Author: arneul03

by Chase Christensen

I’ve spent the majority of my life on a farm raising sheep and a small crop of various produce. Before all of that, I lived in a middle class, white, suburban neighborhood named Daniel’s Ranch located in Carnation, Washington, a small farm town home of the original producers of carnation milk and “known” for (at one point) having the world’s most milk-producing cow. Daniel’s Ranch couldn’t’ve included more than 50-100 families i.e. houses. In regard to my background with agriculture, my life in the ranch aside from a very small garden in which tomatoes and Squash were exclusively grown (both of which I despised at the time). In fact, as a child I was very picky about what I ate. If I had a choice in the matter of what would be made for a meal, I would insist on spaghetti with cheese and butter or grilled cheese as well as other foods of a “safe” nature. By “safe” I mean foods with no strong smells, flavors or textures. My food pickiness was by no means a product of my upbringing, as my parents were both quite adventurous with their preferred cuisine. They ate things like raw smoked salmon, prosciutto, escargot, very runny French omelets and other foods of an “adventurous” (by my young self’s definition) nature.

It’s very likely that my predisposition towards certain foods can be attributed to my genetic makeup. Flavors that I like and dislike could be a product of what my ancestors had to eat and therefore grew an affinity for, not only a mental predilection, but a chemical, brain rewiring, propensity. According to a genetic test I am more than fifty percent British and/or Irish and according to both my grandfather and the genetic test I am one fourteenth Danish. What can be said about that I don’t know, as ethnic cuisines far from that of English or Danish appeal to me such as spicy African dishes of lamb, salty, acidic Mexican foods with meat bases such as pork tongue, and creamy spice based dishes such as most Indian food. I can however say that some foods that are of my liking within the cuisine of my heritage exist as well. including salty black licorice, smoked salmon, and pickled herring in mustard sauce. Although I do think predetermined, genetic flavor inclination exists, this is not a barrier for affinity towards flavors contrasting those of what our ancestors ate. Also to mention, just because one comes from a culture in which certain foods or flavors are penchant, an example being a certain vegetable popular in cuisine from said culture. It is if not possible likely that an individual does not favor said ingredient.

As a child, very few vegetables appealed to me. Squash, tomatoes, eggplants, cucumbers, mushrooms (not a vegetable, but in my youth, there was no distinction), zucchini and tomatillos all seemed vile and untouchable. However, I wasn’t the type of child who refused to try anything. I mean, how would I know if I didn’t favor something until a tried it? Which, looking back at, is very forward thinking coming from a child under the age of 10. After I had tried something I didn’t like, there was very little chance of myself giving it a second chance. That being said, just because of my disposition didn’t mean my parents would make grilled zucchini or babganoush for dinner any less. My personal affliction with vegetables made my youth especially difficult due to the fact that I was a strict vegetarian from the ages of 6-17. The word vegetarian within the context of myself is somewhat misleading. When the word vegetarian is used the connotation of vegetables is evidently made, despite that, as a vegetarian I ate very few vegetables and instead ate very processed vegetarian “meat”. I understand the precarious nature of a vegetarian not eating many vegetables, but what has to be understood is that I grew up in a time (early 2000’s) where processed, soy-based vegetarian meat was gaining popularity. A well-timed transition on my part I suppose. As opposed to eating spinach dip, hummus, and cucumber sandwiches, for almost every meal, I would eat deep fried soy nuggets and soy breakfast sausage links, cheese, and carbs. In that age where one could be an “unhealthy vegetarian”, I most definitely was. My diet of cheese, carbs, and soy-based products ended when I decided to quit my meatless philosophy and veer towards the very exciting world of meats.

Meat is a very vast and dynamic section of foodways and without a doubt the reason I became as enthralled with food as I currently am. For the first time in my life my parents were no longer asking me to try foods for my own “mind widening” benefit. I was now taking the initiative upon myself to explore the world of food as I never had before. By including meat into my meals, a whole new world opened up itself before me and I finally got to explore it. When I decided to make the meat-eating transition, I was living on my family’s four acre sheep farm in Duvall, Washington, five minutes away from Carnation. On our farms humble garden my mother grew plants in which the likes of younger me had never even heard of such as ground cherries, kale, and dragon-tongue beans. My culinary world was expanding before me and I was beyond excited. Living in a small organic farm town meant that high quality meat was easy to come by. One could have a steady supply of meat simply by making friends with their free range chicken raising neighbors, or by having those neighbors introduce you to their organic pig raising cousins, or even by making a deal with your middle school principal who raises grass fed beef.

