Starting back up, folks!

So! I've decided to start a blog up again...because on a really bad day, all you can really hope for is a successful blog that will make you tooonnnnnns of adsense money and you'll be rich and famous! It's a theory, it's out there, so it's not likely, but still. 

Katherine, why did you have a bad day?

Well I'll tell you why, it's because I failed my accounting exam. That means I'm an idiot and I'm never going to give a TED talk or be successful. I would fake faint right now, but I already pulled that stunt in the library a few weeks ago. I don't want to toot my own horn but it was so realistic that the old lady behind the circulation desk asked if I needed help. I suppose her response could be interpreted multiple ways. In any case, the melodrama is a real struggle. 

Questions I am asking myself today: Why liberal arts? Why me?

People are starting to break down. The real world is inching nearer and I'm not even done with puberty.  I'm not ready to be a real person, please! someone turn the lights off, carry me home! But not to my real house because I have mommy-daddy-sister-brother issues. Maybe to a cool house that has Sharper Image gadgets and bluetooth connectivity, or one that is super cute, in the woods, with a bunch of nooks. 

Pleasantries. Kat Stevens.

Salt Ponds (San Francisco Bay)

In the Omnivore's Dilemma, Pollan mentions his 'not so perfect' experience collecting salt in the San Francisco Bay salt ponds. He describes the colors as "...a sequence of of arresting blocks of color-rust, yellow, orange, blood red-laid out below you as if in a Mondrian painting" (393).

While glancing over a blog, I came across the same salt ponds referenced in our class reading, and MY OH MY are they spectacular!

Take a look!

Process Writing :)

My poor writing skills really influenced my decision to enroll in the Food and Travel Writing Seminar, and I am very glad I ended up taking and enjoying the class. I started off on a rough patch for the first few weeks. Trouble lingered around when I wrote my memoir. I wanted to write about my disease because I thought it would offer some kind of catharsis. However, the process of writing my memoir piece presented much difficulty. It ended up more like throw-up all over a blank canvass.

This leads to one of my first difficulties/frustrations, the lack of focus in my writing pieces. I often have so much to say, and then go into very little detail. What is left is a vague skeleton of what happened, making it incomprehensible for readers. To battle this ambiguity, I found the workshops very helpful. Classmates provided pertinent feedback that gave me guidance on elaboration of details within my writing pieces. Otherwise, my mind would fill in the blanks within each essay. Having classmates evaluate my work and leave comments gave a new perspective that could not fill in missing information. The feedback of other students in the Food and Travel Seminar really helped me provide clarity for my work.

The most important idea I learned from this class is to find your voice. I have often relied on a formal tone to rely my ideas on paper. By taking this course, I found that having voice is important. It encouraged me when my voice was well received. I first started integrating my voice in our restaurant review (Rasa Ria). I incorporated small jokes. Yet upon reading them, I worried it was too corny or informal. It surprised me that students in class actually laughed at the jokes. Buzzing on confidence, I went full out on “My Perfect Meal” assignment, and the results were positive. I realize that not every opportunity allows for so much personality, but I will definitely feel more comfortable with voice in writing.

This seminar “Food and Travel,” really helped improve my writing skills, and it did so much more. I enjoyed our discussions, debates, and readings. This course was absolutely stellar. I think the chemistry with the group along with the oversight of Marin, our professor, really created one of the best classes I have ever taken. The enjoyment I felt toward the class made learning fun and enjoyable, I couldn’t have asked for a more ideal situation. 

My Perfectly Imperfect Meal: Final

In my quest to make anything "perfect," I always opt for the back seat approach. For me, it is no use to plan out an ideal situation, or even have high expectations, because sooner or later reality will come up short. So, when I received an assignment to cook a perfect meal for a writing class, zero planning took place. I gave myself simply one rule: if there is food in the kitchen, then cook it. Low and behold, on the day of dinner perfection, I opened my cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer of my campus house kitchen to check out the loot. Hidden beneath the Lean Cuisines and Pizza Rolls in the freezer I spotted pink meat marbled with white fat, vacuum sucked in a Ziploc bag. A diamond in the rough some would call it; I plucked that chicken out of the freezer as fast as I could.

With upcoming exams that required studying, I quickly tossed the rock hard meat on to the counter to thaw. Well, thirty minutes later, upon returning from Upjohn's Library on Kalamazoo College's campus, I found that the meat was still frozen. A search on Google guided me to microwave the meat for fifteen minutes to defrost. The online food forums also warned against de-thawing meat on the counter, but I figured “carpe diem” and pretended like nothing happened.

