Culinary Adventures of an Unfoodie: Eating with My Father

Culinary Adventures of an Unfoodie: Eating with My Father  (March/April 2015. Palm Sunday)

I just spent 5 days with my 91-year-old father. He lives part of the year in the suburbs outside of Washington, DC, in the home he bought in the early 1960s when he joined the state department (USOM, later USAID). As an economic advisor, he worked all over the world, oftentimes taking his family with him, so that I was fortunate to live in Korea, Taiwan, Thailand, Vietnam, and Pakistan. With all of that traveling, it would be a reasonable assumption to think he was exposed to a lot of different types of food. He was, but it left little mark on his culinary consciousness. Food is fuel and nutrition to him, and the cheaper the better. That might be because of his growing up poor in the southern Appalachian Mountains (squirrel hunting with homemade rope traps was a pastime as well as a way to have a meal), or his personality, or his values. Whatever the reason, he is the opposite of a “foodie”*—perhaps an afoodie, nonfoodie, or unfoodie.

Eating with him therefore is an interesting experience. Not particularly aesthetically satisfying, but interesting from a thought-provoking perspective. He knows I enjoy trying different foods, so he gamely accompanies me to various restaurants—usually inexpensive ethnic, “hole in the wall,” family run ones where the food is likely to be tasty but not gourmet, and the clientele dressed casually so that his favorite wool pants left over from WWII don’t stand out.

Two instances of eating out with him stand out this time. The first was after the church service on Sunday morning. Growing up, Sunday dinner was always a special occasion for my family—and many other southern Protestants. Ideally it was at grandmother’s house, and she had cooked a splendid meal, but since we lived away from extended family, we had to make do with going out to eat. So, this particularly Sunday (Palm Sunday), he wanted to take me out after church. He first offered his own favorite establishment—a fast food franchise that delighted him with its prices and its unlimited lettuce and tomato for topping its hamburgers. I politely suggested he might have another place in mind, so he said he would take me to a where he used to go with my mother after church. That had potential since my mother was very adventurous and generally had good taste. We ended up, though, at a bagel franchise with packaged salads and generic sandwiches. They did offer “New York style bialys,” which looked promising, but tasted no different from any other mainstream, white bread bagel—and butter for it cost 60 cents. He was thrilled, though, to share something with me that he had shared with my mother before she died 5 years ago. That meant a lot to him—and to me, and made up for the otherwise dismal aesthetic experience. A reminder that food serves many functions and carries many meanings.

The second instance of an unfoodie eating experience was a meal with a younger sister and her four children. They had the day off from school so had spent the afternoon visiting my father and playing in his backyard. They were tired and hungry, so, for convenience—and a treat for them—we all headed to an all-you-can eat pizza place. It included a minimal salad bar (iceberg lettuce…), pasta, soup, and about 10 varieties of pizza. Dessert was cinnamon rolls and pizza dough slathered with something sticky and sweet. My father was delighted and sampled a little of everything. Towards the end of the meal, he turned towards me and asked quietly, so as to not be rude, what kind of food we were eating. I told him it was American. He looked surprised. “But what is it called and where is it from?” Although my scholarly side flinched, I knew what he meant. He didn’t have pizza growing up in the North Carolina Mountains, and he never had had pizza delivered to his house. I’m sure he had eaten it before, but his memory was beginning to slip, and he oftentimes couldn’t remember names of people or places.

But this was more than poor memory. Not only was pizza not part of his culinary universe, food in general was not part of his consciousness. He generally didn’t think about it, other than making sure that there was something reasonably filling and nutritious served on time. His own meal system consists of hot or cold cereal every morning for breakfast and then eating at exactly noon and 6 pm. The food itself is oftentimes a mixture of leftovers and canned goods (salmon is a favorite)—lots of variety and lots of vegetables, frequently flavored with ketchup. Given that he is 91, walks several miles a day, and is remarkably healthy, I can’t really criticize his diet. Aesthetically for me, it does leave much to be desired, but it obviously nourishes him quite well. And he does recognize that it is valued by other people and that it can play a central role in social rituals; thus the visits to restaurants with me. 

