My Perfect Meal: Revised

Abby Calef

Dr. Heinritz

Food and Travel Seminar

13 November 2016

The Not So Perfect Meal

My most perfect meal is always on Thanksgiving. This is not because I particularly like thick slabs of turkey and gravy and not because I especially love pumpkin pie, or even the hilarious sight of my hyperactive, speckled dog attempting to jump up and kiss all of the guests’ faces, nearly knocking them down or forcing them to wipe their faces with napkins in disgust. Even Bailey enjoys Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving because it is the only time during the entire year when my whole family is together. It starts off with the anticipation: keeping a specific list of the times that flights arrive and riding back and forth with my mom and dad to the airport, 45 minutes away. A lot of my relatives fly late at night, after work; I love watching the bright lights in the darkness in the back seat while listening to the soft tones of my parents’ voices. My mom always packs me a blanket. My seat warmer is on, leaving my behind and back toasty while I rub my cold hands together, in hopes of warmth throughout my entire body. I never fail to fall asleep to the dark warmth.

We squeeze far too many people into our quaint house and the empty space is filled with laughter. All of the couches are filled up, the guest room, and there are air mattresses in the strangest places; probably a safety hazard, but we’ve learned well over the years to jump over them. Hugs are supplied at any point throughout the day; asking isn’t even necessary. The smell of apple candles and food fills up the entire home and it feels so special and warm. My uncle always makes the turkey, but sets it in the oven when he gets to the house. There are plates and plates of hors d’oeuvres covering all of the countertops with various cheese, fruits and veggies. Everyone I love brings a part of the meal, even if it is simply their wit, and that is what makes it taste so good.

While I knew going into my recreation of the perfect meal that I couldn’t exactly recreate Thanksgiving and have all of my relatives book last minute flights and sleep on my dorm room floor, I didn’t know it would go exactly like this. To say that the 2016 presidential election had an enormous impact on my perfect meal would be an understatement. Pasta with butter, parmesan cheese, garlic, oregano and basil would seem easy enough to prepare for the average chef (or maybe even less than average). Maybe it was the cucumber tomato salad, which did, in fact only consist of tomatoes and cucumbers with balsamic vinaigrette, that really stirred the pot. It’s possible that the garlic bread wasn’t crispy enough, or salty enough, or maybe the seasonings overpowered the sourdough flavor. Nonetheless, the day I decided to invite my boyfriend, roommate and suite mate for a perfect meal was the day after America was in mourning, suffering a great loss and for some, a great gain. I learned that cooking pasta with a spatula rather than a wooden spoon, using mini, individual salt packets rather than a shaker and cutting garlic and hard vegetables with a butter knife make cooking quite difficult, but not entirely impossible. Although the meal was delayed due to a loss of words and appetite and my roommate could no longer attend, something strong and beautiful was still able to bloom out of one of the darkest of moments.

It all started with an idea. Organic. Think organic. As I physically watched my wallet decrease in size throughout my shopping expedition, I knew I was doing the right thing. Supporting local businesses, feeling clean and pure about what was going into my body and feeling comfortable with what I was serving other people were worth the extra dollars. Shopping at the food co-op in Kalamazoo brought back different, yet happy, familiar feelings as the food co-op in Ann Arbor could practically survive off of the amount of money my parents and I have spent there. My perfect meal would have been shared with my parents, as many of the most perfect meals have been shared with them already. This could be because the food always tastes better when my mom cooks it, or maybe because my parent’s budget is slightly less limited than mine. Meals away from them tend to leave me a little less full, hungry for something than I can only really get at home. And now, I needed them more than ever.

The night after the election was a very difficult time for me. Having my roommate vote for the opposing candidate and having my boyfriend not vote at all left me feeling very isolated in a small space full of many people. Listening to my roommate complain about the people who were crying over the election results had my blood boiling at just about the same temperature as the pasta water. I wasn’t hungry and neither was she. As the hours grew later, I became very tired waiting for my boyfriend to get back from a prolonged baseball practice and my mind was in no place to cook and indulge in a perfect meal. There was nothing perfect about that moment. The hunger for hugging my parents at a time like this left my stomach even more empty.

My suite mate was all I had. Sophie, with her short hair, usually dark brown or blue colored lips and sarcastic attitude left her door unlocked for me at all times after the election. After running into her room, she asked me if I wanted to talk or just sit. She read my silence as words spoken aloud and sat quietly with me, leaving the soft hums of the space heater in the background. This was the first time I had heard silence in a while. We sat in the quiet warmth. I knew she was busy, but she set her books down and waited.

I was reluctant to have spent so much money on a meal for my boyfriend who was too preoccupied with baseball and chocolate milk to notice the difference between organic spaghetti and Kraft mac n’ cheese and my roommate who didn’t seem to notice my silence and sadness, which, I felt absorbed the entire room. Sophie suggested we postpone. We scheduled the not-so-perfect meal for that Friday night. However, in the nicest way possible, we completely forgot about Sophie’s boyfriend’s jazz performance, which we had all agreed to attend. This meant that we had exactly 35 minutes to cook and 15 to eat.

We were most definitely pressed for time. We threw the pot of water on the stove and melted the butter with garlic and basil and drizzled it over the bread not so delicately. I chopped the garlic and vegetables at my fastest pace possible, consciously looking at my hands every three seconds to make sure all of my fingers were still connected to my body. There was food flying around an unfamiliar, strange kitchen and the mess is, let’s just say, most likely still there. The fan on the microwave was loud and made it difficult for us to hear each other, as the dorm building’s stove tops often smoke.

It didn’t feel perfect when we ate. We were rushed and dumped loads of pasta on our plates without even having a chance to think about it. We didn’t get to savor the flavors or wipe the oozing butter off our fingers. But that’s beside the point. The rushed cooking and eating didn’t matter. The fact was, my suite mate cancelled plans with her boyfriend last minute, even though she was all dressed up. She got drenched in butter, cheese and garlic just to make me happy. Compared to my roommate and boyfriend, who thought of this meal simply as something that they had to show up to, almost reluctantly clearing their schedules, my suite mate noticed how important this was to me.