Today I would describe myself as a food ambitionist: going out of my way to try things I never have before and making it my goal to be more than well versed in cuisine. I can’t help but contribute that to my “late bloom” into the food world and from the open-minded food philosophy of my parents

Prompting this eating memoir is a class at The Evergreen State College, entitled Comparative Eurasian Foodways,in which the focus is to explore history, culture, and gastronomy of Eurasia specifically China, Greece, and Italy. As a reference, the class was asked to read excerpts from one of the most popular food memoirs, titled Shark Fin and Sichuan written by Fuchsia Dunlop. The contents are of her experiences in graduating culinary school in the Sichuan province of China. Although I am not in culinary school, this gastronomy class has an exciting aspect: every Friday the class makes dishes based on the cuisine of the three cultures previously stated. Each base of the meals we make are ones we’ve spent all week learning about via lectures, readings, and media, such as films. Most recently, we focused on meats by making meatballs traditional to said cultures. The Chinese meatball, which to me was flavorfully more unique than the others was one of pork which (aside from the average meatball ingredients) consisted of water chestnuts, sesame oil, soy sauce, ginger and green onion with a reduced, sticky sauce made up of a variety of flavorful ingredients like Shao Xing cooking wine, star anise, and rock sugar. It’s complex, cultural, meat-based foods like this which my younger, vegetarian self had no possible grasp of.

In part one of this memoir, my brilliant awakening to meat was touched upon. To further the readers understanding of my relationship with flesh and its culinary use, I will expand upon this. After being a vegetarian for 12 odd years, my knowledge of meats was beyond lacking. At the age of 17, I couldn’t tell the difference between ham, roast beef, or turkey. Being disconnected entirely from meat eating culture, there was so much about meat that fascinated me. It was all so new, everything I learned held so much weight: the salty, slightly sweet and smoky flavor of ham with its spongy, juicy qualities, the dry, soft turkey with its almost gamy flavor, and roast beef with its utmost complex tantalizing essence; all of it was a learning process and one which was greeted with intense craving. Due to a complete lack of knowledge in meats, that entire genre was comparable to that of the new frontier, the world was my oyster.

On the note of seafood, which to this day is my protein of choice, it was the deciding factor on my ambitious transition into the carnivorous ways. Growing up my entire life in the PNW, in fact forty minutes from the ‘oh-so majestic’ Seattle, there was no lack of seafood. The most acclaimed of such is the salmon, which growing up and still to this day is one of my least favorite seafoods; that is, however, if we’re talking about the Seattle way of cooking it, which is the only form it was ever served to me. To elaborate, a meal which my household ate perhaps once a month maybe more if it was on sale, was salmon fillets baked on cedar panels with brown sugar, salt and pepper, garnished with dill and lemon juice after cooking. As a kid it was a very bland dish with a very uniform flavor, however being high in nutritional value seemingly justified the one note meal. It was in my teenage years that I discovered smoked salmon lox, salmon jerky, and salmon sashimi, which are superior forms of this fish which  highlight all the good aspects. The good aspects being the subtle fishiness and the amazing fat which the salmon holds between each layer of its muscles. My preference for raw, cured, and smoked salmon rather than simply a baked one gave rise to my overall inclination to foods prepared with these aforementioned methods.

Raw, cured, and smoked meats are the essence of what meat should be. As a field trip for my gastronomy class, we went to Portland, Oregon and got to experience a culinary variety showcase. On the way to the event while riding in one of the school vans, mostly oblivious to what I was about to experience, a gas stop was needed. During this break, a few of us went into the gas station store and bought cheap processed foods to tide our hunger due to not eating breakfast. I grabbed an extremely processed ‘meat stick’ which only god knows how many different animals coincided in this single item. Paired with this stick was a highly processed ‘cheese food stick’, which according to the ingredients consisted of anything but dairy. The reason I’m mentioning this is for the purpose of juxtaposition of the qualities of food eaten before and during the variety showcase. Walking into the showcase I was unprepared for the events proceeding. About eighty vendors all with their own two-to-three table long booths were preparing and serving tapas-sized plates of organic, locally grown dishes. Such dishes were oven-roasted small purple potatoes covered in a caramelized buttermilk sauce seasoned with smoked kelp, moist tres leches style melon cakes made with special varieties of organic melons grown in the area, and savory, sweet, flakey pastries topped with caramelized leeks, all of which were so phenomenal and overshadowed my gas station snack by such magnitude that I had forgotten I had even partook in such a food until finding the wrapper in my pocket preceding the event.