So, what do we call someone like my father? Someone who eats for nutrients, energy, a full stomach, and for whom the aesthetic experience correlates with the inexpensiveness and speed with which the food is delivered. Perhaps, more importantly, is it necessary to have a word? Food comes in many forms and has many social and cultural as well as biological functions. It doesn’t “speak” to everyone, and not everyone chooses to intentionally and publicly invest it with their identity and creativity. As someone who studies the “meaningfulness of the mundane,” I like to think that recognizing food’s potentials enriches life and can make a difference in how we then treat it—and the environment and other people--but I also think it important to acknowledge the validity of the various ways in which individuals interact with the world. So, rather than bemoan or criticize my father's lack of foodie inclinations, I remember that that lunch of canned salmon, cottage cheese, leftover broccoli stir-fry, crackers, and peanut butter is meaningful because of the person I am eating it with. 

* The term foodie is credited to food critic, Gael Greene, who used it in 1980 in New York Magazine. It seems to have been popularized by The Official Foodie Handbook, published in 1984 by Paul Levy and Ann Barr. It is generally used to refer to someone who prioritizes food over other aspects of life, and tends to value gourmet, "interesting" food over everyday dishes.

Moroccan food, commensality, cancer July 24, 2014

Moroccan food, commensality, cancer    July 24, 2014

I don’t want to use the word “cancer” here. It has too much power. It immediately takes over the imagination and drains hope and optimism. But, that is the reality. A sudden new one I’ve found myself thrust into. So, here I am in Madison, Wisconsin, (instead of the music festival in West Virginia I had planned for all year) with my two sons. My oldest turned 28 last week and was just diagnosed with colon cancer (stage 4). He’s one of the healthiest people around, and has been a vegan since age 13 and vegetarian since 5 (another story I’ll write about sometime). He’s a graduate student here at the university. My other son is 25 and has a full-time job as an artist/illustrator. (I always point that out so that people know it’s possible to get an art degree and still get a job…)

On Tuesday I drove the 7 ½ hours from my home in Ohio to Madison, WI to be here while Ian undergoes surgery and chemotherapy. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the diagnosis, and I was thrilled to see him looking so well. We decided to celebrate by going out to dinner. He chose the place, Marrakech, a Moroccan restaurant that offers vegetarian and vegan options, and I drove, carrying the two boys and their respective girlfriends. The meal was delicious and fun, and a reminder of how food can bring people together and be used to ground us—both in the here and now and in the more abstract, universal truths of life.

The owner had a wry sense of humor in answering our questions about the food. Ian had actually traveled in Morocco, and I’ve been to other Moroccan restaurants, so that was a topic of conversation, especially since, the owner said the population in Madison is miniscule (the largest is in Boston). The menu wasn’t large so we ordered a sample of almost everything vegetarian. The appetizers were wonderful—zaaluk (grilled eggplant blended with tomatoes, green pepper, garlic, olive oil), mohamara (walnuts, artichoke, red pepper, and spices), and humous (blended chickpeas)  served with pita bread strips. Also, makouda  (potato croquettes seasoned with garlic, cumin, and cilantro). Entrees included a tangine,  (similar to a stew) and vegetable couscous, both of which are considered national dishes. Both were served in traditional ceramic bowls with coned shaped ceramic covers. Also for entrée, was a vegetable pie type of thing wrapped in phyllo dough, called a bastilla—delicious! For dessert we ordered “Flavor of Sahara,” a bar made of ground dates, sunflower seeds, nuts, and rosewater, and an “Oasis Tartlet,”  fresh figs cut in half with nuts and date honey.

