Consuming Literature

The other day I stumbled across this post by Marla Popova about a new book called Fictitious Dishes: An Album of Literature's Most Memorable Meals by Dinah Fried. The book looks fascinating, as Fried elegantly photographs fifty meals from classic works of literature. I have yet to read the book (though I will definitely pick up a copy), but it got me thinking about how we relate to food through literature. 
 
The best authors of fiction draw us into another realm by breaking down the boundaries between us, the reader, and the characters. It's a challenge, certainly, and yet skilled writers can somehow make us feel an intimate connection to people who exist only in our collective imaginations. I believe that food is one means authors can use to help make the characters feel more real. We all relate with food on a daily basis, and food helps us define who we are at any given moment. Why wouldn't the same hold true for fictional characters? It bring us further in to their emotional world and we begin to see them more as real people.

Consider, for example, a scene that always strikes deep for me in F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby. This scene occurs at the end of the novel when Gatsby is waiting outside Daisy and Tom's house to make sure everything is okay after Daisy's hit-and-run. Nick joins Gatsby and goes to the window to see what's happening inside:

Daisy and Tom were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table with a plate of cold fried chicken between them and two bottles of ale. He was talking intently across the table at her and in his earnestness his hand had fallen upon and covered her own. Once in a while she looked up at him and nodded in agreement.

They weren't happy, and neither of them had touched the chicken or the ale--and yet they weren't unhappy either. There was an unmistakable air of natural intimacy about the picture and anybody would have said that they were conspiring together.

Nick tells Gatsby everything's fine and that he should go home and get some sleep, but Gatsby wants to stay and wait for Daisy to go to bed.

He put his hands in his coat pockets and turned back eagerly to his scrutiny of the house, as though my presence marred the sacredness of the vigil. So I walked away and left him standing there in the moonlight--watching over nothing.

This scene always impacted me emotionally, not so much because of Fitzgerald’s prose or description of Daisy and Tom, but because of the image of cold fried chicken and unsipped ale. This uneaten meal is a hardened and real vision of Daisy and her choice to stay with Tom. Nick sees a reality around that kitchen table that Gatsby chooses to resist—a reality where Daisy is careless and selfish, not the idealized beautiful being Gatsby envisioned. Gatsby chooses instead to look at the light coming from her window—to stand and wait for a sign that his dream has not ended. To Gatsby, he watches over the possibility of Daisy. And yet Nick knows it all comes down to some uneaten chicken. It is the food in this scene that brings us more deeply into the characters' world and leaves us feeling just as unsettled as Nick.

Dinah Fried's book doesn't include this particular meal, but it has many others from classic works such as The Secret Garden, To Kill a Mockingbird, and On the Road. From the few photographs featured in Popova's article, these stand out to me the most:

 

Heidi

 

Moby Dick

 

The Catcher in the Rye

Check out Dinah Fried's website or Marla Popova's article for more information and images from Fictitious Dishes: An Album of Literature's Most Memorable Meals.

Gaze First, Then It's Time to Drink

"I craved a swig of whiskey, but it was in the knapsack on my back and the idea of twisting around to extract the bottle did not seem altogether wise. Nix on that. So I thought about having a drink instead. A quiet bar, MJQ's Vendome playing low, a bowl of nuts, a double whiskey on the rocks. The glass is sitting on the counter, untouched for a moment, just looked at. Whiskey, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation. You gaze first, then it's time to drink."


--Haruki Murakami, Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World

 

Quote of the Week: Christmas Goose

"At last the dishes were set on and grace was said. It was succeeded by a breathless pause, as Mrs. Cratchit, looking slowly all along the carving-knife, prepared to plunge it in the [goose] breast; but when she did, and when the long expected gush of stuffing issued forth, one murmur of delight arose all round the board."


--Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

 

Quote of the Week: Roast Beast

"Then the Whos, young and old, would sit down to a feast.

And they'd feast! And they'd feast!

