Category Archives: Food Narratives

Independence

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Here is another one of my Food Narrative homework assignments. At this point we are working on tying together our writing to create a portfolio. Therefore, many of the pieces I am working on now are about bringing together the rest of my writing. This here is about the time when I first started to learn how to cook…

My feet dangled below me as I sat on the stepping stool that constituted as my dining room chair. I banged my little fists on the red plastic tablecloth while I impatiently waited for dinner. My mom was still on her way home from work so it had been my grandma who picked me up from pre-school and brought me home to help make dinner. I liked my school because it had a fence that imitated giant crayola crayons and a yellow brick road leading up to the door just like in the Wizard of Oz. The place was magical, but I didn’t mind leaving because I loved spending time with my mom and grandma. It was just the three of us. My mom and I had recently moved back in with my grandma, who I call Memere. I was lucky to have two women taking care of me because someone was always there. I woke up every morning in the room I shared with my mom to find myself alone. I would jump out of the miniature sized, cushy red couch that I slept on and run to the phone in tears, angry that my mom hadn’t woken me up to say goodbye.  The first time I called her she simply told me to lift my shirt. When I looked underneath my night gown I was shocked to see a bright red lip print on my tummy. Every morning after that I noticed that my mom always left a lip print somewhere on my body, whether  it was my hand, my forehead, or my cheek. It was a great game of mystery, but the point was that my mom never left without kissing me good-bye.

I got to press the garage button and watched the door close as Memere hung her keys on a hook by the door. Into the kitchen I ran to help make dinner. Memere said we were going to make veal cutlets. I didn’t know what this was but I did know that it was really fun to make! Memere prepared bowls each filled with something different. One bowl with fluffy white flour that would puff up into the air and get all over me if I wasn’t careful enough. The next bowl had milk and eggs while the final bowl had a mixture of breadcrumbs and little black peppercorns. I got to pound the meat with a huge mallet, an activity that greatly reminded me of a game I loved at chucky cheese. Next, Memere instructed me on how to dunk the veal into each bowl consecutively in order to create an outer coating for the meat. From there she went on to fry up the veal in a skillet filled with melted butter until the breading turned brown and became crispy. At this point my job was done and I was allowed to sit in her blue reclining armchair and watch TV. My favorites of the time included anything on the Food Network, as well as the slightly unknown TV show, “Hercules” and of course its female companion show, “Xena, Warrior Princess”. Everyone was always surprised that a three year old enjoyed such violent shows but I thought Hercules was my boyfriend and Xena was my hero. Friday was the only day I was allowed to participate in nap-time at school because I could stay up late to watch new episodes. Usually my mom didn’t let me take nap time with the rest of my friends because she said I would never fall sleep at night; thus my teacher helped me pass the time each day by having me give her back massages. I am now an excellent masseuse.

While I watched TV, Memere finished the meal. She was the queen of microwaves. As a by-product of the 1950’s, she was able to cook absolutely anything to perfection by dialing a specific sequence of numbers into the little digital keypad. A common side dish to our dinners included mashed potatoes, broccoli, or cabbage, slathered with lots of salt and melted butter. After channel flipping for a while, the smells emanating from the kitchen won my attention. I ran to the table and clambered up into my stepping stool chair in order to impatiently await the first meal I ever helped prepare.

