For Monday, Aug 26, by 6:00 pm

For this assignment I want to emphasize the two types of research you will be performing, both primary and secondary. I also want you to perform the role of observer and analyst. So, given these two objectives, this Extracts will have two parts.

First Part: Primary

For the first part of the assignment, you will go to the coffee shop in the bookstore and play the part of observer. For twenty minutes you will treat the coffee shop -- its environment, its transactions, its contents -- as a text, as something to be read and noted. As we discussed in class, you will be writing this assignment in a state of "Not-Knowing." Open your eyes to significant details and take notes. Then think about the significance of those things and write about them. Try not to make value judgments; just write about what you see. However, also be aware of how you structure your writing. This is not just a list, but a composition. Your writing should reflect a relationship between the details (think about McFee's research, which acts as a kind of observation of basic information yet still has a narrative quality). Again, 250 words.

Second Part: Secondary

For the second part you will review the bibliography from the required reading (the Counihan Introduction), and make a list of sources that you're interested in. Be open but also be sensitive to your natural inclinations. Make a list of these sources, writing down the author and title (don't worry about the other publication information for now). After listing the sources you find interesting (based solely on the title) see if there are any patterns that emerge. Write a short paragraph analyzing your choices. No length requirement for this second part.

Requirements

Publish this assignment as a single post, divided (as I've done above) into two parts. Make the parts obvious, so I can tell them apart. As always, this assignment is due by 6 pm the day before class. If there are any questions, please let me know by commenting on this post.

Strawberry Fields Forever

My sister and I started picking strawberries with my grandpa three years ago and we’ve gone together every year since.  I really cherish these times because we get to see a side of my grandpa that isn’t “the old guy talking with other old guys.”  He and my grandma migrated south for the winter every year like mallard ducks so we rarely ever get to see him.  Being able to spend one-on-one time with him is special because as I get older I’m realizing more and more that he won’t be around forever.  After my grandma passed away two years ago, I find myself wishing I had been able to spend more time with her.  So now I use the U-pick season at Spooner’s fields to spend as much time as I can with him.  He’ll tell us stories about our dad when he was younger, providing us with plenty of ammo to mock him when we get home.  Not only do I get to spend quality time with my grandpa, my sister and I have also really bonded over the experience.  We’d compete to pick the most berries and who got the biggest ones while sneaking a few bites every now and then when no one was looking.  Being six hours away from them now and with summer being over, I know I’ll have to wait at least 365 more days until we can do it again.  Whenever I see a strawberry in the supermarket, I’m reminded of this memory and can’t wait to do it again.

Strawberry Jam

Nothing else reminds people more of their grandparents, then slow homecooked meals. For me. it's not so much a whole meal, but the perfect balance of sweet and sour, hand-picked, homemade jam. When i was younger I used to count down the days until it was time to drive up to Whidbey Island to visit my grandparents. Each visit, season-permitting, my grandparents would take my sister and I to the local strawberry fields where we would pick baskets full of berries. I remember eating and wearing more berries then I actually picked. My hands and clothes were covered with a deep red strawberry juice, which stained quickly because of the warm summer sun. After picking all the berrieswe needed, we would head back to the beach-front log cabin to start making the jam. It was always my job to mash the berries. While i mashed, my grandma and sister would add the sugar and all the other ingredients needed to the saucepan. The entire house was filled with a warm strawberry pie scent. After my sister and I made a label for each jar, staing the type and date, my grandma would pour the hot strawberry sauce into each jar. Each jar was carefully sealed and taken to the garage freezer. My favorite part was being able to take a jar home with me after it was chilled. Although I haven't helped with the baking process for many years, my grandparents always remember to give me a homemade jar of jam when I have to leave.

