Carrot Top

Again, I'm going to agree. Then I'd wish to add that it is not just the fact that our choices at the supermarket are different than they were (more convenience foods, something lperry raised in her initial post in terms of "lack of time") or that we eat out at restaurants and fast places so much more than we did twenty-five years ago, but that it seems to me that it might be worthwhile to consider our reasons for doing so, if we are to take the debate anywhere except within its own academic circle of effect. *Why* are people eating more (processed) convenience foods and going out to restaurants and fast food places (more processed foods) so much more than in the past?

Yes, kudos to Mr. Pollan. He's done an excellent job as a journalist in gathering facts in unprecedented ways then presenting them in forms more than palatable to the public. He is raising an argument raised before though, throughout history in differing ways, and probably with the same levels of success rates. Kellogg's and all that gang pop into mind at the moment. And just look at a box of Kellogg's cereal *now*. Far from unprocessed whole-grain healthiness. But I guess it's worthwhile to keep raising the flag of commonsense (in the form of sensible suggestions by knowledgeable persons) in any case.That flag certainly gets trampled on often enough. It's just when the flag is picked up by True Believers and used as ammunition against others that might not hold the same views that I start to feel more than a little bit uncomfortable. . .and I must say that if there *were* actual "sides" (like there's not?) when I see ammunition gathered ready to be thrown against the other (obviously more intellectually-stricken side, according to the flag-carriers, obviously those who *need better guidance*) side, it comes upon me to want to wander immediately over to the other side, for I just plain don't like flags used as ammunition.

I'm *never* ready to criticize *any* essay built on medical facts within a rhetorical argument, Suzi. I thought of putting in that disclaimer when I posted the link, but then thought that probably not too many people would bother reading Fox when Pollan was on the pulpit anyway. The real experts (medical doctors, specialists in all sorts of diseases in each and every part of the body) argue among themselves to such a huge extent on the subject of food and health that far be it from me to try to put my two cents in. If they can't come to a conclusion, who I am to think that I have the answer?! I only know what works for me, and that's about as far as I'll take my own conclusions. (But I am always happy to hear informed comment, particularly from a charming person such as a SuziSushi! ) My points in my posts in this thread have been two, one for each post: For the first post on chicken-fried bacon, the point was to say "Not all the old-fashioned natural food might have been excellent for one's health if not balanced. . .therefore the original study of "nutrients" that might be in our faces a bit too much now was an idea that was quite useful at the time it started. . .and as all things go around, probably this will too. . . ." (baby with bathwater idea) and two: There's more to the reasons we eat what we eat than we think it "healthy" for us or simply do not care if it is healthy for us. It is a complex and tangled web that to my mind can not be reduced to any simple argument, whether that argument includes or does not include the idea of "exercise" within it while leaving out big swaths of sociological stuff. If the cure must suit the dis-ease for a lasting ease, then the whole dis-ease must be taken into account or the fix will falter. But again, I feel no urge to argue what is best for the world. Those that do might think a simplified argument with a focus on one area that strikes a common chord the best way to go about it.

I am texturally omnivorous. Give me a pigs foot. Give me cream of wheat. Most of all, give me okra. Cake is fine, as is a spoonful of rock sugar. Jellyfish? Yay! The edging of fat on a grilled lamb chop. . .ahhhh. I have not tried a fish eye yet, but can't wait. Oh. I am American. From the United States. Do I have to leave now?

I find this site: An Anthropologic Perspective on Food and Eating to be interesting reading.

I like Saran Wrap. It never hurt me bad. And for $40 a day (thinking of Rachel) you can build quite an extensive wardrobe out of it.

I agree with you on this one. I'm pretty sure "natural flavor" in the ingredients list means "crack." ← I'm thinking about all this and looking at this thread. . . . Here we have a microcosm, yes, that likely is different than the Whole Paycheck's crowd comprises . . .here we have something "naturally flavored" that some might say has an essence of "crack" to the flavor. . .and here we have a food that our great-great grandmothers would recognize. As you say, curious. All of it.

