Dutch Babies and Other Delights

If your guests are not crowing about it’s loveliness, then you need new friends or to coach them in better manners.

Today is my daughter’s birthday, so she planned the menu. I’m surprised that each year she has a new request for her birthday dessert, and a different dinner meal as well. Last year was chicken enchiladas with a chocolate cake that had a thick layer of mint frosting in the center and chocolate ganache on top.

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I invented this one!

Other years it is spaghetti with key lime pie. I’ve had to invent a fair number of the desserts, including the cake just mentioned and a s’mores cake. This year her dessert and dinner are easy: snacky dinner (basically a French themed antipasto) and sopapilla cheesecake.

Her requested breakfast, though, has been pretty consistent. First of all, there has to be sausage. My girl loves her some breakfast meat, and link sausages are at the top of the list. And I think I’m not bad at delicious breakfasts, so she really has a list to choose from. My husband, for example, always goes for sourdough pancakes with our fresh blueberries.  My kid, though, always picks a Dutch baby.

Dutch babies are kind of a hit with guests, too. They look very impressive, I think, and they are incredibly simple to make. I use a recipe from James McNair’s book, Breakfast, which I highly recommend.

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Smell the butter . . .

I don’t think they are terrible for you, until you put some goodies on top. Which we like to do. The traditional topping for a Dutch baby is lemon juice and powdered sugar. That’s nice, but that is not what we do. We like to have another family favorite with the Dutch baby: stewed blackberries.

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Stewing in their own juices

These are so good. If you can convince yourself to freeze some of those berries you picked in the summer, this dish is a wonderful use for them. Of course, you can buy frozen berries at the grocery store too. These also are not so bad for you, so we feel the need to add cream and put lemon curd on the Dutch baby. I mean, that’s a little over the top, I know, but it’s just who I am.

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Cream is almost always the right choice.

This trait is probably why you like me, if we are both honest.

Dutch Baby

4 large eggs

1 cup milk

1 cup flour

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

lemon zest

8 ounces unsalted butter

Preheat the oven to 475ºF. That’s going to be a while, so get to mixing! Beat the eggs until they are frothy and then gradually add the milk while beating. Gradually add the flour while beating as well. Mix in the vanilla. Zest your lemon into the batter.

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Zesty!

By now the oven should be close. Using a cast iron skillet (mine is 11 inches) or other oven safe skillet, put your stick of butter in the pan. Add the pan with the butter to the oven to melt the butter. Watch it closely, because it will go fast! Remove when just melted and pour in the batter. Don’t freak out about the butter. You won’t eat it all. It just keeps things from sticking and it seasons your pan beautifully. Cook for 10-12 minutes, keeping an eye on the baby. It’s going to puff up a lot!

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So beautiful!

Take it out to the admiration of friends and family. If they are not crowing about it’s loveliness, then you need new friends or to coach them in better manners. Serve immediately.

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Stewed Blackberries

Boil 1/2 cup water with 1/4 cup sugar and a cinnamon stick for about 5 minutes. Add 4 cups of frozen blackberries (or a 16 oz. bag) and cover. After it simmers, reduce the heat to low and stir occasionally. You want the boil to be gentle.

Serve with the Dutch baby. My husband likes to coat the Dutch baby with lemon curd and then add a little blackberry juice on there for good measure. Others just keep it separate. Both ways are correct.

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It looks fancy, but it is truly a breeze to make both of these. You should try it!

Summer. Isn’t. Over.

My garden wants to remind you that we are more than two weeks away from the autumnal equinox, thank you very much.

I’ve heard you all talking. I’ve heard the comments about getting back to school, about Labor Day, about not wearing white. I’ve seen you looking longingly at your sweaters. You’ve been thinking about making a casserole or baking some muffins, admit it. Just give you one cool morning and this is where we wind up.

My garden heard you too, and she is having none of it. She sent me here to correct these false rumors. First, she wants to remind you that we are more than two weeks away from the autumnal equinox, thank you very much. Second, she wants to emphasize that the equinox is just a formality anyway. Haven’t you noticed these nice warm days persist into October? Like, most years? She is going to make the most of it, and she suggests you do it too.

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I made a sauce with these to go with grilled salmon tonight.

