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Friday Food and Drink Post: Cultural Appropriation Edition
The topic for this week’s post was inspired by Ricochet member @janbear, and the following fine paragraph from her September 25 post about the media meltdown surrounding Donald Trump’s phone call with the President of Ukraine. (Whatever his name is. “Z” something. Just like me):
Why not speculate on a different hypothetical situation? “The whistleblower says the Ukrainian president gave President Trump his grandmother’s recipe for pierogi. If true, that would be cultural appropriation.” At least it’s creative. Much better than trying to strain bites of truth from the sewage of the Democrat media reports.
As many of you know, I’m a true-blue, green-card carrying Brit, married to a man of 100% Polish extraction. I grew up in West Africa, and have lived most of my life in the United States. Cooking is one of my many hobbies, and I’m good at it (or so I’ve been told); but, to quote Socrates,”the unexamined life is not worth living,” so I have spent the last twenty-four hours examining my recipe boxes (pictured), and finding them seriously problematic and disturbing.
And now it is time for me to confess. To give what we, in this household, call “The Dobby Speech,” after the pathetic little house-elf in the Harry Potter books who’s always weeping copiously, pointlessly blaming himself for whatever happens (most of which he had nothing to do with), and banging his head against the wall.
My recipe boxes are a cesspool of cultural appropriation. Half of the cards in them are from my mother-in-law. I stole them from her after she died. I suppose I should have buried them with her, or perhaps burned them all as a mark of respect. Instead, we have been enjoying her pierogies, kielbasa, kiszka, Christmas holly cookies, and a family favorite she called “red steak and gravy” (perhaps not so culturally appropriative, those last two) without her for the past twelve years. Greedy. Selfish. Shameful. Woe is me. (Shouldn’t that be “woe is I?” @kentforrester? @arahant?)
Then, there are the cards and torn-out pieces of newspapers and magazines that I’ve accumulated from my lifelong efforts to re-create the flavors and smells of my childhood, of places I’ve traveled, of foods I’ve savored and wanted to share: Jollof rice, groundnut chop, poutine, green papaya salad, macaron, balti, tiramisu. And the weird things (I know, spoken from a place of cultural superiority and certain privilege) that can sometimes be found in my refrigerator after one of my trips to the ethnic food shops in Pittsburgh’s Strip District (no, not that kind of “strip”). Things that look, and smell, like they might be rotten but, actually, aren’t. Things that those who love me immediately throw out when they come across them, because they’re afraid of them, and they’re sure I can’t possibly know what they are, or that they’re even there, or that if I ever did, I forgot about them long ago.
And the things I grow because I either can’t buy them fresh, or because they’re so expensive when I do find them: kaffir lime, sundry hot peppers, unusual vegetables I’ll try at least once, all sorts of herbs, any odd ingredient, native to anywhere, that catches my fancy and that might thrive in the garden, even if just for the season.
Don’t you think it’s time you checked your own food privilege, and admitted your favorite guilty pleasure of a culinary specialty you stole from another culture and which you have no right to eat, let alone enjoy? Please share your favorites, and include a recipe if you have one. “Privilege shared, is privilege halved,” as they say. You’ll feel better, and it will go a long way towards mitigating your sin.
Meanwhile, I’m off somewhere to bang my head against the wall. After that bit of self-correction, perhaps I’ll assay a nice meal of tripe and onions, followed by spotted dick. Pretty safe, I think. Anyone care to join me?
Bon Appetit! (Whoops.)
PS: To get started–Grandma’s Pierogi Recipe:
Published in General2 cups flour (about 8 oz)
2 eggs
Lukewarm waterMix flour and eggs, then add water, a spoonful or so at a time until you have a firm dough. Knead till smooth (I usually bung it in the old Kitchenaid and let it rip with the dough hook for about five minutes. Not authentic, but it works.)
Divide into two parts, and roll each into a long rectangle on a floured board. Put heaped teaspoons of filling along one edge, a couple of inches apart. Fold the other long edge over top, and press down with your fingers in between and at the ends to make little dough pockets.
