Process Writing

            I’m going to be honest here; the one part of Food and Travel Writing I loved and loathed most was my restaurant review. I had so much fun eating at Lee’s Garden and I couldn’t wait to write my review. I sat down with my reporter’s notebook, satisfyingly stained with food and barley tea, and started to write. I loved every second of the writing process. I worked so hard to evoke all the right things with each word and referenced my notes from class with each new paragraph. I read my review, changed some things, and posted it to my blog. I was so proud.

            My confidence came crashing down during workshop. Whether these were Marin’s exact words or not, what I heard was, “Lovely description, but this review says nothing.” I couldn’t figure out what I’d done wrong and I never wanted to look at my review or go to Lee’s Garden again. I revised my review, second guessed my revisions, changed them some more, and asked two close friends, my dad, and my boyfriend for feedback. I obsessed over when I should press print and accept a finished product. I think I completely overreacted.

            The ultimate satisfaction came when I got my review back. It was the most dramatic moment for me: standing in the parking lot of the restaurant I’d reviewed, after eating there with my professor and classmates and wondering if they felt the same way I felt about the dishes we ate. I clung to my Styrofoam cup of barley tea—I couldn’t have been more anxious. I pulled on the corner of my paper and felt the biggest sigh of relief. It all turned out okay.

            I didn’t torture myself over my restaurant review revision because I’m crazy and grade-obsessed. I agonized and fixated because I cared so much about writing a good review and being taken seriously. Food and Travel Writing meant so much to me as a writer and student. With Jane Kramer’s “The Reporter’s Kitchen,” I was hooked on the idea of writing about food and I wanted this class to help me figure out if I could feasibly make a career out of my writing.

            Though my restaurant review was the biggest roller coaster ride I took this quarter, my writing process for other assignments followed similar trajectories. I started out filled with joy and passion for each assignment, wrote with enthusiasm, felt proud of my work, posted it nervously, grew more and more excited to revise during workshop, nitpicked over revisions, and wanted a nap after submitting final copies. Every writing assignment, reading, and discussion left me hungry.

            I learned so much about my writing during this course and I think I finally found a voice. This was a huge breakthrough for me. Though I was consistently frustrated with my apparent temperature fixation, I loved learning about my writing personality. With the help of my friends, professor, and classmates, I discovered my faults: I repeat words too much when I write first drafts, my opinion isn’t always clear, and I struggle with creating tension, but I can work with that! In this class, I learned that my work doesn’t have to be perfect the first time as long as I’m up for revising it.

I’m most proud that I found a writing voice and I unearthed a love for writing and reading about food during this course. So what if that voice is a little too cheery sometimes and repeats a few words? I’m going to focus on bettering my style as much as I can and as soon as I can, but I’m also going to appreciate my writing process for what it is right now. I plan to learn more about food, cook over break, and write about almost everything I eat. Lasting change takes time.

The Perfect Meal Revised

I woke up on the day of my perfect meal confident that the next ten hours would be leisurely and pleasant. It felt like senior prom; I planned to wake up and go to the gym, eat a fresh almond pastry for breakfast, and wear something soft to make me feel warm all day. I wouldn't worry about money or pimples and I would smile at everyone.

Unlike prom day, dinner preparation took me to the People's Food Co-Op instead of the manicurist and left me grilling local, organic, whole-grain bread in a college dormitory kitchen. Less glamorous? Maybe, but I couldn't have been happier to find myself and my two best friends in our pajamas and eating some decadent grilled cheese instead of being dressed in sparkling dresses and pressed up against other bodies in a steamy banquet hall.

I planned the dinner menu first. I set rules for myself, but proceeded to break almost all of them. When I started arranging my menu and considered the required shopping, I thought a perfect meal could only include completely locally grown, humanely raised, organic, and fairly traded food from small farms that rotate their crops. If the ingredients were perfect, the meal would be too, right?

This was a lot of pressure. For example, I wanted to serve fruit with heavy cream for dessert because it’s one of my most favorite treats, but strawberries, cherries, and blueberries weren't in season. If I followed my local, in-season, small farm rules, I couldn’t serve the dessert my friends and I loved so much. All of a sudden, I was faced with a choice: go for cravings and cream or go green and guiltless. I panicked and immediately wanted some comfort food and suddenly knew what to make.

I started searching for new recipes for the ultimate comforting combination: grilled cheese and tomato basil. This would be a simple and delicious meal, one where I could work with local and organic ingredients and still maintain the flavor I so craved.

Next came the shopping. I was worried about not making a sustainable enough, local enough, and organic enough meal. I feared that if I shopped for ingredients from Meijer, I would feel ashamed of the conditions my food was raised in and the harm it had done to the earth before reaching my plate. This didn’t seem fair. To me, comfort doesn’t ever involve guilt. I decided that a perfect meal couldn’t be stressful and couldn’t leave me feeling shameful, but I also couldn’t possibly cook the dishes I wanted to by purchasing ingredients from Michigan farms in November. Price, transportation, and availability limited me.

