annmisakisinger-blog

[annmisakisinger-blog]

Thanksgiving 2015.

Me, blissed out on rice at a beach in Maine. 

When a friend and I were in Greece we passed a taverna in Preveli, Crete. They were closed, but we desperately wanted some yogurt and to our surprise they brought out a heaping plate of the stuff, fresh and drizzled with honey, laughing at us. 

Ann Singer

In my experience, holidays are a time to gather your friends and family. It’s a celebration of sorts, whether happy or sad. The common denominator among the din: food. It’s the source of many conflicts, resolutions, laughs and sometimes tears (how could the dog eat the last cookie??). This picture is emblematic of a most acceptable form of gluttony—Thanksgiving. In a little house outside Chicago in 2015, the homemade, serve yourself spread consisted of everything from pumpkin pie to persimmon, turkey to kimchi, sushi to prosciutto. The population itself reflected this and consisted of Japanese, Italian, Korean, and American people, everyone bringing their version of a delicacy.

This is how I grew up. My mom is Japanese, my dad American, so I thought it was completely normal that dinner-time talk flitted between two languages and spaghetti was eaten with chopsticks. As I’ve grown I’ve realized that there is a population who don��t come from a multicultural background with a natively multicultural diet, but that once they were exposed, it opened a world of new foods and conversation.

My roommates in my apartment are a great example of this. One roommate comes from a southern family with divorced parents. When she was with her dad her diet included the ancient family barbecue recipe. When she lived with her mom, she ate what she calls easy “single mom food” such as mac and cheese and pizza bagels. 

The other roommate grew up with British parents who were rather set in their ways. They ate three square meals a day, dinner always consisting of a protein, vegetable, and carb. They drank tea religiously, often with a digestive cookie on the side. Her mom is Jewish, and her dad converted; however, they still feast on Christmas alongside Chanukkah. 

Meanwhile, there was me bringing a diet of foods such as soba, curry, fish, and tofu. My dad was rather set in his ways—like his parents—eating cereal for breakfast, a sandwich and salad for lunch, and then for dinner he mixed it up with whatever my mom made. My mom makes traditional Japanese food, but ever since living in America, she has grown an affinity for things like a bagel or danish in the morning. Then there is me, a literal product of their habits and mannerisms. I can eat cereal or eel for breakfast, a sandwich or yakisoba for lunch, shrimp scampi or yakitori for dinner. 

When my roommates and I cook together—which we do often—we introduce each other to lifestyles we otherwise would not have known existed. One day we might make slow-cooked pulled pork, the next would be salmon cakes and mashed cauliflower with potatoes, and then the next would be ramen with real broth and soft-boiled egg. I would never have known what it was like to own a southern barbecue food truck, or the bonding experience of making matzo ball soup, without these meals and conversations with my roommates. 

This is what I consider the most important aspect of the consumption and sharing of food—learning about other people and cultures, which consequently cultivates awareness, understanding, and appreciation of diversity. 

People have shaped my eating habits, and since eating is a top priority of mine, people have shaped who I am. When I was younger, my mom entrusted a Japanese family to babysit me while she worked. There is a photo that sticks out in my memory of a four-year-old girl in bright red overalls sticking a spoon of neko-manma (rice mixed in miso soup) into my slobbery toddler mouth. The biggest influencers in my early life both cooked Japanese cuisine, so my dietary comfort blanket is made with threads of miso, rice, fermented beans and red beans. 

Then there are photos like six-year-old me in my aunt’s home in Maine, grinning at a piece of waffle the size of my head, a single blueberry carefully placed in each hole. I was obsessed with these kinds of breakfasts, of cheese and cracker platters, of the idea that baking sweet Christmas cookies is a familial activity AND you get to eat them. Western meals were so delicious and I would savor them, but as I grew up I realized that what I crave, what makes me consistently content—not just giving me a burst of happiness—is that neko-manma. 

We all have our personal palates, but if I have learned anything—from that Thanksgiving, from my roommates, from old photographs—it is that memories are often what make a food extraordinary. When my friend and I ordered a delicious pasta dish with wine at a restaurant in Florence, the food itself was exquisite; but what made us truly happy was joking and trying to talk to the waiters in English, French, Italian and even Japanese. Because we befriended the staff, when it was time to close they kicked everyone out and invited us to stay and enjoy drinks and desserts with them, aprons off. This warmth, these connections, these memories; this is what it’s all about. In my life, food has been delicious both to my body and my soul.