Audacity

by Annie Jessee

The Roots of Audacity

The creek was cold and dark: a murky abyss where treasures were found. It was only with a speedy dip of a hand that you would be successful. Trusting your instinct, finding your inner jaguar. Sydney, my step-sister, a year younger, was the best of us. She would square up with the edge of the creek and assume a squatting position; before you could blink your eyes, she was holding three, glistening, light-brown creepy crawlers in each of her hands. These were crawdads, and we loved to catch them. Long day adventures in our backyard, a 300+ acre forest, had us munching on grubs, worms and other insects we found under the moss of logs. It was all a great game at that time, searching for the best treasures, kind of like Pumba, from Disney’s The Lion King. No thought crossed our minds to go in for lunch, of which there wasn’t much. Sometimes, however, we would sneak through the house on tip toes to the kitchen pantry to make the Hot Dog Bun Special. It was always a stale bun, lathered with JIF Peanut Butter and Log Cabin Maple Syrup. It may seem like an odd creation, but it was all we ever had to work with, so we made do. As young kiddos, we loved it.

It was quite the bumpy, unreliable rollercoaster from ages 3 to 10. Switching schools, moving every three months, eating happy meal upon happy meal. What I do remember well, are the times we ate together because to me eating was about sharing and giving to those you love. Being able to have so many of us together was unmatchable. I was probably 8 or 9 when we moved in with my grandparents. At the same time, my Aunt Monica, her husband, and 8 children moved in as well. Imagine, 15 people: 5 adults and 10 children living in a two-bedroom Rambler, with 5 beds, one couch and no dining table. Also, think of the smell that your great-grandmothers house had: dusty, dog-like, damp, and covered in knick-knacks. On the weekend, grandpa would say, “Caren, here is 60 bucks, go out up to that place on Sheridan Ave and buy some pizzas for the lot of us.” My mother would take the money, stick it in her bra and yell down the hall, “Any of you little monsters want to help me get pizza?” I loved any moment alone with her, so I climbed out of the kid mountain yelling, “Me! Me, Mom, I’m coming, one sec, wait! Don’t leave without me!” We would come back promptly with a giant stack of cheese pizzas. By the time I had reached the kitchen, the stack of pizza boxes clear over my own head were nearly empty. You couldn’t step into the house with hot, fresh food and not have at least two cousins waiting for you at the door. Once I had settled myself on grandfather’s lap with a sloppy slice, everyone else was on piece three or four. The twins would wrestle on the ground at grandpa’s feet, and the adults shared the couch watching the kids play.

When my mom had made some extra money, we (my mother, sister and I) would sneak away from the chaos at home and head to the ocean. Jumping over waves, eating Cutie mandarins, collecting rocks. We would bask in the sun from morning to late afternoon, laughing, running and burying each other in the sand. Once my sister became so tired, the point at which she couldn’t stand anymore (a toddler she was),  my mom would yell to me at the tide pool, “Come on Ann, Emmy is tuckered out, it’s about burger time anyway.”

Fat Smitty’s, Highway 101, Discovery Bay.  A small cluttered, dimly lit, greasy burger joint. With the famous ‘Fat Smitty Burger’ for $11.50: $13 with fries, +$1 for bacon. Now I’m sure you are asking yourself. What. On. Earth. Well, maybe not, these days, burgers cost more and do not even come with fries! But ten years ago, this was high and a huge treat, that I begged for the whole car ride. I was twelve for goodness sake, and to take on the burger challenge was a major deal. A double decker sandwich with two ½ pound patties, American cheese and veggie accompaniments. And of course, I wanted fries, oh and bacon, duh. It arrived shortly, and well just the size of the thing was enough to make my stomach drop. All I could think was, ‘How on Earth am I going to defeat this monster?’ Let me take you back though, to the moment I ordered the burger. A wide-eyed waitress, asked me twice, if I meant the Fat Smitty Burger with fries and bacon, Not until the third time did my mother interject to say, “Ma-am yes, she has begged all the way here to eat this burger, and she wants it all, and if I know my Annie, she is going to eat it ALL.” Well, I knew then, I was GOING to finish that burger, NO MATTER WHAT. Flashback to the grand arrival. And was it grand, the cook came out from the kitchen to hand off the burger to the tiny kid at table 3 (My mom said in a retelling later). Ten minutes in and I was rolling. I still remember the first bite. Juicy, melt in your mouth good. Freshly cut lettuce, in those shreds that end up falling all over your plate. Cheese, perfectly melting down the sides of the patty, and a stout bun with sesame seeds blanketing the top. This was a good burger. My mom likes to tell people about forty minutes in, when I was the only one left eating at our table. A group of large burly motorcycle men had all ordered the same as I had. Probably 50 years my senior, had received their burgers and were asking for boxes. When they did, the waitress just laughed at them, and said “Wow, have you seen the kid behind you, she’s accomplishing what none of you men couldn’t!” If you can imagine it now, 5 strangers all huddled around our table, cheering and ahhing at the twelve year old kid who was about to finish the biggest burger, this side of the Mississippi. I would say it took me about an hour to reach the finish line. Bloated like a puffer fish, smiling ear to ear then passing out in the back of Mas’ beater.

