Process Writing

The process I went through when drafting and re-drafting the three major assignments this quarter varied from piece to piece.  The hardest piece for me to write was probably The Perfect Meal as the assignment in itself caused me a good deal of anxiety.  As I have very little cooking experience, a college student's budget, and almost no cooking resources to speak of on the K campus, the responsibility of cooking a perfect meal overwhelmed me.  Deciding on a menu that accurately represented some of my favorite foods (I actually felt like I was cheating on gyoza and tortilla de patata when I didn’t include them in the menu!), while simultaneously being conscientious of the film Food Inc. and the book The Omnivore's Dilemma was incredibly difficult.  I had trouble deciding the most basic things, like what kind of food to cook or whether or not I should go home to prepare the meal.  Pair that with trying to live up to Michael Pollan or Anthony Bourdain’s expectations of a perfect meal, and you have one stressed out foodie.

After cooking the meal, the writing, too, was stressful.  Due to poor planning on my part, I opted to write my rough draft the morning before making the five-hour drive back to Kalamazoo.  Though I anticipated on having a leisurely coffee and computer morning, I had forgotten to factor in finishing my Graphic Novel midterm, reading for Anthropology, and doing laundry.  Needless to say the allotted time for my Perfect Meal rough draft dwindled away leaving me only a solid couple hours to pump out a semi-respectable draft.

However, the upshot to a mediocre rough draft is that it allows significant room for improvement.  The in-class workshop helped me define what specific elements were still lacking.  For example, I realized that I had not acknowledged my brother’s existence in the piece, giving the illusion that I was an only child.  Other helpful criticisms included taking out the part about the wine tasting, avoiding chronological order, and including more details about the relationship with my mom and what it meant to cook with her.  However, the downside to the workshop was that going into it, I knew I was pretty much going to re-write the whole thing.  As a lot of my peer's critiques were about things I had already planned on scrapping, some of the comments didn't really have much impact.  After work-shopping my piece, I ended up tearing it apart and attempted to build it back up.  Though I only ended up keeping a few of my original sentences and ideas, I think that in this case, writing a horrible rough draft led me to the polished final product I have today.  I really like how it ended up, and had I written a better first draft, I’m not sure it would have turned out the same way.

Overall, writing The Perfect Meal, and all the pieces for the Food and Travel Seminar, significantly improve my writing.  I now understand more accurately what it means to show, don’t tell by avoiding over-used or hyperbolized adjectives.  Instead of saying the meal was divine and delectable, I need to show that through description and let the reader come to his or her own conclusion.  By showing the reader how it is, instead of telling them I can create a voice of authority as the reader learns to trust me. 

Other specifics I learned this quarter include avoiding loaded words such “authentic,” “real,” “exotic,” and “unique.”  Before taking this class I didn’t realize the implications (or lack thereof) of using these words.  However, I now know that words like “authentic” tread into dangerous territory and essentially raise more questions than they answer.  Authentic to whom?  What makes it authentic?  Who are you to say it’s authentic??

Finally, the last thing I learned about my writing this quarter is the importance of a central theme in a piece.  When I was writing my memoir piece (Our Sevilla) it took me a long time to figure out what the piece was actually about.  In my rough drafts I tended to start in one place and end up in a totally different place.  I can now see that having a strong theme woven throughout the piece not only makes it easier and more enjoyable to read, but give readers a solid idea to take away from the piece. 

The Food and Travel seminar had given me a great base to start seriously writing about food and travel.  When I go abroad next year, I will be able to articulate my thoughts and experiences in an educated and engaging manner, drawing on this class for context.

Thanks for a great quarter, Marin!  What a wonderful class!!

Review: Taverna Ouzo (final draft)

Taverna Ouzo 

Intended publication: The Index

FOR THOSE of us college kids looking to kick back on a Saturday night and order a drink, or maybe an appetizer or two, before making the rounds to the off-campus parties, Taverna Ouzo is the place to go.   

With its mahogany colored banquettes and high-top tables, its low lighting and multi-mirrored walls, and its jazzy, funky soundtrack that keeps the toes a-tappin', Taverna Ouzo is East Michigan Avenue's hidden hotspot, located just a five-minute drive or twenty-minute walk from campus.

Owners William and Katherine Adams opened their restaurant in 2002 in hopes of creating a place where guests could relax, unwind from the week, and experience homemade European/Greek food without leaving Kalamazoo.

But while they have made good with providing a pleasant, comfortable atmosphere to squander away the 7-9 p.m. humdrum of a Saturday night, the Adams' family has yet to make their food anything of consequence.

To start a meal, the best available option is probably the saganaki, a skillet of lightly breaded Kasseri cheese drenched in brandy and flambéed tableside, then extinguished with a good dose of lime juice and a hearty Opa! from the nearby wait staff.  Served with toasted Sarkozy's Bakery French bread or baked pita chips, this light, creamy, crispy, $6.75 combination is a good appetite whetter.   

But the entrées following this palate-pleasing first course are comparable to the second half of a Nicholas Cage movie: bland, one-dimensional, and a good excuse to order another drink.

The mousaka, layers of baked eggplant, potato, and ground beef topped with a Parmesan béchamel sauce, lack flavor and texture.  The beef, desperately needing a hit of salt and pepper, grossly out-proportions the number of veggies creating a dish so dense and heavy, that it is actually laborious to eat.  The béchamel, usually a reliable source of sodium and cream, is used so sparingly that it detracts from the dish rather than working to offset the overbearingly meaty entrée.  

Though beautifully presented—the mousaka is arranged carefully in a white ceramic au gratin dish and baked until golden brown, then garnished with slices of toasted pita—the novelty unfortunately wears off after the first bite.

The dining room, however, is pretty and inviting.  With exposed hardwood floors, original brick walls, and ornate high ceilings, it exudes a 1920’s big-city feeling with a modern twist.  Though the eye naturally wanders to the gorgeous cocoa-colored bar, hand carved by local wood-working artist Rock Bartley, the tiffany-style glass lamp, oil paintings, and twinkling Christmas lights also work well to create a relaxed, urban atmosphere reminiscent of Chicago’s Lincoln Park.

Yet the food quality and prices need work.    

The fifteen-dollar shrimp ouzo, sautéed in a light marinara sauce served over a bed of orzo pasta and finished with a warm a blend of feta and mozzarella cheese is as impressive as a Sunday night dinner with Sodexo.  Severely lacking in flavor and creativity, customers are better off ordering from the Coney Island hotdog stand next door and having the dogs delivered tableside, as the food quality and prices are more reasonably balanced.  (The Adams’ family owns both Coney Island and Taverna Ouzo allowing customers to order from either menu.)