Potatoes

I've have always loved potatoes and all the dishes that can be made from them. When I was younger I would always ask my mom to make some kind of potato side dish every night for dinner. The answer was usually no.
My favorite potato dish she makes is potato soup. No matter how hot it is outside I always ask her to make it for me. I used to think nothing could make me stop loving it. That was until I started working in the plant pathology department.
The two labs I work in study crop diseases in potatoes and onions. Which means I get to help them kill plants and study the results on a regular basis. One day we took core samples from a large batch of potatoes that had been injected with various plant diseases. The process required the core samples to be cut in half and all the dead and decaying tissue to be cleaned out. Every so often the tubs used to clean out the core samples would be dumped into buckets and filled with fresh water. About 3 or 4 hours into the process one of the grad students walked by and commented on how the contents of the buck looked like potato soup.
With loving potato soup so much I was able to see the resemblance. For about a month afterwards I refused to eat potatoes and in form. Eventually I was able to enjoy potatoes again, but every once and a while I remember that day and have to avoid them for the next couple of days.

Salsa con mi novio

This particular food memory occurred not too long ago in my boyfriend's kitchen here at school. Over the summer we both lived at opposite ends of the state so we got to spend little time together. We are both very adventurous people and so we decided to try our hands at salsa making. We both very much enjoy hot and spicy food so this was going to be perfect for us to try. Our first stop was the grocery store where we stocked up on cilantro, onions, tomatoes, lime juice, onion powder and garlic powder. Plus we could not forget jalapenos to make it extra hot. All of these ingredients we were able to find on the backs of random salsa bottles in the store. The ones we chose just sounded right. Back in the kitchen we chopped onions and mixed all of the ingredients in a blender, called the magic bullet. I loved just being in the kitchen with my boyfriend after not seeing him for so long. Being able to make food is very empowering especially when you share the memory with someone special. If the food is tasty too than that's a good bonus. After blending all the ingredients I added extra onions for a chunkier texture. The smells in the kitchen were those of fresh ingredients, especially the onion, garlic and cilantro, which I personally love. This memory is important to me because I really enjoy spending time with my boyfriend and making delicious food is something that brings us closer together. I also have not made a lot of food on my own so I appreciate everything that my boyfriend can teach me. I am going to be making food for the rest of my life and I want to eventually be able to create wonderful meals all the time.

Butter makes everything Better

Growing up in southwest Washington has its advantages and disadvantages. A disadvantage was having rain and overcast be the only forecast from the weather persons. But an advantage to all that rain was having lush and green nature all around us. Among this greenery laid dense patches of blackberry bushes lining nearly every side walk in my neighborhood. My friend, of nearly my whole life, called upon me to help her collect blackberries in the woods behind her house. I agreed, on the condition I would receive a piece of the pie she would make from our find.

We set off bowls in hand to collect our berries and easily found and picked enough berries for four pies. Even though our mission was a complete success, I hated every minutes of it. Spiders, bugs, snakes, and piles of dung left by the woodland creatures; it was terrible. Upon making out way out the woods the first thing I wanted to do was wash every last bit of nature off of me. But I was promised pie and there was no way I was going home empty stomached. I proceed to wash the berries as my friend pulled out a recipe from the stone age, back in the good old times when a pound of butter per cup of mashed potatoes was a healthy idea. She made the crust from scratch and added the filling into the pan, but before covering it with the top crust she added giant globs of butter onto the blackberry filling. Being a part time bake assistant to my mother during holidays, I remarked how I did not believe she was doing it right.

Sometime later, with my mind skeptically wondering if the pie would still be eatable with so much butter, the pie was cooked and cooled. As I forked a small piece into my mouth I noticed something bizarre, that the butter pie in question was the best blackberry pie I had ever eaten.

That pie was the best I ever had and has convinced me of two things. One that hiking through the woods with spiders, bugs, and snakes is worth getting blackberries for pie. And two, that large quantities of butter makes everything better. I have eaten many pies since then but none have come close to the delicious satisfaction of my best friend’s blackberry pie.

Chocolate Chip Cookies

For as long as I can remember, chocolate chip is the only flavor of cookies my Mom will regularly bake.  If you just ask for cookies, you're getting chocolate chip.  If you want another flavor, you better specify...more than once, or it will be overlooked.  I'm not sure why these are her favorite-she never seems to eat them, but they were always in the cookie jar growing up.

