Lean Cuisine

          There are several themes that run through the selections from Secret Ingredients, but on of them hit me the hardest, as I sit here eating a Bacon Pasta Romano Lean Cuisine.  I have never thought deeply about the idea that American cuisine has become based mostly on convenience and driven by a lack of time, until now.  However, I have been a poster child of this trend for many years.  I own pots and pans and my dorm has a kitchen, but I have a soccer game in an hour and I just got out of band, plus I need to crank out this blog post, so I picked a Lean Cuisine.  Four minutes in the microwave and here I am eating, no matter that it doesn’t taste as something I could have cooked myself.  In high school I was no different, juggling soccer, marching band, work and school, I ate more frozen Perogies and Easy Macs than I can count.

            The piece “Secret Ingredients” explores the way in which some people just cook better food than others; they have a magic touch, a secret ingredient that they add.  The author remarks that she thinks this magic might be leaving the world, the people who posses the talent are less and less common.  This sad occurrence can be blamed on many things, American laziness, women entering into the work force, and an increase in convenient food products.  No longer is it necessary for women to be in the home cooking meals from scratch.  Anyone can open a box of Hamburger Helper and follow the instructions, and we do. 

            My parents have never been big users of boxed dinners, but my mother has been known to cook casseroles, the topic featured in “Nor Censure Nor Disdain.”  Although this piece is told in a very comical tone, there is certainly underlying commentary on America’s need for convenience.  With casseroles, it is not necessary to put in fresh ingredients, although the author recommends it.  My mother’s go to casserole, which I actually very much enjoy, is the very epitome of ease.  Hungry Jack Casserole (classic name I know) is basically a few cans of baked beans mixed with ground beef and barbecue sauce.  Pour all that in a casserole dish and top it with Pillsbury buttermilk biscuits and cheese, bake 30 minutes.  Easy as pie, actually easier and it’s delicious, but the only thing fresh is the meat.

            Although it seems that the fresh produce and meat movement is coming back into American culture, thinking about how much we value convenience over quality is frightening.  The basic values of cooking are at stake and many people haven’t even noticed because they simply don’t have time to cook.  We would much rather spend our time running around, microwaving Lean Cuisines, then nurturing our bodies with quality food.  Maybe when people take the time out of their busy day to put together a fresh meal, the magic will be back.

Emma's Kitchen

            The creaky side door opens onto an expanse of dark blue, unbroken linoleum.  Light pours in from many windows, all painted in white, like the walls.  To the right, a counter is covered with car keys, a clock radio, French press and a toaster.  Below, an array of drawers hold assorted cutlery, measuring cups, and a multitude of napkins.  Hardly any of the napkins match, all in different colors, textures and sizes.  They were a delight to my eyes after seeing the same coordinated plaid at my house over the year.  Everything was always more exciting at Emma’s house, and the napkins were certainly well used by us. 

            The napkins were mostly used to wipe the grease that ran from our homemade tortillas and cheese that we were so proud to have learned to make.  Only 25 seconds on each side in the microwave, we perfected this art.  When the Lord of the Rings movies came out, we pretended that the delicious triangles were the lembas bread that Frodo and Sam ate on their treacherous journey to Mordor.  Of course, stale Elven bread was probably nothing compared to the warm, chewy goodness of white corn tortillas and sharp cheddar.

            Under one window, a black gas stove sits waiting for use, a steel kettle takes up one of the four burners.  I can only assume that this is where Emma’s mother prepared the scariest, but ultimately most eye-opening meals of my life.  When she placed the block of plain tofu in front of me at dinner, I didn’t know what to do. 

            “What is this?” I asked Emma, eyeing the piece of which she had just taken a big bite.

            “It’s tofu.  We eat it all the time,” she replied, and kept chomping away, oblivious to my terror.

            Up until that point in time, tofu had been a mystery food, something vegetarians ate because they felt bad that they couldn’t eat meat.  What normal omnivore would choose to eat this? 

            Maybe it won’t be so bad, I thought.  Wrong.

