s, Bilbo’s, and Fazoli’s. I opted for Fazoli’s because I knew what I liked, I knew what to expect and it was the closest and fastest. I wanted to get to the dance before we absolutely ran out of talking points.

We were seating immediately which wasn’t surprising considering we were the only customers. I ordered my usual. I don’t recall what Mike ordered. He talked about the golf team (I have zero interest in golf) and we quickly degenerated into conversation about class assignments in English. It was terrible. And consequently so was the food. Fazoli’s isn’t gourmet food but still, it was delicious before and that night I choked it down while the scrawny, brown-eyed, dirty blonde in front of me struggled to form the simplest of conversation.

The noodles went cold faster than they ever had before. The Alfredo sauce was flavorless and even the break sticks held no appeal. Case and point: it wouldn’t have mattered one bit if my Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo had been prepared by a famous chef that night, I would have hated it either way. The quality of the company who surrounds has the biggest effect on the overall quality of my meal. When we arrived at the dance I ditched, I don’t think he was too surprised. 

One of my earliest food memories actually didn’t even end in eating but it is fondly remembered. I was at my best friend Abbi’s house in the middle of July and we wanted to cook something. We weren’t particularly hungry; her parents always fed us well. But a large part of our adventures included doing what we weren’t supposed to do. So we devised a plan to sneak two eggs out of her kitchen and then proceed to cook them outside on a large rock on the edge of her yard. To do this we had to sneak past the her dad her was lounging in the living room right of the dining room that flowed directly into the kitchen and then walk out the door that lead to our rock unsuspected in plain view of the living room lounge chair.

After shakily grabbing the eggs I hid them in fists and walked on the far side of dining room trying to keep a steady calm pace. It was my job to do the dirty work because we figured I we wouldn’t get in as much trouble if we were caught as long as the guest (me) was the one with the red paint on her hands. Heart beating rapidly, I made it outside undetected and I ran down to our makeshift skillet excited to crack open our mid-afternoon lunch. We each cracked one of the eggs and waited expectantly for the food to cook. It didn’t cook. Later on in life I wondered what would have happened if we had used a magnifying glass but I haven’t tried it yet. That ‘meal’ was one of the most exhilarating meals of my life and I would trade that day and that summertime flavor that tastes like childhood and sweat over the taste of the Fazoli’s debacle every time.

I am the Cow

After reading the first part of Michael Pollen's "The Omnivore's Dilemma" I was taken aback by how calmly he writes, especially compared to Anthony Bourdain in "A Cook's Tour". When Bourdain was in Tokyo he experienced a breakfast that he absolutely hated and he wrote, "All I wanted to do was hurl myself through the paper walls and straight off the edge of the mountain" (152). I thought this was definitely over the top and ridiculous. Bourdain's use of exaggeration is a part of his style and in his book it works to his benefit especially in creating himself as a character in his travels.

On the other hand, when Pollen relays atrocities of the 'industrial-food system' he more or less states the facts plainly. Sometimes he adds a characteristic anecdote but it's always closer to the truth of the matter than it is to ridiculousness. It might be because the horrible facts in "The Omnivore's Dilemma" tend to speak for themselves. Or maybe his subject matter isn't as powerful when reduced to dramatics. I appreciate this lack of drama; however, I was absolutely heartbroken almost the entire time I spent reading the first part of Pollen's book.  I wondered how much Pollen's heart hurt too and why it didn't always show if it did. 

Pollen's style of not always showing his emotions gives him a higher quality of credibility than Bourdain's. His book is more research based and more 'journalistic' in nature. I'm not claiming that it's 'better' but because of Pollen's style his book is immediately more credible. Credibility is also much more important to Pollen's subject matter. The issue of the 'industrial-food system' is incredibly serious and important to me so I really appreciated how Pollen wrote about it. The way he breaks down such a complex issue is definitely helpful and at the same time he shows the reader how complex it is. 


Pollen also does an excellent of representing both sides of the issue while clearly standing on one side over the other. This is a great example of one of the many types of 'journalism'. For me, it shows how you can let the other side have the same type of legitimacy as your own. This is a great technique of argumentation too. Instead of winning the agreement of readers by showing how terrible the 'bad guys' are Pollen wins me over by letting the facts speak for themselves (along with a little bias or at least a specific perspective) but by also putting me in the mind of the other argument so I can understand where it comes from. 


Pollen says that you can't argue with the economic logic of the 'industrial-food system' but you can argue with a different set of tools as well as a variation on the economics. Like how the economic logic argues that the industrial system saves the consumer money and gives them 'variety' but also from a money standpoint, the industrial system wastes more than the natural system and indirectly costs much more when you consider the price of energy. 


I am still trying to figure out what I will do with this new information I have accumulated after reading part 1 of the dilemma all I know for now is that I feel sick like the cows who can't eat grass. :*(

"A Cook's Tour"

While reading "A Cook's Tour" by Anthony Bourdain an interesting thread kept appearing. I couldn't understand what purpose it served. This thread revolves around women and their seeming ability to make a contribution to Bourdain's writing. What that contribution is I cannot see but for him it must mean something.

In the second chapter he compares returning to France and tasting fish soup again to seeing an old girlfriend and wondering what he had seen in her. I can relate to this comparison however his next choice contrast seems a little extreme as far as relate-ability goes. He writes that he remembers sitting on a dock near his old haunts as a teenager and feeling bitter--"I was a lonely bitter kid. I never got so much as a hand-job in this fucking town" (36). While I appreciate Bourdain's honest writing I didn't think this morsel of his tour was as satisfying. In this particular passage Bourdain sounds awfully spoiled. He is in France for the summer for gods-sake!

