A Literary Feast

Too Much Trouble Tea

Posted on April 18th, 2013

Tea is too much trouble

Like friends requiring

Time and attention.

Better to have those glad to see you

Whenever they show up

Than folks in need of

Time and attention.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too much trouble is this tea

As arranging Sapphic syllables

Or brewing loose leaves green

Better still your flip nattering

And errant wallowing

Than to swap auspices bearing

Time and attention.

Like these bags steeping of

Too Much Trouble Tea.

 

For Suzanne,

Book Nook Volunteer @ Teton Library Jackson, WY

 

 

What April Opens

Posted on April 18th, 2013

Already the sun has lapped the snowdrifts

clean from the yard. Now it comes begging

at the kitchen window, as though each pane

 

were a sheet of ice or the glaze on a cake

to celebrate the end of something. Winter,

maybe. But the soil rests untilled,

 

the seeds unplanted. I shield my eyes

from the glare. It asks too much too soon:

we are creatures of occasional darkness

 

still in the lull of frosts. We hunger,

but not for green. The cellar offers

last year’s roots and the ghosts of leeks

 

where one or two of Hades’ rivers

cut through on their run to irrigate

the cool, infertile bedrock. A month or two

 

will split the garden, bounty or weeds.

Either will feast us, as the sun feasts us,

as I shy from the dog-end of an eggplant

 

carelessly roasted a night or two ago.

We feed ourselves with things that creep

from darkness, springing, and try to learn

 

the savor of mud, analects of the sun,

and transformations of a year’s first fire.

A Fino, A Benzo, an Oloroso

Posted on April 18th, 2013

A slow, rolling terror

had me reaching for a

Fino.

Slowly, terroir tried its best

to take the place of a

Benzo.

The half-life was too short;

brine, adrenaline, made me cry out

“Oloroso!”

Having my fix, and wanting to mix,

down went the Fino, and a Benzo!

Oh no.

And if I must (and I must) pick an agonist

for intensification of the effects,

Fo sho, Oloroso.

Amber waves of ocean syrup,

nuts, berries, grains, and tangs to which

You can’t say no.

And, now, Oloroso translates to

“OH GOD, MY LEGS DON’T WORK”

Dios mio, dios mio.

Just sit for a bit and cast off your FitBit,

you’re going to be here for a while

as you know.

I Want To Tell You Why I Sometimes Cry In The Produce Aisle

Posted on April 18th, 2013

My friend

has a habit of

falling in love with fruit;

mostly the tropical ones

with thin skin

that are heavy and soft

and inherently warm he claims

that they fit in his palm

resting between the thumb and pinky

along his life line

like the curve of a woman’s hip or a

heart

naked, scared outside of its chest.

 

He cradles them like eggs

loving them

giving them back the gentle roundness of

their birth in the humid places of the earth

that also make spines and venoms and

biting things,

and he eats them with a gratitude

that is humbling to see.

 

Except for this one cherimoya

in which

I think

he recognized too much of himself

so carried around until the downy fur of its ridges

which did feel warm

turned completely brown and

one day

knowing he could never eat it

he found a lonely looking tree

and nested the cherimoya in the crook of two branches

which curved over it

for all the world

like ribs.

To The Teeth

Posted on April 18th, 2013

1.

 

You pinch, she says her

knuckles punched in faces, cracked

with work, breathing their sentence

to me across the cold air, putting

the knife in my new

hand, it must be

new it is

shaking

and

then the crisp

exact nature

of the first cut–

onions,

blood.

 

 

2.

 

You take

on knowing

the way of this, cloth

licking ink,

water, muscle

linking nerve, heavy with

a thin

sharp edge and

its motions the song

that parts and pieces

your minutes, hours,

the deep

hard

heat of taking

from

the whole, first

one leaf then

another

another

another.

 

 

 

 

 

3.

 

The days are some sleepless

rotation, bitter

black coffee, sly dirt

dawns, cold

one at a time

pants, hot

yolk always breaking some

song always

saying its stray

words straight

into your

eyelids,

the same long hunt

for your hand’s

companion through the

racks, not this one

not this one

but this–

the right sharp

edge, the untipped

weight, forgetting

how once, it bit

you

how now

you bite

back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Family Common Eats

Posted on March 18th, 2013

In the winter of 2005, I took a job as a research reporter for the New York Times Beijing bureau. The capital was blustery and bitter cold, coming off another long haul winter. A fresh round of yellow dust kicked up across the city.

 Each month the Times paid me 5000 yuan, or roughly $620 at the time. Rent was 2000 yuan. 3000 yuan left. One yuan would get me around on the buses. Three yuan bought a ride on the subway. Taxis were in the double digits, plus tip.  Walking was free.

But walking makes you hungry. So five yuan was enough to buy a full breakfast with soymilk. Twenty yuan, by contrast, was not enough to get a small latte. You plot your course carefully on 5000 yuan a month.

 The warren of lanes and roads that made up my neighborhood bustled at its hardly-sewn seams. Old Wang fixed bicycle tires. Little Lin sold bundles of sweet popcorn. There were cigarette and gum shops, fruit stands, a cobbler’s station. In my neighborhood you could get everything done and usually you could get it with a nice lamb kebab to go. People flew kites in the afternoons. More than once I stopped to watch a dragon circle a shark in the sky.

