At Christmas especially, the foods of our ethnicity connect us like little else.
It is about much more than the taste of things. Yes, it's about memories at the family table, but it is about much more than that as well.
America, ever a land of immigrants, is home to countless descendents of those who left one country to start a new life here. Likely you are one of these, as am I.
When our forebears arrived, they tended to settle within visiting distance of one another, if not next door. The "familiar" was big in their acclimation to a new land. Language, family customs, religion and food traditions were vital ways to keep in their lives the better things they hoped to retain from their homelands.
Time and ensuing generations encouraged becoming "more American." Accents were shunned, couples of contrasting backgrounds sometimes married, and even religions at times were changed.
But more often than not, what people continued to literally "bring to the table" reflected a purity and loyalty to food customs.
A couple might at length discuss whether to bring up children in one church or another, and they surely persisted on English as their predominant tongue in the world-at-large. For livelihood, they pushed education and training, the American path to success.
But food was another matter. In a multi-cultural home, families knew the best of both worlds where food traditions were concerned. Through the decades, traditions remained as true as information (recipes and methods handed down) allowed.
To find not-so-ubiquitous ingredients, household cooks in urban cities sought out merchants of their own ethnic backgrounds who specialized in their fare, adding to the cultural experience. In less settled regions, families prearranged for shelf-stable stock, hauling in supplies to be used all of a season.
The thing was, families did not allow the food customs of their origins to die. They nurtured and sustained favorite recipes, and in turn were nurtured and sustained by comforting meals.
If tastebuds can be trained, surely we are trained from our childhood foods. Just as likely, we can eat the same foods so repeatedly that they wear out their welcome with us. Many of us go through a disenchantment period with foods we've come to tire of, only to "go home again" after we've gorged on our fill of junk foods in our "breakaway" years.
Somehow the taste of freedom often liberates us toward the revelation that what we had wasn't half-bad after all. As a lesson, discovering that the foods we knew are really the foods we WANT to know is something like finding a lost love and bonding then for life. The reconnection is exciting but comfortable, new again but familiar, there for us with a little reciprocal effort.
Our Christmas traditional meal revolves around handmade tamales. That Mexican mainstay starts with slow roasted pork, chunked and plunged into its own juices, and seasoned vibrantly. Then one takes corn masa (a mixed dough) rich with stock and spice, and spreads its creaminess acoss corn husk leaves, wider ones that have been presoftened with hot water.
A substansive dollop of well-juiced pork goes center of the whole thing, and then the husk gets rolled, ends folded under. The tamales, settled into comfy stacks in a roaster, take a steambath for the rest of the afternoon. When they test done, the masa will pull away cleanly from the husk. The aroma does not let a hungry person rest.
Tamales are served with a gentle draping of red or green sauce, and the cook's choice of other Mexican favorites. A nice tray of enchiladas always complements, and definitely a pan of southwestern rice. Because it's the season of excess, I often overdo things with a tostada or taco bar, replete with crisp and fresh garnishes and a cilantro and lime guacamole.
It's true that Christmas is not about us, our pleasures or material gratification. It is about welcoming the Christ child and commemoration of THE most precious birth ever. With that in mind, I have a feeling it's okay for families to celebrate the time with a meal that pays homage to their own origins--origins handed to us by God.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Less Square Footage For Me
Less square footage in a house is plenty for me, but I confess to an occasional struggle with the conviction of that statement. When the "kids" and grandkids are here, I well recall the tale of a friend who once waxed poetic to me about his romantic notions with "less is more" thinking.
He and his wife became convinced that a smaller, better thought-out house could be the epitome of not just a dream home but a dream LIFE. The best of everything could be had, they thought, in smaller square footage. Finer cabinets, higher-end appliances and fixtures could lend luxury touches without the overall cost of a bigger house. With just the two of them at home, a smaller space comfortably furnished would be delightfully stress-free. With money saved by downsizing, the couple envisioned themselves globetrotting and frequently visiting their grown children who resided in other states.
When near to home, they anticipated luscious meals enjoyed often at the trendiest eateries, taking in the latest plays and movies regularly, and generally viewed themselves with money to burn toward small pleasures galore.
And so it went, but not without a hitch.
The smallish new home was big on clutter, with negligible storage and no room to entertain the friends they did love to keep company with. When the out-of-state children came to visit, there was no comfortable place to put them up.
Sleeping bags on the livingroom floor and everyone using the room for a clothes closet hardly seemed to reflect the richness of a less-is-more thinking. Sharing one bathroom and running out of hot water reminded them of their childhood home, before Mom and Pop won the lottery. Instead, the couple began to feel as if their living quarters put them back twenty-odd years, and it wasn't a youth thing. It was a poor thing.
My friends eventually came to terms with the errors of their thinking. For them, less wasn't proving to be more, it was, well, LESS. Less of what they needed, after all.
