Few people know my personal food rule. I eat an 80/20 diet. 80% veggie. 20% omni. I treat meat as a side dish.
Back in SF, it used to be 80% raw food and 20% cooked food. But then I got way too involved in the raw food scene and started feeling cultish and had to stop hanging out at Cafe Gratitude all the time. I was *this* close to drinking the raw Kool-Aid.
Before that I didn't eat beef for religious reasons (don't tell my mom I sneak galbi). And then before that I didn't eat four-legged animals. The latter was because at a banquet one year an uncle chased me around with the whole tongue of a roasted piglet. Charming guy.
As a kid, however, I ate everything the grown-ups would put in front of me. There were 14 kids in my family. I was the youngest one. I either ate what there was or I didn't eat at all. It's a wonder how selective I am about my food as an adult and how many different food rules I've imposed on myself over the years.
I wonder a lot about that privilege-- the luxury of choosing what I will and won't eat. 854 million people worldwide are malnourished, and I'm pushing a chicken breast off my plate because it's overcooked. Something doesn't seem right about that. Though I'm reminded of a story about Thomas Keller that I will remember forever.
When Chef Keller first opened The French Laundry, he personally slaughtered a dozen live rabbits. They screamed. One rabbit broke its leg trying to get away.
The chef says he now treats every piece of meat that passes through his kitchen with the deepest respect because he understands the extraordinary sacrifice of animals.
One thing is true. We all want to live. But we don't all get to live.
Perhaps that's why we must respect our food. When we do, we honor where our food comes from. And we honor the incredible privilege it is to eat when others cannot. Maybe that's why slow food values appeal to me. It's something to strive for. It's a good way to give back through eating (to the earth, to those who labor, to those in our communities, etc.), rather than just taking from others through our food.
So next time you see me noshing on a box of 6-piece Chicken Mcnuggets, you are welcome to bitch-slap me a little. I never said I was perfect. Though I blame it entirely on that sweet and sour sauce. I can't prove there's crack in there. But I do allege.
-the traveling cupcake
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
cheddah
These days I've been losing my battle against cheese addiction. Everyday, a hunk of cheese. Sometimes two or three different kinds. Everything from your standard grocery store muenster to hand-crafted Ascutney Mountain cheese.
At work I've been seen hacking off chunks of cheddar and smearing all kinds of things on top--apple butter, fruit spread, mustard-- and just gnawing on it like a ravenous monkey. At home I've been a little more graceful: delicately slicing gouda, gruyere or goat cheese over fresh baguette with honey or quince paste or seasoned nuts.
The other day, I shaved off 1/3 cup of parmigiano reggiano and threw it into my butternut squash soup with cubed avocado. Tasty. Earlier today I ate all the cheese off of my tuna melt and then left the tuna on my plate.
I'm totally out of control.
And lactose intolerant.
And sadly lacking in omega-3.
Given my complete obsession with cheese, I was pretty upset to find out that because of the new 300% luxury tariff on French imports, U.S. supplies of Roquefort cheese will fall as prices skyrocket from $7.90/pound to $31.60/pound. This is where we gasp collectively in horror.
According to this article, the tariff was George W. Bush's "great retaliation for the European Union ban on imports of U.S. beef containing hormones. Not explicitly, of course, but when the EU continued to refuse our feedlot-raised, corn-, hormone- and antibiotic-stuffed beef, we lobbed this taxation their way."
Trade wars. How dare they protect their citizens from our disgusting, steroid-ravaged meat? Let's show 'em who's boss. Freedom fries!
Stuff like this gets me thinking about how political food can be. That piece of American cheese I nibbled off of my tuna melt at lunch? That was the result of long-standing American food policy driven by corporate interest. So "American cheese" is just that.
The turning point was 1973, when the food industry was able to lobby the U.S. government to lift a federal regulation requiring all imitation food be labeled as such. Now, with decidedly lax regulations in place, we are so inundated with frankenfoods that (1) it's affecting the general health of Americans and (2) many people can no longer distinguish between food and, well, not food.
Perhaps that's why I have a bag of Kraft singles in my fridge. Sitting right there next to a $12 wedge of imported artisan comte. As much as I appreciate actual food made with real ingredients found in nature, I still can't stay away from wannabe foods created entirely by evil geniuses in their climate-controlled laboratories.
And thus, I leave you with this: Chemical No Apple Apple Pie. Is it strange that I want to try it?
- the traveling cupcake
At work I've been seen hacking off chunks of cheddar and smearing all kinds of things on top--apple butter, fruit spread, mustard-- and just gnawing on it like a ravenous monkey. At home I've been a little more graceful: delicately slicing gouda, gruyere or goat cheese over fresh baguette with honey or quince paste or seasoned nuts.
The other day, I shaved off 1/3 cup of parmigiano reggiano and threw it into my butternut squash soup with cubed avocado. Tasty. Earlier today I ate all the cheese off of my tuna melt and then left the tuna on my plate.
I'm totally out of control.
And lactose intolerant.
And sadly lacking in omega-3.
Given my complete obsession with cheese, I was pretty upset to find out that because of the new 300% luxury tariff on French imports, U.S. supplies of Roquefort cheese will fall as prices skyrocket from $7.90/pound to $31.60/pound. This is where we gasp collectively in horror.
According to this article, the tariff was George W. Bush's "great retaliation for the European Union ban on imports of U.S. beef containing hormones. Not explicitly, of course, but when the EU continued to refuse our feedlot-raised, corn-, hormone- and antibiotic-stuffed beef, we lobbed this taxation their way."