The clientele, however, seems unconcerned by the mediocrity of the food.

The 12 different specialty beers on tap, in addition to the other 28 bottled varieties, allows the thirsty customer optimal choice when deciding on how to wash down this semi-satisfactory meal.  Beer not your thing?  Taverna Ouzo is also home to a wide selection of homemade martinis (26 distinct flavors!) as well as an extensive wine list hailing varieties from around the world.  

Too busy sipping on drinks and licking their grease-stained fingers before reaching for another handful of thick, Greek-style fries, no one is paying much attention to dinner. 

With the 50+ inch flat screen TV, catchy music, and the prime hours for Saturday night shenanigans drawing near, everyone—from the semi-raucous frat boys to the couple celebrating a 70th birthday— seems to be having a good time.   

The wait staff included. 

Dressed in all black, the waiters rush from table to table joking casually with one another, throwing in a good Opa! when someone breaks a glass or sets an appetizer ablaze.  Together in the family business, brothers Frank, Steve, and Michael Adams take control of both the floor and the bar, letting their sense of humor and dedication to family shine through in their work.  

Though very knowledgeable about the menu, and eager to make a recommendation or two, their anticipation of the customer's needs is sub par especially when the floor gets busy (A young woman had to ask twice for a glass of wine, and other customers were observed waiting 20-25 minutes to get their dessert).        

The dessert, however, is worth the wait.  A specialty of the house, the homemade baklava is like a gift from the Greek gods themselves.  Layer upon layer of flakey, golden brown phyllo dough, smothered in honey and chopped walnuts it is enough to appease anyone’s sweet tooth.  At $3.95 a slice, it's one of the more reasonably priced items on the menu.

Though Taverna Ouzo is not a restaurant for fine cuisine and service, it is a place for folks to kick back, relax, and kill a couple of hours.  The perfect pre- or post-dinner stop, one can avoid the menu and still have a good time.  Besides, it’s a great place to come for a Coney dog.  

Taverna Ouzo: Part 3

Now that I have visited Taverna Ouzo, written a review about the experience, and received feedback in workshop, I see my pre-writing (titled Taverna Ouzo: The Anticipation) in a new light.

Specifically, I now have mixed feelings about my expectations regarding the quality and origin of food, as well as the environment and ambiance.  First and foremost, after re-reading many of the online reviews I had looked at pre-visit, I now feel I relied too heavily on the words of potentially inexperienced, unsavvy, and only semi-food conscious "critics."  Instead of accurately portraying the overall food quality at Taverna Ouzo, many of the reviewers just focused on one or two things to rave about and didn't actually provide much of a substantive argument. (You can check out a few of the reviews I read here, here, and here.)  Due to the generally stellar reviews, I feel that I had high expectations for the quality of the food that were sadly not fulfilled.  

Aside from the caliber of the food, my expectations for finding out the origin of the dishes was also a bit unrealistic.  Although I was able to ask the waiter specific questions about a few dishes, I thought it a bit over-kill to ask him a millions questions such as if the cheese in my mousaka was grass-fed, if the ground beef was 100% organic, or if the potatoes were locally grown.  Instead, I ended up asking him about a couple of things, but then turned to perusing my menu for further clues regarding the origin of certain foods.  However, my pre-writing makes it seem that figuring out the origin of the food is one of my top priorities for my visit to Taverna Ouzo, and unfortunately I was unable to deliver many nominal results. 

I think I was right, however, in not crafting my expectations of the food (and the environment) around the idea of "authenticity."  Because I did not go into Taverna Ouzo looking for "the perfect Greek meal" or "the authentic Greek experience of Kalamazoo," I dutifully avoided the controversial discussion of what is truly "authentic" and to whom.  After reading the article Culinary Tourism I believe that this was the best tactic.  Had I had the resources to make a strong, educated argument about "authenticity" as whole, or specifically what Greek authenticity means to me, I perhaps could have taken another route with this concept in my review.  As it was, however, I thought that avoiding the subject altogether was a better choice due to the obvious limitations.

As far as my expectations about the environment and ambiance of the restaurant, I think they were more or less on track.  Since I had never been to this restaurant before and simply did not know what to expect, it was hard to formulate any pre-conceived notions about the environment.  However, I think that it was important to go into the entire experience thinking about it from the lens of a college student.  (Since I am a college student, this wasn't too much of a challenge!)  Before going to the restaurant I made a list of all the things I thought a college student would want to know about the ambiance or environment, then made sure to observe those things when I went.  Some of the items on my list included lighting, sound level, music soundtrack, and clientele.

Overall, I am pretty happy with the expectations I set up before visiting Taverna Ouzo last weekend.  I think the most important thing about my anticipations was that I tried not to have too many concrete expectations.  As I have done a significant amount of traveling in my life, I've come to realize that when I plan things out or over-think things, I often am left feeling disappointed or uncomfortable when things don't go according to plan.  The best approach, in my opinion, is to have some basic level of expectation (such as this restaurant is fancy, I can at reasonably expect a little better food quality), but then after that just go with the flow.  While I think this approach worked well for my visit to Taverna Ouzo, I think it is also a good philosophy to keep in mind next year when I go on study abroad to Ecuador and for any future traveling I may choose to do.                      

Review: Taverna Ouzo (first draft)

