Process Writing

One valuable part of this class was how it pushed the importance of treating food and the context in eating it like experiences to be savored. The food review in particular allowed me to take myself out of the picture, and focus on the atmosphere as a key part of the meal. It brought to light how food doesn't make or break the dining experience. Oftentimes, for myself, it is a great meal if I am surrounded by people I appreciate and care for, and decent food. However, I don't think I will ever be able to mindlessly eat a meal ever again, to be quite honest. This in itself if a huge shift towards mindfulness that I am glad to dip my toe into.  

The writing for this class has also helped me to be more observant all around. In class, we'd pay special attention to the detail of food descriptions employed by every author we looked at. I remember feeling like the descriptions are even more powerful in their specificity. I think I began to close in and focus on the small details in my restaurant review and this final perfect meal assignment. I know that I was more vague than specific for a lot of my memoir.

In reflection, this is because in that piece the content was something I really wasn't ready to write about. I pushed myself to experience emotions and reflect on it in the same stroke. This is similar to writing a draft and editing at the same time, and it is just counterproductive. I think the space of this memoir just wasn't enough to hold what I wanted to share, and I needed more time to process what I was dealing with in the first place. My process for that piece was to free write for between five and ten minutes before exploring what parts had potential. This is how I start a lot of my poetry, also. I decided to start this way because memoirs are immensely personal, as is my poetry, so I wanted to start thinking about it like one cohesive piece. When it got down to the actual writing, it was a tough project that I need to work through for as long as I pursue creative outlets for expression. Wrestling with the way food plays with identity and family has been eye-opening, and I am excited to dig deeper moving forward.

Final Perfect Meal

Going to my mom’s childhood home is perhaps the most “Indian” thing I’ve done. My brothers and I call her parents Dida and Dadu, which is Bengali for Grandmother and Grandfather, respectively. They immigrated to the United States in 1967 from Kolkata, India. My mom was tiny, just three years old, and Dida was pregnant with another child. They lived in Detroit, Michigan for a while, in the student apartments of Wayne State University where Dadu went to school and eventually became a professor, teaching students about Civil Engineering. Dida looked after the kids and the house, and worked at a boutique in Somerset Mall.

For maybe the last forty years, they have called this funky house on Lone Pine Road their home. The house is covered with many depictions of Ganesh, an elephant-headed Hindu god. Known as the remover of obstacles, the table by the front door is entirely covered with idols in his image, all about the size of a coffee mug. A mix of South and South-East Asian art adorns many of the walls. With two creaky bamboo spiral staircases and a bathroom with floor to ceiling mirrors as the walls, this house has character. The kitchen is an eggshell white color, with a lot of counter space and old pictures of my brothers and myself on the fridge. A cookie jar my mom made in high school sits on top of the refrigerator; her take on a jolly French chef, reminiscent of Santa Claus, looks over everyone in the kitchen. We like to watch Dida knead dough for the Luchis. She takes the dough, all floured-up, and rolls them into spheres the size of golf balls with quick, circular motions. We squish them into even circles with rolling pins, our brown hands made pale after this task, thanks to the flour. Once deep-fried they morph into an airy pocket of bread, the size of the palm of your hand. It looks like magic, how they puff up so quickly around simmering oil. I've always thought she was fearless, cooking with such hot oils and not being afraid of getting burned. We leave these family dinners with full bellies and too many leftovers placed in old cool whip containers.

We live only twenty minutes away, but it feels like a world apart. My house’s cabinets, rather than being filled with fragrant spices from the local Indian grocer, are filled with boxes of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese, Cocoa Pebbles, and Quick Curry Paste from the multi-cultural section of Kroger. There are times when I feel more of a craving for Velveeta cheese than I do for anything Dida can make, even her classic meal of aloo and luchis. Sometimes I feel that I don’t deserve this skin. I feel as if I am not performing my ethnicity in quite the right way. I mean, I don’t know many Bengali words or Hindu gods. I don’t get the movie references. I can’t remember whether certain family friends are to be referred to as Mashi, meaning Auntie, or Dida, meaning Grandmother. I have never tied a sari. I am sorry. Until this point I’ve been more comfortable with my whiteness, despite this brown body. I eat the food and take in the sights. I have been an outsider within my own family tree, by choice. Not anymore.

Honoring my Indian heritage has played a huge role in the development of my perfect meal. I know that I need to let go of the illusion of authenticity, of wanting to embody the “right” way of being simultaneously Indian and White. Until I do I don’t think perfection, in all of its misguided glory, is attainable. That being said, I am proud of the meal I made. A simple bowl of Aloo Gobi and Naan, with a cup of sweet Vanilla Lassi. I decided to make this meal because this is a milestone, being the first Indian dish I've made without Dida watching over my shoulder. I haven’t had Indian food since coming to school at the start of the quarter.  

Raiding an acquaintance's kitchen cabinets for turmeric, coriander, and cumin was bittersweet. While I know there is not one way to be Indian, it feels like she is doing it better – this very well may be because she is an active member K-Desi, a club for South Asian students on campus to build community. It seems to be made up mostly of first generation folks. For the past two years, I have only attended one meeting, at that was just an excuse to eat the butter chicken that some kid’s mother had made to celebrate Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights. I haven’t celebrated this with my family, but my mom talks about it each year. Usually nothing more than a wistful, “We should celebrate Diwali this year”. I guess she feels a bit out of place too, being a daughter of immigrants in such a white community, raising mixed-race children.

The fluorescent lights in the dairy section of Meijer flicker, as my friends and I looked for the vanilla yogurt with the most fat. "Is all yogurt low-fat, or is this a new thing?" my buddy Karina asked. I don't know. I settled for the container of Annie's organic yogurt, because it was the only one that didn't actually say it had less fat. My house believes in cooking with full fat, with loads of butter, and extra cream. "If you're going to eat, why not eat to indulge?" - My mom's voice echoes in my head as I grab a half gallon of Vitamin D milk. One large russet potato, a head of cauliflower, a serrano pepper, and some Naan bread later, we were ready to roll.

Karina’s kitchen is small with an electric stove top with crooked coils and a sink without a garbage disposal. Still, it was better than using the dorm room kitchens because those are even smaller. I set out all of the ingredients next to the sink. I rinsed the potato, out of habit, and started using a tiny peeler to take off its skin. I had to google how to cut “florets” of a cauliflower. It looked so big, that I didn’t know where to start. I learned from a quick video that florets are the bite-sized pieces of cauliflower. With broccoli, they are the parts that my brothers and I used to call little trees. I cut out the big green leaves from the bottom of the cauliflower, and used a knife to cut out the florets. A plate full of cauliflower came out of it, way too much to feed three people, I think. We ended up using only half of what I cut. I sliced the serrano pepper down the middle and took out the seeds. I don't know if that was right though, because I know seeds can release a lot of flavor when heated up. Robert started on grating the ginger root. It was tough because the root has such a unique shape that the. Instead of grating it, he peeled the outside with the potato peeler and minced it up with a small knife. I don't think our taste buds knew the difference, anyway.