Such high-class foods of a higher caliber such as ones sampled at the variety showcase have opened up the culinary world to me more than was previously thought possible by myself. This showcase was a demonstration of culinary creativity and skill. Not only is creativity a main factor in delicious foods, but so is flexibility with the ingredients making up a dish. Take for example, a butternut squash; now this squash is an earthy semi sweet food that in my experience is cubed, oven roasted with olive oil, salt, and pepper and treated as a savory side. Of course, the use of butternut squash can also be that of a sweeter profile by cubing and roasting with cinnamon and brown sugar. However, this is no dessert, simply a sweet side. I experienced a dish at the variety showcase in which butternut squash is pulverized into a squeezable paste, slightly sweetened and squeezed using an icing dispenser into chocolate dipped ice cream cones. The creamy paste is cold, refreshing, quite sweet, and slightly earthy, it tastes very much like a high-quality dessert. However, its base and majority of flavor can be attributed to the vegetable that it is. Now, this food cannot be associated with a specific cuisine or culture, it is merely a product of modern food ingenuity. Taking this gastronomy class and learning about not only historic food culture, but also modern food culture, my palate has been widened and my mentality towards foods and flavors has grown and expanded for the better.

by Ethan Bowlen

There was a small, rickety wooden stool tucked in the corner of the kitchen, sitting beneath the white landline telephone mounted on the wall. Here, I would perch at the counter’s edge and follow along with my mother as she cooked; she would give me micro-portions of her ingredients, and I would do my best to imitate whatever she was creating.  We would chat in silly French accents and create lighthearted dramas as we worked on pies, cookies, spaghetti or lentil stews. I had a favorite wooden spoon and mixing bowl, but I especially loved the rolling pin and how intentional and productive it felt to roll out the doughs of floury desserts. Elsewhere, I went by “Ethan,” “E,” or “Ebay.” While I was with my mother in the kitchen, in my family’s first home on Bawden Street in Ketchikan, Alaska, I was “Monsieur le Chef.”

Although my alter-ego “Monsieur le Chef” only truly came alive during the brief period between the ages of four and five years old, my times as he are the oldest and most palpable memories of food I can recall. I still smell the light, sweet fluffiness of various flours and doughs, dusting the countertop and my face and hands; I can still see the kitchen, the sun basking the countertops beneath the wide windows that overlooked our small and wild Alaskan garden; I can still feel the muscles of my mouth tighten joyously with long ago smiles and giggling chit-chats shared while I sat on that stool, rolling pin in hand.  With the memory of Monsieur le Chef comes a gentle cascade of sensory experience, as well as an overwhelming nostalgic appreciation for the childhood that I lived and for the people who made it so.

My first and most formative food memories were given to me by my mother, ultimately through whom Monsieur le Chef was born. She gave me agency and pride in my culinary creations, however rudimentary and fantastical they may have been; she taught me that work and skill-building did not have to be a chore, and that, with the right company and the right attitude, one could find enjoyment and pride in the completion of tasks. Unfortunately, these lessons were recently remembered and for the majority of my youth I remained quiet, passive and reserved.

I’ve only just rediscovered a serious passion for food and the sensory experiences that are intrinsic to eating. Thinking now in earnest on my relationships with food and the people who shaped my perceptions of it, the passion was always there— it just went unaddressed and sat unfueled. I am older now and thus memory does not flood, but crops up in anecdotal river teeth, fuzzy pictures with sporadic instances of vibrant sensorial clarity. Beginning with my culinary origin as Monsieur le Chef in the kitchen with my mother, I can then trace my love of food and the dimensions of my palate best through other guardians from my youth. Through my father and the parents of my childhood friends, I became further acquainted with the dynamics of food, household kitchen cultures, and family.

At my childhood home, my father was the master of breakfast and a man of simple yet flavorful taste, indulging in cereals and pancake mixes and bacon on the stove. Although they more or less came straight from a box, I don’t believe that I have had pancakes better than the ones my dad used to make. When I would stay the night at a friend’s house, I would miss having breakfast at home, though there was always much to be gained at these fresh and diverse locales.

