My First Popsicle: An Anthology of Food and Feelings - Hardcover

9780143137290: My First Popsicle: An Anthology of Food and Feelings

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0143137298 ISBN 13: 9780143137290

Verlag: Penguin Books, 2022

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A warm and relateable collection of essays exploring the memories we associate with different meals in our lives, from a spectrum of talented creators

What is your most poignant memory surrounding food?

Of all the essentials for survival: oxygen, water, sleep, and food, only food is a vast treasure trove of memory and of sensory experience. Food is a portal to culture, to times past, to disgust, to comfort, to love: no matter one's feelings about a particular dish, they are hardly ever neutral.

In MY FIRST POPSICLE, Zosia Mamet has curated some of the most prominent voices in art and culture to tackle the topic of food in its elegance, its profundity, and its incidental charm. With contributions from Stephanie Danler on vinaigrette and starting over, Anita Lo on the cultural responsibility of dumplings, Tony Hale on his obsession with desserts at chain restaurants, Patti LuPone on childhood memories of seeking out shellfish, Gabourey Sidibe on her connections with her father and the Senegalese dish Poullet Yassa, Andrew Rannells on his nostalgia for Jell-O Cake, Sloane Crosley on the pesto that got her through the early months of the pandemic, Michelle Buteau on her love for all things pasta, Jia Tolentino on the chicken dish she makes to escape reality, and more, MY FIRST POPSICLE is as much an ode to food and emotion as it is to life. After all, the two are inseparable.

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�ber die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Zosia Mamet is perhaps best known for her starring role in the Emmy- and Golden Globe Award-winning HBO series Girls, and her role in the Emmy-nominated HBO Max series The Flight Attendant. When she isn't on screen, you can find her at the barn riding her horse, or at home in the woods with her husband and snuggling their dog.

Auszug. � Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Poor Man's Cake

Patti Smith

My mother had a way of always making things better. If my father was on strike at the factory and things looked exceptionally bleak, she would sing show tunes and let my siblings and me stay up late to watch monster movies on our little black-and-white TV. If the refrigerator was nearly empty, she would sit in the kitchen smoking a cigarette, thinking about how to brighten our situation. Then she would get up, flip through her recipe book, and somehow conjure the ingredients for Poor Man's Cake, our favorite hard-times fare.

While we waited for the cake to cool, she would tell us stories of the Great Depression. She told of how families would cross the country in search of work, and how they'd pool their meager supplies and make the same cakes and wrap them in their bandannas, to be assured of something to eat in the morning.

Sometimes she would be obliged to send us off to school with nothing but a chunk of the cake, but that was fine with us. I'd tie up my chunk, a little burned around the edges with lots of raisins, in one of my father's old blue paisley bandannas and imagine I was going west.

We always wondered why it was called Poor Man's Cake. Then after my mother passed away, my sister Linda found two coffee-stained copies of the recipe. She noticed the words NO EGGS at the top of one, solving the riddle. No eggs or milk, both expensive back then, were required. Just simple ingredients, stirred with a wooden spoon and poured into a cast-iron loaf pan.

Recently, Linda made me my own Poor Man's Cake. Breaking off a chunk, I pictured my mother in her housecoat, inevitably spattered with batter, sitting at the kitchen table pouring a cup of coffee. Linda's cake, made with our mother's recipe, brought back the happiest memories of the one who always found a way to laugh away tears and feed us when we were hungry.

Poor Man's Cake

*NO EGGS*

Ingredients:

2 cups sugar

2 cups raisins

2 cups water

1 cup margarine

Pinch of salt

2 teaspoons ground cloves

2 teaspoons cinnamon

3 cups sifted all-purpose flour

Preheat the oven to 350�F.

Grease and flour a 9 x 13-inch baking dish

Place all the ingredients, aside from the flour, in a large saucepan on top of the stove.

Bring to a boil and stir.

Set aside to cool.

When cool, add the flour, stirring it in with a wooden spoon.

Pour the mixture into a greased and floured 9 13-inch baking dish.

Bake for about 1 hour or until a toothpick comes out clean when inserted in the middle.

Shallot Vinaigrette Insurance

Stephanie Danler

The New York City boxes came on a moving truck to the cottage in Laurel Canyon. Pomelo trees scraped the roof of the truck when it turned in, so it couldn't pull all the way into the long drive. I helped two guys from the moving company carry my stuff the rest of the way up to a shed. These boxes had been in a storage unit in the Brooklyn Navy Yard for three years, since my divorce. I felt like I had been much younger when I packed them.