I started on the masala, which was a spice mix of the turmeric and coriander powers. I especially love the rich golden yellow the turmeric adds. These smells brought me back to Dida's house, and to wandering through the aisles of Patel Brothers, the tiny Indian grocer by my house. It felt powerful, walking through those doors with my mom and Dida. It was something about keeping Indian culture close to my heart, to carry on the legacy of Indian cooking. I always push the cart, trailing behind Dida and mom. My eyes linger on the packages with Bengali words scribbled in bold letters. Often, a brown woman with flowing black hair is on the logo, holding a pot of the cooked meal with a prideful smile. I don’t know her.  

The masala was ready to go, the produce chopped, and oil's on the stove, heating up. Once it began to simmer, I tossed a serrano pepper in. What an error in judgment that was. The oil was hot. It was too hot. Sputtering and hissing, it was volatile. I had to wait until it calmed down before taking the pepper out. I don't know what should have happened, but this was not it. Later I asked if the smoke alarm works, and Rob said no. Comforting, kind of. I just needed to remember not to start a fire. I re-read the directions on my smartphone. I winced at the memory of being asked to swap recipes with the K-Desi folks. They don’t need to know I got these directions from the food network website.

I shook the thought away, and look over the site three times before returning to the stove top, now set to a medium-low heat. The pepper wasn't completely burnt, so I chopped it up and added it to the masala, before putting it all on the stove with a lot more caution. We let that simmer for about 10 minutes, until the colors deepened into a mustard shade of yellow. Robert added the potatoes and cauliflower to the pot. Yes, I was still afraid of the oil.

The naan was heated in the oven by now, and I grabbed the yogurt and milk from the fridge. I know how to make lassi. We like sweet drinks in our house, so this was simple. Just two cups of yogurt and 1/4 gallon of milk, with sugar to taste. Other varieties are spiced lassi, and my favorite - mango lassi, which young kids especially like because it comes in a nice orangey yellow color and is creamy to help calm down taste buds after a spicy meal. I spooned three scoops of aloo gobi into my bowl, and two triangle pieces of naan. The bright yellowy green color of the potatoes made me feel at home. Those colors would be in splatters all over Dida’s kitchen when she cooked. I used the naan to help me eat with my hands, the way Dadu likes to eat. Forks are overrated. I ate this on my own, because Robert had a meeting to head off to and Karina was watching The Foster’s on Netflix. An hour later Rob came back hungry. We reheated the aloo gobi and naan in the microwave. The naan got less firm, but the aloo gobi tasted the same. Reheated Indian food is better than none at all. Robert grabbed a fork. I went back for seconds, but this time making a sandwich with naan for the bread, aloo gobi in the middle. My younger brother does this every time we go to Dida’s.

The serrano pepper and ginger added a bit more spice. The turmeric gave it all a familiar yellow color. The lassi was thick and calming. I closed my eyes and felt like I was sitting at Dida's dining room table, stuffing my face at a Sunday night dinner with my family. Not perfect in the white-picket fence fantasy of perfection, but something else entirely.

"A Letter To My Beloved" Poem

Please take a few minutes to experience this poem by Elizabeth Acevedo. It begins at 1 minute, and talks about racialized violence and interracial love by talking about food. Specifically, with a Cuban dish called moros y cristianos (moors and christians) where white rice and black beans are cooked harmoniously in the same pot. A metaphor for hope, I think. 



When I came across this poem, I knew I had to think deeper and that this would be a good platform to work through it. The poet blends images and associations of this dish with thoughts on how racism manifests itself in America and her experience with dating a white man. 

Like we discussed in class, food can embody so much more than solely its ingredients. We made this clear with each reading, and especially when thinking through what makes a perfect meal so perfect. 

"for the first time since I learned how to cook I understand a meal can be a eulogy in mouthfuls"

At this point of the poem, the beans popped open from being on the heat for too long, and had to be scrapped, leaving them with only white rice to eat. This imagery is powerful, in that it further brings attention to how whiteness is prioritized, and how too often violence against poc are not seen as a reality to those who aren't faced with the aftermath.   

"I refuse to scrub the stove. Some things deserve to be smudged, gleamingly remembered..."

Perhaps this is her way of declaring or remembering that yes, Black Lives Matter. In the context of our class, it is important that this poem's setting is the kitchen. It is a vulnerable space. Each time you enter it, it is because you need something. You need food or something to quench your thirst. You can reclaim the space by making something for yourself, and what you choose to make says something about who you are. Even heating up something in the microwave can be a revolutionary act, if you consider how many other possibilities there are.

Later, the poet ends this piece with important images: 

It's about... how we keep dancing, how we keep cooking, how we keep playing with toy guns, playing our music loud, being 'loud to get lost and ask a stranger to help, how we keep walking into store and out of store and put put our hands up and put our hands in our pockets and put our hands over our mouth when another black body falls, and we keep on and we keep on and we keep on 

Here, she's saying that this life is meant for all people, regardless of race, to be able to live without fear... that she wants to be able to wake up to this world filled with less racism and more love. In the mean time we all have to keep moving, but not forgetting the past and what pain our struggles hold.  

 "...And we keep on sitting across this dinner table with 100 tombstones that haven't been engraved yet crumbling in our mouths. And we keep on, praying that all of this spoil won't be the fruit of tomorrow, that there is still a better meal for us to share"

This is about hope. This is all about how to move on. This is about the need to look for the bright spots, for a future to strive for if we are going to change for the better. I really appreciated this poem for how it complicated food experiences with race in America.  

My Place With Culinary Tourism

After working on my final perfect meal assignment, the idea of food in relation to identity seemed like an idea to come back to, and I found myself reading through Long's Culinary Tourism piece once again. Long's believes that food can serve as a "vivid entryway into another culture" (1). Coming from a biracial family, thinking through the cultures I have experienced and in what contexts I might be a tourist has been tough negotiations.

