Eating With Strangers

end of pause

Well it certainly has been a while since my last post here on this trusty blog.
Much has happened. Too much for any sane person really. But lets face it, I am not a sane person.
I almost cancelled this blog account, then changed my mind; after all this blog was a dear friend to me during a fairly rocky time. I feel like I owe it to Ms. Blog to keep its web blood pumping through the 010101010 anatomy.
I suppose I should start off by explaining myself; where was I, what in gods name was I doing all of these months and with whom and what? What did I chew on?
I confess...
1. I left for Chile and sort of rediscovered who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. I made elaborate dinners of chicken, corn and cilantro for smiling dogs, found I didn't want to work for "the man" any longer and needed to move out of NYC to relieve some of that pressure.
2. One night shortly after returning from Chile, I dreamt of a dear friend of mine. He was marrying a girl with a long face and green eyes. When I woke up, I knew I was supposed to be with him and not the wonderful man I was sleeping and living with on a daily basis. As you can probably imagine, I felt terrible about this, so to make sure I felt the way my innards did, I ventured up north to see my dear friend. Sure enough it was true; a combination of looks and voices told me so. I returned knowing I needed to make my move quickly and honestly. During this time, I ate very very little and drank very very much.
3. My trustee former mate and I broke up after gallons of tears and hugs. Guilt infiltrated my flesh and for months I kept it all inside. I had moved back into my sister's home and was reminded again that I enjoyed food whenever she cooked her fish tacos.
4. So my heart was ripped into bits and stretching like a sea mammal lapping waves at the same time. Food wasn't very interesting to me at all. I spent loads of time alone, writing my dear friend letters and taking pictures of tears falling on the sidewalk.
5. Two months later my dear friend and I escaped in a tiny moped and made our way across country to Portland, Oregon. On the way we chomped loads of rice crackers, hummus, carrots, cheese, and coffee.
6. On the road I started my portfolio for graduate school.
7. More than a week later we landed on the floor of my friends' house. I think we were there for three weeks. I got a job waitressing at a fancy Greek Tapas restaurant and oftentimes came home smelling of squid. On my nights off I explored the grocery store shelves for good wine and yumsone to cook up for my dear friends back home.
8. We found a little yellow bungalow through craigslist with a big barn, pear and apple tree out back, plopped down some found furniture, and filled my own fridge for the first time in months.
9. I finally finished my portfolio.
10. Currently my days are spent constructing a business plan, eating eggs, figs, coffee and toast, petting my kitty, and making maps and webs with string and wood. At night I waitress, something I thought I would never do again, but (mostly) enjoy for right now. I bike home and find my duck with his feet up in the air. I smile knowing I have found home...

When the we becomes I

-You start noshing on twelve day old egg salad, crunchy peanut butter, cold cups of coffee, lumps of undecipherable stink cheese, stale doughnuts, canned ham, wilted salad, and sliced meat product.
-Food is a ghost that your body channels to keep you half alive, it is the reaffirmation of one's existence, the bodily survival beyond the psychosis. In your sleep you make a twelve course meal. Your dreams involve a wide array of deliciousness. Your stomach growls beckon passerby to shove some food into your mouth.
-Eating becomes one of the loneliest acts save from masturbation in public restrooms and frequenting the isles of Super K-Mart to meet new "friends".
-You think of all the possible ways to avoid the empty table/kitchen/chair and with that avoidance comes rapid weight loss. You wear sweatpants to hide the obliterating you.
-Any opportunity you have to eat with another person drives your appetite into a ravenous fury; the food on your plate seems to sing to you as you fist it into your mouth.
-All of the meals you once created are works of art you will never be able to stomach again. You start to think of new recipes with less color and spice. You decide you will only make steamed dover sole and kale for the rest of your life so that you never have to feel this great loss again.

Turkey Bacon

chew chew chew chew chew chew pause chew chew chew chew chew chew pause breathe chew chew chew chew chew chew pause chew chew pause think chew chew pause think chew swallow swallow chew pause think chew pause think swallow.

