Process Writing

            Originally when I wrote Food In The Forest, I had only wanted to focus on the apple I received after solo.  I was going to flesh out the scene on the boat, when it was sitting in my lap and I was practically drooling over its smooth green surface.   Then I would go into the incredible sensation of eating it once we reached the shore.  But because solo was at the end of the trip, there needed to be some explanation for how I got there.  I had to explain the point of the trip and the point of solo.  The description of my hiking excursion ended up being longer than the rough draft of my apple-eating scene.

            As I thought more about LandSea, I realized I had eaten lots of good food, and had participated in a really unique experience.  I decided then, that the apple would be one part of a bigger theme of food eaten in a new environment.  This also gave me room to talk about the Travel part of Food and Travel, and go into much more detail about the places we saw.

            The hardest thing for me to deal with in this piece was length.  I went way over the word limit.  There was just so much I could talk about and every experience seemed important.  I knew I couldn’t write every fun and interesting story that happened while I was on my trip, but it was hard to cut certain details that were important to me.  For instance, I had an entire paragraph describing each of my patrol-mates.  For sixteen days these people had been my closest friends, and together we had experienced a really incredible journey.  But despite their friendships being very important to me personally, it did not add much to the theme of my story, and so I had to cut it. 

The easiest piece for me to write was the Perfect Meal assignment.  I actually began writing it about a week before I ever made my meal.  Since the day the assignment was given, I had been trying to imagine what my dinner would be like.  My thought process was that maybe this time I would create something really fantastic, and the piece would then center on the idea of friendship.  The meal would be made for my friends; it would be a sign of appreciation and love.  If it turned out like every other meal I’ve ever tried to make, then I knew I’d have my humor piece.  The line, “I wanted to go all out” came to me in the middle of class one day.  When I wrote it out at home, it flowed into an entire paragraph about who I would invite, which, at the time, was a dilemma that still needed to addressed.

Once I made my meal, the story basically wrote itself.  I could have tried different writing techniques, trying things out of chronological order or including more background information, but telling everything in order just as it happened was simple, and ended up working really well for the piece.  My inability to cook and the stress I felt while making the meal was clearly seen by simply telling the story.  I just explained what happened and the humor of the situation did the work for me.  

            Revising this may have been hardest though.  The workshop had provided me with good ideas for improvement, but I didn’t know how I could incorporate them into the piece.  One of the most common remarks was that I needed to characterize the people in the story more.  For some of my friends, I had stories and details about them that would do this well.  But I couldn’t find a way to add them without disrupting the flow of the story.  And since I was so proud of my writing and liked the story a lot, it was difficult for me to displace anything.  I liked how everything fit and even though I wanted more, I didn’t want to sacrifice what I had already established.  For some of my friends, I couldn’t characterize them at all.  These are people I spend every day with, and yet I couldn’t find the words to make them unique.  This was extremely frustrating.  I’ve had this problem before in other writing classes.  I have a really difficult time characterizing people who are close to me.  I know my friends and family, but I don’t know how to show the reader who they are.  I’m always afraid I won’t do them justice. 

            The restaurant review assignment was the hardest for me to write.  The word limit stressed me out the most.  Knowing how hard it is for me to delete sections that I like, I was constantly checking my word count.  I wouldn’t even start an idea if I knew it was going to be too long.  I had ten courses to get through, so each word had to be chosen carefully.  Despite being my shortest piece, it took me the longest to write because of this. 

            Another thing that was difficult for me was how to incorporate my voice into the piece.  Being written for the New York Times, I couldn’t write this in the more carefree tone that I wrote my first two in.  Unlike the previous assignments, I found myself constantly changing words and phrases because they did not sound professional enough.  And yet, I couldn’t be completely absent from the piece either.  This was my review and my opinion, so I still needed to be there.  Somewhere.  Having never taken a journalism class before, this was a new type of writing for me, and it was difficult at the start.  It helped that I had the later due date.  Looking at what my classmates and written helped give me an idea of how I should write mine. 

            Despite the difficulty of the word constraint, the comments I received were the easiest to add to this piece in revision.  Once I deleted the small paragraphs of each course of the meal, I had more room to describe some of the more memorable dishes in detail.  I was also more willing to move certain sections around to include their comments about dividing up descriptions of food and place.  This was still hard though.  I tried to interrupt the food descriptions as best I could, but the piece is still pretty much divided into a description of the place and then a description of the food.  I was happy with the chronological order of the meal though.  I thought I should present it to the reader the way it had been presented to me.  So that was one comment from classmates that I chose to ignore. 

            Having taken Creative Writing and Creative Non-Fiction Writing, I felt experienced and confident in my ability as a writer coming into this class.  I thought this would be more of a chance for me to fine tune skills I had already developed.  But Food And Travel Writing taught me about yet another style of writing.  I did not realize coming into this class how much more I had to learn.  It was very fun and exciting to experience this, and I feel I have grown a lot as a writer because of this class.  

The Experience At Graham Elliot (Final Draft)

[Written for the New York Times]

            Located in the gallery district of Chicago, Graham Elliot is a hip, laid-back version of fine dining.  A short flight of stairs takes guests from the street level into the dining hall, a modern, yet modest room adorned with simple black tables and lit by dim hanging lamps.  The hundred-year-old brick walls and the floor to ceiling windows of the former 19^th century printing warehouse add to the trendy yet professional atmosphere.

            The restaurant is owned by Graham Elliot Bowles, a tattoo clad chef who, at the age of 27, became the youngest four-star chef named in a major U.S. city.  In 2008, he opened Graham Elliot with the ideology that fine dining should be a fun, accessible experience.

When guests arrive, they are escorted to their table by friendly and accommodating staff.  A bowl of popcorn sprinkled with chives, truffle oil, and Parmesan cheese is put in the center of the table in place of bread; a tasty and less filling pre-meal snack. A hip mix of music including names like Ra Ra Riot, Arcade Fire and The Hold Steady, plays in the background, setting the mood without being intrusive. 

The menu is broken down into five categories; Cold, Hot, Sea, Land, and Sweet.  Guests can also opt for the Tasting, a $75 five-course meal; the Experience, a $125 ten-course meal; or the Repertoire, which offers a sample of every menu item for $150.  The menu includes refined items like Fluke Tartare, Heirloom Duck, and Hog Cheek.   But a note at the bottom telling patrons that, “in order to ensure the optimum awesomeness of your dining experience, we ask that the entire table participate in tasting menus” is also a reminder that this is a not your typical strict dining experience.  Assuming your eyes can read the small print in the dim lighting of the restaurant, the whimsical theme is also seen in the wine list, which is broken down into categories like “Pop Music” “One Hit Wonders” and “Karaoke.” While the relationship between the wines and their categories is not obvious, the sommelier will be able to suggest a wine that suits both the meal and the diner’s personal taste.  We enjoyed an excellent pinot noir from the “Garage Rock” section.
When it comes to the table, wine is decanted in the type of beaker you might find in a high school chemistry lab, with all the measurements written on the side.  Yet the process of the wine pouring resembles that of finely rehearsed dance.When choosing what to eat, the Experience is a great way to sample the wide range of creations served at Graham Elliot.   It includes small portions of two dishes from each of the five menu sections.  The meal takes about three hours to complete, so patrons should leave their nights open if they plan on trying this ten-course meal.

