#Food Writing

[longreads]

"Done well, there are few foods on this Earth more satisfying. Warm, rich, salty, and deeply filling in a way I’ve not encountered elsewhere, a good cholent is ambrosial. What I might call divine."

New on the site today: A lovely piece from Benjamin DuBow about a workaround that became a way of life. Read it here.

[onekindredspirit]

*How to Make Alice's Dessert*

"Who was Alice?" I asked my mother. She didn't know. "She was probably one of my mother's friends." she'd said, just to fill the space. Like so many childhood questions, answers only come when you are older. Pre-heat your oven to 180 Celsius or 350 Fahrenheit. Mix 2 tablespoons of butter with 2 tablespoons of sugar. Add 1/2 cup of flour and 1 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder. Add 1 cup fine coconut and 3/8 cup of milk. Blend ingredients. "Mother" was how my mother mostly referred to her own. She had a way of saying it that emptied all meaning from the word. "Mother" did not contain one ounce of mother, not even a drop of mothering. Place the batter in a 20cm (8 inch) Pyrex bowl. Pour over the top, while still hot, 1 1/4 cups brown sugar dissolved in 1 cup boiling water. Place in oven. "Mother" or Effie gave wet kisses and awkward hugs, and was seemingly unable to breach the titanium of her own containment vessel. The one day that she did, she managed to dispatch her wedding rings down the waste disposal and was later found on the front lawn, drunk and decrying the infidelities of her husband, my grandfather. Lack of loving gets passed down through the generations, they say. I like to think Alice was actually Saint Alice. Leprous, blind and nearly paralyzed, cooking up the miracle of Alice's Dessert for the Cistercian nuns of La Cambre Abbey, by feel and with love. I'd rather two servings of Alice's Dessert, prepared and plated by a leprous Cistercian lay sister destined for sainthood, any day, over a childhood without love. When the top of your batter begins to brown place tinfoil loosely over the bowl to stop it becoming too dark, and to slow the evaporation of the sauce. By 30 to 40 minutes your batter should be light, fluffy and coconutty, floating on a cauldron of sweetness. Take a knife and pierce it through its heart. If it comes out clean you're almost there. Now it's time for love. One Kindred Spirit

[dreamtigress]

My husband at Costco, often calling me to provide home 'tech' support, asking me if we should get whatever new thing, confirming which kind of danishes we want, etc.

His second call today: "They have these little pancake things. They're ADORABLE and weird and like, tiny little poofie pancakes..."

Me, who writes about "Kerch" food way too much: "Oh, like poffertjes!"

Husband: "Like what?"

Me: "Like the Dutch, Kerch, little poofie pancakes."

Husband: "Uh yeah, they do sound like that."

Me: Launches into an explanation of breakfasts at the Van Eck mansion in my canon...

Husband, very confused: "Who? What? What mansion, baby?"

Me: "Nevermind, Six of Crows infodump. Just keep shopping."

Husband: "I love you. SO so much."

Me, almost under my breath: "Yeah, it's a good thing, too."

[yellow-kudzu]

Someone please tell their favorite books in the tags. I love to discover new books from people and not algorithms.

[comingfromastatechampionasshole]

Making Yorkshire Parkin: When You Want to Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November (but you forgot)

I bought Lyle’s Golden Syrup on a whim in our international grocers months ago, nestled between the Marmite and jarred clotted cream. I didn’t know what golden syrup tasted like, I had no use for it, and no recipe I had ever read included it. Naturally, I bought it immediately. Walking by the racks of Japanese candy and multiple incidences of ramen noodles, I asked myself, “Is there a particular reason I’m buying this, or am I just pissed they don’t have Walker’s and don’t want to walk away empty-handed?” 

Months later, I end up watching a video on parkin. Uses golden syrup. In this moment, the stars align. 

How did I stumble on this? Well, I’m interested in historical food, and even more so historical baking, and November was coming up. Try the Guy Fawkes day cake, it proclaimed to me, and as I watched it, and it was described to me as an English gingerbread-style cake, i thought, “There’s nothing about that idea I don’t like! I can make parkin, it can’t be that hard. Not like i’m going to be able to buy it here to try it.” 

And hard is not the word for it. Let’s go on a journey. 