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Being a child of divorced parents, I would say I have lived two very different eating lives. Looking back, the early years were dismal. However, things started to really change when my dad found love after a long slumber in the dark divorce years. Her name was Alex, she was hip, super tall and knew everything about plants. A wonder to me, age 6, captivated by all the marvels she could and would teach me. The biggest thing that happened at this time was a complete diet shift. While at mom’s, the menu consisted of some fast food item, and at dad’s there were salads, full meals. My dad was sparked with curiosity in cuisine and began experimenting with traditional dishes from all over the world. In all truth I think there was some level of impression being set, but at the time I was just a kid and was loving the audacity my dad had found in the kitchen. Now since Alex had come into our lives, boxes of pop tarts and Kraft Mac and Cheese, were absolutely a no no. It was a salad with every meal or a salad being the main event of the meal. She was creative too and would make fancy sweets at breakfast time, but her passion to teach me about vegetables, how they grow and why they are good for us was overwhelming in the most positive way. I was about 10 when I distinctly recall having a week of only fast food with my mother. It was lunch time, so we stopped by McDonalds before getting dropped off at my fathers. I remember walking into the house, looking around the door to see my father and stepmother eating large chef’s salads. I dropped the happy meal in my hand to the ground and immediately broke into a fit, crying and begging to have a salad instead of the terrible food from McD’s. It was at this time, a major shift happened within me. I remember my mother after that day always passive aggressively asking me if something was “good” enough, or healthy enough for me to have. I became greatly invigorated by the type of food we were eating and where it came from. While I still craved the occasional burger or French fries, I wanted to support the bulk of my diet with stuff I could grow, or that my family was growing.

Audacious Moments, Drastic Measures

The year is 2015. I’m a junior at Olympic High School, sitting in front of a computer screen taking one of those ‘future career path’ tests. The ones where you answered a hundred BS questions on your likes and dislikes as a person, only to reveal the computer thinks you should be an accountant. This is the moment I laugh because as it turns out the only class I’m not passing with an A, is Math. And why on Earth am I being told by a computer what I will be the happiest and most successful doing? What I truly wanted to do was something with food. I wasn’t sure what it would be, but I loved the idea of becoming the world’s best Chef!

I would preach about my restaurant, writing business plans and giving presentations about the path to becoming an Executive Chef. At the end of senior year, I signed everyone’s yearbook with a note that said, ‘This is your FREE ticket to my future Farm to Table Restaurant. Don’t forget it!’ I spent months applying, and I applied for scholarship after scholarship, hoping to make enough money for The Culinary Institute of America (CIA). From the information I had gathered, it was to be the most prestigious; it was a four-year university dedicated to teaching the art of cooking. I had bought the first year’s textbook so I could be ahead of the curve. Reading food memoirs and watching Anthony Bourdain travel the world eating made me elated to begin culinary school.

