Steak: It's what's for dinner Part I

Since the beginning of time, March 31, 1984, steak has been the epitome of manliness. Every barbecue that was ever graced with my presence was also graced by at least one steak. The number was, of course, dependent on the number of adult males present for the special occasion. Nonetheless, my Father always managed to get at least one steak on the grill. Up until the age of 16 I was unfortunate enough to get the "kiddie" food: a hot dog. However, I knew that one day my mouth would get to savor the amazing, not to mention succulent, taste of a steak, cooked medium-rare.

I can remember thinking on numerous occasions: "Someday I'll eat a steak just like my dad: when that day comes I will be a man!" In my young mind, nothing epitomized the image of a manliness more than that of a man cutting through a juicy, tender steak. When the day finally came, I considered myself more than prepared, and as I bit into that beautiful piece of meat I instantly realized something: I liked medium-well, not medium-rare...That aside, I knew I had passed the threshold of boyhood; my right of passage was complete, yes, I was finally a man.

The article by Rouse and Hoskins, as well as the discussion in class, spoke on the taboos of food. A taboo was not something that was bad to talk about (for immoral reasons). It more that the things (taboos) were so sacred people avoided conversation about them for the sake of sacredness. It is much like the commandment in the Old Testament stating, "Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vane." I find this point coincidal with my early childhood and my desire to consume steak.

The act of eating a steak, to me, was a sacred rite. It was as if the whole world stood still, and my spirit connected with the steak; we became one, and I became a man. I never really spoke of eating the steak, I just desired to do so.

Obento and My Sack Lunch

Growing up my school lunches were never very 'cool'. I had the usual apple and pb & j, along with the occasional snackpack, but hey, I never really thought twice about it. I can remember my buddy Jason constantly playing with his fruit snacks. He was always able to have the coolest fight scenes, but it was never the same when I tried. My fruit snacks always seemed dull, along with the rest of my food. I guess I was always just taking the sack lunch for granted, and never really thinking about the time my mother spent making it.

However, upon learning of the ritual of the obento, I started to look at my sack lunches a little differently. The mothers in Japan would spend huge amounts of time, not just in preparation for the obento to be eaten, but in thinking of what to give their kids in it the next day, etc... Learning this really made me start to think about my mom, and the time she spent in making my lunch. Sure, she didn't spend a ton of time making it, but still, I could have made my own sandwich and lunch (although if I did, the lunch would have consisted mainly of pudding and pop, with the occasional Cheetos or fruit snacks.

Though I never thought of it this way before, just like those mothers in Japan who showed compassion to their little kids by making them ornate obento every day, my mom was showing me that she loved me every day, though I never noticed it.

What's that smell? That can't be soup! (Portfolio)

Picture the most amazing smell you have ever had the chance to lay nose on. Got it? Great! Now, as you smell this wonderful aroma, take in a slow, deep breath, open your mouth, and then take a bite of it! Oh the bliss! There must be a hundred different ways to describe the exultation, the joy, or the pure satisfaction that come upon this type of indulgence. You might even experience something similar to what Marcel Proust experienced when he bit into a piece of Madeleine dipped in tea: his childhood came back in a flash of vivid picture and images, real enough that one would feign try to touch it. I know I most certainly did, how about you? Why does this explosion of memory occur, and what tie does food have with our past?

It had been nearly 3 years since I last experienced Korea. The two years I spent there were now just a memory, treasured, but nothing more. Since that time my life decided to put the pedal to the metal and hit overdrive for a while. I met the girl of my dreams and we got married. We had our first child, a beautiful little girl, and quickly another one was on the way. I wanted to remember more of my time spent in Korea, and I wanted my family to experience (to some extent) a portion of that time. So, I decided to make my favorite Korean dish. Some would call it fermented bean soup, and to the untrained nose it might not seem like food, but the product of eating it :) To me, it is Dwenjang Chigae. I didn't know why I wanted it so bad, just that I did.

I purchased all the ingredients and then went to work. In went the water, and in went the Dwenjang. As the delightful (my wife would never use this word and this food in the same sentence) aroma split through the air at the speed of sound, I began to fell a tingling sensation in my toes. I was instantly back in Korea, that world opened up for me, once again. It was simply exhilarating. However, I was abruptly pulled out of this dream-like state when a sound pierced the air. "What's that smell!!!! That can't be soup!!!!" were the words that flowed from my wife's mouth. I don't blame her at all; the bit of heaven I was smelling was not at all what she was smelling. To her credit, she ate her bowl (barring the octopus legs). I was so proud. My bowl was simply amazing. The first bite was exactly like the last bite (of my 4th serving), heavenly. I honestly forgot I was in my own dining room. Two different realities, the past and the present, seemed to blur before my face.

