Secret Ingredients Response #2

    MFK Fisher's “Secret Ingredients” was a very interesting read for me. I thought it was especially interesting that the small town she is referring to in her story is most likely her hometown of Albion, Michigan (roughly an hour away from Kalamazoo). I also liked the character of Bertie, and the story of how she finally gave her the secret recipe she so desperately wanted, only to find that she couldn't decipher Bertie's broken English. Fisher isn't sure whether this was to intentionally mess with her, or if it was an honest mistake. Leaving this open made it much more interesting for me as a reader.

    I agreed with the main point of Fisher's piece, that people like Bertie, who are capable of “food magic,” are close to being extinct. My grandmother for instance, is a very good cook, and she has several recipes that are fantastic to eat. However the raw passion and almost perfectionism that Fisher is describing in her piece isn't present with my grandmother. Her recipes are well known by all the cooks in my family, and she's happy to share new one's when she comes up with them. Nowadays, trading recipes or looking them up online seem to be pretty commonplace. I'm sure hoarders of the secrets of good food still exist, but to the extent to which Fisher explains, I think they are very scarce indeed.

    I also really enjoyed “Good Cooking,” by Calvin Tomkins. When I first read the name Julia Child, I  knew I had heard the name previously. As I read more, I realized that I had heard my grandmother talk about Julia Child's cookbooks before, as she has been a huge fan for most of her life. This memory solidified to me the author's claim of Child's fame in the US. I mostly admired the way in which he told the story. By starting the piece at a time when Julia was already famous, with her and Paul preparing for a show, then rewinding to the beginning of their relationship in the 40s, and progressing all the way back to the point that the piece started at. I thought this was a much more interesting way to construct the timeline than if he had just told it from beginning to end. I also really liked the characters of Paul and Julia Child very much. They were truly a couple ahead of their time. Paul wasn't emasculated by Julia's successes in the slightest, but was instead very supportive and even helpful. Julia was one of the very few women who graduated from college during the 30's, and she even says at one point that she thinks it's good that “they are coming out of the closet (referring to homosexuals),” which I think shows how progressive of a thinker she was for her time. The story of them meeting during WW2 while working for the OSS (present day CIA) couldn't be better. Paul was a longtime bachelor working in foreign service, disinterested in any long-term prospects; Julia was still searching for direction and purpose in life, and wouldn't have even been here had she not been turned down by the New York Times. The two were drawn to each other nonetheless, and got married soon after. I found it hard to believe this story was non-fiction, as it reminded me very much of a lot of old WW2-era fictional books I've read. Tomkins' way of telling the story was intriguing and artful the whole way through. I intend to read more of his work in the future.

Weekends in Alamo

Cody Howrigon

Memoir

 I did my best not to get too close, but something about the sight and smell of bacon simmering in a hot pan had a very powerful effect on a young me. Breakfast for dinner, I thought to myself. What could be better?

“Can I have a bite of one to see if it's ready yet, grandpa?” I asked, gazing dreamily into the pan.

“No, you'll just have to wait patiently like your sisters,” my grandpa replied as he gave me a gentle nudge with his leg.

I backed up only a few feet, and continued to look on in amazement as I watched what I truly believed to be a genius at work. It mesmerized me really. How could a single person cook a full-fledged breakfast, set the table, do the dishes, watch the game, and feed the dog, all while singing a favorite Sinatra tune in the most nonchalant manner possible? Answer: I'm not really sure, but I've been trying to figure it out ever since.

“Cody, come sit down at the table with your sisters and I. You'll get your bacon when it's ready,” my grandma said in an impatient tone.

“Yeah Cody, just because you're the youngest doesn't mean you get to go first all the time. Why do you always have to be such a baby?” said my loving older sister, Grace.

This accusation would normally send me into a sudden fit of rage and chaotic yelling, but due to the complete sensory overload taking place, it didn't really register. So I slowly dragged myself away from the beautiful mosaic of breakfast food, and reluctantly moseyed over to my usual spot at the dinner table and took a seat.