Now, here’s the trick: take a glass, and cut out the pierogi with the glass. Or, you can use a knife, and then primp the edges with a fork. Glass is easier, and I have fewer leaks when I do it that way. Take the remaining dough from both pieces, clump together and roll out again.
Cook in boiling water for a couple of minutes till they float to the top. We like to saute them in butter (with some onions); some people prefer them just boiled.
Fillings: mashed potato with grated cheese mixed in; sauerkraut; ricotta or pot cheese mixed with an egg yolk and some diced, sauteed onion if you like it; shredded cabbage boiled for a couple of minutes, then sauteed with chopped onions and mushrooms; you can also fill with fruit–cherries, blackberries, or with homemade apple butter.
We usually make them with mashed potato and onion filling, and fry in butter with some onions until golden. After the main course (wherein they usually accompany kielbasa and sauerkraut) we have pierogies for dessert, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. They are surprisingly good this way.
Pro Tip: Keep the filling as dry as possible. Those made with ricotta or pot cheese may get a bit wet; if that happens, drain before putting it on the dough.
On the “cultural disappropriation front, I offer:
Kapusta Groh–Polish cabbage soup that isn’t authentic unless it’s boiled for at least three days. I think the old ladies used to put it on the stove in the coppers with the laundry. An extremely pervasive smell, both while cooking, and in the drapes and carpets for (seemingly) months afterwards.
Mushy peas–I can’t even. British fish and chips itself isn’t much better. Greasy, lukewarm, and the chips are what might be termed in the US, “steak fry” size, but pale gold and limp. Cannot understand why an island and agricultural nation is so incompetent at cooking fish and potatoes, but there it is.
Baak Bpet (fried duck beaks)–the less said about this one, the better.
Pass the lutefisk, please.
My first trip to England, my hosts insisted they would treat me to this. I think I disappointed them by being polite, but I agree they do not really enhance fried potatoes.
Everyone knows that French Fries / Chips should be accompanied by mayo and mustard.
My Oakie family used to eat the brains of pigs. I’m not sure if we appropriated that particular delicacy from anyone outside. I think they ended up on our plates because they were cheap.
Here’s the family recipe.
First chase a pig down and bludgeon him.
You can probably fill in the rest.
I am very curious, She. Just what is poutine?
Until about six months ago, I had never heard of it. The word has popped up in romance novels, detective novels (the kind where the detective likes to cook and mentions his cooking often) and several other places.
It’s a Canadian dish of potatoes (French fries) and gravy and cheese curds. (See here for more info.) It’s pretty good stuff.
Yes. It’s origins are Quebecois, and you’ll see, even in the Wikipedia article, some huffing about those who like to elevate it to the position of “Canada’s national dish” doing some cultural appropriating of Quebecois culture . . .
Other parts of Canada make it with stuffing instead of the cheese curds (oh, the horror!), and I find that really delicious–nice crispy (twice-fried, preferably) french fries, with a generous quantity of stuffing mixed in, and gravy poured all over–what’s not to like? It’s well on its way to becoming a Pittsburgh tradition, the Primanti Brothers sandwich. The best place to eat them is in the original joint, in the aforementioned Strip District, at two or three in the morning, along with the truckers who’ve just made their daily deliveries of fresh produce to the markets. The atmosphere is diesely, the truckers are cheerful, and the waiters are incredibly rude. Primantis now has a number of storefront restaurants in strip malls, but they all have a rather upmarket, brasserie vibe, are much less rowdy, much more politically correct, and IMHO, not nearly as much fun.
No, it’s a pretty cheap cut of steak cut into serving-size pieces, browned, and then braised either in a skillet or dutch oven, at very low temperature until tender, in a tomato-sauce/beef “gravy” and then served with mashed potatoes. Those really in the know use ketchup (of course!) rather than plain tomato sauce in the gravy. Good comfort food.
In my experience (based on several week-long vacations in Paris) high-end French restaurants are superb but but the everyday stuff served in French cafes lags far behind what you’ll find in Italy, Spain, and yes even in an English pub. I will take an order of fish and chips, or bangers and mash, any day over a stale baguette with a thin slice of ham and a slather of mayo. I think the purpose of food in a French cafe is solely to help soak up your carafe of wine.
