FOOD ON THE FOOD

Pleasant News and Indian Pudding

Did you know that one of my essays is going to be in a book?  I know, I’m shocked, too!  The book is Primal Picnics by Whole World Press and it’s an anthology of completely made-up myths about food.  Also included is an essay by popular FotF guest poster Barry Foy of Devil’s Food Dictionary fame, as well as some other talented writers and poets.  Anyway, it should be a good read, so I’ll let you know when it hits shelves this spring so you can check it out.  In the meantime, here is a much-condensed, unedited taste of what to expect from my contribution, which is to say the usual foolishness. 

Indian Pudding: A History

It has long been assumed that Indian pudding is made from 100% pure Indians.  Not so.  In fact, the residents of New Delhi recently won a class-action lawsuit to strike their name from Yankee recipes and pudding-related literature (retroactive to the year 1620), since they have no idea how they ended up as the main ingredient in the first place. 

The origins of this sweet and sloppy corn-based dessert have been hotly disputed by modern food historians and chefs alike.  Most agree that it originated in America, not India.  The native peoples of the New World had been cultivating corn for thousands of years before the Europeans arrived, and anthropological evidence supports that they regularly supplemented their hunter/gatherer diet with some iteration of mushy maize.  But some give the credit for what we have come to know as Indian pudding to the British settlers, invoking its striking resemblance to English hasty pudding.  Except for the rather obvious presence of corn. 

In order to make pudding, you see, you need some kind of starch.  Lacking the traditional wheat and on the brink of starvation, the settlers, who believed corn to be food fit only for livestock, eventually had to “settle” for cornmeal (hence, their name).  Each night, the British solemnly prayed for deliverance from the evil pangs of hunger that drew them to loiter pathetically at the outskirts of the native villages, stomachs rumbling like drums.  The ever-patient Native Americans, sick and tired of finding their corn crop hacked to pieces in the night, finally decided to teach the colonists how to grow their own corn.

Native 1: Like that, okay.  Now, leave us alone.

Colonist 1: But, these plants take up so much space.  We’re going to need to cut some trees down.

Native 1: Keep the trees.  Don’t eat so much.

Colonist 1: But, I’m hungry.

Native 1: Eat other things.  One can’t live on corn alone.

Colonist 1: Not now, perhaps.  But maybe one fine day…

Armed with the secrets to corn cultivation (sun, water), the British got right to work on recipe development.  Step 1:  Mask the corn flavor.  Cinnamon and ginger were added with little Puritanical restraint, as well as imported molasses to sweeten things up (for the kids, they insisted).  The Native Americans, realizing their tactical error, got busy making some improvements of their own—namely, the addition of local, sustainably tapped maple syrup. 

A vicious game of one-upmanship ensued.  New toppings were rolled out.  Cook-offs were scheduled, then abruptly cancelled due to plagues/scalpings.  Mothers on both sides were hypothetically but very colorfully disrespected.  Finally, an emergency meeting was called to settle the most pressing issue: who would get the credit for inventing this distinctly American dish.  The honorable tribal leader, Weeps with Great Fury, spoke on behalf of the native peoples, with smooth-talking settler, Manny F. Destiny, representing the colonists’ interests. 

Manny: So, we want the pudding. 

(Loooong pause) 

Manny: That’s our final offer.

Weeps: Offer rejected.

Manny: Okay, okay.  Tell me what it would take for us to walk away with the pudding.

Weeps: That’s our corn you’re using.  You call it ‘Indian meal,’ though we call it ‘Divine Grain Graced to Us By the Earth in Times of Good Health and Providence.’

Manny: It’s not like you invented corn.  We can grow it, too.

Weeps: That’s not what you said last year. 

Manny: How about now?  Can we have the pudding now?

Weeps: You need to offer something in return. 

Manny: Fine.  How about some blankets?

Weeps: We’re not cold. 

Manny: Trinkets?

Weeps: They are very shiny.  But, not shiny enough for pudding.  You can have pemmican.

Manny: Pemmican?  What’s that?

Weeps: Dried meat and berries. 

Manny: …(dry heaves)

Weeps: It’s good for long journeys…

Manny: I think we might be here for a while.

It went back and forth like this for quite some time, and the two parties seemed to be at an impasse.  Finally, Manny offered up the following compromise:

Manny: How about this?  One of us gets this land, and the other gets the pudding.

Weeps: One cannot possess the land.  The land possesses us. 

