Anya – Page 13 – The Inquisitive Eater

Think Tank February 25, 2013

Restoring Alphabet City Beer Co.

by Nina Shield

It wasn’t until Zachary Mack was wading across Avenue C and a police officer yelled at him to turn around that the severity of the situation finally registered. “I got out of the water on 6th Street with rats swimming out of the flood on either side of me, like something out of Titanic,” he says. “The cop told me to leave because power lines run under the street, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the storm. I had no idea if the water had actually reached any further. I was in a bizarre state of shock and panic.”

Mack was attempting to get to Alphabet City Beer Co., the bar that he opened last May with David Hitchner, to turn off the circuit breakers as Hurricane Sandy made landfall on October 29th. The only other people on the flooded streets were trying to get home. “I had been standing on my rooftop in the wind and rain trying to get a cell phone signal so I could call David,” says Mack. “He was watching water pour into the shop and bar on the surveillance cameras when the power went out.”

Mack and Hitchner decided to open ABC Beer Co. after working together for five years at Alphabet City Wine Co., on the same stretch of Avenue C. Their idea was simple: Provide a large selection of craft beers and quality meats and cheeses for the lowest prices possible in a homey, comfortable environment. It quickly became my favorite place to frequent in that area, a friendly, spacious bar and store with twelve rotating taps of craft beers, snacks from local vendors[1], and a 60’s garage music/French pop Spotify station on the speakers.

When they finally made it to the store a few hours later, their fears were confirmed: the surge had exceeded the worst case scenario predictions; the basement was completely flooded; the taps, walk-in refrigerator, electrical system, and inventory had been destroyed; and the upstairs bar was a foot under water. Perhaps most painful was the knowledge that they had made the final payment on their equipment less than two days previously.

They immediately went to work, but found that restocking and rebuilding would be delayed because so many of their vendors had been hit just as hard. “It’s one of the strange simultaneous downsides and positives to relying on as many local vendors as possible,” says Mack. “Everyone was affected, which made it harder to get back to normal, but we all also understood. The first contact after the storm with every single one of our vendors was a long, emotional conversation about the storm, what had happened, what we’d lost, and how we were coping.”

In fact, Mack’s low spirits were quickly replaced with a quiet optimism. He grew closer to the vendors and other restaurant owners in the area as they all worked long days and nights to repair and recover. Two days after the storm, still standing in the wreck, Mack wrote an article for Forbes.com. You can sense the adrenaline flowing, a slight manic edge to his writing, as he explains how energized and gratified he was by the neighborhood’s outpouring of support:

A group of three regulars at my store, who lived around the block showed up at my gate, flashlights and trash bags in hand. ‘We saw what happened last night. What do you need us to do? How can we help you?’… Edi Frauneder (owner of Edi & the Wolf next door) served my coworkers and I the only hot meal we’d had since the power went out…. Morale was noticeably high. Every morning, we’ll show up and Edi will have hot chocolate waiting for us. ‘Who wants some coffee from the catastrophe zone?’ he’ll say to passersby with a smile. We’ll all sit around his tables, stacked with candles, tools, and supplies, and formulate our game plan for the day.

Three months have gone by since Mack wrote his article. Time Out New York has nominated ABC Beer Co. as one of their best new beer bars of the year. They have restored and reopened—originally just six days after the storm, serving only the cans they had been able to salvage. Mack watched nervously as his friend and business partner used a rubber spatula to flip the power supply switch back on while standing in knee-deep water. “We were lucky,” he says,“that upstairs only flooded about a foot. We scrubbed it down—it was an incredible stroke of luck that we decided to embrace our bare concrete floors—and replaced the furniture that was damaged.”

He says the neighborhood is “finally back to normal”: the other restaurants on Avenue C, including Edi & the Wolf, are bustling, as is owner Frauneder’s new cocktail bar, The Third Man. Next door neighbor Bobwhite’s credit card machines were offline for three months, but were restored in early February. Others, though, have not fared as well: The Sunburnt Cow is still waiting for repairs to their gas and electricity, and many businesses are getting increasingly frustrated with Verizon’s lingering outages. Mack and Hitchner are hoping to organize a block party in the spring to raise money; although FEMA was responsive in the wake of the storm, the funds have been “slow coming in.”

Mack and Hitchner have been able to refocus on their original plans for the bar and store, and the crowds are growing. In some ways, their situation was improved by the fact that they are a young business and had been working closely for months with the technicians and workers that they needed to call upon again in the wake of the storm. “I’m proud to say we’re well into recovery territory,” says Mack. “We want to remind people that we lost a lot, but we’re still here, and we’re not going anywhere.”