This reminds me when in "Stealing Buddha's Dinner", Bich visits her homeland, but feels like someone in between tourist and citizen. She isn't quite at home in America or in Vietnam. Should I ever visit Kolkata, India (where my mother was born, and where family lives), I imagine I'd feel the same way. I don't know if I'll ever feel more comfortable there than in America, although I do plan on visiting with my brothers when they are a bit older. I know a lot about America but very little about my mom's home country. Even though I know a lot about America, living in this country as someone who reads as a "racially ambiguous" woman has been uncomfortable at times. Folks sometimes project their ethnicity onto me, assuming that I then know about the foods they are comfortable with. I know mac n cheese a hell of a lot better than I know aloo gobi or any other culturally-specific food. (This brings up the way many folks see a person of color and assume they have one specific cultural experience, just because of the way they appear. We conflate race with culture a lot of the time, and it can be harmful and exclusionary)

Long notes that food can help map and understand belonging and comfort. I guess she is correct in the sense that I feel more white than Indian, and have uneasiness around my Indian side. I visited my mom's mother last week. I call her Dida, which means grandmother in Bengali, and she said "I really am Indian" after dipping my cookie into tea, like I've seen her and my mother do all my life. It was a funny moment that I definitely have put a lot of thought into. She smiled with such pride, and I felt good about it. The way of drinking tea feels comfortable and reads to be "Indian" as Dida says. Still, my process of coming into my identity is slow, and one I wish I can speed up. But it all takes time, and I need to be more respectful of the journey - it is a lot like microwave dinners versus home cooked meals, for me. The one that took more effort more often than not has a higher reward.

Mental Health in The Omnivore's Dilemma

There is something about Pollan's mental health-related language that nobody has addressed yet. He says America is experiencing a "National Eating Disorder" in the way we have become dependent on the industrial food system, despite evidence that doing so is harmful for ourselves and our environment. Later, Pollan also notes how schizophrenic our relationship to food is, at large.

Eating disorders and schizophrenia are intense mental health conditions with very real consequences. Because of this, Pollan's language is effective in bringing attention to the urgency and severity of our food crisis. However, as someone with a family history of health concerns like Schizophrenia, it comes off as a touch insensitive. Yes, it adds a lot of intrigue and edginess to his book, associating the food industry to these experiences, but to me it also downplays the lives of those who must deal with these disorders.

It seems like while Pollan acknowledges the implications of America's food industry, he does not go into how it relates to the intricacies of mental health in America. I realize digging into this information is not the goal of The Omnivore's Dilemma, but I do feel that the reader should have been given a disclaimer at some point about how he chose to describe the food industry with mental health conditions, and not something else.

Still, I appreciate the shock-value of the claim that America is dealing with a country-wide eating disorder. I just wish that while we uncover the messy politics of our food system, that we also consider the same in how America treats and values folks with mental health concerns, because that is also horrific. I guess this text just isn't the right place for this conversation.
 

Perfect Meal Draft

Some Bengali Words To Know:

Dida (De-Dah): grandmother 

Dadu (Dah-Doo): grandfather 

Ganesh (Gah-Nesh): a Hindu god, elephant head and four arms, remover of obstacles

Aloo: (Ah-Loo): potatoes

Aloo Gobi (Ah-Loo Go-Be): potatoes and cauliflower with turmeric and various spices

Naan (Non): Typical fluffy bread that many serve with many kinds of Indian food

Luchi (Loo-chee): whole wheat bread that puffs up when fried

-

Going to my mom’s childhood home was perhaps the most “Indian” thing I’ve done. Her parents, who my brothers and I call Dida and Dadu, immigrated here in 1968 from Kolkata, India. My mom was three years old, and Dida was pregnant with another child. They lived in Detroit for a while, in the student apartments for Wayne State University. Dadu went to school and eventually became a professor, teaching students about Civil Engineering, while Dida looked after the kids and the house, and worked at a boutique in Somerset Mall. 

For maybe the last forty years, they have called this funky house on Lone Pine Road their home. The house is covered with many depictions of Ganesh, the elephant-headed Hindu god. Known as the remover of obstacles, the table by the front door is entirely covered with idols in his image. A mix of South and South-East Asian art adorns many of the walls. With two creaky bamboo spiral staircases and a bathroom with floor to ceiling mirrors as the walls, this house has character. The kitchen is all an eggshell white color, with a lot of counter space and old pictures of my brothers and I on the fridge. I like to watch Dida knead dough for the Luchis. She takes the dough, all floured-up, and rolls them into spheres the size of a golf ball with circular motions, and we’d squish it into an even circle with a rolling pin. I always get flour on my forehead, somehow. From a small and flat circle, once deep-fried they’d morph into an airy pocket of bread, the size of the palm of your hand. It looks like magic, how they puff up so quickly around simmering oil. I've always thought she was fearless, for cooking with such hot oils and not being afraid of getting burned. We’d leave these family dinners and go back to our home. 

We lived only a few minutes away, but it felt like a world apart. My house’s cabinets, rather than being filled with fragrant spices from the local Indian grocer, are filled with boxes of Kraft Mac ‘n Cheese, Cocoa Pebbles, and Quick Curry Paste from the multi-cultural section of Kroger. There are times when I feel more of a craving for Velveeta cheese than I do for anything Dida can make, even her best Butter Chicken. 

For my idea of the perfect meal, my ethnicity plays a huge role. I need to let go of the illusion of authenticity, of wanting to embody the “right” way of being Indian and White. Until I do that, I don’t think perfection, in all of its misguided glory, is attainable for me. That being said, I am proud of the meal I made. A simple bowl of Aloo Gobi and Naan, with a cup of sweet Vanilla Lassi. This was the first Indian dish I've made without Dida watching over my shoulder. This assignment allowed me to confront my anxieties around my identity as someone who is biracial, but does not yet feel comfortable in solely Indian spaces or solely white spaces. Raiding an acquaintance's kitchen cabinets for turmeric, coriander, and cumin was interesting. While there is no one way to be Indian, it feels like she is still more Indian than I am, and so even while it feels comforting being in her presence, I tend to feel self-conscious around her. Right now I only know a handful of Bengali words, and most of them are foods. 

The fluorescent lights in the dairy section of Meijer flicker, as my friends and I looked for the vanilla yogurt with the most fat. "Is all yogurt low-fat, or is this a new thing?", my buddy Karina asked. I don't know. I settled for the container of Annie's organic yogurt, because it was the only one that didn't actually say it had less fat. My house believes in cooking with full fat, with loads of butter, and extra cream. "If you're going to eat, why not eat indulge?" - My mom's voice echoes in my head as I grab a half gallon of Vitamin D milk. One large russet potato, a head of cauliflower, a serrano pepper, and some Naan bread later, we were ready to roll. 