Health was to be had at Alec’s home, no doubt his father’s profession as a physician played a role in this culinary factor. For a long time, a persistent ribbing of Alec referenced an instance in which Andy, his father, became very upset with him after discovering Alec had eaten more than two Oreo cookies.  At Sy’s home across the channel on Pennock Island, we ate Dutch Babies made by his parents, Peggy and Paul, topped with powdered sugar and lemon juice; I always felt especially privileged to spend mornings at this dining table, with the rich flavor of these light and fluffy cakes mingling with the scents of salt spray and fresh air as we looked out at the ocean and the mountains.

In retrospect, I can see that these two locations in addition to my immediate home were where my passion for food first took root. Each household, each cook, had an individual set of characteristics, systems, and sensations to add to the food that was prepared for eager young mouths. I am only now beginning to make my journey back to who I was when I was Monsieur le Chef, and in recognizing those in my life who have influenced my palate and my culinary perceptions, I will try to cultivate a more active and intimate relationship with food.

In loving memory of Betty Christoferson

1930 – 2019

Forever my sunshine.

Kelsey Schoen

By Kelsey Schoen

It’s 7:00 A.M. at my grandma’s house; I smell fresh hot coffee, oatmeal, eggs and fried spam. I hear the sizzle from the grill and the horrible sound my grandma makes when she scrapes the bottom of the oatmeal pan. As I awake to the smell of my grandma cooking breakfast, I know it is time to get up. My grandma gives me a big warm smile and points to the kitchen table where my bowl of brown sugar with a side of oatmeal is already set up for me to eat. I squeal with excitement because I know that no one could beat Grandma’s oatmeal. She, of course, knew to set it out for me ahead of time so the brown sugar could melt, and the sides would cool. Very quickly, I found out that if you eat from the outside edge of the bowl first, and then slowly make your way to the middle, your food will always be at the right temperature. Grandma knew how I ate and made sure that all my food was prepared that way.

My grandparents’ house was built on my grandpa’s parents farm. Most of the vegetables that we ate during the spring and summer were grown by my grandpa and me. My grandpa was a true Norwegian, so the garden mainly consisted of potatoes. Every year, half the crop would rot due to my grandpa getting impatient and overwatering the potatoes. My grandma would just shake her head but cook the potatoes that survived anyway. She only knew how to make potatoes two ways: boil them ‘til they are mush, or if she boiled them too long, then they were mashed potatoes. Oh boy, did people not like when she did that! But me? I loved it! The best part of the potatoes were that she didn’t put a lot of salt in them, so they tasted perfect.

It’s 3:30 P.M. and I am walking through the front door after school; I run to the fridge and look to see what’s in it. I look down to the bottom shelf and I see an overly-used, worn-down, rectangular yellow Tupperware container, with cold neatly frosted cherry-chip cupcakes. My mouth begins to water as I grab one, sometimes three. I plop myself in front of the TV and devour the cupcake. Thirty minutes later I look behind me and I see a plate of Lefse, a Scandinavian potato flatbread, with butter and brown sugar just sitting there waiting for me. I don’t know how she did it because I never heard her footsteps. She had special powers when it came to getting me to eat. My grandma played an influential role in teaching me how to cook and acknowledging what I like and don’t like to eat. She would make a dish called salmon loaf with creamed peas. Some may call it a peasant dish; I call it a luxury. Granted, I am very sensitive to salt and refuse to add it onto any cooked foods, but I loved this quite rather salty, creamy dish. When I would get home from school and the house smelled like fish, I knew it was going to be a good night.

One drink I will always despise and never wanted to drink is milk. However, my grandma made me drink it before I was allowed to leave the kitchen table. It got to the point that we compromised on a small glass and I just drank that like a shot of whiskey. I never understood why my grandma was so gung-ho on the fact that milk makes yours bones strong. At the time, I didn’t believe it. But, hey! Grandma knows best.

Overall, if it weren’t for my Grandma, I wouldn’t know who I am as an eater or a person. Yes, she spoiled me rotten, but it gave me a chance to figure out what I genuinely like to eat and cook. I now know what true comfort food is, and that even though Grandma’s potatoes are good, roasting is the way to go. My grandma never made me eat something I didn’t want to, she just encouraged me to try it when I was ready. The same went for cooking. If I didn’t want to cook with her that night, it was okay, but she encouraged it the next day. It’s that sweet, gentle, kind approach that made me into the adventurous eater I am today. Thanks to my grandma I am a cook, baker, future farmer, and adventurous eater.