The kindness of her soul warmed the cold and unfamiliar kitchen in a time when the darkness had consumed every other space. She was the perfect to my meal, not the tasty food, but her. It was nothing like Thanksgiving, but I was still thankful. Sophie brought her space heater into my room; its breaths of warm air shielded the cool air that was flowing through my roommate’s window. I will never be able to forget my not-so-perfect meal.

Process Assignment

Abby Calef

Dr. Heinritz

Food and Travel Seminar

20 November 2016

Process Assignment

I think one of the (many) most important things I learned in this class is the importance of honesty. People don’t want to read a perfect story with a perfect ending because it doesn’t feel real. No one believes a perfect story with a perfect ending because that’s not how life actually works. This has always been a challenge with me in terms of my writing, when I actually feel comfortable with people reading my writing, I want them to feel good while reading it. I always thought that everything had to resolve in order for this to happen. This has been a problem particularly in poetry. I always have thought that leaving readers with a positive feeling in the end was of the utmost importance, when in reality, the dissonance is what matters.

I initially noticed this problem’s recurrence in my memoir. I wrote a piece, about my childhood, during a really positive memory, happy, glowy memory that I have. A lot of time spent with my family was positive, especially at family dinners, when that was a time for all of us to be together. However, as this memory was positive, there was really no change in the “I” character. Through this class, I was encouraged to look at other aspects of my life that may have affected these memories, or somehow caused pain. Which was hard. I didn’t even really think I had those moments.

I think that what I’ve learned throughout this class is what made my writing in my “Perfect Meal” paper so raw. I realized that if I would have written about how perfect my meal was as opposed to how imperfect it actually was, I would have been lying. Lying to myself, and to all of you. My meal wasn’t perfect. In fact, I didn’t even want to have it. I didn’t want to sit down and eat a meal and try to be happy about it because I was sure that something had to make my meal somewhat perfect, that’s how it’s supposed to end… Right? I was initially planning on the experience going wonderfully; everyone throwing pasta at each other, giggling, singing songs, and getting undoubtedly messy. But that wasn’t the case. In fact, I dreaded the mere idea of even sitting down and eating with the people I had selected as my second family. I was in one of the lowest places I could have been in. If I would have told a story where I burnt the garlic bread, but we all bonded over how funny it was and sat down and ate with smiles on our faces, that would have been a lie. As much as I would have liked to have had a perfect meal, that wasn’t the case. Through this class, I truly learned that what makes a story perfect is how painfully real it is.

My revision process was also something that was different in comparison to what I expected it to be. Through workshops, I was so enlightened by the many directions in which my words could travel. It has improved my writing immensely. For my first memoir, I only saved myself enough time to revise for about two hours, as I had two other papers due that day at earlier times, also. I realized, through that revision process, that revising a paper is much more than grammatical errors. It takes an actual analysis and scrutinization of what needs to be enhanced and what is unnecessary. It seems silly that this has never occurred to me before, but, without the workshops, I wouldn’t have been shown what draws other people in. What draws myself into my work may, honestly, be much different than what draws other people into my work.

Similarly to what I have previously touched upon, this writing process has made me open up and write about pain, which has always been very difficult for me to do. I tend to casually forget painful moments; leaving them out of my writing seems to be part of my subconscious. But, it’s something I still need to continue to work on. Vulnerability is key.

Perfect Meal rough draft

Abby Calef

Dr. Heinritz

Food and Travel Seminar

13 November 2016

The Not So Perfect Meal

My most perfect meal is always on Thanksgiving. This is not because I particularly like thick slabs of turkey and gravy and not because I especially love pumpkin pie (however, I do, really love pumpkin pie), but because it is the only time during the entire year when my whole family is together. The cleaning comes first. Being the child who gets home the quickest, I play a very crucial role. The cleaning is stressful and my mom is usually panicking about how many pairs of shoes I have down stairs and if they are all necessary, but it’s tolerable and almost enjoyable simply knowing what we’re cleaning for. It starts off with the anticipation, keeping a specific list of the times that flights arrive and riding back and forth with my mom and dad to the airport, 45 minutes away. A lot of my relatives fly late at night, after work; I love watching the bright lights in the darkness in the back seat while listening to the soft tones of my parent’s voices. My seat warmer is on, and I almost always fall asleep to the dark warmth. My mom always packs me a blanket. Trying to save money, we squeeze far too many people into our quaint house, and the empty space is filled with loud talking and laughter. All of the couches are filled up, the guest room, and there are air mattresses in the strangest places. Hugs are supplied at any point throughout the day; you don’t even have to ask. The smell of food and apple candles fills up the entire home and it just feels so warm. The thanksgiving meal is stressful for my parents, as it is always held at our house. They are always somehow rushed with the cooking, no matter how many days in advance they start. My uncle always makes the turkey, but sets it in the oven when he gets to the house. The men in the house drink beer, and the women drink wine or beer or both. Everyone I love brings a part of the meal, even if it is simply their wit, and that is what makes it taste so good.

While I knew going into my recreation of the perfect meal that I couldn’t exactly recreate Thanksgiving and have all of my relatives book last minute flights and sleep on my dorm room floor, I didn’t know it would go exactly like this. To say that the 2016 presidential election had an enormous impact on my perfect meal would be an understatement. Pasta with butter, parmesan cheese, garlic, oregano and basil would seem easy enough to prepare for the average chef (or maybe even less than average). Maybe it was the cucumber tomato salad, which did, in fact only consist of tomatoes and cucumbers with balsamic vinaigrette, that really stirred the pot. It is possible that the garlic bread wasn’t crispy enough, or salty enough, or maybe the seasonings overpowered the sourdough flavor. Nonetheless, the day I decided to invite my boyfriend, roommate and suite-mate for a perfect meal was the day after America was in mourning, suffering a great loss and for some, a great gain. I learned that cooking pasta with a spatula rather than a wooden spoon, using mini, individual salt packets rather than a shaker and cutting garlic and hard vegetables with a butter knife make cooking quite a bit difficult, but not entirely impossible. Although the meal was delayed due to a loss of words and appetite and my roommate could no longer attend, something strong and beautiful was still able to bloom out of one of the darkest of moments.