The Rick Experiment

Last week I experimented on a man. I will call him Rick. Rick is a sweet burly man, a man of a man’s man. A meat and potatoes kind of dude; the kind that doesn’t think about the wonderfully nourishing crisp of vegetables the way that I do. The kind that drives to Wendy’s every other night for value burgers and “pop”. The kind that wanders somewhat blindly into the grocery store and slowly loses his mind; the thought of cooking is just too much to bear.
After a long boring flight with lumpy flight attendants and ear burst, Rick picked me up from the airport in Pittsburg and drove us to his little city twenty miles away called Washington.
Rick’s apartment, nestled inside a nearly abandoned twelve story 1920’s hotel is located in the center of town adjacent to courthouse. When you hang your limp body from his ninth story window and squint your eyes into slits, the town has an odd resemblance to Firenze. From a distance (for instance the ninth story window of an abandoned hotel) it’s a glorious looking town with loads of history, but when your toes finally graze the sidewalks, you see that it’s a town of great economic catastrophe, depression, and morbid obesity.
At one point I asked Rick why he chose to live in a nearly abandoned hotel in Washington, PA; he replied with a lopsided smile that he was the big artist in town, he had it all going for him right there in Washington, PA. He thinks of leaving all of the time, but he would have to start all over again…somewhere else.
The hotel in which Rick’s apartment is located also houses invalids. At one point I was in the elevator and an older sick man entered a few steps behind me. “What floor are you going to?” he asked in a grizzly voice.
“The ninth floor, thanks.” I watched him struggle (with a shaky gray finger) to find the ninth floor button then helped him out by pushing it myself.
He gave me a hard, mean stare as the door opened to his floor growling under his breath “Fine! You are on your own from here”.
Ricks stovetop counter was heaping with canned chicken, beef noodle soup, and ramen noodles. His fridge housed a depressing selection of hot dogs, American cheese, pickles, Welch’s Jelly, and Wonder bread. His cupboards were brimming with Cheetos, Jiffy peanut butter, and cracker sandwiches.
“What is all of this?” I asked him. “What are you doing to yourself?”
“I have kids.” He responded.
“Even better. What the hell are you doing to your children?”
“I don’t have any time to cook. I don’t think about food the way that you do Felicity. I have other priorities.”
Here is the point where I (again) hopped onto my high horse.
“You know you should probably think about what you eat a bit more than you do. You would feel a lot better physically and mentally.”
“I just don’t care. Food is not interesting to me at all. I eat to survive.”
“To survive? Dude, you are killing yourself with all this crap. I’ll tell you what over the next week, if you buy the groceries, I will cook for you. I can promise you; I swear on your spleen, you will feel more inspired and more energetic about your life. By the time that I leave, you will think of food much differently than you do now.
What do you think?"
“Sounds good. I haven’t had someone cook for me in a long time."

That very evening we went grocery shopping. The store was a gargantuan florescent rainbow, larger than anything that I have ever seen. The shelves bursted with artificial flavoring and preservatives, and every item was abnormally cheap. Four sticks of butter cost 2.00. Milk cost 69 cents. Lettuce 45 cents. Rick explained that the cost of living in Washington is one of the lowest in the country.
“All the more reason for you to start cooking,” I beamed.
That week was a cathartic food revelation for Rick. He devoured chicken piccata, three bean turkey chili, fish tacos, loads of fruit, cheese, hummus, and veggies. I witnessed his body change before my very buggy eyes. He sat up straighter inside his spine. His attention was more focused, and his eyes clear, bags vanished. His cheeks became pink and rosy. He looked like a happier healthier more approachable person.
All around Rick seemed more inspired by life on a deeper level.
I felt like a proud mammal witnessing her child blossom before her very teets.

At the end of the week, as I walked out of his somewhat deranged apartment/hotel building, I couldn’t help but say to him in the cocky monkey way that I do,
“I told you so.”

Foodie's Block

I am back in the states after a long-much needed brain rest in the southern part of the monde.
It's odd how difficult it is to give up your newly acquired tastes when returning from a long trip abroad. I find myself pining for freshly harvested honey, blackberries, apples, and herbs, as well as Nescafe, frozen vegetables, and white buns smothered in eggs, chili sauce, and queso blanco.
Over the last week, my appetite has diminished. There are too many food options to choose from here in NYC; all of the colors and flavors are overwhelming my brain and mouth. I can deal with drinking coffee and eating salad with vinegar and olive oil, or buttered toast or cereal or fish, but everything else is anxiety inducing.

Perhaps I am a little love sick for the land that brought me back to simple eating.
In a few more weeks I am sure my tongue will acclimate.
Until then I think I have no choice but to embrace my weeping stomach.

Honeybee Conundrum

At 8 am (which is not really all that early for most people, but when you have come from working your ass off in NYC for an aging cantankerous rock star, to landing on a surreally mellow farm in Chile, all the eyes and brain want to do is sleep, sleep, sleep). So at 8 am, there was a knock on my door. It’s chilly here in the mornings, chilly to the toes and the fingers mostly. (I have a wood burning stove in the corner of my room, and I am constantly feeding it’s caliente fangs. It roars all night making me sweat, yet in the morning, unless I get up at four am to feed it some more, it’s lifeless. There is something about a dead fireplace that makes the room in which it is placed, seem very very cold).

