Carrot Top

Sad. My fetishes have nothing to do with food. Oh well.

There's already been books written that have given way more insight than I ever could on the subject, Janet. Secret Ingredients - Race, Gender and Class at the Dinner Table is one of them, and of course another is Peg Brackens "I Hate to Cook Book".

Gee. I'm hoping I didn't make a mistake by my defense of fast food. Moreso, my defense of fast food as a feminist. F*ck yeah. (Just to continue the fff sound started). I hope I didn't make a mistake.

Can someone tell me in which nation soy milk was developed? And if they have it in New Zealand?

Nice quote you found, dear kiwi. I don't claim to have triumphs.* How about you? There's been a bit of name calling in your posts. Factual evidence has been presented that there are other things here in the US, and other ways of thinking about things. You might take a look at how you have spoken to and about people ("fast food feminist" - cute!) in your posts and see if you might wish to respond in some sort of defense if spoken to similarly. Oh. Cheers! *I do claim to have a certain experience, that directly applied to your post. I am from the United States and have not only lived, eaten, and cooked here my whole life (except for travel, of course!) but have worked within our restaurant food culture. Moot? P.S. Edited to add that I see you are posting, again. This time whatever you say will go in one of my ears and out the other. My horoscope warned there would be someone who wanted to argue around today. Must be you.

One day, yes, maybe one day. But then again, it took "some years" for Chinese food to be "discovered". Goodness. Where was it all that time before "we" found it?! Was it there? Did it exist?

That's funny. This "fast food feminist" is one who threw away her own mother's ardent feminism to marry twice, support one husband financially, then the other by cooking each day, fine meals for him to eat. This fast food feminist also was an executive chef at one of the top five investment banks on Wall Street, feeding the partners of said place. . . who knew French food, five star restaurants all over world, and expected what they ate with their guests to be of a rather "haute" order. Then this fast food feminist became a VP in the operations division of that place, and had the task assigned of feeding the 3000 employees as manager of the subcontractor. Did the employees get to eat "haute" or "slow" each day? Did they even want to? Was it financially or operationally feasible to try to do this? If it were done, would they appreciate and applaud it? I doubt it. Oh, plus, I'm not fat at all. Your reach and your grasp do not meet the extended size of your tongue. You are young, perhaps. Perhaps in time your reach and grasp will grow.

Well, then. Checking in here is War Correspondant Carrot Top. I'll attempt to set the scene for you as briefly as I can, for time is always short during wartime. One must always be on one's toes, ready for the next movement by the troops or the enemy (and sometimes they are difficult to tell apart). My specialty has always been trying to fix the world through food. A daunting task, but one that has its pleasures, and besides, M.F.K. Fisher hinted that it could be done. I had my first baby post-career years. We moved out of the city, my then-husband and I, to the boondocks of Rockland County. And then we moved again, and again. Each year we moved, the kitchen (besides the rest of the house) being dissassembled and reassembled by me, with Baby #1 in tow and Baby #2 who arrived 18 months after Baby #1. We moved so much not from neccesity (who would?) but due to then-husband's (let's call him TH for short?) need for "always something better" or alternately "always something wrong". Years later, I discovered that it was not the kitchens he managed that required something better or something different, but most likely the waitresses he was sleeping with upon their offers (as, through history apparently, there are always some waitresses who think sleeping with the boss is the Best Idea to try) who wanted something better or something different from him in return for their favors. So each year would bring a new home to put together (I can't live in disorder) and a new kitchen to get used to, new places to find that had decent food for sale. And it would bring a loss of the support system that had started to be built in the last place. But the war is not waged most intensely outside the walls of the home. It is, as you note, waged most intensely inside, where the Babies are who need to be fed and where the Mother is (and sometimes the Father, but one should not automatically assume this!) who needs to figure out how to do it and somehow keep her own health and sanity. TH was never home, but when he was (arriving at 2AM or so) he wanted a hot meal. Sort of like the Babies, you know. He grew surly if there were no hot, exciting meal that could be placed before him upon his arrival home. The war waged more deeply. Baby #1 was the sort that slept lightly and when awake, required high maintenance. She still is. Baby #2 was an explorer who liked to get around and get into things and make big lovely messes that only he can truly appreciate. He still is. What do you do? You do the best you can. And that is different, for different people. And nobody can (or should) put imprimateurs upon what will or should be eaten by you and your family during the war. Your boundaries of acceptance will need stretch, as they will need stretch as this amazing new person, Baby, becomes who they are and challenges many of your previous ways of life. When the day was a gentle one by mystery of chance, some shopping and cooking could be done. One might whip up something tasty, something beautiful, to find that Baby simply is not interested. That can be devastating. When it happens over and over again (and when you *know* you know how to cook, for you've actually been an executive chef) it can appear as if this war zone is more like something written in a science fiction book than any reality you can imagine. You might eat this beautiful thing yourself, but somehow the essence of taste would be clouded and not satisfying. Take-out food. Casseroles. GD it all, chicken nuggets when they get older. Farmer's markets are good for some (note, I say some, but not all) Babies for some do like the absolutely fresh - but they will not eat the same fruit or veg if it is from the grocery store. Palates more attuned, perhaps? Who knows. They can not tell us when young, except by simple and bold refusal or acceptance. Crockpots. Canned foods. Frozen foods. Those victorious warriors who have done without them are few. You do what you can, and sleep whenever you can, for enough sleep makes any food taste better. Life is different now, as this War Correspondant can attest, than it was without the Babies. But then you look at what you have, these Babies. And know that a gourmet meal will not, and can not, ever replace them. But mostly you have to have that revelation while the Baby sleeps.

