Process Writing

This class was amazing. Do I need to say anything more? Seriously though, I feel like I have grown so much throughout the last ten weeks, and in so many ways. This class coincided so wonderfully with my other two classes. I don’t know when this will happen to me again, but I hope that it does. I could find so often themes that intertwined between all three of the subjects I was studying; Food & Travel, Social Psychology, and Anthropology & Sociology. 

I struggled somewhat through my Journalism I class. I felt that I was not at all cut out for my previous views on Journalism. Though I still may never be able to be Carrie Bradshaw, I had so much fun writing this quarter. I feel now that I have a voice on the page and I can and should do this. I am actually proud of the work that I have done, which has been a difficult thing for me thus far. I have always felt that writing was so forced, but now I have a different perspective. FUN! 

Though it was difficult for me to keep up with the blog posts and comments, I am glad that we used blogs in this class. Not only are blogs the way of the future, but they were also very interactive and fun. It was nice to be able to include pictures with our works and also to be able to link articles to go into more depth over topics we wished to cover. Blogs are also so much more personal. Call me silly, but it was much like Facebook. You can post pictures, keep up with friends, and speak your mind. This is important and the new age of Journalism!

This class helped me in deciding what the future holds for me, and I hope it did the same for the rest of you. As Marin has said, I feel so much that I have grown and learned so much with the rest of you. You are all such beautiful people and I have enjoyed the discussions and lessons I have shared with each of you. Please continue to keep me updated with your lives, send me links to the next blogs you create! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

La Casa de Disaster - Revised

(Written for the Jackson Citizen Patriot)


Upon entering the month old La Casa de Rodriguez, the diner is greeted by one of four Jacksonian girls. All look no older than college age, and are eager to sit you down and get you started.

La Casa advertises “authentic” Mexican and Tex Mex cuisine on the establishment’s web page. This makes La Casa Jackson’s second take on Mexican cuisine, as we are also home to Los Tres Amigos. 

La Casa is located on Wildwood Avenue, in the building formerly home to a failed ice cream and hotdog shop. It’s sign stands out, which is good because it’s building is hidden between two other businesses. While Wildwood is common stomping grounds to those in need of a car repair or on their way to the airport, Jacksonians searching for a bite may easily pass over La Casa.

Even if a driver does happen upon La Casa, they would be better served to stick with the old, and say out with the new.

Looking from the walk-up cash register and kitchen area next to the door, a few potted plants separate the dining area from the empty, tiled “lobby.” Though snow covers the one row of cars found outside the two windows of la Casa’s dining room, patrons may be transported to a summer picnic scene via tasteless plastic red and white checkered table cloths covering each table. Picnics are meant to stay outside, and plastic tablecloths are better served at the children’s table at family gatherings. Mismatching chairs make a customer wonder whether to turn and run.

Salsa music is barely heard over the roar of the kitchen, which makes little sense after seeing just one cook. Nothing, save the restaurant’s still under-construction website, screams “authentic.”  Maybe the Eduardo Fuss and Diego Rivera plastic framed pictures hanging strategically between windows.

The scene is that of older couples searching for a quick bite. With waitresses running from table to table, the nicest of which is in training, a diner immediately senses the urgency of the typical American meal; cheap and fast. Turn and run.

Patrons may wish to begin their meal with unlimited chips and salsa, but should not expect a refill. Maybe they will be asked again when the food has arrived and they are no longer necessary. The salsa choices are two, hot and mild, and resemble nothing more than a watery store bought can of  Pace or Chi Chi’s. Not horrible though, free as it is. The hot salsa holds quite a kick. It leaves the tongue tingly and begging for water, which is a reminder that the complimentary water has yet to be refilled.

If the customer is feeling adventurous or simply wishes to make up for the lack of a tortilla chip refill, they can order an appetizer. Chicken filled flautas may spike their interest, but remember to ask for them extra hot or you may just end up with lukewarm. Mexican egg rolls are also offered as part of the appetizer menu, and upon the arrival of the flautas, a patron may wonder if the chef has gotten them confused. Wrapped as tightly as an egg roll would be, the four rolls are covered in a spicy salsa and overpowered with onions. Opting for a fork and knife, the fluffy fried layers fall apart when cut and the center is lukewarm at best.

Upon ordering entrees, do not expect to know what you will be eating, though a brief description is included on the menu. Waitresses do not know the difference between a chimichanga and a wet burrito. Maybe the waitresses haven’t had time to learn, or maybe most customers don’t feel the need to ask, they just want to get in and out.

The dinner menu is vast and after some contemplation, orders may be made. Make sure you remember it’s name though, because you are bound to be asked again and again. “Sir, did you want chicken or beef in the chimichanga,” or “Miss, did you say hot or mild salsa?”

When as last a customer makes an order, the food will be out before the menu has been closed. Maybe for this credit is due. Many Americans are looking for a quick bite, and so this would satisfy most customers, older couples on date night not looking to spend much time with their partner.

Maybe due to the quickness of the food preparation, the entrees are also cold. Though a waitress would not know the answer, it can only be imagined that the main ingredient, for the beef in particular, is salt. Only a few bites can be withstood before trying desperately to slurp up what water is left beneath the ice. The salt does not allow for great food intake, and with a full belly upon leaving La Casa, it again feels empty just an hour later. It is an experience much like quickly devouring American Chinese food covered in soy sauce.

