Memoir [Revised Draft] - How to Make A Pizza Bagel, or Better Living Through Toaster Ovens

In the Westgate Shopping Center in Ann Arbor, just a few minutes' drive from my house, is Barry Bagels, or Barry's Bagels, as I've called it since I first went there as a kid. According to their online menu, Barry's Bagels has nineteen bagel flavors, and I'm sure most, maybe even all of them, are quite tasty. They also have an assortment of muffins and cookies, and the types of bagel-based sandwiches one would expect to see, and I'm sure many of these are also fairly appetizing. The truth is, though, that I've only gotten one thing at Barry's that I remember: the Pizza Bagel.

The Pizza Bagel is much as you would expect it to be: a plain bagel topped with pizza sauce and pepperoni, and covered in mozzarella (and I mean covered; I defy you to find an inch of exposed bagel). It was soft and chewy and greasy - and somehow, inexplicably, it was exactly what my taste buds craved. It was not the most high-quality creation. I'm sure if I had one now I would be sorely disappointed. But it was pizza...on a bagel. And that was, for me, the perfect combination.

Besides, the Pizza Bagel was not just food – not at Barry's Bagels, anyway. See, the Pizza Bagel, by its very nature, takes longer to make than other sandwiches. That means a kid ordered a Pizza Bagel at the cost of having to wait that much longer for their food, and kids are not generally fond of waiting. Fortunately, Barry's had a design feature that satisfied both the impatient and the curious, and turned the Pizza Bagel into an experience.

After getting my side and a drink, I would set them down at the table and head towards the back of the restaurant. Here, a couple of wide, shallow steps led up to large window. This window didn't look outside, though. It looked into the kitchen. Sure, I had to wait longer to get my bagel – but I got to watch them make it. Too be honest, I don't remember what exactly that entailed. I think that I was too young at the time to really comprehend what was going on, and so, while I was captivated by the scene, the details escaped me, as they wouldn't have meant much.

The combination of the endlessly fascinating bagel-making process and pizza quickly made the Pizza Bagel one of my favorite foods. One day, when I was maybe ten years old and had not yet realized that the Pizza Bagel was largely indistinguishable from the styrofoam container it came in, I requested a trip to Barry's Bagels for lunch. My mom, knowing that Barry's Bagels meant a Pizza Bagel, and apparently not having any errands to covertly add on to the trip to make it worthwhile, let me know that if I wanted a pizza bagel, she could just make one for me. I was somewhat skeptical, but willing to go along with her for the moment.

My mom took a bagel from the freezer (no doubt from the higher-quality Bruegger's Bagels, a legitimately apostrophied chain that started in New York), warmed it up a bit in the microwave, and put on pizza sauce, pepperoni, and pieces of string cheese, which I was amazed to find out was made from mozzarella. She stuck it in the toaster oven for fifteen or twenty minutes, and since the little window on the front of it was decidedly less impressive than the one at Barry's, I grabbed a book and settled down on the couch. When the bagel was cooked, cooled, and ready to eat, not knowing what to expect, I took a bite. It was delicious.

The homemade pizza bagel opened up a whole new world for me. This was a process I could understand. It was so easy that I could even make it myself, and pretty soon I began to wonder what else I could turn into a pizza. Tortilla got cooked in the grease it soaked up from the pepperoni, making it extra crispy. Sandwich rounds were a little smaller, a good snack option. Challa bread added a sweetness to the pizza, while matzoh was made surprisingly edible, if a little messy; both had the added flavor of irony, as pepperoni and cheese is decidedly not kosher. No two pizza creations taste the same, but they all taste good.

In addition to my pizzafication explorations, I discovered that the toaster oven was a much better alternative to the microwave. Hot Pockets, Chinese food leftovers, and of course leftover pizza all tasted at least twice as good. The toaster oven also provided me with new avenues to follow in my quest to prove that anything could be turned into a sandwich. Most importantly, it's small size made the toaster oven not nearly as frightening as the gaping, sweltering maw of the full-sized oven. I even figured out that I could put the food in before pre-heating, which meant that I didn't have to go near the toaster oven while it was on, and had the added benefit of making the food take less time to cook. It's little window might not be as impressive as the one at Barry's Bagels, but the food is better, and I don't just get to watch it being made - I get to make it myself.