Whelp. If you thought that the next thing I would tell you was, “It was everything I could have ever dreamed it would be!” Let me remind you, Disney did not write this story, as it is no Fairy Tale. What really happened was, my GPA was too low, my AP scores were too low, and my SAT score was, you guessed it, too low. And I did not win all the scholarships I had excitedly applied for. As well, I could not get enough FAFSA to cover the CIA without putting myself in major debt year one. So, I opted for the quaint community college in West Seattle; it was easy, I could take a ferry there every morning and I would spend far less time in school. Two and a half years, not four, and man were those years interesting. It was during this time that I had decided I would eat anything. The thought was, “Well, if I am to be the greatest Chef, I must not hyper focus on expressing myself as a chef, but instead take the time to learn a little bit from everyone, and where and why they do the things they do with food. To learn every technique, style and type of cooking.” This was the way I would reach the pinnacle. And man did I go for it! I would stay extra hours for Competition class, where we would time ourselves breaking down chickens, filleting fish and tourne-ing potatoes. I would work every food event on campus and became what some would call the Program’s Representative. I even got the chance to plan the school garden boxes outside the kitchen. Sadly, I was the only one to ever harvest from them for the program, but I took as many opportunities to teach my peers about the flowers and herbs for garnishes as I could.

It was during these three-ish years that I fell in love with the art and history of French cooking. It was blissfully romantic. I was studying under Chef Robert Houot, from Alsace (Southern France). I decided to focus on Charcuterie exclusively. Spending countless hours in the ‘Meat Room’, I started making a cookbook for the school’s program. As the Program’s Representative on campus, I also made beautiful Charcuterie boards for staff events, school events, and fundraising events.

In my last quarter, I decided that the brutal years I had just gone through as a full-time student and full time cook in downtown Seattle would not be for nothing. I hadn’t spent much time with family or friends. Actually, if you were to ask my mother, she would complain to you for hours about the ghost child coming in at 1am from work and sneaking out at 4am to go to school. It was nuts. Utterly crazy. I wasn’t eating well, sleeping well, or socializing at all. So, in a desperate move on December 17^th of 2017, after I graduated the Culinary Program at South Seattle Community College, I quit my job and bought a $1,600 ticket to Auckland, New Zealand.

I had absolutely no plan. My mother would not have it. She hung up when I told her over the phone. My father high fived me, and my friends questioned why. Hell, even I was asking: why? How did I make such a crazy decision on a whim, to go to a place that was 7,000 miles away? After all the hours I had spent commuting, breaking my back, getting yelled at, being alone: I had had enough. So, I bought the ticket on the 17^th of December to leave on the 5^th of January. Less than a month later, I would be headed to a place I knew nothing about. This was to be my great culinary odyssey; I wanted to be the chef that knew how to do everything. I decided I could only do this by starting with raw materials. Alex, my stepmother, urged me to look into WWOOFing. (There are many names for this acronym: World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms, Willing Workers on Organic Farms, etc.) I paid for a membership to look at New Zealand on the WWOOFing website, and quickly became excited by all the farms I could work on. I never researched anything about the country itself; I didn’t care about what tourists wanted to see, all I wanted was pure reality. The essence of food. Still I was hesitant to plan. I thought if I did, I wouldn’t be able to run off on a whim at any moment.

There I was, Auckland International Airport, starving and tired at 1 am. Of course, I had not thought ahead to find a hostel or hotel to sleep in. I found the nearest vending machine and realized that I didn’t have the appropriate change. Quarters just wouldn’t do. As I stood there stumped, ghostly and annoyed, a man tapped me on the shoulder. He was tall, slender, had long blond dreadlocks and carried a large hiking pack. I jumped as I turned, and from his mouth came the most beautiful, “Oh sorry love, I just see that you haven’t exchanged your change.” Dumbfounded, I stood there looking at one of the most gorgeous men—with a French accent— I had seen in the past 24 hours. Let me remind you of how tired I was: it was an 18-hour flight and I had not slept at all. Dead faced, I stood there and managed to get out “Uh-huh”. He just laughed, fumbled around in his pocket, then revealed his hand to me: a pile of shiny silver and gold coins. Of course, I didn’t know the exchange rate at that moment, so I just stared at him. I said, “Oh, actually, I don’t need anything. Thanks anyway,” then turned to leave in the opposite direction. He said something to me I recognized as French but could not translate. I turned and in the sweetest voice he said, “No need to leave, what would you like?” He put the change into the machine, pressed some buttons and a couple snacks fell to the bottom. He bent down from his great height to grab the shiny colorful bags, then extended one to me. It was a bright blue bag, with a dancing penguin on the front. Cheezels. He then said, “These are the best, don’t waste your time on anything else. Trust me.” Then he turned to go, but I grabbed him and said, “WAIT!” Which was definitely in a yell, as I startled him. “How much do I owe ya?” He laughed, “Oh love, you owe me nothing. Have a beautiful trip, Au Revoir.” And he was gone. I looked back to what would be my first taste of New Zealand: Cheezels. According the imagery on the bag, they would be puffed cheese rounds. I opened the bag, and an invisible cloud of cheese smoke overwhelmed my face. Crunchy, salty, sweet. Amazing. An immediate love affair, all because of the nameless French man in the Auckland Airport.