So the first thing is, that Yorkshire parkin isn’t the only parkin in town and so, as I glanced at recipes, i discovered that there were multiple theories of the business, and many of these theories involved insulting each others’ grandmothers. Lancashire parkin uses mainly golden syrup, resulting in a sweeter and softer-flavored cake, and I guess that’s why the only things a civilized human being knows about Lancashire is that it’s in the North of England, and it features in the Merrily Song from the Wind and the Willows. No, the more I read, the more I realized I wanted Yorkshire parkin, a dark, aggressive form of the cake that makes heavy use of black treacle and threatens to kick your teeth in. It’s no wonder that Yorkshire gets all the great wonders of the North, like Wuthering Heights, The Secret Garden, and that one pizza place I really liked. 

It turns out that Yorkshire parkin uses a very small amont of golden syrup, and so you may be saying to yourself at this point, “Doc are you unnecessarily complicating your life to say you literally opened this stupid plastic bottle of sugar syrup?” to which I say, ‘No one asked you, okay?” 

Black treacle is the first thing on this list, and this was actually the easy part. One of the ‘fun’ things about reading recipes from English to English (and sometimes even to English!) is that you have to make substitutions, and people’s attitude toward substitutions for ingredients run the gamut from questionable to hysteria. The good news is that this unites us all, and I am sure there will be several fine Brits yelling at me that unsulfured molasses is nothing like black treacle, in the same way that many Americans lost their mind at the mere suggestion that a digestive might be more or less equivalent to a graham cracker. I welcome your hatemail, Hail Satan , Lord of Spiders, just use unsulfured molasses and you’ll be fine. 

But then we have the problem of “medium oatmeal.” The Brits are running on a completely different system than we are with our paltry three or so styles of oatmeal: Rolled, steel cut (often called Irish oats), and instant. There are some outliers, but they are mostly the exclusive purview of places where one might buy free-range ostrich farts and consensually squeezed oranges. Meanwhile, on a rainy rock in the North, we have seventeen separate grades of oatmeal, some of which are only found on one specific moor where young maidens cry over it, keening into the wind (An expensive delicacy not unlike kopi luwak) Try as I might, I found it near impossible to get medium oatmeal, and so I took the most reasonable out possible: Buying steel cut oats and frantically googling photos of medium oatmeal until I had processed it down to the rough appearance. 

This is medium oatmeal. Probably. 

The assembly of it is stunningly old-fashioned, and I’m not making a joke when I say it seems basically unchanged from the 1700s: You mix the sugar and butter ingredients together in a sauce pan until the sugar melts, and then throw it into the dry mix, putting it together and then throwing in an egg as some desperate attempt to give so loft to what is going to be a doorstop or perhaps the blunt object that was originally used to kill Guy Fawkes, as well as a splash of milk, though what it hopes to contribute to the action I can’t possibly imagine. 

Having read over all this at 9:30 pm on the 5th of November, I ready myrself to assemble the parkin so I can leave it out for King James or whatever. Then I read the cook time on the cake: Seventy to Ninety Minutes. 

“Fuck this shit, I’m American,” I said, cracking open a beer and heading upstairs with my sixteen guns while eagles cried and sang “God Bless The USA” overhead. 

REMEMBER, REMEMBER, THE SIXTH OF NOVEMBER, WHEN ALL THESE INGREDIENTS ARE STILL SITTING IN MY KITCHEN. 

So, I have followed the recipe. The cake is in the oven. What will it become? Stay tuned!

[goodluckclove]

The three Songbird Kids and their reactions to a very nice meal. First excerpt from Blind Trust (Out this summer) and the other two from Migration Patterns (Drafting now!).

I don't know how Katy reacts to good food. My thought is that she just goes "fuck yeah" in her head over and over while she munches and crunches. But who knows?

[riotouseaterofflesh]

The problem haunts me over the dinner stove. “Root gathering,” a phrase I’ve heard Natives use, might be the simplest language to choose. But it sounds primitive, like something hunter-gatherers do; “civilized” people “harvest vegetables.” I pace around my apartment, searching for wording that might clarify what’s at stake. Indignation flashes through my mind as I reflect on how terms like “heirloom” are applied almost exclusively to European foods — Italian tomatoes, say, even though tomatoes were originally engineered by Indigenous scientists in South America. What would these Indigenous roots be called if they were in rustic-looking display crates at Whole Foods? Finally, I think I’ve found a solution: I write “endemic, heirloom, organic root vegetable harvests.” True, it’s a word salad, but the plants themselves remain anonymous, and non-Native readers could better understand why they’re valuable.