Actually, she’s been getting a little forceful about this point. Every time I go inside, I feel her saying, “Don’t you turn your back on me! Do you see these okra? When you get back they are going to be enormous and too tough to eat! I had better see you out here EVERY DAY until I say so!”

Those okra. I’ve had actual dreams of going to the garden and the okra had grown into small trees, taller than my head. You have got to watch those suckers every minute.

My tomatoes are a bit more gentle about it. They stop setting fruit when it gets too hot, but they are only too happy to start up again once things get reasonable again. My cherry tomatoes are ripe again and my slicing tomatoes are setting. That means we’ll have fresh tomatoes until the frost comes, which in Arkansas can be into November. And even then you can harvest and fry up the green ones. Such a good idea!

And this is the time when my basil just gets out of control. I have to harvest so much. So much. Basil goes in everything this time of year. The fact that you can eat basil every day is just proof that it is summer.

Summer eating is simple eating, in my opinion. The flavors of ripe veggies and herbs just want to be appreciated. You don’t really want complex sauces this time of year. You want corn that is barely cooked, with salt and butter. You want a caprese salad. You want green beans cooked just so. Summer cooking doesn’t really need a recipe, does it?

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Keeping It Simple

But perhaps you aren’t sure about the green beans. Or how long to cook the corn. For you, I will write some not-recipes. Just in case you wanted them because you did not grow up with someone who made them. These are for you.

Green Beans, Just So

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It is all so perfect.

First, snap the beans. That means you just snap off both ends of the green bean. Don’t worry about where and don’t cut them. Snapping, by bending until it breaks, helps you get beans that are fresh. Ideally, you can snap right to the edge. But if they don’t snap until you get close to the middle, you are better off with less of that bean. Flexible, bendy beans are not fresh. You want ’em snappy!

Bring some salted water to boil. Add the beans and boil only until they turn bright green, about 4-5 minutes. Meanwhile, get out a bowl to put those beans in. Crush a clove of fresh garlic and add a dollop of mayo to the bowl. When the beans are bright green, drain them and put them immediately, steaming hot, into the bowl. The heat of the beans will release the scent and flavor of the garlic and make a sauce of the mayo. Add fresh ground pepper and salt to taste.

Now, don’t freak out about the mayo. (I use Duke’s, by the way.) Mayo is oil and eggs. It’s not weird or some kind of chemical. The French make it. Just call it aioli. And if you just can’t abide it, toss with olive oil and a squeeze of lemon. You might want the lemon even if you use the mayo.

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So tasty with mayo

Corn on the Cob (Not a Real Recipe)

Seriously, I know you can’t believe you are reading this, but you might want it. First of all, get the corn in the husk and don’t put it in the fridge. I try to use corn the same day I get it. I think that’s the key to having really sweet corn because the cold starts working on the sugars. Husk that corn when you are ready to cook it. Boil enough water that the corn could submerge. Bring to a boil and add the corn. Return to a boil and let boil for one minute. You heard me. Turn the heat off and cover the pot for five minutes. Now it is done. Take it out of the pot and slather with butter and salt. The end.

And for dessert? Maybe you would like a fig.

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You probably would like a fig.

So don’t rush into fall! It will get here soon enough and we will revel in winter squashes and persimmons. Just enjoy the now. If you don’t, I’m gonna hear about it from my garden.

Let’s Get Regional

Authentic is the bane of an anthropologist’s existence. Authentic implies one way; it implies the truth and the past. It ignores change and innovation, which all people are allowed.

I do love traveling, don’t you? I’ve been going back to some home places this last month, revisiting favorite parts of the country and, of course, favorite dishes. My journey began with a stop in New Mexico, a state I lived and worked in for a few years. I have to tell you, I love the food in New Mexico. When I was pregnant in Arkansas, all I wanted was ground lamb-stuffed sopapillas with red sauce from Angelina’s in Española, New Mexico. I actually shed tears about this craving. Bitter, bitter tears.

Honestly, Angelina’s is home to a few fabulous dishes, including their chile rellenos.

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I am drooling right now.

Some people think that New Mexican food is not “real” Mexican food. Here is a thing I want to tell you about “Mexican food”: It’s not one way. There is not a right way. There can be a way you like, for sure, but do not come at me with “authentic.”

