Pamela's Food for Thought

I'll admit it, I have a close-minded stomach. But at the same time my stomach will open wide with unlimited space when prompted by the right stimuli. I eat what I love, and nothing more. Or atleast, that was my plan as a little kid. Each year I'd pick my favorite food and eat it every day - bean burritos in 3rd grade, spaghetti in 4th grade, pierogies in 4th grade, and tuna fish sandwiches every day in the cafeteria throughout grade school.

But we live in a world where loose mouths and easy-access stomachs are the convention, and I soon found myself facing mealtime fights over my pickiness. I had no problem agreeing to eat people's paper bags as a challenge (and awarding prizes for best-tasting paper) but try the broccoli? No, no way! I couldn't do that, that was against my life philosophy!

Though I still proudly hold on to my broccoli virginity today, I've had quite a few culinary cherries popped since the onset of the peer pressure... cherries included. As it turns out, those succulent round berries are quite delicious, as are Snickers bars, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, orange juice, apple pie, walnuts, and various other suspect-looking substances. Many of these realizations have actually resulted in unhealthy obsessions, as evidenced in my current ability to spread an entire jar of jelly on one slice of bread. I've thusly singlehandedly discovered that there exists separate compartment for each type of food in our bodies, and if we don't fill its quota as a young child, we must engage in overeating overdrive as adults to compensate.

It may be too late for me - I will find myself one day surrounded by menacing heads of broccoli overcome by an unstoppable desire to stuff as many into my mouth as possible - but you can still save yourself. Go unto the world and be foodful!

 

Mindy's Food for Thought

I studied abroad in France last year and, you know, I think the grass literally is greener over there. I mean, if California cows are happy, French cows are over the moon. The cheese gets a lot of love, but the real star of the French supermarket dairy aisle is, as far as I'm concerned, the yogurt. Equally nice as a breakfast, snack or dessert, it can be had fat-free and comes in a variety of flavors ranging from the standard (e.g., berry and cherry) to the daring (e.g., prune, which is better than it sounds, and grapefruit, which is worse). Scholars believe that the nectar and ambrosia of Greek mythology were varieties or derivatives of honey but I know better. The food of the gods was and is white peach or, better yet, apple/pear yogurt. I really should keep quiet. Tantalus got himself into a lot of trouble doing what I'm doing. I definitely do not want to find out how Joan of Arc felt. But what can I say? My love of humanity is just too great. I'd like to buy the world a container of French apple/pear yogurt and, in doing so, make the world a gift on a par with that of Prometheus.

 

Lauren's Food for Thought

The most sacred tenet of my childhood upbringing was Thou shalt eat. Goat stew, gefilte fish, sea cucumber-my mom didn't care what it was; if someone put it in front of me, I'd better eat it, and enjoy it, too. And, 99 times out of a hundred, I do. In third grade when my friend's mom made Punjabi-style goat stew, I scraped my plate clean. Gefilte fish isn't just something to be choked down politely at the Passover table; with a little horseradish it makes the perfect midnight snack. How can you say you've had real Chinatown fried rice if you ask them to hold the sea cucumber? True, I've had moments of weakness; I faltered a little, staring into the swollen black eyes of a completely intact shrimp when a friend's father served me his homemade seafood udon. But I ate it. It might surprise you, but the least appetizing thing I've ever had to shove into my mouth with a smile was the good ol' American jell-o salad someone's grandmother made last Christmas.

More than anything else, my mother hates picky eaters. If you come over for dinner and turn your nose up at my mom's signature fried rice and red beans, you can forget being invited ever again. Try to put butter on the yellow rice? Nixed. You're vegetarian? Leave now. To my mom, that's like being racist.

So I ate, anything and everything. "No matter where in the world you end up, you'll never be hungry," my mom would say. I took this to mean that I was destined for great things. It was exciting to think that some day, as a famous archaeologist or politician or spy, I might find myself in a far away land where my survival was clinched by my unique ability to relish whatever dish was placed in front of me. At a Bedouin wedding I'd endear myself to the entire tribe by taking a second helping of stuffed camel, or I'd buddy up to Amazonian natives over some roast piranha. Who needs language classes; in learning to eat, I got a world-class education.

 

Garen's Food for Thought

The one thing that binds all of humanity and has done so throughout all of time, with whose interaction everyone can admit receiving pleasure (perhaps with guilt), the one substance which I enjoy more than any other thing in the world regardless of its progenitor's race, gender, or social class, is food.

I love food. Simply saying I love it is an understatement. I love making it, smelling it, discussing it. I love activities that revolve around food and holidays devised with the excuse of filial bonding but are really just as much about food as anything else. I love food that goes well with drink, and food that compliments the body in healthy ways; "feed the body, so the soul can sing," goes an Armenian proverb. I even love food that I haven't eaten yet, whose very exoticism excites me. Cow liver! Ram testicles! Undiscovered fruits from far away and the specially cultivated ones in my very own backyard — everything under the sun that is edible, I will enjoy with the same intensity.

