On this blog, I’ll be posting assignments related to my English 4040/7040 course.

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Kitchen Map

To try and map my kitchen through its traditional use would be a foolish task, because right now, my kitchen is more a “passing through” space than anything else. Our feet tread on the worn, cream-colored linoleum as we make our way to various household destinations; my dad, from hallway to “man-cave” in the basement; my mom, from makeshift office space in the family room to the computer room; me, from upstairs to overstuffed pantry to back upstairs again. We do not typically gather at the scuffed wooden table to conclude our day. Our stone countertops, as of late, have held a hodgepodge of foods that long collected ice in the back of our freezer. No one’s really thinking about good ol’ fashioned home cooking right now, when our trips to the grocery store see us all masked, gloved and painfully aware of the things we likely won’t find on the shelves. Perhaps the only member of my family largely unaffected by all of this, and thus viewing the kitchen in the same way as ever, is my cat. He prances across the floor toward the stainless-steel refrigerator, ordering us to feed him, pet him, hold him, dote on him. His routine is largely uninterrupted. I envy him.

            Yet, I know my kitchen’s purpose has shifted since those idyllic, pre-COVID days. It has become a daily morning gathering place for my dad and I to eat seated across from each other and chat about everything from Star Wars to current events. Seated on brown cushions that frequently slip off our wooden chairs, we chow down on cinnamon bagels or honey glazed Frosted Flakes or oatmeal with brown sugar and peanut butter. In the afternoons, on her breaks from work, my mom and I gaze into our semi-wooded backyard out our kitchen’s bay window and bond as we identify blue jays, cardinals, chickadees and red-bellied woodpeckers. All of us, together, sit and play board games — my mom chose Avalanche, my dad picked Trouble, and tomorrow I’ll select something in the realm of English language. Probably Scrabble, which will earn an exasperated sigh from my literature-challenged father.

What we eat varies wildly by the day, which makes a pattern difficult to discern. We use our oven to heat up “take and bake” cheese, sausage and spinach pizzas from our favorite local restaurant, and it has baked cherry chip as well as rainbow chip cakes. The latter, I made all by myself. Although it originated in a box, the pride I felt as I lifted that dessert from the oven onto a scratched cutting board must have been similar to that a parent feels when their child goes off to college. Look at my baby, all grown up! I could cry!  Except later that night we proceeded to consume half of the cake, so… I’ll be the first to admit the metaphor isn’t entirely apt.

The refrigerator and freezer hold what is perhaps our most prized culinary possession: “fridge water.” We guzzle it down every weekday. It’s the only thing my whole family can agree on, drink-wise — we squabble about whether Coke is better than Pepsi, but our attitude toward the water our fridge dispenses borders on idol worship. At least once a night, one of us mentions how lucky we are to have it, and we all proceed to compliment its taste. The clear plastic shelves inside the unit hold foods that whisper our histories and mark our priorities; my dad’s 20-ounce Diet Pepsi bottles, because the man would be damned if he has to drink anything non-caffeinated on a weekend; my mom’s cottage cheese, because it’s the only thing she doesn’t have to engage in bitter custody battles with my dad and me over; my two cans of extra-creamy Reddi-Whip, because the only thing better than Reddi-Whip on Oreo ice cream is Reddi-Whip directly from the can into my mouth. Leslie Knope knew this. So do I.

            No, my kitchen is not the “family values” space extolled in warm-hued illustrations of the classic nuclear family. I don’t even remember the last time we all sat down for a meal that wasn’t located in front of the television. But we don’t have to eat there to appreciate the space; to look out and find beauty in our backyard, to tease each other and gloat about our victories on game nights, to bake pizzas and cakes. In that way, the kitchen is less a functional space and more a symbol. As times have changed — “uncertain,” as every news channel and commercial have labeled them — it, too, has adjusted, watched us pass through as we go from point A to point B in our home. When things to back to normal, it will witness our everyday lives. But as months march past, it comforts us by offering what it always has: a place for my small family of three (plus a cat) to gather, to look, to laugh and to listen.