Once back, I set out all of the ingredients, and a friend and I started peeling the potato and cutting out the florets of the cauliflower. I sliced the serrano pepper down the middle and took out the seeds. I don't know if that was right though, because I know seeds can release a lot of flavor when heated up. Robert started on grating the ginger root. It was tough because the root has such a unique shape. Instead of grating it, we peeling the outside and minced it up. I don't think our taste buds will know the difference, anyway. I started on the masala, which was a mix of the turmeric and coriander powers. I especially love the rich golden yellow the turmeric adds. These smells brought me back to Dida's house, and to wandering through the aisles of Patel Brothers with her and my mom, the tiny Indian grocer by my house. It felt powerful, walking through those doors with my mom and Dida. It was something about keeping Indian culture close to my heart, to carry on the legacy of Indian cooking, because my brother's sure aren't. 

The masala was ready to go, the produce chopped, and oil's heating up. Once it began to simmer, I tossed a serrano pepper in. What an error in judgment that was. The oil was hot. It was too hot. The oil started sputtering and I had to wait until it calmed down before taking the pepper out... I don't know what should have happened, but this was not it. Robert ran into the kitchen as the hissing sound and started laughing. Later I asked if the smoke alarm works, and Rob said no. Comforting, kind of. I just needed to remember not to start a fire. I re-read the directions on my smartphone three times before returning to the stove top, now set to a medium-low heat. The pepper wasn't completely burnt, so I chopped it up and added it to the masala, before putting it all on the stove with a lot more caution. We let that simmer for about 10 minutes, until the colors deepened into a mustard shade of yellow. Robert kindly added the potatoes and cauliflower to the mix. Yes, I was still afraid of the oil. 

The naan was heated in the oven by now, and I grabbed the yogurt and milk from the fridge. I know how to make lassi. We like sweet drinks in our house, so this was simple. Just two cups of yogurt and 1/4 gallon of milk, with sugar to taste. Other varieties are spiced lassi, and my favorite - mango lassi. The meal finished at an awkward time. It was 9pm, and Robert had to work on a group project. It was okay, but I wish I could've eaten it with my friend. He got back an hour later, and we reheated the aloo gobi and naan. Still, reheated Indian food is better than none at all. I went back for seconds, but this time making a sandwich with naan for the bread, aloo gobi in the middle. I wish I had made luchis, because those are so much more fun to eat. You can pop the air out of them and roll the aloo inside, like my little brothers like to do. 

Nowhere near perfect, but still good. The serrano pepper and ginger added a bit more spice. The turmeric gave this that familiar yellow color. The lassi was refreshing and smooth. It felt like I was at Dida's dining room table, stuffing my face at a Sunday night dinner with my family. I think perfection and authenticity are overrated, anyway. I'd rather have real.  

PART 3

The only restaurant I have been in Downtown Kalamazoo is Crow's Nest, so this assignment gave me an opportunity to try something new, which I appreciate. The Union offers a lot of foods typical in Carolina, Kentucky, Texas, and some other southern states that are foreign to my Midwestern tastebuds. What drew my attention to this restaurant in particular were the Gator Balls, and other instances of alligator in their cuisine. This fascinated me, but was also pretty far out of my comfort zone.

Before coming to The Union, I had visions of the gator being tough and rubbery, and maintaining the physical traits of what makes an alligator an alligator. I seriously feared it would be like that, but in the name of this assignment I went and was happily surprised. I discovered that alligator was, in fact, delicious. And is something I'd like to eat at again. The venue was calm and casual, with live shows playing their most evenings by local talent.

While at the restaurant, I felt overwhelmed by all of the menu options, even with looking at the menu the night before. I felt pressure to enjoy this meal, but to taste dishes outside of my comfort zone. Looking back, I am proud of myself for tackling the prospect of eating Alligator, in the Gator Balls and the Dirty Southwest Burger, but I feel that I stopped pushing myself after that. I thought, what is the most "southern" food they had. Even though we problematized this idea when looking at Long's work "Culinary Tourism", the idea that I needed to eat authentically while I had the chance still ran through my mind.

What even does authenticity even mean to The Union? Not purely southern cooking, because even while the chef is from Memphis, he is influenced by Midwestern cuisine by working in Michigan. I guess it means eating classics of the restaurant, to feel what that is like rather than eating something I'm not feeling like, because that is what I thought I should have been doing. And so I asked my waitress what she thought I just *had* to have in order to have the full "Union" experience, something that without this assignment I probably would not have done. She said The Portobello Fries. My heart hurt a little bit when they came and my tastebuds did not agree, but moving through the rest of the dishes outweighed that initial taste for me. Instead of taking notes, I talked about the textures and tastes with my friends, because talking my thoughts through help me process them sometimes.

Moving forward, I am trying to be more thoughtful when considering authenticity and culinary tourism. For example, I am helping to plan an event in Winter called Afro Fiesta Desi Soul. This event is supposed to be a time of celebration and education for all folks to know a little bit more about the many cultures represented by our student body. It gets tough because it can slip into cultural tourism very easily, and what we are working on right now are ways to move away from that into a more respectful environment. Who has access to authenticity and who do not, along with the simple problem of authenticities, are vastly complex, and I am thankful that this class and this assignment in particular helped open my eyes to this.

The Union Cabaret & Bar

Intended Publication: The Index, Kalamazoo College

The Union Cabaret & Bar is a casual eatery with a twist, located at the corner of West Exchange Place and South Kalamazoo Mall. The Union, as many affectionately call it, stands out among other restaurants in Downtown Kalamazoo with its live, often local, jazz, blues, and funk concerts on Tuesday through Saturday nights and relatively inexpensive menu.

The restaurant has curvy red, yellow, and green stained glass that lines the top rim of the large storefront windows, which welcome golden sunlight inside on sunnier days. The words “Union” look painted on near the bottom of the windows to give the place a funky feel, even at first glance. Their warm lighting and mix of low and high top tables gave the restaurant a relaxing, casual feel. From the entrance, there are many different seating options. There are the square and rectangle tables of varying heights near the large aforementioned windows, the wrap-around bar that sits in the middle of the space, couches near the back of the restaurant, or the soft seating in front of the stage. The stage sits to the left of the entrance, in the middle of the restaurant but against the wall, giving all patrons a view of the stage for when musicians come through. Decked out with lush red curtains and arm chairs lining the front of the stage for a more casual feel, this floorplan sets the tone for fostering community connections through good eats, music, and drinks.

Storefront of The Union

The bar offers a wide array of Michigan-made beers on tap, a varied selection red and white wines, and a unique cocktail menu, with choices like “Sky Full of Stars”, a beverage made of Bulleit Rye Whiskey, Absinthe, Pomegranate Juice, Lemon And Soda, or more rich options like the “Black Gold” drink, which consists of locally roasted Waterstreet Coffee, Triple Sec, Amaretto, Bailey’s, Hazelnut liqueur and Cinnamon Schnapps. To compliment the menu, one can take advantage of one of the many specials they offer, like “Martini Mondays” where Martinis are half priced, or “Wine Wednesdays” when wine by the bottle is discounted by 30%. On "Burger Tuesday" they offer any burger of the menu at just under seven bucks until four in the afternoon. Considering that most burgers are around twelve dollars, this is a good deal.   