So what was I saying? Ah yes, a knock at my door. The famous knock; I tip toed to the door to keep my feet from fully absorbing the frigid bite of the floor, and Juan Ignacio (the main bee keeper, who is also 18 years old and unusually pretty even in dirty sweatpants) informed me that we needed to leave because it was going to rain soon and the bees hate the rain. Bee keeping is all about making the bees happy, because when they are happy, they work better. (This philosophy should be incorporated into US work ethics. I agree, when I am happy, I work better too.) 

I piled into the truck with Juan and Bernardo (a surly man who seems bored by everything) and we drove to the bee farm and hour away from the fundo where I am currently residing. They keep the beehives off-site on a lush hill overlooking the Rio San Pedro where there are wild flowers (heather and rosemary blossom) from which the bees gather sufficient nectar and pollen.

While potholing our way to the bee hill, Juan, Bernardo and I made small talk and listened to Juan’s Spanish death metal tape. My Spanish is derisorily bad, but I know that in order to learn anything in life, you have to make a bit of a fool of yourself. Here is a translated recap of our dialogue:

Me: Is this satanic rock and roll?

Juan: It’s from Spain.

Me: Are nice to rock and roll?

Juan: Yes I like rock and roll, but I like hip hop even more.

Me: And you Bernardo, Are you nice to rock and roll?

Bernardo: It’s OK. I prefer pop music.

A few minutes later…

Me: I am writer of book and painter of food. Are you nice to food? What do you eat, pork, chicken, fish?

Juan: Yes I like all meats.

Me: And you Bernardo?

Bernardo: Yes

Juan: Do you drive in New York?

Me: I drive, but in New York, no cars, just lots and lots of people.”

We arrived to the bee farm and changed into our bee suits, hats, gloves, and boots. The gloves, stiff and lined in a rubbery protecting fabric, made it nearly impossible to handle anything, and the mesh covering my face on the hat prevented me from seeing clearly. Together in our yellow suits we looked as though we were waiting for nuclear fallout. (Because I couldn’t really articulate the fact that I thought we looked like we were in nuclear fallout, I enacted nuclear fallout by, sticking out my tongue, covering my face and falling backward. Concerned, they rushed to help me up from the ground. I explained that I was “making bad joke,” which they finally understood, then laughed hysterically for a couple of minutes).   

            Approaching hundreds if not thousands of bees at one time is a precarious experience especially if you have never been stung before (and are unsure as to whether or not you may be deathly allergic) and you are in rural Chile with two guys you barely know who now think you are a crazy white girl. 

With a tin smoke producer that looks a bit like a tiny accordion and a funnel, Juan emitted smoke (which is known to calm the bees) as we moved from hive to hive. The larger beehives produce the most honey, bees, and buzz (the buzz comes from their wings), which is one of the most primal and deafening sounds I have ever encountered.

Bees are very docile creatures until you get close to their hives, and when you do, it’s war. They will do anything in their power to save their queen.

This occurrence of bees covering my face mesh, to the point where I was blinded, was an overwhelmingly dark (dark because the fear of being stung is paralyzing) yet enlightening experience (enlightening because I have somehow made myself do this potentially life-threatening thing and I am still in one piece). 

Juan and Bernardo moved from hive to hive gracefully, as though they had poker night and cigars with the bees every Tuesday. I however stood frozen, hypnotized by the bees that covered every inch of my face net, asking them nicely to “shoo”.

            Back on the fundo, it was time to process the honeycomb that we accrued on our dark voyage to the bee hill. On this farm, killing the bees to gather honey would be unheard of, so we spent a large part of the rest of the day, capturing bees that had snuck back into their hives, and setting them free.

Here, there is gleaming modern equipment that does the crushing of the honeycombs, separation of the wax from the honey, and barreling of the honey.

To see the finished product after tenderly handling the bees (despite their ferocity) and successfully appropriating the honeycombs is a bit like giving birth (although I am unsure as to what giving birth is like. I imagine it is quite similar without all the slime and contractions).

This amber liquid devoured by so many people for thousands of years for both medicine and flavor, is the impressive work of a colony of insects that direct their energies to a single purpose in their short lives.

If I compare myself to the honeybee, I can’t help but wonder. What is my queen bee?

