my food narrative, or, i got it from my mama

I am becoming my mother. Yes, everyone, this is happening. They say every woman turns out like her mother eventually, and it seems I am not immune to this curiosity of female evolution. More and more I’m noticing stronger similarities between us as I continue to settle into my...shall we generously call it... adulthood.

For instance, we’re both emotional people, easily moved to tears be they of joy, sadness, empathy or just feeling. But I wasn’t always like that. Where I used to roll my teenage eyes at her habit of tearing up during sappy TV commercials, I’m now notorious for the same thing, and if it involves a dog well then you can just forget it. I also have a similar style of diction, especially when I lose my patience. When I say, “let me tell you something” I can hear myself in one ear and her in the other. We like the same perfume, we gravitate towards the same types of people, but most significantly of all, we take the same approach to food.

Everything I know and everything I feel about food and eating is somehow inspired by her. Beginning with the no thank you portions of my childhood, I was taught to always be grateful for the food put in front of me, and to put your best dish forward for guests. Likely a function of being the oldest of seven kids, she will always buy too much, especially for parties, as it's "better to have too much than not enough", a philosophy I've adopted that runs up my credit card bill but leaves me at peace, even if I am eating leftovers for a week. I sweat at the thought of running out of food in front of company.

For my mom, eating is one of life's greatest pleasures. It's most often simple, like the Italian sandwiches she buys for weekend lunches from the refreshingly brusque, perpetually cranky woman at our favorite meat market, who I love visiting when I'm home even though she's never nice to me. Their prosciutto is a thing of beauty. Good, simple meals are some of the best, especially when shared with loved ones.

She also believes wholeheartedly in the occasional all out splurge, which I do my part to encourage. I was raised to believe that if you're gonna eat, if you're gonna spend, you might as well do it big, because the experience is well worth it. Splurging most often coincides with celebrations, but I also come from a family that looks for reasons to celebrate, so there you go.

And she's rubbed off on me in simpler ways, like my habit of stopping to read the menu in the window of every restaurant I pass by, which my boyfriend and friends graciously indulge. This drove me cah-raaaazy when I was little, but here I am, lingering, perusing, just like her. And I have the same maddening reluctance to commit to one restaurant over another when traveling, nagged with fear that I could've had something better. It is torture, and I am trying to chill out.

Other rules of Judy's to live by...I never eat breakfast but I adore brunch, I will happily spend good money for good food but nothing irks me more than overpriced mediocrity, there is always a reason for Champagne, there is also usually a reason for cocktails, order scallops if they're on the menu, cook often and have fun with it, and know that feeding myself well is a simple key to a high quality of life.

One of the only rules I haven't picked up is clean while you cook, but I'm only 24, so I have some time. Overall though, I've learned quite a bit from her influence. Our experience with food shapes our narrative, I think, more than we recognize. I examine my habits and the story they form, and realize how many of them are touched by food. As a necessity, it's woven quietly into the fabric of day to day living, but it has so much impact on our happiness, our memories, ourselves.

I'm lucky to have been raised to embrace food unabashedly and to take great enjoyment in the simplest of provisions. Along with curly hair and big lips, I will most certainly pass this down to my daughter some day, and I hope she's as grateful for it as I am.

feeding nostalgia...with chicken noodle soup

There’s something about chicken noodle soup that makes us feel good. Maybe because it’s nursed us through so many sick days, or been the go-to offering of moms everywhere on cold winter afternoons…whatever the reason, chicken noodle soup is instantly comforting, no matter how old you are.

It’s warming and nostalgic, basic in ingredients but deep in flavor. Broth, chicken, noodles and vegetables…simple on paper and screen, but the whole is so much more than the sum of its parts. Aristotle wasn’t talking about soup when he wrote that, but it feels appropriate. 

My version of choice as a little kid was Campbell’s Chicken & Stars. I haven’t eaten it in probably 15 years, but I know it tastes like snow days in the third grade.  These days, I’ve moved on from the canned variety, but until recently I’d never attempted to make it from scratch. I’d done a few batches with a pulled rotisserie chicken and carton stock, and they suited well enough, but I never committed to the real thing, whole chicken and all.

Then last month, using the blog as a commitment device, I set about with a list of soon to make dishes, and the weekend’s chilly weather pushed this to the top. In retrospect, I don’t know what I was so worried about. It was so simple and hands off, worth it even just for the intoxicating scent of simmering stock that perfumed my apartment all afternoon. 

Bright with lemon and rich with the chicken's natural fat, it's wonderfully salty, creamy and balanced with an underlying earthiness from the fresh herbs. If you're looking for something to warm your bones and sate your appetite - for both nourishment and nostalgia - this fits the bill. 