It all started with an idea. Organic. Think organic. As I physically watched my wallet decrease in size throughout my shopping expedition, I knew I was doing the right thing. Supporting local businesses, feeling clean and pure about what was going into my body and feeling comfortable with what I was serving other people were worth the extra pennies. Shopping at the food coop in Kalamazoo brought back different, yet happy, familiar feelings as the food co op in Ann Arbor could practically only survive off of the amount of money my parents and I have spent there. My perfect meal would have been shared with my parents, as many of the most perfect meals had been shared with them already. This could be because the food always tastes better when my mom cooks it, or maybe because my parent’s budget is slightly less limited than mine. Meals away from them tend to leave me a little less full, hungry for something than I can only really get at home. However, the miles to and the money spend at the food co op were definitely a good choice. My perfect meal would consist of fresh, home-cooked food that was acquired from grocery stores that I trust, hopefully organic and even local if possible. It would only consist of brand names that I’m familiar with or that my mom usually cooks. Growing up in Ann Arbor and actually having the opportunity to know some of the kind, hardworking people who own various stores and restaurants has made me appreciate local businesses and recognize the value in supporting them. The People’s Food Co op in Kalamazoo, Michigan’s produce and store-made products all come from within 100 miles of their location. Co ops are primarily known for the fact that they are cooperative businesses. Cooperative businesses are technically owned by their consumers, which means that the profits are either returned to the “owners” or are used for bettering the community.

Although the food Co op is good for many things, I decided it was probably best to continue my adventure over to Meijer for things such as: tin foil, baking sheets, paper plates and pre-packaged cookie dough. Kitchen ware can be found much cheaper in chain grocery stores, as opposed to food co ops. After compromising my morals for a delicious package of Toll-House cookie dough and one dollar and fifty cent fruit juice, the shopping trip was over and it was time to make the meal. Of course, here’s where it went slightly wrong.

The night after the election was very difficult for me. Having my roommate vote for the opposing candidate and having my boyfriend not vote at all left me feeling very isolated in a small space full of many people. Listening to my roommate complain about the people who were upset because of the election results had my blood boiling just as much as the pasta. I wasn’t hungry and neither was she. I became very tired waiting for my boyfriend to get back from a prolonged baseball practice and my mind was in no place to cook and indulge in a perfect meal. There was nothing perfect about that moment. The hunger for seeing my parents left my stomach even more empty.

My suite-mate kindly took me in her room and offered to help in many different ways, even though I knew she was very busy. She even offered to cook the entire meal by herself, while I told her what to do. But most importantly, she offered the emotional support that was stolen from me on that Tuesday night. She was the greatest support system I had ever had, and our relationship became that much stronger through the whole fiasco. We came to the conclusion that the perfect meal should be postponed to a date a few days later, when everyone could truly enjoy it.

We were pressed for time. We threw the pot of water on the stove and melted the butter with garlic and basil and drizzled it over the bread not so delicately. I chopped the garlic and vegetables at my fastest pace possible, consciously looking at my hands every three seconds to make sure all of my fingers were still connected to my body. There was food flying around an unfamiliar, strange kitchen and the mess is let’s just say, most likely still there. The fan on the microwave was loud and made it difficult for us to hear each other, as the dorm building’s stove tops often smoke.

It didn’t feel perfect when we ate. We were rushed and dumped loads of pasta on our plates without even having a chance to think about it. We didn’t get to savor the flavors or wipe the oozing butter off of our fingers. In fact, I don’t even think I heard anyone say “thank you”. But that wasn’t the point. The rushed cooking and the rushed eating didn’t matter. The fact was, my suite-mate cancelled her plans last minute, even though she was all dressed up and got drenched in butter, cheese and garlic just to make me happy. She helped with everything and when she noticed my stress levels increasing, offered her hand even though both were being used. The kindness of her soul warmed the cold and unfamiliar kitchen in a time when the darkness had consumed every other space. She was the perfect to my meal, not the tasty food, but her. I will never be able to forget my not-so-perfect meal.

Final Restaurant Review

Better than a McDonald’s Shamrock Shake

Dining at an Irish public house isn’t exactly glamorous, to say the least. The food is fried, the people are loud, the men reek of beer, and the displays of TVs and neon lights are, let’s be honest, downright nauseating.  But, no one really goes to an Irish pub to put on a nice dress and sip expensive wines with their pinkies up and napkins folded like swans. People dine at Irish pubs to lick the salt off of their fingers and hope to smell fish on their clothes for the next three days.

The residents of Plymouth, or people who regularly shop and dine in the downtown area have most likely walked past Sean O’Callaghan’s on their culinary endeavors or shopping expeditions. They have probably noticed the beautiful stained glass windows that decorate the harsh black, Victorian style doors and can easily set it apart from the abundance of restaurants that encompass the downtown area. The dark and rustic restaurant with creaky floors and brightly colored stained glass is both unique and intriguing.

The inside of the building looks and feels like a traditional Irish pub with its overall dim lighting, bright neon colored lights, loud guests and enormous bar. If you’re not instantly blinded by the TVs and flashing Guinness signs, you’re probably in the wrong place. The atmosphere of the bar is almost always loud and exciting, consisting of happy, old men, even at three p.m. The dining portion of the restaurant was calm and quiet as the middle of the afternoon isn’t exactly a popular time for feasting.

While it gives off the appearance of an old gem in the downtown area, Sam, the owner, only established Sean O’Callaghan’s 15 years ago. After leaving the U.S. to study in Ireland, Sam came to Michigan to create this culinary beauty. His essential goal for creating this restaurant was to enhance Plymouth’s tourism and draw people in through his tasty Irish dining expertise.

In addition to the unique and eye catching aesthetic of the restaurant, the traditional Irish dishes are also exceptional. Everything else, not so much.