Now, I had not just flown across the Pacific Ocean to eat a bag of processed puffed Cheezels. I was there to learn and learn I would. My goal was to work with as many organic farmers as possible across the country. What I did know about New Zealand, was the pivotal role that farming had in the economy and everyday life. I started by heading North to Starlight Organics run by Nye Tatton. She was an extremely short woman with a huge personality and passion for growing vegetables. With Nye, I learned the beauty and nature of organic farming. I started by picking weeds, which lasted about three days. Only after then would she give me opportunity to pick and plant. I remember the first moment I encountered a 72-cell tray, booming with beautiful little plants. I thought “Oh I can do this, easy.” Twenty minutes later I went into the house, saying I was finished. She just stood there laughing, “Oh what are you a superhero? You finished all 8 trays?” Ha! No. Of course I wasn’t paying attention when she told me I was planting all of the trays in the greenhouse. By now it was reaching mid-day. With the sun high in the sky, those 20 minutes slowly extended to 40 minutes, and 3 hours later, sweating buckets, I was done.

My favorite part about my two weeks with Nye was working the biggest Farmer’s Market in New Zealand. It was a 3:30 AM wake up call, 5 AM set up and open at 6.30. Nye urged me to get ready as the time neared, while I sleepily stacked veggies. Before I knew it, there were 15 people in our tiny stall. We were selling out of lettuce and sprouts by 8, and beans and cucumbers by 10. It was overwhelming, and exhilarating.

I was fortunate to meet some crazy people along the way, and my most notable moment was with Barry. I was sitting in the shed braiding garlic when I heard a sputtering engine coming up the drive. Curious about the newcomer, I climbed atop a precarious shelving unit to look through the window of the barn. A black Volkswagen Jetta halted to a stop just before hitting the planters by the front door. The driver’s side door swung open forcefully. A towering man with an enormous beer belly and a thick burley Kiwi accent struggled to lift himself out of the car, yelling, “NYE, NYYYYYE. Where’s this bitch I’m taking to Bayley’s?” I was caught off guard, who could he be talking about? Me? I guess I was the only “bitch” he could be shouting about, and Nye had briefly told me to be ready for an adventure today. I was so nervous, and this did not look like a man I wanted to hang out with. And don’t get me started on his buddy who crawled out of the passenger side, an opposite to the previous character. Scrawny and shy mannered, the two were quite the pair.

Nye came running out of the house, shouting to me, “Annie, are you ready? Barry is here!” As I watched her approach Barry with the biggest smile on her face, she launched herself into his outstretched arms. She seemed the size of a small child in comparison to him. As he lowered her to the ground she motioned towards the barn. I quickly—and not so gracefully—attempted to scramble down from the shelves I was balancing on. As they entered, I was falling off the shelves into the pile of garlic. She just laughed, making note of my character to Barry under her breath. I awkwardly scrambled up, to shake his hand, to which he remarked at my firm but gentle shake. I then grabbed my go bag: Sunscreen, Inhaler, Sunnies (sunglasses), water, and my togs (the New Zealand slang for swimsuit). Not familiar with this man, I just looked at Nye through the rain covered windshield of his Jetta, as we furiously backed out of the driveway. Though I had prepared for the sun, the weather when we left was dismal, pouring, and grey. The landscape was beyond compare. Even in the storm, the rolling green hills were mystical and never ending. Little white sheep dotted the land. As we made it down the road, Barry started chatting with me about the small stuff— who was I, where’d I come from, where was I going? In the middle of my life story he interrupted to ask if I would grab a beer from the cooler for him. I had not realized that next to me was a cooler; I opened it, and without question handed one to my driver. He then noted that I too could have a beer, but I quickly declined, realizing what an absurd idea it was that we were driving though a storm, on a road that could be described as anything but straight. From our small talk, I gathered we were on our way across Northland. In just 45 minutes, we had driven from one coast of the country, all the way to the other coast of the country. Barry assured me we would soon be at Bayley’s beach, his favorite place in all of Aotearoa— the Maori word for New Zealand meaning “the land of the long white cloud”.