Graham Elliot changes his menu every season—and specific items may change nightly-- but currently, the menu includes Fluke Tartare, the Deconstructed Caesar, Chicken Noodle Soup, Sweetbread Empanada, Smoked Black Bass, Monkfish, Heirloom Duck, Wagyu Beef, and two very different desserts.

  The first course offered was a Fluke Tartare with shaved fennel, sea cress and pink peppercorn.  The fluke is delightfully fresh, the raw fish mixing with the crisp sweet shave of the peppercorn.  An aromatic foam was artfully smeared across the top, giving the whole dish a surprisingly sour flavor.  This was followed by sweetbread empanada and the chef’s unique take on a classic; chicken noodle soup.

The deconstructed Caesar salad combines an excellent mix of flavors and textures.   The dish consists of white anchovy stacked on romaine lettuce with Parmesan fluff, placed atop a brioche twinkie.  The fish is extremely salty, and contrasts well with the cheese-filled brioche.  The crisp romaine lettuce mixed with the slimy anchovy and soft bread creates an interesting combination that works well together.

Each succeeding course is brought out by a separate waiter who then presents the dish.  Unless diners are familiar with the terminology of fine dining, they will be lost halfway through this well rehearsed speech though.  After patrons have eaten, all plates and silverware are removed in preparation for the next course. 

Among the main courses, the Black Bass was exceptionally good.  Served with smoked leek, marcona almond puree, and tomato marmalade, the dish artfully combines textures and flavors.  The bass had a nice flavor and a firm yet flakey texture, while the crunchy leek atop the almond puree added an earthy tone.  The real star of this dish though was the tomato marmalade, which combined the acidity of the tomato with a sweet and sugary flavor.

The only disappointment was the Atlantic monkfish.  It was served with a cheddar hushpuppy, which, despite being tasty, was not a good compliment to the monkfish and lobster roe.  Being fried and filled with cheese, it was hard not to enjoy the hush puppy, yet it did not add anything to the fish.  Each item on the plate separately tasted fine, but they do not have the same chemistry as the other courses, and seemed to lack their ‘zazz.

For the first course of dessert, we were served an almond cake with orange gelato, blood orange sauce, and a honeycomb.  The honey was delicious, yet almost unbearably sweet.  Eaten with the thick cake and fruity gelato, they make an incredible combination, combining three different sweet of flavors. 

The final course was a cardamon cremeux, a chocolate gel, a cinnamon stick and a cocoa curry powder sponge cake.  The taste of cinnamon is almost overpowering in this dish.  Everything chocolate has spiciness to it.  It is an interesting dish; though between the two desserts, the orange is a better closer. 

The Experience is indeed quite the experience, and a highly recommended one.  Keeping to their goal to redefine fine dining, Graham Elliot combines fun and sophistication, creating a relaxed atmosphere with a feeling of professionalism.

Part Three (Restaurant Review)

            The experience of fine dining has always created conflicting emotions in me.  As I got older and my tastes matured, I developed an appreciation for elegant, expensive, gourmet food.  I cherished the few times my family and I would eat out at “nice” restaurants, where I could indulge in new tastes and smells and observe food presented to me as art.  But with this type of eating comes a whole new etiquette, which can, at times, make me a little uncomfortable.  I am expected to act, dress, and eat a certain way.  I must develop a persona much more rigid than my own.  Although it’s quaint having my chair pulled out for me, I find it weird when someone puts a napkin in my lap for me.  I never know how many times I should thank a waiter for their diligent, almost obsessive water refilling before I sound repetitive.  And I feel like a slob when a server feels the need to come around with a special tool to scrape away my breadcrumbs from the tablecloth.

            When I read the description of Graham Elliot, I figured I was in for a different kind of experience.  I imagined lots of activity around the bar, and young people and loud music.  When Graham Elliot said he wanted to “redefine fine dining” my first impression was simply that he was going to combine the atmosphere of a hip hang out for the upper class with tasty food.  This had made me just a little uneasy.  I knew what to expect at other high-end restaurants.  I had the protocol down.  But if this was “redefined” fine dining, than what was different?  How much had the protocol changed and how should I act accordingly? 

            When I walked up the stairs to the dining room of Graham Elliot, the first thing I noticed was the man standing by the glass doors, at the ready to hold them open for guests.  Two young women in small black dresses greeted us and escorted my family and I to our table.  The dim lighting and relaxed ambience of the whole place was not what I had expected, nor the simple decorations and tasteful setting.  I had expected the new wave music that played in the background, though its volume fit in just above the murmur of an eclectic mix of restaurant patrons.  To my left, an elderly couple and a young couple dined together, while two women in their thirties sat at a table behind them.  To their right sat two couples in their forties and behind them was a family of three (their daughter about my age).  Then there was my table, my father with his two children, both in their twenties.

            The waiters were just as the website described them.  They wore dark jeans and blazers; they “did away with tuxedoed servers.”  And yet despite the less formal dress, my waiter was as cordial and attentive as any I’ve had at other restaurants.  He was friendly but professional.  Behind him was a company of table servers, dressed in black, who made little eye contact and almost never spoke.  They cleared plates and filled water glasses; they moved like a silently in and out, drawing as little attention to themselves as possible.  Everything was so efficient.  It still felt like fine dining, and yet I was relaxed and simply enjoyed myself.  Bowles perfectly created the atmosphere he set out to make.  

            I had never eaten a multiple-course meal before.  It was exciting and extravagant (and made me feel pretty spoiled).  I was thrilled by every part of the experience; impressed by the way each dish was artfully presented, and always excited for the next round.  Chef Bowles took familiar dishes like the Caesar salad and chicken noodle soup and made it his own.  The salad was broken down into its basic elements, and then stacked back together in a completely different way.  Normally a chicken noodle soup consists of chicken and noodles floating in a broth.  Bowles had just one noodle wrapped around a single piece of chicken and then added a carrot marshmallow to create a surprisingly sweet flavor in his thick, salty, gravy-like broth.  He took food I had expectations of and presented them in an unusual and unexpected way.  It made every aspect of my meal a new and enlightening experience.  

The Experience of Graham Elliot (Rough Draft)

[Written for the New York Times]

Located in the gallery district of Chicago, Graham Elliot is a hip, laid back version of fine dining.  A short flight of stairs takes guests from the street level into the dining hall, a modern, yet modest room adorned with simple black tables and lit by dim hanging lamps.  The hundred-year-old brick walls and the floor to ceiling windows of the former 19^th century printing warehouse add to the trendy yet professional atmosphere.

            The restaurant is owned by Graham Elliot Bowles, a tattoo clad chef who has appeared on two seasons of Top Chef Masters on the Bravo network.   At the age of 27, Bowles became the youngest four-star chef named in a major U.S. city.  In 2008, Bowles opened Graham Elliot with the ideology that fine dining should be a fun, approachable experience.

