Food Fads

Last week, during a visit with my best friend in Sonoma, California, four of us had a fine meal at a Petaluma tapas restaurant.  It occurred to me, once again, that foods can gain popularity and lose it just as quickly.

Sometimes, new foods and flavors are appreciated for their novelty and lose favor when the novelty wears off.  My girlfriend, for example, used to love pesto.  She made it often, fresh from her amazing garden; but now she thinks pesto is just "so-so".  For awhile it, like "blackened" everything, appeared on every upscale menu.

We've all munched our way through TV dinners, fondue parties and high-fat granola, only to eventually turn up our noses at them. They had their moment in the culinary sun, only to fade off into the horizon.

On the other hand, the world fell in love with ice cream cones when they were introduced at the 1904 World's Fair, and their popularity shows no sign of waning any time soon.  Pizza and bagels captured an American audience before I was born, and millions of people still can't get enough of them.

Within the next few years, we'll probably see fewer fruity salsas, cilantro-infused cocktails, diet sodas and "stacked" dinner plates. I, for one, won't miss them (although I could go for some cheese fondue right about now).

So, why all the buzz this past decade about tapas?  Sure, Spanish food is tasty, but why do people want tiny plates of tapas at wedding receptions, banquets and even at upscale restaurants? 

I think the popularity of tapas falls in line with trends toward whole grains, organic veggies and red wine.  Just as it's more sensible to eat a single (and very popular!) cupcake than a big wedge of layer cake, it's healthier to eat a small plate of calamari or fried polenta in Alfredo sauce than it is to eat a large plateful.  The new foodie's mantra: moderation in all things--including moderation. 

I leave it to you to explain the 20th century love affair with Jello.  Now, that one's still a mystery to me.

The Truth about Women and Math: X – X ≠ 0

I’ve hated math all my life—or at least since the third grade.   That was the year Mr. Bunch decided to teach us arithmetic not only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, but also during the two periods per week that had been set aside for “art.”  After a few weeks of no paints, crayons, or pastily-constructed masterpieces of colored paper, I asked him to “please give us back our art.”

Mr. Bunch raised his chin and, looking down at me, explained:  “The study of mathematics is an art.”  I thrust out my nearly eight-year-old chin and replied: “Not to me it isn’t.”

From then on, until the end of the school year, on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 10:00 and 11:00, I drew pictures of the trees, birds, and squirrels that lived just beyond the classroom window.   I sketched profiles of my fellow classmates as they struggled over long division and fractions, and I re-invented Cubism, using Mr. Bunch as an unwitting model.

Apparently, I missed a few fundamental math concepts during those creative sessions, because at the end of the year, I got a big, red “F” in arithmetic that stuck with me right through high school.   From grade three on, I was—like Hester Prinne—branded, but with an “F” for “Female.”

In spite of that badge of shame, I never had much trouble with story problems.   “If Mr. Jones wants his company to show an annual profit of $600,000,” it’s only fair that I help him increase his daily production of lollypops, toy trains, or nuclear waste containers by 6.3%.   

I’m not unreasonable; I realize math can be a helpful part of real life.   Without it, bridges would collapse, spacecraft might explode, and none of us would be able to figure out our taxes.   It’s when we get into higher math that my inner alarms go off.   Algebra, I believe, has always been a bad idea, and can be harmful.   One obvious proof of this is that my single term of college algebra had to be expunged from an otherwise 4.0 semester.   When the components, variables, and exponentials started coming at me hard and heavy, I lost track of good old Mr. Jones, his dependents and employees, and found myself sketching cockatiels, tornadoes, and Victorian doilies in the margins of my notebook.  During the second algebra exam, I tried imagining an earthly need to find answers to the problems.  Maybe Mr. Jones needs to measure an L-shaped grain silo for carpeting?  But the stubborn third-grade artist in me balked at the notion, and I walked out of the classroom forever—“scarlet letter” intact.

Much of what kids are required to learn in school—particularly in college—is taught from a perspective very unnatural to most females.  Although the majority of university professors are still male, they can’t be blamed; rather, the culprit is the longstanding tradition of analyzing issues (along with organisms) from within the vacuum of abstraction.  In an upper-division philosophy class, for example, I was once required to elaborate on and dissect the equation: “A has a right to X against O, by virtue of Y.”  This, needless to say, is a one-size-fits-all axiom for human rights—with all the humanity neatly extracted for our convenience.  Regardless of old Aristotle’s undisputed postulate: “A is A”, I find A, and even the challenged O, to wear a million different hats and present nearly 7 billion individual faces.  If A is pregnant, is she a potential 2A or, perhaps, an A+?

