dinner was home-made
always experimental
she’d ask as we dug in
how is it?
would you eat it again?
should I save the recipe?
dishing out some new concoction she had slaved over
It’s called “stroganoff”
we all liked it well enough
and so, it was added to the pile
of other dishes deemed tasty enough to make again
maybe
mother tried her best to cook at home
but I was too young to really learn
never helped in the kitchen
but I spent time in the garden
with my dad
seeding
weeding
harvesting
the fruits and vegetables mom cooked with
chop, chop, chop
the aromatic basil
and crisp zucchini
from the garden
prepared for an appearance in the next from-scratch lasagna
I never lost sight of where my food came from
or how my meal made its way to my plate
while living in the rural country-side of Tennessee
for it was hard to
when every ingredient in every dish
went from farm to farmer’s market
or backyard soil to wicker basket
and immediately onto the kitchen countertop.
when life began moving too quickly
I began losing sight of how my meal made its way to my plate
I still went to the markets with dad
I still picked the ripe berries in my backyard brush
harvested the fresh vegetables from my soil garden
and cut the fresh herbs from my garden pot
and yet, I no longer watched my mother slave in the kitchen
ding. ding.
dinner was ready
fresh from the crockpot
and the rice cooker
yet I never learned the recipe
never watched the process
living in a countryside
always left me isolated
from my friends
my sports teams
my school
grocery stores
and pre-made foods
It’s peaceful out here ain’t it
but a move to the city-center
brought light to all of that
suddenly meals with my family were rare
meals on the go were common
dishes were served in Styrofoam boxes
and plastic containers
hi, I’d like to place a to-go order
any food I desired was mine
Chinese food, American fare Italian dishes
trout from Pickett’s Ranch
veggies from Sequatchie Cove Farm
breads from Niedlov’s
and pasta, of any shape or form, fresh from Tony’s Kitchen
Just give us 15 or 20 minutes,
and we’ll have that ready for ya
sometimes we ate together
as a family
but never did we eat the same meal
even on noodle night
my mom had Italian pasta
every time a different sauce
my dad never settled for anything other than Pad Thai
level 3 spicy and always made with rice noodles
my brother would eat fresh from scratch ramen every day if he could
and he nearly did.
I ate zoodles or kelp noodles
or both together
drenched in spicy peanut sauce
sweet tangy tomato marinara
or creamy cashew cheese
all of us get what we want
dishes that accommodate our diets
our restrictions
our desires
dishes that are quick and easy
dishes from someone else’s local farm
to a disposable container
and eventually our dinner table
along-side the only home-prepared dish my family has mastered
the salad
complete the little gems grown on our porch
ripe cherry tomatoes
tender romaine lettuce
crunchy rainbow chard
aromatic herbs of every kind
everyone of them
alive and thriving
six stories above the earth
now that I am older and living in a different city away from home
I know that keeping track of where my food comes from is not always easy
I have settled for to-go food that may not be locally sourced
meals on the go
and snacks plucked from the shelves of the supermarket
rather than my own pots and garden beds
I never learned how to cook
but if you ask me what I miss most about home
about what always brings a smile to my face
I always think of family dinners in the condo
using silverware from my own home
to eat food from Styrofoam boxes
and plastic containers
from the kitchens of our favorite restaurants
vegetable hash from Daily Ration
shrimp curry from Bitter Alibi
spicy peanut kelp noodles from Southern Squeeze
creamy cheesy vegan zoodles from Cashew
avocado ceviche from State of Confusion
the time-tested dishes I have grown to love
from the chefs I have never meet
using the fresh ingredients
from the farmers I have always known
they remain steady
a part of my family
regardless of the creator
I chose to imitate “where food comes from”, one of the Saporoso poems by Jennifer Barone. I chose this piece because it almost spoke to me in that I felt as though my experience with food was exactly opposite the author’s in some respects, and closely aligned in others. It was striking for me to compare and contrast those experiences. I was able to witness the culture of the author, who presents a situation in which she watches her Italian relatives cook family recipes: all Italian, all passed down, all home-made. And yet, she herself never really learns how to cook from her family, or really bothers to learn where her food comes from while she is younger and living in New York. Then, when she grows older, she gets the chance to see food in its core, raw form: figs from the tree, fresh tomatoes from the vine, peppers, eggplants, herbs, etc. all from the garden. She was first able to gain these experiences in her neighbor’s tiny make-shift garden. As she journeys through life, and explores the world, she apparently learns the joy of knowing where her food comes from, and therefore develops the skill of cooking, and learns the recipes of her family. Italian heritage and home-cooked meals are part of her cultural DNA. She makes this clear through her rhetoric, for she states, “a meal has never been just a meal / it was our past time / the reason to get together” as well as “everyone would call to ask / so what are you making? / a month before they would arrive.” Through her diction, she illustrates the importance of meal-time in her family. Through mirroring her style, I realized the contrasts and similarities between her culture and my own.