Taverna Ouzo
Intended publication: The Index
FOR THOSE of us college kids looking to kick back on a Saturday night and order a drink, or maybe an appetizer or two, before making the rounds to the off-campus parties, Taverna Ouzo is the place to go.   
With its mahogany colored banquettes and high-top tables, its low lighting and multi-mirrored walls, and its jazzy, funky soundtrack that keeps the toes a-tappin', Taverna Ouzo is East Michigan Avenue's hidden hotspot, located just a five minute drive from campus.
Owners William and Katherine Adams opened their restaurant in 2002 in hopes of creating a place where guests could hang their hats, unwind from the week, and experience homemade European/Greek food without leaving Kalamazoo.
But while they have made good with providing a pleasant, comfortable atmosphere to squander away the 7-9 p.m. humdrum of a Saturday night, the Adams' family has yet to make their food anything of consequence.
To start a meal, the best available option is probably the saganaki, a skillet of lightly breaded Kasseri cheese drenched in brandy and flambéed table side, then extinguished with a good dose of lime juice and a hearty Opa! from the nearby wait staff.  Served with toasted Sarkozy's Bakery French bread or baked pita chips, this light, creamy, crispy combination is a good appetite whetter.  
But don't be fooled.
The entrées following this palate-pleasing first course are comparable to the second half of a Nicholas Cage movie: bland, one-dimensional, and a good excuse to order another drink.
The mousaka, layers of baked eggplant, potato, and ground beef topped with a parmesan béchamel sauce, lacked flavor and texture.  The beef, desperately needing a hit of salt and pepper, grossly out-proportioned the number of veggies creating a dish so dense and heavy, that it was actually laborious to eat.  The béchamel, usually a reliable source of sodium and cream, was used so sparingly that it detracted from the dish rather than working to offset the overbearingly meaty entrée.  Though beautifully presented --the mousaka was arranged carefully in a white ceramic au gratin dish and baked until golden brown, then garnished with slices of toasted pita-- the novelty unfortunately wore off after the first bite.
The fifteen-dollar shrimp ouzo followed in suit.  Shrimp sautéed in a light marinara sauce served over a bed of orzo pasta and finished with a warm blend of feta and mozzarella cheese was as impressive as a Sunday night dinner with Sodexo.  Severely lacking in flavor and creativity, customers are better off hitting up the Coney Island hotdog stand next door, where the food quality and prices are more reasonably balanced.
The clientele, however, seemed unconcerned by the mediocrity of the food.  
Too busy sipping on drinks and licking their grease-stained fingers before reaching for another handful of thick, Greek-style fries, no one was paying much attention to dinner.  With a 50+ inch flat screen TV, catchy music, and the prime hours for Saturday night shenanigans drawing near, everyone seemed to be having a good time, the wait staff included.
Dressed in all black, the waiters rush from table to table joking casually with one another, throwing in a good Opa! when someone breaks a glass or sets an appetizer ablaze.  Together in the family business, brothers Frank, Steve, and Michael Adams take control of both the floor and the bar, letting their sense of humor and dedication to family shine through in their work.  
Though very knowledgeable about the menu, and eager to make a recommendation or two, their anticipation of the customer's needs seems to fall flat especially when the floor gets busy (A young woman had to ask twice for a glass of wine, and other customers were observed waiting 20-25 minutes to get their dessert).        
The dessert, however, is one item worth waiting for.  A specialty of the house, the homemade baklava is like a gift from the Greek gods themselves.  Layer upon layer of flakey, golden brown phyllo dough, smothered in honey and chopped walnuts is enough to send any sugar-addict into a frenzy.  And at $3.95 a slice, it's one of the more reasonably priced items on the menu.
Though Taverna Ouzo is not a restaurant for fine cuisine and service, it is a place for folks to kick back, relax, and hang their hats.  The perfect pre- or post-dinner stop, one can avoid the menu and still have a good time.  Besides, there's always the hotdog stand to hit up on the way out.   

Taverna Ouzo: The Anticipation

My experience with Greek food extends about as far as my 7th grade end-of-the-year toga party, to which my classmates and teachers brought a variety of "Greek" dishes to share in pot-luck-style fashion.  While one adventuresome student brought in an American rendition of grape leaves, the majority of the other dishes consisted primarily of spinach and feta pastries, olives, and baklava.  To my 13-year-old palate, the food I tasted that day seemed delicious and "authentic."  However, after reading Lucy M. Long's article "Culinary Tourism," I now realize how loaded the concept of "authenticity" really is.  Though I hope to expand my knowledge of Greek cuisine and try a variety of new dishes tonight when I visit Taverna Ouzo, Kalamazoo's Mediterranean/Greek tavern, I will not be looking for "authenticity," rather a dining experience welcoming to a college-student crowd and a tasty meal.  
Completely unaware of its existence until this morning, my online research has told me that Taverna Ouzo is one of Kalamazoo's better Greek dining establishments.  According to a variety of online reviews (by bloggers, foodies, and the common eater) Taverna Ouzo provides a mix of Mediterranean and European-style dishes during the week, and on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights serves up a variety of Greek specialties including mousaka, gyros, and a variety of shrimp, steak, and chicken entrees cooked in their signature Ouzo sauce.   
As my knowledge of Greek food is limited, I am hoping to use this opportunity tonight to partake in the kind of "border-crossing" noted in article "Culinary Tourism."  Though I am not actually going to Greece, in a way, I am wearing the hat of a tourist as I look to appease my curiosity and ignorance about another culture.  Tonight I will consider myself a experiential or even recreational tourist, looking only to "participate in the foodways of another" while avoiding the rigid and controversial objective of authenticity (Long, 21). 
To do so, I plan on focusing on a variety of things during the meal.  First, because I have very little pre-existing knowledge about Greek food, I will have to rely on my personal assessment of the taste and texture of the food.  To get the most out of my meal, I plan to focus on the flavors of the food by eating slowly, trying a variety of menu items, and perhaps even taking a leaf out of Hannah's book and taking a few bites with my eyes closed. 
Apart from the eating of the food, I hope to find out more about where the food comes from. On the Taverna Ouzo website, it claims the food is prepared with finest and (when possible) local ingredients.  After reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma, however, I feel it is only fitting to ask the questions, Where exactly the salmon in the smoked salmon sandwich is from?  And, how exactly did the spinach in my spanikopita get to my plate?
Finally, I plan to focus on the atmosphere and logistics.  As I am a college student writing this review for other college students (my intended publication is The Index) I am essentially looking to decide whether this place is worth a college kid's time and money.  If the clientele is mostly 55+, or the bill comes to more than 25 bucks a person, then ideally, this may be a restaurant to visit when mom and dad are in town.  
While I have illustrated some of my expectations and hopes for my visit to Taverna Ouzo, I have learned through experience that a good tourist shouldn't have too many expectations when meandering into the unknown.  The most important thing about tonight, I think, will be to keep an open mind as I look for a tasty, different, and potentially "Greek" dining experience.    

Final Draft: The Perfect Meal

The onions hit the pan with a satisfying sizzle, flecking my kitchen counter top with pin-sized medallions of smooth olive oil, as I stood over the stove with my mom getting a lesson in what it means to make onions “sweat.”

“You’re going to want to stir them occasionally,” my mom said.  “Until they turn translucent.  They’re going to start caramelizing and will be super yummy over burgers,” she said.

