On the origins of being a foodie; or The Foodie Manifesto.
“You are what you eat” is a phrase often repeated, but aside from the common use of the phrase to turn one’s focus towards healthful eating, the true meaning of the phrase is typically glossed over.
I am what I eat. Every bone in my body. Every hair on my head. Every muscle and nerve and the blood running through my veins comes from the food I eat. Everything that I eat becomes a part of me – of how I look, of what I do, of who I am.
And since I have become who I am through what I eat, every part of my life has been touched by the food I consume in some way. Realizing and accepting this is what makes me a foodie.
Some use the term “foodie” as a pejorative, casting us as elitist, rejecting the good, regular food of the “people” in favor of fancy cooking. They only eat food made with ingredients that have an extra 20 adjectives tacked on: just plain chicken isn’t good enough for them: they need Fulton Valley free-range grain-fed chicken.
But we have faces; we have roots in the places we live, and we expect the same from our food. To understand who we are and where we come from, we need to understand our food: where it is from, how it is treated, what it is fed.
Everyone – whether they realize it or not – has had the experiences from which foodies are born… when combined, these stories form the history that ties together what we eat with our bodies, our families, our communities, and the places we call home – in short, what makes us who we are.
Here are some of my stories; the origins of my foodiosity.
Part I: from family:
From my mother, who was able to turn almost any mess – or experiment, as I called them – I made in the kitchen into something not only edible, but delicious.
From my father, who siezed every opportunity to try any B-B-Q joint and every unknown beer he came across on our family vacations.
From my great-grandfather, who was a Danish baker and farmer, whose recipes and heirloom seeds from his truck farm are still very much alive today.
And from the odd, yet fortuitous tradition of beekeeping, practiced by every male on both sides of my family for as many generations back as we can track. Learning from my grandfather that the first honey, made from pollen from clover and spring wildflowers is good for baklava, while you saving the darker, more flavorful, and more nutritionally beneficial honey from goldenrod, or buckwheat, or other crop plants later in the season for everyday use. Watching as my father pulled on his protective suit, gloves and veil, starting up his smoker and then stuffing the hole with a corncob so that the smoke didn’t escape on the hike uphill and through the woods to get to the hives. Helping to extract the honey from the hives on a hot summer day, in a kitchen without air conditioning.
These things taught me that food doesn’t just magically appear on the shelves at the grocery – it comes from from labor: hours, and days, and months are spent toiling, sweating, laboring to produce the foods that provide nourishment for our bodies, and hopefully, joy for our souls.
And the vast differences in honey produced from my father’s, my uncle’s and my grandfather’s hives, less than a mile apart, taught me long before my first sip of wine that when it comes to food, place matters.
Part II: from place
From growing up in a small, rural community about an hour outside Chicago, amongst fields of corn and soy, and the occasional dairy farm and pumpkin patch. From seeing and frequenting the family-owned farmstands dotting the landscape, advertising u-pick strawberries, fresh-pressed cider, and stocked with bushels of sweet corn picked less than an hour before – so fresh you could eat it on the spot.
From my home, bordered on one side by the Fox River, and surrounded on the rest by wood. Catching trout from the backyard, foraging for blackberries at the forest’s edge, harvesting walnuts, and occasionally having the luck to find a troop of morel mushrooms nestled at the base of a hollowed-out tree.
From our garden – seeing the first shoots of asparagus poke through the soil in the spring, harvesting peas (one for the bowl, one for me) , and enjoying the delicate textures and flavors in a salad of baby spinach leaves picked so recently, you can still feel the warmth from the sun in every bite.
Part III: from community.
From a friend calling to brag about his bountiful crop of cherries thanks to this spring’s rains that he can’t possibly make use of… just in case you wanted to make any cherry pies (hint, hint).
From arriving at the farmstand to pick up some sweet corn, and the farmer pulling out a special bushel he had set aside for you, just in case you dropped by.
From being in a market bazaar in Kyrgyzstan, where you spoke neither Russian nor Kyrgyz, and the vendors spoke no English… but you have no problems communicating – you can let the food speak for itself.
From calling back the friend whose cherries made beautiful pies to let him know that you have far too many butternut squash and pumpkins left on the vine… and that you happen to have an extra cherry pie, ready for the baking.
And now…
Take the time to think back about what food has contributed to your life: the meals shared, the connections forged over a plate or a glass of wine, the lessons learned about the ingredients of life through the ingredients in your kitchen. Write them down. Share them. Taste new things, and remember those that you’ve tasted before. Learn as you live, creating new stories along the way.
And then, you might just realize that you are a foodie too.
No related posts.