My favorite thing about making the cookies, was sitting on the stool spinning the bowl.  Now, the bowl never actually needed spun, it did that automatically, but my sister and I seemed to be in perpetual argument about who got the coveted stool seat to spin.  My Mom always traded us out so we got equal turns, but it was always a competition.  While spinning, we also got to help add ingredients.  My favorite was the brown sugar because I got to pack it into the measuring cup as hard as I could and then hear the soft "thump" as it hit the bottom of the mixing bowl.  Second favorite was the obvious ingredient, the chocolate chips.  Subconsciously I'm pretty sure the goal was always eat more chocolate chips than we actually poured into the bowl while my sister and I each took turns attempting to stir the thick batter, which usually ended with us flinging dough and chocolate chips all over the counter before Mother finally took over.

After all the mixing had been done, we watched Mom put all the formed cookies on to the baking sheet (while attempting to sneak dough out of the bowl when she wasn't looking).  As the first pans baked in the oven, the smell of the cookies wafted through the house, usually bringing my Dad up from downstairs.  We would all gather in the kitchen and impatiently await the hot sheets with gooey cookies to be pulled out of the oven by Mom.  Amidst scolds, we would try to eat cookies straight off the sheet, which inevitably caused screams due to being too hot, and more scolds from Mom and laughs from Dad.

As I grew up, I began making the cookies instead of my Mom.  While there was no small child helping spin the bowl, I still ate too many chocolate chips before they made it in the batter and would steal spoon fulls while preparing the cookie sheets.  The smell of them baking also continued to bring my Dad up from downstairs and my Mom from wherever in the house she was.

As I continue my adult life and start (somewhat unwillingly) to think about my future beyond college, I hope that someday I will have little children of my own to fight over the coveted stool spot and spin the bowl, creating similar memories of love and comfort that these cookies did for me.

Toaster Strudel

Every year for our birthdays my brother and I get some delicious raspberry Toaster Strudel. It’s a big treat for us because my mom is kind of a health food freak so we never got to eat any thing like Pop tarts or Toaster Strudel. We get it delivered to us in bed with some bacon and a little candle in it. It’s even better when my mom is an extra good mood and she doubles up on the frosting, putting on two packs instead of just one. Because we all know that the sugar filled frosting is the best part of the whole thing. But the fluffy pastry is heavenly to me and the raspberry filling is definitely the best flavor of them all. But the key was to toast it enough without burning it but also having it nice and warm on the inside. Sometimes it would still be cold in the middle and that was just tragic. It’s the start of a great day and is a tradition that has been going on for as long as I can remember. I just turned twenty and I still got my raspberry Toaster Strudel with a candle in it. It’s a silly tradition my family does but I still love it. In fact, I still only eat Toaster Strudel on my birthday because it makes it that much better and I still feel like it’s a treat when I get it. Whenever I think of Toaster Strudel I think of happy memories and my past birthdays, which always put a smile on my face.

Razor Clams

I know this blog is supposed to be about a food that brings us strong emotions due to the traditions and memories it holds but I am writing about experiences that revolve around food that are close to my heart.

One of my favorite childhood memories is clam digging. No matter if it was a morning or afternoon tide, we would load up the truck with our gear, blankets, and lots of good snacks. Then we would drive the 2 hours to the ocean. After having a snack and some play time in the sand, we would bundle up with our permits on our coats and grab our clam guns. Sometimes we would work all together and sometimes we would partner up. Every now and then, my dad and sister would take shovels and go dig in the surf while my mom and I stuck to the beach.

Sometimes family or friends would come with us but usually it was just the four of us. I remember there would be times we were digging during storms. The weather would be freezing and sharp rain would pelt your face while the fierce wind almost knocked you over. It didn’t matter to us. We would go out digging regardless of any weather conditions because we knew as soon as we all reached our limits, we would go back to the truck and have cookies and hot chocolate while wrapped in blankets. Then my sister and I would sleep the whole ride back home. Once we got back home, the four of us would crowd around the wash basin and clean the clams. I’d like to say that my sister and I actually contributed to the cleaning process but I highly doubt we were actually all that helpful. Mostly because I usually stood there trying to name all sixty clams!