[1] About 70 percent of their beer comes from Union Beer Distributors (which was almost completely wiped out by the storm), and the rest from Manhattan Beer Distributors, Phoenix Beehive, and Oak Beverages. The snacks come from Crystal Foods (cheese), World’s Greatest Cheeses (a.k.a. Food Matters Again, which carries a lot of locally sourced goods), Essex Cheeses (whose employees tour dairies around the country learning about their suppliers) and Dairyland for grocery, olives, and certain meats.

Nina Shield is an editor and translator living in Brooklyn. Her website is ninashield.com.

Books & Media February 20, 2013

Top Chef, It’s Not Me, It’s You

by Matt Kirouac

Top Chef, we need to talk. About thirty-five seasons ago, you started feeling less like a TV show, and more like an emotionally abusive relationship. I want to like you, I really do. Please let me like you. Yet despite having long since surpassed Top Chef fatigue, I can’t look away, much like how I could not look away from the media coverage when Britney Spears had a head-shaving meltdown and started acting like a drunken Ninja Turtle. So unfortunately, this is what Top Chef has become: the culinary equivalent of a celebrity meltdown.

Way back in the earlier seasons, I genuinely loved Top Chef for its innovative premise, sleek quality, and roster of largely undiscovered talent. Those were simpler times, with no outrageous gimmicks or over-the-top product placements forcing Healthy Choice steamers down my throat. I miss the days when challenges weren’t sponsored by Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and chefs weren’t asked to cook with one hand tied behind their back, while bouncing around in a potato sack, or selecting mystery ingredients wrapped in aluminum foil. Excuse me, Reynolds Wrap aluminum foil.

Then there’s all the forced drama. This is supposed to be a food competition show, not The Real World With Knives. I am so glad viewers are given a glimpse into the chefs’ late-night cigarette sessions, where they bitch and moan about one another for no discernible reason. They bicker like children and curse like Mob Wives. Not cute. And in case that wasn’t enough, now Top Chef brings back contestants from past seasons, all of whom seem to have taken classes in un-likability since their previous tenures. Even eliminated contestants have a chance to come back into the show through some crazy thing called “Last Chance Kitchen,” which sounds more like rehab therapy.

Finally, we need to talk about Padma. She scares me. Over the years, she seems to have grown more and more femme-bot-like, and I get the feeling she slaps people when the cameras aren’t rolling. I love Gail, I love Tom, even most of the guest judges are enjoyable. But Padma is like a cobra amongst kittens. I think one of the key factors to having a successful reality show is to employ a host that people like. I understand that she is easy on the eyes, but so are blood diamonds, and blood diamonds are bad. She comes off like a spoiled, fame-hungry diva, and if Bravo replaced her with Naomi Campbell, the show would feel like Lamb Chop’s Play Along by comparison.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy that Top Chef has gotten so many people interested in food, but I worry that it is misconstruing what it truly means to be a chef. In ninety-nine percent of cases, there are no cameras, no glitz and glamour, no free Toyota Prius, no Wolfgang Puck to stroke your ego. It’s hard work, and you do it because you love it, not because you think it could lead to fifteen minutes of fame. So please, Top Chef, I implore you to cut the cord before you start to look like a bloated Saw franchise. Pack your knives and go.

Matt Kirouac is a Chicago-based food writer with more than five years of experience in freelance journalism, restaurant public relations, and blogging. Most recently, Matt served as the lead writer for Restaurant Intelligence Agency, and can currently be found writing for the likes of Front Desk, Serious Eats Chicago, The Local Beet, Tasting Table, and Daily Candy.

Non-Fiction February 18, 2013

Savor

by Alex J. Tunney

Past the microwave, past the stove, past the window, past the tall thin bookcase where my mother had her recipe books, and underneath the sky blue countertop were the cabinets where my family kept all the snacks. It was a small collection of chocolate chip cookies, potato chips and crackers. My mother had no problem with me enjoying these snacks; she had bought them for my brother and I, after all. It was me sneaking back for seconds and spoiling my dinner that she was concerned about.

Slowly and stealthily, I would stalk across the tile floor in my socks. Approaching the cabinet on a clear day, the afternoon sunlight beaming through the window would bathe the faux-wood doors as if to bless my consumption. Opening them would cause them to creak slightly, but it was attempting to unwrap the packaging that ended up making the most sound. I hated the tinselly crinkling sound that came with unsealing the bags— or sliding a tray of cookies out of them—both for its unpleasantness and that it might alert my mother to what I was doing.

