Disclaimer: This reveals my geeky side.
One of the interesting things about leading the “Am I Hungry?” workshops is that I start to view everything through that lens. For instance, while listening to Weird Al’s “Trapped in the Drive-Thru”. Weird Al has lots of songs about food – “Eat It”, “Lasagna”, “The White Stuff” (in the middle of an Oreo), “ Taco Grande”, etc. – but this one is a little different. It’s of somewhat epic length (around 10 minutes), and it describes in sometimes painful detail a husband and wife trying to figure out their dinner plans. What I find fascinating is how much it reveals about our society and food, which you can see as I walk through the relevant parts.
The first line that caught my attention is when they decide to eat. The narrator is the husband, and he says:
“It's gettin' late...what you wanna do for dinner?”
She says "I kinda had a big lunch.
So I'm not super hungry."
I said "Well you know, baby, I'm not starvin' either
But I could eat."
Right off, I thought about the “Why” and “When” parts of the AIH eating cycle. Why do they want to eat? The wife is more inclined to listen to her own instincts about eating, but she’s willing to be overridden by her husband, since she then says, “I don’t care, if you’re hungry, let’s eat.” Social pressure is a huge hurdle for people trying to pay attention to their eating habits, since many of us can fall into the trap of eating just because someone else is.
The husband seems like he might be a little hungry, but as for when he wants to eat, it’s mostly that “it’s getting late”. And how many of us have felt that way? We’re not truly hungry, or at least not very hungry, but we feel like we’re supposed to eat because that’s just what you do in the evening. It’s dinner-time, so let’s get dinner.
They’re not off to a very good start from an AIH perspective, but at least they do put some thought into the “What” part of eating. The husband says, "But first you gotta tell me / What it is you're hungry for!"
This causes some difficulty because they don’t have any leftovers. The tuna “went bad a week ago”, and as for the chili, the husband "finished that yesterday!" Then the wife suggests, "Why don't you whip up something in the kitchen?" To which the husband replies with heavy sarcasm, "Yeah… Why don't you?"
Which brings us to another very telling moment – cooking. Many people no longer know how to cook satisfying, healthy meals in a short period of time, or even if they do, they often feel it’s not worth the effort. Or they may do it so rarely that they don’t have anything on hand to actually work with. From the tone in the song, I suspect that in this case neither of them is much of a cook. That limits their options.
They discuss getting something delivered, but they get derailed on that. Then they talk about going out to eat. Except they need to decide where to go.
I… say "OK, where ya want to go?"
She says "How about The Ivy?"
I said "Yeah, well I don't know..."
I don't feel like gettin’ all dressed up
And eatin' expensive food.”
She's says "Olive Garden?"
I say "Nah, I'm not in the mood...
...And Burrito King would make me gassy
There's no doubt."
…Then I get an idea
I says "I know what we'll do!"
She says "What?"
…I say "We're goin' to the drive-thru!"
Ah, that wonder of invention, the drive-thru. It means they can go, get inexpensive food, and eat it wherever they choose. This wouldn’t be my first choice, certainly, since I’m not aware of any “healthy” drive-thrus. Still, in AIH, all foods fit, and occasional visits to the drive-thru aren’t the end of the world.
The main concern here is that they’re not necessarily hungry for that food. It’s just the most convenient. That, too, is something most of us have experienced. Many times, we don’t even go through the process of thinking about what we actually want at all; we just jump to whatever’s easiest.
We’re also very much creatures of habit, as shown by what happened when they actually got to the drive-thru. Without even asking his wife what she wanted, the husband orders, “Two hamburgers with onions and cheese." But again, the wife is in reasonable touch with her instincts because she interrupts.
Then my wife says
"Baby, hold on, I've changed my mind!
I think I'm gonna have a chicken sandwich
Instead, this time"
I said, "You always get a cheeseburger!"
She says "That's not what I'm hungry for."
I put my head in my hands and screamed,
"I don't know who you are anymore!"
This is a problem that we don’t always talk about when wanting to change our eating habits – the reactions of those around us. If we have a partner, or live with anyone with whom we share food, if we start to change what we eat, for any reason, it can be very disconcerting to those around us. They no longer know what to expect and may certainly feel like they don’t know us. How can they know what to offer us for meals if we’re changing? Will they expect us to do the same? If we don’t, will they judge us for it?
Still, the husband revises the order, adding curly fries and a medium root beer. Then he asks to have his order read back to him.
She says, "One, you want a chicken sandwich.
Two, you want a cheeseburger.
Three, curly fries, and a large root beer."