On the last evening of the Year of the Rooster I rode my bicycle down Ghost Street. Hot pot shops rubbed shoulders with Shandong joints next to spiced Sichuan specialty houses. The road was littered with the papery rinds of New Year’s firecrackers. Men crouched in the alleyways, lighting whole hissing bundles and stepping back to observe the white flash and crack. The polluted night sky lit up here and there with the pop of their pow-pow bursts. Someone had hung a banner that read, “Support Public Security. Do Not Chaotically Explode Firecrackers.”

I stopped at a local snack stall to buy an egg sandwich. The seller, Mr. Meng, shifted his flat bread over the coals. In the background, through the slats of his door, I could see a woman’s face.

“Who’s this?” she asked.

“This is Kai Rui,” Meng said, using my Chinese name. I stopped by the stall often enough to have a passing relationship with Meng, enough for him to know my name and what I was up to and to ask about my crappy bike and why I wasn’t in my office or where my husband was or what about children and why I ate mostly food I didn’t make.

“When she eats Chinese food she always goes out,” Meng told the woman. “She eats in restaurants. She doesn’t know a thing about cooking.”

“Well that’s stupid,” the woman said. “How easy it is to cook food? Why waste all your money in restaurants? Where are you from?”

“America,” I told her. “Mei Guo,” literally “beautiful country.”

“Obviously. You Americans love to waste money, right? Where are you living?”

“Just up the road,” I said.

The woman edged her way into Meng’s stall and the two stood shoulder to shoulder, addressing me.

“Restaurants use only the worst, cheapest ingredients,” the woman said. “They’re all trying to make money so don’t think they won’t serve you the bad stuff because they will. It’s cheap and dirty. Really, it’s like no one tells a foreigner a thing.”

The woman made a disgusted face. Meng shrugged and indicated he needed a bit more room. The woman stepped out of his stall and onto the street.

“You need to learn how to cook,” she said. “You’re wasting your money and putting yourself in danger. That’s your problem.”

In the little warren behind her, I could see her home as well as three or four others, each orbiting with different planetary systems of daily life, each packed in an impossibly small space, each with its soot and steam, its dumplings cooling, its shadows lurching against old brick walls.

“Well,” I started. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“Huh,” the woman startled.

“The situation’s not easy, right?” I had some rickety Chinese. “I’m wasting my money and health. You could teach me how to cook Chinese food?” I wasn’t sure this would work. Why should it work? Who was I to impose on this woman’s time, demanding cooking lessons? Standing around inside her home? Taking notes? Maybe handing some of it off to the Times, maybe not.

“Well,” she started. “What do you know already? What can you do?”

“Tea?” I said. “Boiled eggs? Nothing really.”

“What do you want to learn?” she asked.

Chinese food is a universe all to itself. A typical emperor had the run of over 10,000 dishes, night or day. And those were just the items deemed suitable for the imperial stomach. Thousands of dishes exist beyond that edited repertoire. The full scope of Chinese food, the four dominant regional cooking styles of the north, east, Cantonese and Sichuanese, amounts to a lifetime of study. Jia chang cai, literally “family common eats” draws from all four and makes up the bulk of the daily diet in China.

“I guess I would just study some jia chang cai,” I said.

“Huh.” The woman paused for a minute. “Maybe I can help you. Just some simple things? Just things like dumplings, fish-flavored pork, the Earth’s Three Freshness’? Just things like that?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Just things like that.”

“Ok.” The woman blew into her cold, bare hands. She had come outside in a hurry and stood in a pair of slip-on house shoes embroidered with Mickey Mouse ears.

“Come back tomorrow,” she said. “We will cook a little jia chang cai. My name is Xiao.”

**

I arrived on time. Xiao came out in a large winter coat, sweats and running shoes. Her glossy black hair was pulled into a low bun and her wide, heavy-cheeked face looked freshly scrubbed. “Zou!” she called out. “Go!” And we were off.

We headed to a large warehouse market. Immediately, the fighting began. Everything was how much? What price? You want what? For this? I followed behind Xiao, keeping tabs on her observations, the places where her fingers ran. Next to us an old woman felt the mushrooms, all papery hands and Nike Air Max.

Mountains of produce, some long and stringy, some fat and bulbous, were everywhere. It was a festival of wintertime offerings: beans in all their forms. Gourds and tubers. Potatoes sat in an enormous, dirty pile that suggested hours of scrubbing, peeling and boiling. One by one, a woman in an orange coat selected sprouts.

 In the frozen food section, Xiao pointed to a yellow package of dumplings embossed with the smiling face of a middle-aged woman. “This woman’s husband left her for another woman and she was forced to raise her child alone,” Xiao said, picking up a package. The woman smiled back at us.

“So she started small, selling dumplings in her neighborhood. And soon it grew into a huge enterprise. Now the whole country is eating her dumplings and she’s a very, very rich lady. So, as it turned out, it didn’t actually matter that her husband divorced her.” Xiao threw the package back down into the freezer.