I remember the red, blue and green bags of potato chips, each color-coded to match up with their flavor, and how these bags boasted such bursts of flavor in each bite. I remember the different types of cookies: some chewy, some crunchy, some lasting longer in milk than others. Each bag of potato chips would disappear in a week. So would the box of crackers. I was more methodical with the cookies, but no less indulgent. I would have three, sometimes four, occasionally five or, every once in a while, six cookies at a time.

I’d usually eat my afternoon snacks while I was watching TV. I enjoyed both activities pretty much the same way: listlessly. A mild tide of flavor would hit my tongue and I’d be lulled into a faint sense of pleasure by the blather of the television as it mixed with the sounds of chewing reverberating in my head. When I was eating, even out of routine and eating something I only partially enjoyed, I felt I existed. I felt that I was there.

The only thing I hated about all the snacks were the crumbs and dust that would stick to my fingers after I was done. I could feel each individual speck resting on my fingertips. The little sensations bothered me. I would immediately wash my hands and wonder what was for dinner later. It was like I had never eaten anything at all.

Of course, it wasn’t just snacks that I indulged on. There were the Saturday morning breakfasts with cheddar cheese omelets with a side of ham or sausage and buttered toast. There were the dinners of various pastas packed full of meat and cheese. There were the huge holiday meals with sides to sample and deserts to devour. My eyes always overestimated the abilities of my stomach. It all tasted too good not to have right there and then.

First, I was on a scale. Then I was on the examination table in my doctor’s office listening to him. The wax paper underneath me crinkled when I shifted around. He was explaining things to my mother and I. I don’t remember exactly what he said but I’m pretty sure the words cholesterol, above-average and diet were definitely used. There were definitely one or two charts.

Soon, the red labels on the milk cartons were replaced with the purple and blue labels of 2% and skim milk. The freezer slowly filled with Lean Cuisine, Healthy Choice and other microwave meals. The chips were baked, the crackers now had vegetables in them and the cookies all but disappeared. The bags and boxes were littered with big starbursts shouting Fat Free! or Zero Cholesterol! The food didn’t taste all that different, but to my prepubescent self, it felt like a punishment.

I realized that food had a weight and it had a price. In the following years, I began to eat less because I saw the hidden numbers in food. These numbers represented the amount of space I took up in the world. They were everywhere: on boxes, on scales, on clothes and on cash registers.

During a summer spent at college, I was determined to spend as little money outside of what the school had given me as I could. Each point a dollar, I limited myself to two small meals a day, mostly sandwiches, salads and yogurts, and I only treated myself to treats like Chinese food, burgers and pizza on weekends when the college was closed. I exercised more times a day than I ate. I began to shed those numbers believing that I was turning myself into who I was underneath those extra pounds. And I was. Yet, when I returned home briefly at the end of that summer, one friend said I looked gaunt. My mother said I looked like a ghost. Perhaps I had gone just a few numbers too far and had begun to lose myself.

It’s been years since the sneaking, some time since sitting in the doctor’s office and a while since shedding those numbers. I hesitate to say I have it all under control; a better way to describe it is that I have maintained a stasis. Occasionally, I still fall into my old habits.

Sometimes I put too much dressing on my salads. Occasionally, it’s an accident such as when the dressing spills out of the poorly shaped container. Most of the time it’s me trying to mask the taste of all the lettuce. I empty the red or white dressing over the green below like a bizarre downpour over a forest canopy.

Sometimes, I read while eating. It’s hard for me to focus solely on a meal in front of me. My mind will wander and the food alone is not enough to keep my interest. I often find my attention drifting towards a well-crafted piece of writing at the expense of appreciating a well-made meal. If I could chew words, sentences or paragraphs, it would be fine, but I can’t and I miss the diction and the tone of the food itself.

I have continued to develop my relationship with food: how to feel the texture of ingredients against my teeth and resting upon my tongue, to understand the flavors with my taste buds, how to appreciate sweets and how to appreciate spices. I have learned things about my body. I have learned things about other bodies.

I still count calories instead of cookies but now there is no more sneaking— no more shame in appreciating it all, no shame in the occasional indulgence. I am searching, in cabinets, refrigerators, city streets and restaurant menus in pursuit of something new or at least something slightly different from yesterday. When I find it, I savor what is there.

I have also learned to lick my fingers more often.