I nodded, setting up camp in front of the stove.  Every now and then I gave the onions a good stir (only slopping a few over the sides of the pan), while munching happily away on the walnuts toasting on the nearby burner, and only half listening as my mom began explaining the difference between mincing and mashing garlic.

The two of us were cooking The Perfect Meal, an assignment for my Food and Travel Writing class.  Jumping at the chance for a much-needed break from “K,” I had made the five-hour drive from Kalamazoo, Michigan, to my hometown of Wooster, Ohio.  Although being home would be a treat in itself, I also knew that home would provide the resources (and help!) that I needed to make this meal a success. 

I had spent the drive home mulling over the different food items that could possibly make up my Perfect Meal menu.  At first I wanted to make gyoza, a type of Japanese dumpling that my older brother and I grew up on.  But Brennen is thousands of miles away working in China, and gyoza wrappers are incredibly time consuming and difficult to make from scratch, so I nixed that plan before hitting I-69.  Next I thought about making a variety of Spanish tapas.  I could make tortilla de patata and cold gazpacho soup.  But finding all the ingredients to make the dishes taste like my Spanish host mom’s could potentially be tricky.  Instead I decided on doing a spin-off of the traditional American meal: cheeseburgers and french fries.  After reading Michael Pollan’s The Omnivore’s Dilemma and watching the film Food Inc., I realized how unhealthy and unsustainable the burger and fry industry could be.  I wanted to try my hand at making a similar meal, but entirely from fresh, local foods, either from farmers or stores committed to practicing sustainability.  It was going to be the conventional American meal, made unconventionally, I decided.

“Are you stirring those onions?” my mom asked me as she plopped neatly cut pieces of sweet potato into a bowl of salt water.  Jumping into action I put down my fistful of warm walnuts, and began stirring the onions vigorously.  They hissed loudly, as if angry to have been forgotten.  My mom gave me the same look she used to give me as a kid: I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

This was not the first time my mom and I worked in the kitchen together.  From a young age I had showed an interest in baking, though my repertoire consisted mostly of variations of chocolate chip cookies and the occasional box of brownie mix.  However, my problem with cooking is I never really could find the patience to finish the task.  By the time my first batch of cookies would emerge moist and golden from the oven, for example, I would have eaten my fill of raw cookie dough and lost interest in the entire project. Abandoning the flour-covered counters and piles of dirty dishes I would run off to play, leaving a trail of cookie crumbs in my wake.  I think my mom was sensing a similar conclusion from me now, as I was too busy munching away on various parts of our dinner before we had even finished preparing it.

Just then my dad walked into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. 

“What’s for dinner?” he asked peering into our various pots and pans.

What’s for dinner seems like such a simple question.  And two months ago I probably could have given a very simple answer.  After reading The Omnivore’s Dilemma, however, I’ve come to realize that, in fact, it is a very complicated question.  Luckily, I had prepared for this question and had come up with a response that I think even Pollan would be proud of. 

“Classic hamburgers made with 100% grass fed beef,” I told him. 

“They’re topped with grass-fed baby Swiss cheese, sautéed oyster mushrooms, and caramelized onions, all on fresh baked pretzel rolls.  Accompanying the entrée is sea salt sweet potato fries, a field greens salad with cherry tomatoes, toasted walnuts, and a homemade lemon and olive oil dressing, and, if you’ll be so kind to run out to the garage, an ice cold Great Lakes Brewing Company lager.”

“Sounds like you went to Local Roots,” my dad said opening the garage door. 
It was true.  That very morning my mom and I had made a trip to Local Roots, a market committed to ensuring direct producer to consumer contact, sustainable farming methods, and fresh, organic produce.  A regular customer, it was no surprise that my mom knew just where to find the various ingredients we’d need for the meal.  After deciding upon a pound of grass fed ground beef, a quarter pound of grass fed baby Swiss cheese, and a large assortment of beautiful, soft, white, grey, and yellow oyster mushrooms, we made our way to the veggie booth in hopes of finding some yummy looking greens.  When we arrived, however, we were met by a lonely sign:

No Greens This Week, it read. Things are growing slowly in the cold and needed time to recoup… sorry for the inconvenience!

I sighed.

This would require Plan B.

After checking out at Local Roots and swinging by The Bake Haus, a local bakery that supplied us with freshly made pretzel rolls, we headed to downtown Buehler’s, one of the eight Buehler’s stores in the area.  Formerly a local one-branch grocery store, Buehler’s has since gone on to open stores in numerous neighboring counties and now considers itself corporate.  However, it was Wooster where Buehler's began, where the Buehler kids went to school, and where "Buehler Hill" is located, a plot of land on which the entire Buehler family seems to live.  Even though Buehler’s has now expanded and is a supplier of industrial foods, it still promotes local products and sustainability whenever possible.  And it was there where my mom and I bought four large sweet potatoes, onions, lemons, cherry tomatoes, and regrettably, a pre-packaged field greens salad mix. Our last stop was at uptown Buehler’s to get a six-pack of Great Lakes, the local brewery of Cleveland.

Cracking a beer, my dad began to set the table for three as my mom and I put the final touches on our meal. 

Pulling the burgers out from the oven, I slid them (somewhat) gracefully onto the warm rolls, arranging them carefully on a plate.  They looked kind of beautiful there, I decided.  The cheese, though still gooey in the middle, had melted completely on the outside and sent milk white waterfalls cascading down the sides of the burger before coming to rest in the toasted crevices of the pretzel roll.

“Alaina! Fries!”  my mom’s voice snapped me back as I saw steam pouring from the oven.  I whipped open the over door, pulling out the scalding trey of sweet potato fries which, with the exception of a few blackened, crispy causalities, looked perfectly done in my eyes. 

I placed the fries on a plate while my mom tossed the salad, and in no time it looked like we were ready to eat. 

Sitting down at the table with my mom and dad, I was both nervous and excited to see how the meal I prepared had actually turned out.  Though a sophomore in college, I felt almost like a little kid again waiting eagerly for their approval and praise as they took their first bites. 

“Mmm delicious,” my dad said.  “This is really good,” agreed my mom. 

I exhaled, and got ready to try the burgers myself. 

The first bite of the burger was… difficult.  The pretzel roll was so thick and the meat patty so large that it was honestly pretty hard to get my mouth around.  I think I even ended up cutting the roof of my mouth on the hard, salted crust of bread before I finally got a good solid bite.  But when I did, it was delicious.

