W3 Blog

Through my life, personal teachers of the culinary arts have been few and far between. Such rarity has made me appreciate my lessons that much more. The meals I have learned to cook differ greatly. My experiences range from all-American grills to concise Japanese meals.

      One of the most memorable teachers I have ever had lies many years in the past. During my junior year of high school, I exchanged to Japan. Throughout the exchange, there was times where all the current exchange students from my city would meet up and have events together. Considering the many diverse backgrounds that we all brought to the table, it was easy to see why everyone looked forward to these meetings.

     One chilly fall day, I biked through my town to the building where everyone was going to meet. I remember being very excited. My body shivered from both the bitter cold and eager anticipation. Once I arrived, the standard procedures began.

     Everyone gave their speeches. These usually lasted no more than 5 minutes per person. All exchangers stifled their yawns and feigned attention. You could only hear the same speech in broken Japanese so many times.

     After the speeches were done, the head Rotarians split us into groups. We all talked feverishly about what we would be doing next. Soon, we stared at the ground in wonder. They had all unfolded bright blue cloth, revealing a line of small hollow sticks with string laced through each end.

     It seemed like the lining you put at the bottom of your bathtub to keep you from slipping. The head Rotarian stood up and spoke in some unintelligible Japanese. At some point in the flurry of words, I picked up "sushi." Our fevered talking started once more.

     In a few moments, my host father meandered over to show us the process. He held up the mat of sticks and rolled it into a tube slowly. His lack of English skills forced us into watching a series of exaggerated charades.

     A few moments later, bowels were distributed to each group. Each one contained a different ingredient. Bowls of seaweed, fish meat, vegetables, and rice were splayed about. First, my host father laid a flat sheet of seaweed on the stringed sticks. He then grabbed a hunk of rice and smoothed it across the seaweed thickly. Finally delicately inserted bits of fish into the rice.

     After these steps, he stared at me with a wide smile. He delicately lifted the stringed sticks and rolled it into a tube once more. The rice and fish were all compacted into the center and the seaweed connected to itself in one glorious motion. After that, he grabbed a knife from another table.

     He effortlessly sliced the tube of sushi into individual slices. I remember the wide eyes every exchanger at my table bore. I never thought that sushi could be so easy to make.

     After that, he distributed a stick-mat to every one of us. That said mat still sits in my parents kitchen to this day. The wordless instructions have never left me. And on chilly fall days, his silent guidance helps me make a delicious meal for my family. My host father has unintentionally instilled something in me that time will never erase.

W3 Blog

    
Through my life, personal teachers of the culinary arts have been few and far between. Such rarity has made me appreciate my lessons that much more. The meals I have learned to cook differ greatly. My experiences range from all-American grills to concise Japanese meals.

      One of the most memorable teachers I have ever had lies many years in the past. During my junior year of high school, I exchanged to Japan. Throughout the exchange, there was times where all the current exchange students from my city would meet up and have events together. Considering the many diverse backgrounds that we all brought to the table, it was easy to see why everyone looked forward to these meetings.

     One chilly fall day, I biked through my town to the building where everyone was going to meet. I remember being very excited. My body shivered from both the bitter cold and eager anticipation. Once I arrived, the standard procedures began.

     Everyone gave their speeches. These usually lasted no more than 5 minutes per person. All exchangers stifled their yawns and feigned attention. You could only hear the same speech in broken Japanese so many times.

     After the speeches were done, the head Rotarians split us into groups. We all talked feverishly about what we would be doing next. Soon, we stared at the ground in wonder. They had all unfolded bright blue cloth, revealing a line of small hollow sticks with string laced through each end.

     It seemed like the lining you put at the bottom of your bathtub to keep you from slipping. The head Rotarian stood up and spoke in some unintelligible Japanese. At some point in the flurry of words, I picked up "sushi." Our fevered talking started once more.

     In a few moments, my host father meandered over to show us the process. He held up the mat of sticks and rolled it into a tube slowly. His lack of English skills forced us into watching a series of exaggerated charades.

     A few moments later, bowels were distributed to each group. Each one contained a different ingredient. Bowls of seaweed, fish meat, vegetables, and rice were splayed about. First, my host father laid a flat sheet of seaweed on the stringed sticks. He then grabbed a hunk of rice and smoothed it across the seaweed thickly. Finally delicately inserted bits of fish into the rice.