If you opt for the chicken route, better luck may follow. Though thin cuts, the blackened grilled chicken breast has great flavor. Similar to fajitas, but with a fancier name and housed under the “traditional Mexican dishes” menu, Carne a la Parilla lacked a skillet and common veggie fixings. Grilled onions served as a satisfactory side as well as refried beans and rice mixed with peas and carrots. (Again, much like eating browned Chinese rice!) 

The beef wet burrito and chimichanga tasted similar save a tortilla versus a fluffed and crunchy outer shell, respectively. A simple beef taco completed  the “choose your own three” entree. For those feeling like reliving their college cafeteria days, give this dish a try.

All in all, La Casa seems yet another Jackson trend. Once the few who actively and often take Wildwood Avenue have tried and been disappointed by the Mexican cuisine, it will be yet another failed small business endeavor. Non-strategically located, and with a fierce competitor in Los Tres Amigos, La Casa’s days are numbered.

La Casa de Disaster

  Upon entering the Casa de Rodriguez, one will be greeted by one of four Jacksonian girls. All look no older than college age, and none appear to have even a hint of latino in them.

But la Casa offers authentic Mexican cuisine.

Looking from the walk-up cash register and kitchen area next to the door, a few potted plants separate the dining area from the empty, tiled “lobby.” Though snow covers the one row of cars found outside the two windows of la Casa’s dining room, one may be transported to summer  through the tasteless plastic red and white checkered table cloths covering each table. Mismatching chairs makes one wonder whether to turn and run.

Salsa music is barely heard over the roar of the kitchen, which makes little sense after seeing only one cook, thankfully, latino. Nothing, save the month-old restaurants under-construction website, screams “authentic.”  Maybe the Eduardo Fuss and Diego Rivera plastic framed pictures hanging strategically between windows.

The scene is that of older sloppy couples searching for a quick bite. With waitresses running from table to table, the nicest of which is in training, one senses the urgency of the typical American meal; cheap and fast. Here again, one should turn and run.

One may begin their meal with unlimited chips and salsa, but should not expect a refill. Maybe one will be asked again when the food has arrived and they are no longer necessary. The salsa choices are two, hot and mild, and resemble nothing more than a watery store bought can of  Pace or Chi Chi’s. Not horrible though, free as it is. The hot salsa holds quite a kick. It leaves the tongue tingly and begging for water, which reminds one that their water has still not been refilled.

If one is feeling adventurous, they may wish to try an appetizer. With few choices, and all sounding relatively safe, flautas may spike one’s interest, just remember to ask for them extra hot. Mexican egg rolls are also served and upon the arrival of the flautas, one may wonder if the chef has gotten them confused. Wrapped as one would imagine an egg roll would be, the four rolls are covered in a spicy salsa and overpowered with onions. Opting for a fork and knife, the fluffy fried layers fall apart when cut and the center is lukewarm at best.

Upon ordering entrees, do not expect to know what you will be eating. Other than a brief description on the menu, waitresses do not know the difference between a chimichanga and a wet burrito. The little knowledge may be paired directly with the unwillingness to learn. Maybe most customers don’t feel the need to ask, they just want to get in and out.

The dinner menu is vast and after some contemplation, orders may be made. Make sure you remember it’s name though, because you are bound to be asked again and again. “Sir, did you want chicken or beef in the chimichanga,” or “Miss, did you say hot or mild salsa?”

When as last one does order, the food will be out before you’ve closed the menu. Maybe for this credit is due. Many Americans are looking for a quick bite, and so this would satisfy most customers, older couples on date night not looking to spend much time with their partner.

Maybe due to the quickness of the food preparation, the entrees are also cold. Though a waitress would not know the answer, one can only imagine that the main ingredient, for the beef in particular, is salt. One can only withstand a few bites before trying desperately to slurp up what water is left beneath the ice. The salt does not allow for great food intake, and one leaves feeling full, but hungry an hour later. Don’t believe in la Casa’s authenticity, Americanized Chinese food dose the same darn thing!

If you opt for the chicken route, you are in for better luck. Though thin cuts, the blackened grilled chicken breast has great flavor. Similar to fajitas, but with a fancier name and housed under the “traditional Mexican dishes” menu, Carne a la Parilla lacked a skillet and common veggie fixings. Grilled onions served as a satisfactory side as well as refried beans and rice. 

The beef wet burrito and chimichanga tasted similar save a tortilla versus a fluffed and crunchy outer shell, respectively. A simple beef taco completed  the “choose your own three” entree. For one nostalgic of their college’s cafeteria, this meal would do just fine.

All in all, la Casa seems yet another Jackson trend. Once the few who actively and often take Wildwood Ave. have tried and been disappointed by the Mexican cuisine, it will be yet another failed small business endeavor. Non-strategically located, la Casa’s days are numbered.

Pre-Meal Jitters!

Finding an “authentic” or “ethnic” restaurant proved highly difficult in Jackson, as I’d imagined it would. That is the price I payed for being home for the weekend though. After tirelessly searching www.urbanspoon.com, I thought to check the Citizen Patriot for Jackson restaurant reviews. I found just one result, that could hardly have counted as a review, but rather an announcement for a newly opened restaurant. This newly opened place just happened to be “authentic” Tex- Mex and Mexican cuisine.