Western's Jazz Musicians Performing

A unique community element about The Union is that on Thursday nights, students from Western University’s Jazz Department perform shows at this venue for the public. Contrary to what one may assume, Western’s Jazz Department is actually more decorated than that of The Juilliard Schoool’s. With this opportunity for community involvement, college students are encouraged come into Downtown Kalamazoo and explore their passion for music outside of the classroom, whether that be by performing or supporting peers and other local talent who do.  

Top: Portobello Fries
Right: Gator BallsLeft: Rib Tips

The small plate options offer shareable portions at shareable prices, with each appetizer running between six and eight dollars a piece. From the small plate menu, The Portobello Fries are parmesan-fennel breaded Portobello mushroom strips, served with curried mustard sauce.The dark brown breading is grainy and heavy, which is to be expected with fennel, but it seems to be a bit too thick to easily bite through. The mushroom inside the breaded casing is very elastic, making it hard to chew, and lacked flavor. The squishy texture, which is typical of mushrooms, can be unsatisfying. The curried mustard sauce was an autumnal golden yellow, but fails to add any surprise-factor to the dish.

Blackened alligator, grit, jalapeño bacon, and smoked gouda, cornbread fritters served hot with a side of bistro sauce make up the dish called Gator Balls. Five balls, about the size of golfballs, Sit on a bed of lettuce with a red powder dusting the tops of the brown spheres, and a dish of bistro sauce on the side. The Gator Balls are fluffy, easy to cut with the side of a fork, having the looks and texture of falafel. Inside they are a soft yellow color and the alligator appears to be ground up inside into a creamy, airy texture. flavors like bacon and soft spices play together nicely in this dish.The bistro sauce is a pale yellow color, and while its color may appear unappetizing, this sauce complimented the Gator Balls very nicely with it’s tangy kick.Despite having jalapeño bacon, this sauce feels more bitter than spicy. It adds a surprise punch of flavor to any dish.

House-Made Sauces

A metal container holding six house-made sauces comes to the table before any rib item arrives. Before the Rib Tips in a nicely-placed heap with parsley sprinkled on top for color. They are very tender, with a melt-in-your-mouth texture. The only downside to the rib tips was that some pieces of cartilage were served, and they lacked flavor and the texture was similar to the Portobello mushrooms.This pound of dry rubbed pork rib tips is served with a six pack of sauces, a perfect excuse to taste all of the them to craft one’s own experience. Ordered by heat level, they had AppleJack, Kansas City, Memphis, Stout, and Chipotle. One might expect Chipotle, being level 5, to have a kick of heat. Oddly enough, there isn’t much punch to this sauce. One might compare it to to the pizza sauce in the Lunchable prepared lunches kids enjoy, meaning nothing special. With a name like Chipotle, this sauce is disappointing because it lacks the smoky flavor Chipotle is known for, well, this one lacks any flavor at all, really. Stout tastes exactly as the name suggests, like frothy beer, with no spice - an unexpected flavor in a barbecue sauce that beer-lovers may enjoy. Memphis and Kansas City add a more sweet than bitter flavor, and are a nice addition to the rib tips as they do not overpower or take away from the meats.

The rest of the menu includes entrees likes burgers, soups, salads, and various barbecues and braises. They all run anywhere from ten to twenty dollars, all offering large portions sizes that are shareable. The Green Tomato BLT consisted of cornmeal-dusted fried green tomatoes, thick sliced bacon, lettuce, and old-fashion mayo on toasted sourdough bread. These green fried tomatoes add a nice crunch to the classic staple and the fresh flavors will burst in harmony. The Bacon itself is crispy and melts in your mouth, all good things. The fat is much appreciated, adding another layer of flavor to a pretty good BLT. All of the sandwiches can come with a soup and half the sandwich for the same price of about nine dollars. One short-cut if folks want the Union Gumbo, without the eighteen dollar price tag, is to order a bowl of the Chicken Gumbo Soup for just under four dollars.

Both are made with the same broth and similar ingredients, but vastly different prices.

The Dirty South Burger is a staple burger at The Union. Being a Grilled to order steak burger served on a brioche bun with jalapeno bacon, smoked chipotle jack cheese, alligator, crawfish, spicy remoulade, lettuce, tomato, and onion, this burger is a bit larger than a softball. The smoked chipotle jack cheese, jalapeno bacon, and spicy remoulade come together to pack some much-desired heat that continues to release after the last bite. For those who are familiar with Indian cuisine, the spice would match to a medium level. The colors of this meal are just as gorgeous to look at as they are to eat. The vegetables are crisp and fresh, giving a hearty crunch with each bite. The brioche bun is fluffy, but substantial, and toasted to a warm brown color. The side of sweet potato fries are good, but nothing to write home about. Still, they are a orange-red color that feels right at home during fall in the Mid-West. These fries while aesthetically appealing, aren’t seasoned. On the other hand, their regular fries are salted with a heavy hand, something I was not prepared for.

The Pulled Pork Sandwich consists of Carolina style slow cooked pork shoulder served on a toasted bun with grilled sweet corn slaw. The pulled pork needs a house-made sauce to give it some sweetness and to make it less dry, which is what they anticipate so the assorted sauces are accessible for the entire meal. The Kansas City sauce helps here. With corn and bright bell peppers, the corn slaw is a crunchy, tangy yet sweet way to end this meal. Cornbread muffins with red pepper flakes are a common side dish. The red pepper offers a bit of bite, although the bread itself is more dry than moist.

Open from 11am to 11pm Monday to Thursday, and 11am to 12am on Friday and Saturday, this venue’s website claims that The Union is where “food, drinks, friends, and music meet”. With such an open floor plan, quality eats, and focus on local musical talent, it is easy to see where the magic happens. Imagine packed Friday nights at around 8:30pm at The Union. Drinks are flowing, Folks are enjoying eachothers’ company and Union classics like their Chicken Gumbo or Rib Racks, and a band plays the blues on the main stage. Some people lounge on the loveseats directly in front of the stage, taking in the performance. Others dance in the open space near the bar. Glasses clink. Families and friends laugh and plates are licked clean. The energy is revitalizing, no doubt about it.

The Union

“Hello. I am the Uber Driver,” Kenneth said, as he unrolled the driver-side window of his tiny silver car.

 “Is Sarena here?”