Alex J. Tunney recently received his M.F.A. in Creative Writing (Non-Fiction) from The New School. He lives and writes on Long Island.

Non-Fiction February 13, 2013

The Rolling of Dough

by Emily Sproch

There were two sweets my mother made: oatmeal raisin scones, which were marvelous, and S’s & O’s, which were terrible. The former conjured all things charming and British—yellow-and-cream papered walls, blue porcelain pitchers brimming with heather cut from the moor, raw cotton pantaloons, empire waists. The latter were the very opposite: bland Italian Christmas cookies, as outdated as the Italian bakeries that dotted every Jersey highway (the red, white and green awnings; the pitiful signs with their scripted halogen letters, the K’s burnt out long ago). The cookies themselves were, as suggested, shaped like the letter S and the letter O, a detail my mother could never explain, and then dipped in a lemony frosting and sprinkled with jimmies. Both items were rare, S’s & O’s only in December, and the scones appearing one or two mornings a year, as if, on those occasions, some downstairs staff had been summoned to work through the night.

Those were her signatures, the scones from a page in the “Everything You Can Do with Quaker Oats” freebie booklet, and the cookie recipe materializing, I suppose, somewhere from the depths of her Italian heritage. I knew from television that some mothers baked more, that chocolate chip cookies held a sort of collective national importance, that dessert was sometimes served, but I was not deprived. My mother made plenty of dough, pounds and pounds of dough all the time, but it was mixed with salt instead of sugar and then rolled and pinched and patted into a menagerie of little figurines—doodads that were dried and fired and painted and glazed and carted around to sell at craft fairs. I rather liked her salty dough; truth be told, my mother had to shoo my hand away from the mixing bowl as often as she would have if it had indeed been filled with cake batter.

And then one night—despite the comfort, joy even, with the status quo—an incident with doughnuts.

The night was good already. There was a lurid made-for-TV movie involved, and the pull-out couch pulled out: atmosphere. It was like a party—my mother, my sister and me under the sheets, engrossed in the delicious drama. It is impossible now to tell what we watched, most likely a story of the violent or devious sort—blackmail, hired hit men, the murder of a cheerleader. (Sexual content was not allowed, so I’m certain there was no mistress or child out of wedlock). Whatever the specifics, it was the distilled essence of drama itself that soaked into our bones: me, eight years old and fully aware of my vinegary addiction to the stuff, like licking a sour pickle and getting a shiver; my sister, four, prepared to lap up whatever was placed before her; and my thirty-three year old mother breathless and squealing like a teenager.

A commercial break and an ad for Dunkin’ Donuts—the famous one from the 1980s, with Fred the Baker waking up early to get to work. As the mustached Fred rubbed his tired eyes, an understanding grew among us—silent but clear—a collective yearning for sugar and fat and sticky fingers and eating in bed. It was so foreign, this desire—we never ate Dunkin’ Donuts. My mother was strict with her diet and weight; I had never seen her with a doughnut of any kind. Fast food for us meant breakfast on road trips and that breakfast was McDonald’s, where you could get an entire meal for your money. The commercial ended and there was that television pause, the breath between spots when the screen goes brownish grey, as if the box itself is daring you to pounce. And then my mother, staring straight ahead:

I know how to make doughnuts, you know.

The slow choreography of heads (my sister’s, my own) turning to face this stranger between us, the kind of moment a film could never get away with now, the perfect widening of eyes, the symmetry, the art of reaction.

We could make them right now.

They were pure spontaneity, those doughnuts. My mother was a master of spontaneity, but her intentions were so often at odds with her motivation. Build-up and excitement could go nowhere; she could convince anyone that her latest idea was fantastic, an absolute must-do, and then, moments later, that it was too much hassle and really not worth it at all. I sensed, though, something different that night, an element of follow-through, a whiff of accountability, and I knew right then to treasure it forever, to store it up and to catalogue its significance in my deepest parts.

We ran back and forth during commercial breaks, kitchen to living room, salivating at stove, salivating at television. The fact that we had the main ingredient—a frozen tube of dinner rolls that pops apart when you twist—was another miracle. We broke it open, separating the slabs and wiggling our fingers through their centers to make holes. We put them into a frying pan with half an inch of vegetable oil and watched them blister and gurgle. There were two brown bags from purchases at the corner deli and we filled one with powdered sugar and the other with a cinnamon and sugar mix. The hot little orbs were plucked up with barbecue tongs and dropped one by one into a bag, which we then held closed and shook shook shook to coat. We did them in batches, so as not to miss any of the show, piling them on a plate as we went. In the end, the plate came with us to the sofa bed, and we ate to the last thrusts of the drama—our lips, our bellies, and the tips of our tongues atingle—the memory crystallizing behind us before we were even through.

