Warsan Shire (via lovelustquotes)
no one ever tells you how hard it is to own your voice as a writer...
Imagine walking into your neighborhood grocery store to buy your weekly produce, only to find that all of the apples were gone and all that was left was a sign that read “had a bad season, no apples until next year.” You may be upset. Maybe you were planning to make a pie, a strudel, or an apple crisp. But these feelings of frustration speak to the greater phenomenon of supermarket culture that has been deeply instilled in our purchasing habits. Brian Wiltrout speaks to the supermarket standard that all produce is “infinitely available, cheap, and aesthetically pleasing”. However, try to grow practically any vegetable or fruit yourself and you will quickly see that the shiny, perfectly formed items we are accustomed to may not be food at all.
Unfortunately, these expectations, as Wiltrout mentions, have made it difficult for small scale producers, growing food organically, to reach certain larger markets. There has been a spotlight recently on the “ugly produce movement”, and though this is a step in the right direction, I would argue that the food grown on small organic farms is far from “ugly”. However, conversations about how we think and interact with our food often begin in the moments when our expectations are challenged.
My own produce education began with a farm CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) my family was a part of when I was young. In a CSA model, the consumer pays a sum of money at the beginning of the season and receives a box of produce weekly or bi-weekly throughout the season. The contents of the box vary week by week depending on what the farm is producing, a fact that made this mystery box feel like weekly birthday gift to my younger self. However, the summer I remember most was particularly rainy which, in North Carolina, led to many cases of flooding throughout the area. One Saturday when we went to pick up our box, we were met with tearful eyes as our farmer explained that their land had flooded and wiped out over half of their crops. All she could offer us that day was a dozen eggs and two large bags of greens. In the midsts of my frustration about only receiving a fourth of the weekly normal, I realized that my anger was nothing compared to what it must’ve felt like to lose over half of your livelihood. Over the weeks, I watched as the mystery box slowly grew in size and diversity, a weekly snapshot of a farm being rebuilt, embracing the inconsistencies that came with it because they were what connected me to this food.
The manifesto within all of this is that our expectations of the way food should look, taste, and cost have stunted our appreciation and ultimately the level of value it holds within our lives. The truth is, farming is difficult and often far from glamorous and as consumers we should be accepting and supportive of this. Be curious, ask questions, and if there aren’t any apples, buy berries.
Ever just want to shout something at the top of your lungs?
For women who are “difficult” to love
Warsan Shire
hey I work at an ice cream shop now.
thinking about finishing my first year of graduate school. thinking about what this year has brought into my life, what it has taught me about who I am and who I hope to be. thinking about what next year will bring.
My life is a grilled cheese sandwich
My feet hit the pavement with a loud thud. Behind, my brother almost tumbles into me as I gather myself from an overestimated jump from the bus.
“GEEZ, Emeran”
We walk in unison to the front door, passing my mother’s collection of strategically placed bird feeders and pushing the heavy wood door open. It’s warm in the house, dark wood lines the fireplace and big windows look out to our sprawling forest backyard. Katie, our slightly crippled but very spunky dog, greets us tail wagging and tongue hanging out the side of her mouth in excitement.
“I’m hungry” my brother whines, not looking me in the eye as he moves towards the kitchen.
“I’m gonna make a grilled cheese. Do you want one?”
“We had grilled cheese yesterday, can’t you make something else?”
“I’m not your slave. If you don’t want it, make something for yourself”
“Fine….but don’t burn it this time” Paul leaves the kitchens and thuds down the stairs. I hear the Xbox turn on.
Bread…butter…cheese… the ingredients are laid out in front of me like a painters pallet. I turn on the gas stove with a click and grab the heavy cast iron from it’s hook above the sink. As the skillet heats up I slather the bread in butter, remembering how my grandmother showed me to not put it on too thick or the bread will get soggy. Two pieces of bread land on the skillet and give off a satisfying sizzle.