            The tofu was like a tasteless, wet piece of bread.  My little hands trembled and my eyes searched around wildly for help as I choked down my first bite.  The piece seemed to be growing, and I cursed my parents silently for raising me to eat everything on my plate.  Somehow I made it through the meal, and prayed I would never be offered tofu again.

            Raised cupboards hold cups, bowls and plates.  Two of the coffee mugs had little animals in the bottom, a treat after finishing your cup of hot chocolate.  Often times, I would barely taste the drink in my rush to get to the cute little frog that was waiting for me.  Sometimes Emma and I would even make it a race, if we were feeling competitive and didn’t mind burning our tongues. 

            A towering oven/microwave combination stands next to the door into the book room.  This oven was the place where the real magic of the kitchen happened.  Emma’s mother was a master bread and cake maker, though Emma and I liked to claim that we were the best at muffins. 

            One of the few things that I can claim to have introduced Emma to is Jiffy muffin mix.  This was the kind of product that her mother would never have bought to have in the house, and why would she when she could make her own from scratch.  However, Emma fell in love with their fluffy texture and their miniature artificial blueberry specks.  Every time we planned a sleepover, she would beg me to bring these muffins to her house, although I grew increasingly terrified when I found out how much her mother detested them.  It was almost like I was a spy with a special mission to sneak them into the house undetected. 

            “Let’s make muffins!” Emma would shout as soon as my eyes opened in the morning.  She grabbed the box and raced downstairs to prepare the muffin pan.  We would grab a bowl, add the one egg and half cup of water, and stir vigorously, thinking how clever we were to make them taste so good.  Twenty minutes later we were munching on golden brown muffins and her mother was telling us how gross and artificial they were, a fact that escaped me for many long years.  Even though we knew that that the homemade muffins Emma’s mother promised to make would be much better, this was our special tradition and that made the muffins taster better than any other breakfast food could. 

            A black fridge occupies space on the far wall, covered in photographs of all the people that the Cross-Coleman family loves, including me.  A picture of me at one of Emma’s themed birthday parties, dressed in a puffy pink dress and a straw hat, one of the girls from a Monet painting.  Another counter area and then the breakfast bar, which lays directly in front of the creaky door.

            The light wood breakfast bar, with its high chairs is one place in this kitchen that holds the best memories of my life, and also the worst.  I stood at this breakfast bar and listened as Emma’s father explained how I would never see my closest friend again.  Emma was gone from the world, and the memories I had in this kitchen, in this house, were all I had left to remember her.  And people brought food.

            The idea of bringing grieving people food never made much sense to me, and now it just made me angry.  What did these people think their chocolate cherry breads and raspberry scones were going to fix?  Could this squash soup really replace Emma’s beautiful blue eyes and the way she understood me in a way that no one else ever has?  I doubted it, and I was furious that people could think that her family could eat at a time like this.

            Thinking back now, 56 days later, I realize that these people brought food not because they thought it would make things better, but because food is our connection to life.  So many memories are wrapped up in food, and bringing homemade dishes is a symbol that there is still hope, and there is still life after a tragedy like this.  Many other memories of my childhood and friendship with Emma may fade, but these foods will always be a connection to her.

**Note:  I added the last part, though it's more recent, because I felt like it was a defining moment in how I see food and it was a major moment in my relationship with this kitchen, but let me know what you think.  I realize it seems a little emotion heavy, but please make as many and any comments that you want!  Don't be shy and I thank you in advance!

Dirty Mouth, Perfect Meal

            I thoroughly enjoyed the first half of A Cook’s Tour, mainly due to the style of writing that Anthony Bourdain uses but also because of the content.  I have been told that I have a very “dirty” mouth and so reading an author who writes as, I imagine, he would speak was really refreshing and made me feel better about my curse word usage.  I felt like I was able to grasp his personality and his emotions much more clearly than if he had edited himself.  However, when Bourdain talks about food, he becomes a whole new writer.  Everything is immensely descriptive and I got hungry just reading his eloquent and complete descriptions.  This change in style helped me to connect with Bourdain even more because I imagine him being a crazy, drunk middle-aged man but when he steps into the kitchen he transforms.