The small dream home was sold, and a more accomodating one was purchased.
As with everything, middle ground is good. For my husband and myself, our smallish farmhouse feels like plenty about 330 days of the year. It's cozy and tidy, every nook and cranny the way we like it, within our means. Certainly the kids don't complain, and it hasn't stopped them from coming over yet.
It's a midwestern rural property--a far cry from the Southern California metropolis we were born and raised in. It has a largeness to it that tempers the modesty of the old home, for sure. Each spring, when the apple blossoms are at peak and the greenery dazzles, the house merges into the season as if it were a palace. And because it isn't even trying to be beautiful, you can almost see it blush.
I would be less than truthful to say I'm never tempted to veer away from my own course of "less is plenty." Like my friends who probably lost some investment in their zeal to downsize, talking one's self into something too big (like the cafe venture I wrote of in my first blog) or too small (like their house) will always provide something, if only the proverbial learning experience.
In the throes of a learning experience, I always feel, "Less of this will be plenty, THANK YOU."
Once over and lesson instilled, I'm always the richer.
He and his wife became convinced that a smaller, better thought-out house could be the epitome of not just a dream home but a dream LIFE. The best of everything could be had, they thought, in smaller square footage. Finer cabinets, higher-end appliances and fixtures could lend luxury touches without the overall cost of a bigger house. With just the two of them at home, a smaller space comfortably furnished would be delightfully stress-free. With money saved by downsizing, the couple envisioned themselves globetrotting and frequently visiting their grown children who resided in other states.
When near to home, they anticipated luscious meals enjoyed often at the trendiest eateries, taking in the latest plays and movies regularly, and generally viewed themselves with money to burn toward small pleasures galore.
And so it went, but not without a hitch.
The smallish new home was big on clutter, with negligible storage and no room to entertain the friends they did love to keep company with. When the out-of-state children came to visit, there was no comfortable place to put them up.
Sleeping bags on the livingroom floor and everyone using the room for a clothes closet hardly seemed to reflect the richness of a less-is-more thinking. Sharing one bathroom and running out of hot water reminded them of their childhood home, before Mom and Pop won the lottery. Instead, the couple began to feel as if their living quarters put them back twenty-odd years, and it wasn't a youth thing. It was a poor thing.
My friends eventually came to terms with the errors of their thinking. For them, less wasn't proving to be more, it was, well, LESS. Less of what they needed, after all.
The small dream home was sold, and a more accomodating one was purchased.
As with everything, middle ground is good. For my husband and myself, our smallish farmhouse feels like plenty about 330 days of the year. It's cozy and tidy, every nook and cranny the way we like it, within our means. Certainly the kids don't complain, and it hasn't stopped them from coming over yet.
It's a midwestern rural property--a far cry from the Southern California metropolis we were born and raised in. It has a largeness to it that tempers the modesty of the old home, for sure. Each spring, when the apple blossoms are at peak and the greenery dazzles, the house merges into the season as if it were a palace. And because it isn't even trying to be beautiful, you can almost see it blush.
I would be less than truthful to say I'm never tempted to veer away from my own course of "less is plenty." Like my friends who probably lost some investment in their zeal to downsize, talking one's self into something too big (like the cafe venture I wrote of in my first blog) or too small (like their house) will always provide something, if only the proverbial learning experience.
In the throes of a learning experience, I always feel, "Less of this will be plenty, THANK YOU."
Once over and lesson instilled, I'm always the richer.
Monday, December 19, 2011
A world without shoppers
There once was a world without shoppers, but it didn't last long.
First created, humankind had nothing to really purchase. Certainly not a bad thing, to feel totally provided for. But it was just a matter of time before one person hankered after another's extra-plush fur-wear or vine-strap thongs, whether for sandals or underwear.
It seems likely that here began the trappings of materialism. What started as simple and sensible evolved over time toward modern-day excess, but a great many of us are now retreating into a "less is plenty" mode.
From a retail viewpoint this is at times devastating. The American dream of business ownership suffers a hard blow when people don't buy. Each closed door on a brick and mortar building represents much more heartache than the closed door can truly relate.
A bigger part of the American dream has always been home ownership; we work to buy a home and usually to nurture family life within it. If purchasing less "stuff" means the difference between staying in our homes or having to consider the streets, who can fault the choice to buy less stuff?
Even I, a retailer whose neon "OPEN" sign has wavered in conviction for all of thirteen years, can't.
How torn am I, I often mused, in a not-so-amused way. Surrounded for hours on end by my investment, lovingly staged and blaringly hopeful, of course I wanted, needed, hoped people would buy.
But buy for my benefit, or theirs? Did I really want to encourage purchases people couldn't afford to make? Did I really want people to buy indiscriminately, for my sake? Would it really cheer me up if a customer's purchase helped me meet my expenses at the end of the month, only to leave them short at theirs?