Trade wars. How dare they protect their citizens from our disgusting, steroid-ravaged meat? Let's show 'em who's boss. Freedom fries!
Stuff like this gets me thinking about how political food can be. That piece of American cheese I nibbled off of my tuna melt at lunch? That was the result of long-standing American food policy driven by corporate interest. So "American cheese" is just that.
The turning point was 1973, when the food industry was able to lobby the U.S. government to lift a federal regulation requiring all imitation food be labeled as such. Now, with decidedly lax regulations in place, we are so inundated with frankenfoods that (1) it's affecting the general health of Americans and (2) many people can no longer distinguish between food and, well, not food.
Perhaps that's why I have a bag of Kraft singles in my fridge. Sitting right there next to a $12 wedge of imported artisan comte. As much as I appreciate actual food made with real ingredients found in nature, I still can't stay away from wannabe foods created entirely by evil geniuses in their climate-controlled laboratories.
And thus, I leave you with this: Chemical No Apple Apple Pie. Is it strange that I want to try it?
- the traveling cupcake
Monday, March 9, 2009
hello, from the traveling cupcake...
I've started this blog not just for a love of food—of cooking and eating—but out of a fascination with what food represents, what it means and how it makes us feel.
We all know that food is never just food. Wherever we look, food is there in our forever memories and once-upon dreams. Food tells us who we are, how we got here, what we hope for, how we live. Sometimes it keeps us anchored to a certain place. Other times it sends tingling nostalgia down our backs and into the warm center of our bellies.
Sometimes food, it fills us. Other times it leaves us desperately empty. Food is powerful that way.
What do I remember? I remember the first time my father tried to cook me dinner. It was fried pompano. It tasted terrible. But he made it and that made me love him more. I remember the first time I discovered I could chop something up and put it into a hot, oiled pan with seasonings and things would happen to it --it would fill with flavor-- and fall onto a plate aside a set of wooden chopsticks or a ceramic spoon or a metal fork and knife. Presto. A meal. Sometimes it was delicious, other times…not. But I made it. I made it myself. And I felt capable.
How do I feel about food? The anticipation of waiting for a favored meal at a favorite restaurant. The sensation of “I can almost taste it...” If I could smell it, feel the heat of it, hear the sounds of the kitchen, my body would react. An excited tensing forward of the shoulders, a drumming of the fingers, perhaps a little dribble at the corner of the mouth.
But just as (if not more) important than the pleasure of eating is its context. Were you in the company of people whom you loved? Did you share laughs with good friends over a plate of stewed oxtail at that one Cuban place with the great music? Was it over a bowl of cucumber gazpacho that you realized, nope, there would be no second date? Did you dine to celebrate the birth of a sister with whom you fought endlessly as a child but who later became your closest confidante? Did that empty carton of Chunky Monkey say to you, hey loser, get off your butt and go do some stuff? Mine did.
Everywhere you look, there’s food. Wherever you go or hide, you need it. And every single one of us has our own unique way of needing it, wanting it, even fighting it.
This blog explores needs. Desires, also. And fascinations, disappointments and everything in between. Sometimes it will ponder political or ethical questions. Other times it will burst with the emotional, the visceral. Other times it will simply be a declaration. For as complex as food can be, sometimes it’s as simple as the simplest joys could ever be.
-the traveling cupcake
We all know that food is never just food. Wherever we look, food is there in our forever memories and once-upon dreams. Food tells us who we are, how we got here, what we hope for, how we live. Sometimes it keeps us anchored to a certain place. Other times it sends tingling nostalgia down our backs and into the warm center of our bellies.
Sometimes food, it fills us. Other times it leaves us desperately empty. Food is powerful that way.
What do I remember? I remember the first time my father tried to cook me dinner. It was fried pompano. It tasted terrible. But he made it and that made me love him more. I remember the first time I discovered I could chop something up and put it into a hot, oiled pan with seasonings and things would happen to it --it would fill with flavor-- and fall onto a plate aside a set of wooden chopsticks or a ceramic spoon or a metal fork and knife. Presto. A meal. Sometimes it was delicious, other times…not. But I made it. I made it myself. And I felt capable.
How do I feel about food? The anticipation of waiting for a favored meal at a favorite restaurant. The sensation of “I can almost taste it...” If I could smell it, feel the heat of it, hear the sounds of the kitchen, my body would react. An excited tensing forward of the shoulders, a drumming of the fingers, perhaps a little dribble at the corner of the mouth.
But just as (if not more) important than the pleasure of eating is its context. Were you in the company of people whom you loved? Did you share laughs with good friends over a plate of stewed oxtail at that one Cuban place with the great music? Was it over a bowl of cucumber gazpacho that you realized, nope, there would be no second date? Did you dine to celebrate the birth of a sister with whom you fought endlessly as a child but who later became your closest confidante? Did that empty carton of Chunky Monkey say to you, hey loser, get off your butt and go do some stuff? Mine did.
Everywhere you look, there’s food. Wherever you go or hide, you need it. And every single one of us has our own unique way of needing it, wanting it, even fighting it.
This blog explores needs. Desires, also. And fascinations, disappointments and everything in between. Sometimes it will ponder political or ethical questions. Other times it will burst with the emotional, the visceral. Other times it will simply be a declaration. For as complex as food can be, sometimes it’s as simple as the simplest joys could ever be.
-the traveling cupcake
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