In class today, we discussed food as a symbolic means, and the "technology of the self." As we reflected on our own relational transitions with food, I realized how affected my personal relationship with food has shifted throughout the different stages of my life.
Growing up, I was a dedicated ballerina. My studio pressured us into categorizing "good foods" and "bad foods," and to never enjoy the simplicity of fast food and candy, like many other young American children. I lived by the scale, constantly comparing my reflection in the mirror to the tall, slender figures of the professional ballet world. As my pink tights puckered, or when my black leotard tightened around my hips as I went through puberty, I reprimanded myself by obsessing calories, never being able to fully enjoy a plate of pasta or a Taco Bell run. My world revolved around the bare-all pink tights and leotard, and the stigma attached to "bad foods," which many of my high school friends enjoyed.
After graduating high school, I chose to veer away from the ballet path that had previously defined me and my food choices. I felt much more free, much more able to enjoy a meal as a social event, and not a dreaded shame. And, food became even more of a symbol of this freedom. Now, wine and cheese nights are a symbol of separation from the food shackles I left behind when I chose to leave the ballet world.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
The Future of Food: An evaluation of the Current Trend of Food
Watching "The Future of Food," I was shocked to realize how little I know about the corporate power struggle over patenting seeds, and the farmers' fight to save seeds. Most suprising, I never understood the amount of power that genetically modified seeds gaveto the corporate "Gene Revolution."
In the documentary, one farmer argued that the corporate takeover over uniformed seed crops emulates the feudalistic system that drove immigrants away from Europe during the 18th and 19th century and led them to the United States to farm. I completely agree, and I worry about the future of our current food supply. The past two weeks, newspapers have run stories on the rising cost of food worldwide, and on a recent trip to Whole Foods, I paid $5.00 for a gallon of orange juice.
The scariest story I read yesterday discussed the strong ties between the stock market, the economy, and corporate players in the American food market. We are so intertwined in a cat-and-mouse game with the economy and our food sources, that we cannot stop the train. We need food, and we need a stimulated economy, so increased crop production with increased pesticide use leads to lower prices, which may lead to inflation, which scares everyone, which stops buyers from buying, which stall the economy, which negatively impacts the stocks for large corporate companies who provide pesticide and "pesticide ready" crops.
The more you learn about the current system, the harder it is to consume with a conscience. At least, that's my problem. I am a "poor college student," and beggars cannot be choosers. I am stuck trying to weave through processed and pesticide-free foods to find an organic medium...but even "organic" is a government label now. There are hardly ways to "eat locally" for many Americans who lack access and prope distribution in urban, low socioeconomic areas. We are trying, in all good intentions, to solve world hunger, but the implications leave us screwed way more that before.
In the documentary, one farmer argued that the corporate takeover over uniformed seed crops emulates the feudalistic system that drove immigrants away from Europe during the 18th and 19th century and led them to the United States to farm. I completely agree, and I worry about the future of our current food supply. The past two weeks, newspapers have run stories on the rising cost of food worldwide, and on a recent trip to Whole Foods, I paid $5.00 for a gallon of orange juice.
The scariest story I read yesterday discussed the strong ties between the stock market, the economy, and corporate players in the American food market. We are so intertwined in a cat-and-mouse game with the economy and our food sources, that we cannot stop the train. We need food, and we need a stimulated economy, so increased crop production with increased pesticide use leads to lower prices, which may lead to inflation, which scares everyone, which stops buyers from buying, which stall the economy, which negatively impacts the stocks for large corporate companies who provide pesticide and "pesticide ready" crops.
The more you learn about the current system, the harder it is to consume with a conscience. At least, that's my problem. I am a "poor college student," and beggars cannot be choosers. I am stuck trying to weave through processed and pesticide-free foods to find an organic medium...but even "organic" is a government label now. There are hardly ways to "eat locally" for many Americans who lack access and prope distribution in urban, low socioeconomic areas. We are trying, in all good intentions, to solve world hunger, but the implications leave us screwed way more that before.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Comfort Food: It comes with good company
Bento Boxes: the ultimate sign of a Japanese mother's love. And, as my classmates and I experimented with the different ways to show this created love through our own bento boxes, I was strangely comforted by the bento.
When Professor Anagnost first discussed the assignment, to create a bento box for a class partner, I saw no relevence in my personal life. In fact, I didn't see the point. But, as we scurried through the kitchen, all 30-something of us, picking out the right ingredients to create an aesthetically pleasing smiling face out of a rice ball, or a frog out of edemame, I felt excited.