Reflection Week #7

My favorite reading for this week was the Anthony Bourdain piece. “Like” is too simple a term to describe how I felt about “Don’t Eat Before Reading This.” I had eaten before reading that, and as I tentatively tiptoed my way through it while trying to circumvent every literary jump-scare (unrefrigerated fish! AAAAAAAAHHH!), each spoonful of my blueberry oatmeal churned in my stomach like seawater during a storm. You know how your sphincter clenches when you see something startling? This was a real sphincter-clencher of a read.

Bourdain’s expertise with the written word explains why I felt queasy; he described all the questionable kitchen procedures with expert flair, so I could visualize the “well-done” meat being saved, the salmon sitting out until someone remembered to refrigerate it and the various un-gloved hands massaging their way through a string of dishes. (Not my broccoli, spinach and cheese pizza, please, God have mercy?!) I’m not so naïve as to believe this stuff doesn’t go on, but as I’ve said before, ignorance is bliss, and now I suppose I’m thankful most restaurants don’t proudly display their kitchens in full view of the customers. No, I didn’t like this reading, given how it nauseated me. But considering how gorgeously it was written, I absolutely appreciated it, and those words are at least distant cousins.

I now have precious little space to discuss a couple of the other readings, which is a bummer because they were all nifty. “Restaurant Reviewing Needs a Revamp” gets at something we’ve discussed in class; that reviewers who aren’t from a certain culture shouldn’t try to review its foods without, at the very least, doing their research first. While reading it, I couldn’t help but ponder whether Lee and his companion had made it clear they were reviewers — or does the chef ask every customer about their meal? Ms. Jacob would not approve!

I’ve never been ritzy enough in my almost-23-years of existence to fret about plating, so reading that article was the equivalent of strolling past a Prada or Louis Vuitton store on my way to Target. This is pretty, but it’s not for me. I feel similarly about Prada and Louis Vuitton stuff as I do about nicely plated dishes. I’d love to have them, but I place higher importance on value. I wouldn’t call Chipotle “gorgeously plated,” but I love it. And if still I’m hungry when I leave, something’s terribly, horribly wrong and I should make an appointment with my doctor ASAP. So, given my pre-existing biases, I wasn’t the right person to read this article. At least until I pay off my student loans, I’ll be walking past those designer stores with my Burrito Bowl, well-worn black Converse and Lucky Brand purse.

Reflection #7

Of all the chapters we’ve read in “Will Write For Food,” I think this one is my favorite. There was plenty here that genuinely surprised me, and quite a bit that I’d never considered. I never realized how often restaurant critics would have to go out to eat, but I have to say, I pity the one writer who the author notes went out to eat for multiple meals every day. As much as I love my Noodles & Company and Chipotle, I wouldn’t want them more than once a week. It’s funny to consider a life where eating in is as special as dining out, but I’m sure a food critic treasures a home-cooked meal just as much as many of us treasure a fancy dinner.

I found it interesting that the author suggested taking a friend to the restaurant who understands what you’re trying to do as a critic, mostly because I hadn’t considered the opposite — a friend who doesn’t understand. I suppose it’s the same principle as eating in front of the TV, though: if you eat and you’re distracted, you don’t taste the food as well, and for a restaurant critic, that has more drawbacks than continued cravings and a few pounds gained. Quite honestly, based on the criteria outlined in this section, I don’t know if I could be a food critic. As much as I’m enjoying this class and as much as I love food, I don’t have the culinary vocabulary to name the ingredients in every dish… and sometimes, especially with fast food, I’d rather just wolf it down quickly and not know for sure. Ignorance is bliss, right? Right? Right. (Please don’t tell me what’s in my favorite Taco Bell salad.)

It also seems like a potentially expensive subset of the overall journalistic profession, considering my guess is that much of it is done freelance nowadays. Maybe back when this edition was published there were more food critics in-house — and at some publications, there probably still are — but my guess would be that many publications have moved that section “out of house” in order to lower costs.

Reflection #6

I was polarized on the readings this week. I enjoyed the “rules of engagement” piece, but kept getting lost in “Our Meals, Ourselves.” I think the points Twitty makes in his article are valid, and they’re representative of a shift I think journalism is going through as a whole; the industry is looking for voices to better represent the topics they’re choosing to write about (voices that aren’t straight/white/cisgender/male). I had to laugh at his last point about authenticity, not because I felt he was wrong, but because I’ve definitely seen things branded as “authentic” that were really just white. Those words aren’t interchangeable, and the sooner publishing and writing-related industries realize that, the better off we’ll be.