It’s 5:00 PM and I’m sitting at my grandma’s kitchen table. I get up and go see what she’s doing and if she needs any “help.” I can smell the over-cooked boiled potatoes and broccoli but what I’m most excited about is the fishy, creamy, mushy, to-die-for salmon loaf with creamed peas on top. The food is placed nicely on the table and the food people liked the most is put close to them just so. I run and grab my huge glass of water and sit down as fast as I can so I could get the biggest slice of the loaf. My parents divorced when I was five, so my mom, brother and I lived with my grandparents ‘til my mom could get our house back. We say grace and I start eating my food. I always ate my food in order of what I liked the least to what I liked the most. I quickly learned that if you eat your favorite food last the taste of the food lingers, which I enjoyed. We get done with dinner and I yell, “Is everyone done with the potatoes and broccoli?” Of course, everyone says yes, and I devour every last crumb. As I’m finishing my vegetables out of the corner of my eye, I see it: dessert. Yes, I still had dessert, even after all the food I ate, but it was always worth it. The dessert varied from cake, cookies, or even just my favorite graham crackers filled with Betty Crocker canned vanilla frosting. Having dinner at my grandparents’ house was always a treat.

My Grandparents met atPictSweet, which was a cannery in Stanwood, Washington. My grandpa was known as “the man leaning on the broom.” One day, my grandpa asked my grandma if she wanted to go out to breakfast. She thought he was out of his mind because all she wanted to do was go to sleep since she just got done working a night shift. My grandma eventually agreed, and it went from there. In 1947 my grandparents got married, and not soon after my uncle, Kenny, was born; they ended up having six children, with my mother being the youngest. My grandpa was a first generation Norwegian, and the food that he grew up on was influenced by his heritage. His diet included a lot of fish and the milk products from their farm such as, milk, cream, eggs, and beef. Everything he ate was boiled. My grandma’s family ate a lot of traditional West Coast American food, which was similar to my grandpa’s diet. Both of my grandma’s parents were deaf and met because they were introduced into that social circle. They settled on a dairy farm in Silvana, Washington and raised my grandma and her younger sister Alice. My grandma lived through the depression, during which sugar was rationed, but that didn’t stop my grandma and great aunt from stealing the sugar from the kitchen to make fudge. Every time my grandma told that story, she always ended it with “It was all worth it.”

When I dined at my grandparents’ house, I pretty much ate meat or fish, boiled potatoes (a staple), and a boiled vegetable, which I finished off when everyone was done. When I cook, I don’t boil my food, but I do eat similar foods such as fish, potatoes, vegetables, and eggs. My body needs seafood, especially fish. I have seafood at least once a week, usually twice. If anything, the foods my body craves the most are seafood, potatoes, vegetables, and eggs. My grandma’s cooking has tremendously influenced how I cook now, I just kicked it up a notch and added flavor.

Not only did my grandma influence my cooking, so did my mom. After we moved out of my grandparent’s house, my mom was the main cook. Oh boy, when my mom cooked, did she add flavor. Sometimes the wrong flavor, which was salt. Less is more, in my opinion. My mom would always have the Food Network Channel on television and her and I would watch Emeril Lagasse together. Emeril Lagasse had a cooking show filmed with a live audience, and every time he put spices in his food, he would yell “Bam!”. Whenever my mom cooked dinner, I would run in and help her, acting as if we had our own television cooking show. I called it the Mom and Daughter Cooking Show. It was more like me talking a lot and getting in my mom’s way, but she let me do it anyways. Recurring dishes in the Schoen household where meat and potatoes (roasted not boiled), some kind of pasta dish, and random recipes my mom found that we either kept or never ate again. Without my mom and my grandma’s different types of cooking I would not be the chef I am today. I cook like my grandma in that I cook with heart and love. I cook like my mom because of the style and techniques I use. Whether it be roasting vegetables or looking up new recipes, my mom and I cook pretty similarly. I do have to say, there is nothing like a good home cooked meal from my mom. Ever since I was young, both my mom and grandma instilled in me the value and impact sharing a meal can have on someone.