CYOA: Cooking With Computers

In 2001, Anthony Bourdain traveled all over the world looking for a perfect meal. Were he to write the same book in 2014, it's likely that one of his first stops would have been Austin, Texas, for the debut of the IBM Food Truck. BBC News reported on the latest venture for IBM's supercomputer, Watson, most famous for winning a game of Jeopardy! against the top two champions, Ken Jennings and Brad Rutter. Instead of competing against humans, Watson is working with them to create new dishes that a human chef would likely never think of.

We've talk a lot about the intangible qualities that affect a meal: the place, the people, the mood, the amount of sleep you've had. All of these things and more go into the experience. We've especially focused on the way memory affects food. In the video that accompanies the BBC article, chef James Briscione says that "creativity is all about previous experience...it's something we remember that spurs us to create a new dish." Yet the recipes put together by Watson are new even to the chefs cooking from them. In class, we'll discuss whether this is taking away from the humanity of food. We'll also look at the more practical implications discussed in the article, and perhaps some other ways food and technology are coming together.

Memoir Assignment [Workshop Draft] - Barry('s) Pizza Bagels and the Wonders of Toaster Ovens

The Westgate Shopping Center in Ann Arbor, just a few minutes' drive from my house, was an integral part of my childhood. There sits Play It Again Sports, which for most of my childhood was the first (and usually only) place to go to find any piece of equipment for soccer, baseball, and rollerblading. Just a few doors down from that is Learning Express, the kind of toy store that's fun to visit even if you don't buy anything (although it's that much more fun if you do). Nestled in the corner is the branch of the Ann Arbor Public Library where I first discovered Tintin and the works of Garth Nix, and where I learned how a copy machine works. Practically next door is Nicola's Books, a nationally recognized independent bookstore from which much of my own collection is drawn.

Finally, next to Nicola's is Barry Bagels (or Barry's Bagels, as I called (and still call) it, because apparently even as a child I was good at pattern recognition and not so good at reality recognition). According to their online menu, Barry Barry's Bagels (it turns out calling it Barry Bagels makes me physically uncomfortable) has nineteen bagel flavors, and I'm sure most, maybe even all of them, are quite tasty. They also have an assortment of muffins and cookies, and the types of bagel-based sandwiches one would expect to see, and I'm sure many of these are also fairly appetizing. The truth is, though, that I've only gotten one thing at Barry's that I remember: the Pizza Bagel.

The Pizza Bagel is much as you would expect it to be: a plain bagel topped with pizza sauce and pepperoni, and covered in mozzarella (and I mean covered; I defy you to find an inch of exposed bagel). It was not the most high-quality creation. I'm sure if I had one now I would be sorely disappointed. But it was pizza...on a bagel. What's not to love?

Besides, the Pizza Bagel was not just food – not at Barry's Bagels, anyway. See, the Pizza Bagel, by its very nature, takes longer to make than other sandwiches. That means a kid ordered a Pizza Bagel at the cost of having to wait that much longer for their food, and kids are not generally fond of waiting. Fortunately, Barry's had a design feature that satisfied both the impatient and the curious, and turned the Pizza Bagel into an experience.

After getting my side (Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips) and a drink (Crush or root beer in a glass bottle), I would set them down at the table and head towards the back of the restaurant. Here, a couple of wide, shallow steps led up to large window. This window didn't look outside, though. It looked into the kitchen. Sure, I had to wait longer to get my bagel – but I got to watch them make it.

The combination of the (at the time) endlessly fascinating bagel-making process and pizza quickly made the Pizza Bagel one of my favorite foods. One day, when I was maybe ten years old and had not yet realized that the Pizza Bagel was largely indistinguishable from the styrofoam container it came in, I requested a trip to Barry's Bagels for lunch. My mom, knowing that Barry's Bagels meant a Pizza Bagel, and apparently not having any errands to covertly add on to the trip to make it worthwhile, let me know that if I wanted a pizza bagel, she could just make one for me. I was somewhat skeptical, but willing to go along with her for the moment.

My mom took a bagel from the freezer (no doubt from the higher-quality Bruegger's Bagels, a legitimately apostrophied chain that started in New York), warmed it up a bit in the microwave, put on pizza sauce and pepperoni, and pieces of string cheese, which I was amazed to find out was made from mozzarella. She stuck it in the toaster oven for fifteen or twenty minutes, and since the little window on the front of it was decidedly less impressive than the one at Barry's, I grabbed a book and settled down on the couch. When the bagel was cooked, cooled, and ready to eat, not knowing what to expect, I took a bite. It was delicious.