While the microwave cooked the meat, I decided to take some initiative on the rest of the meal. First, I needed some motivation and inspiration. My 3D glasses are always a must when cooking. They provide optical confidence with their busted out shades, and sleek black temples that lead into square frames. They proudly read "Real D 3D." I often tell my roommates that they let me see another dimension, or they allow me to gaze into the future. In reality, they give me another person to be for an hour. With my 3D glasses, I suddenly take on strange French accents, and become the top chef in the world! Escalating the insanity, I needed one more thing to prep me for the perfect meal: some funky music.

Squished between books, I forced my laptop out of my backpack and I logged on to 8tracks.com.  Only one set of songs can ever get me pumped up for a culinary explosion: “the nineties//summertime” playlist. The first song "Steal my Sunshine" popped on and a smile grew across my face. Ready to go!

I danced on over to the fridge, and pulled out multiple bags of fresh produce from the bottom drawer. The clouded plastic bags crinkled their way to the counter. After opening them, I uncovered part of a leftover onion, a lone sweet potato, garlic, and sprigs of rosemary. I thought "I can work with this," until a microwave ding interrupted my flow. I opened the door to find a sad, warm chicken breast oozing out juices. I pried it off the plate and sat it in a glass pan, leaving a white crust and fluids in its wake. I prayed that no one would become sick as I decorated the poultry in two tablespoons of butter and the rosemary. I slid the pan in the oven and turned my mind elsewhere to avoid the worry and guilt coming over me.

I pulled out two pots from the cabinet and filled them with a few cups of water each. While they were heating up, I skipped on over to the cutting board and began to chop up the onions and garlic. As my head bobbed to the music, I lost my control over the vegetables and a rampant garlic clove slipped between the counter and stove, waiting to be eaten by a hungry critter. I was careless and laughing, and the pots began steaming, cutting off my oxygen. A mad scientist watching her chemical reactions, I turned to my pots to watch them boil. Though the saying goes, "a watched pot never boils," by the graces of the 3rd dimension of my glasses, the water in those two pots started to simmer. Peering into the black bottom, the air bubbles rose until the water strengthened into a fierce boil. I felt on top of the world, and ready to take on the rest of the meal.

I plopped rainbow rotini into one pot, watching the orange, yellow, and green noodles tumble from the box to the water. Next, I cut up the sweet potato into circular rounds. Previously, I have been unsuccessful in thoroughly cooking my sweet potatoes, so I was hoping the small pieces would cook faster and prove edible for my meal. They ended up in the second pot, and soon enough my work reduced from cooking to dancing.

I was getting my freak on singing "I just want to fly, put your arms around me baby..." when I heard some one yell "schioasht" coming from the foyer. My friend Laura just returned from dinner at a local eatery, "Food Dance," the aroma of the house startled her. Laura’s gibberish words indicated that the scents stemming from the kitchen were well received. It took me this incident to wake up and smell the rosemary, or something like that. I took a big whiff and realized that the baking herbs filled the room with a natural woodsy fragrance. Brought to my senses, I checked all my dishes in progress.

The pasta now saturated, I drained it and tossed in butter, onions, and garlic. I topped the pot with a lid to allow the vegetables to steam, and looked to the sweet potatoes for my next move. Stabbing a fork into each circle revealed that the orange rounds were ready. I set each chunk on a small plate and garnished them with cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter. The mix of bright oranges and browns made me think of  fall memories with the friends who were about to sit down and enjoy my meal, but first a few finishing touches. I dished out the colorful pasta into a bowl, and placed the white chicken breasts on a plate.

My friends arrived on time and eagerly awaited my meal. Haubert, Marie, and Sam were able to share this feast with me. As our eating commenced, it became evident that my guests did not have the same tastes as me.

Haubert only ate the noodles leaving the onion and garlic to the cold. He kindly explained, “I never like onions or garlic. I enjoy the flavor from them, but I am not going to eat that.” Meanwhile, Sam tried explaining why she doesn't eat sweet potatoes because she was force fed them as a child. “When I was a young, my Uncle Ben always made sweet potatoes and he covered them in marshmallows. I hated them and it sucked. Now I can’t stand them! They’re just super gross and nasty.” Marie was the only compliant diner guest. Still, I ended up eating their leftovers, with no complaints about the noodles seasoned with soft onions and garlic, then the bright starchy rounds sweet with sugar and butter. My stomach was satisfied with carbohydrates and starch, when I remembered the protein.