And they'd FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST!

They would start on Who-pudding, and rare Who-roast-beast

Which was something the Grinch couldn't stand in the least!"

--Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas

Quote of the Week: Drink Me

“She found a little bottle…and tied round the neck of the bottle was a paper label with the words ‘DRINK ME’ beautifully printed on it in large letters.

It was all very well to say ‘Drink me,’ but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. ‘No, I’ll look first,’ she said, ‘and see whether it’s marked ‘poison’ or not;’…she had never forgotten that, if you drink from a bottle marked ‘poison,’ it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.

However, this bottle was not marked ‘poison,’ so Alice ventured to taste it; and finding it very nice (it had, in fact, a sort of mixed flavor of cherry tart, custard, pineapple, roast turkey, toffy, and hot buttered toast), she very soon finished it off.”

—Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

The Bread of Justice: John Ruskin and Food

In the writings of John Ruskin, a nineteenth-century English writer, art critic, and artist who continuously turned to the observable world and found meaning in everything, it is striking that he never focused exclusively on food or the act of eating. For a man who “was convinced of the vital connections between things, as they bind and blend themselves together,” food and eating, which permeate everyday life, could have served as a means to convey his philosophies.[1] Upon a close examination of his writings, however, it becomes clear that Ruskin did observe the significance of food even as he never wrote extensively on it. While he never focused exclusively on food and eating as a topic, Ruskin did use both literal and figurative food examples to bolster his larger arguments. 

Ruskin sometimes used literal examples of food to support his arguments. For example, in “Modern Painters, III” (1856) Ruskin challenged the use of the words objective and subjective. Rather than adhering to these words, which he regarded as “useless” and “troublesome,” Ruskin asserted that the true nature of a thing is in its power to produce a sensation not the sensation itself.[2] This power is present whether or not a person is around to experience it. To support this argument Ruskin turned to the example of sweetness, writing

I derive a certain sensation, which I call sweetness, from sugar. That is a fact. Another person feels a sensation, which he also calls sweetness, from sugar. That is also a fact. The sugar’s power to produce these two sensations, which we suppose to be, and which are, in all probability, very nearly the same in both of us, and, on the whole, in the human race, is its sweetness.[3]

While dealing with what might be a difficult linguistic and philosophical concept to grasp, Ruskin successfully used a concrete example of food to convey his larger point; this literal example of food thus served to ground his ideas.

Ruskin more often used food in a figurative sense. For example, he described the sky as “human nature’s daily food,” the unimaginative artist as creating art “as simply a matter of recipe and practice as cookery,” the division of labor as causing men to be “broken into small fragments and crumbs of life,” and nations with good art as having “starved for it” and “fed themselves with it, as if it were bread.”[4] In “Modern Painters, V” (1860) Ruskin again used a food example to defend his argument:

It is the curse of every evil nation and evil creature to eat, and not be satisfied. The words of blessing are, that they shall eat and be satisfied. And as there is only one kind of water which quenches all thirst, so there is only one kind of bread which satisfies all hunger—the bread of justice, or righteousness; which hungering after, men shall always be filled, that being the bread of heaven; but hungering after the bread, or wages, of unrighteousness, shall not be filled, that being the bread of Sodom.[5]

In this case, Ruskin is not concerned with real bread and water but rather what the act of consumption symbolizes. The bread and water are significant in what they represent, not as actual foodstuffs. This figurative example helps the reader understand Ruskin’s larger argument of the essay—that one must resist materialism and instead strive for righteousness.

In his literal and figurative food examples, Ruskin most commonly referenced bread, water, and sugar—three basic substances that any reader could relate to—as well as the shared experience of eating. While food was not Ruskin’s primary focus, the examples he used throughout his writing strengthened his arguments. In his attempts to get the audience to truly see the world as it is, Ruskin’s use of food and eating offers one means to engage the reader and make his arguments accessible.

