Honey: Sweetness in Bitter Times?

Honey is on my mind this week. Partly because I received the jacket cover draft for a book on honey I wrote that will be published this spring. It’s part of the “Global History of…” edible series by Reaktion Books, fairly short and concise books packed full of information as well as recipes. I, of course, hope the book is favorably received and finds its way onto many bookshelves and coffee tables (it makes a great gift.).

I found the research on honey both fun and fascinating. I had no idea it has had so many different meanings and uses throughout history and around the world. One of those uses brings me to the other reason honey is on my mind. It has frequently been used as a medicine and a tonic, with different varieties thought to have different properties. One variety, manuka honey, comes from New Zealand from the flowers of tea trees. Tea tree oil has recently become popular for skin ailments, and the honey has been reported to have healing affects also—especially for individuals dealing with cancer.

My oldest son was diagnosed three years ago with stage four colon cancer. There is no history of such cancer in our family background, and he has always been very fit and healthy—and a vegetarian and vegan for much of his life. His profile does not fit the usual colon cancer patient. Needless to say, the diagnosis was traumatic for all of us.

So, when I came across the reports on manuka honey, I started searching for it. I also bought him buckwheat honey—more expensive than the lighter-colored blended honeys usually popular in the US, but available in ethnic groceries and some supermarkets. (I bought a jar in a Ukrainian store in the Cleveland, Ohio area.) The manuka honey, though, was not easily available, and when I did find it—usually in health food stores—it was very expensive. I ended up buying a small jar (about 4 ounces) for $26.  He stirs it into his tea. Does it work? We don’t know yet. He has just had his 3^rd major surgery to remove yet more of his colon. Furthermore, considering that this is the week leading up to a an inauguration, along with the pain and exhaustion that accompanies recuperating from any major surgery, he now has to worry about health care. Certain Republican politicians are hell-bent on getting rid of “Obamacare,” even though the Affordable Care Act was built upon a foundation earlier Republicans had developed, and even though many Americans will now suffer physically, emotionally, and economically. The concepts of compassion and community have been trampled on by self-righteous assumptions of being the only ones who really know Truth. Rather than talk politics here, though, we need to listen to each other’s stories. Here is Ian’s: https://www.facebook.com/lucy.long.528. 

In the meantime, I will continue to search for ways to help him heal, and the honey will at least add some sweetness to his day. (Note--Do your own research on honey as medicine. I am not an expert on this. In this instance, I'm just a mother. )

New Year’s Food (Somali)--Jan 1. 2016

New Year’s Food--Somali meal--Jan 1. 2016

I celebrate every holiday with food in some way. (Actually, I celebrate every day with food, but that’s a different story.) The meal for New Year’s Day in my southern (Appalachia and piedmont NC) family was traditionally black-eyed peas, ham hocks, and rice. We ate black-eyed peas at other times of year, too, but on New Year’s, they had to be served with rice, and we called it hoppin’ John. After living in and celebrating New Year’s in many different regions and countries, I have expanded that repertoire—although I will be eating hoppin’ John later today. In the Midwest, it’s usually some kind of pork and sauerkraut (never chicken since chicken’s scratch backwards and pigs root forward.) On the east coast, it tends to be some kind of Asian cuisine—frequently Vietnamese since that’s a comfort food for me. With my sisters, it usually includes a pig of some sort—a peppermint pig, a German gingerbread pig-shaped cookie, or a Swiss sweet bread shaped like a pig.