     After these steps, he stared at me with a wide smile. He delicately lifted the stringed sticks and rolled it into a tube once more. The rice and fish were all compacted into the center and the seaweed connected to itself in one glorious motion. After that, he grabbed a knife from another table.

     He effortlessly sliced the tube of sushi into individual slices. I remember the wide eyes every exchanger at my table bore. I never thought that sushi could be so easy to make.

     After that, he distributed a stick-mat to every one of us. That said mat still sits in my parents kitchen to this day. The wordless instructions have never left me. And on chilly fall days, his silent guidance helps me make a delicious meal for my family. My host father has unintentionally instilled something in me that time will never erase.

W2 Blog

     During the softer moments of my hectic college life, I often reminisce about the foods I had in Japan. Flavors unique and unforgettable. When I compare them with the ever so consistent meals of Ohio University, my yearning to revisit Japan mysteriously materializes. It materializes in the form of stomach groans and poached lips. The dryness that you have to run your tongue over right before Thanksgiving.

     Before my first time visiting Japan, there was some foods I swore I would never try. Some things seemed so alien to me that the thought of enjoying them was preposterous. One food that stood above others was eel. Just the sight of them on the discovery channel sent hairs prickling on my neck. At one point, I entertained the idea of trying eel on my exchange. It resulted in a rash of goosebumps and audible sounds of disgust.

     One hot summer day in Japan, my host father came home with a ornate box. It was wrapped in ribbon and featured a pair of chopsticks slipped into the top bow. The sight of it immediately excited me. I hoped for nothing more than a box of ice cubes. Up until that point, my day was spent waving a fan in my face and practicing how to complain in Japanese.

     In retrospect, it seems the word of my no-no foods was leaked to several host families. My host dad revealed a slight smirk as he placed the food in front of me. The box was slowly untied after I gave my thanks. The moment I opened it, a wave of smell bombarded me. And all of the sudden, I was very hungry.

     I quickly dug into the food without a single question. The mystery meat was very sweet and soft. Something akin to baby back ribs ripe to fall off the bone. The box had a small pool of sauce that engulfed the fish. It made it's presence known. I could still taste that distinct hint of ocean despite that.

     After a few minutes of inhaling food, I turned to my father and inquired about what my lunch was. He quickly spat out the word. It was obvious he could barely contain his laughter. He walked into the other room and splayed on the couch, holding his sides in guffaws.

     I was in momentary shock after realizing I had just ate an underwater, electric snake. Time did it's work though. My initial anger quickly subsided. I found myself doing something I never thought. I entered my father's room the next day and asked for more eel in the near future.

W1 blog

     There is some things all people intrinsically bear shame over. These can range from bad habits to deep secrets and anything in between. One of the most interesting things to hear about is a person's "shame food."
   
     My dad has always been a man of the earth. In that, I mean he is always trying to incorporate yields from the garden into the family meals. This usually tasted good in the end and impressed guests all the same.  There is one food my family eats that I hope no guest has to witness. That meal is goulash.

     It bears a smell that you can not ignore. Once the lid comes off the pan, everyone in a close proximity gets whiplash. The odor hits you like a wall of bricks. I don't know what concoction of spices my dad puts in. In fact, I hope I never do. The temptation to make this abomination would be too strong. Somehow, those spices come together to make some edible tear gas.

     And when I say my dad likes spicy food, it is an understatement. He always chuckles in a low voice as he slices up peppers and throws them in. The kind of chuckle that chills you to the bone. It is something so spicy that only my dad can enjoy. And only I can eat without being sick. The goulash evenings are those evenings where my mom and sister go into town for edible food. I am most always envious.

    I sit there in rolling tears as the goulash throws a tantrum in my mouth, brutally beating my taste buds. All the while, my mom and sister sit on the counter eating some wonderful burritos. Their feet swing back and forth off the stool. My feet are curled around the stool's legs like I am clinging for my life. The pressure in my legs helps lesson the pain of goulash.

     I am ever thankful for my mom being around. She keeps my dad in line. Thanks to her, goulash days are seldom had. This might explain why I still have feeling in my tongue......

W1 Blog (Shame food)