"Stop, don't go no further!
"I never ordered a large root beer
I said medium, not large!"
Then she says "We're having a special,
I supersized you at no charge."
This jumps ahead to the “how much” part of the eating cycle. As the movie Super Size Me showed, these types of “specials” can be very detrimental, especially if no one even asks if you want it. You can end up consuming much more than you expected, but why not? After all, it’s a better value for your money, right? The fact that in this case it was soda instead of the food doesn’t make it any better, since it’s apparently a regular root beer, which comes full of calories, and a large, free or not, is going to have more than a medium.
But then they hit a snag – the husband left his wallet at home, his wife “was only carryin’ three bucks”, and the drive-thru is cash-only. They scrounge for change but the cashier informs them, "You're still about a dollar short." Finally, realizing that they’re holding up the whole line, the wife breaks down.
She screams, "You know
I wasn't even really hungry in the first place!"
And so I turned around
To the cashier again
I shrugged and said, "OK
Forget the chicken sandwich then."
After all that, we’re reminded that she didn’t even feel like eating in the first place. Another good reason to listen to our instincts, although admittedly most of us don’t run into quite the same problems this couple did.
Now we come to the “how” part of eating.
And now we're finally drivin' away
And the food is drivin' me mad
With its intoxicating bouquet
I'm starvin' to death
By the time we pull up at the traffic light
I say "Baby, gimme that burger,
I just gotta have a bite!"
Remember that initially the husband wasn’t starving (“but I could eat”), nor was he hungry for a cheeseburger. But the smell of the food has convinced his body that it’s what he wants, and furthermore, that he has to have it now. And so he doesn’t eat mindfully, just cramming in a bite at the traffic light.
This, too, is something many of us experience. If we can’t tell for ourselves what we want, advertisements and food vendors are more than happy to influence us, something that’s very easy to do. The sight or smell of foods can make us long for it as if it was what we always wanted, sometimes even after we’ve just eaten.
And many of us (myself included) have eaten in the car. Although as Dr. May points out, if you’re eating in the car, you can only pay close attention to one thing, your eating or your driving. For everyone else’s sake, I hope it’s the driving, but if that’s the case, it doesn’t allow for the mindful experience of eating.
And after all that, the husband didn’t even get what he wanted.
I bite into those buns
And I just can’t believe it
They forgot the onions!
Even though the song doesn’t go into the “where” part of the eating cycle (where do you spend the energy you get from food?), I suspect that in this case, part of the husband’s energy goes into being annoyed with the drive-thru. At least he doesn’t seem the sort to beat himself up about eating fast food, or feeling guilty about it, as some might.
By the end, as I said, I was left thinking that this is probably an experience that many of us can relate to, and I wonder if things would have been different if both husband and wife had been more in touch with their bodies to begin with, to know if and what they wanted to eat. But mostly, I wonder what things would be like if most people were connected enough to themselves to know that. If so, how many would get trapped at the drive-thru at all?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Homemade Bread and Jam
This weekend I made my first very bread. I’d been thinking about it for a while, but what finally prompted me to do it was when I made my first strawberry jam. It came out so well that it prompted a very visceral childhood memory of eating my dad’s fresh-baked bread warm from the oven topped with homemade strawberry jam. Wanting to revisit that, I decided to make bread to accompany the jam.
I considered using my KitchenAid to knead the dough but chose to get the full experience by kneading it myself, at least for my first attempt. I’m glad I did. As with making pie crust dough, I find working with the raw ingredients by hand very sensual and enjoyable. (Plus, as a friend pointed out, kneading and punching down the dough is very good stress-relief.)
I also remembered a woman I know saying once how kneading bread helped connect her to all the people in her past who had made bread. Working on mine, I got a sense of that, too, knowing that people have been making bread for millennia. What a wonderful experience to continue that tradition, to have that link reaching backwards and hopefully forwards in time.
What surprised me, though, was the sheer fun I had in observing all the stages of the bread development, not just the kneading.
Putting it in a bowl to rise, the wonderful yeasty smell filling the kitchen:
The delight of seeing it puffing over the top of the bowl after it had risen:
The fun of preparing it for the loaf pan, trying to make it uniform so that the loaf would be a good shape:
Seeing it rise again and start to actually look like bread:
Then, as it baked, enjoying the warm, delicious scent filling the whole downstairs. I had this strange sense of the condo feeling more like a home than it had before, as if the act of making bread consecrated it in some way.
