TV That's Good for You. Like Spinach.

Last night, Cooper and I watched a couple of hours of TV that was interesting and educational and all those things, but that I wasn't really excited to watch.

First up was the Vietnam Central Highlands episode of No Reservations. As we queued up the DVR for that show, we did so with a noticable lack of enthusiasm. Part of it was general Bourdain fatigue, brought on in part by Baltimore loyalty. But part of it had less to do with the host and more to do with the region under study.

When we realized it was a Vietnam episode, our mutual reaction was, "AGAIN?" It seems like Tony's spent an awful lot of time in that country and we know he loves it, but at some point, shouldn't he just visit on his own dime?

Mid-way through the show, we started talking about the fact that even though we're unexcited about multiple Vietnam (or China) episodes, we're totally warm to multiple France or Spain episodes. We chalked it up to having a better understanding of the geography, history and culture of western countries like France and Spain. Which means that watching an episode on a part of Vietnam we'd never heard of is actually probably more valuable to us than watching another show on Provence or San Sebastian.

But still, watching the show felt like school. School + crunchy waterbugs.

After we wrapped up Bourdain, we turned on the Sundance Channel and caught part of Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall's pro-free range chicken documentary series, Chicken Out. It was actually quite interesting (and not just because British accents are adorable). Fearnley-Whittingstall's efforts are admirable and, like Bourdain, educational.

However, he's a little short-sighted. Maybe it's necessary for his success, but he considers it a failure of communication (or something) that he can't get through to one particular lady who works on his community farm and typically buys industrial farmed chicken.

The lady, named Hailey, happens to be the most rational person on the show. She's made it very clear that given the choice, she'd love to buy free range chicken. Who wouldn't? However, it's not an option for her budget. She does soften a bit at the end, when Fearnley-Whittingstall prepares a risotto with the leftover bits from a roast chicken dinner (as an aside: the leftover chicken used had WAY more meat left on the bones than our typical leftover chicken carcasses do). But in the end, she's practical. She can't afford it, so she's not going to buy it. I just don't think anyone can fault her for that.

That said, at the end of the episode, I said to Cooper, "This does remind me that it's important for people who can afford to buy free range chicken to do so, because that makes it less expensive for everybody in the long run."

One thing the episode did not touch on, surprisingly, is that free range chicken tastes better than regular chicken. I think it does, but then again, maybe that's just the sweet taste of assuaged first world white guilt.

Bloggers Are Cool

LoveFeast Table, which is one of my favorite local (OK, half-local) food blogs, has started doing something so cool I almost can't handle it. They call it "love bombing" and this is how they define it:

It’s the act of making, serving and sharing a meal for unsuspecting people. Especially people not in your typical circle of friends.

They actually started doing it last fall, but the linked post is to a recent expedition. The experience is amazing to read about and I bet it's even better in real life.

Artsy Wednesday: Radical Cartography

Last week, Apartment Therapy linked to the kind of site where I can lose hours and hours of my day. Radical Cartography is the brainchild of Harvard grad student Bill Rankin. AT honed right in on some of the prettier, older maps, like these maps of the Mississippi River from 1944 - and they are definitely worth a look.

But from a research geek perspective, I was more interested in some of the maps that Rankin and his friends created themselves. I'm still batting around food mapping ideas, and I found a lot of inspiration here. For example...

The density of the Hispanic population throughout the US - this has surely impacted food choices and offerings, right?

Thinking historically, I wonder how the creation of the National Road influenced regional cuisine. The families that traveled the road, did they leave bits of their histories behind? Can we still see their influence today?

This little series of simple maps might have resonated the most with me. Rankin and two of his colleagues created their own "personal maps" of cities. This one, of Philadelphia, shows Rankin's movements around the city, how he gets around, and what he does. Overlay a bunch of additional people's maps on top of this one and you have a really interesting study of city use.

Head Shots

Yesterday, Cooper's cousin Sarah emailed me this Slate article, asking me if I'd read it. I hadn't, yet, but it was on my list. The article is about web head shots - what people use, how they take them, what they say about us. It's the sort of modern iconography/tiny cultural touchstone topic that I find interesting all the time, but probably especially interesting right now, since I just joined Facebook (after years of relying on my sister's login. And of course I'm kind of obsessed with it, especially since I'm now back in touch with some of my really good old college and high school friends. This internet thing, it's amazing.)

Anyway, the article is a good one, but the most interesting part to me and to Sarah was the link to FaceStat, an outfit I was previously unfamiliar with. The author of the article describes FaceStat as sort of a next-gen Hot or Not, only with a more rationalizable angle.

The gist is this: you upload a photo and anyone can comment on it, answering a few key questions about what they think you're like, based solely on the photo. Anybody can comment on the photos - no upload necessary. The idea is that, in aggregate, you end up with a pretty good idea of what people think of you based on your appearance.

