Food is a subject that is often conceived and viewed through a utilitarian lens. Food is purposeful. It is a requirement. Common knowledge dictates that basic principles of a survivable existence consist of: clothing, shelter, and food—water is addendum or partner to food. Please note, this is a survivable existence, alluding to an existence of austerity, deprived of comforts and pleasures. The history of food is in turn a history of the human race. From hunting, gathering, and forging, to rustic agricultural settlements, to prevailing feudal systems, and industrialization and so on, food and its production, has been a continual feature of human society. Now more than ever, thanks to international trade, globalization, supply chains and logistical efforts, exotic spices, fruits, and vegetables can be shared around the world. The human palate and plate are no longer segregated into regional and seasonal options, instead its spoiled for choice. Despite this, food insecurity is a rising concern. More and more people are placed in socioeconomic conditions where the basic necessities can no longer be afforded in a hyperinflated world. Shelter has become unaffordable; food is outpricing; while wages are not keeping up to meet the base standards of living. Food, from its production, distribution, consumption and unaffordability, is a key narrative component and metric to the human condition and living conditions throughout history. Despite this, food has never been a subject that I’ve lingered or ruminated over. To reiterate the point, food in my perspective is a subject of utility.
Growing up, food was never described or categorized as a cuisine or having culinary allegiances. It was—and I directly quote—fashioned as: “good homestyle cooking.” No frills. Nothing fancy. No fuss. No exceptions. No forays or detours into new territory. The food stayed true to established precedence. My mothers cooking adhered to the cooking of her own childhood, though she made several additions over the years, becoming hallmarks of the menu. Regardless, food was guided by flavour and sustenance. Soups that would chase off the chill. Hearty meals that embraced egalitarian principles and of a good-will welcoming nature. A hallmark of my childhood home dinner table was Sunday roast beef, accompanied by mashed potatoes and gravy, and glazed carrots or mixed vegetables. Other common meals included country fried steak with milk gravy, veal or pork cutlets, perogies and farmers sausage with fried cabbage, macaroni tomatoes and burger (imitation goulash), picnic ham with baked macaroni and cheese, cabbage rolls, and a variety of other casseroles; while chilies and stews were winter hallmarks. Of course, my mother’s signature homemade buns and cinnamon buns, were a well-earned delight everyone looked forward to. Other notable dishes in the repertoire, included Japanese sticky chicken, which consists flour battered drumsticks, pan fried and then backed in a sweet and sour sauce. The meat is absolutely tender melting off the bone. Serve with white rice and a mixed vegetable or fried cabbage and sautéed peppers and onions. You can also substitute the drumsticks for chicken breasts. My mother was also famous for her fried rice, an alchemical rice like goulash, happily incorporating leftover ham, chicken (or turkey), followed by fried bacon and onions, and stir-fried mushrooms, before being mixed together with rice to make a filling one plate dinner. Popular condiments include soy sauce of course, but also a few sprinkles of vinegar.
Despite growing up in a household where food was a permanent and abundant fixture, I had no interest or desire or inclination to participate or be a part of the kitchen. Cooking and baking and all other associated synonyms, was viewed as a chore, work, or labour-oriented exercise. No different then vacuuming, sweeping or washing the dishes. Its inherent relation to what was then considered ‘domesticity,’ did not enamor me to it either. I also disagreed with the notion of “good homestyle cooking,” my mother propagated, as her mother had. Homestyle cooking, became the anthem and the slogan which continually signified a small or reduced world. One of limited culture, perspectives, and more frightening, hostile attitudes towards curiosity, cultural interest, or any appreciation for artistic achievements. Homestyle cooking became representational of the otherwise small, narrow, and closed off world that I grew up in. It was a world of limited palate, no taste, and no interest in expansion. The food was routine and repetitive, with a complete lack of interest or sense of culinary theatrics. My mothers’ cookbooks were full of recipes that were routinely overlooked. Some for very good reason, such as tomato aspic. While others carried enchanting curious names such as bubble and squeak or toad in the hole—which were never even glanced at. They were dismissed right from the start based on name alone. I have since personally made bubble and squeak, and have delighted in its simple spiced pleasure, a hodgepodge pancake of mashed potatoes, blanched cabbage, roasted carrots, and onions mixed and fried as one, and served it forth as a side dish with toad in the hole, accompanied by mushroom and onion gravy. My mother praised both; all the while defending her early veto of never cooking either of them.