[1] Dinah Birch, “Introduction,” in John Ruskin: Selected Writings, ed. Dinah Birch (New York: Oxford, 2004), xxvi.

[2] John Ruskin in John Ruskin: Selected Writings, 68-69.

[3] Ruskin, 69.

[4] Ruskin, 9, 43, 85, 98.

[5] Ruskin, 138.

Ernest Hemingway and a Simple Taste of Life

The other night I was lying in bed, feeling somewhat unfulfilled and restless. But what to do? There were many possibilities at hand, but I found myself burdened with an inability to decide. As I stared up at the smooth, white ceiling and felt the down comforter like a cloud below me, I realized exactly what I needed: Ernest Hemingway.

Truly, when all else fails, there is nothing that Hemingway and a glass of red wine can’t fix. A Moveable Feast was plucked from the bookshelf, and I lay back down to read. Immediately I was absorbed, transported across the ocean and back in time to Paris in the 1920s. I joined Hemingway in cafes—we read, wrote, sipped wine and beer, ate oysters, and met with Gertrude Stein and Sylvia Plath. We observed James Joyce eating with his family at Michaud’s and experienced debauchery on a road trip with F. Scott Fitzgerald. There was magic and there was love, and we were one with Paris.

Hemingway was a man who cherished everyday, concrete moments and who was described by Fitzgerald as possessing the “quality of a stick hardened in the fire.” These distinctive qualities and his straightforward, concise language defined his novels and characters. Food and eating certainly played large roles in the crafting of his stories, offering everyday moments to ground one’s self in as the modernity of the twentieth century rushed in from all directions. The relationships in his works are often built upon everyday moments—the eating of a sandwich, the taste of a sip of white Capri wine, and the feel of a woman’s body between sheets.

The first time my younger sister tried to read what is perhaps my favorite of all of Hemingway’s novels, The Sun Also Rises, she remarked, “It seems like all they do is go to cafes and drink and eat.” Well, yes. That’s kind of the point isn’t it? The characters use consumption and pleasure to deal with post-World War I society. Rather than focusing on the war, the unfortunate sexual effects it had on the main character, Jake Barnes, and the fact that the woman he loves, Lady Brett Ashley, sleeps with other men, instead they drink and they eat. Jake and Brett cannot consummate their love, but they can induce pleasure with food and numb themselves with alcohol. As they seek an authentic existence in a society dealing with the disillusioning effects of World War I, it is only through the basic, human acts of eating and drinking that they can find meaning in their daily lives.

And perhaps Hemingway was onto something here. Don’t we still often turn to food and eating in the midst of a rapidly changing society and uncertain times? Isn’t it a glass of wine or a slice of bread that can help us deal with the external world? When all else fails, for me there’s always Hemingway, and for many of us there’s always a bite of food or sip of drink that can reaffirm a sense of meaning and authentic experience in our lives. So cheers to the one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century—Ernest Hemingway, this simple taste of life is all for you.

“As I ate the oysters with their strong taste of the sea and their faint metallic taste that the cold white wine washed away, leaving only the sea taste and the succulent texture, and as I drank their cold liquid from each shell and washed it down with the crisp taste of the wine, I lost the empty feeling and began to be happy and to make plans.”

—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast 

Quote of the Week: Vanilla Ice Cream and Sloe Gin

"Sometimes now I listen to Louis [Armstrong] while I have my favorite dessert of vanilla ice cream and sloe gin. I pour the red liquid over the white mound, watching it glisten and the vapor rising as Louis bends that military instrument into a beam of lyrical sound."

--The nameless protagonist of Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man

Devil's Dictionary

For all of you who read my blog and are wondering, as a new friend expressed to me, “does she go to school or just travel?” the answer is yes, I do go to school. I just also  happen to travel a lot. I’m currently pursuing a doctorate in history, and to prove it, I’m basing this post off the writings of Ambrose Bierce.

