My Relationship with Food

Though I've been in New York for many years now--and it is very much my home--I'm originally from the small city of Bakersfield in the heart of the miserably hot California desert. 

Like so many places in the world, this country likes to conveniently forget its underdogs and, as a result, the gap between the extremely wealthy and devastatingly poor is huge. My family fell (rather resoundingly) into the latter category. I still remember the day I discovered what the monetary definition was for poverty. I was surfing the web under the cooler (despite living in the desert we did not have air-conditioning, just a soggy smelling swamp cooler that barely cooled the livingroom, let alone the rest of the house). I looked up at my dad--I knew then how much he made, though now the number escapes me, and our mother made no monetary contribution--and said something like, "Oh my gosh, dad, that means we live in poverty!" Angrily, he grabbed the ever-present hat off his head and yelled, "Don't you think I know that?!"

It didn't seem obvious to me that we were so poor, we had game consuls and dial up, there were so many people out there who had even less, I thought we were fortunate--at least we had a house. But as I got older, I began to notice the flaws; the mold on the bathroom walls, the torn linoleum, and my father confessed that we hadn't been making rent regularly for a very long time. Suddenly, it occurred to me how big my friends' houses were compared to mine, how clean and perfectly decorated. And how had I not noticed their awkward behavior when they came to visit? It was not a flattering realization.

Somehow, I never noticed the food. For us, it was normal to go weeks eating only Ramen Noodles and instant potatoes. A good, satisfying meal was a luxury. And, since both my parents and I suffered from severe acid reflux, our choices for food were even further limited. Of course, it certainly didn't help that we constantly ate fast food. 

So food--however unhealthy and full of salt--was nourishment. We weren't given the chance to enjoy it. 

I remember the first time I tried something that was considered 'good.' We were celebrating something (I can't remember what) and decided to go to an upscale French restaurant. I don't remember what I ordered, I was pretty young so it was most likely something that would make the restaurant's classically trained chef cringe. What I do remember is my dad's order. Though he had grown up on the same high-carb, typically Southern style cooking as the rest of us, he had always been more adventurous and therefore had a more refined palate. He ordered pickled tongue. I was fascinated by the very idea that one could eat something that others use to eat with. I couldn't wait to see what it looked like, but what was most important (especially for the eventual foodie I would become) was that I really wanted to try it. The meat was much thinner than I had anticipated, and very chewy. I don't know what I expected it to taste like, but it was sour and somewhat salty--a combination of flavours I would eventually come to love. I was surprised that I liked it.

It wasn't until I was much older that I realized all food could be that good; it didn't have to just be nourishment, it could be just as exciting and interesting as the books I spent most of my time devouring. 

Though it would take years for my acid reflux to even allow me to be adventurous (and it still hinders me on occasion), I began to develop a great appreciation and eventual love for food. 

Now, though I don't make much more than my dad did (and, in fact, probably don't make more at all), I try never to let food become so unimportant. Even something as seemingly insignificant as a sandwich can be the best meal you've ever had.

So, the moral of the story is, love your food. Even if you're picky (I still hate onions), because a lot of people--even in a country as plentiful as the United States--don't get that luxury.

Taco Salad

Ingredients

Two or three types of beans

Sweet Corn

Lettuce/arugula/cabbage

Feta Cheese

Cilantro

1/2 Lime

1 Jalapeno (optional)

Croutons!

Tostitos "hint of lime" chips, crushed

Thinly cut steak (your choice of what body part)

This is one of the best salads you'll ever have. As with many of my recipes, I concocted this from a craving. Use whatever beans you like. I usually choose black beans with one or two other types--usually kidney and/or white beans.

1) Chop up some cilantro and slice the steak into small squares. Since they're such think pieces, I tend to slice mine up somewhat haphazardly.

Don't over-season your steak for this--it's about the salad as a whole so you don't want any one ingredient to be overpowering. I used the cilantro, "Montreal Steak Seasoning," black pepper, half a lime and a teensy bit of onion (we all know how much I hate onions). If you want a little kick, add a bit of Tapatio.

You can cook the steak any way you'd like, I usually prefer my salad steak to be well done.

Pile the lettuce, beans, corn, crushed chips, croutons, feta and steak onto a plate, add your favorite dressing (I usually prefer Marie's "Super Bleu Cheese"). Occasionally, I'll add jalapenos, but, for the most part the salad is better without them.

Enjoy!

Salads are great for low effort meals. The only real preparation in this "recipe" is the steak, everything else is just plating. When I'm feeling lazy, I almost always go for a salad. This one is a hearty salad, so perfect for a big dinner on a chill evening in the summer.

Veselka!

My anticipatory darlin.

Dreaming of Ukrainian food.

Beautiful, photogenic borscht.

"Hold still!" So I did.

Lovely little Veselka.

Devoured.