I have tried Mexican food before, but I’m not so sure that it has been “authentic.” After seeing this newly opened restaurant, I figured I could give it a try. Part of their menu features “traditional Mexican plates,” none of which I have heard of before. I took this as a good sign. It being new combined with the unknown dishes seemed to fit the descriptions of the assignment.

I am rather nervous about the assignment though. Like we talked about in class, I am unsure that I have the authority to try a new food and either “love” or “bash” it. I feel that because I do not have a strong background in Mexican food, I have no room to judge it. I am worried that I will have trouble going out of my comfort zone when using my own money. I will have to fight the urge not to go with the universally safe taco or fajita. 

While the Cit Pat doesn’t seem to have restaurant reviews, I think it would be fun to write toward a Jackson audience. I’m sure that I will have to tone down my cruelty toward my hometown in writing to it’s people, but I believe I could also rather easily write in a relatable way. I am from here, for goodness sakes! 

Due to the area in which I believe the restaurant is in, I’m going to take a guess that it will not be all that busy. I don’t know that many Jacksonians travel down the road it is on looking for a meal. Maybe some “locals” will have heard about it though. It’s funny to think of such a small place having “local” spots, but we most certainly do. I am hopeful though that due to the newness of the place, that the owner will be there and will be happy to talk to me about his new project. 

My last concern is that I am going with Trevor. I am in need of new foods, while I’m almost certain he will opt for something easy. This is going to be infuriating when I’m deciding on what plate to make or break my experience. This assignment is bringing up some nerve-racking obstacles for me and it’s barely begun!

After searching for over an hour for something that didn’t resemble a dark seedy bar or a restaurant found on any exit across America, I hope that I will have found a new place of excitement or glory for our sad little town.

New Trains of Thought

Was anyone else bombarded with all kinds of information they were unaware of? Wow! What an informative introduction! I of course have been a tourist in more places that I guess I even realized throughout my lifetime, but I had no idea the kind of thought and study went toward this field.

The thought that you can be a tourist even in your own home is a new one for me. Though I know that you don’t necessarily need to leave the country to become a tourist, the thought of being one by simply flipping through a cookbook filled with unfamiliar foods is a new concept! I think it’s awesome though. While I was reading I wanted to get out of the library, head back to my dorm, put on some exotic music, sip a drink with a little umbrella in it and flip through a tropical cookbook. The thought that even doing something seemingly silly could somehow transport you and make you think in a bigger way about another culture is really cool to me.

I was also very interested in the fact that we sometimes make certain foods into a “tourist” attraction. Long used the examples of Maine’s lobster or the Georgia peach. These foods are not exclusive to these regions, but because they are easily accessible and many have gone, tried, and liked, they have become staples of those areas. The fact that we can create or destroy a culture’s food is rather powerful. Long paraphrases Donna Gabaccia’s book in saying “as food items were introduced to new consumers and became ‘American,’ they sometimes lost their original meaning as markers of ethnicity. However, those foods that maintained a tourist status also maintained their ethnic symbolism.” This passage makes me wonder how we decide what is “ethnic” and what is “American.” (I think we began to touch on this question in class Tuesday).

Also important to note was the explanation of “other.” We have talked extensively about the “other” in my Anthropology and Sociology class, and it was exciting for me to be able to put these concepts into a different perspective with this essay. As far as food goes,  I have held for some time that there is only “cultural” or “ethnic” foods. Here, we are delving into ideas of food representation far beyond just two categories. Foods may be “other” to us due to time-relation, religious/ethical reasons, regional differences, reasons of gender or age, or even socioeconomic reasons. It is amazing to me the variety which the word “other” holds. There are so many forms of experiencing new things, and there are so so many new things to experience.

(Im)perfect Pizza

My mom has never been all that domestic. She can clean like a madwoman, but when it comes to the kitchen, not quite her forte. Consequently, my dad has done nearly all of the cooking in my household. Particularly in my younger years, my Dad and I shared meals together all the time. My mom was in nursing school, with an hour commute back and forth from Jackson to Kalamazoo daily. Over the years our meals have evolved from the stages of his college life, to mine. One such meal that has stuck with me, was homemade pizza. By homemade I of course mean a pre-made crust and the addition of our favorite toppings. This was my favorite of all the meals we shared because it was one that I could help with. I am in no way, shape, or form a cook, but when it comes to pizza, I can sure spread a mean can of store-ready sauce!

When I couldn’t make it home to again share this cooking experience with my Dad, I thought hard about whom I could share my meal with. The decision was actually very easy though. Jamie. Jamie is one of my oldest friends at K, and ever so deserving of a gift from a friend she has given so much to. 

The very first time Jamie and I left campus together, I was having a rough day and she offered to take me shoe shopping. Just weeks into our friendship and she already knew how to cure my negativity, I should have known then. I of course found a pair of boots I would have died for in my fragile, impulsive state, but was without a check from work until the following day. Even after wasting a homework filled evening to help out a friend, money already spent on me in gas, she was still willing to lend me $100 to buy a pair of boots I didn’t need. The trust and faith she has in people amazes me still today. Always there in a bind and always willing to give more than she should, I was happy to choose her to cook with.

Jamie is remarkably like a mom away from mom, or in my case, a dad away from dad! Whom else could I depend on to have a pizza pan tucked away in their dorm? She knows all of the answers to the tedious questions that  I so often have asked of my father. She knows things like whether the milk really expires on the day it says on the carton, or how to cure a stomach ache. She is more domestic at nineteen than I believe I will be at forty. (She keeps spices where I house my coffee mugs, and pots and pans where my jeans rest.) Making a pizza was now an even better decision than before; she could help me make it - and God knows I needed help.