Actually there's a lot of Thai recipes that do quite well in a hotpot/crockpot, if the idea of plain old "beef stew" or chili sounds too dreary. . . A rice cooker can be helpful, too. No clattering around, no need to focus in too much on timing.

Well then. Our menu is started. Anchovies, butter, and chocolate. Why do I want to say "ouch"? No butter story, SB? No chocolate story, Michael? C'mon, you guys. Reveal all.

I hate to say this, because in general there's something about the things that bother me, but perhaps the use of a hot-pot would help on some days? Start in the morning, just eat in the evening. Not the most elegant of dining, but almost anything that is in the house *can* be made into a meal without too much thinking ahead. There's also the idea (in the winter) that helps of a (cheap, don't get a really good one for they are nice and quiet ) humidifier in the baby's room that makes just enough noise to lull, with that "white noise" that will cover other delicately-made noises from the other room. . . I feel for you. I tiptoed for years. Still do, sometimes. (But it's worth it. )

Well, maybe at least the "cocktail"? Wikipedia places the party as started by a Brit.

Why do I think we invented the "Cocktail Party"? Did we?

I haven't the slightest clue, Daniel. But do let us know what you find out, with all details included.

Of course there is also the "cuisine" of the restaurant (at differing levels of "haute" or not) and the "cuisine" of the home. Two different things, as in other cultures. Our food, or cuisine, is also affected by regulatory agencies that may or may not have a stronger hand in terms of control than in other places, but I would suspect the hand is stronger. This is both limiting and helpful in various ways. On the limiting side, it affects what ingredients are available in a general widespread sense, which affects what restaurants or the home cook can obtain and serve (and often, due to heavy rules, keeps a foot set down on new restaurants that would open due to the high cost of meeting regulations) and also what streetfoods might be available (usually only an issue in cities, but I daresay many a roadside BBQ has not been opened due to the high level of health code requirements and the cost of meeting them, making operations prohibitively expensive as opposed to profits expected). On the helpful side, we are known as being one of the most sanitation-minded people on the planet when it comes to food, and that translates into a more easy assurance that one will not become ill from the food they eat, perhaps more than in some other places. (The oft-quoted phrase heard from traveller's lips worldwide: "Why did you go to McDonald's?!", and the answer given. . ."It was clean.") Not to say that I don't see lots of grimy-enough places around here.