On the other hand, “Our Meals, Ourselves” was a labyrinth I couldn’t find my way out of until the very end of the article. It’s been a long day, and this isn’t the first homework assignment I’ve done. At this point, my brain is a tattered plastic bag trying to wriggle free from the clutches of some tree branches. This article was written in a “scholarly” way, which, translated, means I had to Google a whole bunch of the people and some of the words. I certainly agree with his point that we’d rather not think about the unpleasant byproducts of our consumption, and now I feel guilty about being annoyed with the loud Sun Chips bags. Hindsight is 20/20, I guess.

Real-World Reflection #2

My experience at the Sugar Bush maple syrup production site helped me understand quite a bit more about the ways in which sap is gathered and boiled to become syrup. Needless to say, my grade-school field trip didn’t go into as much depth regarding how syrup is made and the various steps that go into its creation, so it was nice to experience an adult-level explanation of what happens, how and when it happens, and why it matters. I especially enjoyed heading out into the forest to look at all of the bags attached to the trees — there was an eerie-yet-instructional quality to the experience that will make it stand out in my memory for quite some time.

My favorite part of the trip was definitely getting to taste the syrup, though. Through no one’s fault but the Sugar Bush’s (why, why, why was the sign not by the road on which the place is located?!) the morning was a somewhat hectic endeavor, and I wasn’t sure whether I’d get to see the tapping process, much less taste the syrup. Thankfully, after we saw the boiling process, we did get to sample the finished product. The purity of the sweetness to it surprised me; I dislike store-bought syrups because I feel they have a refined, complex sugariness to them that resembles regular soda, whereas the handmade syrup had a simple, straightforward taste (if I must continue the soda metaphor, it might be more aptly compared to fruit-infused water). I’m not sure if my opinion of the taste would change if the syrup had been warmed — the batch we sampled was cold, but it’s likely if I had a bottle, I’d be serving it at room temperature. With pancakes.

It’s a bummer that this syrup isn’t available to purchase. If it was, I would probably buy a bottle — if not for actual use, then at least for sentimental value. I am curious to know what it tastes like on breakfast foods, like pancakes, waffles, sausage, etc. I suppose if I want to find that out, I’ll need to try a different brand.

Reflection #4

The two chapters from “Will Write for Food” this week were interesting, if not always totally accessible to someone who doesn’t have much of a knowledge of the field. I thought it was funny to hear her talk about the copy section before the recipe details as a means of telling readers what to expect from the recipe or to share a personal story, considering many of the recipes I’ve found on blogs tend to do A LOT of that and I find it irksome. Like, okay Karen, I’m glad your great-great-great grandmother brought this recipe over from wherever. That’s cool. But I don’t need a 1,000-word description of how sunny it was outside the first time you made it for your family.

I also found it interesting that she talked about testing recipes and adjusting them, because for someone who doesn’t have much of a cooking knowledge, that could get tricky. I have friends who can add spices and extra ingredients without a care in the world, and the final product ends up being delicious. If I tried that, the end result would taste like a car tire after it’s been driven on a pothole-littered highway through a snowstorm. It’s not an out of left field assumption that whoever’s reading this book has a knowledge of cooking, but it did overwhelm me a little.

I wonder if the market for cookbooks has changed since this book was published. Honestly, I don’t own a cookbook: if I need a recipe, I just Google it to find exactly what I’m looking for rather than paying through a whole book. There are recipes that have been passed down in my family, but even those didn’t come from cookbooks. With the influx of cooking blogs and things like Buzzfeed’s “Tasty,” I wonder if cookbooks are still selling, or if people are more focused on monetizing blogs and step by step, viral videos.

Reflection #3

This week’s readings brought back memories for me of a field trip I went on when I was younger (in first or second grade). My class went to a nature reserve where we learned about maple syrup production, and I have a vague recollection of some of the things mentioned in the articles; that sugar maples are the best to tap, that buckets, covers and spiles are used, that sap has to be boiled to become syrup, etc. I was surprised to read that sap can be boiled over an open fire, camp stove or gas range — I don’t know what I thought syrup production would take, but I assumed it’d require something heftier. I was also surprised at how little sap needs to be poured in a pan at one time, since I thought one would just… dump everything in. Now that I’ve read the article, not doing that makes a ton of sense.