Finally, after baking, pulling out the finished results:
I restrained myself from immediately cutting it, wanting to let it cool at least a little bit. When I thought it had been long enough, I sliced off a bit of the end, and the inside certainly looked like it would be good:
But the real test, of course, was spreading it with jam and trying it:
It was delicious. The bread was still warm, the crust a bit crunchy but not too hard, the inside soft and yielding, the honey-wheat taste complemented by the bright sweetness of the strawberry jam. I appreciated it even more knowing that both were the results of my own labor – my hands had been the ones picking the strawberries, then hulling and cooking down for jam, as well as making the bread.
I plan to fully enjoy my loaves, and I expect they won’t be the last, since I have all sorts of ideas: toast with jam, toast with fresh butter, BLTs made with local tomatoes and lettuce and bacon from happily raised pigs, French toast – the possibilities go on and on. And I have every intent of exploring as many as I can.
I considered using my KitchenAid to knead the dough but chose to get the full experience by kneading it myself, at least for my first attempt. I’m glad I did. As with making pie crust dough, I find working with the raw ingredients by hand very sensual and enjoyable. (Plus, as a friend pointed out, kneading and punching down the dough is very good stress-relief.)
I also remembered a woman I know saying once how kneading bread helped connect her to all the people in her past who had made bread. Working on mine, I got a sense of that, too, knowing that people have been making bread for millennia. What a wonderful experience to continue that tradition, to have that link reaching backwards and hopefully forwards in time.
What surprised me, though, was the sheer fun I had in observing all the stages of the bread development, not just the kneading.
Putting it in a bowl to rise, the wonderful yeasty smell filling the kitchen:
The delight of seeing it puffing over the top of the bowl after it had risen:
The fun of preparing it for the loaf pan, trying to make it uniform so that the loaf would be a good shape:
Seeing it rise again and start to actually look like bread:
Then, as it baked, enjoying the warm, delicious scent filling the whole downstairs. I had this strange sense of the condo feeling more like a home than it had before, as if the act of making bread consecrated it in some way.
Finally, after baking, pulling out the finished results:
I restrained myself from immediately cutting it, wanting to let it cool at least a little bit. When I thought it had been long enough, I sliced off a bit of the end, and the inside certainly looked like it would be good:
But the real test, of course, was spreading it with jam and trying it:
It was delicious. The bread was still warm, the crust a bit crunchy but not too hard, the inside soft and yielding, the honey-wheat taste complemented by the bright sweetness of the strawberry jam. I appreciated it even more knowing that both were the results of my own labor – my hands had been the ones picking the strawberries, then hulling and cooking down for jam, as well as making the bread.
I plan to fully enjoy my loaves, and I expect they won’t be the last, since I have all sorts of ideas: toast with jam, toast with fresh butter, BLTs made with local tomatoes and lettuce and bacon from happily raised pigs, French toast – the possibilities go on and on. And I have every intent of exploring as many as I can.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Dietary Theories
I like to consider myself an open-minded person, and not someone who blindly accepts what others say. Even so, I realized recently that I’ve become fairly set in my beliefs about what people should eat, based what works for me, and based on the common thoughts of our time.
This came to my attention when I began reading about different dietary theories as part of my preparation for my health coaching certification. I found myself balking at the concept that anyone would actually be able to live and be healthy while eating in these ways. Some examples are:
− Atkins Diet: I’ve never understood this one. How is it healthy to eat all that fat and protein? And how can you possibly say that eating fruit is bad?
− High Carbohydrate Diet: the opposite of Atkins, which only suggests 10-15% protein, and preferably to get that from sources other than meat or high-fat dairy products. I was trying to understand how this could work if you’re going to be very active and crave protein and fat.
− Raw Foods Diet: This avoids anything cooked about 116 degrees, as well as all meat and dairy. (Probably a good thing, given the cooking restriction.) After having read Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human, I have a hard time accepting that eating only raw foods is actually good for us, or necessary.
Part of me understands that everyone is different, and that the “one size fits all approach” doesn’t work in relation to what we can or even need to eat. But part of me was thinking, no, you need to eat a balanced diet of protein (possibly including from animals), various carbohydrates (including fruits), and vegetables.
Then I started reading Ceremonial Time by John Hanson Mitchell. In it, he examines the history of life from the past 15,000 years in a small plot of land in Massachusetts, including looking at the diets of the peoples who’ve lived there. This included:
− Paleo-Indians, who pretty much only ate meat, since animals were so plentiful.
