In my house dinner was a symbol for our family. Most nights were fend for yourself night, they said that it would toughen us up and make us more manly, but whenever one of my parents made dinner we all innately gathered around no matter where we were or what we were doing. Growing up my parents worked sometimes for more than forty hours a week just to provide the needs for two children. Needless to say, we would not go out to eat all the time, the most we went out was to the local McDonald’s. So dinning in was all the choice we had most nights and my parents were so exhausted from working that they did not have the energy to prepare a lavish meal, leaving us to eat whatever we could find. We would eat hotdogs, bologna, or peanut butter sandwiches, the goal was to eat just enough to survive to the next day. However, when someone accomplished something that was deemed important news my mom, in the beginning, would attempt to cook a meal that she most likely heard about on the morning news or from one of her “coworker friends”. So when the average routine was interrupted by the presence of a cook in the kitchen we would all migrate toward the unfamiliar aroma of welcome change. The three of us would separately ask the same question “What are you doing?” bewildered that someone felt the desire to actually do something for dinner. My mother would always roll her eyes and send us away without any sort of answer to our inquiry leaving us to dwell on the knowledge that we would have to come back again. The work of cooking was only half the labor involved in dinner, she then had to roam the house and tell us that we had to sit down together and, whether we liked it or not, eat the whole meal she made and listen to whatever the news was that prompted her to cook her husband and children a meal. Ninety-nine percent of the time her only news was that she wanted us to sit down together and share the events of the day, but with us kids’ getting the story of our day was like pulling teeth. The best part of dinner was hearing my father’s long-winded rants about what happened during his day and listen to joke about his coworkers
Even though the same types of comfort food, each meal was special and unique. Sometimes my parents played around with the idea of making a food schedule of what would be made on which day, but each time the floor fell out because when they would make the schedule something would come up and we would crave what wasn’t on the menu for the night. The allure of the meal was spontaneity of each and the schedule took all that away, the food seemed less flavorful and I became more of a chore to eat the food that I was always eager to have because of the sentiment behind it. Although it was not every week that they tried to plan a food schedule, every once in a while the idea would surface back up but it always got knocked back down after a while.
As I got older I decide that it might someday be in my best interest to be able to cook a meal. So one day I gathered up the courage to ask my father to teach me some of the meals that I always loved when he made them. So my father started to teach me how to make the basic meals, the right ways; hamburgers, the good kind of macaroni and cheese that doesn’t some in a box, and the breakfast favorite of homemade sausage gravy. At first, I was so intimidated by the feeling of my dad’s eye’s burning a hole in my back as he watched me try to remake the meals that he had perfected for his family over the years that I either burnt or undercooked, whichever would ruin the meal the worst, every part of the meal. The first meal that I tried to cook was just your basic hamburgers and macaroni and cheese, when you add the cheese to the macaroni you have to continue stirring the macaroni or the heat will burn the cheese and the whole meal will reek of the most disgusting burnt smell, so strong that you can taste it on your tongue. So with the macaroni completely ruined I thought that if I could cook a descent burger then I might just save the meal. The first time that I do anything I am overwhelmingly nervous about everything could go wrong, so in my panic I rushed the hamburgers flipping them too much, causing the part of the burger that actually got cooked to dry out, the very middle of the burger about the size of a quarter was pink, uncooked meat that was still a little runny with blood. Even in failure, there was a beacon of hope, the family gathered around and at least tried to force down the remnants of what started out with the potential to be a great meal. My father told me the “shit happens” and to learn from what I had done wrong the first time because I would have to cook breakfast and dinner the next day as well so I “better not screw up and ruin everyone’s day.” My father told me that cooking was like riding a bike because as soon as I get it I will wonder why it was so hard. He watched me cook the next day’s breakfast of sausage gravy. It is a simple combination of sausage and gravy made of milk and flour, the only hard part is getting the gravy at the right consistence. There were much fewer mistakes with breakfast than with dinner, but he stilled watched me with eagle eyes making sure to correct any mistakes to ensure that he wouldn’t miss anymore meals. He supervised the next couple of meals and one night he let go of the seat and let me ride on my own. While I was focused on the food he left the room, trusting that I could handle everything on my own.