It's obvious that you have given intense thought to the question of "what is a chef". I agree with each and every one of your points. There is not a stitch dropped in the fabric of your thought, and all edges are smooth, strong, and complete, to my mind. I understand the metaphor of orgasm in your paragraph above. I don't know a chef who does not feel this way, and even many line cooks (the ones who last). For me, I felt this way more intensely about dancing (real dancing, not dancing behind the line or in the dance of chef ) than I did in the kitchen. Perhaps I should have been a ballerina? Ah, well. There's still time. ( ) As to music, films, politics, history, in your narrative of chef and food - I say "yes" to all of it in "foodwriting". Yes to all of it and more, for food is one singular thing that is tied in to so many other things. It does not stand alone, nor does a chef stand alone with his or her food in some place where only aroma, texture, taste and science exist. . .without much affecting all of it. All of it. In professional cooking at places where it is required, we often use the standardized recipe. It is a formal tool that excludes any sort of alternate ways of doing. It provides a certain stability, consistency, and structure both of a naturally-based ingredient sort and one of a more hierarchal sort. Writing of food (or, as extension of thought, chefs) might sometimes be subject to this sort of standardized recipe being placed upon it. Personally, as someone who used to be called "chef", I guess I don't have a whole lot of tolerance for standardized recipes that are considered unbendable, unimprovable, never to be shaken off their bases by something new, something maybe tastier, something with a spark of difference. I like the freedom of writing a new recipe, as long as the technique is there to support it. The world is not only my oyster, but many people's oysters. It has been interesting to learn about yours.

Good story, SB. I almost decided to write on "Quarrelsome" (strange word to spell, with that qua thing going on) but got into a quarrel with myself over it and decided not to. I remember that story about the blizzard of the century from when you first posted it. Blizzards seem heaven-sent as story material, don't they? ...................... Let's see if I can do the next three: Rational, Stupid, and Theatrical. When cooking something, it is not neccesary to stick to one way of being. I remember one time when I was cooking something that I was three things at the same time! (At least three things - there may have been more that I am merely forgetting due to alphabetic restrictions in this moment. . .). I was rational, stupid, and theatrical all at the same time. "How wonderful!," some of you may cry, those who love the way confusing layers of things seem to exist in life. "How utterly ridiculous!," others may mutter to themselves, thinking that life surely is not as flimsy or uncontrollable as to encompass three conflicting feelings or actions within one split second of time. "She's whacked out!," may escape unwittingly from the sides of their mouths, from others. Well, perhaps. But here is how it happened: It was approaching lunchtime. I was a sous-chef then, in a small private trading concern on Wall Street. Most of the prep had been done, but the dessert needed finishing. It was going to be a chocolate-ginger roll. . .a sponge roll filled with vanilla-flavored whipped cream and crystallized ginger, enrobed in a dark chocolate glaze, decorated simply with candied violets and bits of crystallized ginger in a classic fashion. Time was short. I finished it and set it to the side of the countertop, balanced on a raised cake dish. It looked beautiful, and I knew it would taste wonderful. This cake could be drowned in, eaten over and over again, it was that sort of cake. Light yet. . it had an urgency of taste about it that made the tongue cry, "More! More!" It was busy that day, and the space became crowded, elbows and hips started bumping into each other in the small kitchen as the pace of lunch raced around itself. Different things to be made and served at different times, all with an air of utter control and laissez-faire with a winning smile to those at the tables. In one movement made during this rush, somehow I pushed something sideways, hard, into the cake in the crowdedness of it all. It toppled sideways, and as it was a gentle soft thing, it smooshed. It smooshed into a big mess in the middle of the crowded countertop. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why hadn't I put it up out of the way?! What would we do?! My heart sunk to my toes, almost. Now I realize that this is a common saying, but if you focus in on times when things like this happen, you actually can physically feel this. Depending on the occurence (I haven't analyzed these occurences thoroughly yet, but hope to write a scholarly study on it some day, and maybe even get grants for it) your heart will either go to your toes or to your throat. Mine was in my toes. There was no sense of me, above the feeling of my heart in my toes, which feels really awful, really strange, awfully disconcerting. But then something happened in my brain, which I had not believed was still existing. Rational thought entered into it through some mysterious process, and a voice said (hollowly, as these voices do), "Make a trifle. Make a trifle. Make a trifle." Quickly I scooped up the remains of the sad cake. I found a big glass bowl and started chopping and layering. A layer of smooshed cake. A swoop from the bottle of amaretto, which was the first bottle of spirits I could easily lay my hands on in the muddle of bottles set high up on shelves so that I had to climb on the little folding ladder. Another layer of whipped cream. Luckily there was pastry cream, too, made, with a bit saved, from something else the day before. A layer of that. Some sliced berries. And on and on, the towering "trifle" became its rather obnoxious self. Dessert was to be served. It was time. Naturally the server did not want to serve it, as it was *not* on the menu requested and planned. Ahh. Time to dance. A neatening of the hair, a removal of the disgusting chocolate and everything else smeared apron. A straightening of the shoulders and a planning of a pirouette in the center of the room, all while graciously smiling at the table of somewhat crumpled looking (they often were somewhat crumpled looking, somehow) be-suited business-people. Enter the (sous) chef, with a dessert planned and made just for the occasion. Named, even, for the occasion, with the name made up as my mouth opened that very instant of speech. It was very theatrical. Which is as it should be. That dessert became a favorite of the man who ordered that lunch. It nibbled a warm place right into his heart. He even sounded sad when one would try to convince him to try something different for dessert. Moral of the story? Sometimes a trifle is not merely a trifle, and sometimes, even the merest of trifles can whirl one into unexpected places.