The menu consisted of both traditional Irish dishes and more American, “every day” dishes. The “Traditional Irish Fare” section of the menu highlights the Irish breakfast, corned beef and cabbage, fish and chips, Irish stew, bangers and mash, and shepherd’s pie, which all range from nine to fifteen dollars. The American dishes consist of various burgers, deluxe grilled cheese, salmon, tenderloin tips, and multiple wraps and sandwiches which range from eight to twelve dollars. A word of advice: when dining at an Irish public house, make sure to only order the traditional Irish dishes. Otherwise, there really isn’t even a reason to go there. O’Duffy’s Pub, widely known as the only Irish public house in Kalamazoo (really, it says so on their website), lies within a similar price range, but is lacking in the actual traditional Irish food department. For those who are looking to overdose on burgers, go right ahead.

The Irish chips and curry, the first dish that is ordered, is listed as a “signature dish” on the Sean O’Callaghan’s menu. The consistency of the curry itself is thin and smooth, decorated with speckles of spices, the color of reddish brown. It is light and mild, similar to the taste of an Indian curry, but with less intensity, intertwining the flavors of turmeric, cumin, and curry powder in just the right way. The curry complements the Irish chips, which have a perfectly crispy outside, yet, still hold a perfectly mushy inside. Surprisingly, the baked potato flavor is still very much apparent, even while smothered in curry. Genius. The kind but slightly unhelpful waitress explained that the curry mix is actually imported from Ireland itself, but could not give any further information on the exact location or how it is prepared.

The presentation of the food at Sean O’Callaghan’s is not nearly as exceptional as it tastes. In fact, the presentation itself would rank a 3 on a scale of 1-10. But, fried food never seems to look that appetizing anyways.

Even though the Irish chips and curry came first, the cauliflower cheddar soup is most definitely ahead in the races. The texture is creamy, but not too thick. It is thin and silky, embellished with little chunks of cauliflower to add depth to the texture. The strong cheddar flavor fills the soup and devoured the cauliflower whole, yet, it isn’t too powerful, which can leave the taster a little too thirsty. It is salty to perfection and the taste of beer is prominent within the cheesiness of the soup. On a cold, rainy day, I would make the drive out to Plymouth again, just for that soup.

Closely following the appetizers, the fish and chips do not disappoint. Because of the buttery, creaminess of the cod, the fish cuts beautifully and slides delicately off of the fork. Although it lacks that fishy, fresh-out-of-the-ocean taste, which is seemingly due to location, the cod is soft and not the least bit chewy. The batter is a little too thick and deeply fried, however, some may prefer it that way.

Unfortunately, the more “ordinary” American dishes are only mediocre. The buffalo chicken wrap is average, a little too spicy and bold with thick chunks of chicken. The water isn’t refilled nearly fast enough to stand the powers of the buffalo chicken sandwich. The coleslaw is nothing special, somewhat watery and flavorless and it ended up pretty much untouched, as the fried fish is much more palatable. The make-your-own-salad is filled with freshly ripe veggies on a bed of truly dark, green spinach. The house-made vinaigrette is blended well, not too oily and shows hardly any separation. It is a light vinaigrette with pepper, but will not leave any lips puckering.

After asking the waitress if I would be disappointed by not trying their dessert selection, she advised me that I didn’t “need” to try anything. That pretty much speaks for itself. Or, maybe she was just confused on how to promote the restaurant she worked for. By previous conversations with her, it could’ve been either.

Well, Kalamazoo, paying Sam a visit might not be a bad idea.

Comparison of Expectations and the Real Deal

A Pleasant Surprise

As previously mentioned, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy Sean O’Callaghan’s very much. I don’t absolutely love pub food, as often times, I find it rather bland. However, I was pleasantly surprised with all of the flavors that danced across my tongue. The fried cod was mild, but the texture was wonderful. The Irish chips actually tasted like potatoes, which I had never even experienced in a french fry, so that most definitely put us off to a good start. The curry was bold with flavor, which definitely exceeded my expectations because I didn’t even know that Irish curry existed. Therefore, this dining experience must have taught me something.

Much to my dismay, there was no soda bread, or the sweet butter that I remember tasting and falling in love with in Ireland. That is something I would most definitely recommend to the restaurant to put on their menu. The more Americanized meals were average at best, but I wasn’t going into Sean O'Callaghan's with the expectations that the American food was anything extraordinary. I was going for the Irish cuisine.  In fact, I wasn’t even thinking I would try any of the American foods, because why go to an Irish pub to eat a buffalo chicken wrap? Well, no one goes anywhere just to eat a buffalo chicken wrap… At least I hope.

I also was pleasantly surprised with how beautiful the inside of the restaurant was. It actually did remind me of the Irish pubs I went to when I visited Ireland. It had that almost old and rustic feel and the building was dark with the dark walls and dark floors. However, it was illuminated with TVs and old men sipping beer at the bar at three in the afternoon, so it had a very familiar feel. It was almost a little more rustic than some of the other pubs I have been to, but I really enjoyed the “old” vibe it gave off. It added something small to make it feel all the more special and personal somehow.

I’m not going to lie, the idea of “authenticity” came up during this meal quite a lot. Before we had read about authenticity, I feel as if I was very ignorant about the term. I had used it, more often than not, specifically pertaining to food, and it made complete sense in my mind. After thinking about it and further understanding what Long wrote, authenticity is a bland word with no flavor. There is no meaning. What I believe to be authentic could be quite the opposite of what someone else believes to be authentic. Who can actually be the true judge of what constitutes something as “authentic”, if everyone perceives that word a little bit differently?

So, honestly, if we hadn’t done that reading, in my review I would have written that the food did, in fact taste like the authentic Irish cuisine that I have tasted in the past. I wouldn’t have thought about where my assumptions were coming from and I would have continued the the false ideas in my head. The idea that simply if you are eating a meal in the country of origin, or just because a real, Irish human being cooked the meal, it is then authentic. Reflecting on my past experiences and the amount of times I have actually called something authentic because of the person who is cooking the meal, makes me cringe with embarrassment. I’m so mortified that I don’t think I will ever use that word again, unless to make fun of it.

My embarrassment continues further with my assumptions about the food in downtown Plymouth also. Being a predominately white area, I had absolutely no faith in their “ethnic” cuisines. After tasting a wonderful Mexican restaurant there, I decided to take a closer look. I feel very silly for thinking that because there are not many different ethnicities that live within plymouth, which I was completely judging based off of physical appearance, that the food would not be “authentic”.