Sarah and I spent a little time figuring out whether satisfying our curiosity regarding what people think of our looks would be worth the potential blows to our egos (the questions range from attractive? to trustworthy? to political affiliation? and on and on). Also, we talked about how to make it about food, so I could blog about it.

And here's what came out of the conversation: I'm going to have Cooper take a bunch of pictures of me, all wearing the same outfit, all in basically the same pose, but doing different things. One control, where I'm not doing anything, but also one where I'm cooking, one drinking beer, one drinking wine, one eating, one holding Dixon. Then I'll post them all under different pseudonyms. Then I wait for the responses...and compare. So it becomes a research project (I love research!) about the influence of cooking/eating/drinking/kids over our perceptions.

Projects! I love them!

Artsy Wednesday: Food Acoustics

The new issue of Dwell has an article (not, unfortunately, online) on acoustic architecture. It's inspired by architecture firm Arup, which has developed a way to understand how a building will sound even before it's built (a side benefit is the ability to reconstruct buildings that have been destroyed, so they can hear how a particular song would've heard in a certain church, for example).

This whole initiative goes to a core belief that architecture is more than just the walls or empty space that surrounds you - it's the whole experience. Sound is an important part of that, obviously.

All of this got me thinking...sound is really the overlooked sense when it comes to food, isn't it? Sure, you hear about the sizzle of, say, Chili's fajitas, and occasionally you read about the crunch of a particular lettuce (but in that case, it's more about texture than sound anyway). Is it because sound just isn't polite? We do chew with our mouths closed for a reason, after all. Nobody, least of all me, likes to hear a slurp.

But that doesn't mean that sound doesn't deserve a bigger role in the overall eating experience. On the non-food side, there's been a lot of discussion over at Elizabeth Large's Baltimore Sun blog (among other places - and I can't find the post on EL's blog!) about restaurant acoustics and the pros and cons of restaurant music in terms of style and volume. But even beyond that, looking to the food itself, isn't there a way to move the sound of food beyond Chili's and their babyback ribs alternatives?

Maybe I'm missing something, though. Are there chefs out there who are experimenting with the sound of food in a higher end, non-gross way? If not, really, why not? Where are you?

Quotable Tuesday: James Beard

Food is our common ground, a universal experience. - James Beard

I just wrote an entire post about this quote, only to have Blogger somehow devour it.

Here's the quick gist: I've been doing a lot of reading and thinking about the role of food in our lives and how that's evolved over time. I think Beard is right - food is a universal experience and it has the potential to bring together even people with absolutely nothing in common.

At the same time, differences between cultures - I was thinking of the French and Americans to start - are even more readily apparent, or are well summarized, by looking at the role food plays in those cultures.

Not a major surprising insight, but a reminder that as both a basic physical human need and a captor of emotional state, food is such a complex subject.

Quotable Tuesday: The Creative Chef

The problem with food is that it occupies this existential space that is really personal, yet at the same time, it's also a commercial thing. Food is a very, very personal subject, and it's a very subjective subject. And so it becomes a subject that people have strong opinions about. Somehow, there's this strong idea that these restaurateurs and chefs are polluting the idea of what they do by 'commercializing' themselves. But nobody attacks Armani for having A/X, right? Or Ralph Lauren for licensing his name for a fragrance. Or Richard Meier for designing cheap products for Target.

- The New York Observer's Bryan Miller, in David Kamp's The United States of Arugula

Well, yes. So that about sums it up, right. After reading this quote, I almost thought, "Maybe I should just stop blogging. Because that, right there, is what I think."

Miller is talking specifically about people who complain that big name chefs spread themselves too thin, suggesting that if they're not constantly in their own kitchen (like Andre Soltner) then somehow their work doesn't count. I think Miller does a nice job of explaining a) the complicated space that food occupies in our lives, which is similar to that of fashion and b) that chefs are creative personalities - both thinkers and doers.

History probably encourages people to think of chefs as "people who cook", rather than people who think, so it's understandable why people may complain. But there has been a shift in the profession, and technology and communication tools (not to mention a general improvement in cooking skills even among the most entry level employees), all of which has created an environment that frees chefs up to do a little more thinking and oversight, rather than having to actually cook. I'm sure Colicchio can grill a mean steak, but I don't need him to be the one at the grilling station. I'd rather that he spend his time thinking up the recipes, not just executing them.

P.S. Yes, everyone can expect a few more days, at least, of Arugula references. I'm sorry...but the book is just too good.

Trendy Monday: Still a Culture of Lifestyle

Last night, I finally finished The United States of Arugula. What a really, really good book. I am wildly jealous of the talent and store of knowledge posessed by its author, David Kamp.

As I mentioned last week, Kamp addresses the rise of the concept of "lifestyle" in the mid-seventies. Towards the end of the book, he brings the subject up again, noting a resurgence in "lifestyle" as an important entity (of course I can't find the exact quote this morning). It was interesting to me to read about a "resurgence" - since I didn't realize that "lifestyle" ever left, at least as a marketing tool.