The homemade pizza bagel opened up a whole new world for me. It was so easy that I could make it myself, and pretty soon I began to wonder what else I could turn into a pizza. Tortilla got cooked in the grease it soaked up from the pepperoni, making it extra crispy. Sandwich rounds were a little smaller, a good snack option. Challa bread added a sweetness to the pizza, while matzoh was made surprisingly edible, if a little messy; both had the added flavor of irony, as pepperoni and cheese is decidedly not kosher.

In addition to my pizzafication explorations, I discovered that the toaster oven was a much better alternative to the microwave. Hot Pockets, Chinese food leftovers, and of course leftover pizza all tasted at least twice as good coming from the toaster oven than they did from the microwave. This new affinity for the toaster oven also provided me with new avenues to follow in my quest to prove that anything could be turned into a sandwich (which is, perhaps, the subject of another essay). Most importantly, the small toaster oven was not nearly as frightening as the gaping, sweltering maw of the full-sized oven, and I figured out that I could put the food in even before pre-heating, which, while it meant that I didn't have to go near the toaster oven while it was on, had the added benefit of making the food take less time to cook.

I have since expanded my culinary abilities beyond the small realm of the toaster oven. I've cooked (and over cooked) eggs and burgers, pasta and pancakes, sausage and even oatmeal that doesn't come in a package. Having spent seven weeks over the summer in  a cabin without electricity (or running water), I am now proficient at cooking with a gas stove, even if I feel like it's going to explode every time I use it. But I'm still too scared of ovens to go anywhere near them when their on, and whenever I want to make some kind of pizza, I go to the toaster oven, and watch through the little window as one of the most delicious foods imaginable comes into being.

Oreo Ice Cream

There are a few foods I will always associate with my first visit to Boston. On the first day, my dad convinced me to try yogurt and granola, a combination which immediately had me hooked. Later in the week, we stood in line outside Fenway Park for about an hour before they finally ran out of tickets. For our consolation meal we went to California Pizza Kitchen, which had yet to move into the Briarwood Mall back in Ann Arbor, and I established a positive association with it that lasted years before I realized that I didn't particularly like any of their food (another example of the corrupting influence of inexperienced taste buds - or, I suppose, of experienced taste buds, depending on how you look at it).

But the highlight of the visit was J.P. Licks, where I discovered the work of genius that is Oreo Ice Cream. Let me stress that this is not just an officially sponsored version of Cookies 'n' Cream. Cookies 'n' Cream could in no way prepare you for this. Oreo Ice Cream is literally Oreo-based ice cream. With Oreos stuck in it. You might be thinking of Dairy Queen's Oreo Blizzard. Don't. While they share a similar greyish color, J.P. Licks's Oreo Ice Cream is such a rich grey that it's almost purple. It is also softer than any ice cream has the right to be. If someone slammed an open tub of Oreo Ice Cream down on your head, you would sink smoothly in without any pain whatsoever, and then have the pleasure of eating your way out. It's like if a giant plate of Oreos and a glass of milk got in a fight, and the Oreos won. Trying to enjoy Cookies 'n' Cream or an Oreo Blizzard after eating Oreo Ice Cream is like chasing the dragon. It's like -

Sorry. Got a little carried away there. Anyway, although I've been to Boston two more times, I have never again had Oreo Ice Cream. J.P. Licks rotates their menu from month to month, so I have no idea if they would have had it had I stopped in to look. Even if they did though, I don't think I would have gotten it. Oreo Ice Cream has been added to the list foods of whom I'd rather have the glorious memory than the potentially (almost inevitably) disappointing reality. For the record, that list includes Choco Tacos (which is another story altogether), so you may want to take my rhapsodizing with a grain of salt. Or a Choco Taco.

"A Cook's Tour" (Ch. 1-6) Response

Last week, Marie shared Julian Baggini's article, "The Madeleine Effect," in which Baggini discusses, among other things, the difference between memory and recollection. Baggini (paraphrasing Søren Kierkegaard), says memory is about "factual recollection," while recollection is about "the creation and maintenance of emotional links with the past." This distinction seems to explain Baggini's disappointment with the food of his childhood - the emotions attached to the food are stronger than its flavor.