The meat was flavorful and moist, sending rivers of red juice down my chin, smattering the sweet potato fries below on my plate.  The fries themselves were sweet and crisp, and balanced the acidity of the lemony salad and bitter swigs of beer. 

As the three of us tucked into our dinner, silence fell over the table, which in my family only means one thing: we were all too busy eating to talk. 

It was nice cooking this meal, I decided.  I felt a sense of accomplishment now that I was sitting here eating the fruits of my labor.  Successfully cooking a healthy, sustainable, and delicious meal from start to finish was an achievement in my book, and perhaps, had even proven to my parents that I could make a meal (mostly) on my own.     

By the time we had had our fill, night had fallen, and the conversation turned to my departure in the morning.  I’d be making the drive back to school tomorrow, back to the stress, the bland cafeteria food, and the lake-effect snow. 

But for now I was home and the three of us were together. I had made a successful meal, and for me that was enough. 

I barely even noticed that there were clean plates all around.

Good Eats: Sam Sifton and the New York Times

Ah, if only all of us could have a To Do list like Sam Sifton.  Wouldn't that be the life?  To eat, to drink, and to get paid.

Far more manageable to read and absorb than the excerpts we read from Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink, Sifton's work as the New York Times chief food critic made me realize how physically and mentally exhausting the life of an acclaimed foodie can truly be (eating out 6 - 7 days a week is just the start!).  However, my pity for him does not stretch far, as his life seems borderline idyllic.

About to embark on my own trip to New York City over spring break, I have to say I really enjoyed reading all of Sifton's critiques, reviews, and raves of good eats in the Big Apple.  Sifton's use of description and imagery such as in his review of restaurant Ai Fiori practically transported me to the simple farmhouse tables to enjoy the salad of blue crab and grapefruit, avocado, tarragon and crisp flatbread, and lobster velouté with shaved chestnut and black truffles, or the plate of wine-glazed ravioli stuffed with ricotta and mascarpone, with truffle-infused boschetto cheese; and braised veal agnolotti with a brush of butternut squash and sugo with the critic himself.  

Apart from his wonderful, mouth-watering descriptions, I was glad to see the balance of pros and cons in so many of Sifton's pieces.  The fact that he could come right out and say that the red shrimp from Bar Basque was bland and uninteresting or that the New York strip steak lacked crust, made him, in my eyes, a more credible narrator, and an ordinary guy in search of a good meal just like the rest of us.

I also really enjoyed reading the piece titled My Life in Food, where Sifton gave readers a play by play of every single calorie he consumed and burned over a one week period.  Although in numerous other articles Sifton claims that even though he eats for a living, that with the proper amount of exercise and the occasional day off, he's in the best shape of his life.  After looking at everything that Sifton actually consumes and comparing that to his 3-4 times a week workout routine, I found myself asking "Really, Sam Sifton?  Are you really in the best shape of your life? It just seems highly unlikely that a guy who eats and drinks his way through one New York restaurant after another has no major health problems, or won't in the future.  What about cholesterol?  What about high blood pressure?  What's the average life expectancy of a food critic anyway??

The last element that I found particularly entertaining in regards to Mr. Sifton's articles was his witty remarks about going in disguise.  From wearing fake mustaches to having his very own children address him by a different name, I thought it was amusing and endearing how Sifton approached the task of anonymity.  Although I know the task of a reviewer is to appear like the average customer, I can't help thinking that there would be some fun in letting a restaurant know a reviewer is in the house.  Would I get points off on next week's review assignment if I did that? 

   

Secret Ingredients

I had mixed feelings about Tuesday’s reading of Secret Ingredients: The New Yorker Book of Food and Drink.  To me, many of the articles in the section titled “Eating Out,” seemed dated or hard to follow.  Perhaps due to their publication dating nearly 20 years prior my birth, or perhaps due to the topic choice (French cuisine—which I know almost nothing about), I found myself spending more time on google looking up unknown words and foods than I spent actually reading the articles themselves.  However, the advantage of having such a wide variety of articles and authors in one place is that there were bound to be a few essays that really struck my fancy.  One such article was Joseph Wechsberg’s “The Finest Butter and Lots of Time.” 

Wechsberg’s use of characterization in “The Finest Butter and Lots of Time” brought his piece to life, making characters in other essays look dismal in comparison.  Wechsberg's description of head chef M. Point, the 6 foot 3 inch, 300-pound man, who drinks champagne like water, and tells you what to order in his restaurant gives this piece dimension and drama.  For me, M. Point was such a strong character that he was almost more memorable than the food itself and was the one element that really gave this article bite.  Although I personally would have been semi-terrified to eat in his restaurant, as the presence of such a domineering character would have created too much anxiety for me to truly enjoy the meal, Wechsberg, or someone of similar strong personality, seemed to easily juggle both, and write about it flawlessly.  

The second article that really struck me was Anthony Bourdain’s “Don’t Eat Before Reading This.”  Although this article was home to a plethora of topics ready for a hot debate—do restaurants actually have a “save for well done” policy??— the one thing that surprised me the most was Bourdain’s aversion for breakfast foods.  For someone whose words I admire so fondly, I was disheartened to hear that Bourdain hates breakfast.  Who can hate breakfast?! It’s such as wonderful meal.  Although in this article, I think Bourdain is a bit pretentious about breakfast (as well as vegetarians and buffets), I did enjoy hearing his voice again and now know when to and when not to order seafood at restaurants. 

The third article that really resonated with me was Joseph Mitchell’s “All You Can Hold For Five Bucks,” which introduced me to the New York steak dinner AKA a “beefsteak”--a fad that ran its course through the Big Apple during the first half of the century.  Although unaware of this American tradition until reading this article, I could connect it to an experience I had during my two month stay in Argentina last summer. From June to August 2010, I attended numerous asados AKA Argentinean beefsteaks.  An asado is a multi-generational event that brings together the young and the old to chat, drink, and eat their body weight in red meat.  From the description Mitchell gives of a classic New York beefsteak, and from my experience at numerous asados, I can tell you that they seem fundamentally similar.  Although I enjoyed reading Mitchell's article and could relate it to my own experiences, one thing Mitchell should have mentioned is the toll such large quantities of meat take on the body.  I can tell you first hand, that those of us unaccustomed to eating so much meat, have a lot harder time digesting the stuff than those who are used to it!  