To begin our cooking adventure, Jamie and I took a trip to the friendly, neighborhood Meijer. All of the ingredients we needed were housed within three isles of one another, a quick and easy trip, or it should have been. After a grueling afternoon searching for the lovely and scatterbrained Allison, one of our roommates, in Kalamazoo’s Crossroads Mall, we were not looking forward to spending time in yet another crowded superstore where our phone-less friend could wander off again. 

Although we had just talked extensively in class about the many horrors of processed foods, at this venture in my non-working college life, I was unwilling to splurge for the “good stuff.” I also had in mind the pizza of my childhood, a time in which my parents were still relatively poor and just finishing their college educations. The combination of simply not knowing better and a budget resulted in processed pepperoni, cheese, and canned sauce and veggies. To top off the list of unhealthy ingredients, we often chose a ready-to-bake crust that required little to no preparation, save the addition of our favorite toppings. 

Lucky for me, pizza ingredients such as crust, sauce, and pepperoni are now conveniently shelved in one “pizza section.” The most challenging part of the entire Meijer process was finding canned mushrooms. Canned mushrooms you ask? Again with the small budget, my father would splurge on a few cans of the watery goods so that we could eat the leftovers from the bottom of the can with a fork. I had the intent of recreating this experience with Jamie, but found that I did have boundaries after reading “The Omnivore’s Dilemma.” Cooked, yes, uncooked, no.

The following day it was time to cook. In addition to the pizza, I served Ben & Jerry’s half baked ice cream as well as chips and salsa as appetizers. Taking cues from the three step instructions on the back of the crust packaging, we got to work.

First, I spread canola oil on the crust as an inexpensive substitute for olive oil. I then poured roughly half a jar of traditional Pizza Quick Ragu over the surface of the crust and spread it evenly with a spoon. Next came the spreading of the whole package of mozzarella cheese. Notice I’ve used the word “I” twice now, and it was at the cheese stage that Jamie finally protested that she had been recruited to help, not watch! So, we then went on to cover the entire pizza with cheese as well as slices of pepperoni. At this point our pizza was covered from crust to crust in multiple spirals of red - yum. Jamie, holding different views on canned mushrooms, opted out of placing them on her half. I however, covered the obnoxious amount of pepperoni with an obnoxious amount of mushrooms (consistency)! Last, but not least, we used half a jar of banana peppers each to top the pizza off.

Though the instructions on the ready-to-bake crust said our “perfect” pizza would be ready in 7 - 10 minutes, with the extreme weight we had added, the pizza took well over 30 minutes to cook. The juice from the banana peppers and canned mushrooms spilled over the sides as it baked, leaving a far from perfect, sufficiently black outer crust. Jamie had tried to prevent the blackness, but I insisted time and time again that it couldn’t possibly be ready, and this is why we are told from a young age to listen to Momma...

Our pizza was without a doubt trash worthy, but still we ate it. We laughed as with each bite another five mushrooms fell off onto the pan from which we ate. We giggled as we bit into the center where the cheese was only lukewarm. These far from subtle imperfections emulate our  friendship though. Jamie and I are raw and honest, but can laugh and sing and dance in the face of hardships as well. So our pizza burned or I think her goodwill sweater is awful. We went to our favorite breakfast spot the next day and she hated the pants I was wearing. This is how it goes, and let me tell you, these inconsistencies creates perfection. 

A Critique of a Critic

In the article, “In Indianapolis, the World Comes to Eat,” I really loved the way that the contrast between culturally sophisticated foods and simple chain restaurants and stores was used. The thought of many sophisticated cuisines being housed by a strip mall also caught my attention, and right or wrong, kept me amused. I think what is going on is fantastic though. It shows that we are becoming more widely accepting and adventurous. This is truly exciting news!

Mark Bittman’s piece about McDonald’s and their oatmeal strangely hit home for me. Surprisingly enough, several years ago now I did learn one thing about the food industries dirty secrets. For some time, I made it part of my Mickey D’s routine to order a fruit and yogurt parfait with my McChicken and medium fries, thinking I was making at least one healthy choice in my fattening meal. Wrong. I found out later that the parfait’s are about as fattening and artificial as the next thing on the menu. I could have been enjoying a hot fudge sunday for half the price and with the same or similar calorie count! I appreciate people pointing out these secrets. One of my favorite sources if the “Eat this, Not that” books... I guess I’m trying to say that I love a good scandal as well. Thanks Mark!

I could easily relate to Sifton’s “Maximal Flavor for Minimal Cash.” The entire time I was reading, I was thinking back to my mom, sister, and my recent trip to NYC. We are a middle class family who had to stay about an hour outside of the city to afford just three days, so hearing about how to experience my favorite city in the world (thus far) for less was exciting. The way in which Sifton was honest about pricing and had great suggestions for a budget was refreshing. While he threw in some humor, he made it real to a couple who had little to spend. 