Looking back now I can appreciate the significance of every meal and subtle lessons that came along with every home-cooked meal. Independence, self-reliance, and focus were all ingrained in the meal right along with each ingredient that made them up.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Home-Cooked
In my house dinner was a symbol for our family. Most nights were fend for yourself night, but whenever one of my parents made dinner we all innately gathered around no matter where we were or what we were doing. The meaning changed on a need basis, but the meaning always remained the same: togetherness.
Growing up my parents worked sometimes for more than forty hours a week just to provide the needs for two children. Needless to say, we would not go out to eat all the time, the most we went out was to the local McDonald’s. So dinning in was all the choice we had most nights and my parents were so exhausted from working that they did not have the energy to prepare a lavish meal, leaving us to eat whatever we could find. However, when someone accomplished something that was deemed important news my mom, in the beginning, would attempt to cook a meal that she most likely heard about on the morning news or from one of her “coworker friends”. So when the average routine was interrupted by the presence of a cook in the kitchen we would all migrate toward the unfamiliar aroma of welcome change. The three of us would separately ask the same question “What are you doing?”, bewildered that someone felt the desire to actually do something for dinner. My mother would always roll her eyes and send us away without any sort of answer to our inquiry leaving us to dwell on the knowledge that we would have to come back again. The work of cooking was only half the labor involved in dinner, she then had to roam the house and tell us that we had o sit down together and, whether we liked it or not, eat the whole meal she made and listen to whatever the news was that prompted her to cook her husband and children a meal. Ninety-nine percent of the time her only news was that she wanted us to sit down together and share the events of the day, but with us kids’ getting the story of our day was like pulling teeth.
Even though the same types of comfort food, each meal was special and unique. Sometimes my parents played around with the idea f making a food schedule of what would be made on which day, but each time the floor fell out because when they would make the schedule something would come up and we would crave what wasn’t on the menu for the night. The allure of the meal was spontaneity of each and the schedule took all that away, the food seemed less flavorful and I became more of a chore to eat the food that I was always eager to have because of the sentiment behind it. Although it was not every week that they tried to plan a food schedule, every once in a while the idea would surface back up but it always got knocked back down after a while.
As I got older I decide that it might someday be in my best interest to be able to cook a meal. So one day I gathered up the courage to ask my father to teach me some of the meals that I always loved when he made them. So my father started to teach me how to make the basic meals, the right ways; hamburgers, the good kind of macaroni and cheese that doesn’t some in a box, and the breakfast favorite of homemade sausage gravy. At first, I was so intimidated by the feeling of my dad’s eye’s burning a hole in my back as he watched me try to remake the meals that he had perfected for his family over the years that I either burnt or undercooked, whichever would ruin the meal the worst, every part of the meal. Even in failure, there was a beacon of hope, the family gathered around and at least tried to force down the remnants of what started out with the potential to be a great meal. My father told me the “shit happens’ and to learn from what I had done wrong the first time because I would have to cook breakfast and dinner the next day as well so I “better not screw up and ruin everyone’s day.” My father told me that cooking was like riding a bike because as soon as I get it I will wonder why it was so hard. He watched me cook the next couple of meals and one night he let go of the seat and let me ride on my own. While I was focused on the food he left the room, trusting that I could handle everything on my own.
Looking back now I can appreciate the lessons and values that came along with every home-cooked meal. Family, trust, pride in my work, and belief in myself were all ingrained in the meal right along with each ingredient that made them up.