− Late Archaic Indians, who were still meat-eaters but also started gathering plant-based foods, primarily nuts and seeds
− Woodland Indians, who did some agriculture, and began to focus more on plants
− Eastern Woodland Indians, who were “essentially horticulturists; they kept no animals and still relied heavily on wild plants and hunting to supplemental their vegetarian agriculture.” (p. 111)
− Puritans, who were “heavy protein eaters. Ideally, each adult would consume a pound of meat, cheese, or fish a day, and perhaps a quarter of a pound of corn or oats or barley porridge.” pp. (111-112)
These correspond at least in part with some of the dietary theories people follow today, and sure enough, all those peoples survived, had children, etc. Whether they were missing certain nutrients or not is hard to say, but it obviously wasn’t something they worried about, nor was it drastic enough to drive them to extinction or to prevent them from going about the necessary functions of life. I also remember my great-grandfather, whose diet I considered pretty horrifying - not just in the sense of lots of fatty foods but also spoiled foods, since his eyesight was going - but who lived to be in his mid-90’s.
Thinking over all this, I am forced to re-evaluate my own stance on food. Yes, I do still think that balance, variety, and moderation is a good approach, but I must also recognize that different people can eat in different ways and still be healthy. Now I just need to remember that, and not let my habits develop into a holier-than-thou attitude as I help others rediscover their own relationship with food.
This came to my attention when I began reading about different dietary theories as part of my preparation for my health coaching certification. I found myself balking at the concept that anyone would actually be able to live and be healthy while eating in these ways. Some examples are:
− Atkins Diet: I’ve never understood this one. How is it healthy to eat all that fat and protein? And how can you possibly say that eating fruit is bad?
− High Carbohydrate Diet: the opposite of Atkins, which only suggests 10-15% protein, and preferably to get that from sources other than meat or high-fat dairy products. I was trying to understand how this could work if you’re going to be very active and crave protein and fat.
− Raw Foods Diet: This avoids anything cooked about 116 degrees, as well as all meat and dairy. (Probably a good thing, given the cooking restriction.) After having read Catching Fire: How Cooking Made Us Human, I have a hard time accepting that eating only raw foods is actually good for us, or necessary.
Part of me understands that everyone is different, and that the “one size fits all approach” doesn’t work in relation to what we can or even need to eat. But part of me was thinking, no, you need to eat a balanced diet of protein (possibly including from animals), various carbohydrates (including fruits), and vegetables.
Then I started reading Ceremonial Time by John Hanson Mitchell. In it, he examines the history of life from the past 15,000 years in a small plot of land in Massachusetts, including looking at the diets of the peoples who’ve lived there. This included:
− Paleo-Indians, who pretty much only ate meat, since animals were so plentiful.
− Late Archaic Indians, who were still meat-eaters but also started gathering plant-based foods, primarily nuts and seeds
− Woodland Indians, who did some agriculture, and began to focus more on plants
− Eastern Woodland Indians, who were “essentially horticulturists; they kept no animals and still relied heavily on wild plants and hunting to supplemental their vegetarian agriculture.” (p. 111)
− Puritans, who were “heavy protein eaters. Ideally, each adult would consume a pound of meat, cheese, or fish a day, and perhaps a quarter of a pound of corn or oats or barley porridge.” pp. (111-112)
These correspond at least in part with some of the dietary theories people follow today, and sure enough, all those peoples survived, had children, etc. Whether they were missing certain nutrients or not is hard to say, but it obviously wasn’t something they worried about, nor was it drastic enough to drive them to extinction or to prevent them from going about the necessary functions of life. I also remember my great-grandfather, whose diet I considered pretty horrifying - not just in the sense of lots of fatty foods but also spoiled foods, since his eyesight was going - but who lived to be in his mid-90’s.
Thinking over all this, I am forced to re-evaluate my own stance on food. Yes, I do still think that balance, variety, and moderation is a good approach, but I must also recognize that different people can eat in different ways and still be healthy. Now I just need to remember that, and not let my habits develop into a holier-than-thou attitude as I help others rediscover their own relationship with food.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Fearless
My dad said to me once, “There was a time when you were fearless.” He was referring to my early childhood, when I was maybe four or five, a time when I would do anything. Up to that point I’d never had cause to feel like I should be afraid, but more than that, something in my personality seemed geared that way. If I wanted to do something, nothing was going to keep me from it.
After I gained weight, though, that fearlessness vanished. I often wondered what happened to it. Was it simply crushed beneath the layers of fat, spark extinguished beyond any hope of resurrection? Or might it someday emerge, phoenix-like, granting me the freedom to soar above the fear?