The article also made me a bit sad in that I’ve never heard of any of the places he was talking about. I feel like I did when writing my memoir, naive and a small-town girl. I want to go and experience these fabulous places which he speaks of. While my mom put so much time into planning the trip and our meals, still we seem to have missed out on some of the best places to eat in New York! .. Guess I’ll just have to visit again soon :)

AH! I loved the line, “..persistent to heat that is closer to blankets than fire,”  in Sifton’s “The Cheat: A Winter’s Tail.” What a way he has with descriptions! All of his works were delightful to read due to this consistent theme of out of the ordinary description. While he was talking about the food transporting us, I felt as if he were transporting us. This is what I assume he meant to do, and a great critic would do. Honest and heartfelt, and again with the theme, it takes a good eater to know their stuff!

Nostalgia

            Though we read a number of stories for today’s class, I’d like to focus on the ideas in just one in my response, “A Good Appetite” by A. J. Liebling.

            In his piece he talks extensively about an old friend of his, by the name of Toto Mirande. He begins by talking about the great things Mirande has accomplished in his life; he explains the impressive choices he made from the time he was young to make the name for himself that he held at the time of his death. Prospering especially in the area of food was where the author came to know Mirande.

            The air of the piece was that of nostalgia for me. It made me think of meals I’ve shared specifically with my aging grandparents. Many years my seniors, much like Mirande to Liebling, it was once very much easier for me to enjoy the large family get togethers we have had over the years. Nowadays my grandparents seem to be obsessed with this being near the end of their lives. This idea, of course, both terrifies me and angers me. I do not wish to see them as old or deteriorating persons, again, similar to the feelings of Liebling as Mirande grew older and wearier.

            The past few holidays our family has gathered for have had an almost morbid feel to them. My grandparents have begun to consider their wills, which I know is a sign that they know the end is approaching. I have spent much of my life with them and I cannot begin to cope with the idea of them being gone.

            In reading his piece, I began to think of the way I react to these incredibly important people in my life. I realized that I too, like Liebling, have begun to pull away from them. Not wanting to hear or think about their approaching deaths, I have made fewer phone calls, and fewer visits to them. This would seem backward, but Liebling and I simply did not want to see our loved ones go. The thought of this was too much to bear.

            I realize that this piece was a tribute to the meals which he shared with Mirande, but I rationalized it differently I guess. Maybe this was not the right way, but it was my way in reading.

            A final point about his piece and also a theme I found to be tied into many of the other sections was that of, eating well is only possible with a healthy appetite. I really loved this idea. The skinny bitches don’t know a thing! They couldn’t possibly truly enjoy the art of food. I also liked the idea that though many of these stories revolved around the beautiful French cuisine, I might still thoroughly enjoy my meals if I let myself. If I let myself take the time and don’t hold back, I too can enjoy the experiences that these writers have had in exotic and world-renowned restaurants.

Very Rough Draft - Cooking Experience

When I was younger, my Dad and I shared meals together all the time. With my Mom in nursing school, commuting an hour back and forth from Jackson to Kalamazoo daily, we spent a lot of time together. Over the years our meals have evolved from the stages of his college life, to mine. One such meal that has stuck with me, was homemade pizza. By homemade I of course mean a pre-made crust and the addition of our favorite toppings. This was my favorite of all the meals we shared because it was one that I could help with. I am in no way, shape, or form a cook, but when it comes to pizza, I can sure spread a mean can of store-ready sauce!

When I couldn’t make it home to again share this cooking experience with my Dad, I thought hard about whom I could share my meal with. The decision was actually very easy though. Jamie. Jamie is one of my oldest friends at K, and ever so deserving of a gift from a friend she has given so much to. Always there in a bind, always willing to give more than she should, I was happy to choose her to cook for.

Jamie is remarkably like a Mom away from Mom. She knows all of the answers to the little tedious questions that would normally go towards a parent, but we’re away at school. She is insanely domestic and loves to cook. Making a pizza was now an even better decision than before; she could help me make it!

My perfect pizza contains the following; pepperoni, ham, bacon, mushroom, banana pepper, onion, and lots of cheese. Our perfect pizza on a college budget; pepperoni, banana pepper, mushroom, and lots of cheese!

To begin our cooking adventure, Jamie and I took a trip to the friendly, neighborhood Meijer. All of the ingredients we needed were housed within three isles of one another, a quick and easy trip. Making the experience that much easier still, pizza ingredients such as crust sauce and pepperoni are now conveniently shelved in a group. The most challenging part of the entire process was finding canned mushrooms.

The following day it was time for a lazy lunch. In addition to the pizza, Ben & Jerry’s half baked ice cream as well as chips and salsa were provided as the perfect college-esque appetizers.

After several trips back and forth from our third floor dorm rooms to the basement kitchen, we finally had everything that we needed, from silverware to canola oil. Taking cues from the three step instructions on the back of the crust packaging, we got to work.

First, I spread canola oil on the crust as a substitute for olive oil. We then poured roughly half a jar of traditional Pizza Quick Ragu over the surface of the crust and spread it evenly with a spoon. Next came the spreading of the whole package of mozzarella cheese. We then went on to cover the entire pizza with slices of pepperoni. Jamie, holding different views on mushrooms, opted out of placing them on her half. I however, covered the obnoxious amount of pepperoni with an obnoxious amount of mushrooms. Last, but not least, we each used about half a jar of banana peppers to top the pizza off.

Though the instructions on the ready-to-bake crust said our perfect pizza would be ready in 7 - 10 minutes, with the ridiculous amounts of toppings we had added, the pizza took well over 30 minutes to cook. The juice from the banana peppers and canned mushrooms spilled over the sides as it baked, leaving a far from perfect, sufficiently black outer crust. 