I waved hello. Six minutes later we found ourselves a block away from The Union Cabaret & Bar. Kenneth didn’t really know where he was going, but it was ok. The walk in this fall air was refreshing, and only a few minutes long.The Union, as it is called by most in the area, is a red bricked building with large windows wrapped around the front, and stained glass along the upper rim. The words “Union” look painted on the windows to give the place a funky feel, even at first glance. After being outside in the chilly breeze, we were met with a wave of warmth once we walking inside.

The Storefront of The Union

Immediately we took in the sights. The restaurant’s rich yellows and reds in the décor was comforting. Stained glass lined the top of the windows, which I imagine would let golden sunlight inside on sunnier days. Their warm lighting and mix of low and high top tables gave the restaurant a relaxing, come as you are feel. The stage for performances had lush red curtains that felt right at home, with arm chairs lining the pit.  

The hostess lead up to a high top table near the front window. There were five other parties in the restaurant, and a handful of folks at the bar, which seems common for restaurants at 6pm midweek. I glanced at the drink menu - they have an extensive beer assortment and unique cocktails to choose from. If I did not have to go to work immediately following this meal I would’ve have ordered a drink.

Taylor, our waitress, came by and explained how the restaurant works. They have live jazz, blues, and funk performances on Thursday through Sunday nights by mostly local talent, which is one of their ways of fostering community. The Union is said to be where “food, drinks, friends, and music meet”.  Something I learned is that on Thursday nights, students from Western’s music department perform at this venue. Little did I know that Western’s Jazz department is more decorated that Juilliard’s! This seems like a great opportunity to get out of the K bubble!

First to arrive were our appetizers. We ordered Gator Balls, Rib Tips, and Portobello Fries for the table. Our waitress, Taylor, highly recommended the Portobello Fries, claiming that she doesn’t even like mushrooms but finds herself craving this dish.

Top: Portobello Fries
Right: Gator Balls
Left: Rib Tips

The Portobello Fries are parmesan-fennel breaded Portobello mushroom strips, served with curried mustard sauce. I reached across the table and picked up the five inch fry. I can eat my weight in fries. I’ve been known to scarf down French fries, sweet potato fries, and zucchini fries. I was excited to see this take on the French fry. Having not had fennel before, I assumed that it would fry the same way something with oil or fat would fry. I was wrong. Instead of coming out golden and airy, the breading was grainy and heavy. The mushroom inside was very elastic, making it hard to chew. The mushroom didn’t have much of a taste. The squishy texture was hard to move past. The curried mustard sauce was a beautiful golden yellow, but didn’t add anything to the dish, in my opinion. The only good thing about this appetizer was the cheese they sprinkled on top.

I left the Portobello Fries with a bad taste in my mouth, but moved on to the Gator Balls. Quite honestly, they looked beautiful. Blackened alligator, grit, jalapeño bacon, and smoked gouda, cornbread fritters served hot with a side of bistro sauce made up this dish. Sitting on a bed of lettuce with a red powder dusting the tops of the brown spheres. They were fluffy, easy to cut with the side of my fork, they had the looks and texture of falafel. Inside they were a soft yellow color. The Alligator appeared to be ground up inside the ball. I hesitantly put some of the bistro sauce on the ball and took a bite. I expected to come away with a rubbery taste in my mouth. I was happily mistaken, and flavors like bacon and crabmeat popped in my mouth. Despite having jalapeño bacon, I didn’t experience much heat, which I am okay with because I don’t handle spices very well. I wish we had an entrée of Gator Balls, actually. Having five split between four people felt incomplete. Next time, we’ll put in two orders.

The Rib Tips, which were a pound of dry rubbed pork rib tips served with a six pack of sauces, were mouth-watering. They were very tender, feeling like they melted in my mouth, and were seasoned nicely. This was an excuse to taste all of the sauces they offered. Ordered by heat level, they had Apple Jack, Kansas City, Memphis, Stout, and Chipotle. My least favorite sauce was Stout, but that very well could be due to my dislike of beer in general. I expected Chipotle, being level 5, to have a kick of heat. I’d compare the taste to the pizza sauce in the Lunchables I had as a kid, meaning nothing special. The favorites of my table were Memphis and Kansas City, which were more sweet than bitter, and was a nice addition to the rib tips. I appreciated that we had more options that a typical barbeque sauce, because it allowed us to explore various flavors. The only downside to the rib tips was that some pieces of cartilage were served, and they lacked flavor and the texture was similar to the Portobello mushrooms. We ate the entire pound of meat though, minus the cartilage.

All in all, the Gator Balls and Rip Tips took the edge off of our hunger in a delicious way. The Portobello Fries were a bust. Unfortunately, we had to cut out of the restaurant early because one of the folks I dined with had to pick up a work shift, so we took our entrees to go. No doubt some of the magic was lost when we had to eat in the first year residence hall rather than in the restaurant, but the food spoke for itself even after being placed in to-go boxes.

I ordered the Green Tomato BLT, which was cornmeal dusted- fried green tomatoes, thick sliced bacon, lettuce, and old-fashion mayo on toasted sourdough bread. I love fried green tomatoes. The breading added a nice crunch and the flavors from the tomato popped in my mouth. It added a nice texture to the BLT. The Bacon itself was crispy and melted in my mouth. The fat much appreciated. I sometimes forget that I have braces, and realized when trying to eat this that my teeth were sensitive to the hardness of the toasted sourdough. Still, I trucked through and had a pretty good BLT.

The Dirty South Burger with Sweet Potato Fries

I also tasted one of their most popular burgers, called The Dirty South Burger. A Grilled to order steak burger served on a brioche bun with jalapeno bacon, smoked chipotle jack cheese, alligator, crawfish, spicy remoulade, lettuce, tomato, and onion. This one packed some heat the released after my last bite. A reminder that food is something to savor, I think. This spice was not too bad. If you are familiar with Indian cuisine I’d say it would match to a medium spice there. Again, I think I enjoyed the Alligator because it was not distinguishable as I’d imagine it to be, it having a similar texture to the Crawfish. The colors of this meal were just as gorgeous to look at as they were to eat. Everything tasted crisp and fresh. The brioche bun was toasted to a nice brown, and fluffy. The burger itself was stacked very high.  

The sweet potato fries were good, but nothing to write home about. They could have been seasoned more – I don’t think they were seasoned at all, actually. On the other hand, their regular fries were heavily salted, something I was not prepared for. They served cornbread muffins with red pepper flakes. Had they been buttered, and a bit less dry, I would have been in heaven. The cornbread I am used to is fluffy and moist, although I realize that this might not be true to Southern cornbread tradition.

