Through the steam of my coffee I could see a miniature set of shiny red shoes swinging back and forth underneath the counter at the diner. A little girl had been sitting atop the red stool since I had arrived, just sitting watching the cook flip pancakes all morning long with a mature sense of fascination. Up and down, and up and down, over and over again, the batter always formed into delicious solid creations, some with blueberries, some with chocolate, some just plain and simple. The cook sported a wonderful apron that looked like it had been around forever, cooked a million pancakes, and still lived to tell its tale of the oils and toppings and syrups it had seen in its day. The old man’s red shirt could be seen through the burn holes in the apron, as if they were war wounds.
The cook didn’t seem to mind the heat of the stove, or stir at all when the burning oil from the pan spat at his flesh. He was caked in a film of grease, butter and batter, and only occasionally broke from his cooking rituals to wipe his forehead with the sopping wet rag that was slung over his left shoulder. Each pancake was a delicate creation that the old man prepared with great consideration and effort, making each one perfect, but none the same. Never would the man be compared to any machine- every one was original, every one special. The special of the day was peanut butter pancakes, although I didn’t see anybody order that one.
The little girl with the shiny shoes, who had been there sinc...
The cakes that Mildred baked were not the ordinary cakes that sold on the marketplace. Her cakes had the extra touch that made people admire them. They were so beautiful and delicious that the orders increased as well as her confidence. She knew that baking cakes could lead her to have a better future as a businesswoman. Her second opportunity came while working in a restaurant where she knew that this could be a great place to get to be known for her talent in baking delic...
On a rainy Monday, I had come to San Francisco to do a cuisine comparison, sort of a tour guide-cum-restaurant review, covering the soup kitchens that I remembered from my time in SF—my two years of living on the fringes. Those years seemed distant now—I am a university student, and I feel suddenly distant from my old days. I am hipper now, I thought. I felt the smugness of a wise-ass. I had thought before I made the trip: here’s a twist on the old restaurant review. I can talk about worn-out things: the bouquet of the food, the ambience of the place. How original. I had felt like slapping my own back.
In the city of Havana in Cuba back in 1989, was a little spot restaurant called La Cocina Ramona. A young girl named Selena Rivera had been working there as a dishwasher for about a year now. She started at age 13 working in the kitchen and busing tables. At the same time, she would look and watch the cooks work. She could remember when she was 10 after coming home from martial arts training, her mother would teach her and her sisters the art of cooking. Sylvia Fierro, the chef, needed help with getting ingredients prepped. “This is the list of what I need,” She said, holding the paper up in the air. Without waiting for an answer, Selena snatches the list from Sylvia's hand “I’ll do it” she says, and started going to work chopping lettuce,
3.?Against the dark background of the kitchen she stood up tall and angular, one hand drawing a quilted counterpane to her flat breast, while the other held a lamp. The light on a level with her chin, drew out of the darkness her puckered throat and the projecting wrist of the hand that clutched the quilt, and deepened fantastically the hollows and prominences of her high-boned face under its rings of crimping-pins. To Ethan, s...
Eating different cuisines and trying new dishes at a variety of restaurants is an important hobby in Ashley’s life. In the future, Ashley hopes to go into the field of marketing or advertising, and hopefully specialize in food. But no matter what job she pursues, she hopes to have her own children (she is hoping for two) and a joyful family. The first thing she teaches her kids will be to always try new things and be accepting to the unknown. That is the one thing she regrets from her childhood. Not being more open-minded and unwilling to step out of her comfort zone. But despite this, her childhood has shaped who she is today. By pushing away vegetables and having a constant craving for macaroni and cheese, the cheesy pasta dish is now the single dish that can cheer her up when she feels defeated or disappointed. It is the comfort food that will remain a part of her life. Throughout Ashley’s life, she has always wondered why certain foods triggered certain emotions. Why does macaroni and cheese make me feel so cheerful? And why is it that this dish is what I rely on when sad? Her curiosity for the deeper meaning of food has grown throughout the years, but what has risen to a new level is her true passion
I arrived at my grandma’s house in bewilderment. The smell of flavored pork and freshly made red sauce wafted out of the windows and rose with the sound of laughter. The family was already there: all four of my aunts elbow deep into bowls of chicken, pork, sauces; my cousins and a couple of uncles with rolled up sleeves spreading
The first time I read Kitchen, I knew I was experiencing something very special. Not since my initial reading of Catcher in the Rye have I witnessed such a perceptive look at the joys and pains of growing up. These coming-of-age novels capture our attention with plots that, while twisting and turning in creative, off-beat ways, remain believable. The writers of these novels tell us their stories with a subtle style more exciting than that of textbooks and assigned reading, a style not unlike a good one-sided conversation. Finally, within this great style of writing, the authors infuse honest insights, often humorous and sometimes poignant, which do not carry a lecturing or authoritative tone. Banana Yoshimoto, as translated by Megan Backus, incorporates these three elements of a successful coming-of-age novel into Kitchen skillfully. The result is magnificent.
