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Saturday, November 12, 2011

Write With Me: Is Food a Pilgrimage?

I'm interested to hear what you think of the whole Spanish avant garde Culinary Movement.

And in the same vein, is Ferran Adria a God? Can food stir your emotions?

Take a minute to get back to me on this.

I love how these three circles begin. And perhaps like a stone thrown in the pond, rings of pondering emerge.

1. A unique series of talks inspired by those culinary border pushing Spanish called: May I Have Your Order? which entertains the notion that you can Taste Words.

2. But here's a nice little cultural twist. It's happening at the Instituto Cervantes in Dublin. Yes, Ireland. What connects Dublin with Spain?

3. The first talk concerns Cooking Ideas and Dreams and features the ideas of two chefs, Iago Pazos and Marcos Cerqueiro, who began an avant garde Galician gastronomic concept, Abastos 2.0, in the wholesale food market of Santiago de Compostela, the end of the well-known Camino, or St. James Pilgrimage.

Is Food becoming the message about something more? How do you see it?

Friday, November 11, 2011

Read With Me: Guilty of Clutching Proust

Proust you devil. I can never react the same way to life again. You've changed everything, and what's more ~ I am sure you know and wished for this effect!

Well, good! I hope you are happy now, Marcel, for you got what you wanted. 

I don't have the exact quote, but basically at the very end of Proust he questions whether or not he can produce the monumental work he envisions  and whether it will achieve his intent. His intent is that as you read Proust's great undertaking, that you will not only get a chance to understand others, accept them for all their foibles -- but also to be able to read yourself. 

Old Wenger's Bakery, Reading, Pa.

It is chilly cold on my fingers as I type this. A hot coffee mug might help. But, there's no time for that. The fall vista of golden oaks and red maple trees won't last. They won't. I've seen it time and time again. And I am guilty of trying to hold on. Being here, but wishing I was either ahead or behind. 

A couple of weeks ago I good-bye to my 90 year old Father. 

Jackie, Me, Dad: Spring 2010

Bud Geiger was a simple and wonderful man. To many, many people -- and to me he was a cross between Santa Claus and Burl Ives, Mr Green Jeans and Mr Kangaroo.My sons, when they were little, knew him as The Giant because he would love to chase them around a big old oak tree in his front yard on Elizabeth Avenue. When he caught them they would squeal and he would growl like a bear and hug them. I believe they were all equally  and simultaneously terrified and delighted. My Dad treasured my two sons, but he never mentioned how he had had to do the unthinkable and identify the body of his own son, Jeremy, after he had drowned at 18. I was often heartbroken by his never speaking of Jeremy, but this was Dad's way of handling it for himself. 

A Reading Staple

As a little boy my father learned about life very early. He (and his family, who is as yet unidentified) was out on the streets by the time he was 9 or 10 years old. it was the Great Depression and he says that often there was just jelly bread for days on end. One of his first jobs was for a Pennsylvania Dutch-Amish-Plain People-Mennonite Poultry Farmer. He did all the unpleasant tasks one might imagine and he helped deliver the harvested birds to the Reading Market on Penn Street. 

Ninth and Cherry Market in Reading, Pa. 

Kissingers Market in Reading, Pa.

He worked for the Reading Railroad for 13 ears and served in WW II in the Navy. His ship the USS Cowie traveled to Normandy for the invasion, then various shipyards in England for repairs before heading to Russia and the Baltic Sea. From there they headed back to England for more repairs and then slipped through the Panama Canal to Long Beach, California before heading back out to Sea and the waters of Pearl Harbor, Okinawa and Japan at large. When he returned he worked for the Railroad again and then as a Produce Manager for the Acme Market. Before and after he retired he was a groundskeeper for the Hilbert estate off of the Pricetown Road. 

One of Dad's Favorites. Tripe, Anyone?

Dad loved Ships and the Sea, and downstairs in the Den there is a painting/picture of a sailing ship called quite simply, The Fantom. 

Fried Fish Sandwiches, Fairgrounds Market

In a nutshell, to say my Dad had a lifelong appreciation for food would not be an understatement. Perhaps it stemmed from his having so little when he was little. He was always generous and the table was no exception. I remember a family barbecue where he kept me busy eating one chicken leg after another. I realize now how I relished all his attention for that moment! There was Mack and Manco Pizza on the boardwalk at Ocean City, New Jersey, where he roared when I ordered a beer, then winked to the waitress and said "root beer, please." There were always fried fish sandwiches at the Green Dragon Market in Lancaster, Pa. Back in the 70's he brought us a very strange fuzzy fruit for Christmas. It was green with black seeds inside and  now well known; kiwi.  

So, in getting back to Proust, I might ponder if my father achieved his intent in life? Dad was not the contemplative sort, and even if I ever asked him something so preposterous he might bellow at me as if I was unappreciative in even wondering. 

So, it's really not for me to say or decide. But I saw he was good and honest and generous and kind and loved life. Survived disasters and being in the war. 

What I can do is stand under the great trees of Autumn, their leaves flying all around me,with the sky as blue and crisp as the ocean, and let go of wishing to learn the unknown, uncover the mysteries that composed this gentle good man known as Bud.  

Dad, let's just go have another slice of pepperoni. 

Pizza at the Fairgrounds Farmer's Market

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