[cheftulips]

Food writing is one of my favorite genres. I love the way people describe food where I can really start to visualize the dishes and even conceptualize some smells. I’m obsessed. (*ﾟ∀ﾟ*)

I picked this lil anthology up with weird gastronomic tales by a bunch of my favorite authors, and I’m so excited to dig in.

This Dubai pistachio mocha is my favorite drink of this winter. I haven’t even tried the TikTok viral Dubai chocolate bars yet, but this drink from my local spot is just fabulous.

[angelosearch]

pls tell me about your nonfiction cooking through it! food is my love and my life, so colour me intrigued!

Ahhh thanks for asking! I haven't looked at this one in a while!!

So my senior "thesis" in college was a series of essays on food. When I was a couple of years out of college (wow the date on this WIP is 2018?!) I was trying to expand on that series of essays. This project is supposed to be a free-form memoir/cookbook with a "scrapbook" element to it. I tell a specific story from my life or something I've done research into and provide a related recipe. There's one on pizza that's about my relationship with my dad, the unknowable youth of our parents and his pizza making; another one is about the tradition of mercy meals with a recipe for lasagna.

Overall it's supposed to be about finding healing in art and finding art in domestic tasks. Ha, looking back at this now, I guess I was always in the art therapy mindset!

A very short snippet below from the "opening" (really just a statement of intention I wrote to myself).

It’s hard for me to recognize cooking as art, yet, like a painting, there is a need for a focal point, an appropriate balance of color on the plate. The flavor, at times, calls for complexity, or sometimes it’s a recreation of something nostalgic (mac and cheese, anyone?) When I cook, I am always trying to say something. Sometimes it’s a statement about what’s left in my fridge, and sometimes it’s a welcome to my home. The gallery of leftovers is rich and diverse, and yet the creation of a singular artist.

Baking functions like sculpture. What is behind the dough, waiting to show itself? And then, as I twirl in an apron to swap from chopping vegetables to stirring a pot on the stove, I feel like a dancer. I only ever feel graceful in the kitchen.

To do art properly, you have to make yourself vulnerable. You need to connect to your audience through the one thing you know you have in common with them—humanity. Exposing your humanity to a room—or a bookstore!—full of strangers requires a lot of courage. You put a little piece of yourself in everything you make. And sometimes, those pieces get tossed back at you. And sometimes, you run out of pieces to give.

[ripeteeth]

“It is a pleasant pastime to think of what might be a good kitchen for yourself. Just now it is very smart, too. Women’s magazines flash with brilliant colour-photos of dream-like rooms where glass walls and metal sinks compete with electric dishwashers and mixers for cake for the fascinated reader’s favour.

Washable chintz curtains wave in the controlled breeze. Ivy grows around the telephone table, where an easy-chair, a radio, and an alarmingly narrow cookbook shelf promise relaxation to the American hausfrau.

For myself, I should like a kitchen with some of these magic things, but none of the conscious design, the June-bride’s-first-little-home look about it.”

M.F.K. Fisher, Serve It Forth

[airfryerburrito]

True Food Kitchen Review

True Food Kitchen is a national chain in the US that tries to bring farm-to-table goodness to fast food. Apparently Oprah is involved. I recently picked one of their locations for dinner because it had the most gluten-free options in the area I was visiting. It was a choice between TFK or the Cheesecake Factory across the street, and it ended up being a pretty similar experience (but without the cheesecake).

I ordered peach lemonade, gluten-free chicken parmesan with spaghetti squash, GF squash pie, and a GF chocolate peanut butter tart from their seasonal fall menu. Everything came out so fast that I can only assume it was pre-made. I ordered, and then it was in front of me. Still, it wasn't bad. The chicken was tender and flavorful, and went great with the squash.

The desserts were interesting. They looked decadent, and the flavors were there. The squash tasted like pumpkin pie, and the tart had chocolate crunch and peanut butter insides. But there was something else about them I couldn't quite place. If I had to put a name on it, I'd say...grass. They also tasted like grass. The ingredients for both included coconut, but somehow that became earthy grass taste. I felt very healthy after dessert.