When guests arrive, they are escorted to their table by friendly and accommodating staff.  Water is poured soon after sitting and a bowl of popcorn sprinkled with chives and Parmesan cheese is put in the center of the table in place of bread; a tasty and less filling pre meal snack.  The menu is broken down into five categories, Cold, Hot, Sea, Land, and Sweet.  Guests can also opt to do the Tasting, a five course meal, the Experience, a ten course meal, or the Repertoire, a fifteen course meal.  Menu includes refined items Fluke Tartare, Heirloom Duck, and Hog Cheek.   But a note at the bottom telling patrons that, “in order to ensure the optimum awesomeness of your dining experience, we ask that the entire table participate in tasting menus” is also a reminder that this is a not your typical strict dining experience.  Assuming your eyes can read the small print in the dim lighting of the restaurant, the cutesy theme is also seen in the wine list, which is broken down into categories like “Pop Music” “One Hit Wonders” and “Karaoke.” 

While the relationship between the wines and their categories are not obvious, the sommelier will be able to suggest a wine that suits both the meal and the diners personal taste.  I enjoyed an excellent pinot from the “Garage Rock” section.  When it comes to the table, the wine is poured into the type of beaker you might find in a high school chemistry lab, with all the measurements written on the side.  Yet the process of the wine pouring resembles that of finely rehearsed dance.  Keeping to their goal to redefine fine dining, Graham Elliot combines fun and sophistication, creating a relaxed atmosphere with a feeling of professionalism. 

When choosing what to eat, the Experience is a great way to try a large portion of the food served at Graham Elliot.   It includes a sample of two dishes from each of the five menu sections.  The meal takes about three hours to complete, so patrons should leave their nights open if they plan on trying this ten-course meal.  Seven o’clock is a good time to make a reservation.  The restaurant is only about half full, and the noise level is at a quiet murmur.  A hip mix of music including names like Ra Ra Riot, Arcade Fire and The Hold Steady, plays in the background, setting the mood without being intrusive.  As the restaurant fills up throughout the night, it can get a little loud.  The dark atmosphere seems to be prefered, and as it gets later, the lights may be dimmed even further.  Those who show up late will have an even more difficult time reading their menu.  

The first course is a Fluke Tar Tar with shaved fennel, sea cress and pink peppercorn.  The fluke is delightfully fresh, the raw fish mixing with the crisp sweet shave of the peppercorn.  Bubbles are artfully smeared across the top, giving the whole dish a surprisingly sour flavor.

The deconstructed Caesar salad combines an excellent mix of flavors and textures.   The dish consists of white anchovy stacked on romaine lettuce with parmesan fluff, placed atop a brioche twinkie.  The fish is extremely salty, and contrasts well with the cheese filled brioche.  The crisp romaine lettuce mixed with the slimy anchovy and soft bread creates an interesting combination that works well together.

The third course is a new take on an old classic: chicken noodle soup.  The broth, a rich hen veloute, is served from a beaker into a bowl containing a carrot marshmallow, celery five different ways and a single noodle of tagliatelle wrapped around a very moist piece of chicken.  It is suggested that diners first sample the soup, and then mix in the marshmallow before continuing.  There is a substantial difference in flavors from the salty, gravy like soup, to the sweet mixture that the melted marshmallow adds. 

After four courses of appetizers, the more substantial meals are served, beginning with black bass with a side of smoked leek, a marcona almond puree, and tomato marmalade.  The bass has a decent flavor and the texture is appealing, and the leek atop the marcona puree adds an earthy tone, tasting much like onion and peanuts.  The real star of this dish though is the tomato marmalade.  It has a hint of the taste of tomato, and yet it is sweet and sugary.

The sixth course, Atlantic monkfish with a cheddar hushpuppy, and lobster roe, is probably the most disappointing one in the line up.  Being fried and filled with cheese, it’s hard not to enjoy the hush puppy, yet it doesn’t add anything to the fish.  Each item on the plate separately tastes fine, but they do not have the same chemistry as the other courses, and seems to lack their zazz.

For the first course of dessert, they serve an almond cake with orange gelato, blood orange sauce, and a honeycomb.  The honey is delicious, yet almost unbearably sweet.  Eaten with the thick cake and fruity gelato, they make an incredible combination.  Three different flavors of sweet. 

The final course is a cardamon cremeux, a chocolate gel, and a cinnamon stick and a cocoa curry powder sponge cake.  The taste of cinnamon is almost overpowering in this dish.  Everything chocolate has spiciness to it.  It is an interesting dish, though between the two desserts, the orange would have been a better closer.

The experience is indeed quite the experience, and a highly recommended one.

Fluke Tartare 

Deconstructed Caesar

Chicken Noodle Soup

Sweetbread Empanada 

Black Bass

Heirloom Duck

Wagyu Beef

Orange Blossom 

Cocoa Gateau

Expectations for Graham Elliot

I have dined at nice restaurants before.  Graduations, birthdays, and anniversaries have provided opportunities for me to eat with my family at fancy, “formal dress only” eating establishments.  The food is almost always satisfying, though when I was younger I never paid much attention to that.  I was more focused on how I hated being required to dress up just to go out to eat.  It seemed presumptuous.  I always preferred causal dining.  Places that allowed me to wear flip flops and jeans and required no reservations.  As a twenty-year-old college student, the idea of getting dressed up for some find dining sounds like a lot of fun.  Of course now the price that goes with this type of eating is out of my range.  But these are the two categories of eating I’m used to, casual or the strict, back straight, no elbows on the table experience of gourmet food. 

Graham Elliot’s website says it hopes to “redefine what it means to be fine dining” by “doing away with the world of dress codes, white table cloths, elaborate floral displays, and tuxedoed servers.”  So this is the new “fine dining.” This is where the hip upper class goes out to eat.  It sounds like the type of atmosphere I could get into, a more casual setting but with the quality of food I expect from a high-class restaurant.  I imagine the prices are still about what you’d expect: expensive.   Meaning that normally, this is not a place I would consider.  Luckily, I do not have to front the bill this trip.  My father and brother are taking me out to eat. 

The food at Graham Elliot will probably not scare me as much as say, food from an authentic Vietnamese restaurant.  (I only use this example because after reading Anthony Bourdain’s book, A Cook’s Tour, Vietnamese food sounds delicious, though some of it also outside of my comfort zone.)  The menu at Graham Elliot includes things like roasted cod, heirloom duck, and even chicken noodle soup; things that wouldn’t exactly push the boundaries of what I consider palatable.  The atmosphere of the place, though what I’d consider ideal, also makes me a bit nervous.  It reminds me of Kenmare, the restaurant that Sam Sifton reviewed for the New York Times, only if the food was good.  I imagine the diners will be mostly groups of twenty-something-year-olds drinking cocktails and discussing politics (from a liberal viewpoint).  It seems like the type of place my friends and I would enjoy going to in a couple of years, if only we could afford it, yet I’m going out with my family.  I’m worried because I fit into the target audience for this type of eating, and yet I feel like an outsider, not used to this type of restaurant.  These are potential peers, and I want to impress.  So despite the no dress code rule, I find myself worrying about whether my black dress goes with what may or may not be stylish boots. 