My meal comes back to the theme of who you’re sharing it with. Though the pizza had burnt crust and not fully cooked through toppings, the experience was what mattered. Jamie has been through so much with me, and it felt good to spend time with her outside of the dorm. It felt great to give back to her after she has given so much to me. It felt great to make a memory that I’m sure we’ll be laughing about for years to come.

Sixteen and Reckless

The look on my Mom’s face was priceless. “Stephanie, I never realized you could lie to me.” Her world was all but shattered as I told her of my secret adventure to Chicago that I had taken just four months after receiving my license to visit the boyfriend I’m still not supposed to date. Coming from a girl who at nearly twenty still won’t sneak a sip of a drink at the bar for fear of being caught, this memory, even years later still feels defiant. Maybe not much to an outsider looking in, but to me it was about love and recklessness.

Performing this act of defiance at sixteen, I felt like a badass. As I’ve had time to reflect on my impulsivity, I know that I made a potentially life-threatening decision. When I say life-threatening, I mean it in more ways than one. My life would literally have been threatened if my parents had found out about my secret trip to the windy city.

Spending day after day in a town of roughly 35,000, where the most impressive attraction to a teen is the Starbucks on the edge of town (notice, the way out), doesn’t exactly properly prepare one to visit a large city. With a Starbucks on every corner, cars that don’t yield to pedestrians, and shop after shining shop to replace the oh-so-opposite-of-fabulous one corridor “Westwood Mall”, a small town girl (as you may imagine) has much to take into account upon entering a real city. The experience of this small-town-girl-gone-cosmopolitan first occurred at sixteen. 

My boyfriend, then of two years, was living and working in Chicago. A three plus hour drive from Jackson would mean crossing two state lines and driving in heavy Chicago traffic. With the experience of rush hour in downtown Jackson under my belt, I figured I could handle Chicago. Considering if my parents found out about the excursion I’d lose my life, what threat did a little downtown traffic pose?

I fibbed and said I would be shopping out of town with a girlfriend and returning home to stay the night with her. I remember waiting and waiting for my parents to call and ask why they had seen Drew driving around town when we were supposedly together. Thankfully, karma was working with me that day, Bob and Pam never so much as sent me a text.

I set out with just enough of the then popular Camel No. 9’s to get me through the long and lonely drive. Three CD’s and half a pack later, I was learning quickly that the Chicago speed limit was a myth, even as far out of the city as the skyway! Apparently, 80 was the new 55!

After being hit on in line at the toll booth (obviously cigarettes and blonde hair turn on Chicagoan boys) I finally made my way through the tight streets of the suburbs wondering why Trevor had told me he lived in Chicago. In my mind, being able to see the Sears Tower from your balcony didn’t count. Gated car lots and store fronts created a big city anxiety unknown to a girl from a family who never locks their door. Finally arriving, relief washed over me as my high school sweetheart ran out to parallel park my car.

Trevor had been living in Chicago for three months at that time and was eager to get me downtown. Also a small town boy, the lure of Michigan Avenue was undeniable. 

No longer the little girl in the Colombia jacket begging her mother to take her into the American Girl store, I felt the epitome of a grownup, strolling along the beautifully lit streets with my man on my arm. 

After a bit of  delicious window shopping at Coach, Ralph Lauren, and Tiffany’s, we settled on the Grand Luxe Cafe for our dinner.

As we fought through the Friday night dinner crowd, I was not in the least inconvenienced by the sign on the side doors asking us to please use the revolving door. This was just another welcomed step in my big city training. Inside, the dim lighting and close contact, beautiful trench coats and older couples left me feeling both silly and girly, yet grown up and in the right place.

The anticipation of the cozy booth awaiting us in the floor to ceiling glass room Trevor had requested was almost more important than the meal itself. Being one of the many, anonymous, that night is something that I have come to long for. Though the boy I loved drew me to the city, the more intense love I felt in leaving was for the city itself.

The meal at the Grand Luxe of course went above any expectation I had had. To be sitting across from my best friend, to be watching the lovely people walking with their expensive shopping bags, and to feel the magic of the city lights was the beginning of the end for Jackson and I. 

A few blocks off Michigan Ave. Trevor stopped in front of a Starbucks and ushered me in. Knowing already to order me the nonfat toffee nut latte, I had a moment of peace to reflect. I had come here for love and to go against the grain, but I left with a new direction for the rest of my life in mind.

       Walking back into the crisp November air, we stopped in front of one of the thousands of buildings to smoke a final cigarette. The taste of nicotine mixed with coffee on my tongue, the taste of young love in my heart, and the new taste of the city filling my young mind took me over. As I tossed the burning remnant to the ground I knew that I hadn’t had quite enough, this was just the beginning for me. 

"Good to Eat, Good the Think"

This was definitely my favorite section of The Omnivore’s Dilemma. I was more or less captivated from the beginning. Pollan’s phrase, “good to eat, good the think” came up again and again throughout section three, and made me think. Surrounding this thought was the act of being a vegetarian. Being a vegetarian would most likely seem better “to think” than being an omnivore - eating processed and possibly inhumanely slaughtered meat. Pollan looks deeply into both sides of being a vegetarian versus eating meat. 

The part about the cruelty shown to hens that are used only for their eggs was difficult to read. Pollan brings up some stickiness about a vegetarian’s argument that eating meat is inhumane; isn’t eating eggs also inhumane then? This is only one of many  interesting arguments are made concerning the politics of being a vegetarian. 