Such was my thinking throughout the whole thirteen years: "I hope people buy stuff today." "I don't blame them if they don't."
Early on, I injected soups and sandwiches to my venue, with comfy tables set amidst beautiful inventory.
Everyone needs to eat, I reasoned. Everyone will take a little sustenance and thus satisfied, take note of a little something else in the store besides. More people will come in when they learn I'm serving food, thereby exposing them to all else my place has to offer. A good plan, I thought, certain to work.
It did work, sort of. More people came in, enjoyed a modest lunch and ooohed and aaahed over merchandise they didn't really need.
And really didn't buy. What did happen is I brainstormed myself into a whole lot of hard work and a whole lot of overhead expenses. A whole lot more paperwork, and all the bureaucracy that comes with the highly regulated industry of foodservice.
I had worked myself into an even more stressful, not-for-profit business. But strangely, I was feeling alot more alive. I was meeting new people and making real friends. If I wasn't coming out ahead moneywise, I was receiving appreciation for work I still somehow enjoyed. And I was definitely experiencing a time in my life I could reflect back to and say, "I always wanted to try that, and I did."
As with most bigger things we try in life, there eventually comes the moment we realize our enchantment with an endeavor has run its course. "Been there, done that," becomes the mindset, and one just wants to get on to the next big thing.
Even if the next big thing is simply taking smaller bites.
Myself, I'd like to dabble in all of my favorite things and resist the urge to let any one of them turn into something unmanageable. With two retail "cohorts" (now dear friends) I'd like to get "webbed" feet--you know, go worldwide but stay in a wading pool of online sales. I'm looking to have time enough for the grandkids, and through this blog, keep up on the kind of writing I really love to do. I hope you'll follow!
First created, humankind had nothing to really purchase. Certainly not a bad thing, to feel totally provided for. But it was just a matter of time before one person hankered after another's extra-plush fur-wear or vine-strap thongs, whether for sandals or underwear.
It seems likely that here began the trappings of materialism. What started as simple and sensible evolved over time toward modern-day excess, but a great many of us are now retreating into a "less is plenty" mode.
From a retail viewpoint this is at times devastating. The American dream of business ownership suffers a hard blow when people don't buy. Each closed door on a brick and mortar building represents much more heartache than the closed door can truly relate.
A bigger part of the American dream has always been home ownership; we work to buy a home and usually to nurture family life within it. If purchasing less "stuff" means the difference between staying in our homes or having to consider the streets, who can fault the choice to buy less stuff?
Even I, a retailer whose neon "OPEN" sign has wavered in conviction for all of thirteen years, can't.
How torn am I, I often mused, in a not-so-amused way. Surrounded for hours on end by my investment, lovingly staged and blaringly hopeful, of course I wanted, needed, hoped people would buy.
But buy for my benefit, or theirs? Did I really want to encourage purchases people couldn't afford to make? Did I really want people to buy indiscriminately, for my sake? Would it really cheer me up if a customer's purchase helped me meet my expenses at the end of the month, only to leave them short at theirs?
Such was my thinking throughout the whole thirteen years: "I hope people buy stuff today." "I don't blame them if they don't."
Early on, I injected soups and sandwiches to my venue, with comfy tables set amidst beautiful inventory.
Everyone needs to eat, I reasoned. Everyone will take a little sustenance and thus satisfied, take note of a little something else in the store besides. More people will come in when they learn I'm serving food, thereby exposing them to all else my place has to offer. A good plan, I thought, certain to work.
It did work, sort of. More people came in, enjoyed a modest lunch and ooohed and aaahed over merchandise they didn't really need.
And really didn't buy. What did happen is I brainstormed myself into a whole lot of hard work and a whole lot of overhead expenses. A whole lot more paperwork, and all the bureaucracy that comes with the highly regulated industry of foodservice.
I had worked myself into an even more stressful, not-for-profit business. But strangely, I was feeling alot more alive. I was meeting new people and making real friends. If I wasn't coming out ahead moneywise, I was receiving appreciation for work I still somehow enjoyed. And I was definitely experiencing a time in my life I could reflect back to and say, "I always wanted to try that, and I did."
As with most bigger things we try in life, there eventually comes the moment we realize our enchantment with an endeavor has run its course. "Been there, done that," becomes the mindset, and one just wants to get on to the next big thing.
Even if the next big thing is simply taking smaller bites.
Myself, I'd like to dabble in all of my favorite things and resist the urge to let any one of them turn into something unmanageable. With two retail "cohorts" (now dear friends) I'd like to get "webbed" feet--you know, go worldwide but stay in a wading pool of online sales. I'm looking to have time enough for the grandkids, and through this blog, keep up on the kind of writing I really love to do. I hope you'll follow!
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