I had to compromise. Maybe if I shopped at the People’s Food Co-Op, I could find ingredients I would feel good about. I wouldn’t limit my budget: this meal would count as one of my textbooks for my class. I decided that I would only shop for my ingredients at the Co-Op and make the whole meal from scratch. I pushed the yucky feelings out of my head and focused on making the most positive and comforting meal I could. I had to prove to myself that I could cook something and feel good about it, proud of it, without feeling even the least bit shameful. I reduced my wordy list of restrictions to one that fit my comforting theme: guilt-free.

Before I shopped, Pinterest helped me find two recipes for my soup and sandwich: grilled cheese with avocado, basil pesto, spinach, goat cheese, and mozzarella and chunky roasted tomato soup. I was determined to find these ingredients at the Co-Op.

Though I couldn’t locally source every item on my list, I did find freshly baked bread and goat cheese from the local Mattawan Creamery. I then purchased Earthbound Farm’s prewashed baby spinach from California and accepted the distance my leafy greens had traveled from their farm to my plate. After I picked up an extra bar of Ghirardelli’s 60 percent dark chocolate to munch on throughout my day of preparations, I was ready to make my perfect meal.

Grilled cheese and tomato basil sounded best to me because it’s what I’ve eaten to feel better for years. When I feel sad or lonely, if it’s raining outside or if I just want to feel cozy I go to my favorite restaurant, Butch’s Dry Dock, and order, “a Mackenzie’s Mousetrap with a cup of tomato basil, please.” The grilled cheese at Butch’s is simple: cheddar, Muenster, and provolone grilled on country French bread. I dip the Mousetrap into my tomato basil soup before every bite. The combination of chunky soup mixed with cheese and bread feels like home. It represents simplicity at its finest.

Memories of this meal inspired me to cook something similar for my best friends, Olivia and Caroline: it was the simple combination I needed to carry me away from my studies and stresses. A childhood delight, grilled cheese and tomato soup evokes calm and replaces anxiety with gooey dairy. What could be more perfect?

Though our roasted tomato soup was free from a cream base, we swirled it with heavy whipping cream before letting our spoons dive in. A sweet sauce surrounded the chunks of tomato meat. I think we doubled the directed amount of sugar in the recipe by accident, but that only made the soup more scrumptious. We roasted the whole tomatoes in the oven until they burst and caramelized, and then we poured them in a pot to simmer with diced onions, garlic, and olive oil. The second floor lounge where we did our cooking swelled with heat and sweet tomato scent.

My perfect meal took hours. We started cooking—and slowly munching on our ingredients—at 5 p.m. and finished eating and cleaning at 8 p.m. I maintained my guilt-free theme and we ate what we wanted, when we wanted it. It was far too difficult to resist the sugary tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and grainy bread until dinner was served. Halfway through a deconstructed sandwich and teacup serving of roasted tomato soup, Olivia fell back on my futon. Snacking filled our stomachs and only allowed so much more rich cheese and avocado to enter.

When it finally came time to eat the meal in its entirety, my friends and I giggled as we spread ourselves out on my floor and looked at our feast. I held my nearly fried sandwich and let a dollop of goat cheese fall into my roasted tomato soup. I realized this meal wasn’t the same kind of comfort food I’m used to eating at home. My perfect meal sandwich and soup were anything but simple. My friends and I piled pesto, cheese, avocado, and spinach on thickly cut slices of whole wheat bread and pressed the two sides together with both hands. We plopped each sandwich on a skillet with olive oil and butter and listened to the bread crinkle and fry. If Tom, the deli chef at Butch’s, cooked his Mackenzie’s Mousetraps this way, his customers wouldn’t tolerate the overstimulation.

My hands were soaked with oil and butter when I brought the mess up to my lips. Olivia pried her sandwich open and picked it apart to eat it. Caroline held her grilled cheese with two hands and ate it in measured bites while I tore it into pieces, dunked it in tomato soup, and scooped it into my mouth with a spoon. We sat on my carpet in a circle and listened to the Avett Brothers singing from my MacBook in the corner. We watched each other eat, unsure of what to do with the richness in our mouths.

We broke the eating session to wash dishes and gossip. After a few minutes, my mouth was ready for fruit, honey, more cream, and some chocolate: dessert. We laid the raw ingredients in front of us and ate them in pairs. Apples and honey first and then blueberries and heavy whipping cream. I had finally found simplicity in these sweet treats.

Though we had already declared ourselves stuffed, bursting with cheese, bread, and tomatoes, we could not stop eating dessert. The light apples and honey and the dreamy blueberries and cream helped take some weight from our stomachs. We ate the chocolate plain. It was simply too rich to be mixed with anything else.