In spite of having to wait, I was still beyond happy to be at my grandparent's house. Everything seemed to be perfect in my young, unsophisticated life. It was my favorite time of year – school was out, the sun was high, and my troubles low. My parent's were making their annual trip East to Detroit for yet another Jimmy Buffett concert, which meant that my two older sisters and I were to be spending the weekend together at our grandparent's house in Alamo, Michigan – a tradition we looked forward to each and every year. I would finally take a break from my stressful nine year-old life, by instead exploring the seemingly infinite Michigan forest in my grandparent's backyard, and with long afternoons reading Calvin and Hobbes under my favorite oak tree.

More than this though, it meant that I would eat well. And I mean really eat well. If there was one thing my grandpa was expert at it was spoiling his grandkids, and his primary means of doing so was through food. Whether it was a steak cooked at the perfect, medium-rare temperature, a gargantuan Bubba Burger (also cooked perfectly), or something as simple as breakfast for dinner, my grandpa has always known how to keep his grandkids happy.

“Time to eat!” my grandpa exclaimed, after what seemed to be an eternity of sitting and waiting patiently.

I quickly filled my plate with an assortment of eggs (both scrambled and sunny-side up), two slices of Texas Toast, a mountain of bacon, a slew of sausage, and a second plate full of hash-browns covered in ketchup.

“That's too much, Cody. Put some back. I don't want you to waste any,” my grandma reasoned, doubting me.

“He's a growing boy! Leave him be. He needs to get big and strong for football this fall anyway,” my grandpa said, defending me.

With that, I dug in. The abundance of salt and fatty grease excited my taste buds and flooded my brain with endorphins. If another innocent pleasure superior to this exists somewhere in the world, I've still yet to find it. The experience was a transformational one, as it always is. I began with an empty stomach and a heart filled with ambition; I finished with child heartburn and a higher BMI.

Since I had finished much sooner than the rest of the table, I was afforded the time to really sit back, relax, and take in a level of pleasure that would make any true hedonist proud. My eldest sister, Courtney was the last to finish, and both of my grandparents were already clearing the table to start cleaning dishes. Courtney looked at my other sister and I discreetly with eyebrows raised, signaling that it was time for the obligatory post-meal thank you. Grace and I both nodded that we understood and all three of us yelled out together,

“Thank you grandpa!”

“That was even better than last time,” Courtney added.

My grandpa received our thanks in his usual stoic demeanor, then left the room with beer in hand to go watch his favorite team's game in peace. This usually meant that it was time for our favorite part of the night – dessert.

“Is it time for ice cream yet grandma?” Grace questioned eagerly.

“As long as you make your beds and get your pajamas on fir--.”

My sisters and I leaped from our chairs and bolted to the living room to “make” our beds (which consisted of simply choosing a blanket and pillow from a nearby closet and setting it on the couch). Once I had my blanket and pillow in place, I quickly threw off my shirt and shorts and was down to my Tommy Hilfiger boxers.

“I'm done, grandma! My bed's made and my pajamas are on!”

She smiled, and handed me a bowl of vanilla ice cream that was nearly as big as my head.

“Jeez Cody! Save some for us,” Grace whined as she was being handed her equally enormous sized bowl. “You forgot your chocolate too, dummy!”

This is where my family's ice cream eating habits differ from most. First, we add an ungodly amount of Hershey's chocolate sauce to our mountainous heap of ice cream, so much so that it would make any normal, health-conscious family cringe in disapproval. Then, after we drizzle that oh too good chocolatey liquid into the bowl, we hold our spoons with a Friday the 13th-style grip, and we very slowly, very methodically, churn the ice cream in a wide, circular motion, round n' round until our arm muscles fail from overexertion. When this occurs, we promptly switch arms (wasting no time, as that was the secret), making the same churning motion as before. This cycle continues for exactly three minutes (as if there were some holy doctrine somewhere stating to do so). The result, is a thick, viscous consistency – one that is so thick in fact, that it can't quite be called ice cream anymore at all. If I'm being perfectly honest, its solid brown color resembles something I don't think I need to spell out for you, and thus, isn't the most appealing thing to look at. However, with the lights turned down low, our favorite cartoons on VHS, and a nice, cozy spot on the couch, can really appreciate the explosion of cavity causing sugar setting off every taste receptor in your mouth. Finishing this monstrous amount of dessert always seemed an impossible feat at first, but I always did manage to get it all down.