            I liked all of the chapters in this section, but the one that I connected with the most was the chapter about his trip to France.  Bourdain goes to France searching for “the perfect meal,” but soon realizes the real reason he went was to experience a feeling that he had as a child.  However, he discovers that without his father there he can’t enjoy France like he used to, even when eating the most perfect oyster. 

This chapter brought me back to our discussions about how food is more than just the physical thing.  It is the experience surrounding it and the people you are with.  For me, Christmas breakfast is a perfect example.  My family and I always have pancakes and sausage, and they are probably the best pancakes and sausage ever made.  However, any other times during the year these pancakes and sausage probably wouldn’t taste that great.  Next year when I am on study abroad, I know that my Christmas breakfast will not be the same, even if I manage to find pancakes and sausage wherever I am, because I won’t be with my family.

            Another aspect that I connected with was his relationship with his brother.  My brothers are four and five years older than me, so when we were younger I would always be the one to tattle on them.  We still got along, but it was very much like what Bourdain described.  Now, we talk all the time and are really great friends.  Bourdain realizes, finally, that his little brother can be a friend and one of the only people who understand how much he misses his father.

            This is just one part of the story that is unfolding about finding “the perfect meal,” but I think we will find (as cliché as it is) that this is more a story of finding ones self.  On a side note: I am so happy that I never saw this show, I feel like it would ruin the book for me!  Has anyone seen the show?  How is it affecting your reading experience?

Family Dinner

            One of the most interesting and relatable topics addressed in Stealing Buddha’s Dinner for me, was the connection between family dynamics and food.  Bich Minh Nguyen never engages this subject full on, but there are definitely some considerations about this throughout the book as a whole. 

            Throughout the book, Bich talks about how much she craves American food because it probably tastes so much better and will help her to become more American by eating it.  She seems to believe that if Rosa would just buy the American food that she and her sisters want, and then all of their problems of being different will go away.  However, there are several points in the book, where the author Bich sneaks in little disagreements with child Bich’s belief.

            The first of these comes when Bich goes over to play at her Vietnamese friend, Loan’s, house.  She stays until almost dinner, when Loan’s mother is putting a Geno’s pizza (so American) into the oven.  Loan’s father comes home and there is a quiet disagreement between husband and wife, ending with Loan’s father looking depressed and exhausted.  The child Bich does not verbally consider the implications of this, the reality that eating American food does not truly solve all of the problems of being an immigrant.

            Then, when Rosa decides to start buying all of the American food that Bich wanted, the dynamic in their house drastically changes as well.  Bich and her sisters no longer want this food because it means that Rosa is upset and makes them feel so emotionally poor that they are not hungry.  Once this American food period ends, things go back to normal, the anger and discomfort is gone.  American food was not necessarily the cause of the problems, but the desire by Bich to reject her family’s traditional dishes definitely had a negative impact.

            My family always had sit down dinners every night, even when my brothers and I were working, playing sports, and going out with friends.  It was never acceptable to take dinner up to your room or eat at a different time, unless schedules conflicted.  Dinner is so much more than just the food that is served, or the person who makes it.  It is a time to connect with family and friends even when you might not be able to cross paths for the rest of the day.  I would never consider changing or skipping this part of the day when I am home, even if sometimes I would prefer that my mom made something different than what she had. 

The real problem that arose from the desire American food in Bich’s home was that what Bich really wanted was for her family and Rosa to change on a personal level.  She so wanted to be American that she was willing to risk giving up her heritage and her familial connections just to fit in with her environment.  At the end of the book, it is clear that Bich has come to accept her culture and understand that Rosa was a mother, just not an American mother.  Most telling is that when she sat down to a meal with her biological mother, she found that she had nothing to say at all.  It’s not about the food at all, but rather the people you share it with and the things that you share with them.