The only thing is I hate seafood! I refuse to eat it. Yet the next night we would always make clam chowder. I loved the smell of it! The smell would flow through the whole house! It never smelt fishy, just warm and seasoned. Then we would all sit down at the table and enjoy the “fruits of our labor”. And, as always by request, I would be having spinach raviolis for dinner instead!

I think back to the memories of clam digging. Everything was simple. It was just a fun outing for my family. Now my parents are divorced and my mom, sister, and I haven’t gone clam digging all year. My dad tells me on the phone about his new trips clam digging with his girlfriend and I think back to the fun we used to have not only digging the clams but eating them too.

Grandma's Cookies

Ever since I can remember I have always had a sweet tooth. I think it may have started when I was younger when my mom would always bribe my brothers and I with candy if we behaved, but she disagrees. My mom blames my sweet tooth on my Grandma. From all the delicious pies that my grandma always used to bring to our family gatherings, or my special ice cream birthday cake that she made for me because she knows I do not like cake, or the best chocolate chip cookies that we made every time that we spent the night at her house.

The cookies would become a regular routine as my brothers and I spent the night at Grandma's house. As we would walk into the house, we could see all the ingredients already layed out across the counter top. We would slowly start to mix the flour, sugar, vanilla and more as we created the best cookie dough ever. As soon as the dough was completely made, Grandma would place the dough into the freezer for it to harden. This was when I would sneek into the freezer and eat the cookie dough while everyone else was watching TV. Even though I would get the worse stomach ache every time I did this, I could not help but eat the cookie dough. All I heard was Grandma's voice in the back of my head saying "you will get Salmonella!" as I continued sneeking the cookie dough.

Still to this day I have not gotten Salmonella, but I have gotten sick from eating too much of the cookie dough. I have yet to have learned my lesson because the delicious taste of the cookie dough will always be worth the pain of a stomach ache. Although I do enjoy the taste and smell of the freshly baked cookies as they come hot out of the oven, I still cannot resist the chocolate chip cookie dough.

This memory is an important one to me because I am extremely close with my grandparents and this is one of my favorite bonding times with my Grandma ever since I was younger.

European Delights

All throughout my childhood and into high school I was in choir. In my choir we traveled a lot to different states in the US. However the summer of my junior year of high school we traveled to different cities in Europe. The food that we had in Europe was like nothing I have ever had before. The foods were rich, creamy and real. They had food markets all over town; everywhere you went there was fresh food right from the farm. I remember having one distinct meal almost every day, Wiener schnitzel in Austria. Wiener schnitzel is veal covered in bread crumbs, fried and served with lingonberry jam. The way it tasted was nothing like fried food in the US. Eating meat with jam sounded repulsing to me at first, but once I tried it, it was sweet and delicious. Another dish that was hard to single out was an amazing stew served with quail that I had in Budapest. It was the most delicious authentic meal I have ever had in my life and would do anything to eat it again. The reason I chose these events and meals was because it was one of the best experiences and foods that I have ever had. The ability to go to another country with 40 of my best friends eat, sing, and play was amazing.

Fattigmann

Every year, since I can remember, exactly one week before christmas all the women in my family get together at my grandmother's house and make hundreds of norwegian cookies called Fattigmann. As a tradition, my Grandma Astrid always prepares the first batch of dough while we all watch and learn from the master. She refuses to write down her recipe because of the secret family ingredient that she claims makes her Fattigmann the best in Oslo!

Fattigmann truly are a Christmas luxury. The ingredients are especially expensive and they are known in Norway as the "poor man's cookie" because baking these cookies can turn a rich norwegian man poor after just a few batches. Fattigmann are quickly fried rather than baked on an elegant cookie press. Minutes after frying is my favorite time to eat Fattigmann. Still warm and extra soft from cooking, they melt in your mouth and engulf your taste buds with such a unique and delicate taste that only personal experience can sufficiently describe.

The kitchen is always full of smiles and laughter as we bake and bond. I learn so much about my heritage and family history. The memories and lessons that come from making Fattigmann are especially precious to me because as time goes on and loved ones pass, the family traditions tend to die with them. But this specific cookie keeps our family tradition going strong and for that I am so thankful.

