Comfort Food

Photo Via http://www.seattlemet.com

Comfort Food

What do you grab for when you need it most? 

I’m currently writing this blog post sick with god knows what. I’m lying on my cough afraid that the next time I cough my lung may fly out of my mouth and land bloody on my glass coffee table with an audible thud. Swallowing is no longer a secondary reflex but has become a painful reminder that I haven’t gotten my tonsils removed yet. I’m running on NyQuil and the human will not to pass out and die. Even my dog is sick—maybe he feels my pain and is getting some weird human to canine contact sickness. I know somewhere deep in my subconscious that I wont die tonight and that I’ll be back on my feet as soon as tomorrow; I am resilient and rarely get sick. I think a few hard Ithaca winters and strong English blood have built up my immune system quite handily. I will wake up from my third nap lying in a pool of sweat as all of my pores simultaneously excrete whatever bug had the misfortune of finding its way into whichever of my orifices it crawled though, and I will be starving. It’s at times like these that I look for the most comfortable food I can think of, and it usually gets me thinking about the concept of comfort food.

Food is a truly remarkable thing. It’s come a long way from a purely sustenance based survival mechanism. Somewhere along the line someone thought it would be better to eat meat with a  thick and rich sauce to cover over the stank from months of petrifying in unfit conditions. These mother sauces were the basis of French cooking and arguably most modern cuisine around the world today. There was then a breakthrough in the late 1700’s called refrigeration, and I’m sure around that time someone found out they no longer had to salt their meats and pickle their vegetables to keep them for longer periods of time. I can’t imagine that the first French brasserie opened its doors the next week, but it couldn’t have been too long before refrigerating meats and produce became easier than packing ice into an ice box. I can’t say when food became something more than calories, but things like the naval navigation and trade, steam powered locomotives, and flight helped with the import and export of herbs and spices. Soon spices from the Middle East and Asia would become more readily accessible, wine and cheese would travel through continents, smoked fish and pickled veg making their way from ice caped lands. Food was becoming global, and I’m sure tastes were changing. Now I can walk down Bedford Avenue and rattle off dozens of restaurants, multiples from each continent in the world. Back then, no one in their wildest dreams would ever think a French patisserie would be baking fresh baguettes right next to a traditional Japanese sushi restaurant and across the street from a Venezuelan arepas bar.

Salt Cod Via http://hungrygerald.com

Where am I going with all of this? I’m not sure if that last paragraph came out in a drug induced haze—maybe I shouldn’t have taken another Dayquil after all? I was going to use that bit of history to go on a notion about comfort food being geographically and heritage based. It all has to do with how someone grew up, where they grew up, and their legacy. In a time where roots are being crossed over and races becoming more and more mixed, food can stand alone as a reminder of who you are and where you came from. As I said earlier in my writings, I am almost 100% English from both my Mother and Father’s side. If I’m in serious need of comfort food, like I am now, I’m usually pointed in the direction of the nearest beef stew. But I was born and raised in America, specifically in the New York metro area, so I could also go for a greasy diner cheeseburger or a thick tongue sandwich from the nearest Jewish deli with a matzah ball soup. I’m also in the mood for boeuf bourguignon and poule grand-mère because I’ve spent much of my adult life immersed in all things French cuisine. I could also just go for a chicken soup with thin cut egg noodles. This is me. This is what I want right now. Someone who grew up in Beijing might want something completely different if they were sick or down in the dumps. My girlfriend loves her Mother’s peas rice and chicken recipe and swears it will never be recreated. Whatever it is, these dishes bring us back to a better time—a time when we were happier, or younger, or less stressed, or just in a different place and time.

My lung didn't expel itself from my body after all, and now I’m finishing up this post from my desk at work, still a little groggy from yesterday and on my third cup of coffee—I did say I would be fine within the day, didn’t I? I never finished my train of thought from yesterday, and I don’t think I’ll try to today. I’ll leave it up to the reader to put themselves back in whatever time they want and daydream of their favorite dish. I will say I settled on fish and chips last night, and they were amazing… I guess I went British after all.

Photo Via http://sex-british.com

There’s a lot that can be written about food and a lot of different ways to describe a dish or a sensation, but food is a personal thing. It’s something that is a joy to share with others, but hard to vocalize. I don’t think two people could possibly share the same experience with food even from the same dish ordered at the same restaurant sitting at the same table. I don’t even think the same bite will every truly be the same. Everything that food has meant to someone through their lifetime and their ancestors lifetimes have been passed down to them culminating in that one bite of whatever you eat next. That might be a little too deep, but I think it holds true in a way. Your actions and past events shape your present, why shouldn’t they shape the way you taste food? 

My best friend’s girlfriend is a vegetarian. I’m surprised I haven’t brought up my feelings on vegetarians so far in my writings, but refer to my post on St. Anselm and I think you’ll figure out how I feel about it. I will, however, say that I accept anyone’s right to eat and do whatever they want as long as it isn’t forced on me. She doesn’t eat meat anymore because her Father was such a bad cook. I remember her explaining how he used to barbecue inedible meats for her family, and it was just a means to an end for ever eating his awful fare again. I can see how her comfort food wouldn’t be a big dripping tongue sandwich and might actually be a slice of spinach and ricotta lasagna or a vegetarian Bánh mì. Much like a create-your-own-adventure book, our actions guide us to where we are today. If her dad grilled hot dogs instead of attempting his brisket for the dozenth time, maybe my friend would be enjoying a burger this coming Memorial Day, but that’s not how it worked out. 

Photo Via http://houseandhome.com

In closing, I guess all I can say is comfort food is yours and yours alone. It can be one of the most singular things you have in your life. Savor every bite, and truly enjoy what it means to be eating what you are today. I mean, you're the only one that will have that bite though history, right? As I kid I used to think about exploring new lands and what it meant to step somewhere where no one has stepped before. While I'm not a great explorer today, it gives me comfort to think that my food travels have made my younger-me proud. I'm an explorer of food, and every bite is new, unexplored territory. 

- Adam from Tipped Mixology