I love the Food Museum site - it always has something fun going on! And the plate project sounds absolutely fascinating, Rebecca. If the name of the exhibit happens to come along, please do post it for us. . .what one might wish to put on a plate and eat might be astonishing. It is wonderful that your particular friend chose to make and eat love. Good thoughts, as always, Karen

Inspired by M.F.K. Fisher's "An Alphabet for Gourmets", I thought it might be fun to have our own banquet of words and food, from letter to letter, all along the alphabet. We'll start with "A" rather than challenging the Way of Things, today, and each day to follow will bring along the next letter (just sing "The Alphabet Song" to yourself if you get worried about what letter comes next - I always do though am beginning to consider the melody a bit dreary). Naturally we are setting a banquet of food. And the things that go along with it. Interestingly enough, in taking a quick look at M.F.K. Fisher's book, some of the chapter titles start with an idea rather than a food itself - Bachelors; Cautious; Gluttony; Happy; Kosher; Monastic; Romantic. . .and the storyline then follows through with the foods that connect with these ideas. The choices are endless. Pick something posted already that piques your interest. Or choose something of your own. Tell recipes, thoughts, uses. Argue the merits of one thing or another, if you'd like. ................................................................... I'll start, with Anchovy Anchovies are ugly little things when they are in the can. They are fearsome, dank, salty. The saying "Eating an anchovy is like eating an eyebrow" is quite apt. I understand that fresh anchovies are a different thing altogether, and have always wanted to try one. Haven't done it yet, though. There are several recipes I adore anchovies (salted, canned) in, and nothing else will do as replacement. A dish of vermicelli tossed with a quick sauce of olive oil (no I can not use the abbreviation for olive oil, it sounds like a pompous train coming puffing self-importantly through the station), loads of garlic, hot red peppers, fresh plum tomatoes and a large handful of chopped parsley. It's actually my favorite pasta recipe. I love anchovies on pizza, too, but nobody else (usually) that I am around agrees with this, so that is a longed-for, once-in-a-while thing. Pissaladiere. The very word seems to enclose anchovies within it. Anchovy Paste. Makes me think of Britian. Old Britian. The little cans are charming. I hope they never disappear, with the cute little keys attached to laboriously peel back the lid in a tight curl. The world will have lost something meaningful in an odd way, if so.

I'd like to add this painting to the thread. Nothing startling in terms of what it is as a painting, but for one thing that struck me as slightly odd. Painted by the American James Peale in the 1820's, it prominently features a "balsam apple". Which, if you google it, you find listed as being called balsam pear or bitter melon. The timing on the painting is interesting, for even now bitter melon is not well known in the US. Nor is balsam apple, really. (From this site.) What's more interesting is that the wild varieties that are pictured as thriving here look like this not like this. So. . .was he painting a bitter melon? Or a balsam apple? Are they the same thing? And where on earth did he obtain (whatever it is that it really is) in 1820 in the US? Not modern art, but yet slightly conceptual and mildly shocking.

That part in Mexico has always made me feel edgy, too, Ingrid. It will be interesting to re-read it and try to find the reason. Agreed, too, with the "enough, already" feeling. I didn't feel this way in the past but do, now. What's worse is that the Chexmix was this sort of new and healthy kind, with bits of dried apples and walnuts and cinnamon in it. Literally, I dumped half the bag on my head. I had to take a shower. (Sing along now - "I'm gonna wash that Chexmix right out of my hair. . .") And to add insult to injury, I never buy Chexmix. I just picked up this bag because it was on the shelf in front of me while I was trying to find "stocking stuffers" for Christmas. My daughter did not want it. (Smart girl ) So I decided to eat it because I hate to throw food away. Pah. Pouring Chexmix over my head has actually been my downfall in life. ........................................... I'm not sure about the popularized notion of "acting as we want to feel", or at least, I can't agree with it in a simple form. In some ways this ties into what Maggie noted about MFK and her writings which are so apparently autobiographic. MFK drew a world (with food - "The Art of Eating") that held a certain sort of promise. As a skilled storyteller, she held many in her grip with her own peculiar variety of intangible belief system. The stories held this within them, it was offered to us. And then we do find (in the additional knowledge of her "real life") that the world she drew ("acting as we want to feel" might be what she did, in her own way, in drawing those stories) was not real. "Acting as we want to feel" can be deceptive. Unless it thoroughly works, and brings actual measurable results in reality, in one's life both public and private. Or so I think. But what do I know. I am one who pours Chexmix in her hair.