The Perfect Meal: Rough Draft

For my Perfect Meal, I wanted to see if I could make an entire meal from fresh, local foods, either from farmers or stores committed to practicing sustainability.  

Four stops, five hours, and thirty dollars later, I had my meal.

The menu: Classic hamburgers made with 100% grass fed beef, topped with grass fed baby Swiss cheese, sautéed oyster mushrooms, and caramelized onions, all on a fresh baked pretzel roll.  Accompanying the entrée would be sea salt sweet potato fries, a field greens salad with cherry tomatoes, toasted walnuts, and a homemade lemon and olive oil dressing, and, of course, an ice cold Great Lake Brewing Company lager.  

Many hours before, however, my meal began as yeast rising in a local bakery, as mushrooms growing in the Kilbuck Valley, and as beef being packaged and labeled by a farmhand at Autumn Harvest farm.  For me, however, it began with a trip to Local Roots, a market located in my hometown of Wooster, Ohio, with my mom.  Committed to ensuring direct producer to consumer contact, sustainable farming methods, and fresh, organic producer, Local Roots proved to be my main supplier of ingredients for my Perfect Meal.

I began by selecting a pound of grass fed ground beef, a product of family friend and farmer Mark Ladrach.  The Ladrach farm, or Autumn Harvest Farm as it’s formally known, is certified organic and rejects the use of all artificial fertilizers, hormones, antibiotics, and herbicides.  Also the provider of a quarter pound of grass fed baby Swiss cheese, Mark and his family supplied two of my main ingredients: cheese and burger.  Next I visited the mushroom booth where my mom and I selected a large assortment of white, grey, and yellow oyster mushrooms.  Beautiful in color, and soft to the touch, these mushrooms would be perfect atop our burgers.  From there we moved onto the veggie booth, but were met with an unfortunately surprise.  Instead of the piles of greens I was expecting, a lonely sign was in their place.

No Greens This Week, it read.

Thing are growing slowly in the cold and needed time to recoup… sorry for the inconvenience!

I sighed. 

This would mean Plan B. 

We checked out at Local Roots, our total coming tonearly $16, before heading to The Bake Haus, a local bakery owned by my mom’s former ESL student.  We were greeted with, “Well look who it is!” as Sofie, a rather large woman with a German accent rushed out to give hugs.  It seemed to take forever to get out of there as news had to be traded, recommendations had to be made, and, finally, our rolls had to be bought, but eventually we got out of there with four perfect looking pretzel rolls, sold for $1.50 a piece.  Next we headed to downtown Buehler’s, one of the eight Buehler’s stores in the area.  Formally a local one-branch grocery store, Buehler’s has since gone on to open stores in numerous neighboring counties, and now considers itself corporate.  However, it was Wooster where Buehler's began, where the Buehler kids went to school, and where "Buehler Hill" is located, a plot of land where the entire Buehler family seems to live.  Even though Buehler’s has now expanded and is a supplier of industrial foods, it still promotes local products and sustainability whenever possible.  And it was there where my mom and I bought four large sweet potatoes, onions, lemons, cherry tomatoes, and regrettably, a pre-packaged field greens salad mix.   

Our last stop (which had been interrupted by a 2 hour wine tasting at the College of Wooster) was uptown Buehler’s to get a six-pack of Great Lakes beer on the way home.

At 4:30 I began cooking.  As a result of my limited cooking ability, and desire to eat sooner rather than later (I was hungry after 14 kinds of wine!), I enlisted my mom to help me cook the meal. 

First we peeled and chopped the sweet potatoes into french fry pieces, placing them in a tub of salt water, which, I learned, prevents them from turning brown and gives them a natural, salty taste. 

After draining the water, coating them in olive oil, salt, and pepper, I popped them in the oven at 400 to bake. 

Then I moved on to the burgers.  The beef had been sitting out and was room temperature by the time I molded it into 1/3 pound patties.  My mom told me three things when handling a hamburger.

1. Don’t over handle it.

2. Don’t smash it, or compact it too hard.  It should be loosely held together so the juices can flow.

3. If you want to make it really delicious, put a small square of garlic infused butter right in the middle.

After doing all of these things, and coating the outside of the meat in a salt and pepper rub to make a nice crust, I set the burgers aside to cook later.

Caramelizing the onions came next.  I sliced the onions, put some oil in a pan to heat, and plopped the onions on with a satisfying sizzle.  I let them cook down turning translucent, before removing them from the heat and sauteing the mushrooms.

While I was waiting for the mushrooms and the sweet potatoes to finish cooking, I toasted some walnuts and made a dressing for the salad out of lemon juice, extra virgin olive oil, salt, and pepper.  Soon a burning smell let me know that the sweet potato fries were done.  I popped the burgers under the broiler, leaving the oven door slightly cracked and waited for them to cook.  Soon delicious smells were issuing from the oven.  After flipping the bugers and slicing the baby swiss into thin pieces, I placed the cheese atop the meat.  Two minutes in the oven and the cheese had melted and was dripping down the sides.  Perfect.  After putting the buns under the broiler for a few seconds apiece, they were toasted and browned, and ready to be eaten.
Everything was ready.  The candles were lit.  The table was set.  The Great Lakes was out.  We sat down to eat.
The first bite of the burger was difficult.  The pretzel roll was so thick and the meat patty so large that it was honestly pretty hard to get my mouth around.  I think I even ended up cutting the roof of my mouth on the hard, salted crust of bread before I finally got a good solid bite.  But when I did, it was delicious.
The meat was juicy and cooked medium well, just like I like it.  The fries, although a little burned, combined sweet and salty flavors making me reach for more. The mushrooms and onions added texture as well as flavor making the entire burger pretty irresistible.  Accompanied with a swig of cold beer or a bite of lemony salad, it was a pretty good meal if I may say so myself
Although by no means would I claim that my meal was as sustainable as Michael Pollan's, or as delicious as Anthony Bourdain's, I would declare it a success.  After all, there were clean plates all around.      


***Pictures to come later!
***I'm still working on the ending, character development, and the actual eating of the meal.

Eat Real Food

This article is relevant to a number of things we have been addressing in class.  From Katie's CYOA, to Kelsey's food pyramid post, to our discussions about Wal-Mart, sustainability, and local farming methods, I think you all will find this article by Mark Bittman quite interesting.

Memoir Writing- Final Draft, "Our Sevilla"

It was swelteringly hot. 