Authentic is the bane of an anthropologist’s existence. Authentic implies one way; it implies the truth and the past. It ignores change and innovation, which all people are allowed. Now, anthropologists would like for people to be allowed change on their own terms and at their own pace, but cultural mixing and trying new things are truly features of being human.

Let’s take tortillas, shall we? I can’t tell you how many times that people in the U.S. have told me that corn tortillas are “authentic” and that flour tortillas are for gringos. In many parts of Mexico, people mostly make corn tortillas for themselves and they grow lots of corn. Lots of it, every spare place, like by the mailbox and in the backyard. Corn really is the thing. “Sin maíz, no hay país,” (without corn, there is no nation) as Francisco Toledo likes to say in his campaign against genetically modified corn in Oaxaca.

Yet in Sonora, a northern state in Mexico bordering Arizona, wheat has been cultivated from early Spanish colonial times. Wheat can be grown in winter and spring, times when corn cannot be grown there, allowing for two productive crops in a year. Indigenous farmers welcomed the introduction of this crop in the 16th century. Today, a specialty of Sonora, and also of the O’odham people, are tortillas sobaqueras. These flour tortillas are huge, stretching nearly from the hand to the armpit (or sobaco). I had these for the first time in Agua Prieta, Sonora, where they were served with local pride. And as a side note, when a Mexican friend ordered a chimichanga in front of me long ago in Nogales, Sonora, I asked naively, “But, are those really Mexican?” She said, “Well, people argue over whether they were invented in Sonora or Tucson, so I don’t know, but I love them.”

When someone at a restaurant asks me what kind of tortillas I want, I always ask, “Do you make either of them here?” And if they do, that’s the one I get. Homemade is always better. When I was working in Douglas, Arizona, right on the border, I interviewed a Mexican-American woman in her 80s. When I left her house, she sent me home with a dozen of her freshly-made flour tortillas. When her daughter heard, she was jealous almost to the point of anger. “Those are gold,” she told me fiercely, “They are like gold.”

My point here is not that flour tortillas are the best. I just want people to be open to difference, and to realize that difference may have it’s own “authentic” history. We had a favorite Mexican place in Little Rock that has closed. The Yelp reviews were full of complaints about how it wasn’t like what the reviewers had in San Diego or Dallas. If you asked the owners, they would proudly tell you what state in Mexico they were from and how their dishes were from that region. Many people claim that they know “authentic” Mexican, and dismiss what is in front of them, without realizing that Mexican cuisine is hugely regional.  Embrace the local versions! Sure, some restaurants cater to Anglo tastes. I always ask what the waiter likes the best, though, and try that. Figure out what they do well and stop pretending that a chile relleno will be, or should be, the same everywhere you go.

In New Mexico, the green chile is king. Okay, someone is going to be mad that I wrote that because red chile sauce is also king. All you have to do is look at the ristras strung up on peoples’ porches and doors to know that. But, the smell of roasting green chile all over the state beginning in August is quite something. Grocery stores have giant drums set up for roasting, so you can get yours fresh. And you should definitely do that.

I’m just going to admit that the way I like chile rellenos best is the way they do it in New Mexico. I don’t even order them in other states anymore and I don’t make them myself. I know what I want when I ask for a chile relleno. I want them a little crispy. I want them with green chile on top. I want the chile itself a little al dente, with some chew to it.

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Sopapillas, and some good tamales

And I want sopapillas to come with them. Big ones, with honey. Hot.

Do you know how this is? I don’t order certain things in restaurants. I am always disappointed with gazpacho because it is not MY gazpacho. I like it the way I make it. I would never order chicken piccata in a restaurant. Mine is better, and also, chicken? Why would I get chicken if I could have something else? That better be some special chicken. Life is short, friends.

My strategy, again, is to get regional. Order what they are good at where you are. Get the huevos with the plantains and posole on the side and piñon-atole pancakes.

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I mean, hypothetically, because that would be a lot of food.

My father-in-law was born and raised in New Mexico, though he has lived in Colorado for many years now. He is completely particular about his Mexican food. For him, real Mexican food comes from New Mexico. He drives to a certain farm stand in northern New Mexico to buy his fresh and dried chiles. He is not compromising on this issue.