Bayley’s beach was golden, blue, and resembled the beauty of Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel painting. You know, the fluffy clouds with peachy tones? The sand was a rusty gold and stretched for miles. Barry whipped the car down the beach, driving over 150km/hr (90 mi/hr). Finally, he did three donuts before stopping somewhere down the beach, then we all clambered out of the car and Barry ushered me to the trunk. Inside were “net” bags (the ones onions come in), and a couple of coolers. He tossed me a bag and waltzed out into the crashing waves. I ran up to him, curious as to our purpose here. He then beckoned me to take a wide strong stance: legs apart, hands free. He said, “I’ll be teaching you the TuaTua Twist today chick, are you ready?” Not knowing what on earth a TuaTua was, or why we were carrying empty onion bags into the ocean, I said “Sure”. I mean, what else could I say? He let a wave wash past us, forceful enough to knock me out of my warrior position. He laughed, noting that I’d have to be tougher than that to keep my prime position here. Prime position? What the hell was he talking about? It was then that he began to do the twist. No, I’m serious. This 6-foot-tall, beer bellied, scruffy man started wiggling his body back and forth like the kids used to do back in the day. After a moment he plunged towards the water, keeping his feet where they were and crouching down. Then, up with his hands came the most beautiful, glistening clams. We were clamming! I never had, and this was the most amusing way I could have ever thought of doing it. So, I twisted. And beneath my toes I felt their shell, soft and smooth. As a wave passed, I went to plunge. And whooooooooooosh! There I was, tumbling over with a wave I had not watched for, carrying me back 10 feet. Barry belly laughed, beckoning me back next to him.

We continued like this for hours, until finally Barry yelled us in. We had so many TuaTua’s, I thought we might get in trouble for going over quota. But this was not the type of guy to question, so I packed the pounds and pounds of clams into the trunk, and then hopped back into his beater. We drove back across the grand rainstorm that had seemed to plant itself between both coasts, and headed home to Nye. When he dropped me off, he said, “See you at the feast tonight!”

And oh, was it a feast! Nye and I made ourselves look pretty before we waltzed on into the lawn bowling club. Retired men from all corners of the room hooted and hollered when Nye entered; she was the resident badass farmer, and they praised her. I could smell shellfish cooking and peeked my head into the kitchen. A table was being put up, and atop it were two metal trashcans; one was being filled with cooked TuaTuas, the other was empty. It was simple: boil ‘em in a pot with some garlic, salt, and pepper. Barry ushered me over to delight in my first taste. I pried open the two shells and tipped it back. The grainy sand particles filled my mouth as I chewed on the slightly over cooked flesh. Ha! It was stupendous. He then took me over to make me a sandwich. It was 6 or 7 Tuas on top of the whitest of sandwich bread lathered in Margarine. Throwing it back with my first ever tequila shot made this experience all the sweeter.

New Zealand was beautiful. Overall, it showed me how important our connection to food is. WWOOFing wasn’t perfect, not every farm was truly certified Organic. But every farm supplied me with another opportunity to grow a fresh product or to nurture an animal.

Fretting the Audacious Lifestyle

Coming home from New Zealand was emotionally debilitating. I had just spent a year discovering the “true Annie”, and developing real opinions about the world, and more importantly, the current state of food affairs. A fire had been lit deep within me; I was going to change the food system, and I would start in Kitsap County. It was home, and I could live with my parents rent free while I CONQUERED the culinary world.