From the dumplings we wandered north to the meat. “That’s the pig’s spine,” Xiao said, running her index finger down the knobs of my back. “Delicious in a soup or braised, the little nuggets of meat fall out. The marrow is also nice.” A Xiao-powered finger dug into my own spine, kneading for gristle and meat.

Back inside, Xiao’s courtyard was a study in efficiency. The structure was made of gray mulching brick and corrugated tin roof, all balanced on some precarious thread of order. Rent, paid to her husband’s work unit, was just over two US dollars per month. The whole place was, by Xiao’s estimation, seven square meters. “This is my life,” she said. “Everything is here.” I could understand how easily these fragile spaces were being destroyed, mile-by-mile, under the bulldozers of Beijing developers.

Xiao turned a key to her padlocked door and our cooking class began. “Chop and slice with the blade, Kai Rui,” she instructed, holding a cleaver up. “This is how you get the finest slices.” She see-sawed the knife in the air, mincing a shaft of late morning sunlight.

“Turned sideways, the blade becomes a plate. Lift everything into the wok this way.” Xiao flipped the cleaver again. “The pointed corners open fish heads, turn flesh from the bone.” Then Xiao brought the knife handle down onto the table with a sharp thwack. “Do that,” she laughed, “when you want to make a loud sound.”

Xiao’s husband Hu pushed aside the floral curtain covering their door. He was surprised at first to see a foreigner inside his home. Then he nodded at my notebook, which was by now full of notes and splattered with blood and drops of vinegar. I introduced myself, referring to his wife as lao shi, my teacher. Hu smiled. He seemed to take the arrival of a nosey American in stride, much like the way his fellow Beijing dwellers took their city’s exploding population and ever-changing landscape as a matter of course . But inside this fifteen square foot home, things hadn’t changed much in the twenty-six years that Xiao and Hu had lived there. Hu began to help with lunch, handing off plates to Xiao as an assistant would a surgeon.

Xiao stood at the sink, squeezing the leaves of a cabbage like a towel. She rubbed the chicken under the water, pulling away sinewy bits of fat and tendon. She diced the flesh into long strands that she sprinkled with potato flour.

I took notes in short dashes, trying to learn the broader plan, the trajectory of the meal. I wrestled a few more slivers of carrot out of the hard round lump of root. My main question was, why all this work? Why not big, hulking pieces of carrot that are easy to cut and probably taste the same? But as soon as I veered from the code of slender slivers into a land of wider, fatter chunks, Xiao shot a hand over. The carrot fell away in her hands like strands of orange silk.

“That is how you do that,” she said, returning to the chicken.

What was I doing in this home with these people, with my contrived idea of cooking lessons, my embarrassment and their generosity? Had I studied Chinese for 10 years just to wander around eating with strangers, decoding their instructions and admonishments, feeling accomplished when I could laugh at their jokes? I would have said yes at the time. That this was living. That I was writing. That this mattered. That stories could come from this. That this was the kind of thing the Times wanted me to do, probably. That I had a book idea, even.

What I couldn’t say was that I had constructed a large, ornate landscape of my own in which I now lived, six thousand miles away from my family and my now fully schizophrenic brother. It was a plan that took me into the steamy kitchens and wok-warmed homes of strangers like Xiao. Years before, in my own home, my brother disappeared into a threatening, terrifying, erratic hole in his mind. Several times my family had gone into hiding because of his threats and behavior, his talk of raping and killing. More than once he has tried to kill my father. I remember police at our door. I remember my brother’s strange and graphic messages on our answering machine. I remember many strained smiles and sighs from my parents. The assurance that “all is well.” The warning not to tell any of my friends. The clarification that this was “family business.” The importance of “protecting the family.” I went far away for college, and then even further away to China. Then to Indonesia. Then back to China. I have been gone for years. I haven’t seen my brother in over a decade.

So this is how you go to China. This is how you meet Xiao and say, “Teach me to cook.” “Take me into your home.” “Feed me.” “Hello.” This is how you marvel at the prospect, the possibility, of a whole family living in a fifteen square foot space and how you are reminded of certain American laws, certain American procedures, and of the intricacies of mental illness itself that leave officers to sit at your spacious kitchen table after midnight with cups of black coffee, nodding and listening again to the recordings, the “playback,” and saying , “Yep” and “That’s definitely what I would call a credible threat.”  But also, “Of course, there’s nothing we can really do until he actually does something.  Harms any one of you in some way.”

Every expat has a reason. This is how schizophrenia obliterates more than just the afflicted. And through another country and a different language and through people like Xiao and a more than passing interest in the dumplings of divorcees, in carrots and pork spine, this is how you, too, can disappear.

Xiao called me over to her side. She pointed to the chicken.

“See this?” she asked. “Make the chicken slices thin, Kai Rui. Very thin. In our cuisine you must chop everything very fine. Don’t forget that. You are forgetting it. Write it down.”

Xiao poured a bowl of beaten eggs into the hot oil. The pale yellow mixture puffed and spun like a yellow cloud in the heat. She removed the eggs and into the remaining pool of oil added coarsely chopped spring onions, sugar, salt, a little soy sauce and a heaping pile of tomatoes. The mixture bubbled and churned. Then Xiao returned the eggs to the mix and the light and dark, the red and yellow, came together in a fragrant, muddled bloom.