Manny: So…if the earth decided to “possess” us and not you, then you would get the pudding.  And if the earth “possessed” you, then we would get the pudding.

Weeps: If you get the pudding, you will leave?

Manny: Yes.  But we retain all print and electronic rights to Indian pudding from now until infinity in all media yet to be invented. 

The natives consult briefly. 

Weeps: We accept.  The earth will decide.  She always chooses correctly.  And as a gesture of goodwill, we present you with pemmican for your travels.

Manny: Mmmmmm…(gagging).  Chewy.  And for you, some trinkets.  I’ll even wrap them up for you in this nice, warm blanket. 

The rest, as they say, is history.  The colonists stayed.  Never trust the earth.  At least the British kept their word and relinquished all claims of pudding authorship.  If only the U.S. copyright office had gotten the name right.

Hot Stacks

Oh my god, you guys, I have to tell you about this awesome place I discovered. They let you pick out books to borrow, as many as you want, FOR FREE. No kidding. I mean, assuming you return them on time or miniscule charges will accrue. It’s called a “public library” and there’s one pretty much everywhere. There are free slow computers with even slower Internet access, too. Why haven’t we heard anything about these “public libraries” before?

Now that we’ve cancelled our Netflix account, discontinued our magazine subscriptions, and slashed every area of our budget besides mortgage, utilities, and food, I’m starting to explore all of the areas of the public library, not just the book section. Like the public restrooms. Just kidding, but did you know that you can rent DVDs? It’s true! Cookbooks? Of course. Magazines. Well, you can at least flip through them on-site and write out your freelance ideas onto note cards that will later be formulated into query letters that will be systematically rejected by every one of those publications because everyone has cancelled their magazine subscriptions. Apparently, I’m shooting myself in the foot with this whole library thing, but that’s okay because the building has these large, low buttons that, if you aim your cane just right, activate these automatic doors that open right in front of you. AMAZING!

Anyway, I’ve been reading a lot of books lately. First, I read all of the breast cancer memoirs that have been published, both to help me sort out some of this emotional baggage that’s been packed away for six months, and also to see if all of the cancer-related writing that I diverted away from this blog and into a folder in the dank basement recesses of my hard drive could be turned into anything useful. Maybe something that might help somebody else. But no, according to my formal queries. Apparently, cancer’s not funny. Really? It’s not? Thanks for telling me. Also, it’s overpublished. Call us back when you have a more obscure, deadlier disease. Okay. I’ll keep my fingers crossed! Also, nobody reads essays anymore. Are you sure about that? Short-form writing is dead. (cough) Twitter.

But that’s okay. I didn’t want to write about cancer anyway. Cancer doesn’t deserve it. So I’m back to reading food books, and, my oh my, do I love them. Here are some of my favorites:

• Cod by Mark Kurlansky. Doesn’t this sound like the most boring read ever? About a fish. Well, it’s not. The history and plight of the cod are fascinating and still very important today. If only my high school social studies teachers were able to convey history so enjoyably. Kurlansky also wrote Salt about the humble mineral that changed the world.

• Farm City by Novella Carpenter. A UC Berkeley grad moves to Oakland and starts a small urban farm amid the gangs and crackhouses. First it’s just vegetables, but soon she’s raising poultry, bees, rabbits, and pigs. From dumpster-diving for pig chow to navigating the transition from life to their inevitable death, her writing is full of dry humor and a passionate love of food.

• A Platter of Figs by David Tanis. Written by the co-chef of Chez Panisse, this cookbook is full of relatively simple, seasonal menu ideas that will put your farm vegetables to good use. The photography is absolutely gorgeous and makes you yearn for in-season cherry tomato crostini with ricotta and Vietnamese cucumbers. The Preschooler was fascinated by this book and made me help him read the recipe names over and over and over again. I didn’t mind a bit.

• The Jungle Effect by Daphne Miller. Possibly my favorite so far (though I haven’t finished it), this book examines how certain indigenous diets evolved, from Mexico to Cameroon, and how they relate to low incidences of diabetes, cancer, and heart disease in those same populations. The idea is to examine how some of these concepts can be applied to our diet today to help counteract the negative impacts of a modern, industrialized diet. Fascinating stuff, I tell you. Very interesting psychological insights as well. There are a couple of copies available at the Lexington and Medfield libraries, if you’re interested (you can also request that a copy be sent to your own branch if you’re part of the Minuteman Library Network).