You have an impressive list of things that you've done, truly. Wish I could rattle off a list like that (in ways) but rather than delve into the world of external accomplishment I chose to leave the food world and be a Mom. (This is a job title that used to exist as a real thing that could take a full day of work to do, but whether it is a job title that is thought of in that way anymore is questionable.) I know that some Moms seem able to do more than focus on one thing, but it has been proved that I just really do not want to. So I am the one who cooks at home. (Which actually can be in ways more challenging than cooking for the public, for you just can't ever really get up and walk away from it to do something else! )(Well. . .of course unless you hire someone else to do it, but that seems odd to me, for me). I have mixed feelings about having been an exec chef, often, for sometimes the title seems to be attached to the handshake or smile of the person saying "hello" to me as a persona that must be filled. . .and of course the Mom part is left dangling sideways saying "Hi, this is what I really do". I never really have any mixed feelings about spending a full day as a Mom except when others angle their own stuff about it at me. Actually, in terms of difficulty, I find that the job of full-time single "Mom" to be much more difficult than being either an exec chef or being a VP in the Operations Division which is the job that followed (the role was managing all foodservices for the corporation.) So my question, originally, was tinged with a bit of ruefulness, and there is no smilie to show that. ..................................................... So how do you answer the question about the difference between a chef and a cook when it's asked?

Oops. Let me take that one back. Saving that story for my own book. But the other question remains. . .you know, the favorite food one. . .the one that every chef gets asked by every person that is not a chef? Always difficult to answer. Particularly when recipes are then asked for. (Did I say "meow" yet? No? Well, then. "Meow." ) ................................. I like to cook many things, but not too much of the sixties stuff. Beef Wellington. Sigh. Tournedos "however". Or alternately brown rice with mushrooms. Blech. Food to my mind has improved greatly here in the US since then. And of course food is the most important thing, sometimes the only thing, one can really talk about. I wonder what everyone reading was cooking in the sixties or seventies if they were there.

So. . .Joe. . .do you have a favorite food you like to cook? P.S. Hey. Maybe we can exchange stories of how we each became executive chefs for the first time, rather than just "chef". That might be fun.