All of this said, the reading about and history of the Anishinaabeg was totally new to me: I don’t think we learned about that in grade school, despite the fact that the Odawa people — at least based on the map I looked at — appear to have lived in Wisconsin at one point. Assuming the settlers’ math was right, it’s incredible that a village of 80-100 people could produce 80,000 pounds of sugar. It’s a pity that some of the nations didn’t realize how horribly they were being ripped off by those they traded with, just as it’s awful that Ashinaabeg graves were robbed because settlers didn’t understand, or chose to ignore, the significance of their rituals. Overall this reading was fascinating, but at times, it was incredibly tragic.  

Reflection #2

I found this week’s readings from Will Write For Food incredibly informative, although at times, some of the advice seemed to be general writing tips (show — don’t tell, be descriptive without using too many adjectives, etc.). Her instruction to not write about family memories was intriguing, especially considering I’ve done that in cover letters to food-related publications. Oops. Well, no more.

(I also got Alan Richman and Alan Rickman confused for the better part of the reading, and I was convinced Jacob had interviewed Professor Snape. Alas, what a difference one consonant makes.)

The third section most surprised me. I found myself disbelieving of, or at the very least astounded by, the investment Jacob claims food writing will take. If one is a freelance writer, simply subscribing to all of the publications she recommends will take a sizeable chunk out of one’s paycheck. It’s not cheap to take cooking classes or purchase foods at specialty grocery stores, either. I suppose if it’s one’s goal in life to write about food for a living, that investment could be worth it. But for those who have other expenses — rent, insurance, regular-person groceries, transportation, etc. — I’m just not sure every facet of her advice is realistic, at least on a graduate student’s income.

Symposium Reflection

Until Thursday’s symposium, I had never heard of nor eaten a “black walnut.” I was under the impression all walnuts were just walnuts, and they came in one variety commonly found in various cakes, cookies, salads and the like. Obviously, that was an erroneous assumption, and my supposition that all walnuts taste the same, even more so. I learned quite a bit from the talk — I didn’t know that black walnuts come from many midwestern states, nor did I know that the cycle of production tends to cycle through one plentiful year followed by a smaller year. I didn’t know the harvests largely consist of volunteers, nor would I have pieced together that black walnuts are being used for everything from makeup remover to protein powder (which I wanted to try, but alas, no one was attending the sample table).

            That said, I think I learned more about black walnuts themselves by eating a piece of coffee cake in the symposium’s entryway. The coffee cake had black walnuts in it, and I was instantly struck by how wildly they differ from the good ol’ garden-variety version. The speaker at the symposium described them as “earthy” and “pungent,” although I might describe them more as “sharp” and “smoky.” They have a bolder taste than regular walnuts which paired well with the sugar on top of the cake, and the entire conglomeration’s saccharine bitterness lingered in my mouth long after I swallowed the last bite. Although the purpose of this wasn’t to give my review of these unique nuts, I did like them in this dish and felt they added a striking flavor. Would I like them by themselves? Probably not — they’re pretty strong, and the closest parallel I have to what I think consuming them plain would be like is drinking black coffee. Nonetheless, I’m happy I opted to take a slice of the cake; the tasty treat made attending the symposium more fun than just sitting in a chair and listening to a lecture.

Reflection #1

I found “The Chantrelle Seeker” article to be the most interesting and well-written of our readings this week; Ancil is quite a character, and it was an interesting profile without feeling like a standard journalistic write-through. The first article about pampered vegetables was interesting, but that read more to me like a newspaper feature than a piece of creative writing (which, since it was NPR, was probably the point). I had no idea people took such care with their vegetables and kind of thought all veggies were the same — I definitely didn’t know there were so many varieties of tomatoes. The maps were informative and many were fun. I wasn’t surprised to see my home state, Wisconsin, is best known for being the birthplace of Culver’s, nor was I shocked to see we’re considered a “beer” state, since MillerCoors is located there. The TED talk was a little hard to follow at times, but I found it interesting overall. I didn’t know that mushrooms were the first organisms to live on Earth, and I didn’t know that humans have more in common with fungi than we do with any other species. I also thought the “treating the flu with fungi” part of his presentation was interesting, since I would never have thought mushrooms would help with disease in that way.