"Meat Plate."

2 meat and 2 potato pierogis and meat stuffed cabbage in mushroom sauce.

The potato pierogi and meat stuffed cabbage innards.

Oh, so delicious meat pierogi.

Veselka is one of my favorite restaurants in the city, but, for whatever reason, Nick and I only eat there once a year or every few years.

Some time ago, I was very annoyed to see Veselka in a movie called Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist--it was a super hipster movie from 2008; just terrible. I was worried that it might become overrun by the kind of awful people who enjoy movies like that (and therefore change). Yet, somehow, Veselka remains as authentic and "un-discovered" as always. It is, thankfully, in an obscure enough location that most tourists wouldn't even notice.

This lovely little place, located in the East Village, is a diner-style Ukrainian restaurant. They serve both regular everyday American diner food and "Ukrainian Specialties."

I'm a sucker for pierogis--which some Ukrainians call "varenyky." I love them so much I've incorporated them into our holiday meals every year (from scratch, of course). So, when I go to Veselka I usually get a large plate of them. This time was no different, I went for the "Meat Plate," which consists of two meat and two potato pierogis, and one meat stuffed cabbage in mushroom sauce with sour cream, beets and horseradish. It also came with soup and salad, so I ordered the cold borscht.

Now, I love beets. I will put beets in all sorts of meals; they're delicious, versatile and good for you! That borscht was (and always is) delicious. I remember the first time I saw it, it was my 21st birthday and Nick and I decided to go to Veselka with our good friend Anthony. I, of course, ordered the pierogis and Anthony ordered borscht. I was shocked by its nuclear pink color and didn't like the taste immediately. Now, years later, beets are one of my favorite things and their borscht is freakin awesome.

I also really love their beef stroganoff, its just the right amount of creamy and tangy. The American food is lovely, too. And their veggie stuffed cabbage. And the tasty Ukrainian beers.

Anyway. Go to Veselka. And give them my love. Just don't bring too many people with you. Lets keep this on the down low.

Here's their website

Man on the Train

I boarded the train in a bit of a funk, still somewhat traumatized by the nightmares I'd woken up from that morning. I stood against the door, trying my best (and failing) to concentrate on the book in my hands.

The NYC Transit Authority--particularly the subway--is both the worst and only public transportation (besides taxis) in the area. Because of this, the humid underground trains are a veritable swamp of every type of person imaginable. Mumbling, yelling, breathing and sneezing. In surround sound. And they are completely unavoidable. Being somewhat xenophobic myself (and very misanthropic) I spend most of my time on the train trying to ignore those around me.

For whatever reason, angry and fed up people often view the subway as a stage and its occupants their audience. This time of year in particular seems to bring out the boldness in people. Bums are more frequent and aggressive, religious zealots are constantly trying to spread their misery to everyone else, even the everyday Joe--who normally has nothing to say (and is generally uninteresting himself) is voicing his opinion more often. You can imagine how frustrating this is while trying to read.

So, when another particularly outspoken Joe came onto the train that day, I buried my nose further into my book and managed to read the same paragraph about three times before realizing what he was saying.

"Religion and politics do not make a holy union!" he yelled. "You should be ashamed of yourselves! You Christians! Is that what you call yourselves? You should be ashamed. Religion and politics do not mix."

"Those of you who call yourselves Constitutionalists?!"  He spit the word from his mouth." Have you ever even looked at the constitution? It says 'Separation of Church and State!' Right there on the page! So why are you trying to make the two mix? How does that make you more of a Christian? If you have to hide behind politics to make you feel like a better Christian, then you're doing something wrong."

"And how does two men getting married make you less of a Christian? In the Bible, when the people brought Mary Magdalene before Jesus and threw her at his feet as a harlot, he respected her! Jesus said we need to love everyone, regardless of their disposition. I'm a Christian, too! I know the Bible! Who are we to judge? That's God's job!"

What he said next killed me, because he said it with such conviction. It hurt me that he believed this about himself and that there were others around me who probably did too. "People sometimes discriminate against me because of my skin, sometimes people hate me for my skin, but I can't help the color I am! I was born this way!... and there have been times when I've looked down at my skin and wished that it was a different color, that I wasn't black. But it's not something I can change, this is how I was born. Leave them alone! You don't know what make a man gay or a woman a lesbian! You don't know if they can change that! I can't change my skin!"

By then I had stopped reading entirely, though I still held me book, too cowardly to look him in the eyes. But I wanted nothing more than to hug him.

"How does it make you less of a Christian for them to marry? If anything it makes you more of a Christian because it shows such great love. I'm a Christian too! And I don't think it's wrong for gays to marry. Leave them alone."

The train doors opened then, it was his stop. On his way out, the last things he said were, "Religion and politics don't mix. You should be ashamed of yourselves."

I couldn't agree more.