Why did this happen, it is just food, right? I'm not so sure. There was definitely more than food going on when I was eating. Even though I was no longer in Korea, the whole of the Korea I experienced was contained in the soup. Upon unlocking the aroma and the taste, that all but forgotten world was remembered. For some reason the chigae became a symbol and an association of my past, specifically in Korea, and it awakened all of my senses to those scenes gone away.

Food is a catalyst. It draws in the whole scene that surrounds it, and that scene gets locked into all the aspects of the food itself (the taste, smell, and appearance). The dish becomes more than just food. The association with food becomes a gateway to the past, whether conscious or subconscious, that can be unlocked whenever you eat or smell it. Food is a powerful tool, and the power is in your hands, not only to remember the past, but to make new, wonderful associations now.

A Christmas Present Worth Giving

This was the third Christmas I have had with my wife, and frankly, I stink at giving Christmas presents. I don't know about the "average Joe" male out there, but I just find it hard to come up with any semblance of a good present throughout the year. To be honest, I have a yearly ritual of freaking out about a week (if I'm lucky) or so before the 25th with what to give my dear wife. When the time comes to open presents on Christmas morning I am praying that I was able to swing through and hit a home run.

My wife, on the other hand, has absolutely no problem with doing this. I have no clue how she remembers my ramblings, or other random hints, that I give her throughout the year. Somehow she does, every time! When it comes Christmas time she is completely ready to go and knows exactly what to do for presents, not only for me, but for our daughters as well.

I decided, after last Christmas, that the next one would be different. I told myself that for the next year I would pick up on every single subtle hint my wife would give, and then immediately write it down. Sadly, this New Year's resolution ended up with all the rest of my resolutions in the past: a memory. Come Christmas time this year (the week or so before) I felt the similar sensations of panic that I had become all to familiar with. Luck was on my side, however. I had an bit of revelation.

Being the poor college student I am, quality restaurant food is difficult to come by. Not that there isn't good food out there, but let's face it, there is a hole in my wallet at the beginning of the month before I spend anything. However, my wife loves to eat at this Thai restaurant on Lake City Way. There is a dish there called Massaman Curry and it literally makes her start to salivate the instant she catches a whiff of the sweet aroma. Needless to say, the stuff is not cheap, but I remembered on numerous occasions hearing longing sighs or other similar sounds indicating she was craving the curry. "What can I do?" was my constant thought. One day, in a rush of thought I decided to make the stuff for her from scratch as her Christmas present.

I went through a local Fred Meyer and raided their spice section, getting spices like ginger and turmeric (some stuff I had never heard of before), fish sauce and anchovy paste, not to mention the staples like chicken and potatoes, as well as some pineapple (the secret ingredient). So, for the Christmas present all of the non-perishable items went into a Christmas bag, and the rest of the stuff went into the fridge--into 3 Fred Meyer bags stuffed into a drawer in a very discreet and inconspicuous, pre-chosen location. I knew that this year things were going to be different!

Come Christmas morning, the feelings of trepidation and fright long since abased, the excitement was swelling to unusual proportions. I had built up the gift, so my wife's expectations were up there. She opened the present and was ecstatic. The best was yet to come. From scratch I created the curry paste, and then went through the long and arduous task of making something that I had never created before (I am not the best cook, but I can swing with the best ones when I have a good recipe).

After the mixing came the simmering, and that was by far the best part. The sweet aroma permeated through our entire 2 bedroom apartment. At first the ginger stuck out, but then, surprisingly, I could smell the fish sauce, something I had never recognized before. Every single ingredient contributed to the overall wonderfulness of the scent, and upon getting a small sniff, I heard small groaning noises coming in from the front room. Turning around, there was my wife, sitting on the couch, salivating. The scene was one that would go down in in my memory forever.

Then we got to taste the mixture, and I'm not going to lie, it was good--really good! I had my doubts, making it from scratch, but the curry was just plain amazing, and the most wonderful part was the fact that it would last us a week, tasting better each day. Of all the things I could have done to say Merry Christmas, or I love you, to my wife, the simple act of creating a meal said more than a million words.