He makes a chile verde, which I will share with you, that is sometimes insanely hot and other times not so insanely hot, depending on the chile. It is what it is. He will serve it to you with corn or flour tortillas, rolled or flat. It’s not the presentation, it is the chile verde that matters.

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Rolled with a flour tortilla

He got this recipe from a guy he knew, now passed away, named Jesus. It was a family recipe and he was given it on the condition that he never change it. So don’t mess with it, or Jesus in Heaven will be mad. (You can blame my father-in-law for that one!) He says that, but my husband has an ancient hand-written recipe for chile verde from his dad that is substantially different from the version that his dad put in the fundraiser cookbook for the local ski club. What stays the same are the ingredients – the ratios vary with your taste and the heat of the chiles. So, for god’s sake do not put onions in while you cook the sauce, but you can sprinkle on raw onions when you serve and if you don’t (I don’t) people think there might be something wrong with you. I’m going to share the fancy typed version of the recipe with notes, because I think he has refined his technique over the years. He has also become more fond of a very hot version, and that’s just fine. Pretty much everyone who has this dish wants it again, so I think you’ll like it.

Jim’s New Mexico-Style Chile Verde

4-5 lb pork butt (old recipe says 3-4 lb)

20-25 whole roasted green chiles, a mix of medium and hot (old recipe says “green chiles”)

5-6 cloves of garlic, minced (old recipe says 3)

1 16-oz can of stewed diced tomatoes (old recipe says 28-oz can diced)

Roast the pork butt at 300 degrees for about 3 hours until done (old recipe says 325°). Cool enough that you can remove the hard fat and cut into 1-inch chunks, but reserve the juices. While the pork is roasting, remove the skin and seeds from the chiles and dice them (old recipe says put them in a blender). Don’t wash them too much with water or you will remove some of the heat and flavor. Combine all ingredients, along with salt and pepper to taste, in a large pot on the stove. Add enough water to get things boiling, but you will want to end with a fairly thick consistency. Bring to a boil and then reduce to a simmer for 6 hours, adding more water as necessary.

You cannot eat these without beans. Jim makes them from dried pinto beans and he adds bacon or salt pork to them while they cook.

To serve, you can make stacked enchiladas with corn tortillas. Put down a heated tortilla, add beans and chile verde and cheese, and diced, raw onions, add another tortilla and repeat with chile verde and cheese. You could fix this up in a casserole to serve the family. You can also roll up the beans, chile verde, cheese, and onions in a heated flour tortilla and make burritos. Or you can put the beans in a bowl, add chile verde, and top with cheese and onions, and eat with a tortilla on the side. It’s how you like it!

As you can see, the ratios adjust the heat of the chiles. Cooking this will require tasting. If it’s too hot, you can add more tomatoes. Too mild, add some more roasted chiles. And remember, this recipe won’t be like the other chile verde you have had. It’s a regional dish. Enjoy!

The Terrifying Truth about Pesto

Before I share my recipe with you, I am going to need to tell you something terrifying.

I have seldom been more outraged than when someone stole my basil plant off my apartment porch in Tempe, Arizona. I had raised that little baby from a seed – from a seed – and some monster came and took it from me. Can you imagine? I think it was the same person who stole the tire off my thrift store bike that I used to ride to school there. I mean, why? It was not a great tire. Are you just mean? Anyway.

Pretty much since I’ve been settled anywhere, I’ve tried to keep a little garden and I ALWAYS have basil. When I lived in Tucson, I once brushed off my hands after planting some seeds and a plant sprouted in the well of my orange tree. The regular irrigation and sunshine produced the most enormous basil plant I’ve ever grown, big enough that my husband became worried about the survival of the citrus tree. I ended up lopping off big branches and taking them to trade with our neighborhood Italian restaurant, Fiorito’s, which is now closed. They gave me meals in exchange for it, I had so much. (As a side note, their lasagna was the best ever. If anyone out there knows the former chef, please oh please get me that recipe. I am serious.)

In my garden right now, I have three sweet basil plants growing. I also am confident that I will have volunteer Thai basil come back, as it does each year. I have three plants because I just like to be certain that I will have enough basil for my family’s pesto needs. Our needs are significant, y’all. We also like caprese salads a lot, so I simply can’t mess around when it comes to having sufficient basil.