We recently read the Civil War stories of Bierce for one of my courses, and a fellow student and friend reminded me of Bierce’s Devil’s Dictionary, which is brimming with lots of witty food-related definitions. You can read the Devil's Dictionary in its entirety at Google Books.

Ambrose Bierce was an American writer who published his satirical dictionary in 1911, informing the American public of words of wisdom, such as defining wit as “the salt with which the American humorist spoils his intellectual cookery by leaving it out.” I’ve selected all the references to food and eating and assembled them here for your reading pleasure. Enjoy!

Abdomen, n. The temple of the god Stomach, in whose worship, with sacrificial rights, all true men engage. From women this ancient faith commands but a stammering assent. They sometimes minister at the altar in a half-hearted and ineffective way, but true reverence for the one deity that men really adore they know not. If woman had a free hand in the world's marketing the race would become graminivorous.

Air, n. A nutritious substance supplied by a bountiful Providence for the fattening of the poor.

Aphorism, n. Predigested wisdom.

Appetite, n. An instinct thoughtfully implanted by Providence as a solution to the labor question.

Bacchus, n. A convenient deity invented by the ancients as an excuse for getting drunk.

Bait, n. A preparation that renders the hook more palatable. The best kind is beauty.

Belladonna, n. In Italian a beautiful lady; in English a deadly poison. A striking example of the essential identity of the two tongues.

Botany, n. The science of vegetables -- those that are not good to eat, as well as those that are. It deals largely with their flowers, which are commonly badly designed, inartistic in color, and ill-smelling.

Brandy, n. A cordial composed of one part thunder-and-lightning, one part remorse, two parts bloody murder, one part death-hell-and-the-grave and four parts clarified Satan. Dose, a headful all the time. Brandy is said by Dr. Johnson to be the drink of heroes. Only a hero will venture to drink it.

Cabbage, n. A familiar kitchen-garden vegetable about as large and wise as a man's head.

Cannibal, n. A gastronome of the old school who preserves the simple tastes and adheres to the natural diet of the pre-pork period.

Carnivorous, adj. Addicted to the cruelty of devouring the timorous vegetarian, his heirs and assigns.

Crayfish, n. A small crustacean very much resembling the lobster, but less indigestible.

Dejeuner, n. The breakfast of an American who has been in Paris. Variously pronounced.

Digestion, n. The conversion of victuals into virtues. When the process is imperfect, vices are evolved instead -- a circumstance from which that wicked writer, Dr. Jeremiah Blenn, infers that the ladies are the greater sufferers from dyspepsia.

Eat, v.i. To perform successively (and successfully) the functions of mastication, humectation, and deglutition.

Edible, adj. Good to eat, and wholesome to digest, as a worm to a toad, a toad to a snake, a snake to a pig, a pig to a man, and a man to a worm.

Epicure, n. An opponent of Epicurus, an abstemious philosopher who, holding that pleasure should be the chief aim of man, wasted no time in gratification from the senses.

Eucharist, n. A sacred feast of the religious sect of Theophagi. A dispute once unhappily arose among the members of this sect as to what it was that they ate. In this controversy some five hundred thousand have already been slain, and the question is still unsettled.

Feast, n. A festival. A religious celebration usually signalized by gluttony and drunkenness, frequently in honor of some holy person distinguished for abstemiousness. In the Roman Catholic Church feasts are "movable" and "immovable," but the celebrants are uniformly immovable until they are full. In their earliest development these entertainments took the form of feasts for the dead; such were held by the Greeks, under the name Nemeseia, by the Aztecs and Peruvians, as in modern times they are popular with the Chinese; though it is believed that the ancient dead, like the modern, were light eaters. Among the many feasts of the Romans was the Novemdiale, which was
held, according to Livy, whenever stones fell from heaven.