Follow-up to last post: I walked away from the computer, thinking about MFK and food and all of it. Got a book and went to the kitchen and chose something (ah! very mindfully I thought about what I would choose!) then walked to the couch and picked up a book to read for a moment. A quilt lay half on the floor where my son left it this morning (which of course I say I will wait for him to pick up and then rarely do, picking up after him rather unthinkingly sometime during the day) and I went to throw it over myself on the couch. As I did so, I was surprised, attacked by the food I had chosen to eat. For it was an open package and I poured it right over my head. Divine awakening? Something of the sort. My food of choice? Here's the real kicker. And I swear to you I chose this food without focusing on its name. . . . . . . . Chexmix.

What's scary to me is how very much we all do define ourselves by what we eat. Or is it the other way around - that what we eat defines us. In so many ways. In too many ways. And I'm not just talking about "in a cultural sense" which is important, but moreso in an inner sense of who we really feel like we are, inside. Not "who we are", note, but "who we feel like we are". I'm not sure that parts of that last paragraph are applicable to the males of our species. Might be, might not. We still do move from certain role to certain role as we move through our lives. We are daughter, of some variety, with some sort of story to know of how that is "supposed to be" in terms of how we are. What we eat often reflects that. Then we are wife, or close equivalent in many relationships whether there is ring and papers involved or not. We enter the family of the man we've chosen to love (and to follow, in many cases, still, regardless of our apparent freedoms of choice). The family we enter has their own ways of food and eating, and our husband has expectations. We enter another phase of shifting sands, which can be either a gift or a burden. It usually is one or the other - it usually is *not* just a nothing, a blank. And we shift inside, by what we choose to cook and eat, altering "who we feel like we are". This particular thing can be, and is, often altered by the ways life moves around us. Death of a husband leaves a wife who has cooked for him looking around with nobody to cook for (that she wants to, for this part of her has died too) or simply not even interested in eating anything. Divorce can leave the ways of eating and cooking and "who one thinks one is" adrift, as can living in a marriage that is full of things marriages should not be full of. It comes out in the food. One does not generally like to serve a delicate and loving banquet when the air of ugliness wafts silently at the edges of the windows. And one does not think of eating in such a way either, for themselves. Being a mother and caring for one's children brings another new phase into being. Particularly when they are young, if the choice has been made to be around them rather than to go out of the home to work, one is again plunged into the shift of "who one thinks one is". Now, we are not sex kittens in most eyes. We are mothers. And in addition to the physical shift involved in growing and bearing a child, with the neccesary extra weight that occurs for healthy babies, the day changes its pace and shape. You can not tell a baby or a child to "just wait a minute, I want to do my nails" or, when a sudden ear-splitting shriek rises from the other room as you have your hands delicately playing with filo and butter, say to yourself, "Ah. They'll be okay. I'll just finish making this, the right way, first." Or maybe you can, but if so one must be rewarded the More Than Nerves Of Steel Award. The foods in the house change, often. The things that Kids Like to Eat creep in, and often these foods are not the best things for mothers to eat, if they want to remain healthy. It frightens me how what we eat can define us, or how it can alter "who we think we are". For if it has the power to shift who we think we are it has the power to alter who we are. A subtle, often friendly assault which we invite, and then conspire with. If it's true, my meanderings above, then it's important to think about what we eat. And to make it match as close as possible "who we think we are" and even beyond that "who we want to be". For if we don't, who will?

Isn't that the name of the new Jeffrey Chodorow restaurant? ← But wait a minute. Isn't there already an "Artful Thighs" restaurant in Santa Monica? (Just kidding)

Chexmix works, doesn't it. "Chexmix the Goat. Now starring with Jerry Lewis! See goat and man as they fall over themselves and everyone else! A slapstick comedy for the entire family."

I found myself cranky today again at my favorite "food writer". Yet another word besides Chexbres. In "Catherine's Lonesome Cooks". It was several sentences, actually. Uh. . .right. I think they must have made men differently then, if so. And. . . "artful thighs" ? WTF?! ( ) ( ) P.S. Will undoubtedly be back tomorrow with my cheerleading pom-poms at the ready, though.