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I am a reader of recipes. When I make a dish, I generally like to consult several cookbooks in advance. Then, I concoct one of my own based on multiple recipes and my own tastes. Happily, this method appears to be what Italians like too. They’ve been gleefully mashing up garlic and pine nuts with olive oil for millennia, apparently, and about 150 years ago started adding basil to the recipe. When we spent a little time in Italy, I tried several varieties of pesto. We had a favorite local delicatessen in Arezzo that carried their fresh version that we brought home regularly. The worst version came from one in which the chef added cashews, incapacitating three unsuspecting allergic diners, including my daughter. I say this not to point fingers, though it was somewhat terrifying, but to show that Italians like to experiment with ingredients too, even with things that are “traditional.”

Ultimately, I came up with my own version that was worthy of writing down, and it’s what I have used and shared for years. Before I share it with you, though, I am going to need to tell you something terrifying.

Terrifying Truth #1: Using the Mortar and Pestle Makes Significantly Better Pesto

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I’m sorry. I didn’t want that to be true! I love the food processor and it is what I have used for years and years. Also, when you use the food processor, you get a greater volume of pesto, which means you can save half for the winter months. And that is fabulous! I know all of this, and you can continue to use the food processor. I get it. But ever since we started using the old fashioned method with a mortar and pestle, we haven’t been able to go back. The taste of the pesto is so much better that it is worth the effort for us. And it’s a group effort – we all take turns mashing up the basil and garlic. The reason it is better is because of another terrifying truth.

Terrifying Truth #2: The Basil Screams When You Mash It

Okay, that may be a small stretch of what you would call “truth,” but work with me. Did you know that when plants get munched on by bugs or mammals, they cry out?  Read this amazing story for more detailed info: https://www.npr.org/sections/krulwich/2014/04/29/307981803/plants-talk-plants-listen-here-s-how

The summary is that plants can send chemical signals to other plants or even to predator bugs and those plants and bugs respond. Some even send signals underground or through ultrasonic clicks. I love this science!

So, I am using that science to say that smashed basil releases different chemicals than cut basil. And it releases its beautiful and fragrant oils in a different way. So the metaphorical screams of the basil make for better eating. It makes me slightly sad and also puts me in mind of A Wind in the Door, the sequel to A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L’Engle. But purge the idea of sentient plants from your thoughts and pound that basil up, friends! Here’s how:

Basil Pesto

2 cups fresh basil, well packed
4 garlic cloves
4 tablespoons pine nuts, toasted and cooled if you feel fancy
½ teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup (or less) olive oil
1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
¼ cup freshly grated Romano cheese

Pesto is completely dependent on the quality of your ingredients. Do not use some crappy olive oil. Get the good stuff. Your garlic matters. Your cheese matters. GET THE GOOD STUFF.

In the food processor, process the first three ingredients until finely chopped. Then gradually add the oil and salt until blended. Add the cheeses and pulse a few times until blended. Voila!

By hand (mostly): Put the garlic with the salt in the mortar. Smash that stuff up until it looks more like mayonnaise than garlic. There should be no shape to your pieces. Now add the basil a little at a time and pound the heck out of it. It will start releasing a scent that will make you need to burst into song, so you should plan ahead. I like to listen to Mariza about now. Yes, she’s singing in Portuguese but her gusto matches this phase of pesto preparation very well, I think.

Now, I do use a mini food processor for the pine nuts. Others use the mortar for this too, but I am usually out of room.  I scrape my smashed glory into the processor with the already chopped nuts and add the oil and blend briefly. I use less oil for this version, because it is so juicy. Like even half as much oil as with the food processor version. And when I say scrape, you better do that. I want all the juices. That basil will not have screamed in vain, I tell you. Then add your cheese and pulse briefly until combined. Taste for salt and cry just a little at how good it is.

To serve, put a cup of either version in a large bowl for 1 pound of pasta. Actually, we’ve been loving gnocchi with pesto, so give that a try some time. While your pasta cooks, stir about 1/4 cup of light cream into the pesto and give a few twists to a pepper grinder. Drain the pasta briefly and then toss it into the bowl with the sauce and give it a stir. Serve nice and hot!

Also, you can freeze any prepared pesto easily. I freeze it in one-cup portions for easy winter meals. And yes, the cheese freezes up just fine. Don’t stress about it. Enjoy!