For some women, even the tired-and-true “2 + 2 = 4” can present problems.  If we sum up Mr. and Mrs. Jones with Mr. and Mrs. Smith, certainly, we come up with 4.  But what if Mrs. Jones has a child from a former marriage?  And what if (just to further complicate matters—real life being a messy business, after all) Mother Jones was Mr. Smith’s first wife?  Should the child be represented in the equation at all?  And if so, does he belong on the Jones’ side of the equation: 3 + 2—or on the Smith’s side: 2 + 3?  And can we convince either side to give up its right to the extra unit?  We could simply divide “it” up equally, giving us 2 ½  + 2 ½; but down here on Earth, beneath the inflated, sterile island of abstraction, a wise old sensualist named Solomon illustrated the impracticality of that solution some 2,000 years ago.

When we compartmentalize issues or elements, we run the risk of allowing ourselves the unrealistic luxury of easy management and clear-cut solutions without having to bloody our hands.  If Pol Pot, Lee Harvey Oswald and Ted Bundy considered each of their targets as X, the logical conclusion (in their minds) might well have been that X – X = 0.  If Hitler regarded the “Jewish Problem” or Harry Truman thought of the “Japanese Problem”  as X, the hoped-for difference would also have been 0.  And if X represents a single tree in a Brazilian rain forest, or one spotted owl in the Oregon woods, the elimination of either would equal 0 as well.

As a unit—one human being—who has, as a pregnant mother, on two occasions represented other potential human beings, and hence multiplied into three individual people, I must reject the equation altogether.  Aristotle nearly understood the importance of “potentiality,” but it was the wise and uneducated Shug, in Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, who said: “If I cut a tree, my arm would bleed.”   In other words, we cannot separate X from us with impunity, because we are X. 

If Y represents a potential for loss, madness, joy, retribution, growth, destruction, utopia or Armageddon, then X – X clearly equals Y.  As Solomon wrote: “Wisdom crieth without; she uttereth her voice in the streets.”  And real life is lived outside the sterile  theoretical bubble, at ground level, just on the other side of the glass.

Real World Cooking

I don't know about you, but I'm a fussy eater. There aren't many foods I won't eat, but whatever I eat (or cook) has to be good.

No. It has to be better than good. I expect every bite to be spectacular; but I also expect my grocery bill to be modest.

I learned a lot about cooking when I worked as a professional cook and baker. I learned at least as much cooking for my own family. And, okay, I've even picked up a few tips from TV cooking shows.  They're fun to watch, and occasionally provide an interesting technique or recipe.

But if you're like me, you have little in common with TV chefs. You're a real cook, living in the real world, dealing with a real budget, and cooking in a real kitchen--without access to prep cooks, stellar appliances and a never-ending pantry stocked with pricy ingredients.

No matter. You can put together an endless supply of amazing meals without breaking the bank (or your back) by learning a few tricks and watching the markets. Not the stock market--the food markets. The first secret to producing great food on a budget is buying everything in season. Meats and seafood are seasonal. Sales on cereals, baking supplies and even kitchen gadgets are seasonal. And of course, fruits and veggies are seasonal.

Seasonal produce is always cheaper, fresher, more abundant and of higher quality than anything off-season. I mean, consider an imported strawberry in January. It'll be pale, tasteless, unripe, and worst of all: expensive!  Not the best time for some gourmet strawberry-based dessert. Now, compare that sad, overpriced berry with plentiful (read: inexpensive) midsummer Oregon strawberries: juicy, red, perfumed and bursting with vitamins and natural sweetness. I'm thinking pie. Shortcake. Mousse. Home-churned ice cream. Oh, baby, somebody stop me before I get to the cheesecake topping!

Asparagus is great right now. Oranges? Not so thrilling. Scallions: good; Walla Wallas? Not quite yet.

I could go on, but why not find out for yourself? The world class Portland Farmers Market at PSU kicks off this year's season on the first day of spring--next Saturday, March 21.

Don't miss this local food party, with entertainment, flowers and every delicacy from smoked local fish to some of the best of our local bakeries. Best of all, you'll see first-hand which produce is fresh, delicious and priced right.

The PSU Farmers Market runs from 8:30 am through 2 pm. at the South Park Blocks. Bring the kids. Bring the dog. But leave your shopping list at home. Let what's fresh decide what goes on your menu. But more on that topic next time. Right now, I need a snack.

 UPDATE: Don't bring your dog to the Portland Farmers Market! The rules have changed this season, and our furry friends are no longer welcome!