So, what else have you guys been reading lately?

Test Kitchen Confidential

Every once in while, a magazine will take pity on my queries and let me write something.  It’s not often, so when it happens, it’s cause for celebration.  My latest article is in Tufts Magazine, my alma mater’s fine publication.  It’s about my short but memorable time working behind the scenes of America’s Test Kitchen.  It’s also, quite possibly, the best thing I’ve ever written (not saying much, I know).

Link is here: Test Kitchen Confidential

I wonder if Chris Kimball has a sense of humor?  Guess we’ll find out.

Taking Stock

I’m kind of burnt out, if you must know, so posting may be light this week and next.  I say “may” because as soon as I commit to taking a blog vacation, I suddenly get bombarded by inspiration in the most mundane things, and then I have to handcuff myself to the radiator so I don’t spend six hours on the computer when I’m supposed to be doing other stuff.  Stuff in the vicinity of the radiator, I guess.

Me: (in my best whine) I can’t think of anything to write about.

Me: Fine.  Don’t write then. 

Me: …

Me: That’s right, the blog is closed.  You’re cut off.

Me: Wait, no... 

Me: Don’t worry, there are plenty of other blogs for people to read.

Me: But what about all this important shit I have to write about?

Me: (sigh) Like what.

Me: Like, um…stock.  Yeah.  Somebody asked a good question about stock last week and they deserve an answer, goddamnit.

See?  Some might call it co-dependency, but I prefer to think of it as outsmarting writer’s block.  Tomorrow, we’ll see if it worked.

Sweet Tweets

In case you’re wondering why I haven’t broken up with Twitter, yet, here are a handful of reasons:

• Methane plume on Mars is a sign of life but, more importantly, real possibility that pork may exist on other planets. –@karlstier

• Going to the gym a few hours after eating at Denny's is more exorcism than exercise. –@matthewbaldwin

• There must be one honest person in Nigeria, and I bet that person can't get a response to a single email. –@wisekaren

• Getting to clean and simple is dirty and complicated. –@simplebits

• My bathroom smells like cumin.  –@davidlebovitz

In the Land of Too Much Information that is the interwebz, there’s something to be said for a 140-character maximum, no?

No Free Lunches

Lately, I’ve noticed that people are only interested in me writing for them if I’ll do it for free.  Which I won’t.  I think the lack of ads on my blog gives the wrong impression.  I also won’t write for “exposure,” “potential fame,” or “certain glory,” none of which are quantifiable in just how they might be applied to my heating bill.  So when BlogHer approached me about writing for them, I was thrown off balance by the negotiation process, which went a little something like this.

Her: Want to blog for us?

Me: I only write for free for myself.  This is an automated message.  I only write for free for myself.

Her: We’ll pay you.

Me: Sure you will.

Her: No, really.

Me: Pay me in what?  Clam shells?  I already live near the water.

Her: …American dollars.

(I consult with the other voices in my head: “She’s bluffing.”  “Is American currency even worth anything anymore?”  “Find out how much.” “It won’t buy us any fur coats, but it might be enough to get the cleaners back, praise Jesus.”  “Pssst, try to talk her down on the word count.”) 

So, I’ll be blogging over at BlogHer once a week from now on until they fire me, which shouldn’t be long.  My first post is up here.  It’s about, uh…me.

And It Begins

The winter squash I mean.  At the farm today, we got the first of many to come, I’m sure.  These cool nights have arrived a little too soon for my taste.  I like to be under the down comforter at night, don’t get me wrong, but we technically still have over a month of actual summer left.  Let’s not be too hasty.  At this rate, it’ll be snowing by the end of September and we’ll be totally fucked if we decide to do this year’s Eat Local Challenge in October.  (October?  Really?  Thanks a lot, Jen Maiser.)

Anyway, speaking of fall and the elephant-sized pile of squash in the room, I have an article in the September/October issue of Yankee Magazine that’s out right now on butternut squash.  My article starts on page 92, so even if you don’t want to splurge for the soup recipe I was moaning about six months ago, you can at least flip to that page at the supermarket and say to no one in particular, “Hey, I know that idiot!” 

Maybe if I spent as much time sending out query letters as I do blogging, I’d have an actual freelance career. 

Nah.

Fun Fact

Did you know that butternut squash, the variety we all know and love and hold so dear, was invented in Waltham, Massachusetts?  Maybe invented isn’t the right word.  Developed?  It’s true.  By a guy named Bob Young.  UMass said so.