I’m very thankful that I had the opportunity of being introduced to Long’s “Culinary Tourism” because it enlightened me and pushed me to think about the world, and what I say, in a very different way. I’m much more careful to scrutinize my initial thoughts and assumptions and ask myself- where are they coming from?

Omnivore's Dilemma pt 2. Reading Response

Why Organic?

As someone who grew up in a rather healthy and environmentally friendly oriented family, the question of “why organic?” comes up a lot. Honestly, I’ve never quite understood why we eat only organic fruits, vegetables and meat. Of course, we would be allowed to eat non-organic fruits vegetables and meat; but the organic ones are the ones we liked to keep in the home. I don’t think I can remember there being a difference in taste, but my mother will always claim so. Eating organically is just better. I almost feel silly for before reading this section of The Omnivore’s Dilemma, not even knowing why it was “better” for you. I found this particularly interesting because as eating organically was such an important and prominent aspect of my childhood, I never really quite understood why.

When he starts off talking about shopping at Whole Foods and what foods he buys for dinner, it reminds me of home as Whole Foods is my parents’ favorite grocery store. I always viewed eating organic as something that was better for the earth, and our bodies in every way. But, as I’ve already stated, there really isn’t any scientific evidence for my assumption. I just assumed. Pollan explains how maybe some of the companies that claim to be organic might not actually be as caring as they seem. He describes a dialogue with one of the spokesmen for Grimmway when he quotes: “I’m not necessarily a fan of organic… Right now I don’t see that conventional farming does harm. Whether we stay with organic for the long haul depends on profitability.” In this moment, I’m already regretting my previous assumptions. He explains that both Cal-Organic and Grimmway started as conventional organic growing companies, which shifted my views even more. How can something just become organic?

Pollan follows with ethical questions about eating organic, which also makes me feel sort of funny for growing up only eating them, but then later brings me back to WHY my family did choose to eat them. I knew about the expense of course. I knew that my mom used to scoff over the tiny box of raspberries for $6.50, but would buy them anyways if I really begged. I also wasn’t aware of the energy, or that it was more effort to produce organic foods, but after reading this, I completely understand. Pollan also suggests that some of the produce itself tastes better when organic, but that it is all relative and the different types of food vary. Even though there is speculation upon every aspect of why or why not to eat organic, I will always stick to eating organic meats whenever I can. The meat industry itself terrifies me (as we’ve read and watched about in class), so I will pay a little extra better for a safer, cleaner meat. I like the fact that I’m not eating pesticides or other toxins, and it scares me to think that they are within almost everything that we eat.

Omnivore's Dilemma pt. 1

As you can probably tell, I seem to like responding to the chapters about meat or the ones about the process of animals being slaughtered. Don’t get worried, I don’t enjoy reading it, in fact, I have to force myself to write about these sections because I hate them so much. I love meat and the protein that it provides, but if I actually think about what I’m eating… I begin to despise it. I chose to respond on these topics because they are the hardest for me to think about, so therefore, I need to think about them. I try to follow the whole “ignorance is bliss” idea, when people try to talk to me about the chicken nuggets at Mcdonalds, or my favorite hot dogs that always seem to taste better at a Tigers game. That being said, the very idea of an animal being born and raised simply in order to be slaughtered, and having to always face its inevitable death makes my heart ache. When responding to the meat sections of the readings, I feel slightly better about taking the “ignorance is bliss” approach when thinking about my food. So, this response is for me.

Ah there it is! I had a feeling, judging on the title of this book, that we would at some point be inevitably reading about meat again this semester. Pollan starts this section of the reading off by describing the smells as he describes a scene where he is driving by on the country roads. Automatically, we know where this is going. Pollan sets up our anticipation by describing the smell; “... An aroma whose proustian echos are decidedly more bus station men’s room than cows in the country…” This initial description automatically sets up the entire feeling of this chapter. Pollan lets his readers know that the meat portion of this book is smelly and is not to be romanticized at all.

Pollan talks about his initial experiences with cows and how he bought one so he could continue his endeavors in his food conquest. He explains that this opportunity of owning the pig was actually for his educational purposes, he claims that he actually wanted to experience the whole “farm-to-plate” in action, first hand. Even by third paragraph, I’m already uncomfortable with where this is is going. However, Pollan does an excellent job of keeping this experience in a wider scope, a bigger picture. He continues with this motif of corn which he seems very passionate about, and goes deeper.

Side-note: I found it very interesting when Pollan suggested that there was some sort of relationship between the grass and the cows; how the grass was able to continue living while constantly being stomped on all day...etc.. I love looking at the world like that, but I’m saddened to learn that cows are living shorter lives because we are becoming so “efficient”. If you didn’t feel a little choked up when you read about the animals being taken from their families, then I would be slightly concerned... Sorry little guys.

Pollan goes on to talk about how animals have actually moved away from farms, in order to be used, and are pulled toward the city. I find this to be very interesting because I had never really thought about that initial shift that helped the progression of meat and food industries today. The name even kills me; “Concentrated Animal Feeding Operation”. He explains that we have almost forced animals to develop to eat the foods that can be produced rapidly and quickly, which grosses me out. The whole thing seems unnatural and gross especially when he explains all of the negative effects that the CAFO has had on the environment… And everything in between. I loved Pollan’s humor in the paragraph where he talks about simple farming being a simple solution, and the industries causing even bigger problems when their attempts were really to cause less and the constant humor throughout the entire reading. His humor also shines through when he talks about the cow’s daily life. Ok Michael Pollan, you earned some credibility with me.  

Restaurant Review

Abby Calef

Intended Publication: The index

Dining at an Irish pub house isn’t exactly glamorous, to say the least. The food is fried, the people are loud, the men reek of beer, and the displays of tvs and neon lights are, let’s be honest, downright nauseating.  But, no one really goes to an Irish pub to put on a nice dress and sip expensive wines with their pinkies up and napkins folded like swans. People dine at Irish pubs to lick the salt off of their fingers and hope to smell fish on their clothes for the next three days. However, your idea of fun might be a little different than mine.