There are few novels that nosedive and soar so sporadically as that of Twain’s Huck Finn. It began as a capitalization on his prior work of Tom Sawyer, but quickly turned into a magnum opus of Americana. In order to fit that theme, the material must break the mold entirely. People say often (similar to Kubrick’s Full-Metal Jacket) that you should really stop experiencing the art around the end of the third quarter of the book. In that way it is wholly American, messy and composed. It is also a terribly ambiguous story. For all of the caricatures and pageantry, it is a very ambiguous book, just at the semi-threatening prelude would suggest, definitely the most neutral book I’ve ever read, and I’ve read six of those things.
Then she saw a greasy china plate that had bread crumbs, cheese and sausage. The pungent of cheese made her stomach grumble. The man was very rude and insulted her because she couldn’t read. Then Frances headed home and on her way, she bumped into a girl with a nice, green, winter coat. She imagined her Ma in that coat, twirling around with a smile on her face. The girl’s mother said a rather offensive sentence about Frances and walked away with her daughter.
installments we are treated twelve times to a new a recipe and find that the preperation of this recipe will not only have a direct influence on the character's themselves but will dictate the direction the story takes. Taken on its own this almost god-like presence of food and the power it holds over Esquivel's characters would seem unnatural, out of place and, frankly, far-fetched. Yet in a world populated by pre-natal sobbers, miraculous lactations, and ever-present ghosts, the stranglehold of food, the true essence of what makes Esquivel's novel her own, seems like just another wonder to behold.
Food has been a great part of how he has grown up. He was always interested in how food was prepared. He wanted to learn, even if his mother didn’t want him to be there. “I would enter the kitchen quietly and stand behind her, my chin lodging upon the point of the hip. Peering through...
We all grabbed our lawn chairs and cozied up next to the roaring red fire. I always sat a little too close, enough to where the fire burnt a hole straight through my favorite pair of flip-flops, assuring me to never make that mistake again. S’mores was all of our favorite bed time snack time and a perfect way to end the night. Every time I would roast my marshmallow until it became slightly brown, mushy, and not too hot in the center; then I 'd put it between two graham crackers and extra pieces of chocolate. One too many s’mores and a belly like later I laid back in my chair and listened as Nancy told us stories. Before going to bed Nancy told us about her favorite past times here as a child and how just like the little girl we saw fishing, she was also afraid of fishing. She told us stories about how much the campground has evolved since she was a child and how every year she promises to take us here and to keep it a tradition. At bedtime Alicia and I crawl into our tents and snuggle up in our warm sleeping bags. We talked to each other about how sad we felt that it was almost the end of summer, and how nervous we felt to start our freshman year of high school. However, our conversations ended when Nancy yelled at as from the other tent to keep quiet and go to bed. I’d fallen asleep that night to the sound of the fire crackling out and the crickets chirping
Base needs met, Chef moves to fulfill sexual needs without love; just an opportunity to pontificate to “get the girl”. A painting of an apple causes Chef to dwell on times past; a time before war. A time of friendship; not love. We do not need details. The apple peeling away is enough. It is a comfort to him. A simpler less complicated time where his life was his own. Art stimulates the mind.
I slowly opened the front door -- the same old creak echoed its way throughout the old house, announcing my arrival just seconds before I called out, "Grandma!" She appeared around the corner with the normal spring in her steps. Her small but round 5'1" frame scurried up to greet me with a big hug and an exclamation of, "Oh, how good to see you." It was her eighty-fifth birthday today, an amazing feat to me, just part of everyday life to her. The familiar mix of Estee Lauder and old lotion wafted in my direction as she pulled away to "admire how much I've grown." I stopped growing eight years ago, but really, it wasn't worth pointing this fact out. The house, too, smelled the same as it's ever smelled, I imagine, even when my father and his brothers grew up here more than forty years ago -- musty smoke and apple pie blended with the aroma of chocolate chip cookies. The former was my grandfather's contribution, whose habit took him away from us nearly five years ago; the latter, of course, comes from the delectable delights from my grandmother's kitchen. Everything was just as it should be.
...of chili and three spaghetti-o’s. After he had finished eating he decided that he had better get some rest, he went to bed in the small cot he found in the corner. He slept well in the warmth of the cabin, but awoke to the sound of a gasoline engine. Startled he looked around and saw a woman rekindling the fire. She saw him looking at her and told him he was ok, and that when he was ready her husband would take him back to town. She had already made coffee and some pancakes, and told him he was more than welcome to have some.