By Dawn Mischele Arn

               When I was a child, my papaw was my culinary hero. He would come over for lunch some Sundays, and I was always so excited to see him. I remember a time when I could barely wrap my little arms around half of his belly. Every single time, he would tell me that he remembers when I was born. “You used to fit from here to here!” he would say, pointing from the inside of his elbow to his wrist. And every time he would compare my newborn-self to a football and pretend to run down the field with me. He’d pick me up and go “Ey! Touchdown!” and we would giggle together. Then, we would steal a leftover doughnut from that morning and head into the kitchen together. 

You could say that my grandfather was a bit eccentric, and you wouldn’t be wrong, but I thought he was a silly, creative, and hilarious genius. Part of his silliness was that he would always put on an over-the-top Italian accent while we were cooking. He did this so often and so well, that by the time I was 8 years old, I was convinced we were part Italian. I was shocked when someone finally broke the news to me. All that time together in Papaw’s Italian kitchen had me convinced that we were at least partially descended from who I thought were the best cooks in the world. 

This, however, was untrue. I recently took a DNA test with Ancestry.com and the results are in: I am white. The majority of my bloodline (66%) hails from England, Wales and Northwestern Europe, and the remainder is made up of the surrounding areas: 18% Germanic European, 10% Sweden, 3% Norway, and 3% Ireland/Scotland. I can’t say I know enough about the classic dishes of those cuisines to know if they influenced the way my grandparents ate, nor myself. On my mother’s mother’s side, we can trace her history all the way to the American Revolution, perhaps even The Mayflower. I don’t know much about my mother’s father’s side.

Papaw didn’t have an easy childhood and doesn’t like to talk about his parents all too much. I do know that after he escaped his parents at age 5, he grew up on his grandmother’s farm in West Virginia. He has fond memories of his grandmother, Mamaw. Papaw got his love for food from Mamaw; she fed him well with fresh ingredients and a healthy dose of love. There’s a glassy, far-away look in his eye when he talks about her; perhaps it’s happiness, or the pain of missing her, or remembering how much hard work went into the food he describes. Most likely it’s a combination of it all, and it’ll be the same look I have in my own eyes when I tell my children about Papaw. 

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Growing up in rural Florida our ethnic cuisine options were limited to the “Oriental/Hispanic” aisle of the grocery store, and Panda Express. This may be racism, or simply the demographics weren’t interested in different cuisines enough for a new business to thrive in the area. The town where I grew up was a NASA town, and after the space program was all but mothballed, the economy suffered. Because of this, the main businesses that were able to stay open were the ones that had been there for years, and the fast food restaurants. Although, if you were willing to travel the half-an-hour it took to get anywhere other than nowhere, there was really good Mexican food. In town, there was a pizza place that had been around forever and two barbeque spots: the popular chain Sonny’s BBQ, and a mom and pop shop called Louis’s BBQ Shack, which I always thought had the best sweet tea in town.

Looking back now, there’s a distinct difference between the kind of Southern cooking we did at home and the kind of Southern cooking we got when we ate out. The main difference is that the Southern that you could get at the barbeque restaurants were clearly influenced by the Black style of Southern cooking: creamy and flavorful baked beans, hush puppies covered in powdered sugar, BBQ sauce and rubs on every kind of meat the South had to offer. As a child I found the Black Southern food to be overwhelming and intriguing all at the same time. I remember once in the second grade we had some kind of family-recipe potluck as part of a history project. I can’t remember what I brought, the only thing I remember is the only Black student in the whole class bringing his dad’s cornbread and it being gone in an instant. I told him I didn’t know cornbread could be moist and sweet, I thought it was always crumbly and bland. I’ll never forget the proud look on his face that just read “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” 

The kind of southern cooking we did at home was white: white gravy, white biscuits, white potatoes, and steaks well done with nothing but salt and pepper. Maybe these are real-time echoes of the past; the white European blood showing itself as a lens to my culinary present. I spent the majority of my childhood between my mom’s house and my grandma’s house. My mom’s parents got divorced when she was 14, and my parents got divorced when I was 4, at which point we moved from California to Florida. My single mom was a teacher, studying to get her master’s degree and National Board Certification at the same time. Because of this, we spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house. She only knows how to make a few meals: spaghetti and meatballs, meatloaf, shepherd’s pie, and “baked” (but actually microwaved) potatoes. Are you noticing a trend? Top three ingredients: meat, potatoes, dairy. While these four meals will only get you so far, the main reason my grandma didn’t cook that often is because she hated to do it. Every time my mom cooks for her (to this day) she exclaims “Wow, it’s so nice to have a wife!” and laughs at her own joke. All of this, to say that we ate out often: Publix subs with fried chicken, cheddar cheese, and shredded lettuce, and Wendy’s chicken nuggets, a frosty, and fries were the most frequent options at grandma’s house. After dinner we would do homework, watch NCIS or Dancing with the Stars, eat ice cream and go to bed. My grandma eats ice cream at the same time every night; in fact, it’s how she remembers to take her cholesterol medicine.