Recipe books may be part of the reason why food is framed within a serviceable context. Afterall recipe books are grimoires of instructions. They lay out the ingredients and subsequent quantities and measurements; provide instructions regarding preparation, mixing, and assembly; then at last cooking requirements, which included temperatures to bake and length of time. Some recipes included recommendations for side dishes or plating for presentation. Not a very exciting read. Nothing that could be called literary. If a new recipe was being tried out, they would be cracked open and referenced. The kitchen in turn would be transformed into a state of chaos, which eventually gave way to a meal. I do not, however, consider writing a recipe or a cookbook the same as food writing. If only, because I perceive cookbook authors and chefs as being more concerned with providing instructional material, not going in lengths regarding historical developments or concerned with introducing literary license or embellishments. This inevitably left me perplexed, wondering what food writing is as a literary mode of expression and exploration.
There are of course very famous literary scenes involving food. Marcel Proust’s hallmark madeleine moment, where in lush modernist gilded baroque prose, Proust recounts the act of dipping the pastry into a cup of lime tea, cascades into an overture of memory. The great Scottish poet, Robert ‘Rabbie,’ Burns, wrote a poem: “Address to a Haggis,” and is a famous Scottish poem; which now has its own ceremony commemorated and recited at a Burns Supper on Burns Night (celebrating and honouring the poet’s birthday). There are the poisonous mushroom recipes included in Olga Tokarczuk’s “House of Day, House of Night,” which publishers legally sought to mitigate by advising readers not to indulge in or attempt to cook. Cooking and food also made a subsequent appearance in Doris Lessing’s groundbreaking interior explorative novel, “The Golden Notebook,” where the material acts of life are infused with the psychological complexities of one’s personhood and emotional state:
“And now the cooking for Michael. I unroll the veal that I remembered to batter out flat this morning; and I roll the pieces in the yellow egg, and the crumbs. I baked crumbs yesterday, and they still smell fresh and dry, in spite of the dampness in the air. I slice mushrooms into cream. I have a pan full of bone-jelly in the ice-box, which I melt and season. And the extra apples I cooked when doing Janet’s lunch, I scoop out of the still warm crackling skin, and sieve the pulp and mix it with thin vanilla’d cream, and beat it until it goes thick; and I pile the mixture back into the apple skins and set them to brown in the oven. All the kitchen is full of good cooking smells; and all at once I am happy, so happy I can feel the warmth of it through my whole body. Then there is a cold feeling in my stomach, and I think: Being happy is a lie, it’s a habit of happiness from moments like these during the last four years. And the happiness vanishes, and I am desperately tired. With the tiredness comes guilt. I know all the forms and variations of this guilt so well that they even bore me. But I have to fight them nevertheless.”
I am also reminded of the peculiar nature of food in Ogawa Yōko’s work, as in the story “Afternoon at the Bakery.” Where in placid prose, Ogawa sketches the complexities of grief a mother feels over her son’s death, while observing a cake decay:
“First, the cream turned brown and separated from the fat, staining the cellophane wrapper. The strawberries dried out, wrinkling up like the heads of deformed babies. The sponge cake hardened and crumbled, and finally a layer of mold appeared.”
Food takes on a variety of visceral and grotesque forms and appearances throughout Ogawa Yōko’s work. From a woman gorging herself on kiwis, to carrots pulled from the earthen womb in the shape of hands. While in another novella “Pregnancy Diary,” food becomes both obsession and repulsion. In Ogawa’s hands, food is never quite savoury or sweet, but a metaphor and image of the otherwise mundane horrors of domesticity, the torments of feminine expectation, the delirium and break down of existence, and the gradual collapse of one’s psyche, much like the strawberry shortcake rotting on the counter. All wrapped up in prose styled in white confectionary frosting of surrealism, completely deprived of sensationalism.