But then I thought about it a bit. Over the weekend, my parents and Tom and Cail and Erin came up to celebrate my dad's birthday. My dad didn't want to actually sit down to eat, so he suggested we have a bunch of appetizers instead. My mom brought some pate she got from a new shop in Severna Park, and I made scallops wrapped in bacon, mussels in a red sauce (that I'll write about later - I'll be reviewing the book they were in), my go-to potato chips with chevre, red pepper jelly and bacon, and the usual cheese and crackers.

At one point, the conversation turned to the difference between how I cook and how my mom cooks. Cail is also into food, and she has her own, third way of cooking, but it's probably more like mine than my mom', and I think that's a generational thing.

My mom learned to cook not from her mom (who is really good at making reservations) but, like many women her age, from Julia. Her copies of the Mastering the Art of French Cooking books are worn down, dog-eared and faded. She didn't spend her early years slaving over aspics and terrines, but there's something about the way she cooks and what she cooks that owes and obvious debt to Child. It's difficult to describe, but I think there's an emphasis on process and product that she may not have had if she'd learned to cook today.

Not that I reject process or end product, but I think that I could be described as more of a lifestyle cook than my mother (even though I use a lot of her recipes). Certainly today there's more of an emphasis on the original ingredient, and the way you shop has everything to do with lifestyle.

But beyond that, I think there's a different emphasis on how the food comes to the table. I'm having a hard time articulating this, but with lifestyle cooking, the way things look matter, as does they way they're eaten. Making dinner starts at the store and it ends with cute placemats from Crate & Barrel that match the teakettle that matches the art on the walls. And this, on a random Tuesday.

I think, maybe, the cooking process used to be more compartmentalized and today, it has more flow. Not surprisingly, really, when you consider the way the compartments have broken down across our lives. I work from home, stealing a couple of minutes here and there to edit copy or do some research analysis, all while Dixon's playing or napping (and, of course, while I blog).

We live fluidly, so why shouldn't we cook the same way?

I'm not sure exactly where I'm going with this, except to say that I've been thinking about it. I'll end, though, on a more practical note. I've got a couple of big posts coming up - some book reviews and an essay I've been working on for a bit. Unfortunately, sometime during the night on Saturday, my laptop decided it had had enough of this world. Right now I'm writing on Cooper's computer, while Best Buy transfers my old hard drive to the new computer I bought yesterday. So I don't think I'll be doing a whole lot of posting until I get the new computer back - I just don't work well on a non-laptop.

Not fluid enough, I guess. Too compartmentalized.

But What Do YOU Want to See Before You Die?

I'm finding this Althouse post and its comments sort of mesmerizing. As a general rule, I enjoy glancing through books like 1,000 Places to See Before You Die. Obviously, I'll never see all those places, but I never would've heard of some of them, either, if not for the book.

Althouse links to an article about the publishing trend toward these types of books, and mentions the oft-forgotten second half of the title: "Before You Die". The half I tend to ignore when I'm flipping through the pages.

In the comments, the discussion turns to the many ways it's possible to fully experience life without visiting your travel agent, book in hand. Several commenters get spiritual in a sort of "eastern" way, basically saying that life is an internal journey, not necessarily a global one. That people who sit still and reflect will learn more than those who jetset without stopping. They're not suggesting that travel is bad, but that blindly following a book's checklist without thought is not exactly the path to enlightenment.

In the middle of the comments, Althouse chimes in with a suggestion:

Maybe everyone should a list of 1000 things that you've found worth seeing within 20 miles of your home. And it's not a list for other people to do and check off. It's an exercise to teach yourself that you are completely in the fascinating world wherever you happen to be. (Excluding some disastrous places.)

Regular commenter Pogo starts listing right away with a couple of powerful (in the emotional way, not, like, the political way) people and places within a block or two of his house. Another regular commenter, Beth, who lives in New Orleans, relates this idea to her post-Katrina experience, watching well-loved institutions immediately or gradually disappear from her life. Both offer a pretty meaningful lesson in appreciation and not taking things for granted.

Obviously, this is about something bigger than food. But food has to be a part of it. For one thing, my list of 1,000 places to see about my home would certainly involve the inside of a lot of restaurants. Not necessarily the Petit Louises (what is the plural of Louis?) either. My list would say things like "See the deck of Carroll's Creek Cafe from a table with a bowl of cream of crab soup in front of you. Preferably on a Wednesday night so you can watch the races. Do this in May or June of 1996."

Beyond my own personal experiences, these days, you can't separate food from travel. It's everywhere you look. Between Bourdain and Zimmern and Samantha Brown and, well, everybody else on the Travel Channel, food and travel are increasingly tied together in the public mind - not just the minds of foodies who have been searching for the most "authentic" of whatever for a handful of years. It can't be long before we see a book called "1,000 Things to Eat Before You Die".

And these are those forces that drive me crazy - the ones that have led to "the insidious rise of cosmo-cuisine", to steal the Abdelnour title. I won't go off on my rant again, though. I've already said enough on that subject.

