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.

Secret Ingredients part 1 Reading Response

Don't Eat Before Reading this 

Anthony Bourdain...

I did

I particularly enjoyed Anthony Bourdain’s piece. I, again, could really sense his honesty. After we mentioned the whole aspect of how an author must gain an audience’s trust (in terms of memoir) that has been all I’ve been able to think about. I think I enjoyed how Bourdain started off the piece. He basically just flat out told his readers that cooking was not a glamorous profession at all. In fact, quite the opposite actually… Gruesome. I particularly like his fish/ seafood references throughout the piece, that really give you a fair warning as to what might happen if one might consume a bit too much, thanks for the heads up! In addition to his honesty about the profession as a whole, he’s also extremely honest about how his restaurant doesn’t follow every rule perfectly, as no restaurant would quite be able to accomplish such a thing. It was really cool how he talked about that he partially became a cook because of how the profession was really far from perfect, and was in some ways presumed to be pretty sketchy, honestly. Bourdain definitely has influenced me to no longer (or should I say “ever”) order anything cooked well done. Never again. To be honest, I don’t want to go to another restaurant ever again, and I will definitely be on the lookout for those gloves. I find it slightly humorous that we read about Anthony Bourdain dissing vegetarians in the last book, but here we are again! He must not have had very positive encounters with them. But my favorite part of this entire reading, is how Bourdain’s passion and excitement for food still shines through. Even in a piece, about how gross, odd, and sometimes even illegal restaurants and the food industry itself can be, you can still feel Bourdain’s excitement. He loves food. I started to get a better sense of his passion towards the very end of his chapter, I believe the second to last page. Even though he expresses his fire for his food and his work in somewhat of a whacky way, I know he loves what he does.

First Draft Memoir

Chicken and Barley

The smell of chicken and herbs fill up my room as I wipe the sleep out of my tired, puffy eyes. I jump right out of bed as my mouth waters and my tummy starts to grumble. 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. 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. 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 dinner 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. After 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 that the barley has just as much flavor, if not more somehow. I love the way the chicken juice tastes over my chicken and barley. I love it. 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. 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 dinner 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 repertoire 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. Before we know it I’m back to humming and Josh is back to scarfing down his chicken and barley, barley chewing before he swallows. Disgusting. He suddenly doesn’t care about my humming anymore. It’s about a fifty-fifty chance if it’ll get him worked up or not. My humming takes me to another place after I play with my squishy Challah bread. Pulling off little pieces of the egg- glazed shiny bread and squishing 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. You can also dip it in grape juice, that’s very good I’ve heard. 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. After dinner, 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 next. The tartness of the hot melty blueberries makes my lips pucker up, but the sweet, buttery finish relaxes my mouth and begs me for another spoonful. The cold ice cream hurts my teeth but makes me soul happy. My humming has reached its highest volume, notes I’ve never sung are filling my lungs. Josh hums too.