That being said, I am very excited about the food.  I am looking forward to a great meal.

Less Than Perfect

I wanted to go all out.  Since the day I was given the assignment to cook my “perfect meal” I had been dreaming up big plans.  Go big or go home.  But before I could even think about the menu, I had to decide who I would invite.  My best friend Dan would definitely be coming; it wouldn’t be a perfect meal without him.  I couldn’t invite him without his roommate Ricky, not after all our late night adventures together to the Crow’s Nest.  Nick and Alaina have been two of my closest friends since the beginning of our freshman year of college and I wanted them there.  I’m in love with Ian, so obviously he was invited.  And it wouldn’t be a real dinner with my group of friends without Conrad.  This meant inviting Aaron as well, because it would be rude to treat his three roommates to dinner and not feed him too.  And of course my roommate Julia needed to be there.  Including myself, that was nine mouths to feed.  This was starting to sound expensive, but the most important aspect of a meal is the company it’s shared with, and I wanted all of them to know that it wouldn’t be perfect without them.

The next question then was what to serve all these people.  My first bright idea was to get some type of fish.  I love fish, but I’ve never trusted the cafeteria seafood.  And since it’s rarely served anyway, I thought it would be a welcome surprise for my friends.  But I had to be realistic; nine servings of fresh fish on a college budget was not going to happen.  Plan B was some kind of meat, as I will pretty much eat anything if it was alive once.  I’m quite the carnivore.  But I had never bought meat before, and I didn’t really know how.  The thought of going into a grocery store and trying to buy meat terrified me.  What if the butcher asked me a question I couldn’t answer?  What if they didn’t have what I wanted, and I’d need to make a new decision on the spot?  What if I somehow said the name of the meat wrong and the butcher judged me? So, due to my fear of talking to people, I opted to make pasta. 

On a Sunday afternoon I walked from my college campus to the People’s Food Co Op in downtown Kalamazoo.  There I purchased two packages of Bionaturae Organic Rigatoni, four giant freshly grown, pesticide-free broccoli crowns, a box of Cabot Butter (owned by dairy farmers since 1919), and two tomatoes.  They had run out of the cheese I needed, so on my way home I stopped at Munchie Mart, a sketchy looking convenience store located across the street from campus where college kids buy their alcohol, cigarettes, and occasionally Kraft Parmesan Cheese.  In a tiny borrowed refrigerator back in my dorm room was a carton of Organic Valley Farmer-Owned Milk and some Pastured Brown Eggs from the Old Home Place that my roommate said I could use.  So, feeling accomplished and grown up and terribly liberal I gathered my organic foods and my borrowed pots and bowls and headed down to the small kitchen in the basement of my dorm and set to work.   

The plan was to make noodles with Alfredo sauce with a side of broccoli.  I’d found the recipe online and had talked to my mother for extended periods of time discussing the different approaches to steaming vegetables.  I picked Alfredo sauce because I’d had it before at restaurants, and also because it seemed easy enough to make.  Just melt a stick of butter and mix in two cups of milk, then add an egg yolk and pour the mixture onto boiled noodles.  Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese in at the end and some sliced tomatoes and I’d have my main course.  I’d planned on steaming the broccoli and finally show the cafeteria that it was possible to make vegetables that weren’t soggy. 

I do not know why I thought I had any authority in teaching anyone lessons in preparing food.  I do not cook.  Ever.  I once tried to heat up soup for myself and burned it.  Last year I called my roommate so she could walk me through how to make popcorn because I was scared I’d mess it up.  And yet here I was, about to attempt making a “perfect meal.”

    I had high hopes for my dinner.  My closest friends, who got me through freshman year, who accepted me despite my awkwardness and patiently waited for me to open up to them, would taste my appreciation in a home cooked meal.   Nick would flash his charming smile once he tasted the rich Alfredo sauce.  Aaron would take a bite and shout about how great it was.  Alaina would tell me it was “mad good.”   Throughout the meal Dan and Ricky would keep the conversation going.  Their humor would bounce off of one another and they’d keep me laughing and smiling all night.  Conrad would probably make some sort of awkward joke or yell obscenities at inappropriate times, which could only further the entertainment of the meal.   Ian and I would reminisce about the hiking trip we took together and all the food we ate while roughing it in the woods.  And Julia would take tons of pictures, as she loves to do around food, and we’d spend the rest of the night talking about what a success my dinner was.                                                                                                                                                               

With this image in mind, I began leisurely chopping the broccoli.  I had finished with the first stalk when I looked up at the clock and realized I only had twenty minutes before my guests would arrive.  Kicking it into high gear, I filled my big pot with water and put it on a wobbly burner.  The burner started making weird noises so I set it on a smaller one and moved onto my Alfredo sauce.  Smoke began rising from this burner, so I had to move to the last remaining one.  A little agitated by the state of my appliances I tried to regain my composure and got back to work.   

            While the butter melted in my smaller pan I flipped my computer open to the Youtube video titled, “How To Make Alfredo Sauce.”  Being sure not to let the butter burn, just as it told me, I paced around the kitchen, nervous about the time, knowing my friends are all busy with intense science classes.  I dreaded the idea of serving my meal late and wasting any of their time.  I wanted to get back to cutting the broccoli, but didn’t want to take my eye off the butter even for a second.  I also realized I would need another pan to steam the broccoli in, which I didn’t have.  Nor, I realized, did I have a cover for it.  Not wanting to deal with that problem because I saw no obvious solution, I ignored it and continued to focus on my butter.

            When it was entirely melted I excitedly poured the milk in and waited to see my anticipated sauce become reality.  But something wasn’t right.  The two weren’t mixing.  The warm butter was hardening in the cold milk, congealing into disgusting lumps that resembled the texture of caviar.  I didn’t know what to do.  This didn’t look anything like the smooth, elegant looking sauce in the video playing behind me.  Why was this happening?  With ten minutes to go before my meal was supposed to be served I took out my cell phone and prepared to send all my friends a message saying dinner was cancelled. 

I stopped myself, did a quick pep talk, and then put the mess back on the burner.  As the milk heated, the butter began to soften and turn back to liquid.  My relief was short lived.  The water in the big pot was boiling and it was time to add the pasta, which, of course, did not all fit into the pot.  I stirred it as best I could, but noodles were falling onto the stovetop left and right.  I still couldn’t deal with the broccoli because I was constantly stirring my sauce, terrified something else might happen to it if I left it alone for even a second.  I decided not to add the egg, not wanting to do anything else that might mess it up.

            And then people began showing up.  First Julia came down and took many pictures of me hunched over my pots and the many noodle casualties splattered around me.  She was her usual cheery self, and her laughter helped to improve the grim atmosphere of the kitchen.   I described to Conrad and Dan the harrowing tale of my sauce, who politely laughed and then told me dinner was looking great, and the delay was no problem.  I called my mother and received a quick tutorial on how to make broccoli in the microwave. 

Already behind schedule, I was shaking and sweating and my voice was about three octaves higher than it normally is when it was finally time to pour the slightly undercooked noodles into the colander.   With both arms I tried to move the pot full of boiling water six inches over to the sink.  After two failed attempts Nick came by and lifted it with one hand.  His strict regimen of workouts and muscle milk seemed to be paying off.  He kindly smiled at me while I spooned the remaining noodles into the colander, which proceeded to tip over and spill into the sink. 

