Cognitive Cooking: Rewiring the Perfect Meal [Revised Draft]

If you were to choose a perfect meal, it probably wouldn't be making lunch with your recently ex-girlfriend. Even if you were trying to do the “let's still be friends” thing, you could probably think of less emotionally complicated things to do with your Sunday afternoon – but that's kind of the point.

The emotional power of food is well documented, in both scientific and literary realms. Perhaps most famous is the incident the first volume of Proust's In Search of Lost Time, in which the taste of a madeleine, a small cake, incites in the narrator a rush of emotion, which he eventually traces back to times spent with his aunt when he was a child. I wanted to try to harness this power.

I and my ex (let's call her Maddie, since that's her name) spent six weeks in the summer of 2013 working on an organic farm and living in a cabin that had no running water or electricity. Lacking a microwave or toaster oven, Maddie gave me a crash course in stovetop cooking. By the end our time there, I could light the gas stove without flinching, sauté veggies, and make mostly unburnt pancakes. Helping to cook those meals was incredibly satisfying, and our pride in our culinary creations made them taste that much better.

The experience of working on the farm was a powerful one for both of us, and every time I cook, or even see someone else cooking, memories of that time crop up. Naturally, those memories are a little painful these days. However, Maddie and I have managed to maintain a friendship in the weeks since the breakup. I wondered would happen if we cooked together, not as romantic partners, but as friends? Perhaps I could hijack my emotional associations with cooking, and redirect them to this new experience, this new form of our relationship.

You might think that this experiment was doomed to fail, and you might be right. Still, I couldn't get the idea out of my head, so on Saturday morning I met Maddie at the Kalamazoo Farmer's Market to find ingredients. I knew attempting to recreate a farm meal exactly would be impossible, but I at least wanted to get close, and most of our ingredients then, if they didn't come from the farm itself, came from the farmer's market. 

 

If change was the name of the game, than perhaps it was a good omen that, when we finally found Dennis, the man whose farm we had worked on, he stood under a new sign for a new farm, having moved from Bangor, MI, to Battle Creek just a few months before. On the one hand, it felt like yet another loss. On the other hand, rerouting connections was the whole point of this adventure, so it looked like we were off to a good start.

Still, there was some nostalgia. We bought a bag of salad mix and I mentally reeled off the list: lettuce, mustard greens, mizuna, arugula, and a little round leaf whose name I could never remember. We also bought a bag of baby kale, and I remembered how Russian kale turned silver underwater when we washed it. The bunch of onions reminded me of pulling bulbs from the ground as Dennis's one-and-a-half-year-old ostensibly helped, although really he was just bringing me back dead onions that I had thrown away. Dennis threw in a few bags of spinach for free, as he had a surplus, and I laughed, thinking of all the people who had come to the market in July in August, looking for spinach we didn't have.

We had gotten to the market late, and by this time most of the vendors were packing up, so we grabbed a garlic bulb and called it a day. It was hot, and a long walk back, so we decided we'd wait and cook the next day. This wouldn't have been an option on the farm. Although we were provided a certain number of meals each week, when we on our own for food, we were really on our own, and if we were too tired to cook dinner, then dinner didn't get cooked.

It was nice not to have that kind of pressure when we started cooking on Sunday. This was going to be a semi-improvised meal, using whatever we had – or whatever we had to use up before the end of the school year.

“Can we add chickpeas to whatever we're making?” Maddie asked as we were getting out ingredients. “Because I have them.”

This sort of improvising was common on the farm. We would often start with one thing we wanted to use, and then we'd build the rest of the meal around that.

On this particular day, I had decided I wanted to make an egg scramble. This was what the garlic and onion were for. To those, we added some gouda cheese that I had brought from home and some of Dennis's spinach. Since we had so many greens, we decided on a salad for the side, to which we would add the chickpeas. Maddie also had a couple peaches, so we could each have one those as well.

Since we hadn't cooked together for a while, it took a while for us to settle into a rhythm, but soon I was slicing cheese and chopping onions as Maddie chopped the garlic and washed and cut the spinach. Once all the ingredients were ready, I got down what we jokingly call the 'farm bowl', which we had had on the farm but never used. Maddie cracked the eggs into the bowl, a skill I have yet master, and I mixed in the fixings as she started on the salad.

Then came the actual cooking. Here, the electric stove had a clear advantage over the gas stove we used on the farm, whose only settings were “barely warm” and “blink and you'll be eating char for dinner.” As I cooked the scramble on a relaxing medium heat, Maddie decided to chop up the peaches to add the finishing touches to the salad. Soon, we were ready to eat.