Cooking for Tainted Tongues

In the last few weeks I have had the pleasure of cooking for a wide variety of folks on the farm. From British couples who have escaped their mundane office jobs in search of a new life, to the hard working maestros with hearty appetites, to horses, cows, and dogs, my cooking and dining experiences have been innovative, fulfilling and mucho mucho delectable. (You will have to forgive me, but I am quite immodest when it comes to my cooking). My intentions were different when arriving on this Chilean fundo; I thought that I would mainly be harvesting honey, milking delicate udders, and shoveling cow patties from the fields. Alas, the cow patties are pecked through by gigantic crane type birds, the cows are for eating (and not for milking) and the honey is harvested with brand new, manly machinery. Because I wanted to feel like a productive person and feed into my integral capitalist wheel, I asked my farms hosts what I should do to help them out. I mean, I have to work. I have to do something outside of writing and taking photographs of cows, rare birds, scenic hillsides, and my own boca. To appease my (probably repugnant) sense of unproductiveness, I insisted that I cook for families and workers when they come to stay on the farm. I would do the shopping, we would all pool money to pay for the supplies, and hours later, presto, everyone could eat a scrumptious meal.

After I have taken pictures and written my stories down for the day, I meander to the main lodge to prepare the comida.

Thus far each meal has been a great success and most of which have introduced me to a fascinating spread of folks. There was one meal, after several glasses of Chilean wine, when the idiosyncrasies of a certain British/American couple started to seep from their satiated mouths. They claimed that they really didn’t know what all the “fuss was about” regarding food in general. To them, food was “a real pain in the ass”. All of that shopping and thinking about what to make isn’t any fun at all. I asked the couple what they ate every night for dinner, they replied that they usually had the same thing, she had an avocado with a little salt, salad with lemon, and he had steamed fish with a little salt, and salad with lemon. “What about chocolate?” I asked them. “Never, ever, do we give in to chocolate!” They scowled, spittle building up in the corner of their mouths. The group of people dining at the table suddenly became very quiet. The only noise came from the dog’s tongue lapping the salt from my leg beneath the table. When the couple spoke I was certain that the venom spewing from their mouths might contaminate the dessert I had prepared, so I waited until they left to serve it. There is absolutely nothing wrong with eating simple foods (the buttery taste of an avocado on its own is in my opinion one of the most perfect foods) but to deny other flavors when you have the access to do so to me seems a bit inflexible. In fact, I felt that the lack of flavor in this particular couple’s life seemed to put a strain on their characters. To me, they were sulky vacationing corpses, clad in khaki, fanny packs, and viciousness. But then, if I think about it a little more, I can understand their reasoning behind the denial of food. Westerners have so much to choose from every day. Our consumer driven cultures toss us a grocery cart full of options each hour, from the kind of music we listen to, to TV shows, to the color and type of clothing, to books, to cosmetics, to body parts, to paint colors, to coffee drinks at Starbucks…etc, which undeniably leaves us unsatisfied. So, it’s probably a good thing to give up some of the options that are available to us. It gives each moment more space to breathe and makes us appreciate the things we do consume a bit more conscientiously. Yet, ultimately, if I have to choose, which I do have the luxury of doing every day, I would rather give up the other things in life (particularly TV, bad radio, khaki, fanny packs, and scowling) than give up flavor.

But that’s just me.

Lonesome Fundo Edibles

It’s nearly my second week here in the southern hemisphere, in fundo Chaicapulli isolation, and I have just eaten my dinner. I thought, since I ate my meal alone, and I am somewhat intoxicated, that I should write about what I just ingested so that people know that I am in fact thinking of them while I eat, which I am. I think of eating with everyone. Everyone in the world sitting at one gigantic table. 

First I think I ought to explain how I have appropriated my food items, where they come from, and how much they may have cost.

A few kilometers down the road is a filthy, but charming town called Los Lagos.  I have only been to Los Lagos twice because I am trying desperately not to spend any money or get sucked into the bustling life. It’s not that this particular little town is going to send me into frenzy, it’s just that I have no desire to see more than two people at a time right now (I guess this sort of contradicts my statement of eating with the population of the entire world). Hopefully that doesn’t sound too misanthropic.

So in the tiny little town of Los Labos there are crooked buildings painted colorfully, stray happy dogs that lick their crotches and itch their mange in the middle of the road, a fire station to put an end to all the Chilean pyromaniacs’ antics, and two massive grocery stores with neon signage, brightly colored grocery carts, and promotional advertisements in the windows.