My mom, although having a breadth of recipes in her repertoire, used a lot of the same ingredients: chicken, beef, dairy, pasta, potatoes, breads and sugar. The more I think about where our culinary influences came from, the longer the list gets: West Virginia accounts for the beef and potatoes, Florida takes responsibility for the chicken and sugar, Papaw’s obsession with Italian and French food accounts for the pasta, bread and sugar. We also felt the influence from our close proximity to the southern border both when we lived in California and in Florida; salsa, guacamole, tacos, quesadillas, and lots and lots of tortilla chips. Every year, my mom, siblings, and I made the trek back to California to see family friends and my father. Each trip was always centered around the foods we could only get on the west coast: Jamba Juice, In-n-Out, Wood Ranch, California Pizza Kitchen, and Chick-fil-A (before they expanded). I was always thrilled to share these meals with people that I loved, and often had not seen in a while. I find it fascinating that in this class we are engaging in “culinary tourism”, something I have been doing since before I was old enough to pronounce the same words. This influenced my relationship with food from a young age; I was always aware that food could play the role of something to bring people together, even across the country. It also made me overtly aware of the scarcity of some foods and how they can become the hallmark of a special occasion. Ironically enough, the “special foods from across the country” have reversed themselves now that I live on the West Coast. Now we look forward to Steak ‘n’ Shake, Sonny’s (Louis’s closed), and those now nostalgic Publix subs.

Before moving to Washington, I can’t remember one meal that didn’t contain meat in some shape or form— even green beans were cooked in pork fat and served with bacon bits. Once I moved north, my palate expanded quite rapidly. I started eating sushi, pho, Thai and Indian curries. I fell in love with the cuisine of the Global East. Despite this budding affection for new and exciting cuisines, I never lost my love and appreciation for the cuisines and dishes I grew up with: Southern, American, Italian, sandwiches, and grilled meats. All of these come together to form the palate I had going into the rest of my life.

Fast-forwarding through all of the character building, albeit unrelated, life events of middle and high school, we arrive here: The Evergreen State College. When I first arrived, I was weary of gaining the Freshman 15: an all you can eat buffet for three meals a day plus little self-control equals a very unhealthy student. However, the food served at said buffet proved not to be as enticing as I had originally imagined it would be. For the first few weeks I was adventurous, eating the various entre meals that they served. But after one too many trips to the bathroom (and eventually not enough trips to the bathroom) I decided to stick to the basics: burgers and fries. This isn’t exactly the well-balanced diet I had intended for myself. Although the Greenery may not have provided me with the nutrition I needed, what it lacked in health it made up for in community. Everyone has to eat, and all first-year students have to have a meal plan, so inevitably we ended up congregating there.

For all of its faults, I will always love the Greenery, because it’s where I met my partner. Kenny is a beautiful, kind and compassionate man whose wit and charm know no ends. He also happens to be a vegetarian Buddhist. Often times when I tell people that I went vegetarian when I met Kenny, they assume he laid down some sort of ultimatum: never let meat cross your lips or you will never have me. This is not the case at all; at first, I tried to be respectful by not eating much meat around him. After a few weeks of hanging out regularly, he offered a friendly challenge: try it. For one week, don’t eat meat. I was game, so to speak, and after that one week, I honestly felt a lot healthier. Kenny shared some literature with me about the harmful practices of factory farms and let me make my own choice, and I chose to stop supporting systems that blatantly disregard the well-being of all lifeforms on earth.