Fork, n. An instrument used chiefly for the purpose of putting dead animals into the mouth. Formerly the knife was employed for this purpose, and by many worthy persons is still thought to have many advantages over the other tool, which, however, they do not altogether reject, but use to assist in charging the knife. The immunity of these persons from swift and awful death is one of the most striking proofs of God's mercy to those that hate Him.

Frog, n. A reptile with edible legs. 

Frying-pan, n. One part of the penal apparatus employed in that punitive institution, a woman's kitchen. The frying-pan was invented by Calvin, and by him used in cooking span-long infants that had died without baptism; and observing one day the horrible torment of a tramp who had incautiously pulled a fried babe from the waste-dump and devoured it, it occurred to the great divine to rob death of its terrors by introducing the frying-pan into every household in Geneva. Thence it spread to all corners of the world, and has been of invaluable assistance in the propagation of his sombre faith. 

Glutton, n. A person who escapes the evils of moderation by committing dyspepsia.

Grape, n.

Hail noble fruit! -- by Homer sung,
Anacreon and Khayyam;
Thy praise is ever on the tongue
Of better men than I am.

The lyre in my hand has never swept,
The song I cannot offer:
My humbler service pray accept --
I'll help to kill the scoffer.
The water-drinkers and the cranks
Who load their skins with liquor --
I'll gladly bear their belly-tanks
And tap them with my sticker.

Fill up, fill up, for wisdom cools
When e'er we let the wine rest.
Here's death to Prohibition's fools,
And every kind of vine-pest!

--Jamrach Holobom

Hash, x. There is no definition for this word -- nobody knows what hash is.

Heart, n. An automatic, muscular blood-pump. Figuratively, this useful organ is said to be the esat of emotions and sentiments – a very pretty fancy which, however, is nothing but a survival of a once universal belief. It is now known that the sentiments and emotions reside in the stomach, being evolved from food by chemical action of the gastric fluid. The exact process by which a beefsteak becomes a feeling -- tender or not, according to the age of the animal from which it was cut; the successive stages of elaboration through which a caviar sandwich is transmuted to a quaint fancy and reappears as a pungent epigram; the marvelous functional methods of converting a hard-boiled egg into religious contrition, or a cream-puff into a sigh of sensibility -- these things have been patiently ascertained by M. Pasteur, and by him expounded with convincing lucidity.
 

Hog, n. A bird remarkable for the catholicity of its appetite and serving to illustrate that of ours. Among the Mahometans and Jews, the hog is not in favor as an article of diet, but is respected for the delicacy and the melody of its voice. It is chiefly as a songster that the fowl is esteemed; the cage of him in full chorus has been known to draw tears from two persons at once. The scientific name of this dicky-bird is Porcus Rockefelleri. Mr. Rockefeller did not discover the hog, but it is considered his by right of resemblance.

Hospitality, n. The virtue which induces us to feed and lodge certain persons who are not in need of food and lodging.

Idleness, n. A model farm where the devil experiments with seeds of new sins and promotes the growth of staple vices.

Indigestion, n. A disease which the patient and his friends frequently mistake for deep religious conviction and concern for the salvation of mankind. As the simple Red Man of the western wild put it, with, it must be confessed, a certain force: "Plenty well, no pray; big bellyache, heap God."

Lettuce, n. An herb of the genus Lactuca, "Wherewith," says that pious gastronome, Hengist Pelly, "God has been pleased to reward the good and punish the wicked. For by his inner light the righteous man has discerned a manner of compounding for it a dressing to the appetency whereof a multitude of gustible condiments conspire, being reconciled and ameliorated with profusion of oil, the entire comestible making glad the heart of the godly and causing his face to shine. But the person of spiritual unworth is successfully tempted to the Adversary to eat of lettuce with destitution of oil, mustard, egg, salt and garlic, and with a rascal bath of vinegar polluted with sugar. Wherefore the person of spiritual unworth suffers an intestinal pang of strange complexity and raises the song."

Life, n. A spiritual pickle preserving the body from decay.