I quickly became quite a little chef in the kitchen. A lot of it had to do with my busy family and my Mom’s strict belief in teaching me independence from a young age. I even began to pack my own lunches. One scorching summer day I noticed a bunch of neighborhood boys playing baseball outside. Even at three years old I loved boys and begged my mom to let me join them. Before I left, I made myself a snack to bring along. The door slammed as I ran out into the day with a small square lunchbox banging against my side. I was wearing a frilly green dress my aunt Debbie had given me that made me look similar to a Victorian doll. In fact, aunt Debbie had actually purchased the dress from Dollyworld, the one and only theme park and mountain resort run by Dolly Parton herself. My feet crunched on the Floridian crab grass as I ran across the communal backyard in the general direction of the ballgame. I later learned that this was the type of grass that Minnesotans deemed weeds, but for the moment all I knew of the green stuff was that it was itchy and inhabited by fire ants. The game was a wild success and I surprised everyone with my batting skills in contrast to my girly demeanor. Once the game had ended, I collapsed in a poufy heap on the ground and began to nibble on my snacks. One boy observed that my mom had packed me a great lunch: Jell-o, carrots, Lays potato chips, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some grapes and a cherry hi-c. I won’t forget the look on the boy’s face when I told him I packed the lunch myself. From then on all the neighborhood boys loved me. After all, I was a catch, not only could I play sports but I could pack a mean lunch too. I learned an extremely valuable life lesson that day. Boys may turn into men but they will always find that sports and the ability to create food is a winning combination in a woman.

 

Medium Rare, Just The Way I Like It

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This week the assignment for my Food Narratives course was a little bit of an exercise. We were supposed to write a scene involving dialogue, so I decided to share this fond little memory of mine from right before christmas…

Note: Lily is not in the above picture. Steph is on the right, with two friends who arrived for dinner right after all the chaos subsided.

 

“Kristina! The Oven is on fire!”  Voices screamed from the living room as I sat in my bedroom, curling my hair. “Are you kidding me? This better be a joke!” In a panic, I ran to the kitchen to check the condition of the twenty-four ounce steak I had set to broil. “Look at all that smoke coming out from the oven!” I opened the door and thick steams swirled into the air. “It’s ok” I exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “The oven isn’t on fire. The door must have just fallen shut and made all of this smoke!” For a moment I had been very worried. This was supposed to be a big going away dinner. Not only had I spent more money than a college student ever should on a monstrous size of meat, but this was going to be the last meal that I shared with my roommates. It was nearing the end of December, and everyone was going home for a month. However, I was not going to return because I was switching schools. This was a last supper of sorts. I wanted the meal to be memorable.

I glanced up at my roommate’s faces and was surprised not to see my relief mirrored in their expressions. Lily immediately jumped into action. “Steph, open the windows! We need to get the smoke outside before the fire alarms go off! Everyone grab towels and fan the room.” “The fire alarms won’t go off, everything is fine!” I stated with ease, as I watched the two girls frantically flapping their arms. “Kristina you’re wrong! A few weeks ago Joanna was making pancakes and the alarms went off. The whole fire department came! We just need to get the smoke out, help us!” “You guys. The alarms won’t go off. It isn’t even that smoky anymore!” I exclaimed in defiance. I was anxious to finish getting ready for the night. “So you aren’t going to do anything?” asked Lily. “Nope.” I stood there lazily for a moment, watching the others. “Alright fine, ill help.” I relented, feeling awkward for standing by uselessly. After a few minutes, Lily observed, “Look, it is so much better already! The room is almost cleared out.” “Yeah, I think we can stop now.” Agreed Steph. Just as we dropped our towels and sat down on the couch, we were startled back into motion by the deafening screech of a fire alarm.

“Hide the wine!” In the chaos that ensued, we ran around the apartment, stowing the cooking wine I had bought under the bathroom sink to avoid trouble from university administrators. We grabbed the only clothing items in sight to give us warmth as we evacuated the building in adherence to protocol. As I joined the angry masses outside, I became aware of two things. I looked down at myself and realized that I looked ridiculous. My hair was half done in curls, while the other half was in a messy bun on top of my head. I was clothed in sweatpants, rain boots, and a trench coat. I realized that many of the other girls looked similar to me. Being that it was eight o clock on Friday, most girls must have been getting ready for a night out. The second fact that I quickly became aware of was that it was my fault all of these angry people were forced into the cold at such an inconvenient time.