The first time that I saw these stores I looked around confused, wondering why the owner felt the need to spice up his market in a town where there is so little competition. In such a poor, miniscule town it seemed odd that not one, but two of these supermercados existed. 

Beckoned by the neon, I sauntered into Brick supermarket and grabbed a cart. I scanned the goodies of the store as Euro pop music blared from a massive set of cheap speakers.

I hadn’t made a list because I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I am trying not to do things like make lists while I am away, or perhaps ever again. Lists stifle my living process.

           The store was made up of three grocery aisles and a section in the back for frozen items, dairy, wine, bread, meat, and produce. I weaved in and out of the grocery aisles first, plucking random things from the shelves: corn flakes (with a picture of a happy white kid on the front. Made by Nestle) dehydrated instant soup (in a bag that read Naturezza sopa casera, pollo, arroz, y verdures) boxed milk (similar to a carton of milk without the fancy spout) olive oil (Chefs olive oil) bagged tomato sauce (they don’t can veggie items as much as the US does) canned tuna, and cereal digestives (similar to a granola bar, but in the shape of a cookie).

Moving on to the produce section:

Lettuce (green leaf) Mushrooms (grow everywhere quite easily) onion, tomatoes, avocado (the most delicious buttery avocados that I have ever tasted) green pepper, garlic, white peaches, and watermelon. (I can pick apples, blackberries, basil, thyme, rosehips rosemary, cilantro, sage, and lavender on the farm). All of the produce was locally grown.

The bakery section was a bit lackluster, but I am used to getting my hands on any kind of bread that I can imagine, so I quieted my spoiled brain, picked out some flat white rolls from the bin, and brought them up to the bread counter where a masked scowling lady obediently weighed my bread, bagged it, and priced it with her fancy pricing implement.

I skipped the meat counter altogether because, if I wanted meat, I could slaughter up a fat sheep or cow on the farm.

Cheese is fairly unexciting here as well, but I picked up some gouda and crema queso to spread on the white bread.

Finally, the vino. So cheap, and so delicious. You can by it in a box, or you can buy it in a bottle for as little as 1 dollar or as much as 8 dollars. For 1 dollar, you are getting the equivalent to a wine that costs 10 dollars in the states, for 8 dollars, you are getting a wine that may cost 40 – 50 dollars in the states (at least that’s what my tongue tells me). I chose to go with two low-to-mid priced bottles, one Chardonnay and one Cabernet Sauvignon.

For all of the groceries piled high into my cart, a weeks supply, I spent 22.00. Yes I know, cheap.

So to get to the point of the story (although I wouldn’t say that it’s the most plot driven narrative I have written to date) tonight I made myself some instant dehydrated soup, a green salad with silky avocado, green leaf lettuce, cucumber, onion, and gouda, drizzled in olive oil, vinegar, and salt and pepper, and two glasses of red wine.

If you would have been here, I might have made something different, but there is only so far I can go in the kitchen when I am the only one eating.

Beef Stew

On the first night that I landed in Chile, my farm host and hostess cooked up a massive pot of beef, honey, beer, and tomato stew (not something that I would eat on a normal basis; I have been without beef for fifteen years). My reaction to the meat dish situated in front of me astounded me; without hesitation I devoured every morsel of beef and honey tomato sauce on my plate.

In the past, I was always the dinner guest that refused food, but because of the elaborate table setting, the benevolence of strangers from around the globe whom I was dining with, and the obvious affection and work  put into that particular meal, I couldn’t refuse.

Later that night as I lay in bed I envisioned the beef pirouetting through my intestines and rubbed my bloated belly. Staring at the ceiling wide eyed, unable to sleep, I feared that my innards might at any moment just revolt against me. I could hear the heard of cows crying out for food from the pasture (there has been a drought here for the last two months and nearly all of the grass has been chomped up). There I was, stuffed full of cow meat when the cows themselves were starving. 

Guiltily I whispered, don’t eat me in my sleep, please. I will try to find you some grass tomorrow, but please don’t eat me. Fifteen years without mammal meat will, when you finally ingest it, inflict nightmarish psychological havoc on your brain.

The next morning I awoke, innards unscathed. Perhaps this new-relaxed environment has also conciliated my stomach.

Supple Udders

It's true. I will admit, I enjoy the sensation of udders.
Why else would I be headed down to Chile to work on a cow farm?
Today, my last day in NYC for a while, I drink the last bit of milk in my fridge, pack my duffle bag full, and wait for the airplane to carry me safely below the equator where bovine chomp grass and burnt sunshine.
Utt(dd)er stillness.