|
| Recent Journal Entries |
|
|
 |
Photo by Gail Harvey, no reproduction without permission
Thanks Given THANKS GIVEN
You can’t celebrate Thanksgiving without thinking about food. Unlike Christmas, it isn’t cluttered up by the pressure of presents and credit-card debt and assorted other distractions. It’s about the MEAL. Around here, we plan dinner while having breakfast. It’s also true that I’m as concerned with what a fictional character eats as what motivates him or her to do xyz. Eat so you may love, love so that you may eat and all that. Someone wise said it long ago: characters who are never shown to eat or drink are likely lifeless in other ways. Then again, I do have an inordinate fondness for detailed discussions of meals once eaten, meals that will be eaten, groceries, recipes, etc. I have many times been harshly judged for my fingerling potato addiction and still walk with my head held high through the A&P, fancy that...
These days I’m reading Bill Buford’s memoir, “Heat: An Amateur’s Adventures As Kitchen-Slave, Line Cook, Pasta-Maker, and Apprentice to A Dante-Quoting Butcher In Tuscany.” I absolutely loved Buford’s book, “Among The Thugs” about the fascinating kingdom of soccer goons, mostly because it was so removed from anything I’d ever seen close-up. A brief explosion of international flags on cars in Toronto during World Cup HARDLY compares. In the case of “Heat” the topic is much closer to my heart and in certain ways, to my experience. I’m as careful when it comes to food-related memoirs as I am to books about writing. There’s a lot of dross out there, for one thing, and well, I’d rather cook/write than read about either thing, most days. I don’t feel the need to read books with shocking revelations about the dark goings-on of restaurant kitchens [“Oh my! The filet mignon that hit the floor actually got wiped off and served at a high-end resto!” Shockers! “Chefs don’t wash their hands much mid-service!” NO way!] I got WAY more pleasure out of reading Ruth Reichl’s hilarious memoir, “Tender At The Bone: Growing Up At The Table” which, among other things, details her mother’s dangerous habit of serving vintage leftovers that make the Maple Leaf meat plant scandal look tame by comparison. Because how and what we eat in those first years of our lives informs so much of who we become [for better and for worse], Reichl’s memoir was a happy find. Buford’s is similarly entertaining, even if I’ve had some serious flashbacks to my days working prep in a professional kitchen in Toronto, where anxiety and sleep-deprivation made me question [daily for a time] my so-called passion for food. But the fascinating part of Buford’s exploration is his leap from home-cook to commercial kitchen slave. Since so many people consider themselves to be “foodies” now, it would be absolutely delightful to see some of them navigating a slippery, hell-hot, body-packed Friday night kitchen next time they feel inclined to critique a meal anonymous-like on sites like Chowhound. Buford’s book is hardly “new” by publishing industry standards but I highly recommend it. Not only does he examine himself via the cook’s journey, he observes the fine line between genius and crazy-person in the various ‘famous’ chefs he meets on his quest. The addictive high of cooking in a commercial kitchen of any size is well-described. I really love his comparison between the way a child learns a skill, through determined repetition until it enters the limbs and soul, to kitchen skills acquired under pressure. Over and over until the basic mistakes just don’t happen anymore, the brain and body are so well-trained.
Ultimately, it really comes down to a deep thrill, which is feeding people. Nurturing. Mouth, stomach, soul. In the grind of daily life this simple absolute honour and delight can be forgotten. It is influential, memorable [for better and for worst!] and valuable, no matter which economic bracket you find yourself in. The love letter of soup dreamt up on a bike ride; the welcome home of a roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. Simple. I was raised with an extra-strong appreciation of food by a team of experts, varied in their approaches but all teaching one essential thing: food is love. To cook; to be cooked for: all of a piece.
Which brings me to another station on the thought train. If Mr. Harper would like to see an ‘improvement’ in crime statistics, and if Mr. Harper would like to solve the pressing yet seemingly mysterious issue of youth crime, he might leave off plans for more jails, harsher sentencing and make-believe gun controls and consider the underlying, not-at-all-mysterious reality of POVERTY. Because a little man or woman raised in constant hunger is likely to make decisions he or she would not have made with something in his or her belly on a regular basis. And if the little man or woman looks around and sees that the most easily accessible institution in his/her Canadian future isn’t a university, he or she cannot be blamed entirely for his/her deep, systemic despair. Here’s hoping your next scoop of foie gras doesn’t distress you too much, Mr. Have. Surely your assistant carries extra TUMS for you these days?
|