“I’m so sorry everyone! There is no fire,” I shouted to the crowd. “I was just cooking dinner…” trailed out of my mouth in an embarrassed tone. “So can we all go back inside?” asked a visibly annoyed girl, wearing nothing but shorts and a tank top.  “No worries, you guys should all just go back to your apartments, we will wait here for the fire truck.” Said Steph, as the sound of sirens began to go off in the distance. “Oh my god, there’s two fire trucks, and look! Three cop cars. Wow.” She exclaimed, as a mixture of Fordham security, fire trucks and NYPD cars flooded the block. “This is so embarrassing” I stated, as I thought about how I was wasting the valuable time of so many people.  “Oh my gosh you’re right!” Agreed Lily. “I wish I got to put my dress on before they got here! I love firemen!” This was not what I was referring to. We observed as at least twenty men poured from their vehicles, carrying every instrument from ladders to axes. “There is no fire, there is no fire!” I exclaimed repeatedly. It turns out that the firemen had to examine the situation anyways. “I was broiling something in the oven and the smoke set off the alarms, that’s all.” I mumbled guiltily as I held the door open for the crowd of men traveling up the narrow staircase to our apartment. “What were you making?” the question startled me. I had been expecting anger, not the amused expression and curious question that was now directed my way. “Um, I was making steak.” By this point we had all arrived in the living room. The crowd of geared up men made our small New York apartment even more claustrophobic. Lily flitted around the room throwing out apologies and making upbeat small talk. Steph and I directed our attention to another man who was trying to ask us something. “Well is the steak done?” “Oh, I honestly don’t know! In all of the commotion I didn’t bother to check on the meat. I was more concerned about not burning down the building.” “Would you like us to check for you? It’s the least we could do. This is the perfect job for me!” exclaimed a man by the stove, who was happily holding up his hands and showing us his flame retardant gloves. Steph, Lily and I all exchanged disbelieving glances as we watched the team effort of the firemen in our apartment. One man opened the door, another swiftly took out the pan, and a third checked to see if the meat was finished cooking. What an image. “Medium rare, just the way I like it!” confirmed a man as he poked the meat with his finger. Steph’s whispered comment mirrored my thoughts, “Oh okay, a stranger just touched our dinner. Who knows where those hands have been!” However, in light of that night’s events, we had no right to gripe about anything. Instead, we idly chatted with the men, who seemed to be in no rush to leave the comforts of our apartment for the unpredictable night ahead.  Finally it was time to go. “May we take some candy canes?” Asked a man with a gesture towards the candy filled bowl by our front door. “Of course! You may have as many as you like. We owe you, Merry Christmas!” Lily shouted breathlessly down the hall as she passed out candy and said her goodbyes. “Sorry, sorry, so sorry” I echoed yet again as the last of the men trailed out the door.

Though it may have been an interruption, the catastrophe was averted. “Good thing we cleaned today, or else this would have been really embarrassing!” commented Steph as she surveyed our unusually clean apartment, which now appeared barren without the crowd inside. The steak with wine sauce, grilled asparagus, and cheese fondue was a great success. The night was indeed memorable, though not entirely due to the meal itself.

Ignorance Is Bliss

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This week’s assignment in my Food Narratives course was to write about “something I have always questioned but never investigated”. This is what I chose to write about…

The world is full of many mysteries waiting to be discovered. Life is an adventure through which wisdom is learned and happiness is possible to achieve. However, for certain things, one may argue that ignorance is bliss. While I do want to be knowledgeable about the world, there are certain truths about our existence that I would rather not know. Unfortunately, curiosity usually gets the better of me and I cannot help but to seek answers, even for information I know will upset me. The phrase “curiosity killed the cat” is indeed yet another warning against ruthless snooping. In this particular case I will trust the many wise proverbs that are so blatantly discouraging me in my wonderment at one specific question that has forever plagued humanity. What is in a hot dog?

Every child has heard the horror stories. Rumors that a friend of a friend found an entire bone in a hot dog, or murmurings that the sausages are made of mystery meat and other organs that would otherwise go to waste. There was a short point in my childhood when I regarded the strangely pink and perfectly cylindrical, rubbery mass with suspicion and fear. However, I quickly came to the realization that, for at least just this one circumstance, I must choose to ignore the warnings of others. The path that led me to this decision is obvious to anyone who has passed a grill on a hot summer day and smelled the fragrant aromas wafting from the coals. Any carnivorous person who has been to a barbeque or a sporting event can understand the pleasure of gobbling up a steaming, juicy hot dog, seared with grill marks and loaded up with the works. Mustard, relish, ketchup, onions, cheese, or chili; the options are endless! I think back on my decision to live in blissful ignorance every time I reach for a napkin to wipe the remaining evidence of a recently devoured hot dog from my fingers.