Finally, because this post is feeling a little heavy (and long) to me...here's the "Stuff White People Like" take on it. It's funny. Because it's true.

Conflicted

On one hand, Mr. Henry's post about style ideology summarizes some of my own feelings, ones that express here in various, fairly incoherent, ways. Style ideology is very real and it is clearly at the root of this philosophical thing I try to figure out by blogging (and is at least partially responsible for all of my pseudo-food posts that end with "and this is how I'm going to make this about food"). Mr. Henry's affinity for Art Deco and minimalist, super-functional design could explain my distinct aversion to all things Rococo, as well as my obsession with the luxurious functionality of the Eames family.

But. And there is a "but" here. Something about the absoluteness of Mr. Henry's decree on decoration doesn't sit well with me. I mean, what about Gaudi? Does Mr. Henry dislike the look of Barcelona just because some of the walls look a bit anthropomorphic? And I wouldn't be my sister's, well, sister if I failed to mention how much Guimard's metro entrances dress up the romance of Paris. Yes (as Erin quite ably demonstrated in her senior thesis), those entrances, and Art Nouveau as a movement, do harken back to a more natural time when, as Mr. Henry might say, Luddites ruled the Continent. But does everything have to be a purely functional reference? When I see that architectural sculpture, I'm captured by the emotions it invokes. I don't see a shout out to the good ol' days; I see fluidity and drama. Relationships.

So I have some issues Mr. Henry's particular style ideology, I guess (plus, after a couple of years of reading his blog, I don't believe that he'd buy his own hype on the subject).

At the same time, I would take Mr. H's entire thesis a step further. Style isn't just about your taste in chairs and toasters; it's also about your attitude about food. How you cook, shop, travel and, most importantly, eat. It's about experimentation and all five senses and, again, relationships.

Of course, exactly how it's about all those things is still under consideration in my mind. I've only been writing here for two years, after all. Not nearly long enough to solidify my own ideology...

UPDATE: I'm overcome with relief! In his comments, Mr. Henry let me know that he does, in fact, appreciate the finer iterations of Art Nouveau - that he was making some blanket statements to "watch the feathers fly", as it were...

Life-Changing

As a corollary to my last post about being geeky and still (mentally) carrying out the daydreams of my middle school years, I got totally sucked into this Pajiba post about albums and movies that changed people's perspectives about music and film.

In the main post, the blogger mentions Joshua Tree, which I certainly can respect. I was actually lucky enough to avoid any terribly embarrassing musical alleigances (despite NKOTB's rise to infamy coinciding with my thirteenth year), but I did get two tapes for Christmas in eighth grade that set the stage for my musical taste in the years to follow. They were U2's Rattle and Hum and Kick by INXS. I still think they're pretty amazing albums, even after listening to both of them every single day for years and years. I was absolutely obsessed with INXS forever (up to and including their terribly concluded TV show). And U2's catalog was pretty much the soundtrack of my high school and college years. In fact, at a wedding a few weeks ago, as the bride and groom danced to Love Rescue Me, from Rattle and Hum - maybe the best wedding song ever - my friend Mark said to me, "I sort of think everyone should dance to U2 at their wedding." I agreed, and we did (U2 and The Corr's cover of Ryan Adams' "Where the Stars Go Blue").

I don't think there's one single movie that forever changed my take on movies, but I did agree with some of the commenters' descriptions of watching Pump Up the Volume. I didn't actually feel like an outsider in school, but I do still remember how much energy I had after watching that movie. And listening to the soundtrack - another eighth or ninth grade purchase.

And here's how this is about food: I think that food is for me what music or movies are for some other people. Meals, food literature, food TV, even offhand mentions of food in entertainment - these are the cultural markers I use to shape my worldview. Not exclusively, of course - I mean, I'm married to someone who speaks in movie quotes approximately 50% of the time - but to a large extent. I remember vacations because of what I ate. Holidays are about what's on the table or in my glass. Food rituals are my celebrations and mark my milestones.

But when did this happen? When I first started Mango & Ginger, I wrote a series of posts about my awakening to the world of food. The first one was called Learning to Eat. I just reread it, wondering if back in 2005, I knew when or what it was that got me interested in food. In the post, I vague credit an omelet I had on my first trip to Paris as the trigger. I do remember that omelet - it was delicious. But was that really it? Because I'd had a number of really good and memorable meals prior to that point - like the Chateaubriand at The Williamsburg Inn the night I graduated from college. Or the boeuf Bourgignon I used to order at Cafe Bretton all the time in high school. Even the prime rib I got almost weekly, from the time I was about six, on, at Busch's Chesapeake Inn (RIP). Or maybe it was something I had at home - we definitely didn't eat badly.

I wish I could point to a specific turning point. I think if I could, I'd better understand what, exactly, I expect from myself out of my interest in food. How to achieve my foodie goals.

And that concludes another really, really geeky post.

I'd Totally Buy...