Along with precious memories Fattigmann also have a magical way of bringing people together and filling your heart with love and happiness. The perfect addition to all the Christmas festivities.

Family Reunion and Barbecue

I have never been much of a cook. To me food has represented a good meal with good company. As I have grown up my parents and others have cooked as a way to bring the family together. This practice was taken to its extreme at the family reunion and barbeque this summer in Wisconsin.

My father’s side of the family has largely stayed in Wisconsin and Iowa, where they have long history of large family reunions. Unfortunately the last reunion occurred when I was two years old, and growing up in Seattle has only allowed me to meet a small subset of the people who show up at these reunions. The fiftieth wedding anniversary of my grandparents, the return of my aunt and uncle from a two year Peace Corps expedition in Ghana, and the high school graduation of my cousin gave the family too may things to celebrate, so it was decided that there would be another family reunion this summer.

The reunion needed a lot of food: a whole pig, 120 ears of corn, as well as many tubs of beans, potato salad, and ice cream. The pig roasted over five hours and needed little care, so my grandfather could socialize as he raised the lid to baste the pig and let other view his progress. The food attracted almost a hundred relatives to the reunion.

I took advantage of the family reunion to acquaint myself with people I would have never met otherwise. It was also fun to see family interacting as a whole. The food was great, even if I did spend most of my time running it in and out of the house. It’s likely there will never be another family reunion of this size, but I heard the previous one had also been called the last family reunion. I can only hope there will be another.

Huckleberry Picking

I can remember every Memorial Day weekend the family would pack up the motor home, jeep, and suburban for the annual camping trip at Mack Mountain. At the mountain we would go jeeping, hiking, and huckleberry picking. Picking huckleberries was a tradition. My sisters, mom, and family friend, Andee, would load into the jeep. For hours we would have a mini competition to see who would collect the most huckleberries before it was time to head back to camp. I would make myself sick for eating every other huckleberry I picked, I ate another. I was addicted to the sour fruity taste and the way the juice would squeeze into my mouth. By the time we loaded back into the jeep I had eaten myself sick and was covered in sticky juice.
This particular tradition is very important to me and my family. As my sister and I aged the conversations matured. We became very close to Andee. She was more like an older sister or mom than a family friend. Countless conversations were held through the huckleberry bushes. The tradition has continued to this day. However, instead of eating myself sick I watch as Andee's children continuously shove huckleberries into their mouths. I reminisce my childhood as I listen to the innocent chatter of whatever is currently occupying Andee's youngest daughter's attention. This is a lovely tradition that represents love and family. I plan to continue the tradition with my own family someday.

Baking With Grandma

Growing up I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, they only lived a couple miles away so they babysat a lot. The fondest memory I have over at their house is my grandma teaching me how to bake. My grandma Shirley started teaching me how to bake when I was about 5 years old. I distinctly remember the smell of things baking in the oven, the flour and other ingredients scattered all over the counter and the occasional spill on the kitchen floor. But there was nothing like that first batch of cookies right out of the oven with a nice cold glass of milk. From snicker doodle cookies to chocolate cakes I learned it all. It fascinated me that you could start out with a bunch of simple ingredients and with the right recipe that they would become something delicious. My grandma was a stay at home mom and mastered every family recipe; there is no competition when it comes to my grandmothers baking. She shared her love for baking with me which eventually became my own; she loved teaching me especially since I was the only grandchild that was even remotely interested. Baking with my grandma is a memory that I will always treasure. It has created a special bond between us that her and her other grand children can’t understand. It’s almost funny that doing something so simple as baking chocolate chip cookies, can actually bring people closer together. Because it has been such a found memory in my life I hope that someday I’ll be able to pass down my love for baking to my children or grandchildren.

Purple Potato, Elk Steak, and Bear Pepperoni Sticks

I had a hard time picking a specific food instance that affected me more than any other, but as I was deliberating on which to pick I realized that there was a strong theme to my choices. I decided to choose a string of experiences that had seemed to have little impact on me until I shared them with friends.