After losing weight and climbing Katahdin and various other things, I’ve felt close to that, but it was never quite the same – until this weekend. I wasn’t looking for it, but perhaps that was why I found it.
I was hiking Hamlin Ridge (one of the trails on Katahdin) with my brother and my niece, with no clear goal except that we had decided early on not to go to the top. I figured my brother would be able to, but I wasn’t convinced I could, even with my training (going up and down my stairs 2-3 times a week for 20-25 minutes, sometimes with a backpack weighing up to 20 pounds). I also suspected my niece wouldn’t go that high, since she hadn’t done any hiking or preparation, plus she doesn’t like exposed heights.
To my astonishment, I was doing fine, better than both of them. My brother was feeling really tired, possibly from dehydration, but whatever the reason, the fact was that I was capable of more than I had imagined. I realized in that moment that I could go to the top.
And so, looking up the rock scramble, I said without a moment’s concern, “I’m going to go a little higher on my own.”
It wasn’t until I was clambering hand and feet up the nearly sheer boulders – and enjoying it – that the significance hit me. Here I was, going up on my own, no concerns about not being able to make it (even coming down), no fear of being alone, only exhilaration at the views. That’s when I felt it, like I was four years old again, unscarred by the world, ready for anything.
In that moment, I felt like I was flying. I didn’t actually go all the way up, since I didn’t want to worry my brother and niece, but knowing that I could made a huge difference. Even now, back on the ground, I can feel those wings in me, quiescent for the moment, but ready to take me wherever I want to go, fearless.
After I gained weight, though, that fearlessness vanished. I often wondered what happened to it. Was it simply crushed beneath the layers of fat, spark extinguished beyond any hope of resurrection? Or might it someday emerge, phoenix-like, granting me the freedom to soar above the fear?
After losing weight and climbing Katahdin and various other things, I’ve felt close to that, but it was never quite the same – until this weekend. I wasn’t looking for it, but perhaps that was why I found it.
I was hiking Hamlin Ridge (one of the trails on Katahdin) with my brother and my niece, with no clear goal except that we had decided early on not to go to the top. I figured my brother would be able to, but I wasn’t convinced I could, even with my training (going up and down my stairs 2-3 times a week for 20-25 minutes, sometimes with a backpack weighing up to 20 pounds). I also suspected my niece wouldn’t go that high, since she hadn’t done any hiking or preparation, plus she doesn’t like exposed heights.
To my astonishment, I was doing fine, better than both of them. My brother was feeling really tired, possibly from dehydration, but whatever the reason, the fact was that I was capable of more than I had imagined. I realized in that moment that I could go to the top.
And so, looking up the rock scramble, I said without a moment’s concern, “I’m going to go a little higher on my own.”
It wasn’t until I was clambering hand and feet up the nearly sheer boulders – and enjoying it – that the significance hit me. Here I was, going up on my own, no concerns about not being able to make it (even coming down), no fear of being alone, only exhilaration at the views. That’s when I felt it, like I was four years old again, unscarred by the world, ready for anything.
In that moment, I felt like I was flying. I didn’t actually go all the way up, since I didn’t want to worry my brother and niece, but knowing that I could made a huge difference. Even now, back on the ground, I can feel those wings in me, quiescent for the moment, but ready to take me wherever I want to go, fearless.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Julia Child
[Note: This is longer than my usual post, because I wanted to include excerpts from the book.]
Prior to seeing Julie and Julia, my familiarity with Julia Child extended only so far as her name. While my mom was French-Canadian, the only French food made in our house were crèpes and tourtière. I hadn’t seen any of The French Chef; and at the time I didn’t understand the concept of reading cookbooks for pleasure.
When I saw the movie, though, I was intrigued, and I decided to read My Life in France by Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme. I’m very glad I did.
What immediately struck me was Julia’s pure and unabashed love of good food. The descriptions of the meals she ate and, in some cases, prepared, are themselves divinely mouth-watering. Take, for instance, her first meal upon arrival in France with her husband, Paul.
“Paul had decided to order sole meunière. It arrived whole: a large, flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said, ‘Bon appétit!’
“I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish to my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvelously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection….