A book of photographs of the inside of famous people's refrigerators. Not when they're all gussied up, Cribs style ("Gotta have the Cris!"), but when they're for real.

How cool would that be? The inside of somebody's fridge offers so much insight to who they are as a person. One simple image could tell us so much about how someone thinks and rationalizes, what's important to them culturally, what they like, where they come from.

And the pictures would be cool to look at, too.

Not that I ever totally abandoned it, but as of yesterday, I'm back strong on my food-meets-design kick. Last night, I read an article about Feng Shui in this month's Domino. The idea for the fridge book actually came from a simple idea in the article: Feng Shui experts recommend cleaning out your refrigerator fairly regularly (and keeping kitchen counters clean and dishes out of the sink) to preserve the "heart of the home" and to keep your health and finances happy.

On a personal level, the entire article filled me with dread. Our kitchen is a disaster right now and the inside of the fridge is the worst of it. But I have an excuse - our renovations are under way and in a few months, I'll have all new cabinets and appliances and counters and I am totally 100% dedicated to having a clean refrigerator for ever and ever. Until it's all new, though, it's going to hell.

So for me, personally, I don't want to look to deep into the emotional and psychological stories my refrigerator could tell. But I sooo want to look at the train wreck of other people's lives. Anyway, chaos is artsy.

And would look great on my coffee table, all glossied up in a beautiful, if tragic, book.

Food for Thought

Mr. Henry, of Manolo Food Blog fame, has spent the last month or so wrestling with the ubiquitous Omnivore's Dilemma, deciding what it means to him personally. He's not the only one, but I digress.

During his soul-search, Mr. Henry did some interesting philosophizing about food and culture and what it all means. This hit a nerve with me:

Cuisine marks culture more distinctly than any other lifestyle choice. It’s the most conservative cultural trait. (Japanese-American families keep umeboshi in the fridge no matter what fashions they wear, music they listen to, or ideologies they favor.)

As much time as I (and others) have spent lamenting the rise of global cuisine to the detriment of regionalism, Mr. Henry is right. I can't speak to the pantry contents of the Japanese-American community, but I do know that pretty much every single Marylander ever has some Old Bay stored in a place of reverence in his kitchen. From my 88-year-old grandmother to the bachelor-iest of my guy friends, nobody goes without. It's as much a taste preference as it is a symbol of pride and a core part of who we are.

Food is woven into our personalities and histories in such a complex and fantastic way - I have a hard time wrapping my head around it.

Questioning my Faith in Foodie-ism

Despite the fact that I sometimes get a little high-falutin' and philosophical about my food, and that I do tend to obsess about some of the more researchy and anthropological elements of cooking and eating, believe me when I say that on a day to day basis for me, a tomato is just a tomato.

Sure, on occasion I might go on and on about the symbolic nature of the tomato garden, or tell a long-winded story about how I came to like tomatoes and what that says about my youth, but really, in real, offline life, I am not (usually) insufferable about this stuff. I can sit down at a table and have a meal (or cook a meal) without boring my friends and family to tears with endless commentary on where my food came from, what it means, blah blah blah.

So does that make me not really a foodie?

Well, as of last night, I kind of hope so.

I've had foodie-ism on the mind lately, as I've been thinking of sponsoring a little of my own research about what attitudes and behaviors really define the category (I know - right away, I contradict the idea that I can just sit down and have dinner without getting all analytical about it.) Anyway, I've been thinking about the term "foodie" and about the current culture of foodie-ism in America.

Between TV (both cable and network), magazines, cookbooks and, of course, the Internet, I'm overwhelmed by the amount of food-related information I could consume in any given day. The rise of the celebrity chef has Rachael Ray (shudder) gracing a Dunkin' Donuts billboard I pass regularly and her voice on the radio - plus the image of a number of other, less offensive chefs bombarding me every time I turn on the TV or get the mail. My "favorites" folder is full of food blogs I don't have time to read and my bookshelves at home are stacked with cookbooks I never remember to open.

I'm exhausted.

But here's what's broken the camel's back for me: the August issue of Food & Wine. Now, I love F&W and I read it from cover to cover every month. I'm not saying I'm going to give it up. And anyway, it's not the editorial focus of the magazine that I'm having trouble with. It's the food world, as reported by F&W staff, that bothers me.

Here's the deal: I finished reading the July issue of the magazine a few weeks ago and I've been meaning to blog about an article on chef Graham Elliott Bowles' use of works of art to inspire meals in a very literal way. Kind of cool, about art and food, all stuff I'm into. But I never got around to writing the post.

Then, last night, as I read the August issue (not yet online, unfortunately), I honed in on a comment made by British designer Terence Conran, in the design Q&A section of the magazine. Conran says:

"One of my greatest pleasures in life is a tomato fresh from the garden. I hate the kind of food that is considered an art form or an intellectual matter, or chefs who believe they are artists."

And I thought: " Damn. I have become so pretentious in the way I think about food." Pretentious at the stove is not who I want to be.