I grew up in a neighborhood that was filled with huge trucks, quads, hunting dogs, and guns. At the age of eight I competed in regional archery tournaments, at the age of ten, it was entirely common for me to go pheasant and duck hunting on the weekends, or help all the dads of the neighborhood track wounded game. I was always involved with every step. The hunting, tracking, cleaning, packing, butchering, smoking, and cooking; you name it I was involved.

During the fall of 7^th grade, a large group of my friends crowed around the lunch table in a scurry to eat lunch and still have time to play basketball. While others unpacked PB&Js, I pulled out a small purple potato from my grandfather’s garden, leftover grilled elk steak, and spicy bear pepperoni sticks; some of my most favorite foods. A few of my friends were interested but others were put off that it wasn’t typical meat. I guess I never gave it any thought that people did it another way. My grandfather had owned a farm, harvested his own fruits and vegetables and slaughtered his own cattle and sheep. At home I was surrounded by hunting and fishing. My neighbors and even my cousins who live all throughout the U.S. fish, farm, and hunt. This was something that I had been immersed in since the day I was born. At the time it didn’t make sense that people who live only a few miles away had never tasted or seen an animal that had freshly been slaughtered, when I knew people across the country that did. This opened my eyes to the fact that location is not the only influence on our lives and culture.

Congee

One Sunday when I was five, my parents brought me to a little congee restaurant after my swimming lesson. Congee is a Chinese type of rice porridge that is usually eaten as a breakfast food. I recalled when I stepped into the restaurant, the strong aromas of green onions and cooked rice permeating the warm air, and the vapor of boiling congee surrounding the tiny open kitchen already made my mouth watery. We returned so many times to feast on my new favorite food that my family decided to cook it ourselves.

Every Sunday breakfast from that time on consisted of a bowl of congee, always prepared at home. My father chopped the pork, my mother crushed the ginger, and I placed the porcelain bowls and spoons on the dining table. What was at first eating it after my swimming lessons turned into a family tradition.

The procedure of boiling congee seems simple, but without adding enough water and patience, the congee can burn easily. First, the water and the rice are brought to a boil. Once the rice is boiling, the heat must be turned down to medium low, and the lid is tilted to allow the steam to escape. Garnishing the congee with ingredients like green onions, and “ zha chai”, which is the Chinese pickled vegetable, add a pinch of exotic sensation with the congee.

What may seem to others as a picky family’s habit was, in fact, a reflection of our cultural diversity. I am a Chinese who was raised in a British colony, an American who did not learn English until the 6^th grade. The blending of the different ingredients and seasonings with the congee epitomized this kaleidoscopic background. The weekly congee tradition also symbolizes the bonds and stability of our family.

I still eat congee when I come to the States by myself. After getting off the chemistry labs, or taking a break from studying for exams now, I systemically go to the only Chinese restaurant that serves congee in Pullman to celebrate my diligence or to appease my homesickness. Ironically, the congee has become a characteristic of my growing independence. And each time I breathe in the smell of green onions and cooked rice, I remember how much I have changed and yet, not changed, since my childhood days of eating congee with my family.

Christmas Cookies

When I was a kid, my sister, my dad and I made butter cookies. Every Christmas, like clockwork, we would make these rather plain cookies. We would gather the ridiculous amount of butter and get to work. Once the dough was made we would flatten it out and proceed to cut out shapes with our cookie cutters. Of course they were Christmas themed so we had Christmas trees and snowman and all sorts of other fun shapes. I’m pretty sure my sister and I ate more of the dough then what was made into the actual cookies. We would sneak a chunk here and there and my dad would pretend like he didn’t see. After the cookies came out of the oven and had cooled off we would then decorate them with the icing we had made. The frosting was red and green of course, even though the red turned out more pinkish every time because we never put enough red die in it. It was a simple frosting made only of powdered sugar and a couple other basic ingredients. In the end we would be left with a huge mess and a lot of red and green frosted cookies.
This memory is important to me because it reminds me how much my dad cares. To this day I have an extremely strong relationship with my father. He worked very hard and everyday he got home around 6:30pm, but he still made time to make those cookies with my sister and I. Every once in a while when Christmas rolls around we all find time and get together to make these cookies that, while they are not necessarily the most delicious I have ever had, they certainly have an amazing taste that is all their own.