The Union really does feel like a venue where community meets through delicious eats and live music. The meats are tender, the sauces are sweet, and the space is inviting. I highly recommend you check this place out on your next visit to Downtown Kalamazoo. Just don’t have the Portobello Fries. 

Restaurant Review Assumptions and Expectations

I chose to go to a place in downtown Kalamazoo called The Union Cabaret & Bar. Folks call it The Union for short. This restaurant also has a full bar and often hosts live performances by local and small touring musicians in multiple genres. While walking through downtown Kalamazoo, I've been attracted to this restaurant before but never had the opportunity to go inside. They have funky gold lettering spelling out 'Union' on their storefront that draws me in.

Price is a factor I am very aware of right now, and so I've decided to try an array of the small plate appetizer options on this trip, rather than trying to get a taste of their entire menu. I was considering going to a pub, because those prices are typically pretty inexpensive, but I am familiar with bar fare, and at The Union I am able to take some risks in what I choose to eat.

They have items like Gator Balls, which consist of blackened alligator, grit, jalapeno bacon topped with smoked gouda and cornbread fritters, all served hot with a side of bistro sauce. Never in my life have I had Alligator before, and this description leads me to believe it is an experience I don't want to miss out on. Personally, I am not sure if I can handle the amount of heat this dish will pack, but I'll taste it and find out!

In regards to this alligator dish, it brings Hessler's piece, "A Rat in My Soup" to mind. To think a rat can be clean makes sense, but was something I haven't encountered. To think people eat alligator quite a bit in America makes sense, too, but I am nervous to do so myself. I am from South East, Michigan. I have lived in two different Metro Detroit suburbs all my life until coming to college. My family eats a lot of chicken and beef, and we have occasionally had lamb. This will be a new experience for me.

I"m thinking of the movie "The Waterboy" and how Adam Sandler ate rats and gators a lot, and enjoyed them. I was revolted. I think that was because they didn't have much artistry in how the food was prepared. They looked the same before they were cooked as they did after, but charred. Now I assume that The Union will take care in how they present this dish, and every dish they serve, as they are among one of more popular restaurants in downtown Kalamazoo. They claim to serve foods from the great states like Kansas, Texas, and The Carolinas. All places with lots of barbeque, a style of cooking that I haven't had much of.

I hope to be pleasantly surprised, although I am pretty apprehensive about the levels of heat in their cooking. I am excited to try a new place with some friends, either way.

CYOA Hannah Hart

My Drunk Kitchen is a series by Hannah Hart - a 30 year old you tube personality who got her start filming herself in the kitchen making simple foods while drinking. Her videos are filmed with puns, self-mockery, and stories of her life which bring reflection and advice. There is something very genuine that comes across in her work. Maybe it is because she enters into these recipes with little to no planning, and so she always seems to improvise and use what she has on hand.

In one of her earlier video, one can see just how humbly she got her start. This episode is where she tried to make Ice Cream at home. She ends this by taking some from the freezer, except it is store bought. While this adventure into ice cream failed, Hart notes that "You should never be ashamed of yourself... or who you want to become".

I appreciate this message a lot. I think something that one can take away from My Drunk Kitchen in general is the message to treat yourself with care, but also to not take yourself too seriously. She has fun in the kitchen, and that is clear from the get-go.

Over the five plus years that MDK has been operating, she has found quite the following. So much so, that she made a cook book. This, much like her videos, is filled with easy to prepare recipes that young people can readily make, and advice from her lived experiences on how to treat yourself and others.

In my presentation, we will see a brief overview of her career and book, while also looking to her more polished works. We will watch the following video where she is filming with the acclaimed chef, Jamie Oliver, as they class-up one of her dishes from her book, called The Hartwich.

Thanks!

Melted Reese’s Cups

“Do you want ice cream? Because I want good ice cream… and when I say good I mean good ice cream,” my mom asks me while resting in a cocoon of blankets on her queen sized bed. This isn’t even a question. Yes, I want ice cream.

My mom is an ice cream snob. I guess I am too, by association. She loves Michigan-made, full fat, simply crafted ice cream. Usually that meant from brands like Oberweis or Guernsey. She only likes vanilla with chocolate chips from Guernsey. None of this “Vanilla Bean” crap, she says. From Oberweis, simple chocolate is her fix. So she loves this $6 a pop ice cream, but just as easily will eat a Big Mac. I’m so much like her in that way. Tiramisu does it for me just as well as Little Debbie Swiss Rolls most days. My mom taught me that there aren’t many problems that food can’t make better.

People around me keep dying, and when someone gets sick or dies, you send them casseroles. Or if you are my mom, you send casseroles or brownies and eat expensive ice cream in your bed. She showed me how to bake our love (or heartache… or guilt) at 350 degrees before neatly covering it in tin foil. When we didn’t have time to make things from scratch, or from the box to be quite honest, we bought things from Meijer. We made sure it looked homemade, mostly through how we packaged them. We did the same thing one year for Christmas, putting stacks of fancy Meijer Bakery treats in Mason jars with delicate ribbon, done assembly-line style with me, my youngest brother, Mike, and my mom. The food was so thoughtful, but in the same stroke utterly thought-less. I mean, casseroles don’t have the power to end world hunger, to find my love, or to fix my family. It’s all just food. A casserole is a casserole is a casserole.

But the gesture still means something. I remember we sent cut-n-bake cookies to our neighbor across the street when his wife died. Well, my mom put them on a nice plate and wrapped it up with the shiny aluminum foil before telling me to give it to him. I don’t remember how old I was, but I felt so small. We sent brownies to Mrs. Garra when she fell, maybe ten years back. We sent her some more when she fell for again. I guess we like routine. It gives us something to do.    

We want ice cream, so I bike to Meijer with Michael. He is fourteen and has a fade. He has a shoe collection like no other and thinks he is cool because he rides a penny board. He is cool, but not because of the penny board. Mike snapchats a girl named Rachel a lot, but swears they aren’t anything special. After a 10 minute walk, or five minute bike ride from our house, we find ourselves in downtown Birmingham, yet another affluent part of Southeast Michigan. Affluent meaning an overwhelming amount of rich, white folk. We are not rich, white folk. We see moms in Lulu Lemon yoga pants with designer handbags and Chanel sunglasses buying things like fresh fruits and organic, gluten-free waffles.

I wonder where the real people are. I want to see a mom with no makeup and a lopsided ponytail plus three kids being jerks to each other. I want to see a dad freaking out in front of the tampons with his fourteen year old daughter on the phone. I want to see a kid wandering the aisles eating a bag of chips they ripped open. I want to see my old middle school Spanish teacher, Professora Snyder, buying cheap wine in her sweatpants. She seemed like the type to have boxed wine in her desk at school. We were the problem class.

