In honor of MJK Fisher
There’s a reason that I focus on scenes or images of food in literature – primarily, fiction and poetry – rather than straight-up food writing. That is, I assume there’s a reason; it’s hard for me to explain what I find so off-putting about writing that takes food for food’s sake as its primary focus. A lot of food writing tends to fall somewhere between hopelessly dull and insufferably smug – but then, so does this blog. Maybe I prefer the subtleties of allowing the poetic weight of nourishment to spin out its own story rather than putting it purposefully into a narrative of memory or discovery or whathaveyou. Maybe I am responding with an ingrained revulsion to the indulgence of taking food a proper subject matter (one of the very prejudices I rebel against by writing this stuff in the first place). Regardless, this is a genre of writing I avoid.
Take MJK Fisher. She is cited in nearly every book of food-related critical theory I have read. She was a journalist who traveled broadly and wrote prolifically and influentially (David Foster Wallace’s Consider the Lobster is a nod to her 1941 Consider the Oyster.) She appears so frequently in food philosophy because she envisioned Good Eating as one way to access Good Living, and also because she is taken to be a superb food writer. Yet up until today I have just not been able to stand her work. I don’t know, too precious? Lots of diminutives (“little baked onions,” “little cups of decaffienized coffee”), lots of gusty prefaces to past repasts (“I can still remember…”). I’ve often commented how difficult it is to capture the frenetic movements of dancing in text; maybe it’s as difficult to capture the sequence of sensory pleasure (let alone dialogue and charm) that makes a meal. Maybe I just have an unnecessarily low tolerance for attempts.
Anyway, I began this day with a lousy morning. Rising early for another day of dissertation writing retreat, I was exhausted, achy from the previous day’s invasive medical exam, burnt out on writing, stinging with cold and wet which sank into my clothes while I waited uncomfortably for the subway, having missed one by seconds. All I carried to read was The Penguin Book of Food and Drink, which thus far had been a spectacularly disappointing collection of food writing. (Dry histories, navel-gazey paeans to regional dishes, and one hokey faux-noir detective story.) And there was MJK Fisher again, with a short piece called “I was really very hungry.” For lack of better options, this time I decided to hear what she had to say.
And I was spellbound. I sank into my subway seat and let her walk me through the dusty French countryside to a tiny inn, catered by a somewhat fanatic young woman who insisted Fisher try a little bit of everything: sizzling broiled endive, meltingly rich slices of herring, lentils in walnut oil, trout so fresh it curled in the cooking heat. Fisher could not say no to her zealous server, and so said yes to a bottle of cool white wine, a hot digestif, fresh coffee. I felt thoroughly nourished and warmed by this reel of unbelievable food, and I exited the subway with the phantom taste of the damned “little baked onions” (first simmered in broth, then braised in a little olive oil, salt, and pepper) on my tongue.
But it was still raining ice, and I remembered that all you get to eat at writing retreat is junk food and slippery cardboard sandwiches. Ouch.
Well, anyway. I did bring a pear from home, which is not quite ripe to eat but is voluptuous and russet-toned and lovely to look at. And during lunch break, I am entertaining myself by replaying my satisfying meal from late yesterday night. I’m no French chef for a country inn, but I know how to warm and comfort after a long, exhausting wet day.
As an appetizer: supple slices of white cheese on crisp rectangles of seeded wheat cracker. The cheese is a pleasant wedge of contradictions: soft and smooth, but sharp as a good white cheddar should be; cool from the refrigerator, then giving way to a slow heat as the horseradish makes itself known.
The autumnal soup should be eaten while still hot. Earlier in the week, chopped young onions were browned in butter and deglazed with tart white wine. The wine and house-made vegetable stock, brought to a boil, stewed the already-softened orange earthiness of roasted sweet potato and butternut squash. The roots and creamy roasted garlic were stirred until smooth, peppered, and speckled with parsley and thyme. This soup can be reheated again and again to soothe away the indignities of a busy, tiring week.
To finish, crisp greens with shredded carrots and chopped cauliflower in a creamy dressing. With a glass of the tart white wine, this salad ends the meal on an optimistic note: once contented and warmed by the first courses, it is easier to think about an early spring.