Seth, my partner, and I finished our designs and exchanged boxes. It was like Valentine's Day in elementary school, which was the last time I decorated anything for any classmate to share. We say down with several classmates and exchanged compliments on the beauty of the others' bentos, and the foreign tastes. I laughed, I got to know people, and I felt comforted in the food.
So many breakfasts, lunches, dinners I eat alone, confined to the busy lifestyle and opposite schedules of many of my friends. To enjoy a meal, to languish in the company of others, it brought back a meaning to food that I had forgotten. It brought me appreciation.
Instead of my usual lonely, library dinner this weekend, I intentionally took meals with friends. Saturday, I spent an evening with my entire pledge class (28 girls), in an Italian restaurant for a birthday celebration. I found that, not only did I enjoy my food more, but that lonely aftertaste of a solo meal was replaced by the satiated satisfaction of good food and good company.
If anything came from the bento box activity, for me it was the rediscovery of a lost love with food. By forfeiting to the loneliness of eating alone, I surpassed the comfort that food gives me. But food is more than fuel, it should be an activity, and good company adds flavor; a little spice.
When Professor Anagnost first discussed the assignment, to create a bento box for a class partner, I saw no relevence in my personal life. In fact, I didn't see the point. But, as we scurried through the kitchen, all 30-something of us, picking out the right ingredients to create an aesthetically pleasing smiling face out of a rice ball, or a frog out of edemame, I felt excited.
Seth, my partner, and I finished our designs and exchanged boxes. It was like Valentine's Day in elementary school, which was the last time I decorated anything for any classmate to share. We say down with several classmates and exchanged compliments on the beauty of the others' bentos, and the foreign tastes. I laughed, I got to know people, and I felt comforted in the food.
So many breakfasts, lunches, dinners I eat alone, confined to the busy lifestyle and opposite schedules of many of my friends. To enjoy a meal, to languish in the company of others, it brought back a meaning to food that I had forgotten. It brought me appreciation.
Instead of my usual lonely, library dinner this weekend, I intentionally took meals with friends. Saturday, I spent an evening with my entire pledge class (28 girls), in an Italian restaurant for a birthday celebration. I found that, not only did I enjoy my food more, but that lonely aftertaste of a solo meal was replaced by the satiated satisfaction of good food and good company.
If anything came from the bento box activity, for me it was the rediscovery of a lost love with food. By forfeiting to the loneliness of eating alone, I surpassed the comfort that food gives me. But food is more than fuel, it should be an activity, and good company adds flavor; a little spice.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
The American school lunch
The Japanese gender-associated culture surrounding the daily creation of the bento-box absolutely amazes me. Growing up, my mother made my lunch with love, leaving notes on the napkin, delighting me with the occasional ding-dong or twinkie. But, the pressure on me to finish the scraps of my wonderbread sandwhich never existed, and frankly, my teachers never cared when I finished my lunch, or when I did not.
The gender association with preparing a child's school lunch still exists to some extent in the U.S., but the introduction of school-provided lunch systems freed the shackles of many working mothers who did not have the time to filled a lunch box with love. But, in a way, it created a separation at the lunch table: those whose moms did, and those whose mom's did not. Strange to think about, but true. I remember the distinction between the soccer moms and the working moms. If your mom "stayed at home," you had the Wonderbread and Kraft singles sandwhich, oreos, wheat thins, and the banana/apple that was generally tossed with the garbage. The children who had working parents suffered the soggy green beans and oh-so-sloppy joes.
For me, having a homemade lunch served as a daily, comforting reminder that my mommy loved me, and would be waiting at the bus stop in minus 3 hours. And while I did not appreciate the fruit or carrots tagging along with my sandwhich and cookies, I now understand the significance of their place in my lunch. The lunchbox in America reflects a mother's nutritional ideology and gives her an opportunity to stay connected with a child's developing dietary habits. Parents who lost this opportunity due to heavy work schedules, lost this influence in their children's life. Thusly, the plight of the American dietary ideology perhaps stems from the lessening of parent involvement in daily nutritional decisions of their children.
My mother's influence still sticks with me today, and it still serves as that small comfort, even so far away from home.
The gender association with preparing a child's school lunch still exists to some extent in the U.S., but the introduction of school-provided lunch systems freed the shackles of many working mothers who did not have the time to filled a lunch box with love. But, in a way, it created a separation at the lunch table: those whose moms did, and those whose mom's did not. Strange to think about, but true. I remember the distinction between the soccer moms and the working moms. If your mom "stayed at home," you had the Wonderbread and Kraft singles sandwhich, oreos, wheat thins, and the banana/apple that was generally tossed with the garbage. The children who had working parents suffered the soggy green beans and oh-so-sloppy joes.