My relationship with hot dogs began very early in life. My first memory of the meat occurred when I was still a toddler. There I was, sitting in my high chair, feet dangling freely below, and stirring SpaghettiO’s with sliced franks into a cup of juice. Kids always like to play with their food and I was certainly no exception. I think at that time I ended up getting more of the meal in my hair than into my mouth. However, I assure you that my motor function has improved substantially since then and I now almost rarely miss my mouth. SpaghettiO’s with sliced franks has continued to be a comfort food to me throughout my whole life and into college.

My next memory of hot dogs involves a ritual that was repeated weekly in my grandmother’s house. There was a span of some years in which my mom and I lived with her in Florida, so I got the opportunity to spend a lot of time with my Memere. She had a backyard that opened up into a valley and connected to the other backyards of the neighborhood. The main use of this space was dedicated to the various species of Floridian birds that lived in the area. Specifically, it was the herons that caught our attention. Every time Memere noticed a group of herons gawking through our back window, she would walk to the fridge and pull out a package of hot dogs. I will never be able to forget the image of her and I wagging the flesh colored logs in front of the birds and watching as they greedily consumed our offerings. I remember thinking how unnaturally the meat moved, as if it were made of pliable plastic. Memere and I would then often enjoy a hot dog for ourselves. She would pop one in the microwave and then slice it up into small pieces to dip into mustard. The meat was crispy and salty, with a spicy kick from the bitter Helmann’s mustard.

Flash forward to my later childhood in Minnesota. Those were summers filled with barbeque dinners in the backyard rickety gazebo we inherited with the purchase of our house. My step dad would place platters of grilled-to-perfection Ball Park hot dogs on the table with the prideful exuberance of a child and a facial expression that stated “See, I can cook!” My mom would always comment on how she thought Nathan’s hot dogs from her hometown were better than the Minnesota brands. Going forward more years passed with countless sprinkler rendezvous’ ending with a hot dog snack. Then there were high school graduation parties with brats up the wazoo. Finally, I had made it to college. My most recent, and possibly most satisfying, hot dog experience occurred on a night I had looked forward to for years and will remember for much longer. It was my first Halloween in Greenwich Village.  I got all decked out in my elaborate mermaid costume, went outside to catch the train, and then promptly went back inside to change into something weather appropriate. I then marched up to the metro north and joined the mass of creatures and monsters all heading to the largest night parade in the world. There was some trouble getting onto the subway, I was separated from all my friends due to the crowd! They promised to meet me at the Astor stop. I quickly found out that my train was only going to union square and would have panicked when I got off, had I not been immediately accosted by two girls who told me that they rode the other train with my friends. They offered to take me with their group and we had a fabulous night wandering the city and observing the wild costumes. We even befriended some drag queens who taught us how to strut like Ru Paul. By the end of our runway session, we had worked up such an appetite that we all ordered not one but two hot dogs from a street vendor. They were absolutely delicious. For some reason, this moment of demolishing luke-warm hot dogs with new-found friends is what I remember most vividly from that Halloween. Perhaps it is more of a symbolic memory. Just like most events where hot dogs are offered, this was a night of celebration and of forming close relationships. Despite its simplicity and crassness, hot dogs are one of the choice foods for celebration in American culture. Whether they are consumed at a party, a sporting event, or at a fair, hot dogs are often an optional food at happy events. I move forward in blissful ignorance of the truth behind what is in a hot dog, knowing that in my quest for other wisdom I will be satiated by tasty treats.