So, here I am, sitting in Waltham, Massachusetts, still working on this squash article because I’m a slacker, and it turns out that butternut squash was practically born in my own backyard.  My editor is going to think I’m just making shit up. 

In the Test Kitchen

I’m working on a freelance article, and, of course, it has to be about squash.  I’ve been putting it off and putting it off because, you know, it’s about squash.  None of my previous stabs at original squash recipes had driven me wild, but finally, finally (on my last CSA butternut), I came up with a recipe I love.  I even heard myself say out loud to no one in particular, “This is fucking delicious.”  And you know I don’t like to bandy about gratuitous profanity. 

Unfortunately, I can’t share the recipe right now.  The magazine is paying me actual money, and you, my friends?  You are not.  But if you’re still with me in September/October 2008, I promise to tell you then. 

(Update 8/08: I lied.  It would be bad form to post the recipe while the magazine is still on newsstands.  Maybe later if you ask nicely.)

My, Time Flies

Why, it seems like just yesterday when I wrote my very first blog post.  To think, after a whole year, my content still hasn’t improved.  They say practice makes perfect, but I think that’s a load of crap.

Over this past year, I’ve learned many things, most of them the hard way.  One was to read my camera manual (actually, I still haven’t learned that one).  Another was to write my blog entries in a Word document first before copying them into Typepad, just in case the Typepad people are spying, criticizing all aspects of my creative process.  You know, like department store staff behind the mirrors of dressing rooms.  The bastards.  This policy of paranoia also comes in handy on the rather frequent chance that your browser application might unexpectedly quit mid-sentence.

Every once in a while, though, I write something that’s just too stupid to even begin to ask you to read (like the one where I go to Confession after 15 years and ask the priest if my estrangement from the Church, as my dad has suggested, is the reason why Dunkin’ Donuts’ doughnuts suck so badly).  I keep all of these types of idiotic posts in that same holding document forever and ever.  Maybe for a rainy day when I’m willing to settle, maybe for a particularly depressing menstrual cycle when I find myself running outside to scream at the trees for no reason.  (It’s just wind.  Stop moving, YOU STUPID TREEEEEEEESSS.)  For example.  (I do try to weed out the menstrual posts as best I can, but I’m not always successful.)

Anyway, what I’m left with after this whole year is 86 pages worth of posts that never made it onto the blog for one reason or another.  Eighty-six PAGES of rejects.  That’s right, you’ve been reading the good stuff.  Scary.

I’m not going to get all mushy on you on my blog birthday, don’t worry, but it’s true what they say about blogging improving your life in unexpected ways.  This rather far-flung community of bloggers and readers has made me think, made me act, made me laugh, made me cry.  Which means you guys suck way worse than Cats.

As we approach Thanksgiving, I’d like to thank my reader(s) for reading me everyday, with the glaring exception of Saturdays and Sundays (I don’t know what the hell you’re all doing on the weekends that’s so damned important, by the way).  I’d also like to thank the people who comment regularly or just whenever the mood strikes because it adds so much to the conversation.  Even if I get sad when you eventually leave me to live your own lives (Where are you Heath and Jim?  Don’t grow up, yet.).

Anyway, blah, blah, blah, I really like presents (expensive ones).  I also like lurkers who get brave and delurk.  Except that I figure some of you might be lurking for good reason.  Like the hair you’re growing out is still at that awkward stage.  Or you have a gimpy left leg.  Or the mental illness.  I figure you have your reasons and I can respect that.  In fact, do me a favor and keep that shit to yourself.  I don’t need any competition for crazy on my own blog. 

But if you do want to drop me a line, the magic number is 13.  That’s the record number of comments I’ve received (on this post and this post), and that’s the number to beat.  It will make the difference between a good blog birthday and a shitty one.  No posting twice (you hear that, Self?).  To make things interesting, I shan’t be posting again until we get there.  Will I be back for a second year?  We’ll find out.

Happy birthday, FotF.

How Not To Pitch a Story

It’s funny how sometimes you can write something and think it’s so brilliant, witty, and overall completely bulletproof.  And you wonder why things didn’t work out.  Then, a few years later, you stumble across the same piece of writing, and you can’t stop laughing at its ridiculousness, both in concept and execution.  Was I serious?  Yes.  Yes, I was.