The bright Spanish sun showed no mercy on our pale, Midwestern skin as Lobo and I, tired, sunburned, and thirsty, plopped down on a curb in La Plaza de la Encarnación.  Pushing her dark hair away from her forehead, Lobo gave me a look that clearly said, “So this is Sevilla.” 

I sighed.

We had arrived only the day before, and already our adventurous spirits were dwindling.  It was my host mother's insistence that we experience true Andalusian culture, which had really brought us here.  We just couldn’t go back to the U.S. without first rounding out our gap year as Rotary Exchange students with a quick trip to Sevilla.  

Es una cuidad preciosa.  It's a beautiful city, she had told us.

No se puede faltar.  We couldn't miss it.

So we went.  Although Lobo-- whose nickname is a play on her full name (Laura Bowers)-- and I were two American teenagers with almost zero experience planning economically savvy, culturally engaging, and food friendly trips, we got on a plane and came to Sevilla in hopes of finding some new, exciting element of Spanish culture the eastern side of the country was lacking.  At the very least, we thought, this trip couldn’t be worse than our recent “getaway” weekend to Mallorca.  Three nights of rain, paper-thin hotel walls, and British influenced Spanish cuisine was not my idea of fun, although the beaches were absolutely fabulous.  At first Lobo and I resisted my host mom.  
But we're going to miss our class end of the year party, I told her.
We don't know anything about getting around in Sevilla, Lobo argued. 
But my host mom was persistent. Venga. You’ll love Sevilla, she said.

So we gave in.

In all fairness, Sevilla was beautiful.  With its hundreds of gothic style cathedrals, lavishly decorated monuments, and lush tropical plazas, it truly is a sight to behold.  But with over 2 million tourists a year, that’s exactly what Sevilla has become: a sight to see.  Looking for a truly ‘Spanish’ experience was proving to be extremely difficult when surrounded by gringo families posing for their next Christmas card photo, munching away on the Pringles or Doritos they had brought from the hotel, and wiping their grease stained fingers across their khaki cargo shorts.  We wanted to be surrounded by Spain, not by a bunch of Americans, Germans, and Dutch ooo-ing and ahh-ing over it.  Or perhaps on some other level, Lobo and I were ashamed to fraternize with other tourists.  So deeply in love were we with Spanish culture, that try as we may to dress in Spanish brands, eat Spanish foods, and throw around Spanish slang like it was no one's business, amidst our own kind we were afraid to be spotted, or even worse, to feel comfortable.    
Our displeasure increasing, Lobo and I had plopped down on a curb as far away as possible from a couple bickering in English.  Pulling a damp, wadded bill out from my pocket, I bought a couple of Coca-Colas from a small, round man whose cheeks were as rosy red as his sidewalk cart.  He smiled at me as I collected my change carefully saying grácias with the appropriate, perhaps exaggerated, Spanish lisp.  
Gra-th-as. 
Cracking open the drinks, the sweet syrupy bubbles immediately fizzed over the top, dribbling down the sides and onto our fingers.  The icy soda seemed to burn my tongue as I sipped it slowly, enjoying each deliciously refreshing burst of flavor.  
This is what we came all the way to Sevilla for?  Lobo asked, finally voicing our mutual concern.  To dodge tourists and drink Coca-Cola?
I sighed in agreement, unaware at the time of the irony in drinking a Coca-Cola and complaining loudly in English about how much we loathed foreign tourists.

Lobo was right. We hadn’t even been here for a full day and we were already donezo.   

The next few days passed in a haze of group tours, expensive tapas in American sized portions, and my teaching Lobo to play chess with a board we’d found in our hostel.  Although we did make it out to several flamenco shows, which were truly quite impressive, Sevilla, for us, had not lived up to its name.  By the time our stay in Andalucia was coming to an end, Lobo and I were more than happy with the thought of returning to our host families and to be once again immersed in the culture we’d come to love. 

On our last morning in Sevilla, however, Lobo and I decided to get up early, determined to give the city one final chance and find some real "Spanishness," whatever that means.  We meandered through the narrow cobblestone streets, getting lost on purpose among the bright yellow, white, and red buildings.  We had been walking for some time and were starting to get hungry when suddenly the narrow path opened up and we were standing in a lush, green garden listening to the gurgling sounds of fresh water trickling through a fountain.  On the outskirts of the garden there were little mesitas set up for breakfast, and a smartly dressed waiter pulled out a seat.

Señoritas, he said gesturing to the table.

Lobo and I looked at each other grinning, then back at the table.

Grácias, I said, taking the seat.

The waiter ushered Lobo into the chair opposite me, placed napkins on our laps, and rushed off to prepare the first course.

Lobo and I were in giddy shock.  We couldn’t believe we had found this place, this little Spanish oasis in the middle a hundred touristy restaurants, souvenir shops, information booths.
It was practically beckoning us to come and enjoy ourselves.

So we did.
A basket of warm breads overflowing with buttery, flakey, golden brown croissants, glazed pastries, and toasted sesame rolls appeared on our table, the warm steam curling upward and slowly dissipating in the cool morning air.  It was accompanied by a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a side of homemade marmalade which we were told was la especialidad de la casa.  In a city famous for its citrus, it was no surprise that the marmalade was superb.  Tart, tangy, and sweet, la marmelada spread atop a warm biscuit was like biting into the naranja bigarade itself.  

Our tazas of café con leche arrived next; bold European espresso mixed with frothy steamed milk, a blend so perfectly delicious I don’t understand why it hasn’t caught on in the U.S; and with it, our entrées: two perfectly scrambled eggs layered over a bed of caramelized onions, and garnished with fresh dill, served with a piece of sweet, orange cantaloupe wrapped in Italian prosciutto.  The eggs were light, fluffy and cooked to perfection; the onions beautiful, translucent, sweet, yet savory; the cantaloupe was juicy and firm, the fine layer of prosciutto wrapped precisely around the melon giving a kick of sweet, savory, salty goodness in every bite.  Cielo.

Just as we thought we were finished, our waiter brought out two flutes of bubbly champagne, and cued his compañero to begin playing the harmonica.
To us, this was Spain.  This is what we had been waiting for. Perhaps to a Spaniard, the musician would have been too much, or the rolls not soft enough, or this 'oasis' not far enough off the beaten path, but to me and to Lobo, this was our moment.    