On Lint Lickers, Cutting Off Fingers, And Raising A Turkey In A Bathtub

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The writing assignment this week in my Food Narratives class was to “write about someone who did something to someone else using food.” The topic seemed very ambiguous and it took me a long time to figure out what to write about…I couldn’t think of anything crazy that someone did involving cooking, but from stories I have heard from my mom, my great grandmother had some pretty interesting kitchen experiences in her day…This is what I wrote…

Maria Henrietta Biasi

Growing up in a modest upper west side apartment in the early 1920’s was an exciting time for Mary as a woman in New York City. She was always full of stories from that time of her life. There was the story about her first love. A man who lived in a building across the street and whom she had met while using sign language to a deaf friend one floor above him. The man had thought Mary was motioning to him. Their romance blossomed but she never kissed him. Mary said it was because she was afraid of getting pregnant. He always used to tell her “Our eyes have met, our lips not yet. But oh you girl I’ll get you yet!” Their love was ill fated, for Mary was an Italian catholic while he was Irish catholic.

There was also the story about Thanksgiving. Mary had wonderfully expressive stories about holidays. For one particular Thanksgiving, the family decided to have turkey. This required that the family buy and fatten the bird for eating, so they promptly purchased a small turkey and raised it in the bathtub of their apartment. Mary fed and took care of her new pet for months leading up to turkey day. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of bonding with the turkey. On the morning that the bird was butchered, Mary begged her family in vain to have mercy. Looking back, the day might have run more smoothly if the family had spared the turkey’s life. Mary cried through the entire dinner and in the end no one could bring themselves to eat one bite.

Later in life, Mary continued to do and say things worthy of a story to be passed down for generations. She was full of wisdom. For instance, there was the time she was chopping ingredients and accidently sliced off the tip of her finger. “Not to worry!” She said, “It’s only a little bit of extra of protein!” In fact, Mary proved to be quite accident-prone in the kitchen. She was a career woman and did not learn how to cook until she was married. On one particular evening, Mary dropped a whole chicken on the floor. Lacking an alternative plan, she simply brushed the chicken off and served it to her guests. Mary eventually learned how to navigate the kitchen through trial and error. She also found clever ways to ensure people ate her food. Mary knew her granddaughter Gayle was quite the picky eater. As an Italian woman, it was an insult to her character if someone at the dinner table did not completely clear his or her plate of food. It never occurred to Mary that her cooking might seem slightly suspicious after her earlier mishaps. Gayle always had a cause for worry if she noticed that her dog was not customarily waiting under the table for scraps. One day, Mary finally figured out a way to make Gayle eat her dinner. She carefully explained to Gayle that life is full of magic. She pointed to her granddaughter’s corduroy jumper and stated that it was a special jumper with magical treats. Throughout the day, Gayle found pieces of meat in the pockets of her clothing. Despite her pickiness, Gayle brushed the lint off the food and ate every bit so that she could have the magic inside herself.

Mary was quite a firecracker. She was a vibrant woman who stood out against other women of her time. Mary was smart and driven, with ambitions for adventure. She became a successful business-woman by designing and selling silk lampshades to the popular department store Woolworths. Mary later bought land in the Adirondacks with her husband and together they built cabins to be rented out in the summertime. She even claims to have been the first woman in the state of New York to get a driver’s license.  It is no travesty that Mary was only a mediocre cook. She was too busy conquering the world to worry about a speck of dust on a dropped chicken. Her cooking mistakes hardly mattered anyways, because Mary’s wit and charm helped her to navigate all troubles in her life, including problems in the kitchen. Mary lived a very long and fulfilling life, surrounded by loved ones. Among all others, Mary’s true talent was the gift of her infectiously lively personality. She eventually died from a stroke at the age of ninety-six. Life’s cruel joke is that such an amazing woman had her memories stolen from her by Alzheimer’s. However, nobody else will forget her character, accomplishments, or even her hilarious mishaps. Mary’s stories will always live on, through her great granddaughter and beyond.

The Bottomless Pit- A Feat Of Eating

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This week my homework assignment for my food narratives course was to write a short paper- “In a mock-heroic tone, write about a feat of eating”. Seeing as super bowl sunday was right around the corner, I figured game day would be the perfect premise for my narrative. I used the entry from my last blog post to begin my paper and continued on from there.