Recipe: 

Stock:

1 whole chicken, (about 3 lbs) rinsed and giblets removed

3 carrots and 3 celery stalks, cut into chunks

2 yellow onions, quartered

1 head of garlic, halved

Thyme bundle, about 6 sprigs

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon black peppercorns

1 teaspoon salt

Enough cold water to cover the chicken

Soup ingredients:

4 carrots, peeled and cut into ½ inch coins

3 celery stalks, cut into ½ inch slices

2 large garlic cloves, minced

1 yellow onion, chopped

2 cups shredded chicken

8 ounces egg noodles

Handful of chopped flat leaf parsley

1 lemon, halved

2 tablespoons butter

Salt and pepper

Place the vegetables in a large stock pot, and lay the chicken on top. Pour in enough water to cover the chicken (no more than 3 quarts) and put everything else - garlic, thyme, bay leaves, salt and peppercorns - into the pot. Cover and bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer and let it go for at least 2 hours (mine went for 3) partially covered. Season the stock to taste, and remember that salt intensifies the longer it cooks. You'll know when it's right. 

When your stock has fully developed its flavor, pull out the chicken and pour the liquid through a strainer to remove impurities, reserving it. When the chicken has cooled, pull it apart with a fork and set it aside. (It will yield extra, so save that for another dish.) Simultaneously, add butter to a soup pot and soften the garlic, onions, celery and carrots for about 10 minutes on medium low heat. 

When vegetables have softened, add the stock back into the pot and fold in the chicken. Lastly, add the noodles and allow soup to simmer for 5-8 minutes until the noodles are tender. Just before serving, sprinkle with a handful of fresh herbs and the juice of one lemon. 

Ladle into bowls and enjoy!

I used fresh parsley and egg noodles this time, but next time I'm going to try cilantro and orzo, with a little cinnamon and cayenne. Really any pasta is fine, so long as you use something that can stand up to sitting in the broth. Other than that, this is infinitely customizable. I hope you'll experiment and find a version that you like. 

Waiting for a snow day to pair with my soup,

Kira

PS, does anyone else remember this little gem?

where would i be without bacon?

The first smell I can remember is bacon frying.

I was four years old, or at least young enough for Jem and the Holograms to still be showing re-runs on Saturday mornings. Remember that one?

I would plop myself in front of the tv, and soon enough the comforting smell of bacon would waft its way to me. At this point I would go down to the kitchen, sneak a piece from the plate it was resting on, and watch the second act, pancakes. I loved this part.

My dad specialized in K-shaped pancakes, which my sister Krissa (convenient) and I ate with endless amusement. When breakfast was ready, I would crumble most of my bacon on top of the edible letters, reserving a couple pieces to dunk straight into a bowl of maple syrup like Oreos into milk, the best sweet and savory 1-2 punch five bucks can buy, and a Saturday tradition I honor faithfully.

I think the idea of tradition is what sticks out most about those breakfasts for me. I’ve always been especially comforted by traditions, the steady sameness of them time after time. I’m not someone who is especially freaked out by change, but it’s nice to return to the things that make you happy, especially when they are delicious. Food is a powerful anchor for memories, and those breakfasts were one of the pillars of my early childhood.

So when I smell pancakes rising or bacon sizzling, I remember being four, and soon enough I’ve triggered a whole stream of memories from those years…simple material things like this one especially soft purple sweater of my mom’s, and stories that have been told a hundred times, like the day I tried to ride my Barbie Jeep to the mall. (I was apprehended at the top of the block.) In my first post I wrote that consumption is intensely personal, and this is one of the ways I meant that. Everyone has their own triggers that evoke vivid memories of certain times or places, and in some cases they go so far as to influence our preferences and habits.

For example, I sometimes lapse into periods of half assed vegetarianism for a week or two at a time, characterized by a lot of lentils, quinoa, and other "plant based proteins" that my boyfriend Jake refers to as rabbit food. I’ve often considered making a more serious commitment, but it always comes down to bacon. I just fucking love it. Sorry. Case in point, I keep a container of reserved bacon fat in my fridge, and the good people of Phillips Deli know exactly how I like my BLT. (on toasted wheat, with avocado and sprouts, should you ever need to know)

Bacon is, simply, one of my favorite foods. And I can’t help but wonder if that has to do, in some small part, with the positive associations I keep. Aside from the fact that it’s one of the world’s most perfect foods, in all its salty, chewy, crispy deliciousness, I think it’s infinitely more appealing to me thanks to memories of eating it crumbled on top of K-shaped pancakes.

PS – Evidently, pancake artistry is not a genetic trait. Mine suck.