Nobody had touched the white meat christened with rosemary when the conversation started to wane. Their attention turned to a football game, or was it basketball? I quietly took a bite of the chicken, a servant making sure her king and queens would not die from poison. The butter and rosemary made it taste fresh and the meat was cooked perfectly. I offered some to my friends and no one got sick while eating it. In fact, the conversation completely dissipated when Marie chimed it, “Katherine, this is like really good.” She thought it was tender, with a slight flavor, nothing too overpowering. I was very grateful for the positive review because I made a lot of mistakes. Everyone agreed that the meal was very natural, especially for a college diet. The unprocessed approach really showed off in my results. They even recommended that I make this a weekly event, which I declined.

My alternate French persona failed to churn out a foie gras, yet I had fun in the process of cooking my modest chicken dinner. I was happy to have a positive experience while preparing the food, taking myself lightly, and then sharing the meal with friends. Sometimes small expectations allow for the enjoyment of the simple pleasures of life, and I think that's perfect.

60mg of Hunger: Reworked

I sat in a sterile room at Detroit Children’s Hospital listening to the nurse take role call: Cellcept, Plaquenil, 81 mg Aspirin, Levoxyl, Naproxen, Vitamin D supplement, and Prednisone. She spoke in a different language that I couldn’t follow. So I focused just behind this stranger, to the silver sink where there the spout reached tall over the basin, and then to the neutral colored wall even further beyond. The words she spoke fell into a muffled blur until a cold stethoscope brought my attention back, the doctor was here. Everything happened fast, yet I sat waiting for hours. It’s funny how illness has a way of skewing the perception of time. I filled this time trying to understand it all, yet I came out understanding very little. All of that time reduced to the few moments of clarity. Here is what I knew: take ten pills in the morning, three at lunch, five at night. After consuming my medicine cocktail, a lovely spell fell over my body. The waves of pain that crippled my joints vanished, the chronic fatigue was curbed, and the possibility of blood clots diminished. Yet the magic fathered emotional agony that led me to question the importance of my medication. There was one, in particular, that became the ringleader of trouble. For me, Prednisone never really escaped the connotation associated with the word “steroid.”

My affair with food began here, a lust affair. When I taking steroids, everything looked tantalizingly edible, and a small snack easily turned into a feast. We had just gotten our kitchen redone that year, and I had found a sanctuary within it. Pomegranates, apples, and oranges crowded around the fruit bowl and reflected off the beige granite begging for me to taste them. The produce on the counter represented a mere offering of what the sub-zero refrigerator had in store. Milks, cheeses, lunchmeats, veggies, dressings, and more awaited me there. I had access to all of it. Prednisone created a bottomless cavity looking to be entertained. I ate all the time because of the chronic hunger. This continuous consumption even helped fill the gaps of confusion. The mist surrounding my life needed to be solidified by something, and food was something.

Yet all that food, as comforting as it was, took a toll. Soon the weight of the food began to find permanent residence within my body, and the side effects of Prednisone became visible. My cheeks began to swell, and my embarrassed eyes hid beneath them. The structure of my face elicited comments like, “Are you packing nuts for the winter? Your cheeks are huge!” I could tell when kids at school were talking about me. The side glances in my direction and a whisper in a friend’s ear became an easy indication. Soon enough, my thoughts were consumed by food and how others viewed me, and academics started to lose meaning. The school shortened my schedule to a half-day because I became tired, apathetic, and riddled with doctor appointments. As I walked through the halls, I realized that people had a hard time looking at me; even my friends couldn’t shoot me a straight stare. A recognizable glance and a responsive wave would have saved my day, but nobody wanted to meet those two slits in my face. So I sat through classes and headed back home alone. On my way, I walked parallel to the troop of students driving off to lunch with their friends. Their Jeeps bouncing as the declined driveway of the parking lot met the street. They were ready to go to “The Big Salad” or maybe “Lunchbox Deli.” I could almost smell the vinaigrettes trailing behind their cars. A poignant raspberry with bleu cheese crumbling after it, tossed in a mixed green salad. My mouth watered at the thought of their food fun. With each step, I hoped one of those cars would stop for me, but none ever did.