Mmm. Bangers and mash. As the granddaughter of a sausage and pork pie maker, and manager of a high-end butcher shop in Birmingham in the UK, I’m all for bangers and mash. (Great-Grandpa on the other side owned a grocery shop in Handsworth, just outside of Birmingham, so “trade” is strong with my family on both sides.)
When a bunch of women, of which I was one, vacationed in Venice (Italy) several years ago, I loved going to the street vendors and getting a hunk of cheese, some meats, and fresh bread, and then sitting down in a little piazza, or even on the curb, and consuming it all. That, and the fact that I could walk into a nondescript little church just about anywhere and look at the Tintorettos or Bellinis (the artist, not the drink, although those were good too, but not in the churches**) on display inside, was the best!
**I scored a free dessert in Harry’s Bar. I think the waiter, who was, like most of them, a stunning and charming young man, took pity on the googly-eyes I was making at the desserts on offer at the next table and brought me one!
As a young soldier visiting Venice in 1958, I ate two huge 20-cent bowls of minestrone soup a day for a week — and not much else. I was perfectly happy.
When we went to France a few years ago, that is what we found. We were surprised because when we had been there many, many years ago that was not the case. We wondered if we were just looking at the past with rose colored glasses or if we had been less discriminating when younger, etc. Then I read an article in NYT about the scandal that had ensued when it came to light that many French restaurants were using commercial kitchens (like our Sysco) rather than cooking their own dishes.
Our time in Italy was very different. The worst meal we had there was “acceptable” and most were wonderful – no matter what the size or style of restaurant.
Yes. Others (perhaps better men than you. Or, perhaps not) have pointed out the same thing, before now. Regardless (or irregardless as the case may be), here I still am. And here is where I intend to stay.
Yet another one of those dishes my mother made that I wouldn’t touch as a child. Same goes for the calves brains, chicken livers, kidneys (yikes, what a smell), and kapusta. I’m surprised I made it out alive.
I know. Sounds awful, doesn’t it? Yet many did (make it out alive). Thanks for telling the tale.
Holy cow! Trendsetting again. Some very important people must be reading my posts. From yesterday’s Washington Post: Are Ethnic Food Aisles Racist? (Note that the link isn’t from the WaPo, because the article is behind the paywall. If you have a subscription, you should be able to see it, October 2 edition). The following quote is directly from the WaPo article:
The Momofuku dining empire?
Crimenutely.
(For a lighthearted, and not at all politically correct, send-up of the WaPo article, see here.)
According to what I read from several sources, part of Mr. Chang’s complaint is the effect on immigrant children who are traumatized to see “their” foods relegated to a specialty aisle. Personally, I think most immigrant children are more likely to be ecstatic at the sight of row upon row of sugary breakfast cereals, mountains of cookies and cakes in the bakery section, and bins upon bins of strawberries, raspberries, oranges, and other juicy fruits.
Most of his complaints have to do with the effect on “immigrants.” Well, almost all immigrants come by choice. If the immigrant expects the stores in the country into which he has chosen to come to look just like the stores in the country from which he came, he probably should return to his country of origin. And he owes it to his children to explain that life in the new country will be different from life in the old country. If I were to move from Texas to Korea or to Kenya or to Norway, I would not expect the stores in any of those countries to look like my supermarket in Texas. Even on my recent move from upstate New York we noticed a difference in the supermarket stock. In our store in upstate New York there was a massive section of pastas, canned tomatoes, and pasta sauces (and it was not labeled “international” or “Italian”) because most of the people in town had in some part Italian ancestry. Our store in Texas has a much smaller section of pastas, canned tomatoes, and sauces. Stores stock what they think will sell to their customers in their location, and place it in places where they think their customers will find what the customer is looking for.
Finally, what he’s complaining about is cultural, not race. Skin color has nothing to do with what we eat. Our cultural heritage determines our default food preferences. But as @she has brought up in this post, many of us learn to love foods that come from other cultural heritages.
Or, go to the specialty store for his culture. I can think of at least five around here: Indian, Polish, Japanese, “International” (which is mostly European imports, such as Belgian chocolate, etc.), Middle-Eastern, etc. It’s not like nobody is going to cater to them if there are a bunch of them around.