Having had almost no expectations for this meal, I was pleasantly surprised to find that the food was delicious. The ingredients were perfectly balanced, with the sweetness of the cheese perfectly complementing the onion and garlic, and its gooeyness offset by the spinach. The salad was crisp and juicy, and the sweet peaches and nutty chickpeas made a great combination. After the first couple bites, Maddie and I high-fived. This was better than almost anything we had made on the farm, in no small part because the flavors weren't burnt off.

Soon after we started eating, a couple of friends joined us. We talked about about finals, the colleges literary journal and the art of photography, our plans for the summer. It was relaxing. No expectations, no pressure. Just some friends hanging out.

Only time will tell if the experiment worked. I think it did, though. Already, the memory is taking on a certain sheen. The rough parts, the emotional complexities, are being polished over. Soon, I think, it will be just another fond memory of a good meal, with good company. And that's exactly what I wanted.

Cognitive Cooking: Rewiring the Perfect Meal [Workshop Draft]

If you were to choose a perfect meal, it probably wouldn't be making lunch with your recently ex-girlfriend. Even if you were trying to do the “let's still be friends” thing, you could probably think of less emotionally complicated things to do with your Sunday afternoon – but that's kind of the point.

The emotional power of food is well documented, in both scientific and literary realms. Perhaps most famous is the incident the first volume of Proust's In Search of Lost Time, in which the taste of a madeleine, a small cake, incites in the narrator a rush of emotion, which he eventually traces back to times spent with his aunt when he was a child. I wanted to try to harness this power.

I and my ex (let's call her Maddie, since that's her name) spent six weeks in the summer of 2013 working on an organic farm and living in a cabin that had no running water or electricity. Lacking a microwave or toaster oven, Maddie gave me a crash course in stovetop cooking. By the end our time there, I could light the gas stove without flinching, sauté veggies, and make mostly unburnt pancakes. Helping to cook those meals was incredibly satisfying, and our pride in our culinary creations made them taste that much better.

The experience of working on the farm was a powerful one for both of us, and every time I cook, or even see someone else cooking, memories of that time crop up. Naturally, those memories are a little painful these days. However, Maddie and I have managed to maintain a friendship in the weeks since the breakup. I wondered would happen if we cooked together, not as romantic partners, but as friends? Perhaps I could hijack my emotional associations with cooking, and redirect them to this new experience, this new form of our relationship.

You might think that this experiment was doomed to fail, and you might be right. Still, I couldn't get the idea out of my head, so on Saturday morning I met Maddie at the Kalamazoo Farmer's Market to find ingredients. I knew attempting to recreate a farm meal exactly would be impossible, but I at least wanted to get close, and most of our ingredients then, if they didn't come from the farm itself, came from the farmer's market. 

 

If change was the name of the game, than perhaps it was a good omen that, when we finally found Dennis, the man whose farm we had worked on, he stood under a new sign for a new farm, having moved from Bangor, MI, to Battle Creek just a few months before. On the one hand, it felt like yet another loss. On the other hand, rerouting connections was the whole point of this adventure, so it looked like we were off to a good start.

Still, there was some nostalgia. We bought a bag of salad mix and I mentally reeled off the list: lettuce, mustard greens, mizuna, arugula, and a little round leaf whose name I could never remember. We also bought a bag of baby kale, and I remembered how Russian kale turned silver underwater when we washed it. The bunch of onions reminded me of pulling bulbs from the ground as Dennis's one-and-a-half-year-old ostensibly helped, although really he was just bringing me back dead onions that I had thrown away. Dennis threw in a few bags of spinach for free, as he had a surplus, and I laughed, thinking of all the people who had come to the market in July in August, looking for spinach we didn't have.

We had gotten to the market late, and by this time most of the vendors were packing up, so we grabbed a garlic bulb and called it a day. It was hot, and a long walk back, so we decided we'd wait and cook the next day. This wouldn't have been an option on the farm. Although we were provided a certain number of meals each week, when we on our own for food, we were really on our own, and if we were too tired to cook dinner, then dinner didn't get cooked.

It was nice not to have that kind of pressure when we started cooking on Sunday. This was going to be a semi-improvised meal, using whatever we had – or whatever we had to use up before the end of the school year.

“Can we add chickpeas to whatever we're making?” Maddie asked as we were getting out ingredients. “Because I have them.”

This sort of improvising was common on the farm. We would often start with one thing we wanted to use, and then we'd build the rest of the meal around that.