Once finished, my sisters and I would move to our normal sleeping spots on the couch, laying motionless and without making a sound as we watched our favorite cartoons on the same “box” TV as always. Every year, at this moment, I would compete with myself from the previous year, by trying to stay awake just a little bit longer than I ever had. I gauged this with the VHS compilation of 60's and 70's cartoons my grandparents would always play for us on the last night of our stay. I would try to stay up one twenty-two minute cartoon longer than the year before, which meant I would get the pleasure of both discovering a new cartoon for the first time, and earning the pride that comes with staying up the latest, which is essential for the psychological well-being of any young boy in a family full of girls.

I really loved these weekends spent at my grandparents. Some of my greatest childhood memories took place there. Those long, care-free weekends all seem so surreal now. It's really almost unfair, like I was too young to be able to really appreciate it all. In my life now, moments like these – where you can truly let loose and forget the world – are few and far between. I will forever be indebted to my grandparents, and the multitude of fond memories they have given me over the years. Now, all I can hope to do is one day become the grandfather I was so fortunate to have, and give a similar experience to my kids and theirs.

p.3-98 Response

    In our reading for the week, I was pleased to be exposed to what are arguably some of the best food writers of the past century. Of the authors we read, I was most interested with AJ Liebling's “The Afterglow,” Jim Harrison's “A Really Big Lunch,” and Anthony Bourdain's “Don't Eat Before Reading This,” which is a chapter from his bestselling book, “Kitchen Confidential.” These three authors all have the rare ability to put their voice in a piece, which makes the process of deciphering their personalities so much more interesting for readers such as myself. AJ Liebling's personal account on the evolution of the food industry in Paris enlightened me to the significant impact WW1 and WW2 had on the culinary identity of Paris. Anthony Bourdain's brutal honesty is as stark as ever with his cautionary tales on the hygienic habits (or lack thereof) of the food industry. Jim Harrison's life of writing, traveling, and excessive eating and wine-drinking makes me want to reconsider my future career plans. All of these writers kept me intrigued throughout their pieces, and left me unsatisfied and wanting to know more by the end.

    As soon as I finished Jim Harrison's piece, I was angry at myself for not finding him sooner, and was even angrier to learn that he had passed away earlier this year. His writing possesses a Hemingwayesque romanticism about it, that when reading it, gives me the sudden urge to move to Paris so I can drink obscene amounts of alcohol and recite Shakespeare and Fitzgerald all night and day. This couldn't be more true than with his description of a 50 course meal he had in Burgundy, France. Not only was the man in France – any food lovers idea of heaven on earth – he was at the “manor” of one of the most famous french foodies living at the time, and he is there to eat a 50 course meal and drink shit loads of wine, all in the spirit of celebrating his friend's 50^th birthday. Harrison says, “Gérard (the french foodie) threw a dinner with fifty courses. Why? Because it was his fiftieth birthday. Why else?” This quote is brief and simple, but it shows just how luxurious these kind of people live: Turning fifty? Why not spend the entire day eating a fifty course meal to honor each and every year of life you've spent on Earth? Why not add some of the most rare, and expensive wine to the equation while you're at it? Some people may call this frivolous or even selfish. Not me though. These people are doing it right.