This also came on the heels of my reading an older article by Katherine Mangu-Ward, called "How the Upper Crust Eats: Food as a Status Symbol." The article, which is ostensibly a review of The Omnivore's Dilemma, takes to task the food elite that has politicized and snobbicized everything that everyone eats. Upon reading the article, I confirmed my suspicion that I don't have the time or the inclination to be so into food in the philosophical sense that I don't eat, for instance, Spaghetti-O's (I happen to love them). And I certainly don't want to be the sort of person who looks down on someone else for not subscribing to my personal food missions.

So where's the line between interested and over-intellectual? Between fascinated and obsessively boring? Between thoughtful and pretentious? And how will I know if I cross it?

I'm not planning to stop my food analysis altogether, but this has given me something new to think about. Maybe I really just don't understand what a "foodie" is. And maybe I should focus more on enjoying my food, maybe, and less on over-intellectualizing it. Easier said than done for me, of course.

Tasting the Difference

My friend Joyce just sent me a link to such an interesting article. It appears in the Times Online - the London paper - and it explores stylistic and philosophical differences between male and female cooks. The basic idea is that women are more nurturing, and therefore more into simple food that will make people happy, while men are more ego-driven and artistic, so they take an "If I cook it, they should come" approach.

The concept behind the article is not a new one. In college, I remember writing a paper for my American Foreign Policy class (shoutout to Professor Crapol - best history teacher at William & Mary) regarding differences between the sexes in terms of foreign policy beliefs and actions. There's a school of thought that believes that women in government, as nurturers, are more likely to be pacifists and diplomats than their warmongery, conquistador male counterparts. The Times article is basically about the same thing, only looking at the butter, not the guns.

In all honesty, I just don't know where I stand on this topic. On one hand, I'm a big believer in acknowledging the differences between the sexes - men and women don't think or act the same way and I do believe that biology plays a role. And both in terms of cooking and foreign policy, there are certainly examples that back up the woman-as-nurturer position.

But on the other hand, something about the whole discussion sticks in my craw. For one thing, I can't shake the feeling that there's a tinge of reverse-misogyny at work here: women are presented as good, caring nurturers who do for others, while the men involved are ego-driven and self-centered. I don't think that's fair.

My other hesitation about the arguments is that they just don't apply to my own kitchen - or my mind. Not that I don't care about my guests having a good time or enjoying their dinners, but as I'm sure I've mentioned before, when I'm preparing a meal for friends, a healthy part of my enjoyment comes from the feeling of creation - and from the praise that goes along with creation. Similarly, I would imagine that if I was, say, a member of Congress (a job I would never, ever want), I'd be a little more "send in the Marines and git-r-done" than a lot of the men.

There are exceptions, of course, to every rule, and maybe I just fall into that category. It's difficult, though, to honestly evaluate an argument when you're possibly outside the norm. And of all of the food and cooking research that I've been privy to (and it is a lot), the vast majority of the research has been female-focused (food marketers just care more about women's attitudes and behaviors because they make the majority of the food shopping decisions in any given household.) As a result, I've seen profiles of a fair number of ego-driven, artistic foodie women and at the same time, I have very little understanding of what makes the male culinary mind tick.

Joyce mentioned that in her own life, she tends to cook more recipes written by female chefs, but when she eats out, she's drawn to the men - possibly seeking out something more exciting and complex than what she personally wants to deliver at home. That's something interesting, too, but again, something hard for me to evaluate in my own life...partly because there are just so many more male chefs than female.

But conclusion or no, the article gave me something interesting to think about, and to watch for as I cook and eat out. Because everyone knows that I need more ways to analyze my food.

Eras End, Food Remains

It's been a big week so far. Apparently, every single American with a blog watches The Sopranos. And every single one of them also has an opinion on the finale. As for me, I am in the minority that liked the ending immediately. I thought it was perfectly appropriate and fascinating. I'm also in the "Tony didn't die, but it doesn't matter because he lives in a hell of his own creation" camp. But that is not what this post is about.

For the past month and a half, as I've watched Tony Soprano and Family/family complete their journey (ha - Journey - get it? Don't Stop?), I've also been preparing for the end of another saga: I've been rereading the Harry Potter books. I started my reread about the time that this final season of the Sopranos debuted and, as a result, I've been uber-conscious of the similarities between the two entities ever since.

[As an aside, I'm a little sad. Tony and Harry have helped define the first part of my adult life - they both came on the scene just after I graduated from college and have been with me as I started my career, met Cooper and got married, started my own company, had a baby. Their departure is bittersweet for me, and not just because I'll miss the stories. At some point, I'm going to have to accept that I'm a grownup.]