The dishes began streaming onto the card table: the red, soupy mixture of tomatoes and egg, a plate of sautéed tofu, a plate of chicken and a mound of cold beans marinated in garlic and vinegar that had emerged at some point from Xiao’s green refrigerator.

Next thing we were four, as their daughter Fei Fei appeared for lunch. Fei Fei had short, spiky hair that spoke more of economy than fashion. Like Hu, she was startled to find a foreigner seated at her parents’ card table.

“A real American?” she asked her mom.

“Yes,” Xiao replied as if just home with a new appliance. “A real American.” Turning to me, Xiao announced that Fei Fei was actually very good at English.

“Call me Veronica,” Fei Fei said. I never could. I asked her about school. She told me she was a junior studying e-commerce. “After I graduate I want to become an office lady,” she said. “And sometimes a tourist.”

Xiao brought out a large bowl of rice. Hu pulled a couple of beers from the refrigerator. A tremendous spread weighed down the card table. Hu raised his cup.

“To America!” he announced. “And to China. To jia chang cai!”

We pushed our cups together in dry, papery cheers and drank. Then, piece-by-piece we began plucking at the dishes. Xiao scowled at me. “Too polite! Here!” she said, stuffing spoonfuls of tofu and chicken into my bowl. “You need to jia rou—add meat,” she said. I chomped away at my full bowl, its enormous range of flavors, its warm comfort. It was the best.

“Beijing is about roast duck,” Hu said. “You might as well not come to Beijing if you’re not going to eat duck. Shanghai is ben bang cai, Guangdong has its yue cai, and Hunan is hot, numbingly hot, we call it ma!”

Xiao sent me away that day with two full boxes of food, giving me exact instructions for how to reheat everything in my wei bo lu—the microwave she assumed I had. I bowed deeply, the plastic bags of food swinging from my hands. Xiao reached to tuck my hair behind my ears.

 

**

Fei Fei was coming home from school for the summer, Xiao told me, so we should prepare a big meal. In recent months I had become Fei Fei’s de facto English tutor. “Come back at 7 am,” Xiao said. “That’s when I’ll leave for the morning market. Don’t be late. If you’re late, I leave without you.”

 

While we had been to smaller markets and grocery stores, now we’d head to one of Beijing’s busiest morning rush tucked into an alleyway beside the National Art Museum. Xiao wanted to get in early.

 

“If we’re late, nothing will be left. Everything shuts down by 9. Over. Finished.” Xiao cast a stern eye over me, assessing my ability to get up and out the door in the morning, a point over which she had long expressed skepticism. “Don’t be late.”

 

The next morning I put on my running shoes and was outside Xiao’s red door at 6:55 am. Meng called inside that I was ready and waiting. “It’s so hot today,” he said, handing me one of his test-run rolls. The bread was slightly salty and still steaming. I checked that my shoes were well laced, nothing to trip on.

 

Xiao came out. “Good,” she said, tucking some plastic bags into her pocket. “You’re on time. Let’s go.”

 

The place was teeming. People snatched pink watermelon samples from a vendor’s fingers as soon as he cut them. Xiao took two, handed one to me and charged on. She gestured to the long gourds, to piles of roots. “Do you have these in your America?” she asked. “What about this? That one too?” I had no idea. Some of what was on offer, long reedy things, short squat somethings, dried piles of this and that, were indecipherable to me. Xiao felt the bright purple eggplants and then ran a hand through some salted peanuts. She scowled at the cucumbers, evaluated the bitter melons, and cast an expert eye across a discounted group of spring onions. She got some free fennel with her water spinach.

 

Back in the hutong, Hu peeled and chopped celery on the card table while Xiao washed and examined a chicken. The produce we bought at the market would last them about four or five days, Xiao estimated. She had spent just over one dollar. Outside, Meng sold his bread, repeating over and over the same phrases: “Yes, I have that.” “How many?” “No problem.” “Thank you.”

 

I asked Fei Fei about her job at Le Jazz Café. “I make 6 yuan per hour,” she said. “Is that experience? Can I put it on my resume for my e-commerce job?”

Hu spread newspaper on the card table and took out a plastic bag of sunflower seeds while Fei Fei and I chatted in English. He began snapping the seeds between his teeth, expertly extracting the kernel inside. China could turn anyone into an expert seedeater. I’d seen extraordinary skills in trains, parks, taxicabs, restaurants. Hu had his own style and, when I bit down on a seed with my molars and awkwardly fished the hull out, he scolded me. “Use your front tooth,” he said. “Like this.” He snapped another seed.

 

I noticed Hu had the same worn grooves in his two front teeth that I had seen in so many other people. I watched him eat another sunflower seed, carefully fitting the edge into the worn ridge and crushing the casing. The groove served its function perfectly. Hu spit the papery hull. It didn’t look like it did, but I wondered if it hurt.

**

Fall in Beijing is the best time of year. Clear weather, blue skies. Stuff you can breathe. Xiao called me the night before I was leaving for a trip. She knew I’d be gone for a while. “Are you home yet?” she asked. “I thought you might not be home until late.” I said I was home.