    AJ Liebling is an example of a person who actually lived like Hemingway's Jake and Lady Brett in Paris. He was there at the end of what he sees to be the golden age of Paris, which explains his feelings of loss and disappointment when he explains the fall, or demise, of the great Paris restaurants and foods. According to Liebling, the fall began immediately following the end of WW1, with the emergence of new laws and new perspectives that limited or possibly prevented the potential for culinary creativity and passion. Liebling says in the piece, “ as a career for the artistically ambitious, cooking became less attractive just at the moment when alternative means of earning a living grew more numerous for the offspring of the proletariat. Child-labor laws and compulsory education were additional obstacles in the way of the early apprenticeship that forms great cooks.” He said this trend continued slowly all the way until WW2, when things got much worse. When WW2 came, with it came the Nazi occupation of Paris which, not surprisingly, resulted in the destruction of many of the city's most famous restaurants, and forced many citizens and visitors to flee. Supply also became very scarce (as it does during any war occupation), which raised prices immensely, dissuading those who had stayed in the city from buying anything. Years after the end of the war, Liebling maintains his pessimistic view of the Paris food scene saying, “That the humble glory of the classic French kitchen should have to be ordered two days in advance in one of the best restaurants in Paris is evidence of how far la cuisine française has slipped in the direction of short-order cooking.” He finishes in 1959, still unimpressed, admitting that there are still good meals to be had and good wine to drink, but also saying that they are very hard to come by. Since then, I can't help but wonder if much of a comeback has been made. Maybe Paris will never be as perfect as it once was.

     When reading Bourdain's piece, I was overwhelmed with regret for all the times I have ordered seafood at restaurants. I will definitely be following his advice for the rest of my days when it comes to ordering fish – never on Sunday or Monday. I was also horrified at the “save for well-done,” section. I am proud to say that I prefer most meats medium-rare, so this luckily isn't a risk for me. But for my family members, most of which order everything well-done, I can't help but feel sympathy for them. I'll do my best to persuade them to order differently next time. As for the rest of it, I can't say I was really surprised. I've worked in food business for a couple years, so the knowledge that most cooks don't wear gloves or hair nets isn't new to me. Perhaps the best part of the piece, where Anthony exhibits his high aptitude for comedy – is his description of the cook's perception of vegetarians. He says, “Even more despised than the Brunch People are the vegetarians. Serious cooks regard these members of the dining public— and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans— as enemies of everything that’s good and decent in the human spirit. To live life without veal or chicken stock, fish cheeks, sausages, cheese, or organ meats is treasonous.” I know of many great people who are vegetarians, and one of my best friends was a devout vegan during high school, but anyone who doesn't think this quote is funny has some serious work to do on their sense of humor.

Cody Howrigon

Memoir

Breakfast for Dinner

    I did my best not to get too close, but something about the sight and smell of bacon simmering in a hot pan had a very powerful effect on a young me.

   “Can I have a bite of one to see if it's ready yet, grandpa?” I asked, gazing dreamily into the pan.

   “No, you'll just have to wait patiently like your sisters,” my grandpa replied as he gave me a gentle nudge with his leg.

   I backed up only a few feet, and continued to look on in amazement as I watched what I truly believed to be a genius at work. It mesmerized me really. How could a single person cook a full-fledged breakfast, set the table, do the dishes, watch the game, and feed the dog, all while singing a favorite Sinatra tune in the most nonchalant manner possible? Answer: I'm not really sure, but I've been trying to figure it out ever since.

   “Cody, come sit down at the table with your sisters and I. You'll get your bacon when it's ready,” my grandma said in an impatient tone.

   “Yeah Cody, just because you're the youngest doesn't mean you get to go first all the time. Why do you always have to be such as baby?” said my loving older sister, Grace.

   This accusation would normally send me into a sudden fit of rage and chaotic yelling, but due to the complete sensory overload taking place, it didn't really register. So I slowly dragged myself away from the beautiful mosaic of breakfast food, and reluctantly moseyed over to my usual spot at the dinner table. After what seemed to be an eternity of sitting and waiting patiently, my grandpa finally said the magic words, “Time to eat!”

   I quickly filled my plate with an assortment of eggs (both scrambled and sunny-side up), two slices of Texas Toast, a mountain of bacon, an slew of sausage, and a second plate full of hash-browns covered in ketchup.