The first box I opened had sweaters in it. His and mine. I remember taping up that box and thinking that we would be right back. That we were separating, dismantling our home in a cold spring, but we would be unpacking this box before the next snow came. Surveying my things in the shed, I looked at my KitchenAid stand mixer, halfheartedly protected by plastic wrap gone loose. A box of antique Bundt pans, collected at flea markets. I opened another box that had KITCHEN written on the side. It was full of Mason jars. Or what had been Mason jars. They were pulverized glass at this point. It hurt afresh to see it all again. To remember my ex-husband and me circling the tiny Williamsburg apartment, packing it all up, drinking iced coffee after iced coffee, not knowing how to speak to each other. I still loved him. He still loved me. We wept constantly, without ceremony, in front of the movers. They avoided us, whispering to each other in Polish. Surely, we would be coming right back to each other. It wasn't possible that there had been many snows since then, snowstorms when I hadn't even thought of him, or that I had moved to a place unmarked by that kind of weather.

Beyond books, most of these boxes were part of a kitchen. My marriage had revolved around food and wine. Our lives were spent in our respective restaurants where we worked the requisite twelve-hour days, and our leisure time was spent in the restaurants of our friends. I opened another box and there was my ex-husband's bourbon collection. I laughed. Rare releases of Blanton's and WhistlePig rye, even a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle I had scavenged for his birthday. The storage unit where they'd been residing was not climate controlled. Was the whiskey still drinkable? Yes, we had packed them like idiots full of denial. How much of our lives had we wasted in that way?

For the seven years of our relationship we were what Laurie Colwin calls "domestic sensualists." We never ate for subsistence, only for experience. We entertained frequently and ambitiously. We made cassoulet from scratch, including grinding the meat and stuffing the sausage casings. It took weeks. Pastas were kneaded, rolled, and cut; cheeses were tempered under mesh domes; slivers of truffles were slid under the skin of capons. We had a culinary book collection with rare cookbooks from Kitchen Arts & Letters and Bonnie Slotnick. My ex-husband brewed beer, and each season we pickled, dropping the Mason jars into boiling water. Jars of ramps, onions, and cucumbers lined up, throwing colored light. We changed glassware as we revolved our wines, moving from stemless aperitif-style glasses to slim white-wine glasses to Burgundy bowls. After dinner we often moved the dining table to the side of the room so we could dance.

This decadence occurred in accordance with the full blooming of a zeitgeist, my ex-husband and I riding a wave that surfaced after the millennium with Anthony Bourdain, April Bloomfield, and David Chang, but one that had broken in the mid-aughts and-joyfully-kept breaking. Restaurants were New York City's cutthroat sport. It seemed everyone was discovering the Jura wine region in France, or the salinity of Manzanilla sherry, or the pucker of fish sauce. That our passions were considered niche (at best) to the rest of the world didn't bother us. In the city, we spoke the same language of taste. Every discretionary penny was thrown into this search for pleasure. My discovery of the food world coincided with my marriage and became inseparable. That made it seem less like a graciously prolonged moment and more like the banquet that would always be my life.

When I left our apartment in Williamsburg-and it was my first home, really-I moved into a room in a Victorian town house in Bushwick. I had only a mattress, books, and a dining table as a desk. Two suitcases of clothes. The rest of it I locked away in the storage unit. Eight other people lived in this house. I rarely saw them or even heard them. Regardless of the weather, my room had the powdery gray light of a storybook orphanage. I wore sandals in the shower. I could play music in my room only at certain hours. It was impossible not to feel that I had left a vibrant adulthood for an ashen version of myself at twenty-two: broke, prickly with loneliness. No belongings, no footing. The kitchen in this formerly grand town house was a playground for mice and cockroaches. Only one of the roommates ever used it. He was an Indian man, a photographer in his late forties, and he made his own Indian food every evening. The scent dominated the hallways. I could smell that his ghee was rancid, and I always wanted to say something, but I was ashamed of my snobbery. One morning there was mice shit in a line across the...

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Verlag: Penguin Books
Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
Sprache: Englisch
ISBN 10: 0143137298
ISBN 13: 9780143137290
Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten: 304
Herausgeber: Mamet Zosia
Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verf�gbar
Verantwortliche Person: gpsr@phaidon.com
gpsr@phaidon.com

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