Recipes I've made specifically from and because of MFK and liked: Sabri's Turkish Cake Aunt Gwen's Fried Egg Sandwiches Radiatior-Dried Tangerine Sections ( ) Kasha for Breakfast "To Stay Soft-Handed" ( ) Peasant Caviar (this is the eggplant thingie I mentioned earlier). Each one very simple, very. Each one perfect in its own way. Classic, really, they are the sorts of things that simply move into your life and take their place.

Absolutely. Otherwise they can and do try to use us. Sorry if I sounded gloomy earlier - I've been reading a "Paris Review" collection of short stories and my outlook (because of it, I believe) is becoming quite morose. Must switch to a different book.

I forget the negative in daily life, but retain some memories under the listing of "those who forget history are doomed to repeat it". Sweet is one of the flavor profiles of life, but what would it taste like without the linked concept of the flavor of bitterness? Perhaps sweet or any other good thing would not be as full, standing alone unchallenged or with alter-balance. . . I think "Earth People's Park" was a take-off in ways of People's Park. Here's a link. What can I say about it. Lots, but let's just stick to the fact that the food was dreadful.

Yes! Me too! Happy, indeed, is a fried egg sandwich wrapped in wax paper carried in a pocket then eaten! Serious happiness!

Eh. Perhaps I believe in a bit of rudeness now and then. ........................................ I think I'm sorting her stories at this point into two categories at least - those that read like a fictional tale (where one tries to fit in as much interesting "action" at every twist and turn possible to keep the reader engaged) and those that read rather like a fable, as in when she speaks of the riches of days past, the appetites of men (Hmm. What about the female appetite? How about "When a Woman is Small?" as title and story? That would be fun. . .) in the stories like "When a Man is Small" and "Greek Honey. ." with a fable's ending that hints of philosophic morality in some essential way. ........................................... I'm curious as to what recipes you've used, and which ones other people have used, and liked or disliked of MFK's. The first thing that comes to mind for me is her recipe for "Eggplant Caviar" (I believe there are three of them in a row in the book) which is simple and beautiful to me, rich and unctuous, and which is rather daring to eat among those you don't know well from the massive amounts of garlic that perfume it. . . .

I remember the old lady at lunch and how MFK let loose with a sentence that struck at the old lady's severe aplomb. To me, MFK was not being mean there, for honestly I think people like that old lady who walk around being so personally pompous and obviously posturing, then actually expecting all the people around to play along with their personal ego game (without the least bit of humor involved), are rather absurd and in some ways are overstepping the bounds of reality in the first place in expecting others to bend to suit their strained posture. I think the old lady was mean, and MFK was just right. The man chasing after them on a train platform because Al did not say goodbye was more touching (though I haven't read it yet this time, but I do remember it a bit) but still I have to have the same attitude. I can not say that MFK was being mean here. There was a guy once, a waiter, who worked for my ex-husband. Somehow he got a severe crush on him. He would follow him from place to place, geographically, to work at the next place exH managed. Knowing my ex, who knows whether he encouraged him, even if just for the ego boost of it, or not. But anyway, there was not a whole lot of reality going on in this guy's mind. He followed a married man and his wife and children around the country, waving much as the guy in MFK's story did. . .sad, yes, but should one always need to feel deep compassion for those obviously out of whack that go around imposing their own (un) reality onto other's situations? I don't think so. Do it too much and you can end up losing your own sense of personal reality. If anyone on that train platform was mean, it was Al. For it was he that the fellow loved somehow. MFK was the wife, watching. Better to laugh than to cry, perhaps? Actually I feel rather contemptous of Al for allowing that to happen to both his wife and the fellow. Actually I rather feel like punching him in the nose. Al, Chexbres, and "her husband" - Al she probably did not think of as her husband because of some things. Chexbres, that was another unusual relationship in ways. The third one, Donald Friede, was a publisher and literary agent who "orchestrated her career" to use the words of Joan Reardon. Maybe he was the only one she really thought of as her "husband". . .or maybe she didn't want to use his name too much as it might remind her or others of the link to a specific sort of support system for her career that she had married into. I'll have to take a look at this parenthesis thing. Never noticed it before. (I can't believe you are delving in once more . Will be interesting to see what other thoughts you come up with as you go along. . . )