“Listen,” she said. “When you travel, take extra care to bring medicine for an upset stomach. When you leave Beijing, the food quality will not be as high. People will sell you anything so be careful.” I said I would be careful.

“Take your medicine with juice, lots of water. You need to keep your fire down, Kai Rui. You have too much fire.” I agreed to keep my fire down.

“Huh,” Xiao paused. “Was Fei Fei any good today when you spoke Business English with her? I think maybe she is no good.” Fei Fei was just great, I said.

“Huh. Well, when you get back we’ll cook meat. Maybe some lamb brain if your eyes hurt—don’t read too much.” I told Xiao I’d come back  to the hutong as soon as I could.

“And don’t forget the stomach medicine. You have stomach medicine?” Yes, yes. “Because I have some medicine here. Do you need any of my stomach medicine?” No, no. “Okay then, that’s it. I’m closing the phone now. This is expensive. I close the phone now.” The line went dead and a Xiao void spread out in front of me.

I got up early the next morning. I threw my bag over the front rack of my bicycle and pedaled out to the subway station. I caught a southbound train, transferred twice and walked into the Beijing Railway Station. I had a one-way ticket to Chongqing, central China’s largest city. It would take nearly two days to get there. I found my bunk, threw my bag down and stretched out. By the time the train blew its departing whistle I was asleep again. When I woke up, we were somewhere in the Hebei plains.

 

Oh Canada!

Posted on March 18th, 2013

When I was young, my best friend and I were inseparable. From the age of 5 we spent almost every day together, and as we grew older I was invited to practically every family vacation or event.  Seders, visiting the cousins in the woods in Virginia, grandma’s house in Indiana, Christmas parties, and then, when we were maybe 11 or 12, Canada! We had spent many hours together in the way back of her parents’ station wagon- you remember those rear-facing seats? watching the miles fly by, reading or gossiping or napping, on to the next stop. But Canada!  We were going to leave the country! This was a big deal!

We would start out in Montreal and spend a few days there, and then spend almost a week in Quebec City. Montreal was a fun, big city adventure, but I looked forward to Quebec City with an unusual hunger. I had studied French since first grade, and I was excited to be somewhere where I could have a leg up on the rest of the group.

We arrived one afternoon in late July. It was hot. Like, really hot. We stuck to the seats in the station wagon, and my hair was doing that humid thing where my face was surrounded by tiny, sticky, uncontrollable baby curls. The city was like something out of a book- beautiful old stone streets, buildings with wrought-iron balconies, the river beckoning just over the side of the hill. Our first night there was magic. We wandered into town from our B&B, and each corner we rounded took us farther away from the life I knew and deeper into this fantastical place. We turned a corner and I swear I could have died- there were endless restaurants, tiny cafes, specialty markets, and the sidewalk was full of street performers and artists. Landscapes, etchings, portraits, living statues, and somewhere further down the street, someone singing opera. I wanted to stay forever. You guys go on without me, I’ll be fine here on my own. I’ll create pastels of the river and survive on baguettes. Just go!
Our second night there we went out to dinner. After much debate (read: whining and yelling) we went to a Swiss restaurant. I remember walking into a small, dimly lit restaurant and being led to a table next to the fireplace. “It smells like feet in here!” complained my friend. As the polite, quiet friend, I waited silently, reading the menu to myself, finding the words I knew and trying to figure out the ones I didn’t. My friend’s dad ordered and we waited, none of us sure what to expect. And then- Fondue! A bubbling cauldron of golden melty cheese with little onions, pickles, boiled potatoes, broccoli, some sort of sausage! I was grinning from ear to ear, eagerly poking my long fork into the mass of molten richness. And next? Raclette! Foot smell? Located. Our waiter sauntered over with a hunk of cheese the size of which I had never seen before. He loaded it into the Raclette machine and we waited, somewhat dubiously. The surface of the cheese began to bubble. He scraped the melted surface onto my plate and smiled. I lifted a bite of potato smothered with stinky, runny goodness to my mouth and tentatively took a bite. Birds sang, lights twinkled, bells rang out. My friend and her little brother were hung up on the foot smell. Their loss.

The next day my friend and I were allowed to venture out on our own and we found a little upstairs lunch joint to hang out in. I read the menu to her and ordered for us in French. My first Poutine experience. French fries covered in gravy and more melted cheese! At this point, I was seriously considering hiding out somewhere when it was time to leave and trying to be left behind. Now, I look back at the pictures and smile. I hear a certain piece of opera and my heart aches, remembering the warm sun and the magic of that petite rue. My mother has a charcoal portrait of that early teenage me, sitting on the sidewalk. I see a certain longing in my eyes, anticipating that in a few days I would be going home.

These days, I work with cheese. If I’m feeling particularly romantic, I’ll tell you that I’m a cheesemonger. On a bad day, I’ll say that I cut big pieces of cheese into little pieces of cheese and then wrap them in plastic.