This is still not food writing. Food in these scenes is either mode of narration, metaphor, image, or actionable movement. The concern and nature of the prose is not the subject of food. Food as a subject, however, has occupied the public imagination and adoration for decades now. Especially in the format of television series and competitions. As an individual who views food as a subject of utility, I subscribe to Fran Lebowitz’s perplexed viewpoint regarding the fascination with these shows. Cooking and baking competitions are confounding to me. While I appreciate their ability to showcase a chef or confectioners’ creativity, I do fail to grasp the nuanced points of the matter. Growing up, Julia Child (for instance) was a marvel to watch. But Child’s programing was not competitive in nature. The entire show (The French Chef) was bolstered by the charm and charisma of Julia Child, who invaded the homes of many, usurping TV dinners and prepackaged instant cooking, and changed how food and cooking was to be viewed, not just as a chore, but as a pleasure from conception to creation, and finally to sharing and being amongst great company. I suspect in large part, thanks to Julia Child, fine French cuisine has occupied my thoughts with almost fantasy like quality. Afterall, Child was the one who demystified the legendary complexities of French cuisine for the North American public. The legendary fickle gourmet food became accessible and approachable. Not that it ever found itself served on the kitchen table of my childhood. Still, Julia Child was a chef and cook book author, not necessarily a practitioner of food writing.
Dining out is one of those bewildering experiences. Both theatre of the gourmand and the spectacle hell of public ingesting. Dining is best done with good company. Good company and conversation will make a hell of a difference. Not only on the ambience of the establishment but on the food. All minor infractions and disappointments can be overlooked when experienced in good company. Food writing as a literary topic, began to occupy my thoughts in the late summer of last year. I was meeting up with friends at a new local restaurant for a meal and to catch up. The place itself was uninspiring. Another place that could be defined as generic or a devotee of “good homestyle cooking.” The menu consisted of the stalwart staples: a variety of burgers, from typical cheese, to bacon, to mushroom, to the loaded option; sandwiches such as ham and Swiss, club house, turkey bacon, BLT, and brisket (I believe quesadilla was included); followed by the signature entrees such as liver and onions, veal cutlet, lasagna, spaghetti and meatballs, chicken alfredo; a myriad selection of salads, and then a small menu for dessert which included chocolate cake, cheese cake, and a pie (I believe apple). This menu could easily have been repeated at any other eatery across town. I recalled having the brisket sandwich with a side of fries, and thinking to myself: this is all otherwise rather uninspired. The food is repetitive no matter where you went. Diners will routinely and without fail continually find the same menu options, regardless if they were, be it at this greasy spoon or the one three blocks away. I found the state of food in turn sad and underwhelming. It seems I am trapped in a hell styling itself “good homestyle cooking,” and I want to scream. From what I recall of the sandwich in question was what one expected. It was slices of brisket, topped with cheddar cheese, contained between two thick toasted slices of bread topped with a pickle. The waitress recommended dipping into barbeque sauce for extra flavour. The French fries were regular run of the mill deep fried fries. Though I do recall the unsettling feeling of greasiness being attributed to the meal. A sentiment shared by my company, which livened the occasion up, at which point the meal could be overlooked in favour of the conversations facilitated at the table.
After this incident I contemplated food as a literary subject. From reminiscing about Julia Child and her legendary editor Judith Jones (who wrote her own cookbook: “The Pleasures of Cooking for One: A Cookbook,”) to discovering essayists who topics of interest were food, which included the poet of the appetites herself, M.F.K Fisher and her British compatriot Elizabeth David. In their hands, food was not a subject of utility and sustenance—fulfillment and nourishment were of course intricate components to their writings, both in a physical sense but also nurturing the metaphysical soul of oneself—it also included ruminations on food within cultural and historical context, via travels, and their own perspectives on food. M.F.K Fisher remains renowned for her book: “How to Cook a Wolf,” which is often described as a survivalist guide to cookery during hardship, rations, and scarcity of resources. “How to Cook a Wolf,” remains a complex piece of work, one which completely refuses to be cook book, war protest, essay, or novel, it remains established as a book of pure literary concern and not necessarily one of cooking concern, one which routine renewed interest is reinspired with when disaster, catastrophe, and tragedy strikes. If anything, “How to Cook a Wolf,” is a testament to the necessity to live, be it purely, sincerely, or simply, the end resolve must be to live. Elizabeth David helped elevate English cooking (often mocked for its own chastising prudish Englishness) beyond the grey austerity, and postwar rationing and become enlivened with herbs and spice of foreign abodes and locales. Both M.F.K Fisher and Elizabeth David, reviewing food within a context beyond practical concerns. Food, dining, and eating was a journey not only in culinary composition, but of personal growth, an expansion of palate and perspective, and an appreciation of other cultures, histories, and people. For M.F.K Fisher, French cuisine was the catalyst that changed her world and understanding of food, far from the milquetoast food that was currently on offer in her childhood California home. Whereas Elizabeth David embraced French provincial cooking and Mediterranean cooking, introducing them to English reading public in turn.