Lentils

As a child, the thought of eating a vegetable was nauseating. No matter what type of vegetable was placed in front of me, it would still be left on the plate or it would mysteriously end up in our dog's mouth. However, there was one vegetable that was able to bypass my distaste for these photosynthetic beings. The vegetable that would become a significant part of my diet is known as Lens culinaris, or lentils. Lentils fascinated me as a child due to the numerous colors that lentils had. My mother's kitchen cabinet contained lentils of various colors which ranged from red, black, tan and green. I loved the days when my mother decided to cook lentils because the process of how she made them intrigued me. She would go into the pantry and collect four bags of different colored lentils and pour them all in a big pot. She would then pour water over them and place the pot on the stove and put a class cover on top. While she waited for the water to cook the lentils I would grab a chair, place it in front of the stove, stand on top of the seat and watch the transformation of these hard, dried seeds into a soft, edible delight. The first time my mother gave me lentils I was reluctant to try it but as my mouth tasted this delicacy, my eyes suddenly widened and there was a huge grin across my face. My love of lentils allowed my mother to add, and hide, other vegetables into my bowls of lentils. She began to include carrots, onions, celery and tomatoes. Slowly I began to love vegetables and wondered why I disliked them in the first place. Lentils stand out as a food that brings back pleasant, nostalgic memories due to the fact that it sparked an interest in cooking with my mother. I wanted to learn how to cook lentils by myself and she taught me how to prepare them. It was a long process which resulted in me burning and ruining a lot of lentils but, I was able to create a batch of lentils without my mother's assistance. While I do not cook lentils with my mother anymore we have, over the past numerous years, cooked other meals together. I am always excited to come back from college so that my mother can introduce me to other culinary projects.

Filipino Food

My mother, a native of the Philippines, has always had a deep connection with food. Looking back on my childhood, I feel that her connection has not only taught me to respect and be thankful for my food, but has given me a taste of my family’s history and culture.

Back in the day, my brothers and I would anticipate the unpredictable aromas that would waft from the kitchen - smells that would inevitably lead our exploring noses to the table, no matter what we were doing. My dad, a military man who had traveled pretty much everywhere learning the ropes of each nation’s food culture, had always concocted a multitude of dishes. On the daily, my taste buds traveled to Vietnam, India, Cuba….
But while I became familiar with these foods, what was perhaps the most familiar and uniting was my parent’s Filipino food. This was the food I loved and hated the most: loved because they taste so great and hated because on paper they sound entirely disgusting.

To begin with, lumpia, an addicting dish, enlists each family member in the cooking process. Lumpia is similar to a spring roll and is usually made in large batches, the recipe slightly altered for each family. The children, with their nimble fingers, take part by peeling each wrapper from each other carefully so as to not rip them, while the elders fry the meat, chop the veggies, and roll the wraps. Coming together like this helped us find time to bond in our busy schedules and was a manifestation of how much family was stressed in the Filipino culture.

On the other hand, there are other favorites, such as balut (duck fetus, considered a delicacy), dinuguan (pork blood and heart stew), or menudo (tripe) that didn’t sound too great. But despite these ingredients, or how they look, these foods are what I grew up on, and are part of my culture. These traditional foods not only left me satiated, they left me with a relationship with my native culture that I could engage in daily and that I loved. All in all, I will always appreciate food, and its abilities to remedy my hunger, bring a cultural aspect to the table, and engage a family.