            Once the noodles were scooped up and placed back in the pot I added the sauce and then the cheese and called to everyone that dinner was ready.  My friends entered the small kitchen and took their helpings while I cut up the last of the broccoli.  I was sad to see that Alaina had not returned from her weekend home yet, and Dan told me that Ricky was feeling too sick to come, but I still had six guests and most of a dinner. 

While we ate around a table in the lounge of our dorm under an ugly florescent light, I put the broccoli in the microwave.  By the time it was done everyone had finished their pasta.  I ate mine without really noticing the taste.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained and was just happy the thing was edible.  Once the broccoli was done I went back into the kitchen and sliced up the tomatoes that were supposed to have been chopped and sprinkled on the pasta.  Lacking a plate, I tore some paper towels from the wall dispenser and plopped them down in the center of the table. 

Everyone told me the food was good, which was a lie.  It was mediocre, maybe even decent.  But they knew I needed the confidence boost, and I was grateful for it.  Dan and I often argue like an old married couple, but from the moment he walked into the kitchen and asked how it was going he used his “nice tone,” his, “Katie is upset so I better be extra charming” voice.  Aaron had already eaten dinner and only tried one fork-full from Nick’s bowl, but he still shouted out his compliments, incapable of keeping his voice down for an extended period of time, just as I’d hoped.  

After everyone had cleared their plates Nick, Dan, and Aaron took off.  I had served my meal half an hour late and I knew they all had homework they needed to get back to.  I thanked them for coming and began mentally preparing myself for the mountain of dishes I had to do.  And then Ian said the kindest words of the night.

“Is there anymore?”  He wanted more.  Ian normally eats about twice as much as the average person does, but it was still had to believe he meant it.  Then Julia and Conrad got up and got seconds too.  I hadn't even noticed that Julia had brought her pepper and fancy sea salt to the table (much nicer than the salt shaker I “borrowed” from the cafeteria).  I waited for my friends to serve themselves and then took the last of the pasta, or at least whatever wasn’t completely stuck to the bottom of the pot or flung onto the counter top. 

I paid much more attention to the flavor this time.  It needed more cheese and it definitely needed salt, but once they were added it really wasn’t so bad.  The cafeteria serves Fettuccini Alfredo a couple of times per quarter.  The guys always complain about the lack of cheese and its desperate need for salt.  When I was making mine I had a vision that it would be better, that my home cooked meal would be a welcome break from the cafeteria’s usual bland, tasteless food.  In that regard I failed.  But my microwave steamed broccoli was finished off, the pasta was gone, and I got to eat the last slice of fresh tomato.  No leftovers.

My meal was not perfect.  I had wanted it to be a display of gratitude and appreciation to my friends.  I wanted to make a grand feast with love mixed in so delicately they would taste it.  But the only secret ingredients I managed to add were stress and anxiety, which only tasted mildly better than the laziness and lack of concern we are so used to in our cafeteria meals.  I had wanted it to taste good, and my result was disappointing.  But in the end, my friends proved once again to be reliable and accepting.  I couldn’t give them perfect.  But at least I managed to give them well-cooked broccoli.  

New York Times Critics

         The Sam Sifton articles were informative, and they will serve as a good example to look back to when it comes time to write my own restaurant review, but I didn’t find his restaurant reviews terribly interesting.  I feel it is similar reason as to why I didn’t like the French cuisine articles from last week.  I’m not the target audience.  If I were a New Yorker looking into finding a new place to eat, or maybe reading the review of a favorite restaurant, the article would have been useful, but because I’m not, it didn’t really hold my interest. 

         Sifton’s personal stories about the life a food critic on the other hand, were far more entertaining.  The first one, The Cheat: Salad Days, caught my attention early on, but then lost me at the end.  The inevitable problems that come with eating too much good food (admittedly a problem I wish I had) was something I’d never really considered before.  It seemed like a fascinating topic, and I wanted to hear all about it, until he trailed off and started talking about salads.  The most obvious issue I saw with this section was that the salads, he admits, are not very good for him because of what he puts on them.  So it didn’t really seem like a cheat, since it was still causing the same dilemma, and he actually tricks himself into thinking he’s being healthy.  It seems to just make matters worse. 

         I was pleased then, to see that the last set of articles we read were about the life of Sam Sifton and how a food critic stays healthy.  The numbers My Life In Food gave really were surprising.  It was a little tedious to read through a list of a week’s worth of food, but the totals at the bottom of the calories eaten verses calories burned by exercise really were amazing.  This left me with questions, like, how is he not gigantic?  Is he healthy?  What do doctors say about his diet?  Apparently many people shared my questions and pondered several more I hadn’t thought of which made the Q&A articles fun to read.  I liked learning about his exercise plans and his family life.  My favorite question though, was the one asking about the childhood foods he grew up with.  He answered with a wonderful response of all the foods he ate growing up in New York.  It painted a great picture of the character of the city through the food he enjoyed.    

The reading I found most enjoyable though was the Mark Bittman piece about McDonald’s oatmeal.  He has a very strong, cynical voice throughout the article, and is obviously disgusted by the food chain’s blatant disregard towards their consumer’s health.  “Why create a hideous concoction of 21 ingredients, many of them chemical and/or unnecessary? Why not try, for once, to keep it honest?”  It made me laugh at times to think that they would do something so unnecessary, that they would go through all this trouble “improving” it and yet make it so much worse for us.  It just seems so ridiculous.  But then I started to feel the same way I did after reading The Omnivore’s Dilemma.  Even knowing what I do now, so many more don’t, or don’t care, and will continue to buy their 300-calorie oatmeal.  And there’s really not much I can do about it.  Bittman ends on a funny, though cynical note, saying, “But they know that, once inside, you’ll probably opt for a sausage biscuit anyway.  And you won’t be much worse off.”

Secret Ingredients Reading Response

The Dining Out section of our reading did not initially impress me.  The two pieces by Liebling, The Afterglow and A Good Appetite were both confusing and hard to read.  For one thing, Liebling has a tendency to stray off topic frequently, to the point where I would forget what the main idea of his pieces was about.  His use of French throughout his writing, in descriptions of food, place, and occasionally dialogue made it extremely difficult to stay focused and understand the situation.  I attempted looking up the names of dishes when I didn’t understand the French parts, but that soon became more disruptive than the struggle with the indecipherable language.  This was also an issue for me when reading Gopnik’s  Is There A Crisis In French Cooking?  I did understand this story a little better though. 

I was excited to get to Bourdain’s Don’t Eat Before Reading This; already knowing I like Bourdain’s voice and writing style.  He did not disappoint.  He was his usual cynical self, reminiscing about how cooking used to be and adding snide comments about vegetarians, “enemies of everything that’s good and decent in the human spirit” (p. 86).  Like always, I enjoyed his sense of humor, but what made me want to keep reading his piece was its relevance to me as a consumer of food.  I don’t often get to eat French cuisine, which made the other stories difficult to connect with.  I have never been to a French restaurant, and therefore when Gopnik compares the old French style of cooking with the new, I don’t have experience to base it off of.  Bourdain reveals many secrets of his trade in his writing.  As someone who frequently eats in restaurants, it is very interesting to know when to eat fish, or how poor quality meat is used (not ordering my burger well done again), or that the bread on my table is often reused.  These facts are useful to me. 