This New Year’s day, in between social visits, I happened across an African restaurant, featuring “Somalian and Italian cuisine.” I couldn’t resist. Walking in, I was greeted by a young man who eagerly showed me photos of the dishes offered and explained their provenance. Most were Somali, but Ethiopian and Kenyan were included, as well as dishes showing Indian, Persian, and Italian influences. Breakfast included “foul mudammas,” a fava bean dish common throughout North Africa and the Middle East. The most typical Somali dish was a goat meat stew, but I opted for a chicken dish also very typical—chicken kalenkal. Delicious choice—marinated and grilled cubes of chicken with rice (long grain seasoned dry rice, similar to Persian or Pakistani rice dishes), grilled vegetables (broccoli, zucchini, cauliflower, carrots, broad beans, onions), and lettuce salad with creamy Italian dressing. Way too much food for one person for one meal, but very, very good. Before the main dish was brought out, though, I was served a cup of broth (goat or beef), pineapple juice, a banana, and hot Somali tea (sweet and spiced similar to chai, but not milky). A hot sauce (very hot) was offered alongside.

It was an excellent way to celebrate a new year, but as I sat in the small restaurant I also thought about the people who shared it with me. Mostly men, but a few women also—all looked like they were from Somalia or surrounding regions. The women, who wore colorful headscarves, sat apart from the men, but conversed with them in a lively conversation in the Somali language. (I had to ask what language it was; many immigrants speak multiple ones.)

I can’t imagine what their lives have been like, having to leave their homes, and live through the terrors of war, displacement, and finding a place in a new culture with very, very foreign customs and values. I can sympathize. I have lived in many cultures as well, and oftentimes feel somewhat displaced wherever I am (do any of us ever really fit in?), but I have never had the hardships of being a refugee. Seeing the strong sense of community displayed at this restaurant along with the obvious pleasure they all seemed to take in conversing and being together strips away the baggage of the past and reminds me of what things really matter in life--relishing the moment, the people in our lives, the tastes available to us and being grateful for those moments. Here’s to many more in the coming year!

“Hunky Turkey,” Ethnic pride, and Choice  (August 2015)

I first heard of “hunky turkey” about 20 years ago when colleagues told me about the long-established Hungarian neighborhood of Birmingham in east Toledo. Although the demographics were shifting and individuals with Hungarian heritage were moving away, churches and some shops remained as the cornerstone of the once thriving community that dated to the 1890s. “Hunky turkey” was a popular dish—bread topped with bacon drippings, chopped onion, sweet peppers, and tomato—but the name was considered derogatory, with references to poverty as well as to their outsider status as immigrants.

In 2015, however, the name and the dish were being featured at the Toledo Hungarian festival. Two church groups, one Lutheran and the other Catholic, offered a slice for $3.00, and the former prepared them outside where customers could watch as the bacon (fat back, more accurately) was deep fried and the bread toasted. It smelled wonderful, and I succumbed. Salt, pepper, and paprika were offered as spices, and the grease was part of the overall aesthetic. It was tasty, and other eaters definitely seemed to enjoy it. They also obviously enjoyed the chicken paprikash, cabbage rolls, noodles and cabbages and pastries that were offered by the Hungarian groups. Other vendors sold standard festival fare—fried potatoes, sausages, ice cream, even eggrolls.

The negative associations of the name no longer seem to be attached to hunky turkey. The customers who recognized it seemed to have positive memories, and a vendor even offered an updated version—the Hunky turkey dog! Perhaps most of the people are far enough removed from the days of discrimination and hardship. Or perhaps the idea that it is heritage makes the difference. After all, heritage to most people refers to the past. Individuals in the present can look back on that past with fondness and respect if they want to, but it no longer controls who they are and what opportunities they have—or what they can and cannot eat. Like other ethnicities, being Hungarian means having certain dishes in one’s repertoire of culinary possibilities, particularly at festive occasions. It doesn’t limit them, however, to just those foods. The fact that the dish is now a choice means that they can re-appropriate it, give it new meanings, and celebrate it—just as Mario Montano described Mexican Americans in Texas doing with some of their quintessential foods (menudo, fajitas). The idea of it being a choice, however, I think is crucial. Otherwise, it still speaks of limitations and restraints and being defined by one’s past. (And, given current tastes in food, it probably doesn’t hurt that the dish features bacon!) 

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.