For me, having a homemade lunch served as a daily, comforting reminder that my mommy loved me, and would be waiting at the bus stop in minus 3 hours. And while I did not appreciate the fruit or carrots tagging along with my sandwhich and cookies, I now understand the significance of their place in my lunch. The lunchbox in America reflects a mother's nutritional ideology and gives her an opportunity to stay connected with a child's developing dietary habits. Parents who lost this opportunity due to heavy work schedules, lost this influence in their children's life. Thusly, the plight of the American dietary ideology perhaps stems from the lessening of parent involvement in daily nutritional decisions of their children.
My mother's influence still sticks with me today, and it still serves as that small comfort, even so far away from home.
Friday, April 11, 2008
The Social Etiquette of Heartbreak
After reading the article, "The boy who becomes a Muni bird," I found myself reflecting on my own communal and emotional relationship with food. I have never thought much about the social taboos of food etiquette, and really, how standardized can food etiquette be in such a culturally heterogeneous society? But still, heterogeneity aside, I think we have come to some means of a social-wide taboo agreement.
For example, there are few times when binge eating a pint of ice cream is socially acceptable, and it is somewhat sexist. A male can never really eat the pint without some feminine stigma attached, and for women, the acceptance depends on a recent break-up or something of the sort. But, publicly gulping a pint of Ben and Jerry's may lead to "shame face," without proper excuse.
Personally, I have fallen victim to the pint. My junior year of high school a boy broke my heart. After he brutally dumped me over the phone at 1:oo AM, I ran to the kitchen sobbing, found the ice cream and binged my sorrows away. My world was over, and I never thought I'd be the same. After I ate that ice cream, I had no appetite for several days, and my only comfort was Kelly Clarkson.
While I have since gotten over him (if I hadn't, it would be pathetic, right?) my taste memory still jogs back to the heart-wrenching night, when my heart broke for the first time. Now, my social etiquette filter lowers for those lonely, inconsolable girls I see every now and again. Food unites us all, I guess.
For example, there are few times when binge eating a pint of ice cream is socially acceptable, and it is somewhat sexist. A male can never really eat the pint without some feminine stigma attached, and for women, the acceptance depends on a recent break-up or something of the sort. But, publicly gulping a pint of Ben and Jerry's may lead to "shame face," without proper excuse.
Personally, I have fallen victim to the pint. My junior year of high school a boy broke my heart. After he brutally dumped me over the phone at 1:oo AM, I ran to the kitchen sobbing, found the ice cream and binged my sorrows away. My world was over, and I never thought I'd be the same. After I ate that ice cream, I had no appetite for several days, and my only comfort was Kelly Clarkson.
While I have since gotten over him (if I hadn't, it would be pathetic, right?) my taste memory still jogs back to the heart-wrenching night, when my heart broke for the first time. Now, my social etiquette filter lowers for those lonely, inconsolable girls I see every now and again. Food unites us all, I guess.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Like Cubans, College Students Make Do
"The choices are about values'...Which is true, at least for us, at least for the moment. And when the choices are about values, we generally pick the easiest and cheapest way, the one that requires thinking the least. Inertia is our value above all others. Inertia was the one option the Cubans didn't have; they needed that meal a day back, and given that Castro was unwilling to let loose the reins, they had a limited number of choices about how to get it..." -Bill McKibben
I read this quote from Bill McKibben's "The Cuba diet: What will you be eating when the revolution comes?" as I chowed down an overcooked, over-processed leftover chicken sausage that I had scavenged from the kitchen fridge for dinner. The chalky after taste washed down with tall glass of raspberry crystal light no longer phased me. In fact, the 3-day old pizza I discovered yesterday seemed heavenly in comparison to the slightly moldy apple I had eaten for lunch earlier. Really, my meals consist of whatever I can find, and have time to shove in my mouth while I am studying. I have lowered my standard from mom's home-cooked chicken fried steak with fluffy, hand-whipped mashed potatoes to the archetypal college food ideology; the grab bag diet.
As I processed my thoughts with the processed sausage, it hit me: I am a post-revolution Cuban. College is my Castro. As Cubans saw their daily caloric intake decrease with the collapse of the Soviet Union and their imported source of calories, they substituted, struggled, and self-subsisted. My first few months of college, my body literally went into shock with the new dietary changes. I passed out, my iron-levels dropped, I became a sickly, weight-gaining, very perplexed girl. Eventually, I adjusted and learned. Now, my community farm consists of a refrigerator full of housemates' food, shared by many, scavenged by all.