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An Anthropologist’s Take on Food

Have you heard that joke about the anthropologist? Her student was preparing to go to her field site, where she had worked many years earlier. As she was giving the novice advice, she said, “Don’t turn down any food they offer! It’s very insulting to them if you say no.” When the graduate student got to the village, she began to ask older members of the community if they remembered her mentor. Oh yes, they replied, we remember her well! The student noticed that they were grinning a bit, and making eye contact over her head. What was so funny?, she asked. Finally, one of the older men burst out, “That woman would eat ANYTHING!” And they all rolled around laughing.

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I had been a vegetarian for six years when I started doing fieldwork as a cultural anthropologist. I ate fish and dairy, so I was pretty low down on the vegetarian meter. I was comfortable asking to be accommodated, and although I sometimes dreamed (literally) about eating bacon, I had no intention of changing my dietary practices. I had traveled internationally with no issues or need to eat meat. Then I started working outside my own cultural boundaries.

The first time I ate meat again was at the U.S.-Mexico border. I’d been working with a middle school and had made some real friends there. One friend, who I will call Maricela, asked me if I’d ever eaten a torta.  When I said no, she got excited and insisted on taking me directly to her favorite torta guy for lunch, who had a food truck close to the border fence in downtown Nogales.  As we drove, she explained that a torta was a kind of sandwich on a bolillo, a soft white roll, smeared with avocado, usually some lettuce and tomato and onions and pickled jalapeños, and your choice of meat.

Okay, I thought, maybe there will be some kind of fish option. And if not, maybe this one time I could eat the chicken. As we walked to the truck, I scanned the sign that listed today’s choices. There was no pollo. In my memory, there was only carne, and carne of many types. Standing there with my friend, who was so thrilled to be introducing me to the very best torta, I just couldn’t say, “I don’t eat that.” And as I asked about the different meat options, it turned out that each one had a story of its preparation, a time when you might prepare it at home, who might be invited, a memory of the best one you ever had. All this in a sandwich. I got carnitas that day, I’m pretty sure.

I didn’t change my regular eating habits immediately after that day, but that scene began to repeat over and over again as I fully engaged with ways of living that were not the ones I had grown up in. When I was invited to people’s homes, they had always prepared something very special for me. Often, that included meat. An Arab man in Jerusalem, who I had just met hours earlier, arranged a feast for me that included many small meat dishes. (That led to a very exciting stomach-related adventure the next day, which I will write about if you ask me nicely.) A favorite treat might be a strong cup of instant coffee, served without my usually required cream and sugar. It might be the beans your grandchildren love and say that no one can make just like you do. As people offered me their favorite dishes, I stopped being able to say no or ask how it was prepared on my way to declining it.

Have you heard that joke about the anthropologist? Her student was preparing to go to her field site, where she had worked many years earlier. As she was giving the novice advice, she said, “Don’t turn down any food they offer! It’s very insulting to them if you say no.” When the graduate student got to the village, she began to ask older members of the community if they remembered her mentor. Oh yes, they replied, we remember her well! The student noticed that they were grinning a bit, and making eye contact over her head. What was so funny?, she asked. Finally, one of the older men burst out, “That woman would eat ANYTHING!” And they all rolled around laughing.

I’m not suggesting that I feel the need to eat everything. I’m not suggesting that vegetarian anthropologists don’t do great work. But I do think that food is an avenue into culture in a very deep sense. The memories of eating a particular dish tell us about social relationships. The act of eating together across cultural barriers can bind people in a way that few other social acts can. Sharing and accepting food symbolizes a willingness to engage.

I’m also aware, because of my work as an anthropologist of borders and globalization, of how our food is produced. Many favorite dishes are born of poverty and the need to make do with what was available. Dishes that we think of as “authentic” to a region could only be possible because of global movements, trade, and migration. And the people who farm and harvest our food are among the most exploited people on our planet. (Yes, look for a follow-up piece on another reason I grow my own berries.)

 

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On this blog, I want to share my love and passion for exploring other ways of life through food. Some of the posts will be about the food where I live – Arkansas, in the southern United States. Others will be about food in the places I have traveled and worked as an anthropologist. I hope all of them will entertain, and will help you to entertain family and friends, and to cross cultural boundaries whenever you can.