I was shocked and more or less horrified by the comparison of meat-eating to slave-ownership. Seriously? This view seemed a bit much for my taste. I can’t see many reasonable vegetarian or vegan people equating me to a plantation owner from the deep south because I eat meat. 

Another of the crazy arguments was that if we eat animals because they are ignorant, could we also rationalize eating a baby or mentally ill or disturbed person, because they too are ignorant? This of course was met by Pollan much in the way I saw it, well, animals aren’t like us! It’s not even plausible to eat another human being, how is that even an argument? 

Finally, Pollan talks about the similarities between sex and eating meat. This thought I could get in to. It is basically the idea that, we now have the ability to procreate without actually performing the act of intercourse, so should we continue to have sex recreationally? It is the same as with eating meat. We are able to live without meat by consuming other foods that contain the nutrients omnivores gain from eating meat. Should we eat meat or have sex just because we like it and we want to continue to? Maybe not, but I can bet we still will continue to perform both devious acts.

Getting away from the vegetarian ordeal, I absolutely loved Pollan’s descriptions and stories of hunting and gathering. Although I have never had the desire to do either or these things myself, and may never participate in the activities, I was absolutely inspired by his adventures. I was so impressed that he was able to overcome some of his original doubts (about the firing of the gun, or the eating of the wild mushrooms without fear or being poisoned). The actual meal was wonderful, and while reading I thought it sounded rather perfect. 

.

Speaking again of inspirations in part three, it’s impossible not to bring up Angelo! I LOVED ANGELO!! He was such a fun character. He seemed a great friend to Pollan. He was encouraging, and stuck with him through both the hard times and the good times. He seemed like the type of person I would want to know when I’m older; to learn and grow from

Look Who's Talking!

We talked a lot in class Tuesday about Michael Pollan’s writing style, although I think we may not have touched on a pattern he tends to use that I find quite interesting. He tends to make the plant which he is talking about capable of human-like thought. As with corn, he makes grass out to be a very clever and consciously thinking being. Just one of many examples of this is; “The evolutionary strategy they [grasses] hit upon was to make their leaves nourishing and tasty to animals who in turn are nourishing and tasty to us, the big-brained creature best equipped to vanquish the trees on their behalf.” (page 129) In this excerpt, the evolutionary strategy is attributed to them, as well as the ability to make their leaves tasty to an animal who in turn we would eat. I highly doubt that grass thought all of this through and hoped that humans would eventually begin to take part in activities such as burning or mowing grass in order to help it prosper. 

I think that this adds something to Pollan’s work though. Having some things looked at from the perspective of the plant is interesting and fun. I doubt it will be something I carry on with me after finishing this book, but who knows, maybe I’ll ask the lawn if it’d like to be mowed next time I’m home!

Surprisingly Satisfied

The Omnivores Dilemma was full of surprises for me. I was first surprised by how interesting it was. I had expected to be bored to tears (no offense Marin!), but I wasn’t at all. I found that Michael Pollan’s style of writing kept me turning the pages. He was able to mix much fact in with wit. One of my favorite lines thus far was, “To wash down your chicken nuggets with virtually any soft drink in the supermarket is to have sine corn with your corn.”

I was also intrigued by the vast array politics that have been surrounding corn since it was first mass produced. From the “New Deal” until the present, corn production has been an ever-changing game. The fluctuation has forced the government to take special action. I had no idea what kind of money we as taxpayers supply to farmers across America.

Not as surprising, but equally as interesting was the way in which cattle are prepared to become our dinners. Again, I was pressed with the idea that the process in which they are raised is not 100% humane.

Finally, one of the other bigger points of surprise was the amount of corn we consume! I could not believe all of the products that are in some way comprised of corn!

I must be made of it too!

HELP! - Memoir

Okay guys, I have two potential ideas started, each between 600 - 800 words along. I'm not crazy about either and I was hoping maybe you could help with a little direction. Let me know which has more potential or which could be tweaked into something wonderful, or if neither are hitting the spot and you'd like a little extra work over the weekend! ;)

Thanks!



Grandma's Kitchen:

1690 Badgley Road, home away from home. Though it is not the house they have always occupied, the warmth and comfort makes it feel as though they have lived there for a lifetime. Each kitchen my Grandma has occupied has felt this way though.

As we arrive to the snow covered white house with green shutters, the only house on Badgley not made entirely of stone, it does not look out of place in any way. The one-story, white  sided house with green shutters and matching roof is my home away from home. The display of twinkling white lights and  a nativity have replaced the tall sunflowers mixed with red white and blue perennials encompassed by the ever so tasteful electric fence to keep the deer away. (Oh, how we’ve begged and pleaded for them to take it down!) Grandpa’s bright orange lawn mower now lives inside the garage, rather than just outside of it. I park in the ice covered driveway, my cousins’ matching BMW’s rest easily atop the snow in the side yard. Aunt Terry, Uncle Doug, and company have yet to arrive from their long drive from Freemont Michigan; this is no surprise. 

Hannah and I enter, eager to help. We make the routine run up and down the steep basement stairway to help Grandpa find the best knife to carve his prized turkey. Grandma needs an extra ladle to use for the gravy, up and down between the two kitchens we go. Before we would eat downstairs in the beautifully finished basement. Grandpa has a hard time moving between the two floors now though, so the smaller upstairs dining area and a special card table set up in the living room for the “kids” suffices.