For the first time in our eating process, our mouths opened not to be filled with food, but to speak. I asked the girls what they thought of my meal. Rate it on a scale from one to ten, perhaps? “I give it a five,” Olivia said. Harsh. “An eight,” said Caroline. Better. “But no offense,” they both added. We realized perfection had different definitions for each of us. I gave my meal a nine and a half. I only wished I’d had more room for the frozen bar of Ghirardelli’s we were demolishing one square at a time.

While Olivia would have been sitting on huge pillows for her meal and Caroline would have eaten at a table, I was happiest in a picnic circle on my floor. Like tired girls after a high school prom, my two friends and I flopped onto my bedroom floor and reviewed the evening’s events. The meal was just perfect for me, we decided.

Lee's Garden Review: Part III

Before I went to Lee’s Garden, my only prior experience with Korean food involved my friend’s mother’s dumplings. I recognized Kim Jong Il and Kim Jong Un and that was about it. I thought the Korean restaurant might include the usual “Asian restaurant” motifs: dragons, gold, and red. Embarrassing. I tried my best to set my assumptions aside and went to Lee’s Garden for dinner armed with two Korean food experts and two novices like me.

 I can now say I have eaten Mrs. Kim’s dumplings and Mr. Lee’s dumplings. Mr. Lee’s were better, no offense to my friend’s mother. In fact, the golden mandoo appetizer was my favorite part of dinner at Lee’s. I was able to pinch the crescent shaped dumplings between two chopsticks without making myself look too silly and I understood the dish’s ingredients and consequent flavors without much problem.

What’s more, I got to know Mr. Lee through the dumplings. I first noticed his charm when he set a plate piled high with mandoo on the table I was sharing with four of my friends and told us he included three dumplings for each of us instead of the two we ordered. I was hooked, fascinated by Mr. Lee’s unwarranted kindness. I couldn’t understand why this quiet man was being so nice to five girls who hadn’t said anything to him with the exception of an order for mandoo. Then, I realized that we were one of two parties in the restaurant and we weren’t actually receiving any special treatment. Mr. Lee was like this with everyone; he quietly helped the other customers order too.

My interest in Mr. Lee and his wife continued when Christian worship music began to play over the stereo system. My friends and I first thought a choir had started singing in the kitchen. Then I noticed the stained glass windows, the multiple organs in corners of the dining room and the Hosanna Church pamphlets on the counter. I couldn’t quite figure out where I was.

Dinner at Mr. Lee’s was like a field trip. Nothing I ate or experienced met the expectations I had before the meal, but I was comfortable in my booth seat and I went along for the ride.

I had expected to find the same decorations and dishes I was used to seeing and eating at Asian restaurants at Lee’s Garden, but I didn’t. I was relieved—those decorations sometimes give me nervous tummy aches. I worry that my participation in dining at Chinese and Thai restaurants contributes to some cycle of colonization I should know about. I cross my fingers that I’m not cheapening someone’s culture by eating pad thai and sweet and sour chicken take-out.

Lee’s Garden had no dragons, no red and gold, no costumes. The only discomfort I felt upon dining there was anxiety over spiciness and heat. A sufferer of acid-reflux, spicy food makes my face crinkle and my stomach turn. I took a few Tums and survived a few bites of kimchi and spicy soup. The barley tea served at Lee’s Garden also assisted in calming my fears. I drink several cups of green and herbal tea every day, and I was thrilled by this new flavor. I think I finished four cups on my first visit to Lee’s.

My review experience at Lee’s Garden helped me realize why I sometimes shy away from Asian restaurants. I get nervous about spice and, for some reason, colonization. If nothing else, I come away from this with a new vigor for trying the dishes not only at Korean restaurants, but also the one’s I’ve been afraid to try at Thai, Chinese, and Japanese restaurants. I’ll take some extra Tums and enthusiasm with me. After dining at Lee’s and meeting Mr. Lee and his kind wife, I feel much better. I think entering new dining experiences with openness to adventure makes everything okay.

Someday, I hope to learn more about Korean food and culture. Maybe repeat visits to Lee’s Garden will help. 

The Perfect Meal

I woke up on the day of my perfect dinner confident that the next ten hours would be leisurely and perfect. It felt like senior prom; I planned to wake up and go to the gym, eat a fresh almond pastry for breakfast, and wear something soft to make me feel warm all day. I wouldn't worry about money or pimples and I would smile at everyone.

Unlike prom preparation day, perfect meal preparation day took me to the People's Food Co-Op instead of the manicurist and left me grilling local, organic, whole-grain bread in the Trowbridge staff kitchen instead of curling my hair and pinning it up. Less glamorous? Maybe, but I couldn't have been happier to find myself and my two best friends in our pajamas and eating some very decadent grilled cheese instead of dressed in sparkling dresses and dancing in a steamy banquet hall.