Really, though, I love cheese. The fact that it smells, that it’s a simple concept that is full of endless variation. It is a brief recipe: milk, cultures, salt, and time. Over thousands of years and different countries human curiosity has created more kinds of cheese than you could ever hope to taste. In my day to day at work I love to open the box, tenderly unwrap a special living creature and breathe it in deep. Stick my nose right in there- almost touching the cheese. Eyes closed, I can imagine the distant places that cheese has traveled from to find its way to me. Sheep grazing in a meadow in Vermont, cows happily munching on a steep slope somewhere in the Alps, the outdoors, the barnyard-y musk of an animal. Cheese is wanderlust, romance, memory, daydreams. Unwrapping a wheel of Raclette is still special–how the rind sticks to the paper, the smell of feet and memories, the milky, beefy flavor. I read the label to myself in French and I smile. Oui, le Fromage. Je t’aime. Someday, I’ll go back. And this time, I might stay for good.

Cherimoya

Posted on March 18th, 2013

Listen to the lady at the produce stand.

 

It’s 8am on a Saturday morning. You arrived in Maui the night before on a flight too late to be believed, drove the length of the island from north to south under a starry sky brighter than you could have imagined. Your boyfriend put the radio on reggae and rolled the windows down, because that’s what you do when you’re driving a long, straight road in the dark through fields of sugar cane that cast long, moon-lit shadows on the road and you want to be absolutely sure that this place with the palm trees is Hawaii and not some Inception-substrate dream that you’ll soon wake from to find you’re actually still in Alaska, shivering under the covers as the snow falls on the roof.

 

That’s also probably the reason you awoke so early this morning. Long before your boyfriend stirred beside you, you were sitting up in bed, watching a sunrise bleed itself out over the ocean and smelling the salt on the breeze. By the time he arose, you were hungry and giddy to join the small flood of people easing down the street below your lanai to the early-morning produce stand. Now the waves are crashing, the sun is already hot, your white arms are bare for the first time since July, and you have an ill-considered bikini on underneath those sensible shorts. You have cash in your wallet, flip-flops slapping your soles, and a cloth bag to hold your purchases. And you are ready to taste Hawaii, to finally be convinced that all this delicious sensation is yours for at least ten days of borrowed time.

 

Behold, the cherimoya. The two of you nearly floated through the produce stalls, agog over the apple bananas, the lychees still in their skins, the spiky pink rambutans like futuristic children’s toys. So much color, so many smells, so different from the winter world of gray and white that you each came from. In all this bright abundance, the box of large, green fruits the size and texture of ostrich eggs should not have given you pause. Yet, you stop, tentatively poke at one, and pick it up. It has the heft of a small bag of books, and you cannot even imagine its flavor.

 

When you bring the cherimoya up to the lady at the produce stand, she smiles wide. Later, you realize this is because it costs eleven dollars a pound, and she is calculating just how soon she can close down the market for the day after ringing up your purchase. But you don’t know this yet, because you are entranced by what she is telling you: that the cherimoya is the most delicious fruit you’ll ever eat, like nothing you’ve ever tasted, and that if you just take it home and leave it on your counter for the next two days, on the third day you’ll be eating something close to heaven. You are sold.

 

So, for two days, while you watch humpbacks breach in the waters off of perfect crescent beaches and slowly burn places of your body that should never turn that red, the cherimoya sits on your kitchen counter. You prod it occasionally, testing the green skin that looks like dragon’s scales, searching for softness. You think it might be ready on Day Two, but you abstain, because you were told to wait and you are cultivating a new patience that has slipped into your bones with 35mph highway signs and many bottles of coconut rum.

 

On the third morning, the cherimoya has a new tenderness under your touch, and you know then that the produce lady was right. It is time. You take a big, sharp knife and slice it in half, your boyfriend standing by to watch what happens. And what happens is that the cherimoya opens up into two pure, white halves, flecked by long black seeds the size of skipping rocks. This is unexpected. But the produce lady has prepared you, explaining that the best way to eat the flesh is with spoons, to dig it out and suck the sweetness off of the seeds.

 

Twelve days later, when your memories of Maui have diminished to the strange, diamond-shaped tan line on your chest and you are once again watching the moose nose around the snow outside of your cabin in Alaska, it might be difficult to recall the flavor of the cherimoya. Your boyfriend remembers that it was like eating ice cream, thick and milky like custard. You, on the other hand, remember it as having the sharp tang of passion fruit. Or the familiarity of an apple? With the texture of a papaya? And maybe a shot of pineapple, running right through the center of it all. Maybe.

 

But it wasn’t any of those things, not really. You search for touch-points to ground the cherimoya in your own language of taste, but it is something completely new and unexpected. Like travel, the cherimoya is so utterly not of your world that you don’t have the words to describe it. Eating it is like waking from a long nap when you didn’t even know you were tired. You feel oddly refreshed and so relieved to find that there are still foods like this out there whose tastes you couldn’t have even imagined beforehand. Maybe there are more? You think about returning to the produce stand, then wonder about flights to Thailand or Bali or Costa Rica, anywhere where other strange and wonderful things must grow on trees. The cherimoya tells you that you can be, finally, somewhere other than home.