NO Disclaimer: There is no exaggeration in what follows for the amount of food I or others consumed.

It was the day of the year. Americans all across the country had been looking forward to this day for weeks, it was finally the day of the super bowl! I must confess however, that I had ulterior motives for my excitement about the big game. To me this is not so much a day to watch football or celebrate the national holiday of beer drinking, as it is a day to completely binge on every single delicious and unhealthy food known to man. With the exception of holiday meals, the super bowl seems to be one of the few days where it is considered socially acceptable to gorge on all sorts of tasty treats that one would otherwise avoid. On that day, I not only planned to participate in the festivities of my friend’s super bowl party, but I made it my challenge to consume as much food as I could get my hands on.

And oh were there wondrous foods to behold! We spent the entire morning preparing enough food to feed an army along with all of their families. It felt similar to thanksgiving in that I spent the morning helping out here and there, surrounded by friends as well as the mouth watering aromas of goodies I was not yet allowed to devour. In preparation for the feast I withheld from eating any food at all. I could feel my stomach rumbling and it took all the effort I possessed not to sneak nibbles of the meal. I knew that if I began I would be past the point of no return. We simmered pounds of spicy taco meat while a pot of black beans bubbled away on the stove. We chopped countless tomatoes, jalapeños, peppers, and onions, wiping away the sweat and tears from our toils as we went. Platters of vegetables were laid out next to bowls of every dipping sauce imaginable. In fact, one girl even contributed her special buffalo chicken dip. We were lucky enough to have two trays of cream cheese, bleu cheese, shredded chicken, hot sauce and shredded cheddar all melted together and ready to pour on every side dish. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how many possible ways you could fry a potato and had an epiphany as we poured innumerable bags of various chips into large bowls. We set out a range two liter sodas and tallboy beers next to platters of  “ultimate nachos” that were wafting a dangerously delicious scent. We finally added five large pizzas pies, sixty chicken wings, and curly fries to the spread. I glanced at the clock and my heart leapt as I noticed it was nearly five thirty, only an hour until show time. And no, I was did not mean the game.

I could not wait any longer and contented myself by allowing one slice of pizza and an entire bag of baby carrots with ranch dressing. The clock struck six, a half an hour to go. Guests began to arrive and we greeted all of our friends. Finally it was time to eat! Five minutes before the game started we loaded up our plates until they were piled high with morsels that precariously teetered and threatened to topple off of the mountain of food on our dishes. I crammed between a few people on a small couch and began my feast.

My first course consisted of a plateful of ultimate nachos and eight medium chicken wings slathered in a thick and creamy bleu cheese dressing. I demolished this helping in about five minutes with my only trouble being a hidden jalapeño that forced me to chug an Arizona ice tea. On to the second helping. This consisted of a mound of buffalo chicken dip that threatened to overtake the accompanying curly fries, scoop-able tortilla chips, broccoli and celery that occupied the rest of my plate. I followed this up with a tall boy and two slices of cheese pizza. I slowed my eating pace as I went and reminded myself that this was a marathon, not a sprint. It was nearly half time. After another dish of chips and broccoli covered in queso, a slice of pepperoni pizza, two more tall boys, another cup of ice tea, and some now cold chicken dip, the game was over. But the Giants had won! The celebration was only just beginning. We took to the streets along with many other Fordham students and spent the night in various bars singing songs such as “New York State of Mind” by Alicia Keys and “New York, New York” by Frank Sinatra. We swayed back and forth with our arms in the air shouting as people passed along trays of turkey subs that we happily gobbled up. A final glance at the clock alerted me to the late hour. My roommate Devon and I reluctantly parted ways with our friends and headed to the metro north train station, however not before we got the chance to grab a snack for the road. As we strolled to the station during an unusually warm night for early February, I contentedly gnawed on two final slices of pepperoni pizza that I dunked into the remaining bleu cheese and hot sauce left over from the chicken wings. Devon preferred to dip her pizza in queso. Our night ended with an impromptu psychic reading that eerily predicted I would soon travel to Florida and that Devon’s health would vastly improve over the next month. (Comforting to know after the amount of artery clogging food we had just consumed) The prediction was strangely accurate seeing as we had just purchased spring break tickets for Miami and had planned to experiment with a vegan diet until break. We intentionally decided to begin the day after the super bowl. We viewed the feast from that night as a sort of last supper. Indeed the meal was a feast of every food I will miss and dream about for the next month. Yes, I ate an entire large sized pizza pie to myself, and yes, it was fantastic. I may have gained a few pounds from one day of eating, but the way I see it, those foods went to all the right places.