For those of you who usually dine in downtown Plymouth, you’ve probably walked past Sean O’Callaghan’s or maybe even given it a try. You have also probably noticed the beautiful stain glass windows that decorate the harsh black, Victorian style doors and can easily set it apart from any other place in downtown Plymouth. The inside of the building looks like a traditional Irish Pub and stylistically falls into a more Celtic-like category. If you’re not blinded by the tvs and Guinness signs, you’re probably in the wrong place. The atmosphere of the bar was exactly how you would expect it. Old happy men. I would imagine at night, the atmosphere is live and rowdy, but I dined at around three in the Afternoon, so it was generally pretty quiet in the restaurant section. The dark and rustic restaurant with creaky floors and tasteful stained glass is unique and intriguing.

While it gives off the appearance of an old gem in the downtown area, I was surprised to find out that this pub house has actually only been around for the last 15 years. You would never know.

The beauty and uniqueness of the restaurant is tasteful, as are the Irish dishes. Everything else, not so much.

I decided to do myself a favor and only order the traditional Irish based dishes. I started off with an appetizer of Irish chips and Irish curry. I had never indulged in an Irish curry, so I figured this was a must. I was right. The curry was light and mild, but still held a traditional curry flavor that I had tasted in other cultures. It complimented the perfectly crispy outside of the strongly potato flavored inside of the Irish chips. The kind but slightly unhelpful waitress informed me that the curry mix was actually imported from Ireland itself, but could not give me any further information on ingredients or exact location.

I was perplexed by how I could still actually taste the potato even while smothered in curry. Genius.

Now don’t get me wrong, none of the food I tasted at this restaurant actually looked as good as it tasted. In fact, I would probably give presentation of the food a 3 on a scale of 1-10. But, fried food never seems to look that appetizing anyways.

Mad at myself for eating as much of the addicting appetizer as I did, I still ordered the fish and chips. This may seem like a terrible idea, but it was, in fact, wonderful. Although the fish itself was lacking that fishy, fresh-out-of-the-ocean taste, which I assume is due to location, the tenderness and texture was wonderful. Along with the buttery creamy-ness of the pure fish, it cut beautifully and fell off of my work. It was soft and not chewy at all. One of the best fish and chips I had ever had. The fried was a little too thickly deep fried for me, but that’s all in perspective.

Next, I tasted the cauliflower cheddar soup. This was my absolute favorite part of my meal. The texture was creamy, but not too thick leaving you too full too soon. It was thin and creamy, with little chunks of cauliflower to decorate the texture. The flavor of cheddar filled the soup and devoured the cauliflower whole, but it still wasn’t too much. It was salty to perfection and I could almost taste the beer within the cheese. On a cold, rainy day, I would make the drive out to plymouth again, just for that soup. It is a must have.

According to my family members who tried the more average american dishes, they were only mediocre. The buffalo chicken wrap was average, spicy and bold. However, I wouldn’t go to Sean O’Callaghan’s if you’re looking for food you can get absolutely anywhere. It really didn’t suffice. My side of coleslaw was nothing special leaving it watery and flavorless. I, quite honestly, didn’t even bother to finish it, in hopes that I could save room for my next bite of fried fish. The make your own salad was filled with freshly ripe veggies and real greens! They’re hard to come across these days. The house made vinaigrette was absolutely delightful and it was easy to tell that it was blended well. It was not too oily and showed no separation. It was more of a mild vinaigrette, but had a unique less balsamic vinegar flavor and more of a lighter taste.

Since I was so unbearably full but eager to try new things, I asked the waitress if I absolutely had to try any of the desserts. After informing her of my current stomach situation in which I may explode at any moment, she advised me that I didn’t “need” to order a dessert off of their menu. I think that speaks for itself. Or, maybe she was just confused on how to promote the restaurant she worked for. By previous conversations with her, it could’ve been either.

Sam, the owner, originally studied in Ireland before coming to Michigan to create his beauty. Sam’s goal of the restaurant was to enhance Plymouth’s tourism and draw people in through his culinary expertise.

Well Kalamazoo, paying Sam a visit might not be a bad idea.

My Expectations for Sean O’Callaghan’s

While trying to escape the madness of the University of Michigan’s homecoming, or actually, let me rephrase that; while trying to get anywhere without screaming students in maize and blue jumping out in front of your car with red solo cups leaving a liquidy trail behind them, my parents and roommate and I decided to drive about 15 minutes out to plymouth to have a more quiet downtown experience. Passing through boutique after boutique with Christmas decorations and spiced candles, yes, already in October we stumbled upon a small Irish pub house with black doors and black windows and beautiful stain glass.

Generally, my expectations for the restaurants in downtown Plymouth aren’t necessarily positive. Although, the mexican restaurant, Barrio Cocino Y Tequileria always pleasantly surprises me, this may be because Plymouth is a predominately white area. Every restaurant just seems to blend into the plain and calm streets of downtown Plymouth.

I don’t love Irish pubs. I don’t dislike them, but I have usually found the food to be bland and unexciting. When I ate at some different pubs in places like Dublin and Kilkenny, I found the food to be delicious and very exciting. But this “excitement”, of course gets at the whole concept of “authenticity” that we talked about and read in our previous reading for last week. As I traveled to Ireland two years ago, I can’t quite recall whether or not I really loved the food because it tasted different than any other Irish pub I had ever been in, or because I knew I was in Ireland, and that therefore made it “authentic”. After last class really got me thinking about what kind of assumptions I probably should not be making, based on who is making my food and where in the world I am, I wonder if this would have made a significant impact on the way I viewed the food at Irish pubs in Ireland.

The foods that tend to make my mouth water are foods with a lot of flavor and different textures. I particularly love Mexican and Indian food for all of the spices, different flavors, colors and scents that can be combined into one dish. I love the way the food is always too steaming hot to touch and tastes fresh and and tingly. I have found many Irish pubs to be tasty, but often don’t excite me nearly as much as I would’ve like them to.