“I tasted my first real baguette – a crisp brown crust giving way to a slightly chewy, rather loosely textured pale-yellow interior, with a faint reminder of wheat and yeast in the odor and taste. Yum!” (p. 18)
Or her delight in trying new foods. “My tastes were growing bolder, too. Take snails, for instance. I had never thought of eating a snail before, but, my, tender escargots bobbing in garlicky butter were one of my happiest discoveries! And truffles, which came in a can, and were so deliciously musky and redolent of the earth, quickly became an obsession.” (p. 40)
This pure, sensual delight is still something I am slowly learning for myself, since it is not a traditional part of American culture. As Julia discovered when trying to find a publisher for Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the majority of Americans still prefer quick meals or whatever is convenient, or worry so much about the calories that they can’t enjoy what they’re eating. I found myself envying that in her and wanting to emulate it. Although I have to say I did wonder what her experience would have been like at a more modest height than 6’2”, when she wouldn’t have been able to eat quite so extravagantly.
Even at that height, and with the amount of work she did (sometimes cooking from 6:30 or 7 a.m. to about 11 p.m., with breaks only for meals), she had some troubles with the food, both type and amount. For instance, both she and Paul suffered from stomach pains.
“A French doctor diagnosed my persistent nausea as nothing more than good old crise de foie – a liver attack, also known as ‘an American stomach in Paris.’ Evidently, French cuisine was just too much for most American digestive systems. Looking back on the rich gorge of food and drink we’d been enjoying, I don’t find the diagnosis surprising. Lunch almost every day had consisted of something like sole meunière, ris de veau à la crème, and half a bottle of wine. Dinner might be escargots, rognons flambés, and another half-bottle of wine. Then there was a regular flow of aperitifs and cocktails and Cognacs. No wonder I felt ill! In a good restaurant, even a simple carrot-cream soup has had the carrots and onions fondues gently in butter for ten to fifteen minutes before being souped.” (p. 94)
They also struggled a bit with weight at times, which, considering what Julia was doing, made sense. I was amazed by her description, and amused by Paul’s suggestion on how to approach the problem.
“Over the summer and into the fall of 1955, I finished my chicken research and began madly fussing about with geese and duck. One weekend I overdid it a bit, when, in a fit of experimental zeal, I consumed most of two boned stuffed ducks (one hot and braised, one cold en croûte) in a sitting. I was a pig, frankly, and bilious for days, which served me right. I was also running a continual set of experiments on risotto (finding just the right water-to-rice ratio), how to make stocks in the pressure cooker (determining proper timing, testing poultry carcasses versus beef bones), and various desserts. This sort of research was a challenge to our ongoing Battle of the Belly….
“Our goal was to eat well, but sensibly, as the French did. This meant keeping our helpings small, eating a great variety of foods, and avoiding snacks. But the best diet tip of all was Paul’s fully patented Belly Control System: ‘Just don’t eat so damn much!’” (p. 197)
Yet none of this kept her from her work, perhaps only slowing her down a little. I was impressed by her dedication to learning how to cook, and her acknowledgement that “the more you learn the more you realize you don’t know” (p. 69). But what truly astounded and delighted me was her absolute passion in crafting recipes for her various cookbooks.
“I checked every recipe in the manuscript [for Mastering the Art of French Cooking] on the stove and on the page. I also investigated old wives’ tales that weren’t in the regular cookbooks but that many people were ‘certain’ were true. This took endless amounts of time.
“Working on soups, for instance, I made a soup a day chez Child. On the day for soupe aux choux, I consulted Simca’s recipe, as well as the established recipes of Motagne, Larousse, Ali-Bab, and Curnonsky. I read through them all, then made the soup three different ways – following two recipes exactly as written, and making one adaptation for the pressure cooker [which was popular in American households]. At dinner, my guinea pig, Paul, complimented the three soups aux choux, but I wasn’t satisfied. One of the secrets to make this dish work, I felt, was to make a vegetable-and-ham stock before the cabbage was put in; also, not to cook the cabbage too long, which gives it a sour taste. But should the cabbage be blanched? Should I use a different variety of cabbage? Would the pressure-cooked soup taste better if I used the infernal machine a shorter time?
“I had to iron out all these questions of how and why and for what reason; otherwise, we’d end up with just an ordinary recipe – which was not the point of the book. I felt we should strive to show our readers how to make everything top-notch, and explain, if possible, why things work one way but not another. There should be no compromise!” (p. 133)
And later, for Mastering the Art of French Cooking Volume II: “It would eventually take us two years and something like 284 pounds of flour to try out all the home-style recipes for French bread we could find. We used two French textbooks on baking and tutored ourselves on the fine points of yeasts and flours.” (p. 254)
I was inspired by reading all these accounts of food and cooking, but perhaps most by realizing that this was passion that came late in life. Julia and Paul didn’t even move to France until she was 36; until then, she hadn’t realized how much she would enjoy cooking, or how significant it could be. But one of the chefs at Le Cordon Bleu helped fuel that passion and put it into context.