Emily is a graduate of the MFA Creative Writing program at The New School and has been published by Ceasura, the Awakenings Review, and the NY Press.

Non-Fiction February 11, 2013

Rocky’s Manicotti

by Sheila Squillante

For the Batter
6 eggs
Pinch salt
6 heaping tbsp flour
1 ½ cup milk

For the Filling
1 lb ricotta cheese
½ lb mozzarella cheese, shredded
Fresh parsley or 1 tsp dried
3 or 4 eggs
Salt & pepper to taste
¼ cup grated parmesan cheese

Start with the recipe—a dingy yellowed index card transcribed in your own hand at some point in the last—what?—fifteen years, probably. Place it on the counter, read it over, and realize that what you have is only the ingredient list, not the instructions for putting the dish together. Tell yourself you watched your grandfather stand at the stove and make these enough times that you can easily improvise. Remember, though, that he had your grandmother as his “wingman,” so call your husband in and ask him to stand by.

First, make the batter. Beat the eggs in a gleaming silver bowl with your mother’s red silicone whisk. Add milk and wonder if it’s too much—it’s not. It’s supposed to be loose and thin. Add salt and flour, a little at a time, so as to avoid making a mess of lumps.

Or, dump in all the flour at once and curse when you see tiny islands of white floating on an eggy-milk sea. Whisk and whisk and whisk. Decide islands are nice and make the filling. Combine all the filling ingredients and stop yourself from adding dried oregano and garlic powder, even though you are certain it would complement the cheese. Stop yourself because you want to honor your grandfather to the letter even though you are certain he wouldn’t give a hoot, darlin’. He’d just be happy you’re having fun in the kitchen.

Think now, about the kitchen. This one belongs to your mom, who lives on the east coast of Florida, three hours straight across from your grandparents’ home in Port Charlotte, on the west coast. This one is white and red and bright with new appliances. That one is seventies-yellow with worn linoleum and butterfly dishtowels, pilled from years of use.

Or, it was.

The kitchen is still there, of course, but your grandparents are gone two years now and you are making this most iconic dish of theirs in tribute, through some tears and some shame. Tears are easy to come by—you are an easy cry. Shame, though, is new. Shame came unexpectedly a few days ago when you and your husband drove past the abandoned rambler on Quesada Ave. You needed to see it, you told him, and he understood. The only home that had been in your life for your whole life, mortgaged beyond its value in a terrible market, no one to take it on, gone now back to the bank that is too busy to deal with it.

Shame came when you got out of your rental car and walked through the scraggy grass to the screen porch and peered in to find the walls still adorned with your grandparents’ things: a portion of the rubber inner tube your son used as a baby near the now-drained and scummy spa; a wooden sculpture of the California Raisin someone made for them in the 80s (which you always hated); the Pennsylvania Dutch Hex signs you gave them for their sixtieth wedding anniversary—one says their names and wedding date, one says “God Bless This House.”

In the Fantasy of What Could Have Happened Next, maybe you felt a proprietary impulse rise like spa bubbles from the hollow of your chest and you pressed the button on the flimsy door handle and pulled. Locked. Rage and need. Maybe you pulled again and this time maybe it opened. This time maybe you forgot yourself, forgot you were not coming in to your grandparents’ home like you had for thirty years, but were instead trespassing on bank property. In the Fantasy of What Could Have Happened Next, maybe you found yourself standing on the porch, stumbling past the spa and yanking on the kitchen slider. Open. In.

Maybe you stood in your grandparents’ kitchen—empty and moldy now—and tried to remember everything that ever happened there. The phone call you took from the financial aid office about your college scholarship. Your mother making coffee. Your grandmother lifting her skirt up to her knee to show off her “great gams” to your husband while the video camera recorded. Your grandfather standing at the stove making crepe after crepe after crepe, filling them with cheese, layering them with tomato sauce in Pyrex pans. Hours on end.

And that last November: holding his soft, weak hands at the Formica dinette (in the kitchen he swears your father still visits him), while your mother talks to hospice. Telling him his love of sixty-six years is gone.

In the Fantasy of What Could Have Happened Next, maybe you grabbed one of their juice glasses—the red, blue and yellow striped ones they used to take their pills every morning—off the counter and fled back to your rental car, hoping that anyone who saw also saw your sobbing, remembered your grandparents, put two and two together and forgave you your trespasses, even in your shame.