Later he writes that he had hoped that re-visiting oysters would bring back his first seminal experience. He compares his hope to "buying your girlfriend flowers, jewelry, perfume, and candy as well as the bathing suit Ursula Andress wore in Dr. No and stating that you expect the best sex of your life" (41). I get that he wants the reader to know he felt he was trying too hard but I'm wondering why that is where his mind goes to when thinking of an example to explain his feelings. It's really interesting to me.

In a subsequent chapter he talks about guys night versus girls night. Bourdain contradicts himself stating that guys night lacks "the civilizing perspectives of women" but later writes, "I'd learned painfully at times, that women have nothing to learn from men in the bad behavior department" (66 and 71). I think he gets it more right in the second passage but why are these details important to him and why does he create a paradox on the page?

The chapter on how to drink vodka is equally perplexing. Bourdain says on page 89 that he is in love, that is, if he could ever fall for someone who reminded him of Broderick Crawford. It's a different kind of compliment if I've ever heard one. I'm not saying that I am offended by his comments but rather that I am intrigued by them. There is a small commentary to be had about Bourdain's choice of female muses. What it all means I have yet to decide.

Family Dynamics

In the second half of “Stealing Buddha’s Dinner” I was interested in how the rest of her family dynamics are explored. One of the most relatable scenes in the book was of Bich at the homes of extended family on Rosa’s side. She describes her time there as a place where she is asked to love people she does not know and where she attempts to hide away and be in her comfortable solitude with a good book.

I knew my family growing up but still I tended to be the one who wanted to do my own thing. All of my cousins are either several years older or several years younger. My brother could hang out with older cousins and my sister, the more sociable one comparatively speaking, hung out with however she wanted. I was more cautious and ‘heady’ about the whole process of socialization. I remember the meal time being the best part especially in the wintertime when we all were cooped up inside the house. I wanted to be social but like Bich she just wasn’t interested in what the other groups around her were doing. And somehow it’s never enough to be in the room where the others are. You have to participate in some way.

Once at my grandma’s house I was knitting a blanket in the living room while my cousins were playing a game. One of them asked me why I’m always doing something on my own and I thought because I want to. But I also remember wishing that someone else would be interested in what I was doing so I wouldn’t be alone.

I also remember being the older sister figure much like Crissy in some ways. My younger sister would always be clamoring to hang out with me and my friends but I could never accept her. I felt the power that I held over her. I used to get so annoyed because I had a friend who didn’t mind hanging out with my sister and she would invite her along knowing full well that I didn’t want my sister following. My friend even went so far as to play with my sister when I was grounded because I had been mean to her earlier in the day and my mom had decided to punish me. So the power dynamic wasn’t all one sided but I can definitely relate to the basic situation.

A really interesting part of the second half of the memoir was when Bich described the realization that her parents didn’t like her face. Even when she was being “good” she wasn’t really being good because her face revealed her true feelings. She was defiant even when she wasn’t trying to be outwardly defiant. I really felt for Bich here because it feels so unfair when we are judged for our facial expressions. I am also the kind of person whose emotions are unintentionally splayed across my face.

Remembering...

The most intense reaction I had to “Stealing Buddha’s Dinner”, by Bich Minh Nguyen, was that I could relate on some level with almost every childhood experience Nguyen relates in her memoir. She writes on page two that she and her sister “didn’t know [they] were among the lucky. What Nguyen is referring to in this section is the fact that she did not know her family was in want at times or that her father got up in the middle of the night to work at the factory.

I remember growing up constantly trying to fit into hand-me-downs because I realized early on in life that new-clothes-shopping was for special occasions. It happened but when it did I sensed the reluctance and the stress in my mom’s demeanor as the numbers were added at the check-out counter. I had no idea I was so lucky. As a youngster you learn quickly how to compare yourself to others and notice what they have and you don’t. I often forgot to appreciate what I had because I would only be satisfied with more.

Another really interesting section in the memoir is on page 10. Nguyen recounts that “as a kid, I couldn’t figure out what “all-American” was supposed to mean. Was it a promise, a threat, a warning?” I have never considered this question before but now that I do I have come to the conclusion that it does not mean so much. The phrase “all-American” feeds into our eagerness to believe in the American dream. It is more like a promise than anything else; it used to stand for a certain quality in things.

Today though, with outsourcing and globalization the “promise” is an empty one. In elementary school I remember being taught that America is a melting pot but the reality is much less appetizing and like all the candy that tantalized Nguyen, I think too many things in America are sugar coated too often for a benefit that does not exist. The reality is often more like “the voice saying, come on in. Now transform. And if you cannot, then disappear” (11).

I also could really relate to Nguyen’s struggles with silence in herself and her household. She writes on page 26 that “there were so many things that could never be spoken”. And on page 29 she relates her experience with taboo subjects like sex. In her household there were no bedtimes, she did not always have the watchful eye of a house maker mom on her but still, the sticky subject of human relations as well as her mother and other questions of her past could not be discussed. Sex is how we all came in to this world and it is amazing to me how there are so many American households in which the subject is not breached.

Nguyen’s memoir stirred my own memories and brought back pieces of childhood I have both remembered and had forgotten. I remember how it is impossible to steal ice cream and how the question why always got me nowhere. I know what it is like to try and be saved. I know how unsettling inconsistent parenting can be and how I too privately admired the rebellious kids in school. I remember how important school was to me and how I would have nightmares of being late. I also recall how nerve racking it was to visit someone’s house and have dinner with them. And to this day I still accidentally throw meat on the floor.

Most importantly I remember as Nguyen does on page 116, what it is like to realize that you have always had a choice whether you knew it or not.