Needless to say, thus far, the plan has not gone as I thought it would. Being back in Bremerton was bleak, and for two months I shuffled around town, bummed and broke. I was living at home, eating food that had no love, flavor, or sense of place. Desperate, I applied to the most dismal of kitchen jobs: Spiros Pizza, Bremerton Bar and Grill and Anthony’s on the Waterfront. I was offered odd jobs at all three, but I could not bear the idea of working at any of them. I kept puttering around, waiting for something exciting. It was the beginning of winter, so of course there were no farm jobs available at the time. One day I found myself with my grandparents on the way to Bainbridge Island. For Kitsap County, Bainbridge is the bougiest you can get. My grandmother, thrilled to have her Saturday lunch buddy back in America, had been taking me out every weekend since I had come back. She was determined to bring that light back into my eyes, and sadly, I wasn’t having any of it. That was, until we walked through the doors of the Hitchcock Deli.

I had read about the chef who owned the place, Brendan McGill: thirties, family, restaurateur, use of locally sourced ingredients, and everything made in house. This was it. I knew the moment we walked in: the smell of the cured meats, the smoker puffing away in the back, and the buzz of the cooks bouncing around, singing and laughing. The next week, I was sitting at the front door of the nice restaurant adjacent to the deli. McGill owned that too. Oh, and the popping pizza restaurant down the street, as well as two joints across the Puget Sound, in Seattle. I had done my homework, and he was a star; a James Beard Award Winner, he was praised on the cover of multiple local and Seattle magazines and newspapers. As I sat with a copy of my crème colored resume, awaiting Sara Harvey, the Sous Chef, the door swung open. Looking up thinking maybe she had arrived, my jaw just dropped open. Of course, the man himself had just walked in. He looked at me with a smirk, and not a clue in the world who the over-dressed, high-heeled, 20-year-old, who was sitting at the front of his restaurant was. “You look as though you are waiting for something… hmm?” he said. To which, in a very Annie-like manner, I spilled everything about me: my passion for Charcuterie, my travels in New Zealand, and my dreams to change the food scene. Calmly, he listened through all of it, as if he knew exactly who I was, why I was there, and what my future would be. I kept on telling him about how much of an asset I was in the kitchen, urging that I wasn’t the best, but would get there. He let me finish, held out his hand, shook mine, and said, “I like you kid.” And he was gone.

I waited 15 more minutes to finally meet the Sous; she was the baddest bitch I had ever seen in chef’s whites. A beautiful braid went down her back, and her arms were laden with tattoos. She had a crooked smile and an annoyed stupor. Quickly, she went through all the formalities, and then asked if I wanted to check out the kitchen. Without any hesitation, I agreed, and we walked back into one of the nicest kitchens I had ever been in. There was a wood fire stove, thick wood countertops, copper pans, and it was completely visible to the patrons. I loved that. As we stood in the middle of service, she watched me, googly-eyed, looking around with utter satisfaction. Then in a low, but straightforward voice she said, “Not sure what you said to the boss, but I thought maybe you would like to see the kitchen you’d be working in.” I flipped around, looking at her, emotions of happiness and fear all welling up inside me. “So, you got the job kid.”

I nearly ran out of the restaurant crying; I couldn’t believe that I could get a job at a place with the background I had, at the age I was, or as a girl for that matter. Everything I thought was working against me was really the disguise that landed me a job in McGill’s kitchen. On my first night, I floated around doing odd jobs for people in the kitchen: peeling fava beans, slicing garlic cloves on a mandolin, and brunoising shallots (the fancy French word for an exceptionally fine dice). I had not eaten anything all day and must have been dehydrated. I told Chef that I wasn’t feeling well and that I needed to go to the bathroom. She begrudgingly agreed. I went to the bathroom and— well there’s no way of sugarcoating it: I passed out on the toilet. When I came to, I shamefully asked Chef to accompany me to the back and told her what had happened. She told me I had to go home. Needless to say, this was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. Well shit, I thought, I just lost my one shot. The next morning, I woke to a call from the Sous. She was just calling to reassure me everything was alright, and that if I wanted to work in her kitchen, I better take better care of myself before showing up to work. I laughed and thanked her for the check in.