The owner also brought us a pot of sweet mint tea although we had not ordered it. It was one of those nice little touches that helped the event be even more special and made it feel like a friendly family meal rather than a business transaction. That was perhaps the intention, given that we talked to the owner about Ramadan (since we’re in the midst of it). His gift of tea reflected the hospitality and generosity so highly valued in Islam. I doubt that he knew the circumstances of our meal there. If he had, I’m sure the tea would have been a very intentional gift. I’m finding that illness galvanizes people, bringing out the best and cutting through any differences, cultural or otherwise. And what better medium to use than food, something we all share as a basic need, but invest with such individuality, not only of cultures, but also of personal memories and experiences. For me, sharing food with my sons was a statement of life, of hope, and of sharing many meals in the future. And while my universe at the moment is focused on my own family, this food is a reminder that millions of people suffer their own personal tragedies every day.  Sharing food with others and with a sense of the preciousness of the moment is one way of dealing with that reality.

Stranger in a Strange Land: Ethnicity, Work, and Food on Someone Else's National Holiday

Stranger in a Strange Land: Ethnicity, Work, and Food on a Someone Else's National Holiday

On Memorial Day I found myself in Columbus, OH visiting friends. I didn’t expect to do any work—if that’s what my research on ethnic groceries can be called—but my good friend, Liz, who is also a folklorist and a keen observer of everyday life, mentioned that there were numerous small ethnic stores in her neighborhood. I figured I would drive by to see if they were even open, given that it was a national holiday. I didn’t expect to find them not only open, but fairly empty, so that the individuals working there had time on their hands to chat. One young woman in a Chinese grocery was more than happy to talk, sharing insights into the loneliness that can accompany being a “stranger in a strange land.” Her story was also a sobering counterpoint to the more cheerful ones of individuals who had found community and family through work surrounding ethnic food.

LinFang is only 26. She was born in southern China and came to the U.S. 4 years ago, sent by her parents to find new economic opportunities. Like many immigrants with minimal job training, education, and English language skills, she initially worked in a Chinese restaurant. It was hard work with long hours and low pay, but it was busy and exciting in its own way with the constant influx and changeover of customers. The job provided an excuse to practice her English along with social interactions with people from a diversity of backgrounds and cultural heritages.

 Her move to an Asian grocery store was a step up and a step on the way to fulfilling her own dream of one day owning her own business and having a family, but it also brought unexpected isolation—a loneliness that emphasized her status as a stranger in a strange land—particularly and acutely felt on a national holiday such as Memorial Day.

I met her while she was working as a cashier in a grocery store. The store was not identified as Chinese by its name and actually advertised itself on the front door as “international,” but the name was also written out in Chinese characters, and the products being sold were definitely Chinese, as well as other Asian ethnicities. Very few people came in while I was there, which was not surprising given the holiday, but the ones who did were Asian. The lack of customers meant that we had plenty of time to talk, so I interviewed her while she stood next to the cash register, so she could keep her eye on the door. I also told her I would not give the name of the store in case her employer did not approve of her being interviewed. (Afterwards, I realized that her musings could have been taken as criticisms, so I deleted any references to the store’s name.)

LinFang said that the customers were mostly Asian, but not necessarily Chinese or if Chinese, not from southern China, and so spoke a different dialect. She found he Asian customers somewhat difficult to work with—they were used to haggling but also knew how to judge the quality of the produce and other products—and had opinions on them which they felt free to express. Although the local Chinese population is large because of the major research university in the city, it was not necessarily comforting to her. She made a distinction between them being a community versus a family. As a community, they supported each other through various formal associations, but each individual was expected to pull their own weight and find their own way. Self-owned businesses were the assumed goal, and working for each other was seen as a mentoring until individuals got established on their own. She was adamant that it wasn’t a family, in which people looked out for each other’s emotional needs. Work was work! It made her a little lonely at times, but that was just the way it was.

She also pointed out that American customers were frequently friendlier than Asian ones, asking advice and engaging her in conversations. She didn’t understand the interactions, though, and found herself without companions on the one day a week she had off. She turned sad when she spoke of that one day off, wistfully wondering how to make friends.