When I started really thinking about this post three weeks ago, there was only one article out there comparing the two. In the past few days, however, a bunch have sprung up - clearly I'm not the only one obsessing about this stuff. This Newsweek article sums up a lot of the similarities that I see between the books and the show, though I'd add a few things:

- Interestingly, since both the books and the show are set in a world that is blatantly outside the mainstream, they are both ultimately about how the struggle of good vs. evil plays out in real life. The eternal struggle is set within less grandly dramatic, though equally interesting, story arcs. Tony Soprano's famous draw is that, though he is a mildly conflicted gangster, viewers can connect with him through his role as father, husband and son. His is the great story of the American family. From the first Harry Potter book, we have known that Harry is not all good and pure on the inside - he fears his own internal Slytherin tendencies. Despite how removed HP readers are from Harry's magical world, we identify with the stops and starts of his adolescence, with his self-doubt and his growth. His is a coming of age tale.

- Both stories make me conscious of just how important place can be. Can you imagine Harry without Hogwarts? Or Tony without New Jersey? There's something so perfect and integral about the settings of each story that makes the location almost an additional character.

- Since Sunday night, the Internet has been blazing with messages to David Chase. Some great, many not so great - but a lot of them. Similarly, HP devotees hang on every public word uttered by JK Rowling. Through these series, the creators have revealed things about themselves - about what's important to them and the decisions they choose to make - and their readers have responded. I can't even count how many times I've read "that ending was so David Chase" or "JK Rowling won't kill Harry - it wouldn't be like her."

Now that I've gotten all that rambling off my chest, let me bring this back home to food. Some time ago, I wrote about the role of food in Harry Potter. Upon rereading, I think my analysis holds up. JK Rowling's food is functional as a magical element, a forger of relationships and scene-setter, and as a joke.

The role of food in The Sopranos is so enormous that it's overwhelming. It would take someone with way more patience and time than I have to do a comprehensive analysis of food in the whole series. It's amazing - food is such a core part of being an Italian-American that it couldn't be any other way. But its not all trays of ziti after the funerals - Chase uses food as more than just a scene-setter or a way to flesh out a character. Food is so inherently a part of the characters' lives that it is regularly connected to their unhappiness or frustration. The symbolic nature of food in the series is hotly debated - onion rings as communion wafers, Lincoln Log sandwiches as, well, the obvious. After the episode when AJ almost drowned, a commenter named Erik on Matt Zoller Seitz's amazing blog said:

Note that Tony was eating right as he saw AJ drowning. Also, AJ actually addresses food (and specifically meat) when they are at the dinner table - asking Tony et al. how they can eat food of such disturbing origins. Yet - also note that AJ told Meadow that one of the main reasons he couldn't move out was his mother's cooking. He, like Carmella (and to some extent Tony), is profoundly disturbed by how the proverbial food gets put on the table, yet they are unwilling to go hungry...Remember that Tony and Melfi finally begin to think that the root cause of Tony's panic attacks was the association with food, and the violence he witnessed as a child (his dad maiming the butcher.)

But even more important than the role of food as a root cause or symbol, I think, is the role played by the ritual of the family dinner. Many seasons, including this last, have ended with a family dinner of some sort. The loss of sit-down family dinners in our busy American lives is often lamented. But the Sopranos manage to get to the table. And yet they are, I'd hope, more inherently screwed up than most American families. So will sitting down for onion rings and ice cream help us? If not, what can?

Entertainment like The Sopranos or Harry Potter has amazing power. It infiltrates our culture (how many other books are well-known enough to get a shout-out on The Office?) and it infects our lives. Both the shows and the books will be on my mind for years to come - while I'm on the sofa, at the stove, or - and most likely - at the table.

UPDATE: This kills me - I love it.

Not Explicitly About Food, But...

I want to write about it anyway. So I'll make it about food.

I find happiness research extremely interesting, mostly because if there's any way to make myself happier, I want to know about it. A recent study by a Carnegie Mellon professor and a RAND Corp. behavioral scientist suggests that happiness may be linked to decision making ability: people who are able to easily make decisions in their best self-interest are likely to be happier than people who are unable to make the same decisions (either unable to make them easily, or unable to make good decisions at all).

While this research is not completely validated - not to get too researchy, but both decision making and happiness involve so many variables that could potentially impact the other that the research is more speculative than anything else. But so interesting, nonetheless, and to me it seems logical at it's core.

The linked article includes a link to an abbreviated online version of the survey itself. It takes about 10 minutes to complete and a few weeks after completion, you'll receive results showing how you compare to the rest of the sample (of course, opening this up online taints the sample, I'm sure - the people who might read about a survey like this and actually take it are invested in learning about their happiness and decision making skills. I'd guess that they tend to be better decision makers as a group.)

And here's how I'm going to make it about food: food decisions, in my life at least, have provided a good barometer for my overall happiness. When I first learned how to cook, I was at a point of a lot of uncertainty in my life: I had just started working at my old job and I wasn't really sure what I was doing. I had also just started dating Cooper and while we obviously had a good relationship, I'm a lot more secure in my marriage today than in our dating when we were 26. Overall, I was a little all over the place - still feeling very young and figuring out what I was doing.