“Bugnard insisted that one pay attention, learn the correct technique, and that one enjoy one’s cooking – ‘Yes, Madame Scheeld, fun!’ he’d say. ‘Joy!’
“It was a remarkable lesson. No dish, not even the humbledscrambled egg, was too much trouble for him. ‘You never forget a beautiful thing that you had made,’ he said. ‘Even after you eat it, it stays with you – always.’” (p. 61)
That’s such a wonderful concept, isn’t it? To put that much into your food that it becomes something that you will remember forever. Too often, I find that people here regard cooking as a chore, not something to enjoy, just trying to get something on the table quickly. I wonder how much that would change if people considered it from that French perspective.
I was also excited to think that if Julia Child, who has become synonymous with cooking in our culture, could find her calling at that age, then perhaps it’s not completely crazy for me to be attempting the same thing. My focus is different than hers, but it has definite overlap. If I can help even a few people rediscover food the same love of food that she found, I will be content.
“A careful approach [to cooking] will result in a magnificent burst of flavor, a thoroughly satisfying meal, perhaps even a life-changing experience.
“Such was the case with the sole meunière I ate at La Couronne on my first day in France, in November 1948. It was an epiphany.
“In all the years since that succulent meal, I have yet to lose the feelings of wonder and excitement that it inspired in me. I can still almost taste it. And thinking back on it now reminds me that the pleasures of the table, and of life, are infinite – tourjours bon appétit!” (p. 302)
Prior to seeing Julie and Julia, my familiarity with Julia Child extended only so far as her name. While my mom was French-Canadian, the only French food made in our house were crèpes and tourtière. I hadn’t seen any of The French Chef; and at the time I didn’t understand the concept of reading cookbooks for pleasure.
When I saw the movie, though, I was intrigued, and I decided to read My Life in France by Julia Child with Alex Prud’homme. I’m very glad I did.
What immediately struck me was Julia’s pure and unabashed love of good food. The descriptions of the meals she ate and, in some cases, prepared, are themselves divinely mouth-watering. Take, for instance, her first meal upon arrival in France with her husband, Paul.
“Paul had decided to order sole meunière. It arrived whole: a large, flat Dover sole that was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. The waiter carefully placed the platter in front of us, stepped back, and said, ‘Bon appétit!’
“I closed my eyes and inhaled the rising perfume. Then I lifted a forkful of fish to my mouth, took a bite, and chewed slowly. The flesh of the sole was delicate, with a light but distinct taste of the ocean that blended marvelously with the browned butter. I chewed slowly and swallowed. It was a morsel of perfection….
“I tasted my first real baguette – a crisp brown crust giving way to a slightly chewy, rather loosely textured pale-yellow interior, with a faint reminder of wheat and yeast in the odor and taste. Yum!” (p. 18)
Or her delight in trying new foods. “My tastes were growing bolder, too. Take snails, for instance. I had never thought of eating a snail before, but, my, tender escargots bobbing in garlicky butter were one of my happiest discoveries! And truffles, which came in a can, and were so deliciously musky and redolent of the earth, quickly became an obsession.” (p. 40)
This pure, sensual delight is still something I am slowly learning for myself, since it is not a traditional part of American culture. As Julia discovered when trying to find a publisher for Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the majority of Americans still prefer quick meals or whatever is convenient, or worry so much about the calories that they can’t enjoy what they’re eating. I found myself envying that in her and wanting to emulate it. Although I have to say I did wonder what her experience would have been like at a more modest height than 6’2”, when she wouldn’t have been able to eat quite so extravagantly.
Even at that height, and with the amount of work she did (sometimes cooking from 6:30 or 7 a.m. to about 11 p.m., with breaks only for meals), she had some troubles with the food, both type and amount. For instance, both she and Paul suffered from stomach pains.
“A French doctor diagnosed my persistent nausea as nothing more than good old crise de foie – a liver attack, also known as ‘an American stomach in Paris.’ Evidently, French cuisine was just too much for most American digestive systems. Looking back on the rich gorge of food and drink we’d been enjoying, I don’t find the diagnosis surprising. Lunch almost every day had consisted of something like sole meunière, ris de veau à la crème, and half a bottle of wine. Dinner might be escargots, rognons flambés, and another half-bottle of wine. Then there was a regular flow of aperitifs and cocktails and Cognacs. No wonder I felt ill! In a good restaurant, even a simple carrot-cream soup has had the carrots and onions fondues gently in butter for ten to fifteen minutes before being souped.” (p. 94)
They also struggled a bit with weight at times, which, considering what Julia was doing, made sense. I was amazed by her description, and amused by Paul’s suggestion on how to approach the problem.