Liver, n. A large red organ thoughtfully provided by nature to be bilious with. The sentiments and emotions which every literary anatomist now knows to haunt the heart were anciently believed to infest the liver; and even Gascoygne, speaking of the emotional side of human nature, calls it "our hepaticall parte." It was at one time considered the seat of life; hence its name -- liver, the thing we live with. The liver is heaven's best gift to the goose; without it that bird would be unable to supply us with the Strasbourg pate.

Manna, n. A food miraculously given to the Israelites in the wilderness. When it was no longer supplied to them they settled down and tilled the soil, fertilizing it, as a rule, with the bodies of the original occupants.

Mayonnaise, n. One of the sauces which serve the French in place of a state religion.

  

Nectar, n. A drink served at banquets of the Olympian deities. The secret of its preparation is lost, but the modern Kentuckians believe that they come pretty near to a knowledge of its chief ingredient.

Oyster, n. A slimy, gobby shellfish which civilization gives men the hardihood to eat without removing its entrails! The shells are sometimes given to the poor.

Pie, n. An advance agent of the reaper whose name is Indigestion.

Pig, n. An animal (Porcus omnivorus) closely allied to the human race by the splendor and vivacity of its appetite, which, however, is inferior in scope, for it sticks at pig.

Portuguese, n.pl. A species of geese indigenous to Portugal. They are mostly without feathers and imperfectly edible, even when stuffed with garlic.

Potable, n. Suitable for drinking. Water is said to be potable; indeed, some declare it our natural beverage, although even they find it palatable only when suffering from the recurrent disorder known as thirst, for which it is a medicine. Upon nothing has so great and diligent ingenuity been brought to bear in all ages and in all countries, except the most uncivilized, as upon the invention of substitutes for water. To hold that this general aversion to that liquid has no basis in the preservative instinct of the race is to be unscientific -- and without science we are as the snakes and toads.

Rarebit, n. A Welsh rabbit, in the speech of the humorless, who point out that it is not a rabbit. To whom it may be solemnly explained that the comestible known as toad-in-a-hole is really not a toad, and that riz-de-veau a la financiere is not the smile of a calf prepared after the recipe of a she banker.

Rice-water, n. A mystic beverage secretly used by our most popular novelists and poets to regulate the imagination and narcotize the conscience. It is said to be rich in both obtundite and lethargine, and is brewed in a midnight fog by a fat which of the Dismal Swamp.

Rum, n. Generically, fiery liquors that produce madness in total abstainers.

Satiety, n. The feeling that one has for the plate after he has eaten its contents, madam.

Sauce, n. The one infallible sign of civilization and enlightenment. A people with no sauces has one thousand vices; a people with one sauce has only nine hundred and ninety-nine. For every sauce invented and accepted a vice is renounced and forgiven.

Table d'hote, n. A caterer's thrifty concession to the universal passion for irresponsibility.

Teetotaler, n. One who abstains from strong drink, sometimes totally, sometimes tolerably totally.

Tope, v. To tipple, booze, swill, soak, guzzle, lush, bib, or swig. In the individual, toping is regarded with disesteem, but toping nations are in the forefront of civilization and power. When pitted against the hard-drinking Christians the absemious Mahometans go down like grass before the scythe. In India one hundred thousand beef-eating and brandy-and-soda guzzling Britons hold in subjection two hundred and fifty million vegetarian abstainers of the same Aryan race. With what an easy grace the whisky-loving American pushed the temperate Spaniard out of his possessions! From the time when the Berserkers ravaged all the coasts of western Europe and lay drunk in every conquered port it has been the same way: everywhere the nations that drink too much are observed to fight rather well and not too righteously. Wherefore the estimable old ladies who abolished the canteen from the American army may justly boast of having materially augmented the nation's military power.

Turkey, n. A large bird whose flesh when eaten on certain religious anniversaries has the peculiar property of attesting piety and gratitude. Incidentally, it is pretty good eating.