Lobo and I began to laugh, and laugh some more, until we were clutching our stomachs so full of good food and happiness that they ached, but we couldn’t stop laughing and the harmonica man kept playing and the fountain kept gurgling, and nothing could mar the perfection or steal the joy from this wonderful, beautiful, and --in our opinion-- truly Spanish moment in Sevilla.

The Omnivore's Dilemma, Part 3 "Hunting, a Religious Experience?"

After Thursday's in-class discussion about the religious experience associated with food, I thought it was really interesting that Part 3 of The Omnivore's Dilemma explores the realm of hunting.  Considered by many as means to a source of food, a "sport," or simply a way to prevent overpopulation, hunting is also regarded by some as a religious affair in which man and beast unite.
Although in his book Pollan primarily uses hunting as means to rebel against his upbringing, reconnect with his "hunter and gatherer" genes, and learn more about the ecology and ethics of eating, it is fascinating that he should take on this endeavor after alluding to the spiritual and religious suggestion of food in Part 2.   In the first half of Part 3, Pollan only hints at the spirituality of hunting such as on page 281, by declaring that, "a hunter ... is alone in the woods with his conscious," and that "the ultimate destination of the journey" is to prepare and eat a meal in full consciousness of what was involved (281).  However, I would argue that by the middle of Part 3, Pollan has come to acknowledge more fully the presence of religion in hunting.  
While reading this section, I was reminded of a book I read for my Anthropology course last fall called The City at its Limits: Taboo, Transgression, and Urban Renewal in Lima by Daniela Gandolfo.  In her book, Gandolfo analyzes the work of the Spanish philosopher José Ortega y Gasset who says that hunting is, "a vacation from humanity," (124) and that "in all justice, the meaning of the sport of hunting is not to elevate the beast to the height of man, but something much more spiritual than that: a conscious and almost religious humiliation of man who leaves aside his prepotency in order to descend toward the animal" (124).  
I was keeping Ortega y Gasset's words in mind as I plowed ahead in Part 3 when lo and behold I found Pollan quoting the Spanish philosopher himself.  While on some level I think Pollan recognizes the aspects of spirituality in hunting (such as in his recount of approaching his prey with his "hunter's instinct" [336]),  I think that perhaps he is a bit hesitant to deem hunting a truly "religious" act.  Even after recounting his own experience, Pollan feels the need to step back and say, Whoa, did I just say that?  However, while Pollan can argue that word "religious" may be excessive,  Gandolfo notes that the sport of hunting is the human attempt to re-create the numinous quality that the killing of any living creature has to our ancestors (124).  The longing to reconnect with our ancestors mirrors our longing to reconnect with the animal world, and at times provokes the desire to push the limits which sustain our modern social world.  Thus by hunting, humans have the opportunity to fulfill both desires thus partaking in an inherently religious act.  
Although it is hard to say whose opinions resonate with me more as Pollan, Gandolfo, and Ortega y Gasset all have fair points, I think that ultimately the religious quality of hunting is up to the discretion of the individual.  As I personally have not had much experience with hunting, nor do I consider myself religious, I would be interested to discuss this topic further tomorrow in class with anyone who has more knowledge than I.

Baconnaise

After our recent in-class discussion about processed, unhealthy foods, I felt the need to share this product with you.  An item that, in my opinion, is a disgrace to mankind, and one John Stewart says is "for people who want heart disease, but are too lazy to actually make bacon," I present to you Baconnaise.  I think the worse part is that it's vegetarian.  Yuck.

The Omnivore's Dilemma, Part 2 "The Pleasures of the Table"

The pleasures of the table begin with eating, writes Michael Pollan, but they can end up anywhere human talk cares to go.  Pair that with a warm June night, a fantastic glass of wine, and the waft of a chocolate soufflé baking in the oven, and 'eating' suddenly transforms into 'dining' (272).  In the section duly titled The Meal, Pollan reflects on certain aspects of food preparation and consumption that enhance his dining experience.  Local, organic ingredients, a young helper in the kitchen, and the anticipation of sitting down to a nice meal after a long week of working in the field, are just some of the examples Pollan gives.  When thinking about what aspects 'transform' a meal for me, I consider four things: ingredients, proper cooking time, company, and atmosphere.  Although all four are equally important, the two that are most pertinent to today's reading are fresh ingredients and proper cooking time.  
When reflecting on the ingredients of a meal I am first taken back to an experience I had this summer at Loretta Paganini's School of Cooking in Cleveland, Ohio.  
My mother decided to take me to Loretta's school as means to motivate me to be more active in the kitchen.  Loretta, although an experienced chef, did not seem to forget that there were cooking novices in her audience and began by explaining the importance of fresh, local ingredients.  "Without good ingredients, you have nothing," Loretta said in her thick Italian accent.  "I only use the best."  When cooking, you want to know where your ingredients come from and what exactly they are, she said.  Take this eggplant, for example.  I bought it this morning from my Amish friend.  He sells me the male eggplant because the males are the best.  They are more slender, have less seeds, and are sweeter.  The females are pear shaped and generally have a bitter taste.  It's the males you want.  As for these bell peppers, I get the ones with the most points on the bottom.  A good pepper has four or more points.  They are the sweetest, she said throwing diced pepper into a sizzling pan.  When I tasted both the eggplant and peppers just minutes later, I saw that Loretta was right.  They were sweet and delicious, just as they should be.
I learned that the quality of ingredients can really make or break a meal.  Cooking isn't that hard, Loretta explained, it's just knowing what ingredients to use that is tricky.  The idea that mediocre materials, produce mediocre results is one that I will keep in mind as I begin cooking more and more.

Apart from knowing and respecting my ingredients, another key concept Loretta advocated was proper cooking time.  As Pollan noted in his book, over-cooking the corn, or over-beating the eggs can lead to a less than satisfactory dish, and unsatisfied cliental.  Loretta applied the same logic when instructing us how to properly cook fresh scallops.  "A raw scallop should feel soft and fleshy, like your cheek," she said pressing a pudgy finger into the side of her face.  "A perfectly cooked scallop should feel like your chin.  But if it feels like your forehead, you've over cooked it!"
Both Loretta and Pollan have made me realize how the combination of good ingredients and proper cooking time can truly transform a meal.  As of now I honestly have not spent enough time in the kitchen to fully apply or appreciate these techniques, but they are definitely something to keep in mind over the next few weeks as I plan my 'perfect meal.'  Although realistically, my meal will probably not 'transform' anyone given my minimal cooking experience, limited space and resources, and college student budget, good ingredients and proper cooking time is something that I can and will control.