Soon Aunt Deb and Uncle Jack arrive and the fun begins. Aunt Deb is my Mom’s older sister. She cringes when she is mistaken for her around their old stomping grounds, Aunt Deb is ten years her senior. I grew up visiting my cousins, Lauren, the closest with me in age, Ross, who has always felt like the big brother I never had, and Lindsey, the trouble maker. Our families, living only 15 minutes away from each other, have always been very close. Sometimes it feels as if the Clinks, my Mom’s brother and his family live states away. Three hours is more distant than you may think. 

Aunt Deb, Uncle Jack, and my Mom and Dad are always the life of the party. Each of them has an absolutely contagious laugh. It is difficult to be in a room with all four of them and not to be next to rolling on the ground in tears.

As Uncle Jack and I are figuring out new nonchalant ways to flip one another off, Grandpa says the prayer. It is finally time, one of the two meals I look forward to all year long is about to commence. Lauren, a year younger than me, and Hannah, still the baby at 14, hurry toward the heaps of steaming goodness. We figure that if we are still considered young enough to sit at the kids table, we won’t feel to bad about being first in line for the goods. 

I go first for Grandma’s noodles. Everyone scrambles to get the biggest heap on their plate. Only Alex, who still enjoyed baby food long after his transition into solids should have begun, skips out on the famous dish. We of course never cease to chide him for his “poor decision making” when it comes to the best parts of Grandma and Grandpa’s cooking. Opting only for a roll, he is not the one to push in front of, to say the least. 

Back again to the noodles, I can taste them as I write this. Only a few times a year do we get to indulge in such a delicacy. Though I’ve stood in her cluttered kitchen for years as she’s made the noodles from scratch, the doughy pieces sitting atop the island as she prepares the next item on her list, I haven’t ever dared to attempt the recipe. She complains each year that they, “weren’t her best,” though each time I take a bite I couldn’t imagine anything better. The noodles are Grandma’s staple. When I think of the thick warm pieces covered in heavy gravy mixed with bits of turkey, or chicken, or sometimes beef, I feel the love and devotion that go into each piece. The grueling process is not for her, but for us. Her small family that she manages to bring together year after year during the holidays. 

Sixteen & Reckless:

When I was sixteen, I was a badass. As I’ve grown older (and wiser?) I know that I made some potentially life-threatening decisions. When I say life-threatening, I mean it in more ways than one. My life would have been threatened if ever my parents had found out about my secret trip to he Windy City.

On a friday in early November, I found myself absolutely disgusted with everything possible. I was sick of my friends, sick of home, sick of school. Around lunchtime that fateful day, I decided, “what the hell, I’m gonna take a road trip!”

At the time, my boyfriend of two years was living and working in Chicago. A three plus hour drive from Jackson would mean crossing two state lines and driving in heavy Chicago traffic. Hey, if I’d driven through rush hour in downtown Jackson, what was downtown Chicago around 5 p.m.?

Stupidly, stupidly, stupidly I set out just after school. I fibbed and said I would be shopping in Ann Arbor with a girlfriend and then returning home to stay the night with her. I remember waiting and waiting for my parents to call and ask why they had seen Drew driving around town when we were supposedly together. Thankfully, karma was working with me that day.

I set out with just enough Camel No. 9’s -yuck- to get me through the long and lonely drive to the Windy City. Three CD’s and half a pack later, I was learning quickly that the speed limit was a myth in rush hour Chicago. Apparently, 80 was the new 55, who knew!? A fearless and experienced driver’s license holder for four months, I totally had it under control. 

Eight near death experiences later (or something like that), I was cruising into the suburbs wondering why Trevor had told me he lived in Chicago. In my mind, being able to see the Sears Tower from your balcony didn’t count, but hey, I’ve been wrong before. Finally arriving, relief washed over my high school sweetheart ran out to parallel park my car.

Trev’s roommate dropped us off downtown later on that evening. He still tells me years later that my face has never lit up the way it did when we walked into the Coach store on Michigan Avenue. This though, was not at all the most memorable part of my journey.

Across the street from Coach sits the Grand Luxe Cafe. Trevor and I waited more than an hour to be seated in the glass room that overlooks the beautiful shops that adorn Michigan Ave. We sat in a cozy booth right against the floor to ceiling glass. The room was dark and the decoration elegant. In my sixteen year old mind, this was as romantic as it could get. 

I ordered a coffee and we sat across from one another holding hands atop the table. This is still a tradition he likes to uphold, much to my anti-public display of affection stance. 

- Needs some development -

I would like to say that I’m not quite as cheesy now as I was then, but last November we ate at the Grand Luxe again on our four-year-anniversary, and the magic was just as present as it was the first time. It felt like our place. We somehow pulled off sitting at the same exact table, ordered the same meal, held hands and enjoyed each others company again as if we had not seen each other for months like it had been our first time. 

Each time I am in Chicago I walk past this restaurant amidst my shopping and smile. I could not imagine sitting in that place with anyone else, and I cannot imagine a better meal in Chicago that the Grand Luxe chicken parmesan.

The second one is almost embarrassing toward the end, I was running out of steam and it got a bit mushy, so my apologies. I like the beginning, I'd like to think it was entertaining. Again, let me know where it could take me. Obviously, the vivid description of the meal would be yet to come from my Grand Luxe meal.