   “That's too much, Cody. Put some back. I don't want you to waste any,” my grandma reasoned, doubting me.

   “He's a growing boy! Leave him be. He needs to get big and strong for football this fall anyway,” my grandpa said, defending me.

   With that, I dug in. It was a transformational experience, as it always is. I began with an empty stomach and a heart filled with ambition; I finished with child heartburn and a higher BMI.

   Since I had finished much sooner than the rest of the table, I was afforded the time to really sit back, relax, and take in a level of pleasure that would make any true hedonist proud. My eldest sister    Courtney, was the last to finish, and both of my grandparents were already clearing the table to start cleaning dishes. Courtney looked at my other sister and I discreetly with eyebrows raised, signaling that it was time for the obligatory post-meal thank you. Grace and I both nodded that we understood and all three of us yelled out together.

   “Thank you grandpa!”

   “This was even better than last time,” Courtney added.

    My grandpa received our thanks in his usual stoic demeanor, then left the room with beer in hand to go watch football. This usually meant that it was time for our favorite part of the night – dessert.

   “Is it time for ice cream yet grandma?” Grace questioned eagerly.

   “As long as you make your beds and get your pajamas on fir--.”

    My sisters and leaped from our chairs and bolted to the living room to “make” our beds (which consisted of simply choosing a blanket and pillow from a nearby closet and setting it on the couch). Once I had my blanket and pillow in place, I quickly threw off my shirt and shorts and was down to my Tommy Hilfiger boxers (something I was still young enough to consider pajamas).

   “I'm done, grandma! My bed's made and my pajamas are on!”

   She smiled, and handed me a bowl of vanilla ice cream that was nearly as big as my head.

   “Jeez Cody! Save some for us,” Grace whined as she was being handed her equally enormous sized bowl. “You forgot your chocolate too, dummy!”

    This is where my family's ice cream eating habits differ from most. First, we add an ungodly amount of Hershey's chocolate sauce to our vanilla ice cream, just as I'm sure many other people do. Then, after we drizzle that oh too good chocolatey liquid into the bowl, we hold our spoons with a Friday the 13th-style grip, and we very slowly, very methodically, churn the ice cream in a wide, circular motion, round n' round until our arm muscles fail from overexertion. When this occurs, we promptly switch arms (wasting no time, as that was the secret), making the same churning motion as before. This cycle continues for exactly three minutes (as if there were some holy doctrine somewhere stating to do so). The result, is a thick, viscous consistency – one that is so thick in fact, that it can't quite be called ice cream anymore at all. If I'm being perfectly honest, it's solid brown color resembles something I don't think I need to spell out for you, and thus, isn't the most appealing thing to look at. However, with the lights turned down low, our favorite cartoons on VHS, and a nice, cozy spot on the couch, one can really appreciate the explosion of cavity causing sugar setting off every taste receptor in your mouth. 

Review: A Cook's Tour

     Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour gives the reader a glimpse inside the author's mind, as he travels the world in search of the perfect meal. Bourdain keeps the reader intrigued with his natural story telling ability, and his blunt personality. Bourdain has the rare capability to have both the “fight the man” attitude of a 1970's punk rocker, and the literary wisdom of a modern renaissance man. His deep intellect and sharp wit, as well as his ability to adequately portray and critically analyze a culture, its food, and the relation between them, makes his book a joy to read.

    In Anthony's first brave trip to Portugal, he educates the reader on where food really comes from. Months before the trip, Bourdain's coworker at the famous Les Halles in New York, urged him to accompany his family in Portugal for a pig dinner. Anthony agreed, and his friend assured him that a pig was already being fattened for the occasion. When the moment finally came for the dinner to be prepared, the moment of truth arrived. The pig would have to be killed, drained, and cut apart into a variety of slices for different dishes. Viewing this process is something Anthony readily admits he'd rather have missed. But he and his crew were guests at their home, and to not take part in the dirty work, Anthony says, would have been disrespectful. He goes on to describe the brutal act with incredibly vivid detail, ensuring that the reader's stomach turns the same as his did. Once the carnage is over and every bit, and I mean every bit of the pig is salvaged and prepared, dinner is served. Anthony finishes the chapter by sharing a bit of wisdom he gained from the experience, primarily being the understanding of where food really comes from, and how he can never in good conscious waste a piece of meat again.