I’ve oftentimes lived in cultures other than my own (whichever that one is!) and know the kind of isolation she expressed—and I can imagine the loneliness of working on a national holiday in which everyone else seems to be gathering with friends and celebrating a unity in which one is not included. Being surrounded by food would, I think, make that loneliness even worse. Food frequently brings people together, with meals being occasions for socializing or just touching base with others. Perhaps the customers purchasing food at that store were taking it home to cook for family dinners or were taking it to parties or other public events. Linfang, however, had to focus on that food as commodities, presenting them, displaying them, and, hopefully, selling them. At the end of the day, it was the numbers on the cash register that mattered the most. I found that sad. She was so full of hope, but also so wistful. I hope she does achieve her dreams of owning her own business, but I also hope that she finds friendship and family, too, and doesn’t have to give that up for the first. Most of all, I hope she doesn’t lose the eagerness she displayed to learn new things, open up to new experiences, and to give to those around her. I’ll make a point to go back to that store, to buy something there, and to affirm her dreams.

Eastern European Easter foods, Ethnic Groceries in Cleveland, Ohio

Eastern European Easter foods, Ethnic Groceries in Cleveland, Ohio  April 17, 2014

Holidays usually bring out the best in food traditions, and that’s especially true of Easter among most Eastern European cultures. This week, I had the good fortune to spend time in the Cleveland, Ohio area—Parma Heights and Parma, to be specific, where there are well established Ukrainian, Polish, and other ethnic communities. Beginning as early as the late 1800s and early 1900s, these neighborhoods supported grocery stores, restaurants, social halls, and churches that continued many food customs from the “old world.” Today, the commercial food establishments welcome customers from a multiplicity of ethnicities and varieties of “American-ness,” but also frequently serve as social centers for individuals sharing that ethnic heritage.

This was very evident on the Wednesday before Easter. Grocery stores were packed with customers purchasing special meats, breads, and other treats for the up-coming holiday. The festive atmosphere made the shopping hectic, but it was obvious that people enjoyed the hustle and bustle. The crowds even overflowed to the sidewalk at State Meats on State Road in the Ukrainian Village in Parma, with people seated on benches or standing and chatting while they waited their turn to go inside to select the special hams and sausages used for the holiday. The small bakery down the street, Kolos Bakery, similarly was packed, and the owners looking harried—but pleasantly so. Their card states that they speak English, Ukrainian, Armenian, Russian, and Hebrew, refecting the rich mix of cultures that intermingle in these neighborhoods—and around food. Further down State Road, the LVIV International Food Store featured Ukrainian Easter cakes, meats, sugar lambs and rabbits, and decorated eggs along with their usual colorful displays of arts, crafts, clothing, and food.

Another Ukrainian grocery, the Ukrainian Village food and Deli, brought that home even more. The owner, Irena, graciously gave me an interview in the morning before the rush of customers began. She came to the U.S. thirteen years ago after running a business in the Ukraine for ten years. She opened her own grocery store partly because she wanted to work with something she knows—food—but also because she wanted to have her own business. Initially, the store was a way to make a living, but over the years, it has developed into much more—a place where customers can feel comfortable learning about new foods as well as run into friends and develop a sense of community.  Irena does that partly by hiring employees who can speak Ukrainian and English (and frequently other languages as well; she speaks Polish, Russian, and some Romanian, along with English and her native Ukrainian). She also actively supports the surrounding community, creating jobs and donating items to local ethnic churches. Which brings us back to the holiday foods.

One of the traditions for many Catholic eastern Europeans is the blessing of food to be eaten for the Easter holiday. Baskets are prepared, usually containing special breads, hard-boiled eggs (plain and elaborately decorated), meats (frequently lamb as a symbol of Christ, pork sausages, or hams), maybe butter shaped into lambs, and other treats. The baskets are then blessed at church on the Saturday preceding Easter Sunday. Each ethnicity—and each family and regional culture—has their own variations. These variations are part of the richness of these traditions and suggest something of how food allows us to celebrate unity while also recognize diversity. In very practical terms, it means there’s something for everyone’s taste, palate, and circumstances.

Ukrainian Easter Cake, sugar lamb, some packets of designs to put on eggs, and a Polish Easter cake.