My expectations for this little Irish pub in the middle of downtown Plymouth, Sean O’Callaghan’s, are about average. I’m expecting the food to be lacking in flavor, but for the items to be very salty and just the right level of fried. If they have it, I will eat the fish and chips, unless there is a roast beef meal that seems more appealing. I expect the fried part of the fish to be very crunchy, but I’m not expecting a very strong fishy taste at all, this is partially due to location. I also expect that I will squeeze an entire lemon onto my fish because of the lack of distinct flavor, and that I will need to ask for Malt Vinegar. I’m expecting the Irish chips to be very average french fries that I could’ve gotten anywhere else and I’m also very much expecting my mom to order a salad. She loves salad. I cannot wait to taste soda bread with sweet butter, I trust that it will live up to my expectations. I’m hoping that the bread and butter is not too sweet, but just the right amount of sweet, and that the fish is salty and crispy. I also hope that the Irish pub house reminds me of the sweetness of my trip and the saltiness of the potatoes I ate at every meal.

Culinary Tourism Introduction Reading Response

Why do we go where we go?

At the beginning of this reading, Lucy M. Long helps us understand an apparent connection between her and the Memoir we read, Eating Buddha’s Diner. She starts off describing the connections between food and culture, what reminds her of what, and how food almost speaks to her soul. Although Bich doesn’t exactly explicitly say this right off the bat, this is the sense we get throughout the entire memoir. Food gives people this connection between culture and memories, which sends feelings and comfort/ discomfort through taste buds. It’s really interesting how food can trigger such memories, which reminds me of the very first reading of the year and also everyone’s beautifully written memoirs for class. This idea of food making one feel as if they belong in a culture or community or distancing them from the culture they are assimilating too connects to how changing eating habits can essentially fix these problems, but how it seems as if it is only gluing broken pieces together with Elmers’ glue, the kind that is dried out and you’re given as a child because it is not nearly strong enough to really do any damage, or fix any of your emotional problems.

Afterwards, this idea of tourism and why we do it becomes very apparent in her thesis and throughout the reading. Traveling to different places and tasting things we’ve never tasted before excite us. They show us a little bit about what the rest of the world is like. It’s the same reason we try anything new, to feel something out of it. Long describes this statement by a quote from John Urry; “A crucial feature of tourism… [Is that the] potential objects of the tourist gaze must be different in some way or other. They must be out of the ordinary. People must experience particularly distinct pleasures which involve different senses or are on a different scale from those typically encountered in everyday life.” The idea of tourism can be expanded through food and through actual travel, but the point of it is to extract ourselves from our everyday lives and show us change or show us differences that we had never experienced beforehand.

At this point in the very beginning of the reading, I started thinking about why people travel to different places that may not be comfortable to them? When people go on mission trips and such, they of course are 100% going to help the people, economy, or land (I definitely commend anyone who has gone on one, it’s something I would love to do) but, I’m essentially wondering if visiting a place for pleasurable purposes that is significantly different can make people see how good they have it at the place they initially came from… Their sense of home. I’m also wondering if this, in its own way bestows a sense of pleasure. I’m not implying that it would make people enjoy seeing other communities have it slightly worse, but that it would force to them appreciate where they came from. Knowing how wonderful things are in the place that they live, possibly in terms of first amendment rights or even how clean the streets are give them a different kind of feeling. When we think of travel, at least, when I think of travel, I think of going to places I’ve dreamt about going my entire life. Places that seem almost magical to me because they are so foreign and so different. But, I wonder if going to a place where I was uncomfortable, or emotionally upset me would make me appreciate where I live more. We always hear stories about how the “grass is always greener on the other side”, but what if travel can also make us more content with where we live now? Even if subconsciously, I wonder if this is another reason why people travel.

Secret Ingredients part 2 Reading Response

After reading all of the pieces, I would say that there is basically one, overarching theme that is consistent throughout. The specific structure seems to consist of: a little bit of backstory, sometimes pertaining to the author’s previous experience or maybe even just backstory that surrounds the idea or the main dish that the author is planning to talk about, a connection between those aspects and the main theme (or recipe), the actual recipe itself, and a conclusion. The conclusion usually consists of something that the author has drawn or taken away from the recipe and the backstory + the new previous experience. Although each chapter is different and holds different conclusions, I found the overall structure to be very present, at least most of the time. The only reason I even thought to bring up this subject is because we will be writing reviews in the future. I guess I’ve never really read food reviews before? Besides of course, on Yelp and right before I pick which restaurant I will be eating at, and I doubt those hardly count; an explanation of what kind of food is on the menu, what number did customers rate the food, what number did they give the service, and usually a cute little story about how their child said his/her first words at the restaurant, or how Grandma is an extremely picky eater and only likes that specific restaurant’s spaghetti and meat sauce.

I didn’t know that so much went into a review. I thought you simply explained the taste and how it compared to other places. But, I really have begun to appreciate all of these pieces throughout the book, especially how magical and meaningful some of them are. I enjoyed reading these pieces because I was easily able to tell how much passion the author had for the food or backstory in which they were talking about. I loved “The Secret Ingredient” the most, for how special and unique it was. I got the sense that Fisher was taking an almost childlike concept, but made it beautifully written and not childlike at all. I know that was a really confusing statement, I hope that it made a little bit of sense. I can understand why the entire book is named after this piece.

Final Memoir

Abby Calef

Dr. Heinritz

ENGL 208

11 October 2016

Chicken and Barley

The smell of chicken and herbs fill my room as I wipe the sleep from my tired, puffy eyes. I jump right out of bed as my mouth waters and my tummy starts to grumble. I always had to nap on days like this. I remember so clearly- my mom would lather me up in 85+ SPF sunscreen and drenched me from head to toe in a white, thick paste that smelled exactly like coconuts… But definitely not the good kind, the kind that could actually stand a chance against the hot Texas sun. Later I would find out that truly nothing could stand a chance against Texas sun.

Hopping down the stairs, one pigtail higher than the other, I know exactly what’s for dinner. It’s Friday night so I bet there is already chicken and barley in the shiny, purple, translucent pan that always seems to hold gooey goodness.