Cheese is next. I sprinkle the grated cheddar on top of the bread, spilling it over onto the skillet and watching as the tiny cheese strands expand and contract with the heat. I wait for the cheese to melt to the bread a little, placing a glass lid on top of the bread and watching it intently. When it’s ready I place the last pieces of buttered bread on top and push down hard with the spatula. The sandwiches give off a wheeze as they melt into themselves. One flip and they are perfectly golden brown. I think about burning Paul’s on purpose, knowing he’d eat it anyways, probably not even looking up from his video game. Two flips and both sides are crisp and soft. I pull them off quickly and on to plates, starring with admiration at what I’ve created.
Was I a grilled cheese prodigy? Was this my calling? Was I looking at the best, most perfectly prepared grilled cheese sandwich in all of the world? My 16 year old fantasizes for a moment of having to drop out of high school after one of the Jonas Brothers got ahold of this sandwich and demanded I go on tour with them and make him one every day for the rest of his life.
“You burned mine!” Paul grabs the sandwich and drenches it with bbq sauce as he exits the room.
the stories we tell..
I have a pretty tumultuous relationship with Brisket. When I was twelve years old my family took a trip to Santa Fe with my Grandma. I’ve always known my Grandma to be an amazing cook, anything she made I ate with vigor and love. However, this particular trip she kind of outdid herself, choosing to bring ten pounds of brisket along with her. We had a lovely dinner the first night featuring said brisket, but then it was on the table at breakfast…and lunch…and dinner the next night. I couldn’t escape it! We ate that brisket for almost every meal the entire two weeks that we were there, and not long after I vowed to never eat brisket again. But then I moved to Texas…
If Cornbread Nation taught me anything about barbeque it’s that there is no one way to define it. “You drive 100 miles and the barbeque changes”. It is a food that transcend being a food, taking on the identity of “American culture”. It can mean a place, an event, a taste, or even a person. The art of barbeque gives something for communities to stand behind, or fight against. There is a magic to it, only truly understood by someone with barbeque in their blood. “The formula for the perfect barbecue sauce is more akin to a magic spell” (64). Will we ever know what true barbeque is?
Through words, images, stories, and mystery, this book really encompasses who we allow to tell our story and how we allow them to tell it. Whether it’s Southern Foodways Alliance or Michael Pollan, the stories about barbecue create a narrative that spans gender, race, class, and place. It gives meaning to our existence, binds us to our communities, and pushes our idea of purpose. The challenge is taking control and staying true to our own food stories.
It’s 100 degrees and I’m waiting in line for Texas barbecue. It’s my last week living in Austin and I somehow made it a whole year never eating it. The Micklethwait trailer is letting off a steady stream of smoke and I feel like my face and my heart are melting simultaneously. There is a hushed anticipation from the twenty other people waiting alongside me. We are all thinking the same thing, but no one is saying anything aloud. Slowly person after person moves through the line, laughing and chatting once they’ve order as if their vow of silence has been broken. Finally, it’s my turn. As I huddle in the inch of shade cast by a nearby tree with my plate piled high with meat-sauce-pickles-bread, I think about how this plate is the culmination of my Texas life. Unexpected, unexplainable, requiring the perfect combination of sweet and savory. I fill my fork with all of these memories and take my first big bite– thanking God for Texas barbeque.
- only grunge posts -
Source: Entrance Mäkleri
Have I ever told you about the impact these two women have had on my life? Together seeking mystic truths, hand in hand, celebrating our good and bad, creating and conquering this life. This may be of my most treasured scenes I’ve captured. My love grows for you both with every adventure. What’d we do without art? (at The Andy Warhol Museum)
Here I am when it’s 60 degrees outside...
being a Pisces is hard when you almost cry in front of a stranger yelling at you or when the weight of your responsibilities is so heavy is holds you under the covers or when you listen to the same song on repeat for 3 hours.
Susan Cain, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking’ (via fyp-psychology)