Wheat, n. A cereal from which a tolerably good whisky can with some difficulty be made, and which is used also for bread. The French are said to eat more bread per capita of population than any other people, which is natural, for only they know how to make the stuff palatable.

Wine, n. Fermented grape-juice known to the Women's Christian Union as "liquor," sometimes as "rum." Wine, madam, is God's next best gift to man.

Wit, n. The salt with which the American humorist spoils his intellectual cookery by leaving it out.

Quote of the Week: Cup of Tea

"You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me."

--C. S. Lewis

A Slice of Earthly Delight Enters the World of Publishing

I just got word that my recipe for latkes, which I posted last December, will be published in The Foodista Best of Food Blogs Cookbook!

Hopefully this will be the first of much of my work to be put to the presses. Thanks to all my faithful readers.

Cheers!

Immoveable Feast: A Paris Christmas

“‘When a man is tired of London,’ remarked Samuel Johnson, ‘He is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.’ It can be said equally of Paris that not to have seen it through the eyes of love is not to know it at all.”
—John Baxter

There’s something about Paris that I just love. Now, I’ve never actually been to Paris, but the city seems to take hold of my imagination. Its allure stretches across the Atlantic Ocean and keeps me entranced though it is still largely unknown to me. Someday I will get to Paris, but until then I’ll keep myself satisfied with books, films, and any taste of French cuisine I can find. Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast is one of my favorite books of an American’s experience in Paris, and when I opened my stocking a few days ago to find a book entitled Immoveable Feast: A Paris Christmas I knew I had received a perfect holiday read.

Immoveable Feast was written by John Baxter, an Australian-born man who ended up marring a Parisian woman late in life. His story is one of being welcomed into his French family, and it is at his first Christmas in France that he really enters into the culture and magic of the country and the traditions of his new family. Baxter soon inherits the duty of cooking Christmas dinner, and this book shows glimpses into the past and French culture as he tells the story of one particular year of cooking the Christmas feast for eighteen guests. The tradition of coming together as a family was strong in Baxter’s experiences in France. The family used food and wine to keep history and memory alive, and Baxter comments that “Proust was right. Any house or garden or town existed only as the sum of the feelings experienced there. It was remembering history and maintaining tradition that kept the material world alive.”

Baxter explains that at Christmas in Paris the streets are deserted, shops and restaurants are closed, and the only wanderers are usually tourists. The city shuts down as families come together to enjoy good times and good food. The book is filled with insights into the French people and their perspective on the world. For example, Baxter states that “The French are no strangers to vice. Indeed, they invented many of the more interesting ones and have worked hard for centuries to perfect the rest. To the French, sin—provided it is conceived with imagination and carried off with flair—is like the dust on an old bottle of burgundy, the streaks of gray in the hair of a loved one, the gleam of long, loving use on the mahogany of an ancient cabinet. It’s evidence of endurance, of survival, of life.” The joie de vivre of French life and the traditions maintained during Christmas fill the pages of the book and one feels they can really taste the experience of French culture.

Baxter’s Christmas feast contains several courses, but it is the first course of oysters that most intrigues me. Oysters are a key part to the Paris Christmas—an item I wish was more common in my own household during the holidays. Baxter elaborates on the appeal of these delicious creatures, stating that there is “something in the seasonality of seafood, its essentiality of freshness, that demands our instant attention. The translucency of an oyster’s flesh, the gleam of a fish’s eye, and the sheen of its skin are imperatives that transcend the banality of existence.” I couldn’t agree more. Good seafood does seem to have an almost magical quality that brings one in touch with a bit of the boundless ocean through one simple bite. The custom of bringing that experience to the table to begin the Christmas dinner makes perfect sense to me. Other courses include sides of vegetables and potatoes, bread, cheese, fruit, dessert, and, of course, the entrée. Baxter describes the planning of the menu and the cooking of the courses with such delicious detail that it will surely appeal to any foodie.