A Proustian Remembrance: Turtle Bread Tomato Basil Soup

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This is a writing piece I turned in to my food narratives class. The assignment was to write about a time I could not get enough of a certain food. I decided to write about my oh so deep and personal relationship with tomato basil soup but ended up realizing by the end of the writing exercise that maybe I do not just like the soup for how it tastes but for how it makes me feel….

BY THE WAY- For anyone who doesn’t know, Proust was a writer who wrote a long novel about his life. The novel begins with a scene where he remembered specific memories in his life all from the simple act of eating a cookie. Proust hadn’t eaten that cookie since his childhood. Have you ever eaten something and it reminded you of a memory that immediately brought you back to a specific time in your life? That is what happened to Proust and thus the term “proustian memory” was born. Here is my piece.

I could never forget the first time I tried the famous tomato basil soup from Turtle bread bakery and restaurant. The building was situated in the middle of Lindin Hills, an active family friendly neighborhood on the outer edges of urban Minneapolis. It was October, which meant that Minnesota was reaching the peak of its beauty before a brutal winter. The trees were covered in a spectrum of brightly colored leaves that would eventually detach and drift towards the ground through the breeze. The air itself was crisp and cool on the skin as one walked outside, but the sun was still bright enough to bestow warmth and light upon its subjects.  I have always loved autumn because the season brings so much excitement and comfort.

The day I first tried the soup was a particularly exciting day. On that day I was allowed to leave school with a few friends in order to attend a college fair. I was overjoyed at any excuse to play hooky for a few hours and thus jumped at the chance to go downtown. Eating out was not even a plan at the time, but we somehow all ended up stopping at Turtle Bread for a warm bite to eat. Thinking back to my first impression of the place brings back almost as much happiness as eating the soup. The restaurant had tall ceilings with innumerable wicker baskets hanging below. The store was filled with all sorts of decadent indulgences. Cakes, cookies, pies and pastries were all displayed next to piles of artisanal breads and counters of jams and cheeses.  The Restaurant smelled of coffee and hummed with the liveliness of a tight-knit community. I was an outsider to the people and pleasures of Turtle Bread but that would all soon change. My friend walked right up to the counter and promptly ordered a bowl of the tomato basil soup with extra bread. He swore by this meal as the signature Turtle Bread dish that was unparalleled by all other tomato basil impersonators. Convinced, I ordered the same and followed instructions on “the best way to eat it” by dunking hunks of buttered bread into the piping hot bowl. The range of flavors exploded as soon as I put the steaming, soup-soaked bread into my mouth. The chunky soup tasted fresh and tart from the tomatoes with an added depth from the basil leaves. The soup saturated the doughy ciabbatta bread and all of the flavors came together from the rich butter, which had begun to melt. I was instantly addicted. As far as I was concerned, this was the perfect meal. On cold gloomy days, this soup instantly made me feel cozy and comforted as I gazed out of the floor to ceiling windows. When I was in a good mood the soup made me even happier.  When I was sad, the thick, creamy meal would instantly warm my body and mind.  I ended up frequenting the restaurant so many times in the following months that I was offered a job there. I worked at Turtle Bread for the duration of high school and never fully realized until now how much the experience shaped me into who I am today. I came away with many new friends, an understanding for family businesses, an appreciation for community, and a love for soup. I ate my worth in soup during my time at Turtle Bread and I adore every type, though nothing comes close to the signature Tomato Basil.