On this particular day, I had decided I wanted to make an egg scramble. This was what the garlic and onion were for. To those, we added some gouda cheese that I had brought from home and some of Dennis's spinach. Since we had so many greens, we decided on a salad for the side, to which we would add the chickpeas. Maddie also had a couple peaches, so we could each have one those as well.

Since we hadn't cooked together for a while, it took a while for us to settle into a rhythm, but soon I was slicing cheese and chopping onions as Maddie chopped the garlic and washed and cut the spinach. Once all the ingredients were ready, I got down what we jokingly call the 'farm bowl', which we had on the farm but never used. Maddie cracked the eggs into the bowl, a skill I have yet master, and I mixed in the fixings as she started on the salad.

Then came the actual cooking. Here, the electric stove had a clear advantage over the gas stove we used on the farm, whose only settings were “barely warm” and “blink and you'll be eating char for dinner.” As I cooked the scramble on a relaxing medium heat, Maddie decided to chop up the peaches to add the finishing touches to the salad. Soon, we were ready to eat.

Having had almost no expectations for this meal, I was pleasantly surprised to find that was one of the best meals I'd ever had. The ingredients were perfectly balanced, with the sweetness of the cheese perfectly complimenting the onion and garlic, and its gooeyness offset by the spinach. The salad was crisp and juicy, and the sweet peaches and nutty chickpeas made a great combination. After the first couple bites, Maddie and I high-fived. This was better than almost anything we had made on the farm.

Soon after we started eating, a couple of friends joined us. We talked about about finals, the colleges literary journal and the art of photography, our plans for the summer. It was relaxing. No expectations, no pressure. Just some friends hanging out.

Only time will tell if the experiment worked. I think it did, though. Already, the memory is taking on a certain sheen. The rough parts, the emotional complexities, are being polished over. Soon, I think, it will be just another fond memory of a good meal, with good company. And that's exactly what I wanted.

Review Part III: Post-Review Analysis

I expected Fieldstone Grill to be somewhat fancy, potentially tasty, and a little overpriced. It ended up being not particularly fancy, not particularly tasty, and a little more than a little overpriced. I expected different flavors, gourmet twists, but I got barely any flavor at all, and (upon a recent return visit) not even a metal cup for my fries. I thought that Fieldstone Grill was not my culture. I was right, but not in the way that I expected.

Which, I suppose, was always a possibility. It was a bit of a stretch in the first place to say that visiting Fieldstone was in any way culinary tourism. If anything, Fieldstone is a lack of culture. Sure, they try to associate their foods with various various ethnic cuisines or with the local community. But the "Greek" turkey burger served on ciabatta suggests that they're not really concerned with the authenticity of such associations.

While our reading on culinary tourism focused primarily on ethnic and geographic cultures, it did also talk about connotations of class as a cultural signifier. Perhaps if there's any lesson to take from this experience it's that high price does not necessarily mean authentically fancy food.

Fieldstone Grill Review [Revised Draft]

When the cup of chicken soup arrives, it rests atop a lace doily. Unfortunately, the journey from kitchen to table was not a gentle one, and whatever this presentation was intended to communicate has been lost to a sea of soup that now sits in the saucer, drowning both the doily and the soup spoon handle.

Presentation is a problem here at Fieldstone Grill, a roadside establishment just off of US 131 in Portage. Perhaps its location is one of the factors that make it difficult for Fieldstone Grill to achieve the successful blend of fine dining aesthetic and middle-class occasion destination it seems to be shooting for.

Its red and white exterior looks more like a barn than a restaurant, while the patio could be confused for an outdoor food court / picnic area, not unlike one you might find at a museum or zoo. The interior, however, while somewhat cavernous in the center (the peak of the “barn”), is a warmly lit, quiet space, sparely and tastefully decorated. A large fireplace, built from the titular fieldstones, manages to be impressive without making the place feel like a ski lodge. Windows along the back wall provide a view of the adjacent wetlands.

Back outside, the patio chairs turn out to be more comfortable than they look, and the view, again, makes for a surprisingly enjoyable seating area.

Fieldstone Grill's culinary offerings, however, suggest that the view from the parking lot is, in fact, the more truthful representation. Chef Jason McClellan is described as an “old soul,” which apparently means that he cooks with the deteriorating taste buds of the elderly in mind.

Whatever flavors might be in the chicken soup are overpowered by the uncharacteristic spiciness. The ravioli with vodka cream sauce is certainly ravioli, and the sauce certainly contains cream, but any further deductions as to the ingredients of the dish are difficult, if not impossible.

The salmon and the perch are distinguishable only in that one is dry, lightly seasoned, and the other is slathered in butter, as are the soft, easy to chew green beans that accompany it. One wonders if the cold, flavorless mashed potatoes were added to the plate simply for texture.