 

That morning, you stood in the kitchen in your bare feet, spooning the flesh out of the cherimoya and into your mouth with absolute glee. The cherimoya made you happy. It tasted like possibility. It tasted like a new beginning. It tasted, really, exactly like a cool morning in Hawaii, far away from Alaska, where the sun was just barely over the horizon, the person you wanted to be with was right by your side, and the day’s adventures ahead lay open and vast like the ocean outside the window.

Blood, Guts, And All The Rest

Posted on March 18th, 2013

“Saturday is gringo day,” our hostel owner told us. “Prices too high, too many tourists. Don’t go Saturday.”

We were headed to Otavalo, Ecuador, for its famous Saturday market day. People mainly go there for that, hundreds of tourists streaming in to buy hand-knit caps shaped like cartoon characters, Technicolor alpaca sweaters, and “hand-carved” wooden replicas of Machu Picchu (yes, the one in Peru) to put on their mantles or to give to coworkers and pet-sitters. Over the years enough tourists showed up that now every day of the week the central plaza is clogged with souvenirs and mass-produced Andean tchotchkes, but Saturdays are still the big show. On Saturdays the entire town turns into a market, stalls and street vendors snaking through the streets for blocks outside of the central plaza. It’s partially for the tourists, but it’s also because it’s the local market day – the real market day – when farmers and other producers travel in from the countryside to sell their produce and meat and flowers and cloth. Our hostel owner made the mistake of thinking we were going for the crafts, but in reality we were going for everything else.

 

Along with the farmers and butchers and fishermen and other food producers, hundreds of other entrepreneurial types populate the Otavalo market, selling just about anything else the average Ecuadorian household might need – string and buckets and television parts and car headlights and fake GAP hoodies and mountainous piles of secondhand clothing from the United States. At one edge of the market, people buy and sell live animals, in all sizes, from cows and horses and the largest, hairiest, smelliest sows I’ve ever seen, to newborn chicks and guinea pigs and even live shrimp. Items are sold from tables and cages and plastic tubs and tarps and wicker trays balanced perilously on heads and baskets and wagons and just about any other sort of surface a person can construct. It’s like a dollar store upended itself on top of the biggest farmers’ market/livestock auction you’ve ever seen, in a world without health and safety codes, and what results is a chaotic jumble of plastic and wires and vegetables and feathers and manure and crowds of people, snaking through the streets.

 

The Otavalo market made American farmers’ markets look like Disneyland.

 

And this isn’t the only one, by any means. Aside from the particulars of the Otavalo market’s location, most markets in developing countries – whether permanent, daily markets or more temporary ones – have many of the same exciting sorts of things to see and purchase. In Vietnam, I watched a woman spool long pieces of pig intestine around her arm to package it up for a customer, tourists gasping and pointing from a safe distance over by the pirated DVDs across the aisle. In Cambodia, I pointed at a fish (a catfish, to be specific), wriggling around in a plastic tub along with a half-dozen others, and a woman half my size killed and gutted it for me in under a minute, right on the concrete in the middle of the sidewalk. Then she sold its head to the next customer in line, who probably thought I was the craziest person she’d ever seen for not taking it home to add to my own personal stock of fermenting fish parts. In Peru, a jolly middle-aged man flirted with me lewdly in Spanish as he butchered live frogs, the framing on the butcher stalls around him sagging with the weight of dead suckling pigs in clear plastic bags and millions of enchantingly sparkly strands of drying roe. At another market in South America, I picked my way down the sidewalk between piles of twitching burlap sacks, full of live chickens waiting for their new owners to finish shopping. (You’ll note I mention mostly animal-related experiences here – while the mountains of potatoes and olives and mangoes are pretty and delicious, they don’t make for the most exciting of stories. And you can thank me later for not talking in detail about the durian, which unfortunately appears to grow rampantly across huge swaths of the planet.)

 

There are hundreds of thousands of markets just like these in countries across the world, and I love them. They’re one of the first things I seek out when I travel to a new place, and one of my favorite places to wander around when I have extra time. They’re always a bit jarring, certainly, but at the same time absolutely beautiful and a great reminder of what a food system actually looks like. In these places, it’s just you, the food, and the person who produced that food – people and food, food and people – and no one in between trying to convince you when and how and why to eat it. No marketing, no specials, no shiny signage, no coupons. Nothing ever goes to waste, and everything is seen as a resource.

 

Back at home in our modern, clean, “civilized” places, I think we like people to forget where food actually came from and what it actually looks like. We like things clean, sequestered behind plastic and glass and paper, veiled to make everything look clean and easy. But food isn’t always clean and easy. (And clean and easy doesn’t always mean safe, let’s not forget.) There’s all kinds of stuff involved in the production of food, and some of that stuff isn’t what most people want to think about when they think about eating. There is blood and there are guts and there is dirt and there is mold and there are bugs and there is poop. It still exists with the food you buy at the grocery store, you just don’t see it there. But animals have blood, and when you cut them up to eat them, blood comes out. Same with guts. (And sometimes poop.) Lots of things grow in dirt (ideally, with a bunch of poop mixed in), and some of those things get mushy or moldy or attract bugs when you don’t want them do. That’s how food works, really. (Well, actually, that’s how nature works, but the connection between the two is pretty clear, especially in these markets.)