I planned the menu for the dinner the day before it was set to happen. I had set rules for myself, but proceeded to break almost all of them. The perfect meal, I had thought before I started, could only include completely locally grown, humanely raised, organic, and fairly traded food from small farms that rotate their crops. If the ingredients were perfect, the meal would be too, right?

Problem; when I thought about dessert, I decided I should serve fruit with heavy cream, but strawberries, cherries, and blueberries weren't in season. All of a sudden, I was faced with a choice: go for flavor or go for guilt-free. I panicked and stressed and immediately wanted some comfort food. There it was: comfort food, perfection.

I immediately started searching for recipes for the ultimate comforting combination: grilled cheese and tomato basil. To me, this sounded like a simple and very delicious meal, one where I could work with local and organic ingredients and still maintain the flavor I so craved.

Comfort to me seems the opposite of guilt, so I reduced my wordy list of restrictions to one that fit my comforting theme: guilt-free. I decided that I would only shop for my ingredients at the People’s Food Co-Op and make the whole meal from scratch. Though I couldn’t locally source every ingredient, I found freshly baked bread and goat cheese from Mattawan Creamery. I purchased Earthbound Farm’s prewashed baby spinach and accepted the distance my leafy greens had traveled from their farm to my plate.

 Before I shopped, Pinterest helped me find two recipes for my soup and sandwich: grilled cheese with avocado, basil pesto, spinach, goat cheese, and mozzarella and chunky roasted tomato soup. After I picked up an extra bar of Ghirardelli’s 60 percent dark chocolate to help me cook, I was ready to make my perfect meal.

When I feel sad or lonely, if it’s raining outside or if I just want to feel cozy I go to my favorite restaurant, Butch’s Dry Dock, and order, “a Mackenzie’s Mousetrap with a cup of tomato basil, please.” The grilled cheese at Butch’s is simple: cheddar, Muenster, and provolone grilled on country French bread. I dip the Mousetrap in my tomato basil soup before every bite. The chunky tomato soup mixed with softened cheese and grilled bread feel like home. The tomato basil and grilled cheese combination represents simplicity at its finest. A childhood delight, it evokes calm and replaces anxiety with gooey dairy. What could be more perfect?

I bit into a nearly fried sandwich and let a dollop of goat cheese fall into my roasted tomato soup and I realized this meal wasn’t the same kind of comfort food I’m used to eating at home. My perfect meal sandwich and soup were anything but simple. My friends and I piled pesto, cheese, avocado, and spinach on thickly cut slices of whole wheat bread and pressed the two sides together with both hands. We plopped each sandwich on a skillet with olive oil and butter and listened to the bread crinkle and fry. If Tom, the deli chef at Butch’s, cooked his Mackenzie’s Mousetraps this way, his customers may not tolerate the overstimulation.

My hands were soaked with oil and butter when I finally brought the mess up to my lips. Olivia pried her sandwich open and picked it apart to eat it, Caroline held her grilled cheese with two hands and ate it in measured bites, while I tore it into pieces, dunked it in tomato soup, and scooped it into my mouth with a spoon. We sat on my carpet in a circle and listened to the Avett Brothers singing from my MacBook in the corner. We watched each other eat, unsure of what to do with the richness in our mouths.

Though our roasted tomato soup was free from a cream base, we swirled it with heavy whipping cream before letting our spoons dive in. A sweet sauce surrounded the chunks of tomato meat. I think we doubled the directed amount of sugar in the recipe by accident, but it was perfect. We roasted the whole tomatoes in the oven until they burst and caramelized, and then we poured them in a pot to simmer with diced onions, garlic, and olive oil. The second floor lounge where we did our cooking swelled with heat and sweet tomato scent.

My perfect meal took hours. We started cooking—and slowly eating our ingredients—at 5 p.m. and finished eating and cleaning at 8 p.m. It was far too difficult to resist the sugary tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, and grainy bread until dinner was served. I maintained my guilt-free theme and we ate what we wanted, when we wanted it. Half way through a deconstructed sandwich and teacup serving of roasted tomato soup, Olivia fell back on my futon. Snacking filled our stomachs and only allowed so much more rich cheese and avocado to enter.

We broke the eating session to wash dishes and gossip. After a few minutes, my mouth was ready for fruit, honey, more cream, and some chocolate: dessert. We laid the raw ingredients in front of us and ate them in pairs. Apples and honey first and then blueberries and heavy whipping cream. I had finally found simplicity in these sweet treats.

Like tired girls after a high school prom, my two friends and I flopped onto my bedroom floor and dissected the evening’s events. Almost perfect, we decided.