As for myself, I’ve picked up the wooden spoon and done battle against the prevailing “good homestyle cooking,” that is the prevailing cooking philosophy of not only today, but of yesterday, and quite possibly tomorrow. I want frills. I want fancy. I want fuss. I want to enjoy good food, food that is different, pleasurable, and completely deprived of the continued philosophy of homestyle cooking. In that regard, the internet is the great equalizer. Recipes galore—though ingredients might be more difficult to come by. Regardless, I’ve expanded my culinary palate and stopped looking at cooking as a bothersome chore. However, make no mistake Gentle Reader, I would not call it a pleasure either. Before cooking came out of necessity. Lately, its more out of interest. Recent conquests included ratatouille, which I had no interest in trying due to a bad experience with aubergine (eggplants), they are bitter and tough. Turns out you just need to understand their preparation. I’ve mastered a Japanese curry, which is a hearty, sweet and extremely flavourful stew that is best served with fluffy white rice. I’ve indulged in quiche Lorraine and a marvelous fresh mustard vinaigrette salad during the summer. Perhaps my most laborious accomplishment though is my tourtière, a truly masterful meat pie, savoury and perfectly spiced. Despite its work, its a decadent dish, whose rewards cannot be overstated. In turn, I’ve also found myself enjoying the company of M.F.K Fisher and Elizabeth David, who were adamant that one should eat well without apology. To them, food is not just a matter of sustenance to be served forth, eaten, digested, rinse and repeat, it’s an act of indulgence, appreciating seasonal ingredients and the transformative power of spices and aromatics, to create lasting dishes and formative relationships. In their regard, food was best enjoyed either as a private affair or with great company. Fisher and David, are enjoyable in their treatment of food, elevating it beyond the didactic, and embracing the lyrical and the contemplative within the culinary, domestic, and kitchen-oriented hemisphere, where one doesn’t just eat what is placed in front of them without comment, thought, or any interest, but instead takes consideration regarding what it is they are consuming, and evaluating the enjoyment of it.
Understanding food within a context not just reduced to mere utility has been a delight. Its literary depictions are often imagistic and metaphorical; a springboard in purpose; or actionable material leading to further digressions and explorations. Recipe books are marvelous, but again instructional in nature. They are the grimoires to any kitchen, the necessary workbooks and study material to fashion a dinner or dessert. While, enjoying the food orientated writings of writers such as M.F.K Fisher and Elizabeth David, embrace the nuanced study of food as a subject of the individual and the societal collective. In turn beneath splendid tables spread out with a service of banquet and meal, there lurks a shadow that dodges, follows, and haunts. M.F.K Fisher in particular wrote about appetite’s, from hunger to fulfilment. The act of eating is in turn the act of taking away. The trade off, if you will. The cow is butchered to provide stewing meat; the potato is wretched from the earth to be peeled and boiled; while the oyster be it alive or stewed goes down the throat. Death is the end for us all, so you might as well eat well before the inevitable happens.
Thank you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
And As Always
Stay Well Read
M. Mary
—Post Script—
For readers a little more curious about literary food and recipes pulled from the works of literature, I would recommend the “Eat Your Words,” column archive by Valerie Stivers via The Paris Review. It’s a delightful read.
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