Upon my arrival home, I would sit in the kitchen waiting for my mom. She could always give me a straight stare into those bloodshot and inflamed slits, but I had no intention of meeting her condoling eyes. Her pity only led me to believe I was even more pathetic. There must be someone that could look at me, and not see anything. I started to personify food. A Pink Lady became the apple of my eye. I glided over to the fruit bowl and picked out a fresh one. I rubbed my hands along the rounded curves until my fingers come to a stop in order to cup the Lady. I closed my eyes, sunk my teeth through the skin, right into the meat, savoring the sweet nectar as it filled my mouth and trickled down my throat. I would eat a million apples and crunch them so loudly that I didn’t have to hear words like “Lupus.” Then after, I would feel full and satisfied, something that social interactions could not provide at the time.

The social and physical implications of the medicine helped established understanding of an ulterior side of Lupus. The nurse’s foreign words began to take on a deeper meaning than the medical terminology recited at the time. Words that ultimately constructed the significance of my disease: I was different, and very alone.

I walked out of Children’s with the looming uncertainty of having an ambiguous disease. One that meant pain, but never a clear, definite hurt. The doctor started me on 60mg of Prednisone during that first visit, a mistake that cost me dearly. My symptoms and blood test results didn’t deserve the dose that I received. The side effects brought on by Prednisone were not ideal: the obvious weight gain, a roller coaster of emotions, confusion, and a stutter that paralyzed me in front of class.  It was hard to hold a conversation with my classmates when the thoughts and worries of one another don’t coincide. Through all of this I learned, always growing in my own ways. I found that food could be a lot more than physical sustenance. As people we want to be understood by everyone, or someone. And food, it became an emotional backup for me. Sure people criticize the use of “comfort food,” but where were you when I needed a friend? 

Rasa Ria Revisited Pt. 3

By revisiting my expectations of Rasa Ria, I realized the extent of my misguidance. Now I did not expect to walk into a 5-star restaurant; I also didn’t anticipate walking into a one-room hostel with an Internet connection. To say the least, I was under impressed with the ambience of Rasa Ria. The self-service and casual atmosphere denotes the kind of customer that would frequent the quaint restaurant. This wasn’t where I ate when I was with my parents. Instead this kind of restaurant represented what college has become for me: a place to experience and try new things. Most importantly somewhere I would be able to grow by stepping outside of my comfort zone. I think that Rasa Ria definitely presented a unique cultural experience was different from my own.

The restaurant included many recipes that were Indonesian, with a Malaysian flare brought by the Gome family. Rasa Ria is authentically fusion. It is a mix of Asian cultures brought to the American table. Through this course, I came to realize that the term “authenticity” is very subjective because of the evolution of culture. The authority who might call a dish authentic or not is also disputed. Therefore, as a relatively uncultured, liberal arts college student, I will call food served at Rasa Ria authentically fusion and authentically delicious.

I hope to continue my exploration with food beyond the confines of my Food and Travel Seminar. It is my greatest hope that I will be able to study abroad in Ecuador for my Junior year at Kalamazoo College. With the application process underway, I can only imagine the exotic food I will be eating. I envision fruits with spikes, fresh fish, or flan. I look forward to go into any future culinary experience with an open heart and mind. Not every taste is for me, yet I will try my best to enjoy the effort and respect the culture of each dish. And after completing the Sophomore Food and Travel Seminar, I have found it is often not the taste that makes the food, yet the context in which you surround yourself. 

My Perfect Meal 1st Draft

In my quest to make anything "perfect," I always opt for the back seat approach. For me, it is no use to plan out an ideal situation, or even have high expectations because sooner or later, reality will come up short. So, when I was assigned to cook my perfect meal, there was little planning involved. I gave myself simply one rule: if there is food in the kitchen, then cook it. Low and behold, on the day of dinner perfection, I opened my cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer to check out the loot. Hidden beneath the Lean Cuisines and Pizza Rolls in the freezer I spotted a pink meat marbled with white fat. A diamond in the rough some would call it, I plucked that chicken out of the freezer as fast as I could. I was grateful to have found some protein that could provide a meal with sustenance.

With upcoming exams to be studied for, I quickly tossed the rock hard meat on to the counter to thaw. Well, thirty minutes later, upon returning from Upjohn's Library on Kalamazoo College's campus, I found that the meat was still frozen. A search on Google, guided me to microwave the meat for fifteen minutes to defrost. The food forums also warned against de-thawing meat on the counter, but I figure you only live once and pretend like nothing had happened.