After I went vegetarian, things were really weird for a while. I didn’t know what a meal was that wasn’t centered around meat, so I mostly ate side options. For almost a month after the switch, I lived mostly on the Greenery’s salad bar and French fries. Sometimes I would venture out into the gluten-free options and eat some plain quinoa and their very spicy hummus (which Kenny affectionately called “spummus”), but aside from that my diet was fairly carb heavy. It took me a long time to learn how to work protein into my diet, and what a meal with veggies for the main dish even looked like. Luckily, my old friend pasta had my back to help me transition into a vegetarian diet. Three years into my vegetarian lifestyle, and I still struggle with it sometimes. The most beneficial thing that I’ve learned to help me is to look to cuisines of the Global East. Perhaps it’s because I live with a Buddhist that I made these connections, but I found that the places where Buddhism was associated with tended to have more meatless dishes— a hypothesis that was confirmed by reading Cuisine and Empire by Rachel Lauden.

Looking to the Global East helped me find ways to eat protein and vegetables instead of just macaroni and cheese. By looking at Chinese cuisine, I learned that tofu was more than just something floating at the bottom of miso soup (although this is still one of the most delicious ways to eat it, in my opinion), and that it didn’t always have to be soggy and flavorless. Tofu is bland by design so that you can imbue it with spices and flavor-boosters like garlic and ginger. One of my new favorite tricks is to put that boring white block in a tofu press; once you’ve squeezed out all the liquid, you can marinate it in whatever you’d like: soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, garlic and lemon juice. Plus, it crisps up delightfully when pan seared. The best thing about tofu is that it is a blank slate.

If you turn your eyes to India, you can learn so much about the importance of spices. I had no idea that curry wasn’t a spice, but a blend of spices, the same as tikka and garam masalas. You can make a delicious and well-balanced meal by combining some spices, vegetables, and coconut milk for a luxurious sauce that goes well with rice. I find it fascinating how often Indian cuisine uses yogurt to add acid and fat, balancing out the spices and starches. Another great thing Indian food introduced me to was lentils; dahl is a vibrant, aromatic, and hearty meal that comes together with little more effort than it takes to make a stir-fry.

To bring my exploration closer to home, I returned to an old favorite of mine: tacos. Of course, these weren’t the tacos I’d had before; they weren’t meat, cheese, lettuce, tomatoes, and sour cream. Instead, I looked to the wisdom of the Native Americans and their Three Sisters Garden. My tacos had black beans, corn, and sweet potatoes. The traditional Three Sisters garden would have squash instead of sweet potatoes, and nothing about this was a traditional taco (especially because we used huge flour tortillas, so it was more of a burrito really), but we used what we had to make something delicious. Once I concocted this mishmash of cultures and cuisines, Kenny was hooked. Thus was born our own version of Taco Tuesday, and it’s been a tradition ever since.

Taco Tuesday was just the beginning of me understanding how to make vegetarian meals. A lot of it had to do with making a schedule: Mondays are black bean burger days (I make enough to have leftovers for fast lunches throughout the week), then Taco Tuesday, Wednesdays are for stir-fries, Thursday I make a full on gourmet meal that makes me happy to cook and eat, and Fridays we have frozen pizzas because who really has the energy for anything more than pizza and beer on Fridays? What about the weekends, you ask? I cooked all week! Fend for yourself. Maybe if we’re feeling rich, we’ll go out to eat, and if it’s soccer season you’ll definitely find us at the sports bar eating garlic fries for dinner. The menu tends to change as our schedules demand, ensuring the fast meals land on our busiest days. I try to always keep one fancy meal per week to feed my culinary creativity, and let’s face it, my taste buds. It’s been a long journey to get to the point where I feel confident in my ability to be able to whip up a healthy and delicious vegetarian meal when I need to. I’ve added new meals to my arsenal (chickpea salad sandwiches) and erased the ones we only ate because I didn’t know how to make anything better (spaghetti with sauce from a jar and broccoli to make it “healthy”).

Even the meals that felt like we were suffering through had a place in the expedition towards climbing the meatless mountain. Whether it be figuring out how to eat something other than salad and fries, or dedicating myself to being able to make the perfect Thanksgiving gravy, everything I’ve learned has helped me grow into the eater I am today. And who knows, maybe I’ll master making the perfect vegetarian chicken tender: a crispy, crunchy outside with melt in your mouth moist “meat” inside the carb-y case. Even if I don’t, I know there’s no such thing as a botched attempt. Kenny always reminds me that I didn’t fail, I just learned how not to make something. There have been several times where having him in my kitchen has made me feel better, and I’m truly thankful for that. I always know that if I’m struggling to figure something out, I have a network of support (and a shared document full of family recipes) to fall back on. I’m grateful for every person, place, and plate that produced my palate.