I think the reason I cook so many soups now is because deep down I am longing for the taste of Turtle Bread soup but I have moved too far away to have it. So instead, I constantly try to recreate the exact blend of heavenly flavors each time I sample spoonfuls from a pot bubbling away on my tiny college stove. In this land of Hale and Hearty soups nothing can compare to what I know from Minneapolis and my high school years. When it comes down to it, I have a sort of proustian remembrance of the food. Each time I land at the Minneapolis airport I rush straight to turtle bread and am always surprised to find the same employees and customers that I was used to working and laughing with every day. I sit down by the window and gorge myself on a bowl of soup, a pound of butter and more pieces of bread than anyone needs. As I bite into the soft bread with oozing butter I am flooded with old memories and emotions of familiarity, happiness and comfort. Spurred by the intricate flavors of the signature tomato basil soup I am reminded where I am from, and I instantly know that I am home.

It’s Raining Meatballs

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One of the classes I am taking is called “Food Narratives”. It is a creative fiction and non fiction writing course all about sensory perceptions of food. When everyone arrived to class on the first day our teacher explained that we were supposed to write during the beginning of each class. The idea is that no matter what we were doing before school (whether we were at work, the gym, sleeping ect.) if we came to class and wrote for a few minutes it would calm our minds and transition us into the right mood.  He began our first session by reading an excerpt about a man who saw something which immediately gave him a craving for clams and sent him on a month long rampage to eat as many clams as he could. When the teacher finished reading I heard many of the students muttering that they could never eat the same thing for a whole month. This surprised me because I found that I can totally relate to the man from the story! I always want food that way, it makes me crazy. Anyways, the teacher then instructed us to write about a craving for five minutes. We were told to write whatever came to our minds and not stop until he told us to. This is what ended up coming to my mind during the warm-up, I figured I would share it…

 

Meatballs. They are everywhere. This mystery mixture of meats, spices and breadcrumbs seems to be following me everywhere in this new chapter of my life as if I am supposed to be getting some sort of message. It all started with the food network. Watching an old episode that seemed to ring with familiarity as Giada made a simple meatball recipe. I had seen this before. All of the sudden the images on the screen were jumping out from the TV towards me and it was as if I could actually smell the fragrant aroma and taste the meal. Cravings feel that way for me. I know all about cravings. It starts with a smell or a photo or even a memory and suddenly all I can envision is that food. I can literally taste it but it is a trick of the mind because all that I have in front of me are my salivating taste buds. It always starts this way and then I’m hooked. I cannot stop thinking about whatever it is I’m craving until I have eaten it. A lot of it. One bite is never enough and from the first twinge in my mind I can always tell that I am about to embark upon a month long obsession with a single food item. One time it was mashed potatoes, so comforting. Another time it was crab legs. Too expensive.  This time, meatballs. All winter break I experimented with making different types. One kind with bison, one kind half beef half ground turkey. Another stuffed with mozzarella. It was definitely obsessive. But then I came to the village. I made the move to 15th and 1st only to find that a new restaurant had just sprung up on the corner. Its name is the meatball factory. A restaurant where all they sell is different kinds of meatballs and sauces. How strange. Here I am beginning a new chapter in my life where everything is supposed to be different but right in front of me are specific reminders of my past. The past from just weeks before where I was living in a different state, a student from a different university with different friends. But I was eating the same foods. Memories from the past month rushed back to my brain and I realized my craving for meatballs was not quite over. Needless to say the very first night after unpacking my roommate and I rushed right over to the restaurant and in celebration ordered three entrees and an appetizer between just the two of us. The waiter brought our food in disbelief and asked us if we had actually ordered that much food. The dishes were phenomenal and we ate every last bit, even scraped the sauce out of the bowl with bread. After the meal we got into our newly made beds and I attempted to fall asleep, though my mind was racing. While I rubbed my full stomach I wondered: Is it really the craving of meatballs that I am not ready to let go of? Or am I not ready to let go of something else?