Love that line about Nestor. ........................................... Reading your stories (and the thread currently running where line cooks play jokes on people like putting LSD in their drinks or magic mushrooms on their toast as practical joke) is truly a "flashback" of sorts. The zinging total silliness of it all - drugs sex and rock-and-roll - the altered experience that finally had to shift into a reality for those that lived it that did *not* (as Nestor did, and as some of the kindest gentlest most creative people among the crowd did) die young, too young. Edged on the other side by the black undercurrent that *is* the flip side of this. I was the thirteen year old girl at the edge of the crowd of hippies, the skinny one with the long red hair. The one that smiled a lot. There were more of us than just me, teenagers whose parents weren't watching too closely or who were not watching at all, though we were a minority in the gangs of college students, dropouts and trust fund babies that flitted with tie dyed t-shirts and unbrushed teeth through the days living for the freedom of whatever sort that was being sought. It was me, the tiny one, that would get grabbed at the rock festivals, given a drink laced with whatever hallucinogenics the fun-seeker that was seeking "fun" had on hand (without being told till afterwards that the drink had something in it) and then it was me who would get grabbed and lifted onto the portable trampoline that ten people were carrying around to bounce other people on "for fun", it was me who was bounced without being wanted to, ten feet into the air, flailing without the ability to make them stop, hallucinating from the drugs while trying to maintain some sort of grip on a thirteen-year olds sanity, tryng to scream "stop!" as one does in a dream but being unable to get any sound out at all, while those doing it laughed and laughed and laughed, their faces distorting into mudpiles of sludgy rubber as I prayed to the depths of my soul that somehow it would end. This is a simple example and one that does not focus on things that might really offend people that would read of the times and how people acted within that mileu. The nostalgia resonates, and the nostalgia is good in the ways that it should be. But for those who might think this nostalgia, this world, was a lightweight easy sort of wheeeee! (which could happen if one were not there, or if one chose not to think of these things) with lots of sourdough bread, brown rice and LSD as pleasure, I have to point out the other side as balancing factor. Nestor. I'll remember him, though I never met him, with pleasure though (though he is gone). .......................................................... I wonder if anyone ever went to "Earth People's Park". Remember that place/idea? ......................................................... But Vladamir and Estragon have the right idea. A story passes the time in the best sort of way.

There certainly exist some unpalatable facts we have to eat in life. Then of course, it is also a fact (hmmm. Do I need to attach an annotated bibliography for this? I hope not. It would take time and be boring ), as they say, that "History is not made by well-behaved women." * I'm going to start in on reading MFK on Oysters, soon. Just needed a break. * (Yes, I do think that needed emboldening. Reminder: Go out into the world and mis-behave! ) (Just not meanly. )

I'd like to add a suggestion here. Chewing gum. Well chewed. Put in the hands that have smushed the food on the table after removing from mouth. Mix well into first your own hair then the grownups hair too, smacking as hard as you can to adhere it well, with a jolly laugh. Awww. A pig in a blanket. Delicious.

The wee folk won't like it, Maggie. I'm surprised you didn't think of that. I would think so. And as you note in your sig line: One just can't be too careful with these things. Whether there is a wardrobe in the house or not. Even a spoon can have magical powers. (Come to think of it, they often do.)

It might be daring the universe in yet-unknown ways to stir any way but clockwise. I've seen this injunction to do things clockwise in other things, too, in some old texts. One is injunctioned to sweep the floor of the house clockwise, too.

We return to cycles of the Moon. Be sure to howl accordingly. From eG's risotto thread by Craig Camp.