Hitchcock was a blast. Every day I was receiving produce or fresh seafood. Occasionally, this guy named Preston, a scraggly fellow with ripped flannels, would come in with a case of mushrooms, freshly picked in the Cascades. It was an amusing facade, as Preston was the boss of one of the biggest produce and meat distributors in the greater Puget Sound. I was in my element; not only was I learning crazy new techniques in the kitchen, but I was getting my fill on connection to local food.

I knew, however, that this wouldn’t last long. Before getting hired, when sitting on the bench with McGill, I told him that my stay would be short, as I was moving to Olympia in the spring. I was headed to the Practice of Organic Farming at Evergreen State College. Before I knew it, I was leaving Hitchcock behind, bummed, but here I was again: taking a leap.

Unfortunately, the Organic Farm at Evergreen was less than I thought it would be. I don’t know whether it was the fact that everything seemed to be falling apart in the background, or that learning about Organic certification made me want to rip my hair out. Don’t get me wrong though, the work was fun, the learning was fulfilling, and the connections I made are irreplaceable. The Practice of Organic Farming gave me the opportunity to learn about stuff that I hadn’t yet, but it also made me realize how much of a façade Organic Certification is. What I understand now is that it’s just another money pit for farmers to pool into. As long as I can have a direct conversation with the farmer, see their place and practices, and understand that they are stewards of the land and care for their crop, I’ll support them. I don’t need a governments label to define them, not when the goal is to be as local, sustainable, and clean as possible.

Now to the current state of my own affairs. We can only understand this after I give you a brief health history update since returning from New Zealand. Unfortunately, my health upon my return plummeted. My immune system was iffy, and I was getting sick every time I ate. This led me to cut out red meat from my diet, as it seemed to be the main culprit; but as time went on, over the past two years, things have gotten progressively worse. I couldn’t eat anything without getting sick later in the evening, and the worst part was the blank stares I was getting from doctors, both Western and Holistic. I was up all hours of the night, tossing and turning in extreme abdominal pain, and would wake up energy-less every morning. In 2019, I cut out all dairy completely in hopes that keeping away from red meats and milk would change things. This worked for a month or two. While some of the pain subsided, the energy-less manner, sad disposition, and occasional sickness were still there.

Jump to Winter Quarter registration, and I’m pumped. A class about food history and culture? This was right up my alley. With food labs ever week, things couldn’t seem any better. Comparative Eurasian Foodways: A cultural, historical, and gastronomic Odyssey (CEF). Wow, what a title I thought, so Evergreen. I absolutely loved having to overly explain this class to people, just because the name obviously made their head spin. The burning itch I that was festering after returning from New Zealand was alive and well, and we would be studying abroad: three months of this class would be away on a grand learning adventure.

At this point, I was classifying myself as a pescatarian with a dairy intolerance. Sounded good enough, and kind of ridiculous, but I was making do. It was a peer in CEF who started ushering me towards the way of veganism by sharing articles, books, movies, and documentaries. Giving me the notion, that veganism wasn’t this “unattainable, disgusting waste of time” – as I had thought for so many years prior. Two weeks later, I started putting all my cans of fish in a box, tucking them away in the cupboard. I was still eating eggs, but only those that came from my own parents’ chickens.

As CEF continued on, I started to feel like an outsider, puttering along with the class each week. I was getting the notion that my passions for food were dwindling, while my excitement for veganism and animal activism was blossoming. This was the class that I dreamed of, and now here I was, blocking and restricting myself because my entire opinion about the world and our view of the food system, had changed. Each week, I worked diligently through the readings, loving lectures and despising labs. I felt like the hugest burden every Friday, always in the back, not filling out all my matrix pieces on lab reports. I used to be the girl who tried everything.

It is funny how you can completely turn your view upside down at a moment’s notice. One day I’m looking at a pig’s head submerged in stock, my first ‘Headcheese’. The next, I’m using social media to spout off the wrong doings of the main populous. I am unsure if this would have happened had I not been in Comparative Eurasian Foodways, but I guess here I am, learning how to live with my past and accept my audacious-less future.