Baggini's experience is strikingly similar to Anthony Bourdain's description of his return to the French sea-side village where he spent summers with his family as a child. Bourdain and his brother visit the same bakery they used to go to, and find that "the baked goods...[are] identical in taste and appearance" to the ones they use to eat (35). The bakery even "smell[s] just as it [did] twenty-eight years ago. But something [is] missing" (35). As with Baggini, the food satisfies Bourdain's memory, but disappoints his recollection. Likewise, he is disappointed by the soup de poisson he gets which, though unchanged and still "delicious," is not as good as the soup he makes himself (35). His tastes have changed, and so he finds his old favorites lacking, just as Baggini's childhood comfort food is bland to his now-experienced taste buds.

In Bourdain's writing we see Baggini's experiment duplicated with almost scientific precision, and his theory is clearly borne out by the results. The difference is where they go from there. Baggini's take is largely philosophical, which is hardly surprising given that he is drawing from Kierkegaard. Bourdain, on the other hand, makes it personal: "I hadn't," he says, "returned to France, to this beach, my old town, for the oysters.... I'd come to find my father. And he wasn't there" (46). Had I read this before last week, it probably would have tugged at my heartstrings just as it's intended to (I say 'probably' because I'm unpredictably cynical). Based on Baggini's theory, however, his meals would likely have been just as disappointing had his father been right there with him. Just in the previous paragraph, Bourdain hits the proverbial nail on the equally proverbial head: "[Y]ou can never be ten years old again - or even truly feel like ten years old" (45). Yes, it makes sense that he would miss his father more in a place primarily associated with him. But that has less to do with the food, and more to do with death.

This isn't to say I don't understand the temptation to try a culinary resurrection. On the last day of spring break, I asked my mom to make the stuffed shells recipe she inherited from my aunt. I don't know what I expected to get from the meal, emotionally. It tasted good - better, maybe, since my mom added a little spinach, giving it a less fluffy, empty texture; just the idea of spinach would have appalled me as a kid. And maybe that's why we shouldn't attach people to food. Our taste in food changes, but our taste in people, if we truly care about them, shouldn't.

"Stealing Buddha's Dinner" (Ch. 1-9) Response

The first thing that struck me about Bich Nguyen's Stealing Buddha's Dinner was how different it was from our first reading, Jane Kramer's essay, "The Reporter's Kitchen." Kramer makes the exotic seem commonplace, and in the context of her essay, it works. The point, we are led to believe, isn't to show off all the places and people and foods she's encountered; the point is to talk about what all of that has to do with writing. When I compared the two readings, however, Kramer's narrative came off as the rarefied gourmet creation to Nguyen's home-cooked meal. Like the woman in David Sedaris's "The Ship Shape" who says, "My home - well, one of my homes," Kramer's normalization of her experiences, both journalistic and culinary, feels like an act put on for our benefit.

Nguyen, by contrast, successfully raises an apple to treasure status, and makes what might seem commonplace to us, such as Nestle's Toll House cookies, seem as exotic as any Parisian haute cuisine or traditional Moroccan dish. The way she savors (both literally and figuratively) every meal makes me think, somewhat guiltily, about my own wolfish eating habits. She confronts us with our gluttony while simultaneously praising it as the greatest goal her younger self could hope to achieve. In her writing, food becomes flavored with otherness, with belonging, with poverty, and with privilege. The poet Adam Falkner defines privilege, in part, as "the option of silence;" I think of the American obsession with diets, and of every time I've decided not to eat some treat or other, and then I think of Nguyen hiding in her grandmother's closet with her stolen desserts, and I wonder if perhaps another definition of privilege is "the option of going without."

This disparity also speaks to the high expectations American society tends to have of immigrants. Often, they'll be expected (if not explicitly then implicitly) to be able to read, write, and speak perfect English as soon as they arrive. Meanwhile, according to the National Assessment of Adult Literacy from 2003, 43% of U.S. adults read at a basic or below-basic level, including 11% of graduate students and those with graduate degrees. We also expect them to obey stricter laws (or may strictly obey the law), and they can be deported for almost any reason due to the lack of oversight for administrative departments. Then, to become a citizen, they have to pass a test which most people born in the U.S. would likely fail (as I and many of my classmates did when we took it in a high school U.S. Government class).