I liked the Eating In section much more though.  M.F.K Fisher’s three stories were interesting, and I enjoyed the personal essay aspect of them.  Her use of recipes in The Secret Ingredient and The Trouble With Tripe added an informative element to the two stories, which I enjoyed.  I learned a fair deal about tripe and casserole, two dishes I actually know very little about (my mother isn’t much of a casserole maker).

The story about Julia Child, though a bit long, was also really interesting.  I knew nothing about Julia Child when I started reading, except for what I picked up on in the trailer for the movie Julie and Julia.   When I finished the story I was smiling and kept telling my roommate that Julia Child sounded like a lovely lady and I wished I had watched her shows.  Her desire to create a cookbook that explained every step in careful detail so that even beginner cooks could make complex meals resonated with me, an extremely inexperienced cook myself, and prone to food related mishaps.  She is such a great character, and Tomkins captured her eccentric nature very well.

The last story in this section, Look Back In Hunger, was probably my favorite.  The first paragraph captured very clearly the situation I have been in before when trying to follow a cookbook (though my meal wasn’t nearly as complicated).  Like Bourdain, Lane has a cynical sense of humor that I connected with right away, such as his view of Martha Stewart and her “intolerance of ordinary mortals.”  Lane portrayed the anxiety and fear associated with cooking very well, but tried to explain it doesn’t have to be this way, which I appreciated.  

Less Than Perfect

             I wanted to go all out.  While thinking up ideas for my “perfect meal,” I wanted to go big or go home.  But before I could even think about the menu, I had to decide who I would invite.  My best friend Dan would definitely be coming; it wouldn’t be a perfect meal without him.  I couldn’t invite him without his roommate Ricky, not after all our late night adventures together to the Crow’s Nest.  Nick and Alaina have been two of my closest friends since the beginning of our freshman year of college and I wanted them there.  I’m in love with Ian, so obviously he was invited.  And it wouldn’t be a real dinner with my group of friends without Conrad.  This meant inviting Aaron as well, because it would be rude to treat his three roommates to dinner and not feed him too.  And of course my roommate Julia needed to be there.  Including myself, that was nine mouths to feed.  This was starting to sound expensive, but the most important aspect of a meal is the company it’s shared with, and I wanted all of them to know that it wouldn’t be perfect without them.

            The next question then was what to serve all these people.  My first bright idea was to get some type of fish.  I absolutely love fish, but I’ve never trusted the cafeteria seafood.  And since it’s rarely served anyway, I thought it would be a welcome surprise for my friends.  But I had to be realistic, nine servings of fresh fish on a college budget was not going to happen.  Plan B was some kind of meat, as I will pretty much eat anything if it was alive once.  I’m quite the carnivore.  But I had never bought meat before, and I didn’t really know how.  The thought of going into a grocery store and trying to buy meat terrified me.  What if the butcher asked me a question I couldn’t answer?  What if they didn’t have what I wanted, and I’d need to make a new decision on the spot?  What if I somehow said the name of the meat wrong and the butcher judged me? So, due to my fear of talking to people, I opted to make pasta. 

            On a Sunday afternoon I walked from my college campus to the People’s Food Co Op in downtown Kalamazoo.  There I purchased two packages of Bionaturae Organic Rigatoni, four giant freshly grown, pesticide free broccoli, a box of Cabot Butter (owned by dairy farmers since 1919), and two tomatoes.  They were out of the cheese I needed, so on my way home I stopped at Munchie Mart, a sketchy looking convenience store located across the street from campus where college kids buy their alcohol, cigarettes, and occasionally Kraft Parmesan Cheese.  In a tiny borrowed refrigerator back in my dorm room was a carton of Organic Valley Farmer-Owned Milk and some Pastured Brown Eggs from the Old Home Place that my roommate had left over from her meal.  So, feeling accomplished and grown up and terribly liberal I gathered my organic foods and my borrowed pots and bowls and headed down to the small kitchen in the basement of my dorm and set to work. 

            The plan was to make noodles with Alfredo sauce with a side of broccoli.  The Alfredo sauce seemed easy enough to make, melt a stick of butter and mix in two cups of milk, then add an egg yolk and pour the mixture onto boiled noodles.  Sprinkle some Parmesan cheese in at the end and some sliced tomatoes and I’d have my main course.  I’d planned on steaming the broccoli and finally show the cafeteria that it was possible to make vegetables that weren’t soggy. 

            I do not know why I thought I had any authority in teaching anyone any lessons in preparing food.  I do not cook.  Ever.  I once tried to heat up soup for myself and burned it.  Last year I called my roommate so she could walk me through how to make popcorn because I was scared I’d mess it up.  And yet here I was, about to attempt making a “perfect meal.” 

            I began by leisurely chopping the broccoli.  I had finished with the first stalk when I looked up at the clock and realized I only had twenty minutes before my guests would arrive.  Kicking it into high gear, I filled my big pot with water and put it on a wobbly burner.  The burner started making weird noises so I set it on a smaller one and moved onto my Alfredo sauce.  Smoke began rising from this burner, so I had to move to the last remaining one.  A little agitated by the state of my appliances I tried to regain my composure and got back to work.   

            While the butter melted in my smaller pan I flipped my computer open to the Youtube video titled, “How To Make Alfredo Sauce.”  Being sure not to let the butter burn, just as it told me, I paced around the kitchen, nervous about the time, knowing my friends are all busy with intense science classes.  I dreaded the idea of serving my meal late and wasting any of their time.  I wanted to get back to cutting the broccoli, but didn’t want to take my eye off the butter even for a second.  I also realized I would need another pan to steam the broccoli in, which I didn’t have.  Nor, I realized, a cover for it.  Not wanting to deal with that problem because I saw no obvious solution, I ignored it and continued to focus on my butter.

            When it was entirely melted I excitedly poured the milk in and waited to see my anticipated sauce become reality.  But something wasn’t right.  The two weren’t mixing.  The warm butter was hardening in the cold milk, congealing into disgusting lumps that resembled the texture of caviar.  I didn’t know what to do.  This didn’t look anything like the smooth, elegant looking sauce in the video playing behind me.  Why was this happening?  With ten minutes to go before my meal was supposed to be served I took out my cell phone and prepared to send all my friends a message saying dinner was cancelled. 

            I stopped myself, did a quick pep talk, and then put the mess back on the burner.  As the milk heated, the butter began to soften and turn back to liquid.  My relief was short lived.  The water in the big pot was boiling and it was time to add the pasta, which, of course, did not all fit into the pot.  I stirred it as best I could, but noodles were falling onto the stovetop left and right.  I still couldn’t deal with the broccoli because I was constantly stirring my sauce, terrified something else might happen to it if I left it alone for even a second.  I decided not to add the egg, not wanting to do anything else that might mess it up.

