Monday, March 22, 2010

Food

Grocery shopping is one of my favorite things to do. There's something about being in a place where the realm of possibilities for what I'll cook that week utterly delights me. When I go to the grocery store, I'm thankful that I can choose what I want out of thousands of choices, hundreds of brands and millions of tastes. Not everyone in the world has the same luxury as me, and yesterday, nothing struck me more to that reality than a book I stumbled upon at the Co-op -- Hungry Planet. This book is a photographic and journalistic documentary about what a family in every part of the world eats for a week, including cost and many other amazing facts.

Fascinating, surprising and upsetting. My reaction to the book was just a more tangible reminder that me choosing the organic apple over the conventional one, or trying out almond butter over peanut, or wanting curry and then pasta and then sushi in that particular order is a luxury! I felt it ironic that I was just in the middle of thinking about my week's menu when I stumbled upon the book, in which it first froze me in guilt (I contemplated eating rice and cabbage for the whole week after seeing the food pictures from Africa) and then left me in deep, contemplative gratitude.

It's eye-opening, but not surprising that the developed world spends some $200-$300+ on food a week and that the developing nations spend anywhere from $1.23 (in Chad) to under $100. It's also a little bit a conundrum that Americans have the greatest variety, but truly eat the greatest amount of crap. Packaged, processed, convenient.

Ecuador -- USA -- Mexico --



Now, it'll be tempting for me to cry out in fury and indignation and just eat crackers for the rest of my life, but what would that prove? I realized that yes, I am in a place of abundance and yes, I'll never truly know what it's like to be in want. I think I used to just feel guilty and spoiled for those things. But feeling that way does no one any good! I believe it's about being grateful and not wasting or complaining and just making sound choices that can honor being so blessed.



Interesting!



I look at this really cool fashion photoblog called The Sartorialist and today I saw some pictures of MEN IN SKIRTS! It's mind boggling haha. I'll let you form your own opinions about this:

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Dumpling soup

Today at my internship we made a dumpling soup. Except it was nothing like the kind my mom makes, where things are impeccably and delicately seasoned with the ubiquitous ginger, garlic, green onion and sesame found in chinese cooking. No, the recipe we used was an odd matching of east meets west -- the soup contained the loud pronounced flavors of things you'd find in western stews mixed in with the dark sassiness of chinese soysauce (I couldn't help but notice how much it tasted and smelled like Thanksgiving stuffing!). The dumpling filling was more like a stirfry, a cacophonous poem of chopped up leafy greens and carrots completely uncharacteristic of a true, chinese dumpling. It was... good, but definitely different.

Me with my metaphorical thinking couldn't help but draw the link between this soup and my identity. A chinese-american girl whose insides are familiar to the recipe of her heritage, but also have the influence of the western ingredients from the "stuffing-esque" soup I reside in. I'm reminiscent, but just not exactly what I'm "supposed" to be. Neither chinese or american, my generation is that of its own -- one where our spoken linguistics are predominately fluent in english but still a little funny, and one where we understand the choppy "chinglish" more than the quick-tongued rapidfire mandarin you hear on the chinese news.

It's nothing to be ashamed of. Sure, that culture doesn't follow the recipe of old and it's not always easy to fit in (native asians are too asian, whites can be too white), but I think something special lies in such harmony of flavors, perse. Even though language and mannerisms may be diluted throughout the generations once in another country, I think one thing is for sure -- food stays the same. My 4th generation chinese roommate is a testimony to that. She knows donggua soup and stir-fried mi-fen (stirfried ricenoodles) as normal family foodfare. Now, I may not make that dumpling soup everrr again, but I will definitely pass on what cooking wisdom my mom's given to me to my friends or nieces or potential adopted children (ha). And THAT, is a delicious fact.

Monday, March 8, 2010

03/08/10. monday

Even a beautiful day like this, do the shadows creep inward like a parasitic infection. I am sick, infected with bouts of restlessness -- eyelids heavy, muscles weary, voice faint, spirit dry, soul longing. Where are you, where are you? You are supposed to bring peace to my madness, you are supposed to provide the refuge, the rest, the joy.

I don't want to live to just see the days pass, to watch the hours of the clock increase in number, for the sky to go dark, for time to eat, to sleep, to rise, to fall.

I try to flee. I try to flee the worry, the shame, the rage. I run for something -- far, and away. I run and flee. But how do you get away from yourself?