Desserts can be comprehensively described as “various forms of sugar.” The triple-berry cobbler tastes like spongy bread pudding whose sweetness is probably from some sort of berry. The tiramisu is both sweeter than tiramisu usually is, and disgracefully bland. What is the point of serving tiramisu that could be easily mistaken for the spongy, grey cobbler?

The flourless chocolate cake is definitely chocolate, but dispel from your mind images of traditional Italian flourless cakes, baked with almonds and perhaps dusted with powdered sugar. This is just melted chocolate, with a consistency somewhere between pudding and fudge.

Admittedly, the vanilla ice cream served with each of the desserts is not disappointing, but, with the exception of the cake, it would have been better on its own.

It should be noted that these foods are from Fieldstone Grill's special Mother's Day menu. Lacking from said menu are many of the appetizers, salads, and entrees from the regular menu, such as the sesame-crusted tuna, grilled salmon salad, and Bell's Oberon Fish-n-Chips. Also missing are all of the burgers, sandwiches, and pizzas.

Meanwhile, the four-cheese ravioli with sausage vodka cream sauce has been downgraded for Mother's Day to three cheeses, sans sausage. The salmon, normally a pan-seared dish hailing from the Mediterranean, is now decidedly American, chargrilled and served with (surprisingly tasty) dumplings. The Mother's Day menu seems less special, more rip-off, especially at $25 per meal plus appetizers and drinks a la carte.

Fieldstone Grill is a series of conflicts: a jaunty menu with less-than-jaunty prices; a barn housing a restaurant; a soup-soaked doily. It is up to them to resolve these conflicts. Much easier to resolve is the conflict of whether or not to eat there.

Omnivore's Dilemma, Part I - Reading Response

I must regretfully but emphatically disagree with my peer on the degree of boredom associated with Michael Pollan's chapter on Zea mays, commonly known now as corn.

First, as someone with a fascination for all things linguistic, I was very interested to learn that corn once referred, not simply to maize, but to any grain, "even a grain of salt" (Pollan 25). Surely I'm not alone in having wondered, at least once, what 'corned beef' had to do corn? I don't see how one could be bored when told that a word which, for their entire life, has been inextricably linked with the image of an ear of corn (or corn-on-the-cob, in my case; what can I say, it's a tastier image), whose fundamental identity is that food, could once have referred to anything from wheat to a grain of salt.

Second, is it not at least mildly interesting to learn that the food which, of all foods, is possibly most responsible for the existence of our country, that this food which is so perfectly suited to human cultivation would in fact have died if not for that relationship? If humans had not started to eat corn at precisely the time that we did, it may very well have drastically changed the course of history.

Third, you know you've always wondered where the term 'corn hole' came from.


Fourth, I would argue that having a farming background should make this sort of thing more interesting. As I've mentioned, I worked on a farm over the summer, and the corn started to come in just before I left. After spending two hours picking corn by myself (at sunset), I'm certainly more interested in it than I was before. But maybe that's just how I am. I also don't get people who use computers everyday but aren't the least bit interested in how work. Experience means little without understanding.

(Also, I would be much more bored hearing a spiel from a state park ranger who's only giving the tourist-friendly, cliff notes version of the history of corn, and is only there because he's being paid to be there, not because he's actually interested in it. Say what you will about Pollan, but he is definitely interested in corn.)

Fieldstone Grill Review [Workshop Draft]

When the cup of chicken soup arrives, it rests atop a lace doily. Unfortunately, the journey from the kitchen to the table was not a gentle one, and whatever this presentation was intended to communicate has been lost to the sea of soup that now sits in the saucer, drowning both the doily and the handle of the soup spoon.

The Fieldstone Grill seems to have a habit of hiding its attempts at a fine-dining aesthetic. The red and white exterior looks more like a barn than a restaurant, while the patio could be confused for an outdoor food court / picnic area, not unlike one you might find at a museum or zoo. The interior, however, while somewhat cavernous in the center (the peak of the “barn”), is a warmly lit, quiet space, sparely and tastefully decorated. The large fireplace, built from the titular fieldstones, manages to be impressive without making the place feel like a ski lodge. The large windows along the back wall provide a pleasant view of the adjacent wetlands. Back outside, the patio chairs turn out to be more comfortable than they look, and the view, again, makes for a surprisingly pleasant seating area.