While the meat was in the microwave, I decided to take some initiative on the rest of the meal. First, I needed some motivation and inspiration. My 3D glasses are always a must when cooking. They provide optical confidence with their busted out shades, and sleek black temples that lead into square frames. They proudly read "Real D 3D." I tell my roommates that they let me see another dimension, or they let me see the future. In reality, they give me another person to be for an hour. With my 3D glasses, I suddenly take on strange French accents, and become the top chef in the world! To add on to this insanity, there is one more necessity before I am ready to cook this perfect meal...some music.

I force my laptop out of my backpack; it is squished between all the books in my bag, and log on to 8tracks.com. There is only one set of songs that can ever get me pumped up, and that is the summertime playlist of the 1990's. The first song, "Steal my Sunshine" pops on and we are ready to go.

I dance on over to the fridge, and pull out multiple bags of fresh produce from the fridge. The clouded plastic bags crinkle while they make their way to the counter. Opening them, I uncover food that I can work with. Part of a left over onion, a lone sweet potato, garlic, and twigs of rosemary. I am thinking "I can work with this," when my thoughts are interrupted by the microwave ding. I open the door to find a sad, and warm chicken breasts oozing out some juices. I pry it out of the plate and set it in a glass pan, leaving a white crust and fluids in its wake. I am praying that this is safe as I decorate the poultry in 2 tablespoons of butter and the rosemary. I slide the pan in the oven, and turn my mind elsewhere to avoid the worried and guilty feeling coming over me.

I pull out two pots from the cabinet and fill them with a few cups of water each. While they are heating up, I slide on over to the cutting board and begin to chop up the onions and garlic. As my head bobs to the music, I begin to lose my control over the vegetables and rampant garlic slip between the crack separating the counter and stove, to be eaten by a hungry critter. I am careless and laughing, and the pots are beginning to produce steam, cutting off my oxygen. A mad scientist watching her chemical reactions, I now turn to my pots to watch them boil. As the saying goes, "a watched pot never boils," but by the graces of the 3rd dimension taken on by my glasses, the water in those two pots began to bubble. Peering into the black bottom of the pots, the air bubbles began to rise until the water strengthened into a fierce boil. Needless to say, I felt on top of the world, and ready to take on the rest of the meal.

I plopped some rainbow rotini into one pot, watching as the orange, yellow, and green noodles found their way from the box to the water. Next, I cut up the sweet potato into circular rounds. Previously, I have been unsuccessful in thoroughly cooking my sweet potatoes, so I am hoping the small pieces will cook faster and be edible for my meal. They end up in the second pot, and soon enough my work has been reduced to waiting, or dancing.

I am getting my freak on singing "I just want to fly, put your arms around me baby..." when I hear some one yell "schioasht" coming from the foyer. My friend Laura Manardo just returned from a local eatery, "Food Dance," and was startled by the smell of the house. Here gibberish words were an indication that the food smelled good. It took me this incident to wake up and smell the rosemary, or something like that. I took a big whiff of the air I was inhabiting and realized that the baking herbs were filling the room with a natural woodsy smell. I was brought to my senses and began to check all my dishes in progress.

The pasta was now saturated, and I drained it only to occupy the space with butter, onions, and garlic. I topped the pot with a lid to allow the vegetables to steam, and looked to the sweet potatoes for my next move. Stabbing a fork into each circle revealed that the orange rounds were ready. I set each chunk on a small plate and garnished them with cinnamon, brown sugar, and butter. The mix of bright oranges and browns left me remembering my fall and all of the friends that were about to enjoy this meal with me. But first a few finishing touches. I dished out the colorful pasta into a bowl, and placed the white chicken breasts on a plate.

My friends arrived on time and eagerly awaited my meal. My friends Andrew Haubert, Marie Bunker, and Sam Foran were able to share this feast with me. As we began to eat, it was evident my friends did not have the same tastes as me.

Haubert only ate the noodles leaving the onion and garlic to the cold. Meanwhile, Sam was trying to politely explain why she doesn't eat sweet potatoes because she was force fed them when she was a child. Anyway, everyone enjoyed the chicken. The butter and rosemary had left a slight yet fresh taste to the chicken, The meat was cooked perfectly, and no one got sick after eating it. I was very grateful for this because I made a lot of mistakes. Everyone agreed that the meal was very natural, especially for a college diet. And everyone seemed to enjoy my combination of spices. They even recommended that I make this a weekly event, which I declined.

My alternate French persona was not able to churn out a foie gras, yet I had fun in the process of cooking my modest chicken dinner. I was happy to have a positive experience before the meal, taking myself lightly, and then sharing the meal with friends. Sometimes small expectations allow for the enjoyment of the simple pleasures of life, and I think that's perfect.