I come from a very different background in terms of food, and yet I somehow relate to the writer. My mother cooked when I was young; she made home-made lasagna, shepard’s pie, beef stroganoff, hand-rolled sushi, you name it. She never made these meals based on some family recipe, as she never had any. This is in great contrast to the culture of the writer, who was apparently accustomed to family recipes. My mother’s mother is an American woman, who was raised in the 50’s, a decade marked as the age of consumerism and convenience. The convenience meals of the era were seen as the wave of the future. They were trendy, and for a single-mother who never worked less than three jobs in an attempt to make ends meet, they were essential. My mom never formed an attachment to food, because she couldn’t. Most of the time, it was not around. She never learned how to cook because quite literally, there was nothing to cook, and there wasn’t any time—she started babysitting at 12, and never stopped working. When my brother and I came around decades later, and my mother finally had the opportunity to cook, she did, and she did it well, from what I am told. She bought cook-books and taught herself. She vowed that my brother and I would not grow up like she did—we would have home-cooked meals, together, as a family, every night. By the time I entered middle school, however, and my mom was driving us to different schools and different sports practices. Eating together, became a “most of the time” thing rather than a daily routine. My mother did not give up home cooking, but we apparently ate a lot of crock-pot meals, so that she did not have to allocate so much time to the process. At the same time, we lived deep in the country in Tennessee, so we also grew our own food at the time. We mostly had vegetables and fruits, but gardening was something my dad passed down to me. He always told me that there was nothing in this world that would allow for a stronger connection to food. He always encouraged me to be more in-tune with where my food comes from, for it is beneficial to both the mind and the body of the grower/harvester. Furthermore, growing food locally allowed us the opportunity to reap the full chemical benefits. With a personal garden, we were able to decide what chemicals and fertilizers went into our gardens, and therefore we could eat organic produce, without the harsh price-tag. My mom used these items in the food that she prepared, and we snacked on the others she could not use. Just as I entered high school, however, we moved to the city. At this point, time was limited, which was a major reason for the move. I had soccer and cheer practice, my brother had crew and soccer with a different league and we couldn’t afford to drive nearly an hour from our quaint country home to school, or sports leagues. My poor mother tried to cook, but with limited space, limited time, and a number of newly discovered food intolerances/ preferences, it became more and more difficult.
After the move, we began living in a condo in the middle of downtown Chattanooga, so we had more restaurants within a 2-mile radius than I could even begin to count. The food in my city is characteristically fresh, local, and “transparent”, meaning almost every ingredient in every dish served at the local restaurants can be traced back to their farm of origin: Crabtree Farms produce, White Oak Valley Beef, Fall Creek Farm’s goat milk and heirloom vegetables, Cloudcrest and Sequatchie Cove Farms’ dairy and eggs, 2 Angels’ mushrooms, Springer Mountain Farm’s chicken, Pickett’s Ranch trout, wild boar. Dietary restrictions, a lack of time and an abundance of fresh, local, prepared food just moments away lead to a shift in my family’s dining patterns. We instead opted for to-go food for almost every meal. We still make our own salads from the produce we grow on our porch, and we eat together most of the time when we can, but all of that aside I do not remember ever watching my mom cook. I vaguely remember the crock-pot meals, but all of that happened when I was too young to really remember. For the most part, since I turned 14, I learned how to prepare food, (throw together a salad, chop veggies for a snack, etc.) and I learned how to place a to-go order like a professional, but I never did learn how to cook.
Nonetheless, I never lost my passion for growing food, and ensuring I knew exactly where my food comes from. Yes, there was a time in my life when I indulged in Chick-fil-a, and sure I still have no clue where those chickens were from and how they lived. But for the most part, I know where my food comes from. I have visited the farms that I mentioned above, and more. I have met the farmers at the markets. I have held the fish. I have picked the veggies. I have volunteered my time to pull the delicious fruits directly from the branches. This is something I will never sacrifice, for harvesting my own food, and being mindful of its history, is more a part of my cultural DNA than knowing my own history. I do have the power to know where my food comes from. This is something that is, and always will be, integral to my eating patterns. Through writing this piece, I became more comfortable with this concept. My culture, the American culture, places nearly no importance on meal-time, and food awareness. The farming culture, my culture that comes from my dad’s side, makes it so that I am much more conscious about my eating patterns than most, despite the fact that I do not cook. I think about my food. I never randomly eat. I eat with full awareness of how that food nourishes my body, and how those ingredients came into existence. Writing about my eating patterns has made me realize that I do, in fact, have a unique food culture, despite never really cooking.