“Over the summer and into the fall of 1955, I finished my chicken research and began madly fussing about with geese and duck. One weekend I overdid it a bit, when, in a fit of experimental zeal, I consumed most of two boned stuffed ducks (one hot and braised, one cold en croûte) in a sitting. I was a pig, frankly, and bilious for days, which served me right. I was also running a continual set of experiments on risotto (finding just the right water-to-rice ratio), how to make stocks in the pressure cooker (determining proper timing, testing poultry carcasses versus beef bones), and various desserts. This sort of research was a challenge to our ongoing Battle of the Belly….
“Our goal was to eat well, but sensibly, as the French did. This meant keeping our helpings small, eating a great variety of foods, and avoiding snacks. But the best diet tip of all was Paul’s fully patented Belly Control System: ‘Just don’t eat so damn much!’” (p. 197)
Yet none of this kept her from her work, perhaps only slowing her down a little. I was impressed by her dedication to learning how to cook, and her acknowledgement that “the more you learn the more you realize you don’t know” (p. 69). But what truly astounded and delighted me was her absolute passion in crafting recipes for her various cookbooks.
“I checked every recipe in the manuscript [for Mastering the Art of French Cooking] on the stove and on the page. I also investigated old wives’ tales that weren’t in the regular cookbooks but that many people were ‘certain’ were true. This took endless amounts of time.
“Working on soups, for instance, I made a soup a day chez Child. On the day for soupe aux choux, I consulted Simca’s recipe, as well as the established recipes of Motagne, Larousse, Ali-Bab, and Curnonsky. I read through them all, then made the soup three different ways – following two recipes exactly as written, and making one adaptation for the pressure cooker [which was popular in American households]. At dinner, my guinea pig, Paul, complimented the three soups aux choux, but I wasn’t satisfied. One of the secrets to make this dish work, I felt, was to make a vegetable-and-ham stock before the cabbage was put in; also, not to cook the cabbage too long, which gives it a sour taste. But should the cabbage be blanched? Should I use a different variety of cabbage? Would the pressure-cooked soup taste better if I used the infernal machine a shorter time?
“I had to iron out all these questions of how and why and for what reason; otherwise, we’d end up with just an ordinary recipe – which was not the point of the book. I felt we should strive to show our readers how to make everything top-notch, and explain, if possible, why things work one way but not another. There should be no compromise!” (p. 133)
And later, for Mastering the Art of French Cooking Volume II: “It would eventually take us two years and something like 284 pounds of flour to try out all the home-style recipes for French bread we could find. We used two French textbooks on baking and tutored ourselves on the fine points of yeasts and flours.” (p. 254)
I was inspired by reading all these accounts of food and cooking, but perhaps most by realizing that this was passion that came late in life. Julia and Paul didn’t even move to France until she was 36; until then, she hadn’t realized how much she would enjoy cooking, or how significant it could be. But one of the chefs at Le Cordon Bleu helped fuel that passion and put it into context.
“Bugnard insisted that one pay attention, learn the correct technique, and that one enjoy one’s cooking – ‘Yes, Madame Scheeld, fun!’ he’d say. ‘Joy!’
“It was a remarkable lesson. No dish, not even the humbledscrambled egg, was too much trouble for him. ‘You never forget a beautiful thing that you had made,’ he said. ‘Even after you eat it, it stays with you – always.’” (p. 61)
That’s such a wonderful concept, isn’t it? To put that much into your food that it becomes something that you will remember forever. Too often, I find that people here regard cooking as a chore, not something to enjoy, just trying to get something on the table quickly. I wonder how much that would change if people considered it from that French perspective.
I was also excited to think that if Julia Child, who has become synonymous with cooking in our culture, could find her calling at that age, then perhaps it’s not completely crazy for me to be attempting the same thing. My focus is different than hers, but it has definite overlap. If I can help even a few people rediscover food the same love of food that she found, I will be content.
“A careful approach [to cooking] will result in a magnificent burst of flavor, a thoroughly satisfying meal, perhaps even a life-changing experience.
“Such was the case with the sole meunière I ate at La Couronne on my first day in France, in November 1948. It was an epiphany.
“In all the years since that succulent meal, I have yet to lose the feelings of wonder and excitement that it inspired in me. I can still almost taste it. And thinking back on it now reminds me that the pleasures of the table, and of life, are infinite – tourjours bon appétit!” (p. 302)
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