After fumbling down the stairs, I start my nightly jog, alerting everyone in the house that it is almost dinner time, my most important job. I hear loud, pinging noises decorated by the clicking of buttons coming from the room with blue walls and wooden shelves. Probably Link or Zelda, but hopefully my personal favorite, Princess Peach. I only like to play with the girl characters. Joshy never likes to play with the girl characters, he says they’re not as strong as the boy ones. I don’t get why, they’re much prettier than the boy characters. Don’t worry, my brother didn’t grow up to be sexist, thank God. It’s scary how early some things are embedded into our adolescent brains.

After pulling on one of my brother’s blonde curls, I decide it would probably be best to pick up my pace a little. Running into the kitchen, bare feet on the cold tile, I let my mom’s voice carry me to the table. My mom is always singing. I can never quite tell what she’s singing; usually a song from the Sound of Music, or maybe something from the Beatles. Whatever it is, it’s usually wrong and exaggerated and the words are almost always made up or backwards or forwards. I love hearing her sing.

I hear my dad’s car pull up to the drive way and I start to bounce even more, hopping to the front door. I have to be ready for when he gets here, I can’t let him walk through the door without being the first to hug him, that would be horrible. After lifting my feet up off the ground and half squeezing me to death, my dad quickly walks to the kitchen, dress shoes clacking on the ground. It’s mom’s turn.

My Dad was always tired when he got home from work. He still, to this day has the longest hours imaginable, but I specifically remember seeing it in his eyes. Somehow he was always so enthusiastic when he got home, never hesitating to play with me and bounce me around the house. It was almost as if he hadn’t just been at a desk for the past for ten hours. It wasn’t forced at all.

After dad starts up the stairs to change into his “play clothes” I hear mom make a “pssst” noise and I quickly follow the smell of Sabbath to her food covered hands and apron. She hands me a little white bowl of chicken and barley-- just enough for three bites. The steam skyrockets out of the bowl and mom quickly takes it back to blow on it, just like she’s read my mind. Once my food has been properly taken care of, I take my first bite. My teeth sink into the hot chicken, sending warm kisses throughout me. I always save the barley for last. I love the way the barley tastes just like the chicken. My mom cooks them together, so the barley has just as much flavor, if not more somehow. I love the way the chicken juice tastes over my chicken and barley, so salty and fresh. I love it. I didn’t know that the chicken and barley would have to go after we moved to colder climates, or that we’d soon have less people living in our house.

After we’ve all gotten to the table, yes, Josh finally put down the PS2 controller, we all look at each other smiling. Mom’s chicken and barley makes everyone smile. My mom lights the candles and recites a prayer. I know it best; I’m still in Hebrew school. My smile gets bigger as the light from the candles covers the faces of my favorite people, illuminating their smiles and eyes. I can’t help but hum. Friday nights were so special.

Joshy hates it when I hum at dinner. I’ll be honest, sometimes I do it on purpose. Sometimes I think it’s funny to make him mad and stir up drama at the kitchen table. We never really have anything else to fight about, besides the TV remote, and maybe who gets the better looking scoop of blueberry cobbler for dessert. This stuff’s the best. You have to get the piece with the most buttery crunchy bottom part and the least amount of blueberries. I mean, I love the blueberry part, don’t get me wrong, but my mom puts like three whole sticks of butter in the crusty part! We never get to eat that much butter.

But, I’m serious when I say that sometimes I really can’t help but hum. I don’t even always hum a whole song, or even part of something that plays on the radio, I just make a noise. Sometimes it moves around, and other times I hum the same note. Well whatever the tune is tonight, Joshy surely doesn’t like it. He whines at me for a few minutes before Mom intervenes. As usual, we don’t listen, I honestly think that we enjoy the fight, and mom has to call “Steve!” so that he’ll intervene instead so she can take a break and actually enjoy her dinner. My dad looks up and tries to tell Joshy to be a little nicer to me and tells me that I can hum at all other meals, just not dinner. Or at least it probably went something like that. I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t listening. And neither was Josh probably.

Do you know that time in your life, the time where you really wish you could go back and give your adolescent self some advice? This is it for me. I wish I could have known that soon, Thanksgiving would be the only time I’d get to see both of my brothers at once. I wish I would have known that my oldest brother wouldn’t have moved with us to Michigan, and that we had to leave him behind. I wish I would have known that texts and phone calls would begin to mean more to me than presents on Hannukah and sweet candy on Halloween. I really wish I would have known.

I have another brother, too, Dustin. He’s much older than me, and went away to school when I was about three-years-old. He’s tall and wise and knows everything about everything. The fact that I hardly got to see him when I was young, makes every occasion now so sweet and something of “mark-my-calender” significance. However, he makes up for the age gap by intentionally annoying me just about as much as my middle brother, Josh.

Before we know it I’m back to humming and Josh is back to scarfing down his chicken and barley, barely chewing before he swallows. Gross. I guess he suddenly doesn’t care about my humming anymore. It’s about a fifty-fifty chance it’ll get him worked up or not. My humming takes me to another place after I play with my squishy Challah bread. I pull off little pieces of the egg- glazed shiny bread and squish them into tiny balls between my thumb and pointer finger. It tastes better all mushy and packed in tight. Julie Barnett showed me this cooking theory two Saturdays ago in religious school. Later, I would come to the realization that any food that is produced by a child’s fingers is, in fact disgusting and should probably not be consumed. I’ve heard you can also dip it in grape juice; that’s very good too. No one in my family believes that these renditions of Challah really taste better this way, but I promise you, you will not be disappointed. However, in retrospect, there is actually no scientific evidence of this and you probably shouldn’t trust my six-year-old self, I don’t seem to have the greatest credibility.

Once we’ve all cleaned our dinner plates, I let the sweet cobbler take over me, savoring every perfect bite, taking the smallest ones I possibly can. I ate so much chicken and barley, but like I always say: “I have two stomachs, one for food and one for dessert.” The cobbler is sticky in my teeth, gooey and sugary, each bite better than the last. The tartness of the hot melty blueberries makes my lips pucker, but the sweet, buttery finish relaxes my mouth and begs me for another spoonful. The cold ice cream hurts my teeth but makes my soul happy. My humming has reached its highest volume, notes I’ve never sung are filling my lungs. I miss my brothers.

Josh hums too.