This is not gluttony, but an appreciation for all things living. To eat is to live, and more importantly, vice versa. In my family, food meant happiness; and isn't the purpose of life to be happy? Meals were in excess, because the diner was to be kept hearty. I have never been to a family function where leftovers were not expected, a testament of the host's devotion portioned for all to take home. Now I continue this legacy on my own, cooking whatever I can manage; but when I cannot, thanks to Los Angeles' diverse bounty, I can have Korean one night, Mexican the next, Greek the third, and American the day after that ? all without leaving a single block.

Pass it over! Pile it on! And let me know if you hear anything delicious!

 

Lindsay's Food for Thought

Here's how you eat at peanut butter and banana sandwich. First, you find some good whole wheat bread. Anything with corn syrup or enriched flour in the first three ingredients simply will not do. Wheat bread, preferably with wheat berries submerged throughout, is essential. And don't even think about white bread. White bread is a killer. It will crucify your sandwich.

You must also buy the right kind of peanut butter. I prefer natural separated peanut butter -that way the smoothness of the banana has a counterbalance. It gives your teeth something do so, and your tongue doesn't get lost in the mush. Natural peanut butter also compliments the natural taste of wheat bread, and provides more texture than preservative-enriched alternatives. But either kind will do. It just needs to be crunchy.

The third obvious ingredient to the sandwich is a banana. With this also you can go with your preference. I like green bananas that are a pale yellow. You might like the sweeter bananas that have black spots on them. They are good too, but mushier. I recommend slicing them with a dull knife so each slice is an even size, about a quarter of an inch thick. But here, too, you can vary. If in a hurry, or dealing with a sink full of dirty, already peanut-butter caked knives, you can just break it up by hand.

To make the sandwich complete, you first must toast the bread. Toasting the bread takes the sandwich from a sort of odd granola-y kind of food to the level of quirky and delicious. It also adds texture and an element of comfort to the college student eating on a time crunch. Next to the wheat bread, this is the most important step.

Finally, though this is not essential, I would recommend sitting down with a peanut butter and banana sandwich with the newspaper comics and a glass of milk. With all the major food groups (protein, fruit, grain, and dairy) the sandwich and beverage combo is a kind of meal your mother would want you to enjoy. As for the comics, well, that's just a personal bias; with the familiarity of my favorite sandwich, I like to keep up with what's going on in "For Better or For Worse" and "9 Chickweed Lane."

 

Allison's Food for Thought

Most college students probably consume at least twice the average American’s amount of pizza and instant ramen each month. Some of these students are adept at assembling pre-packaged goods into meal, and a few even add such flourishes as the addition of spices or the baking of cookies from mix. However, if you look hard enough, you can still find a select handful of individuals who have been initiated into the mysteries of cooking.

I date the moment I first felt really capable in the kitchen to my first sauce. The sauce, of course, is the difference between a bland mass and something truly delicious, especially in simple meals. It is a distillation of flavor, a new dimension of texture, and a visual temptation all at once. From a roux, a paste of melted butter and flour that is the base of all cream sauces, I can turn the drippings of pan-cooked steak into a rich liquid, thinned with milk and flavored with capers, cracked peppercorns, and sherry. A forlorn-looking head of romaine can be revived with a few fresh croutons and a vinaigrette (for salad dressing is merely an uncooked sauce) of balsamic vinegar, olive oil, Dijon mustard, salt, and white pepper, all thickened by beating the mixture with an ice cube. My favorite pasta sauce to prepare puts any store-bought sauce to shame: fry a diced onion and garlic clove with some red chili flakes in olive oil until the onions are transparent; add 4 diced tomatoes, bought on the vine, and some capers to the pan and cover; let this simmer and the tomatoes will turn into a smooth mixture punctuated by onions; at the last minute, toss in the pasta, some sliced kalamata olives, and fresh basil, and top it all with coarsely-grated Romano cheese.

Delicious as these dishes are, what is even more satisfying to my taste is serving them to others and watching the smiles appear. Cooking has a performative aspect and always aims to please—this is why food almost always tastes better when it is prepared for others, and why I, like most cooks, enjoy cooking for others more than for myself. Most people are not only impressed by competent cooking, but are aware that a meal prepared for them with care is a unique gift of food, but also of thought, time, passion, and skill. Even though I still have my pizza nights like everyone else, I consider cooking to be a meaningful hobby of mine, and my sauce-smothered dishes have become my favorite way to pamper my friends and boyfriend. In fact, I’ve become convinced that if Casablanca’s Rick had only produced a plate of penne al boccalone, he’d have gotten his girl after all.