Memoir Writing- Rough Draft

One day in early June 2009, my best friend Laura Bowers and I awoke to find ourselves in a small backpackers hostel in southern Sevilla.  We had arrived the day before at my host mother's insistence that we experience true Andalusian culture before moving back to the U.S. 
Sevilla es una cuidad preciosa.  It's a beautiful city, she had told us. 
No se puede faltar.  We couldn't miss it.

Lobo and I were both somewhat hesitant to take another trip as we had just spent a few hundred Euros on a mediocre getaway 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).  Plus, Lobo and I were by no means travel experts.  We were just a couple of American teenagers who knew almost nothing about planning economically savvy, culturally engaging, and food friendly trips around Europe.  So you can see why we might be hesitant to embark on another Spanish adventure.  We preferred to stay right where we were, comfortable in our homes in Barcelona.

But my host mom insisted.  Venga. You’ll love Sevilla, she said. 

So we went. 

The flight from Barcelona to Sevilla was quick, only 40 minutes or so, and before we knew it we were touching down in the flamenco capital of the world.

The first day was swelteringly hot. 

The bright Spanish sun showed no mercy on our white, Midwestern skin as we trudged slowly through the numerous plazas, monumentos, and catedrales.  By noon we had soaked through our clothes.  We were sunburned, tired, and thirsty.  Pulling out a damp, wadded bill from my pocket, I bought us a couple of Coca-Colas from a round, jolly man with a red sidewalk cart.  Lobo and I plopped down on a curb in La Plaza de la Encarnación and cracked open our drinks.  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 pop.

This is what we came all the way to Sevilla for?  Lobo asked me.  To drink the same Coca-Cola we could have gotten in Barcelona? 

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

The next few days passed in a haze of group tours, expensive tapas, and 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 going home.   

On our last morning in Sevilla, however, Lobo and I decided to get up early determined to give the city one final chance.  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 oasis in the middle of nowhere, practically beckoning us to come and enjoy ourselves. 

So we did.

Glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice appeared on our table alongside a basket of warm breads bearing buttery, flakey, golden brown croissants, glazed pastries, and toasted sesame rolls so soft, so good that the accompanying dish of homemade marmalade was almost unnecessary.  Almost.

Then came our tazas of café con leche; 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. 

Next our entrée arrived.  Two perfectly cooked 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.  Divine.  Delectable.  Delightful.  These are the words I would use to describe this combination.  The eggs were light and fluffy, scrambled 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.  The meal was divine. 
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. 

Lobo and I began to smile, and 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, preciosa moment in Sevilla. 

Choose Your Own Adventure- Japanese Tuna Industry

Giant Bluefin Tuna

The very first chapter of Anthony Bourdain's A Cook's Tour is titled, "Where Food Comes From."  In this chapter he addresses pointed questions like where does the good stuff we eat actually come from?  How exactly does it get to our plates?  Who is involved in the process?  And, in one particular case, how is the pig killed?  Although I think Bourdain does a remarkable job of explaining the process of fattening, killing, cleaning, and finally eating of a pig in northern Portugal, I was really hoping he would embark on the same exploration of the o-toro fatty tuna he raves about during his time in Japan.  Unfortunately, Bourdain leaves the Japanese fish industry mostly untouched, only highlighting the glamorous aspects such as his trip to the Tsukiji fish market.  He ignores the heated controversy surrounding his beloved o-toro, deeming it a delicacy that the Japanese will pay anything for (137).

However, the Japanese tuna fishing industry is under significant scrutiny.  It is accused of not practicing sustainable fishing methods, of selling the fish at ridiculously high prices, and possibly partaking in bluefin tuna's eminent demise.  With these controversial topics in mind, we must not only reflect on our previous in-class conversations regarding the origin of food, but also ask ourselves at what expense do we consume certain 
foods? 