Growing up my parents worked sometimes for more than forty hours a week just to provide the needs for two children. Needless to say, we would not go out to eat all the time, the most we went out was to the local McDonald’s. So dinning in was all the choice we had most nights and my parents were so exhausted from working that they did not have the energy to prepare a lavish meal, leaving us to eat whatever we could find. However, when someone accomplished something that was deemed important news my mom, in the beginning, would attempt to cook a meal that she most likely heard about on the morning news or from one of her “coworker friends”. So when the average routine was interrupted by the presence of a cook in the kitchen we would all migrate toward the unfamiliar aroma of welcome change. The three of us would separately ask the same question “What are you doing?”, bewildered that someone felt the desire to actually do something for dinner. My mother would always roll her eyes and send us away without any sort of answer to our inquiry leaving us to dwell on the knowledge that we would have to come back again. The work of cooking was only half the labor involved in dinner, she then had to roam the house and tell us that we had o sit down together and, whether we liked it or not, eat the whole meal she made and listen to whatever the news was that prompted her to cook her husband and children a meal. Ninety-nine percent of the time her only news was that she wanted us to sit down together and share the events of the day, but with us kids’ getting the story of our day was like pulling teeth.
Even though the same types of comfort food, each meal was special and unique. Sometimes my parents played around with the idea f making a food schedule of what would be made on which day, but each time the floor fell out because when they would make the schedule something would come up and we would crave what wasn’t on the menu for the night. The allure of the meal was spontaneity of each and the schedule took all that away, the food seemed less flavorful and I became more of a chore to eat the food that I was always eager to have because of the sentiment behind it. Although it was not every week that they tried to plan a food schedule, every once in a while the idea would surface back up but it always got knocked back down after a while.
As I got older I decide that it might someday be in my best interest to be able to cook a meal. So one day I gathered up the courage to ask my father to teach me some of the meals that I always loved when he made them. So my father started to teach me how to make the basic meals, the right ways; hamburgers, the good kind of macaroni and cheese that doesn’t some in a box, and the breakfast favorite of homemade sausage gravy. At first, I was so intimidated by the feeling of my dad’s eye’s burning a hole in my back as he watched me try to remake the meals that he had perfected for his family over the years that I either burnt or undercooked, whichever would ruin the meal the worst, every part of the meal. Even in failure, there was a beacon of hope, the family gathered around and at least tried to force down the remnants of what started out with the potential to be a great meal. My father told me the “shit happens’ and to learn from what I had done wrong the first time because I would have to cook breakfast and dinner the next day as well so I “better not screw up and ruin everyone’s day.” My father told me that cooking was like riding a bike because as soon as I get it I will wonder why it was so hard. He watched me cook the next couple of meals and one night he let go of the seat and let me ride on my own. While I was focused on the food he left the room, trusting that I could handle everything on my own.
Looking back now I can appreciate the lessons and values that came along with every home-cooked meal. Family, trust, pride in my work, and belief in myself were all ingrained in the meal right along with each ingredient that made them up.
Friday, July 24, 2009
1. Which prompt do you think you will select? Food+Family Why does this one appeal to you over the others? Most of my childhood was spent with my family. We didn't have a lot of money to spend on nights out.
2. Which mode(s) of writing will be most helpful to you in terms of creating content? Narration, Description, Examples, and Classification.
3. What specific details will you include for your reader? Types of food, how it was mad, the meaning that it had for the family and for me. Why are these details important? Certain meals were made to bring the family together for dinner, bringing us closer together as a family. What will they accomplish? It will illistrate the greater meaning that fod has had on my life than just as a necessity.
4. What “place(s)” or “scene(s)” will you try to recreate for your reader? The Kitchen and dinner table are the most present places or scenes in these stories. Why are they crucial? They are were the stories happen.
5. Thinking in terms of a working thesis, what do you think will be your main reason for writing? To emphasize the importance of family meals in the development of young children into adults.
6. What problems or struggles do you experience when it comes to writing? The biggest problem I have in writing is to open up and be honest to my peers about the inner most parts of my life and what has happened in my life to shape me into the man that I am today. How can you overcome these difficulties? The only way that comes to mind is just to do it and discover that it isn't a huge deal that I have always made it out to be.
2. Which mode(s) of writing will be most helpful to you in terms of creating content? Narration, Description, Examples, and Classification.
3. What specific details will you include for your reader? Types of food, how it was mad, the meaning that it had for the family and for me. Why are these details important? Certain meals were made to bring the family together for dinner, bringing us closer together as a family. What will they accomplish? It will illistrate the greater meaning that fod has had on my life than just as a necessity.