 

I like going to markets in exotic places because they remind me of all of this. They remind me that food requires a lot to produce – a lot of hard, backbreaking work, a lot of natural and material resources, and a lot of time. It takes people and animals and a million other living things to make it all happen. These experiences remind me that meat comes from animals (not that I regularly forget that, but I like it to be in my face every once in a while), and that produce comes from plants that consist of more than just the parts we normally eat. They remind me that people eat all sorts of different things – different parts and different types and different shapes and sizes and colors and flavors of food – and that what I eat in my normal, daily life at home is only a small, in fact infinitesimally small, selection of what the world eats.

 

There’s no denying the farmyard, the farmworker, the livestock, or the fisherpeople in these markets, and when you consider all of those you start to consider a food system much bigger than the material that ends up in your mouth. Wendell Berry said a really great thing once about eating being agricultural, and when I shop in these markets I start to see how simultaneously obvious and important that statement is.

 

Not that shopping at or even just visiting these places is always easy. Beyond the issues of language and translation and pricing and simply identifying what the items for sale actually are, there are certainly issues of health and safety. Health codes in these places are fairly nonexistent, and I’ve seen and smelled my way through some pretty gnarly markets and have spent plenty of time crossing my fingers that the restaurant where I just ate didn’t buy their meat from the stands in front of me. But I try to remember that my body naturally possesses intuition about food that is safe and food that isn’t, with my nose in particular helping me to weed out what I should and shouldn’t ingest. Then there’s the fact that people in these places eat this food, and that they generally like getting sick from eating just about as much as I do. My home world has fairly well-defined cultural standards for what food should look like and where it should come from, but every time I buy something from these markets I try to break those down a bit. I eat what looks good, and try to turn my energy away from being nervous and instead toward how exciting food can be, and how much it can teach me about the world I live in.

 

And besides all of that, nothing beats the victorious feeling of managing to put a meal together – successfully communicating the purchase of ingredients by hand gestures and smiles alone, cooking in the makeshift kitchens of hostels and homestays, and then making it the next 24 hours without any sort of digestive retaliations. It’s travel at its best.

 

CREPES!…..Or Not

Posted on March 18th, 2013

In Old Town Quebec there is a creperie a few steps off of the tourist’s beaten path. Small and jam-packed.  Don’t be surprised if you are asked to share a table with another party to expedite things – and by expedite, I mean if you want your crepe before the next mealtime rolls around. It feels dark and old inside. The wine options are red or white, glass or carafe. The side salad served with your crepe has one dressing choice. The staff is a rotating cast of twenty-something ladies in corduroys or ankle length skirts, vintage tee-shirts, boots, and head scarves. The menu is a long list of filling items: veggies, meats, cheese, sauces – like a pizza joint – plus fruits, chocolate, butter, sugar, and whipped cream. You order your dream combination and then you wait with a patience aided by your carafe of wine or a bowl of steaming mocha chocolate.

The wait is longer than what you’d expect at a café because – despite crepes being the mainstay – there are only two crepe irons, placed right in front of the counter seats. They seem disinterested in turning tables and fully focused on the perfection of their crepes. I was lucky enough to get a counter-seat once and got a seventy-five minute observational tutorial on the magic. Two crepes are spread paper thin methodically with a squeegee-like device, soon after they are flipped. A couple of minutes later they are filled with someone’s delightful topping selections and folded in half. They cook for several minutes and from there are folded in thirds and cooked for several more minutes. The result is heaven! A steaming crepe with a crisp exterior (almost like a masala dosa) and gooey piping hot insides—fully melted cheese or butter and sugar that has all but turned into caramel on the griddle.

I have no stronger memory of enjoying gluttony so fully while on vacation. When the responsibilities of my daily grind start to drive me batty, I daydream about sitting in the dark café waiting to stuff myself with crepes; no other worries on my mind. If I were able, I would annually make the eight hour pilgrimage exclusively to eat these crepes and drink house wine for a long weekend. Out of longing and the desire to share these marvelous wonders with people I love, I have once or twice recreated them at home with the aid of two or three cast-iron pans.

Imagine my excitement a few years ago when several cafes in and around my small New England college town introduced crepe menus. CREPES! Right in my own back yard! I tried the crepes at each café as they became available. Each time I hoped that this place would get it right. But none of them did. All of them had a pre-determined menu, no choosing your own fillings. Oddly enough one place, which I do love apart from the crepes, has make-your-own-salad and -sandwich menus with a wide variety of filling choices, but insists on dictating your crepe filling combinations. The menus aren’t the only problem; if the crepes were made properly I could handle working around their choices. The biggest problem is the undercooking. The crepes are spongy and floppy, and only cooked until their fillings are barely heated through. It’s essentially a lukewarm soggy mess on a plate–nothing that could momentarily transport me away from the woes of responsibility.

And so, I am resigned to long for the magic of Quebec while being taunted by disappointing crepes advertised in every local café window. I like to think that someday a crepe closer than a day’s drive will satisfy, but I wonder if it is a fool’s errand to try to find it…if the magic is in fact in the memory.