And I could not, for the life of me, figure out what to make for dinner on any given night. Every trip to the grocery store involved a mini-exististential crisis. Cooper would say, "you decide" and I'd panic. Literally, my heart rate would increase. About dinner.

But as I learned to cook, and my confidence in the kitchen increased, my ability to make decisions at the grocery store did, too. Even though it might seem like a minor thing, establishing control and the ability to make decisions in that one area of my life trickled over into other parts of my life until one day, all of a sudden, I was kind of a grown-up.

And now here I am - not just cooking, but food blogging. Without freaking out.

Why

Erin, from A Dress A Day, writes a beautiful post today. She describes in obviously loving detail exactly why she sews:

My answer to "why", I realized, is not JUST because I'm a raging control freak who needs to be personally responsible for everything I put on my body, either in termsof creation or collation, but also because I love the way it feels to sew.
That's right. Sewing feels good. It feels good in the same sensual, atavistic way that holding a just-bathed baby feels good, and it feels good in the same disembodied, intellectual way that writing a computer program feels good.

Replace "sewing" with "cooking" and I could've written those sentences (especially the part about being a raging control freak). This, of course, is further evidence backing my belief that there's very little difference between most connoisseurs - even casual enthusiasts - with interests in sensory hobbies. Food, art, fashion, music. It's all the same in the end: sensual, intellectual, and good-feeling.

Reclaiming My Heart & Mind & Stomach

As of last month, Food & Wine columnist Pete Wells wasn't exactly the darling of the food blogging world. His article on food blogs was, well, controversial at best. In my estimation, it wasn't the worst article ever, but it fell pretty far short of being truly good.

But big believer in redemption that I am, when the April F&W arrived last week, I turned immediately to Wells' "Always Hungry" column. This month, Wells delves into the world of wine and food tasting research, something that’s been of interest to me lately, too. He does a great job (as far as I can tell) describing the recent UC Davis study and reports on the findings with much less prejudice than the science press did. Maybe he's just more sensitive to the foodie side of the argument than science reporters are. At any rate, his brief study summary is solid and easy to grasp:

“If you’re worried about finding the bottle that will best complement the
raw-milk Pecorino you’re serving tomorrow night, the answer provided by sensory
science is: Stop fretting. They’re all equally good. Or, if you tend to look at
the dark side, equally bad.”

Perfect.

But pithiness is not what drew Wells back into my imaginary inner circle of food writers. No, what did it was his recounting a story told by Hildegard Heymann, the professor who runs the sensory science lab at UC Davis. She is responsible for the study that has so crisply determined that the relationship between food and wine is not necessarily mutually enhancing. But she’s no slave to science.

She tells a story of a fabulous Napa Valley Easter lunch she attended back in the 1980s. Famous and amazing wines served throughout…until dessert. With the final course, the hostess unapologetically served a $7 Gallo imitation Asti Spumante. Heymann describes the wine, saying, “It’s terrible, it’s sickeningly sweet, it has fake bubbles.” She loves it. It’s her favorite wine.

And this is where Pete Wells makes me melt. He showcases this story and closes his article with a handful of sentences that so accurately sum up everything I believe about the relationship between food and emotion:

“You could say that thinking plays an integral part in drinking. You’re not born
loving or hating Riesling – you have to learn. And learned flavors often drag a
bundle of emotional or intellectual associations along behind them.”

It’s very Clockwork Orange, and it’s part of what makes food and wine such a fascinating subject for me. I’ve long believed that the study of food is really the study of cultures (and individuals). And isn’t the study of modern culture largely an exploration of how science (intellectualism) and emotion crash into one another?

Wells concludes his article with an incredibly exciting prospect:

“Yes, we pay attention to the reports being fired off from our tongues and our
noses when we eat. But as that news bolts through the brain, it meets up with
our memories, our beliefs, our ideas. Sensory science can teach us a lot about
what happens in our mouths. But if Heymann’s theories about food and wine
pairing turn out to be right, they will reveal something just as interesting:
Science will show us where our mouths stop and our minds take over.”

And I am enthralled.

One More Reason to Love Food

It's healthier. In a New York Times op-ed, Harriet Brown reports that if you enjoy your food, your body will absorb more of its nutrients (note: this does work under the assumption that what you're eating is somewhat nutrient-rich to begin with.) Brown cites a study that found

"food that's unfamiliar (Thai food to Swedish women) or unappetizing (mush rather than solid food) winds up being less nutritious than food that looks, smells and tastes good to you."

Nothing but good news for food lovers everywhere. And, I have to believe, this doesn't come as a huge surprise to most food bloggers (or those who enjoy food enough to read food blogs.) Even before I read this article, I think I was operating under the assumption that having a good relationship with food and eating food you really like is somehow better for you, if only because you're happier when you take your time, enjoy your meals (and the company of those you eat your meals with) and don't force yourself to choke down food you really don't like. And when you're happier, your body knows it, and will thank you for it.

On that note, I think I'll dedicate today to my favorite foods. Heart of palm for dinner tonight!