            And then people began showing up.  First Julia came down and took many pictures of me hunched over my pots and the many noodle casualties splattered around me.  I described to Conrad and Dan the harrowing tale of my sauce, who politely laughed and then told me dinner was looking great, and the delay was no problem.  I called my mother and received a quick tutorial on how to make broccoli in the microwave. 

            Already behind schedule, I was shaking and sweating and my voice was about three octaves higher than it normally is when it was finally time to pour the  slightly undercooked noodles into the colander.   With both arms I tried to move the pot full of boiling water six inches over to the sink.  After two failed attempts Nick came by and lifted it with one hand.  He kindly smiled at me while I spooned the remaining noodles into the colander, which proceeded to tip over and spill into the sink. 

            Once the noodles were back in the pot I added the cheese and called to everyone that dinner was ready.  My friends entered the small kitchen and took their helpings while I cut up the last of the broccoli.  I was sad to see that Alaina had not returned from her weekend home yet, and Dan told me that Ricky was feeling too sick to come, but I still had six guests and most of a dinner.  While we ate around a table in the lounge of our dorm under a florescent light I put the broccoli in the microwave.  By the time it was done everyone had finished their pasta.  I scarfed it down without really noticing the taste.  I was physically exhausted and emotionally drained and was just happy the thing was edible.  Once the broccoli was done I went back into the kitchen and sliced up the tomatoes that were supposed to have been chopped and sprinkled on the pasta.  Lacking a plate, I tore some paper towels from the wall dispenser and plopped them down in the center of the table. 

            Everyone told me the food was good, which was a lie.  It was mediocre, maybe even decent.  But they knew I needed the confidence boost, and I was grateful for it.  Dan and I often argue like an old married couple, but from the moment he walked into the kitchen and asked how it was going he used his “nice tone,” his, “Katie is upset so I better be extra charming” voice.  Aaron had already eaten dinner and only tried one fork-full from Nick’s bowl, but he still shouted compliments that echoed down the entire hall. 

            After everyone had cleared their plates Nick, Dan, and Aaron took off.  I had served my meal half an hour late and I knew they all had homework they needed to get back to.  I thanked them for coming and began mentally preparing myself for the mountain of dishes I had to do.  And then Ian, wonderful individual that he is, said the kindest words of the night.

“Is there anymore?”  He wanted more.  Then Julia and Conrad got up and got seconds too.  I hadn't even noticed that Julia had brought her pepper and fancy sea salt to the table (much nicer than the salt shaker I “borrowed” from the cafeteria).  I waited for my friends to serve themselves and then took the last of the pasta, or at least whatever wasn’t completely stuck to the bottom of the pot or flung onto the counter top.

I paid much more attention to the flavor this time.  It needed more cheese and it definitely needed salt, but once they were added it really wasn’t so bad.  The microwave steamed broccoli was finished off, the pasta was gone, and I got to eat the last slice of fresh tomato.  No left over’s.

Once they were done, Conrad and Ian left.  Julia stayed behind to help with the dishes.  She ended up doing most of them while I hacked at the noodles stuck to the bottom of the big pot.  Later that night, the two of us took advantage of the kindness of one of our friends and sent him out, alone, into the cold night to fetch us ice cream.  A pint of Ben and Jerry’s Pish Food  eaten straight from the container was a welcome treat after my exhausting night. 

Looking back at the meal, I wouldn’t say it was “perfect,” but I didn’t hate it necessarily.  It was an interesting experience.  I’d like to say I learned something from it.  My friends proved to be reliable and accepting and their kindness got me through the process.  At least the company was perfect.  

(Hey guys- So I'm really not a fan of the ending.  I kind of ran out of steam, so suggestions on how to improve that would be appreciated.  Also, sorry about the length.  The story is basically in two parts.  Part One is me figuring out what to make and buying supplies.  Part Two is the actual making and eating of the meal.  I like both parts and I think they flow well together, but it makes it pretty long.  What do you guys think?
Also, I wanted this to be a funny piece, but I'm worried I came off more whiney than humorous.  Your thoughts?)

Food In The Forest (Revised)

            On a sunny morning in late August two busses pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s and 80 hungry and exhausted college freshmen descended upon the empty restaurant like a swarm of locusts.  We had traveled through the night, beginning on the campus of Kalamazoo College, and after breakfast, would soon be arriving at our destination, Killarney Provincial Park in Ontario Canada.  We were all signed on for LandSea, a sixteen-day hiking trip set up as an optional pre-freshman orientation program.

            I ordered a Bacon, Egg & Cheese Bagel and sat down with the people I’d met on the bus in one of the last remaining booths, while the unfortunate folks from bus two walked up to a line that went well past the door.  Discovering my meal had mayonnaise on it, I promptly lost most of my appetite for the thing.  I was disappointed that my last experience with “real food” was so dissatisfying.  I figured it would be two weeks before I got to eat anything really good. 

A few hours later, the two busses pulled into our main camp.  After everyone had gathered up their stuff, we were divided into our patrols, the groups of people we would be living with for the next two weeks.  I was put into patrol C-5 along with Ian, Katrina, Craig, Emilie, Evan, and Faith.  With our two leaders, Jessica and Joanne, there were nine of us total, which made us the smallest group that year.  After sorting through equipment, we were given a large blue tub stuffed with food.  Our first task as a patrol was to sort out rations for the first five days of hiking, leaving the rest behind at the main camp for when we returned for the canoeing part of our trip. We decided to start our trip with three blocks of cheese, two large and three small sausages, two large bags of dry oatmeal, three jars of peanut butter (two creamy and one crunchy), one small bag of lentils, one bag of assorted spices, two packages of tuna, five carrots, seven potatoes, several apples, one large bag of brown sugar, one bag of chocolate chips, one bag of powdered milk, two bottles of Parkay (a liquid butter substitute), one bag of macaroni noodles, three packages of powdered soup, two packages of tortillas, one bag of beans, one package of bisquick, and our own personal bags of gorp, a mixture of  peanuts, chocolate chips, dried papaya, prunes, and pretzel sticks.  Looking at it all, I wondered how this was going to turn into satisfying meals each day. 

             I did not sleep well that first night, lying on the hard ground, scrunched between Craig and Ian.  We woke up at five in the morning to rain and I regretted to find the bottom of my sleeping bag sopping wet.  The rain stopped that morning just long enough for us to spread out our rations and decide who would carry which items.  Along with food, we also had to carry the group gear, two tarps, two first aid kits, two bottles of fuel, one stove set, two bear bags, two ropes, and the patrol science project, which contained a device neatly packed in duct tape that we would use to test the levels of something-or-another in the water.  Along with all of our own personal gear, this added up to about forty pounds per person.  Sleep deprived, cold, and exhausted after just five minutes of placing my heavy pack on my shoulders, I began day one and contemplated whether I had made a mistake in signing up. 

Climbing The Crack.