4. What “place(s)” or “scene(s)” will you try to recreate for your reader? The Kitchen and dinner table are the most present places or scenes in these stories. Why are they crucial? They are were the stories happen.
5. Thinking in terms of a working thesis, what do you think will be your main reason for writing? To emphasize the importance of family meals in the development of young children into adults.
6. What problems or struggles do you experience when it comes to writing? The biggest problem I have in writing is to open up and be honest to my peers about the inner most parts of my life and what has happened in my life to shape me into the man that I am today. How can you overcome these difficulties? The only way that comes to mind is just to do it and discover that it isn't a huge deal that I have always made it out to be.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Life through Food
I don’t remember a lot of the foods that I enjoyed as a young child, but I have always been a very picky eater and enjoyed the basics the most; pizza, hot dogs, and hamburgers. My parents struggled financially when I was younger so we were unable to go out to eat a whole lot. The grade school days aren’t much clearer but I do remember that the school lunch came sometimes with a peanut butter sandwich with honey mixed in with the peanut butter that made it easier to eat. The way the honey made the peanut butter sandwich tingle on the tongue made it all that I had to eat for lunch to fill satisfied. Middle school gave birth to the walking taco, the little bag of Fritos chips filled with lettuce, sour cream, and cheese made the public school’s mystery meat taste like grade A beef fit for private school children. High school had more options but with the greater number of choices came lower quality of the food. Freshmen year had the best food and I don’t know if it was the fact that I had grown used to the food or budget cuts had forced the school to buy cheaper food, but as I progressed through the years the food got worse and worse. The new a la carte line had the best breadsticks that came with a nacho cheese dip, and I lived on that alone for the first couple of years. As the years went on the cheese sauce suffered with smaller serving sizes and instead of just the cheese they started to add bits of peppers which made the sauce almost inedible. High school also had two types of chicken sandwich, hot and just plain chicken, patties. They never really changed in how they were made but they became almost too expensive to buy.
When I turned fourteen I wanted to learn how to cook some of the meals that I loved growing up. So my father showed me how to make hamburgers and macaroni and cheese for the family. The first time I ever tried I left the macaroni on the stove after I added the cheese and the cheese burnt a little and the hamburgers were sort of undercooked, the whole meal was ruined. As with anything, if you work at it you will get better and that is what happened, the next chance that I got I made sure to pay more attention to the macaroni and my father help me learn how to tell when the hamburgers were completely cooked. I’m not done learning the staple meals of my childhood, I still have to learn how to cook the perfect meatloaf my father has been making for as long as I can remember.
When I turned fourteen I wanted to learn how to cook some of the meals that I loved growing up. So my father showed me how to make hamburgers and macaroni and cheese for the family. The first time I ever tried I left the macaroni on the stove after I added the cheese and the cheese burnt a little and the hamburgers were sort of undercooked, the whole meal was ruined. As with anything, if you work at it you will get better and that is what happened, the next chance that I got I made sure to pay more attention to the macaroni and my father help me learn how to tell when the hamburgers were completely cooked. I’m not done learning the staple meals of my childhood, I still have to learn how to cook the perfect meatloaf my father has been making for as long as I can remember.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Brainstorm
The master chef at my house growing up was always my father. He got these crazy ideas about new dishes and the next night we would try whatever new concoction he threw in front of us and wait to hear what he thought. His favorite dish that he tries to perfect now is lasagna. He is probably on his twentieth variation of the basic recipe. Recently, he has been adding a can of tomatoes which does not sit well with me because of when I was growing up I have never had a good experience with tomatoes. I don’t have to tell him because he knows but he tells to quit being a pussy.
Brief Info
I am a quiet, hard-working guy who is often too busy for a lot of different fun activities. I come from a small town that is basically a suburb of Indianapolis. My parents, even though only one graduated college and the other had to drop out of college, have always killed themselves to provide the best life that they could for my brother and I. I have always idolized my parents for the sacrifices that they have made for me, and I strive to accomplish the same.
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