      

Tokyo Redux

The perfect meal is very rarely the most sophisticated or expensive one, says Anthony Bourdain.  Rarely is it consumed jacketed and tied, in a starched shirt dress, sitting bolt upright in a four-star restaurant.  Context and memory, Bourdain says, play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one's life  (6-7).  

My perfect meal was experienced in Tokyo, a city which, like Bourdain, I found to be beautiful, vibrant, and pleasing to the palate.  
It was a bitter cold night in late December.  The wind whipped easily through my coat that, as my mother had warned me, was more stylish than warm.  Heads down against the wind, my family of four navigated the cramped sidewalks, the flashing lights of impatient taxis, and the bustling, bundled bodies of a people only half our height.  We walked for what seemed like an eternity, before my dad abruptly stopped in front of a facade that resembled the hundreds we had already passed.  "We're here," he said.  The four of us scrambled through the threshold tired, hungry, and eager to escape the wind.  The bar was small, but cozy.  We seemed to take up the majority of the room, a party of large, loud Americans, our white faces rosy with cold.  Squeezing into the remaining bar seats, we were immediately handed warm cloths for our face and hands.  A large, pressed banana leaf was placed in front of me, adorned with pickled ginger and a lump of wasabi so hot the smell alone tickled my eyes.  My parents uttered a few words in Japanese to the sushi master, and we were off!  It began with steaming bowls of miso shiru, the eyes of large prawns peaking out at us amid the murky broth.  Once our bowls had been drained and the shells tossed to the side, roll upon roll of maki appeared on our banana leaf plates.  Prepared barely six inches away, I could literally point to the chunks of fresh o-toro, sake, unagi, and my favorite ume shiso and be eating them wrapped up in vinegar rice and nori two minutes later.  Then came the sashimi, hunks of raw fish swimming in soy sauce and finding their way slipperily to my mouth.  Cups of hot green tea, plates of edamame, and bowls of noodles kept arriving continuously throughout the meal, until I was so warm, and so full that even as I sleepily stole sips of my brother's warm sake, I knew that this is what I had waited for.  This was Japan.  This was the land of my birth.

Japan for me, was exactly what Anthony Bourdain makes it out to be in his book.  From the extravagance of visiting the Tsukiji fish market, to the choking down of natto, to the wankosoba eating contests, and to the devouring of some of the finest, freshest, best-prepared sushi known to mankind, Bourdain's account resonated with my own life.  The acute accuracy of each meal, each grain of rice that has been washed, cradled, and cooked to perfection, each hunk of o-toro, or abalone alive and wriggling only moments before you eat it, each cup of precisely steeped tea, each bite of crispy tonkatsu, or flip of okonomiyaki truly makes almost every meal one eats in Japan a wonderful, mesmerizing, delectable, perfect experience.  "No place is as guaranteed to cause stimulation in the deepest pleasure center's of a cook's brain.  No cuisine, broadly speaking, makes as much sense: the simplest, cleanest, freshest elements of gustatory pleasure, stripped down and refined to their most essential (136)," Bourdain says.  And in my experience, he is absolutely right.  

Family Photo

I thought it would be fun to see a present-day photo of the author Bich Minh Nguyen, her father, Rosa, and Noi. The link to this photo can be found here

Stealing Budda's Dinner

In chapters 1-9 of Stealing Budda's Dinner, the author begins her compelling, almost tragic childhood tale where being Vietnamese in 1970s Michigan, means more than just learning to eat with a knife and fork.  Labeled an outsider by other Americans, yet deemed Americanized by Vietnamese standards, protagonist Bich Minh Nguyen embarks on a heart-wrenching journey in search of her true identity. Through her exploration of food, place, and time, Nguyen balances precariously on the edge of two conflicting societies, leaving her readers awed, inspired, and hungry for more.