The food, however, suggests that the view from the parking lot is, in fact, the more truthful representation. Chef Jason McClellan is described as an “old soul,” which apparently means that he cooks with the deteriorating taste buds of the elderly in mind. Whatever flavors might be in the chicken soup are overpowered by the uncharacteristic spiciness. The ravioli with vodka cream sauce is certainly ravioli, and the sauce certainly contains cream, but any further deductions as to the ingredients of the dish are difficult, if not impossible. The salmon and the perch are distinguishable only in that one is dry, lightly seasoned, and the other is slathered in butter, as are the soft, easy to chew green beans that accompany it. One wonders if the cold, flavorless mashed potatoes were added to the plate simply for texture.

The desserts can be comprehensively described simply as “various forms of sugar.” The triple-berry cobbler tastes like spongy bread pudding whose sweetness is probably from some sort of berry. The tiramisu is both sweeter than tiramisu usually is, and disgracefully bland. What is the point of serving tiramisu that's almost indistinguishable from the spongy, grey cobbler? The flourless chocolate cake is certainly chocolate, but dispel from your mind images of traditional Italian flourless cakes, baked with almonds and perhaps dusted with powdered sugar. This is simply melted chocolate, with a consistency somewhere between pudding and fudge. Admittedly, the vanilla ice cream served with each of the desserts is not disappointing, but, with the exception of the cake, it would have been better on its own.

It should be noted that these foods are from Fieldstone Grill's special Mother's Day menu. Lacking from said menu are many of the appetizers, salads, and entrees from the regular menu, as well as all of the burgers, sandwiches, and pizza. Meanwhile, the four-cheese ravioli with sausage vodka cream sauce has been downgraded to three cheeses, sans sausage. The salmon, previously hailing from the Mediterranean, is now decidedly American, chargrilled and served with (surprisingly tasty) dumplings. The Mother's Day menu seems less special, more rip-off, especially at $25 per meal plus appetizers and drinks a la carte.

The Fieldstone Grill is a series of conflicts: a jaunty menu with less-than-jaunty prices; fancy food with basic flavor; a barn housing a restaurant; a soup-soaked doily. It is up to them to resolve these conflicts. Much easier to resolve is the conflict of whether or not eat there.

Fieldstone Grill: Assumptions, Expectations, Anticipation

I'll admit that a restaurant with 'Grill' in the name does not immediately strike me as a “vivid entryway into another culture” or "a kind of travel or border crossing for [me] personally." But I don't usually go to Grills where they tell you who the chef is, or recommend wine pairings on the menu, where one of the appetizers costs the same as an entree. I don't usually go to places that serve ten-dollar burgers on shiny white plates, presented (judging from the pictures) like an artisanal creation, accompanied by french fries arranged like a bouquet of flowers in a metal cup.

In short, this is not my culture.

Expensive restaurants make me deeply uncomfortable. Part of it is that I associate price with fanciness, accompanied by uncomfortable clothes, mysterious etiquette, and more forks and spoons than any one person should need for one meal. The fanciness of the food is also a concern. I have fairly simple tastes; although they've expanded somewhat in the last couple years, looking for something to eat on some menus still feels like reading a Where's Waldo? book.

Value is also an issue. Why should I pay fourteen dollars for three pieces of battered fish and some fries (and some coleslaw that I won't even eat)? For that matter, why should I pay fourteen dollars for cheese ravioli with sausage vodka cream sauce when I'd be perfectly happy boiling some ravioli at home and throwing on some Prego. Why would anyone even want sausage vodka cream sauce? Sausage sauce? Sure. Cream sauce? Sure. Vodka sauce? Maybe, although I don't know what exactly vodka sauce would consist of or whether you would want it anywhere near four-cheese ravioli. But putting them all together seems unnecessary and slightly dangerous.

Then there's the price itself. My older sister has always been the one who spends money and, therefore, gets money spent on her. Starting in my early teens, I decided that I would try to offset my sister. Part of that was, when choosing between two or three things at a restaurant, I would pick the cheapest one. In the short term, it was a difference of a dollar or two. In the long term, I liked to think that, through this and other practices, I was saving my family a significant amount of money. So naturally, expensive restaurants bothered me, because they made my "job" that much harder. I've since stopped doing this as often, for whatever reason, but those feelings stick with me.

Having said all that, Fieldstone grill presents me with some contradictions. Yes, some of their food is expensive, and yes, some it comes with sausage vodka cream sauce. But the fact is, I kind of want to try that ravioli. And they do have burgers, and pizza, and pot roast, and overpriced fish-n-chips. And cheese fondue, which I want to always be a thing everywhere. Their tables don't have white table-cloths, or any table-cloths, for that matter. It actually looks pretty casual. So I guess I don't actually know what to expect.

The price still bothers me, though.