One of the interesting cultural tidbits I picked up from the book is differences in what is acceptable to bring to a host’s home. In America it’s very common for a guest to show up with a bottle of wine for a host or hostess. Baxter explains that in France nobody would dare bring wine, bread, or cheese to someone else’s home because these items are staples that everybody already has on hand. It would be like bringing a plate and fork to someone’s home in America. Rather, the French show up with gifts like flowers or chocolates—but wine? Never. The books brims with lots of these little cultural insights that will surely interest any reader who wishes to explore other cultures through food.

John Baxter’s Immoveable Feast is a great read for the holiday. I highly recommended it to anyone interested in Paris, French food, and the traditions they keep alive in France. Or to anyone who dreams of Paris and the day when she will wander the streets, soak in the magic of the city of love, and taste every last bite that Paris has to offer.

WWFE? What Would Faulkner Eat?

The heat and humidity of August create the perfect ambience to sit and read one of William Faulkner’s many novels, to let yourself be taken away to Yoknapatawpha County in the deep South. While indulging in the beautiful complexity of Faulkner’s words on those hot summer days, a sip of sweet tea or the taste of a buttery biscuit seem the ultimate way to slip further into the South.

Faulkner, the renowned author of novels such as As I Lay Dying and Absalom, Absalom!, is quoted as saying “the tools I need for my work are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whiskey,” but what food would Faulkner have eaten? Born and raised in Mississippi, Faulkner most likely ate traditional southern foods—perhaps some sweet potato pie, pralines, and, of course, grits. Mississippi also uses milk, largemouth bass, the honeybee, and oysters as official symbols to represent the state.

But what food evokes the South more than crispy fried chicken?

Frying chicken can be greasy and messy, but with this “fried” chicken recipe you won't have to deal with any spattering hot oil. It was adapted from a North Carolina recipe, and it is perfect for a picnic, a party, or just a delicious snack to accompany a visit with Colonel Snopes.

Lazy Lady’s Fried Chicken

3 pounds chicken wings, cut (pre-cut “party wings” work best)
1 cup flour
2 teaspoons salt
1-1/2 teaspoons paprika
1-1/2 teaspoons garlic powder
1-1/2 teaspoons black pepper
1-1/2 teaspoons dried herbs (a mix of Italian seasonings or your own combination of
parsley, oregano, etc.)
1 tablespoon butter (optional)
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 cup water

Heat the oven to 350° Fahrenheit.

Cover a baking sheet with tin foil. Pour the two tablespoons of vegetable oil over the foil so that it coats evenly.

In a large bowl mix the flour, salt, paprika, garlic powder, black pepper, and dried herbs until thoroughly distributed.

Coat the chicken pieces in water and then place in the flour mixture, completely coating the skin of the chicken.

Place the chicken skin down on the baking sheet.

Optional: Cut the butter into small pieces and place on the sheet in between pieces of chicken. As it melts it will make the chicken a little bit crispier.

Bake the chicken for thirty minutes. Flip the pieces over, and bake for another thirty minutes.

Serve hot or cold. This recipe can also be made with large pieces of fryer chicken as well.

Nothing says summer more than sitting in the shade iwth delicious fried chicken and a nice Faulkner story or novel—just be sure to take a sip of southern whiskey in honor of one of America’s finest writers.


“Like the cat, he also seemed to see in the darkness as he moved as unerringly toward the food which he wanted as if he knew where it would be; that, or were being manipulated by an agent which did know. He ate something from an invisible dish, with invisible fingers: invisible food. He did not care what it would be. He did not know that he had even wondered or tasted until his jaw stopped suddenly in mid-chewing and thinking fled for twenty-five years back down the street, past all the imperceptible corners of bitter defeats and more bitter victories, and five miles even beyond a corner where he used to wait in the terrible early time of love, for someone whose name he had forgot.”
—William Faulkner, Light in August