    The next chapter is titled “Back to the Beach,” where the reader follows Anthony and his younger brother Chris to a small village in France, where the brothers spent summers as kids. They first go to visit the house they used to stay at, to find that very little or nothing had changed. Anthony even wonders if their toy soldiers are still buried in the place he and his brother had buried them thirty years prior. Later in the chapter they go to a nearby bakery in hopes a tasty pastry will take them back to the happier, simpler times of their childhood. Chris is quick to claim the taste is exactly the same, but Anthony isn't convinced. He feels something is missing, but can't quite put his finger on it. After a while of contemplation, he suddenly has an epiphany. The missing piece wasn't the taste of the pastry as he first thought, but it was instead the people he originally enjoyed the pastry with – specifically his father, who had died over a decade ago. He reflects back on earlier in the trip, and how often he had made reference of his dad to his brother, and how he had nearly been driven to hostility in his recollections of childhood. Most of this he felt was due to missing his father. This realization humanizes Anthony for the reader, making him a more relatable voice in the process.

    Through the first half of A Cook's Tour, I have come to better understand and appreciate what Anthony is seeking to do. He claims to merely be looking for the perfect meal, but I believe his efforts are much deeper than that. He is not only educating his audience on the food habits of different cultures, but he is also educating us of the political and historical context behind the foods. This I'm sure, has inspired many of his readers to learn even more about these cultures, and what they eat. I know it's inspired me.   

A Reporter's Kitchen: Review

Whether it's picnics in the gardens of Paris, or cooking for tribes in Morocco, there is very little reporter Jane Kramer hasn't seen or tasted. She is the kind of person who truly embodies what it means to live a life dedicated to food and travel. These two subjects are the driving forces of her writing, and serve as the fuel for her inspiration.

Cooking was not always such a prevalent part of Jane's life however. In her work, “The Reporter's Kitchen” she remembers back to her childhood, and how scarce the culinary knowledge of her household was. Her parents couldn't cook anything worth mentioning, and her brother had only mastered a single simple desert, made only for the sake of impressing a girl. It wasn't until Jane began writing that she also began cooking. She reminisces back to her time at Columbia University, when her free time was mostly centered around good books, good sex, and most importantly, good food. It was then that she began toying with her passions for writing and cooking, finding a way for one to complement the other. Shortly after she began experimenting with this relationship, her work was recognized and she was offered a job, catapulting her into the world of professional writing.

Through the many years in Jane's writing career, she has found time and time again that food and writing are not mutually exclusive experiences, but are instead interdependent of one another. The art form that is cooking, is an emotional and intellectual exercise for her. She has found that something as simple as an aroma or taste can take her back to the place the dish was first had. All at once, she begins to think and feel the way she did at the moment the food first entered her mouth, which in turn brings new perspective and motivation, which then contributes greatly to her writing.

Not all experiences with food are good ones however. Perhaps the most interesting of Jane's many stories concerning food, travel, and writing, is her story in Belfast, Northern Ireland. While in a hotel cooking a pot of cauliflower soup in search of inspiration, a terrorist's bomb exploded, and complete chaos broke out all around her. She and her colleagues now look back on the incident with horror, and she has since refrained from cooking cauliflower soup altogether.

Kramer argues that it is “sensible” to keep one's memories in the kitchen, because “that way they don't crash with the computer.” More than anything, Kramer seems to believe in cooking as a kind of “transcendental” or higher experience, that serves as a medium through which foreign cultures can be understood and unique perspectives gained. This conception of food, travel, and writing has been paramount in her writing process, and has served her well throughout her career.