            It rained on and off all day.  It seemed that every time we sat down the rain would start again.  We joked that nature was telling us when we’d been sitting down for too long.  We climbed The Crack, a steep hike up crumbled boulders between two towering rock formations.  The rain made everything slippery, and the going was slow, but the view from the top was breathtaking.  We sat for a moment and enjoyed the sight, the sea of trees disappearing into the haze of the rainy sky, interrupted by lakes and rivers that we would probably be canoeing on in just a few days.  I could have stared at it all day, but the rain picked up again, so we kept walking.

The view from the top of The Crack.

By the time we reached our campsite after hours of walking, climbing, and occasionally sliding down steep drop offs, my feet were screaming and my shoulders were about ready to give out. Setting up camp was a long and tedious process and when we were done all I wanted to do was crawl into my sleeping bag and never wake up.  The point of LandSea is to help make its participants more self-reliant.  Our leaders are there for guidance, but from making food to figuring out our route, it was supposed to be up to us.  Huddled together under a drooping tarp it began to rain again.  We were all hungry, but the thought of leaving the comfort and warmth of our sleeping bags didn’t seem worth the effort involved in feeding ourselves.

Joanne making dinner.

Joanne mercifully made dinner for us that night.  It was a bland and flavorless vegetable soup, but I gratefully took it, as it was warm and bore some resemblance to food.  Ian was less accepting, and produced his own personal bottle of extra hot Tabasco hot sauce.  He must have emptied half the bottle into his small helping of broth and it soon became apparent that his dinner was inedible.  Jessica feared he was suffering from hypothermia when she heard him complain about his lips being numb, but it was just his soup.  He ate about half a bowl before he started passing it around to others, who used portions of his dinner to spice up their own.   I took a small helping.  My soup went from tasteless broth to a painful attack on my mouth, and mine was a filtered version of the original.  It took me a few moments to recover from the initial shock of that first spoonful, and I seriously contemplated whether or not Ian’s lips would ever regain feeling.

            The next morning we woke up to blue skies.  The sun came out, our clothes dried, our spirits lifted.  I got used to the weight of my pack and I began to bond with my patrol-mates.  We passed the long hours of walking with stories from home, riddles, and the occasional group sing-along to a Disney classic.  One day we spent an entire afternoon retelling all our favorite Family Guy jokes, until I’m pretty sure we had retold the entire series. 

Faith and Katrina make dinner.

It never rained again after day one, and never again did I suffer a tasteless meal either.  Evan and Ian turned out to be talented cooks.  They knew how to add spices to bring out the flavors in their dishes.  Katrina and Faith managed to make a half decent apple strudel for us twice.  One morning our leaders even surprised us and made pancakes for breakfast.  Even our simple lunch of cheese and sausage was phenomenal after hours of hiking or canoeing.  I loved the spicy meat and the creamy cheese and embraced the two flavors that elegantly mixed together so well when I popped them both in my mouth at once.  By the end of the trip most of my patrol mates hated them, but Ian and I never got sick of it. 

Ian passes out our usual lunch of sausage and cheese.

But the most loved and prized snack was peanut butter.  Sweet and smooth and absolutely delicious, it was exactly what I needed to satisfy my sugar fix.  I was never completely devoid of sweets.  I had chocolate chips and brown sugar to add to things, but I longed for candy bars, ice cream, just one wholesome Oreo, I was desperate for the kinds of desserts that contained more calories than some meals did.  We horded our peanut butter, conserved it, we made sure we never took too much, careful to leave enough for each day of our trip.  We ate it straight out of the jar; my spork leaving grated trails behind in its delectable, delicate surface.  Slathered on papaya, it neutralized the less than desirable flavor of the dried fruit, leaving only the taste of pure joy in my mouth.  One day Faith suggested I add chocolate chips from my gorp bag into my spoonful of peanut butter and it became godly.

Loon.

            During the canoeing part of the trip our days went much faster.  We covered more ground and reached our destinations with more time to go swimming, play cards, and nap.  With campsites next to the water we sometimes fell asleep to the lonely calls of loons at night and often woke up before the sun rose in the morning.   We paddled out onto misty lakes and gazed at stars that reflected in the water below us.  Once we even got to share the waterway with a family of moose.   

On our last day together, my patrol prepared to do our science experiment, the one we'd been carrying with us since day one.  Our leaders gathered us around the waters edge.  Jessica handed Ian the package and told him to open it fast, that the device was “light sensitive” and needed to go in the water immediately or the results would be botched.  Everyone waited in anticipation, Ian feeling the pressure as he slit his knife across the tape and pulled it apart.  Before we could see what the device looked like, he looked up at us confused and asked, “Starbursts?” 

            Everyone simultaneously leaned in, and then jumped back in surprise.  Jessica and Joanna began laughing hysterically, Evan’s booming voice echoed across the lake, and Faith ran away and I’m pretty sure started crying.  Our “science experiment” was a package of Starbursts, a Crunch Bar, a Butterfinger, and a Snickers.  The thing I had missed most, the one food item I had been craving: candy.  Delicious sugary chocolate, and I had been carrying it with me the entire time.

            Every bar was cut into even sized portions.  Those doing the cutting passed each precious piece of chocolate to the rest of the patrol before taking their own.  There were twelve Starbursts in the package.  We each got a whole one, and then cut the last three pieces into thirds.  No one thought this was ridiculous.  We each took our thin sliver of gummy chewy candy with gratitude, and enjoyed every delicious second.

We were given this treat because the next morning marked the start of solo, a two-day ordeal in which we were left alone in the woods with no food or human companionship.  My stomach was already growling by the time my leaders pulled away in their canoe, leaving me to my lonely little plot of land where I would spend two days and nights in solitude. 

When the sun set, I was surprised by my sense of calm.  I was sure the darkness and strange little noises the woods like to make at night would be sending shivers up my spine the entire night.  But I was perfectly comfortable by myself, sleeping under the stars on what I considered to be a very comfortable rock.  All day I had been thinking about what I was going to eat when solo ended.  I made a list of the candy I’d buy at the first pit stop we made on our way back to Michigan.  I dreamed about a McDonalds cheeseburger with a chocolate milk shake.  When I woke up the next morning though, I didn’t even notice I was hungry anymore.  My stomach stopped growling, like it was tired of trying.  I was notably exhausted though, and had never realized just how long one day is until I sat through day two of solo.  

After one more night alone, I woke up to the sound of paddles hitting water as my leaders came to pick me up the following morning.  I smiled at Faith and crawled into the canoe, happy to be reunited.  And then, from behind her back, Jessica pulled forth the most beautiful, perfect looking green apple I had ever seen in my life.  I cradled the fruit in my hands for a moment, taking in its elegance.  Just as I was about to take a glorious bite, Jessica asked if I wouldn’t mind paddling in the front of the canoe while we picked up the rest of my patrol.  Around the lake we went, gathering my patrol-mates who gratefully devoured their apples while mine remained sitting in my lap, its smooth inviting surface taunting me while I desperately paddled as fast as I could towards shore. 

And then my moment finally came. An apple has never tasted so good since.  Back home, where I am surrounded by all the food I could want, I often forget about that moment when I made contact with the apple’s smooth skin, its crisp crunch, its sour juice.  I sometimes forget there was a time when an apple could be something extraordinary.  I devoured all of it, even ate the cyanide infused seeds.  The stem was all that remained.