Dutch Babies

When I was just a baby, and before my mom had had my six other brothers and sisters, she would babysit for a friend of hers. This little girl that she babysat soon became my best friend even at less than a year old, and we are still friends to this day. When I was really little I would go over to her house and her mom would make Dutch Babies. Yes, I did say Dutch Babies. These perfect round pans of amazingness (to say the least) with lemon juice, and powdered sugar on top. Her mom would make these by putting eggs, butter, flour, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon all in a blender. Then she would pour it all into a pan and stick it in the oven for ten to fifteen minutes. They would puff up and start to flow over on the sides of the pan, and that’s when we all knew that they were almost done! Then we would each get our own circle Dutch Baby and put all the lemon and powdered sugar on it that we wanted! They were so good! We still make this for each other every time we are at her house, or even mine. It always brings back such good memories! I mean, not only did I grow up in a Dutch town and it always reminded me of many of the things we would eat there, but it also reminded me of what a great friend I have had since literally the day I was born. Every time I eat Dutch Babies I can’t help but think of my best friend and all the great qualities her and her family have, and how she has always been there for me. No matter what, I want my kids to have that experience with a friend of theirs. We already know that we have been friends since the beginning of time and will be probably until the day we both die. And I know that when I have kids I am going to make them this special treat and hopefully encourage and inspire the kind of genuine friendship as I share all the stories that my best friend and I have had.

Spaghetti Pie

When my parents were still together, Sunday breakfasts as a family were the most important plan for the weekend. Every Sunday morning, my dad would wake us 3 kids up by an amazing smell coming downstairs from the kitchen. This was about 7 years ago, and I still remember the excitement runningdown the stairs to see what was for breakfast. It was almost like Christmas morning every weekend. Although waking up to the smell of bacon and pancakes was extremely comforting and never got old, some Sunday breakfasts were very different. Whenever our family would have leftover spaghetti, my dad would make "spaghetti pie" for Sunday morning breakfast. Yes, it does seem very disturbing and gross to think about. However, it was my favorite breakfast that he made for the family.
To make the famous spaghetti pie, my dad would take the leftover spaghetti from the fridge and compact it and form it into a frying pan on the stove. He would cook it until the top and bottom fo the pile of spaghetti was crunchy and golden brown. Eventually, it would cook all of the way through and leave a delectable crust on the outside. Making the pie was simple, but cutting myself a slice and eating it was beyond delicious. Biting into it for the first time, gives you a perfect crunch which lead to the warm and perfectly cooked spaghetti on the inside. Slurping up spaghetti for breakfast was always fascinating to me, since I was then a child. I thought it was the most crazy idea in the world. It always left me walking away from breakfast with an insanely full stomach.
This memory stands out in my mind not only because of the strange idea of spaghetti pie, but also because Sunday breakfasts were so important to the family. Now that my parents are divorced, things obviously changed; some for the better and some for the worse. The negative effects included not being able to have a family Sunday breakfast. I miss how my dad cooked, and that is why this spaghetti stands out to me so much. He always threw together strange concoctions that tasted sensational, not to mention the family eating was always a blast. There would always be laughter, funny stories, and plans for the week talked about at the kitchen table which created memories I will never forget. I definitely have and still will carry out the tradition for family breakfasts, including the famous spaghetti pie made by my dad.

For Thursday, August 26

For this assignment, we will be writing about food as we know it: first, as a material, sensual object that we can know by site, touch, sound, smell, and taste; but also, as an important experience in our lives. The foods we grow up with are important to the memories we make, to the culture we belong to, and ultimately to the people we are or become.

For this assignment, write about a specific food memory. It could be fruit picking with a friend or relative, or helping a parent prepare a meal, or even the experience of not having something that others did have. But whether a good or bad experience, a pleasurable or regrettable one, it should be important to you and who you are.

Write 250 words or more about this food and your experience of it. Begin with context, the time and place of the memory. Then describe the food, using your remembered sense of it. Finally, tell why the memory is important. This last will bring in familial, social, cultural, or possibly national dimensions to your discussion.

For an example from my own blog, see my post on Cucidatas, a Sicilian cookie made during the holiday season. My post is roughly equivalent to what I'm looking for, though I would like more on why the memory is important to you. Really focus on this aspect of it.

Though we may discuss these posts in class on Thursday, as always, posts must be published by 6 pm the day before they are listed as due on the class schedule. Accordingly, this post is due Wednesday, August 25, by 6 pm.