Overall I'd go back if I was in the area again, but I wouldn't go out of my way to find one.

[branwyn-says]

This is the story of the aftermath of my dad's death, and how the food was important.

[sessayyys-corner]

SINIGANG NA HIPON VALUES

Sinigang na hipon has always been my go-to comfort food.

Out of all the Filipino dishes there are in the world, it has been my ultimate favorite, especially if my grandfather is the one cooking it.

Wowo, as I always endearingly called him since childhood, would cook it for me when I would request it, or to reward me for doing well in my academics, or simply because he just feels like it. I love sinigang na hipon terribly to the point where I’ve already grown accustomed to its sight, aroma, and taste. Yet, despite my usual consumption of it, I still feel so much excitement and anticipation as if it was my first time to eat it all over again.

I would light up when I open our green gate for my grandfather and get to see his two hands holding bags filled with a bunch of green kangkong leaves, fat okras, and a plethora of river shrimps, all fresh from the neighborhood market, or sariwa, as we often described them.

I would light up, too, when I get to hear the simmering of boiling water and see the thin waves of vapor that come with it, along with the kangkong leaves and okra turning into a more vibrant green hue, and the shrimps into a vibrant orange.

That’s how you know it’s fresh. That’s how you know it’s gonna be good.

As I would finally get called for lunch or dinner, I would happily go down the stairs, my slippers stepping noisily out of excitement, later accompanied with eyes twinkling and mouth watering at the sight of the newly cooked sinigang na hipon and its aroma brought about by its hot, tamarind soup broth.

And everytime I would take a good slurp of the soup or a bite of the orange shrimps and green vegetables, it feels as though I was either rewarded for my hard work, or I could breathe, I could relax, or I could escape from reality for a while.

Of course, it gets better whenever I have something to share at the dining table.

Although it mostly isn’t food of some sort, but rather some stories and updates about my life and shenanigans in university.

To be completely honest, my stories can be outright random, and either be completely boring or interesting to my mom and grandfather.

Nevertheless, there’s always a bowl of sinigang na hipon to complement, or even compensate, for my constant yapping.

I could say I have been through a lot, and it wasn’t just my family who were witnesses to it. Every bowl of sinigang na hipon became witness to my own life journey. It’s as if those black eyes of the shrimps have seen everything I did, and the numerous veins of the kangkong leaves felt all the raw emotions I would either be showing or hiding, or even the asim-kilig taste of the whole dish mirroring the sour moments of my own life.

Sinigang na hipon is and has always been my holy grail of every sort.

It appeases and calms me in times of distress and illness.

It makes me feel like I have won the lottery or obtained a gold medal at the Olympics.

It brings me and my family closer together.

It is the reason why going home becomes so exciting and, most of the time, my favorite part of every week.

[rrcraft-and-lore]

It's also worldbuilding (stares). Especially if you're only used to a fantasy meals that are very western European.

Food/s grow in certain climates, which means recipes will emulate that.

Spices are used to preserve them in one place where they're abundant vs salt only in others.

Food is a language. It's culture. It is a lot.

And it can be taken for granted. But it's a story in and of itself.

A lot happens over meals -- through them. Bonding, memories, romance and more. Evil schemes, plots, or just good times.

Food is important.

[babettes-fancy-diner]

(image link)

On my birthday last January, my girlfriend and I watched one of my favorite movies, Babette’s Feast. Our first anniversary was coming up the next month (our anniversary is Valentine’s Day, we’re very gay) and I, inspired by Babette, decided to cook a 7 course formal dinner of French vegetarian and dishes (with a pescatarian main course). It was a great success on a culinary level, and it also pretty much spawned this whole idea of mine to create an imaginary diner to write stories about. The recipes and food descriptions matter because what I really want to do is bring people together and feed them. The result is this weird liminal sanctuary diner in digital space where I show you pictures of the food, lavishly describe how it tastes, and also give you the recipe in case you have the desire and resources to make it for real. In this post, my Babette serves up dinner while telling you the story of Babette’s Feast (it’s her favorite movie too.) It’s not really a review; I wouldn’t even call it a recap. It’s storytelling, devoid of pretensions to literary criticism. I only want to write about stuff I love so I can tell you why I love it. I like to think this means I’ve grown up.