I have one such piece of writing to share.  Actually, I have a stack of such writing, but not to share.  This is not a joke.  The following is an excerpt from a real query I pitched to more than one national food magazine three years ago about a story on vegetable-based party dips:

At any given party, you can be sure of two things.  The obligatory crudité platter, jewel-toned and geometrically arranged, will look just as pristine at the end of the party as it did at the start.  Meanwhile, the chips and dip that were haphazardly flung into the nearest open containers will appear as though they were ravaged by wolves.

I am interested in submitting a story idea to [redacted] magazine about healthy party dips for the vegetable-averse.  The problem with veggie platters is that they’re backwards.  Party food has always been about the dip.  But ribbony red peppers don’t want to wait in the wings while Hidden Valley Ranch steals the show.  Cauliflower doesn’t want to be the wallflower in the crudité chorus line.  And, frankly, it shows.

Let’s just stop the insanity right here.  Hmmm.  I wonder why this idea was rejected?  Let’s review.

Rules broken = 32 (but we’ll just focus on the top 5):

1. Highbrow magazines don’t like their writers to drop names like Hidden Valley Ranch.

2. Highbrow magazines try to avoid comparing foodstuffs to chorus girls and/or anything show-tunish.

3. Highbrow magazines don’t like to anthropomorphize food in any other way, either. 

Actually, this was corroborated by another source.  In an article I wrote for Boston Magazine years ago, my editor axed a suicidal hot dog from my opener.  When I asked him why, he said, “Hot dogs don’t commit suicide.” 

Oh. 

However, on food blogs, suicidal food is a-okay and, in fact, highly encouraged (see Fancy Toast for a pictorial account of a despondent Brussels sprout.)

4. Highbrow magazines think vegetables are swell.

5. Highbrow magazines don’t like it when you act like a dumb-ass in your query letter. 

Oh.

Ah, the hilarious life of a struggling freelance writer.

(It should be noted that one editor of the highbrow magazines in question handled the rejection of said query with great tact and professionalism, free from the spirit-crushing techniques usually associated with the industry.  In return, said editor was rewarded with…more of the same.)

Cooking and Writing Have Lots in Common

Raw shrimp, just because.

As it turns out, this blog isn’t just about food.  It’s about other things, too, for which food serves as a convenient metaphor.  You know, including food itself.

One of the things it’s about is honesty.  But, actually, it’s just as much about dishonesty as it is honesty.  For example, I mentioned in a previous post that I didn’t have any friends.  Clearly, a lie.  I have one friend.  Actually, two (one is a backup).  The other handful of people I’m sometimes seen with are acquaintances or, as I like to call them, “reserves” who get called up when “main friend” and “beta test friend” are busy having sex or something when I finally get a night out of the house. 

I’ll just leave it up to my friends to figure out which one they are.  And…now I have no friends.

Which brings me to my point.  Sometimes, through dishonesty we find honesty.  Other times, the reverse is true.  Like when we use the right words, the polite words, but what we end up saying isn’t really the truth of it.

Where I was mistakenly hoping this tangent would lead was to the subject of writing.  Only recently have I admitted to anyone, including myself, that I’m a writer.  That I actually write things down, read them, rewrite them, reread them, think I’m brilliant for a few fleeting moments, come to my senses, and then refuse to ever let anyone see them.  The reason is because, until now, I’ve always been afraid of “that look.”  The look that says, “you silly, deluded little girl, just because you write in your diary twice a year doesn’t make you a writer.”

I’m not sure anyone really said that out loud, but it doesn’t matter because people who like to think of themselves as writers, or artists of any sort, are also psychic.  Nothing gets by us.  Nothing.

What’s worse than the look are the teacher’s comments.  What’s worse than the teacher’s comments are the rejection letters.  What’s worse than the letters are the editor’s comments.  See where I’m going with this?

Except that they’re all good because they make you better.  And you won’t get better unless you write.  So write.  The same goes for cooking.

I hope to write honestly (but not so honestly that disgruntled readers can hunt me down and kill me).  I'm not above taking cheap shots, but I hope there is always a grain of truth in what I write.  That's why I use my real name.  However, as a former fact-checker, I can tell you with absolute certainty, truth is in the eye of the beholder.  That's what the comment section is for.  Use it.

My name is Tammy.  I love food.  I love to write.

Oh, and I use the F word occasionally.  Sometimes, it’s the only word that can truly convey my meaning.  You will see it again.  My apologies in advance.