But, the Cubans took away a more valuable lesson than that of the modern-day college student: nutritional value still matters. While their meat intake levels still dangle below the pre-revolutionary statistics, their general 2300 calorie/day intake represents a well-rounded diet consistent with proper nutrition. Perhaps because we assume our college days are limited, we do not generally see the value in staying nutritious. Even as a student of nutritional anthropology, I am constantly amazed at my personal dietary choices. I have even found myself justify excess saturated fats and calories with additional minutes on the elliptical. But, I am making do, one chicken sausage at a time.
I read this quote from Bill McKibben's "The Cuba diet: What will you be eating when the revolution comes?" as I chowed down an overcooked, over-processed leftover chicken sausage that I had scavenged from the kitchen fridge for dinner. The chalky after taste washed down with tall glass of raspberry crystal light no longer phased me. In fact, the 3-day old pizza I discovered yesterday seemed heavenly in comparison to the slightly moldy apple I had eaten for lunch earlier. Really, my meals consist of whatever I can find, and have time to shove in my mouth while I am studying. I have lowered my standard from mom's home-cooked chicken fried steak with fluffy, hand-whipped mashed potatoes to the archetypal college food ideology; the grab bag diet.
As I processed my thoughts with the processed sausage, it hit me: I am a post-revolution Cuban. College is my Castro. As Cubans saw their daily caloric intake decrease with the collapse of the Soviet Union and their imported source of calories, they substituted, struggled, and self-subsisted. My first few months of college, my body literally went into shock with the new dietary changes. I passed out, my iron-levels dropped, I became a sickly, weight-gaining, very perplexed girl. Eventually, I adjusted and learned. Now, my community farm consists of a refrigerator full of housemates' food, shared by many, scavenged by all.
But, the Cubans took away a more valuable lesson than that of the modern-day college student: nutritional value still matters. While their meat intake levels still dangle below the pre-revolutionary statistics, their general 2300 calorie/day intake represents a well-rounded diet consistent with proper nutrition. Perhaps because we assume our college days are limited, we do not generally see the value in staying nutritious. Even as a student of nutritional anthropology, I am constantly amazed at my personal dietary choices. I have even found myself justify excess saturated fats and calories with additional minutes on the elliptical. But, I am making do, one chicken sausage at a time.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Oh Spaghetti, if only I could love you.
"Oh, Spaghetti. If only I could love you." I sighed this to myself at many a dinner table during my life. I know it sounds juvenile, but my distain for the long-loved American favorite stems from my older sister's childish teasing.
Really, I use to like the stuff. I remember the satisfying slurp at the end of a long noodle, and how relaxed my mom was after the short preparation and the approving consensus of the family at dinner time (a very rare occasion). But one night, as my mom sloshed a ladle of tomato sauce onto my noodles, my sister informed me of the true origin of my coming meal. "Micki," she whispered, "Yanno those noodles are worms from the garden, and that sauce is their bloody guts! You shouldn't eat it."
"No they aren't," I retorted, so sure of my preschool-level ability to decipher her lies. But, just then, my mother served my dish. Oh no, Oh no, Oh no. I had never noticed the soggy carbs as their true form: slithering worms! I felt betrayed, disgusted, ashamed. I ran, I don't remember where, or how much trouble I got in for screaming down the stairs at my astonished mother. But, I do know that that moment defined my relationship with pasta forever. To this day, I want to love, but am caught up in the memory of that fatal evening. Oh well, maybe someday we will be reunited in a harmonious dinner, complete with garlic bread and red wine. Until then, I stick with the penne.
Really, I use to like the stuff. I remember the satisfying slurp at the end of a long noodle, and how relaxed my mom was after the short preparation and the approving consensus of the family at dinner time (a very rare occasion). But one night, as my mom sloshed a ladle of tomato sauce onto my noodles, my sister informed me of the true origin of my coming meal. "Micki," she whispered, "Yanno those noodles are worms from the garden, and that sauce is their bloody guts! You shouldn't eat it."
"No they aren't," I retorted, so sure of my preschool-level ability to decipher her lies. But, just then, my mother served my dish. Oh no, Oh no, Oh no. I had never noticed the soggy carbs as their true form: slithering worms! I felt betrayed, disgusted, ashamed. I ran, I don't remember where, or how much trouble I got in for screaming down the stairs at my astonished mother. But, I do know that that moment defined my relationship with pasta forever. To this day, I want to love, but am caught up in the memory of that fatal evening. Oh well, maybe someday we will be reunited in a harmonious dinner, complete with garlic bread and red wine. Until then, I stick with the penne.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