I remember the house we had when I was in middle school, before we moved here. I lived there for fourteen years of my life, in our old house on Kingsmill Drive. It was me, my mom, my four brothers and my dog living together. My dad was there, too, before we moved. That house, the one with the overgrown bushes and the chipped blushing pink brick, saw a lot of decay. My brothers would always leave their pumpkins out long after Halloween, back when they had enough care to carve them. They said they were feeding the squirrels, but the jack-o-lantern faces caved in and turned to mush on our front stoop. These waning gourds sat for weeks and weeks, crumpling into itself and turning from orange to brown to black, all before the snow came. We always kept the seeds, telling ourselves we’d bake them to eat later. We never baked them to eat later.

 They’d end up thrown somewhere in our backyard to waste. I dreamt of a pumpkin patch taking root under the swing set by the abandoned baseballs and knee-high weeds. Our house wasn’t taken care of the way suburban homes are supposed to, or so I gathered. We got a lot of urgent letters from the Homeowners Association, but we didn’t have time to deal with any of it. Our weeds were hard to tame, the grass liked to play dead, and our address numbers were not-quite centered by the doorbell. My brothers and I hated gardening. When our mom told us to get gloves and pull weeds, I tended to help out for maybe twenty minutes before coming inside to make lemonade for my brothers. That’s what good sisters did. Good sisters who also hated yard work, I mean.

The glass pitcher felt heavy in my hands. Then again my hands always seemed too small. Our family didn’t keep fresh fruit usually, so Country Time Lemonade was our go-to. I filled the pitcher three quarters of the way high with cold water, then dumped in four and a half, sometimes five spoons full of the pastel yellow powder. Our wooden mixing spoon was a little short. I felt cool water on my fingers as I mixed up the drink, the wood turning a deeper tan with the water. I added sugar to taste. Puckered lips told me it was too bitter, so I added a spoonful of sugar. We’d have to water it down, it was sickly sweet. I can’t tell anymore which is worse. 

         

You know, maybe this life is really just one big casserole: full of flavor but sometimes just too much to consume, made up of indistinguishable chaos. But you can find comfort here, amid all the crazy. And most times, even bad casseroles are still good. Hard lives are still lived. And life is supposedly a gift. Like the Reese’s cups my mom put in my backpack before school: even melted ones are still good.   

Recipes As Love. Recipes As Spectacle

One line from M.K. Fisher’s piece “The Secret Ingredient” was especially powerful to me: “we are so conditioned to the threat of the Secret Ingredient, and the acceptance of trickery, that even honesty has become suspect when we are brash enough to ask for recipes” (105). It spoke to something bigger than simple ingredients, I think, but then again I’m an introspective kind of thinker. While a recipe is literally a list of ingredients along with the process of how to put them all together to create a certain dish, they tell you something about how a person likes to be. Some people memorize them, others keep them in a box by the stove, and still others don’t have the time or care to know them. It also speaks to family life and tradition. My mom one year ordered Thanksgiving dinner all from Meijer. All we had to do was heat things up. It was good, but it felt impersonal that year. As if we were just going through the motions. Food is also ritual. Some say food is spiritual. I know some days, I’d come home and my mom would be making Gulab Jamin (Goo-lob Jah-men) on the stove. This is an Indian sweet, which is basically a donut hole that is a bit smaller than a baseball. Drenched in a brown syrup, and heated up – It tastes like home, and quiet nights in with my mom and I sitting on the couch, and cavities at the dentist office. Gulab Jamin is surely a ritual with me and my mom. One reserved for hard days, or when we need a taste of indulgence to get away without leaving our house. My mom loves through food – more butter the better, more sugar the sweeter.  

Coming back to Fisher’s piece, he notes how secret ingredients are generally perceived, saying that folks expect the “threat” of what it may hold, and assume recipes shared bluntly are not to be trusted. What does this mean? Perhaps it means that realness, raw vulnerability, is reserved for certain people in our lives. It, like secret ingredients, are typically off-limits for the public. For example, in one episode of Spongebob, they are obsessed with the concept of secret ingredients. The owner of the restaurant where Spongebob works, Mr. Krabs, tasks Spongebob with keeping the recipe safe. Safe meaning hidden. After a lot of shenanigans occurs to find the recipe and learn the secret ingredient, one finds that there is not a secret ingredient at all. The idea or the mystery was the ingredient in the first place. This goes to show, in a strange way, just how much, in Fisher’s words, “… even honesty has become suspect”  - Mr. Krabs felt saying there was a secret ingredient, putting up that mask, made people want Krabby Patties more than if they were to say exactly what was in the beef. Interesting.  

How To Be Good

Sarena Brown

Secret Ingredients Reflection

I especially appreciated Tony Bourdain’s piece, “Don’t Eat Before Reading This” in our reading. While this is due in part to being familiar with his work, I also enjoy how he tells stories. I was interested from his first line: “Good food, good eating, is all about blood and organs, cruelty and decay”. There is so much tension packed into this opening statement. So much privilege and pain. It tells me that every single ingredient has a traumatic past, yet all have the potential to be transformed into something great.

This idea brought me back to a chapter of A Cook’s Tour when Bourdain talked us through the ordeal with the pig. Remember how at first, he was squeamish and guilty, but after seeing what care was put into catching, slaughtering, and preparing the pork, he grew to respect the practice, bringing a new sense of responsibility to the kitchen. I agree with him when he noted that good food, in most cases, is inherently gruesome. A life has to end to create food as a means of sustenance, or indulgence. Any way you slice it, something has to die, and someone has to kill it. When dealing with life, death is inevitable, but both can be done with care. Even when talking about vegetarians, plant life has to be planted and harvested, a process that isn’t always done gently in respects to Mother Earth.

Moreover, I think a good life, like good eats, is inherently traumatic. Nobody gets out alive, or so it goes. And life's challenges bring forth possibilities for change and for new developments. Even if your life is relatively easy (whatever that means), there is pain in being a part of this world, just as there is pain in being born, growing up, and growing old. Andrea Gibson once said this beautifully in one of their poems: “I asked the sun about the big bang. The sun said, it hurts to become”. It all hurts. But on the other side of our pain things will be different. I won’t say better because that word is subjective, but just know it won’t stay the same.

Bourdain ends this piece with a simple sentence, “I have come home”. He describes working in a kitchen as chaos, where you have to wear many hats at once and fly by the seat of your pants. Even in these fast paced scenes, you find a deep sense of camaraderie. You’d have to, working in hot kitchens with tempers running high in close-proximity to one another. I’m happy this piece ends here, at a place of belonging. That is really all we want out of life I think, to find out where home really is.