From Jiffy brand blueberry muffins, to Toll House chocolate chip cookies, to Pringles, and Kit-Kats, Orange Fago and everything in between, Nguyen's exploration of American food reveals her desperate desire to identify with American culture.  The importance of the "right" food constantly reinforced by TV Commercials, the demands of having a perfectly packed lunch at school, and the pressures to be liked by all the Jennifers and Hollys she meets along the way, Nguyen's relationship with American food turns into an obsession.  To live without the fancy, expensive brands, her young mind concludes, is a disgrace and will prevent her from ever being truly American.  Sad as it is, Nyugen has no idea that she too is supplementing the criteria for being accepted into American culture.  By perpetuating the inherent power hierarchy of food by putting name brand food on top and store brands or traditional Vietnamese foods on the bottom, Nguyen only reinforces the cycle that she longs so desperately to beat.  Unable to beat the system or let it go, the poor girl is left lingering in a zone of cultural void--too American to be considered Vietnamese, and too Vietnamese to be an American.  The stress of her bifurcated life weighs on her shoulders and excludes her from fully identifying with either culture. On page 116, we can see the guilt Nguyen feels at her father's party when she takes a bite of banh chung cake, knowing her American friends would not approve.  "I bit into the rice cake," she said,"its sticky sweetness scenting my tongue.  It tasted like a secret long kept, old and familiar and unspeakable."  On the other hand, when given the Kraft Macaroni, chicken nuggets, and Chef Boyardee, Nguyen finds she cannot eat it.  The fight with Rosa weighing on her mind, and the strangeness of seeing these foods on her kitchen table diminishes her appetite and the food just sits there until someone throws it away.  

My heart goes out to the seven-year-old Nguyen as I too understand the horrors of not having the "right" food.  Growing up, these brands that Nguyen loved so dearly rarely, if ever, existed in my house.  At times, I will admit, my lack of "good" food was embarrassing as my house was known as the healthy house among my friends.  However, it was not traumatizing to me like in some ways I think it was for Nguyen.  Unlike her, not having these brands did not somehow forfeit my American identity.  

I do understand the dire need to fit in, however.  When I was living in Japan, my lunchbox was the focal point of all my classmates during the lunch hour.  Everyone would sneak looks at the American girls lunch to see if mine lived up to their Japanese standards.  I can tell you that a lot of times it didn't.  My obento box was far from the perfect lunches my classmates had, prepared by the practiced hands of stay-at-home mothers.  Although I was significantly older than Nguyen at this time and my imperfect lunches did not bother me as much, I still understand the stares, the quick judgements, and the need to please.

Although we've only read half of Nguyen's tale, our protagonist has already given us a lot of material to digest.  It's hard to say where the story will go from here, although one can only hope that Nguyen will learn she can have her banh chung cake and eat it too.    

Quick Bite for Breakfast

Just have to post this article, as breakfast is my favorite meal of the day.  If you're interested in energy boosting breakfast foods, check this out!

Sunday Night Dinner

Less than a week back from winter break, my friends and I are already tired of eating tasteless, nutrient-less, loveless cafeteria food.  Tonight we've decided to shake up the routine and whip up our own grub for a change.  The menu includes Nicholas Nutile's world famous Italian meat and mushroom sauce, accompanied by whole wheat penne pasta, garlic broccoli, and pan bigio AKA Meijer artisan bread.  Unfortunately, using concrete recipes is not Nick's forte, therefore all I can give you is a list of ingredients for the meat sauce.  They are as follows:

• 90/10 ground sirloin   
• white mushrooms
• crushed canned tomatoes 
• fire roasted diced tomatoes
• tomato paste
• garlic
• garlic powder
• onion
• onion powder
• basil
• oregano
• extra virgin olive oil
• sugar
• salt
• pepper

Put garlic and oil into pan, let garlic brown.  Add onions, mushrooms, oregano, basil, sugar, salt, pepper. Let them sweat until onions are translucent.  Remove from pot.  Cook meat in the same pot with salt, pepper, oregano, basil, garlic powder, and onion powder.  

Add mushroom/onion mixture to the meat. Stir. Add all tomatoes, and re-season. Stir. Add seasoning as desired.  Simmer.  

Serve, eat and....

ENJOY!