Leave the screen porch, the scraggy grass, Quesada Ave, your grandparents’ and father’s graves just up the road at Restlawn.

Leave the Fantasy and go back to your mother’s kitchen.

Be sure to let the crepe batter come to room temperature before you attempt to cook. Pour a cup of tomato sauce into the bottom of a square baking dish. Heat an 8-inch non-stick pan over medium high heat and brush generously with olive or vegetable oil.

Ladle ½ cup of batter (possibly less) into the bottom of the pan and swirl to coat. Cook until the wet top looks dry-ish. Carefully flip (they shouldn’t be browned) and cook five or so seconds on the other side. Remove to a plate or clean prep surface.

Understand that you are probably going to ruin several of these at the start. The pan will either be not hot enough or not oiled enough or you will rip them upon lifting and will have to fling them, cursing like your grandfather—Yer sister’s got a big one!—into the sink.

Now it’s a dance: put a tablespoon or slightly more of the filling in a line down the middle of the crepe and roll it up. While you are doing this, ladle some more batter, oiling the pan as necessary—which will likely be often– as you go. Place the manicotti into the baking dish as you make them. Resolve that you will be standing at the stove, thinking of your grandparents, Rocky and Jo, for a long time.

When all the manicotti are made and snug in their pan, pour some good red sauce over them and top with some shredded mozzarella. Cover pan with aluminum foil and bake at 350 for 30 minutes, removing the foil in the last ten minutes so the cheese can get all melty and nice.

Let stand on the counter for fifteen minutes before serving to your mother, who cared for your grandparents in the eighteen years of their life between your father’s—their son’s—death and their own, and to your husband, who is very glad you are not in Fantasy Jail.

This essay is part of a book-length memoir, Dead Dad Day: A Memoir of Food and My Father. Sheila’s essays and poems have appeared most recently in places like Brevity, Barrelhouse, The Rumpus, Thrush Poetry Journal, Superstition Review, Sweet: A Literary Confection and elsewhere. She teaches writing at Penn State.

Non-Fiction February 6, 2013

Hot Pepper Memories

by Gloria Panzera

Peperoni-cruschi — Photo Credit: “Calabria from Scratch”

Every week, when I lived in Boca Raton, Florida, I would go to the local farmer’s market to get tomatoes, apples, and a melon. Sometimes I splurge and buy a pineapple or strawberries. It’s my time to plan my meals for the week and to mingle with the vegetables. Some people exercise. I cook.

During one of my visits, as I pushed my shopping cart, I ended up in the herbs, spices, and roots aisle. I was about to take a jalapeño when I saw it there, the glorious, red, and wrinkled hot pepper. The chornicchio, or as some call them, peperoncinos.

It brought to mind my childhood, the six months of the year when Papa Nonno and Nonna Rita would live with my family in Florida and the summers I’d spent with them in Montreal. I remembered how Nonno would hang the peppers to dry on the patio and then fry them up, and they were so spicy.

I remember my introduction to the pepper. My family and I had been visiting my Nonno and Nonna in Montreal. My youngest sister hadn’t been born yet, so I couldn’t have been more than eight. The retro orange and green 1970’s tile, the tall, wood chairs, and the crocheted tablecloth covered in plastic and then covered again with an old tablecloth that probably came with them from Italy. I remember being able to feel the bumps of the crocheted tablecloth through both the plastic and linen. The smell of my grandmother’s homemade sausage wafted through the house. At the table was a large pan with oil and fried peppers. My parents, younger sister, and grandparents sat at the plastic covered table ready for lunch. I reached for a pepper and stopped.

“Gloria, those are hot peppers,” my mother warned me.

“No. No. They’re fine,” my dad assured her.

So I took one, the deepest reddest one. It was gorgeous, the salt sparkling and the oil dripped off of it leaving a glorious sheen. Biting into it, I knew–I knew my father was a cruel, evil man who wished to inflict pain on his daughter. I pushed my chair back and flayed my hands.

“Oh my God, Phil! I told you they were hot,” my mother chided.

Now my taste for spicy food is insatiable, despite my traumatic introduction. I relish in the sizzle lingering around my lips. I enjoy the flush that reaches my cheeks.

I added two chornicchio to my basket.

I tried to decide how I’d cook them. I’d fry them, cover them in salt and dip some bread in the oil when I was finished, just as I had seen Nonno do time and again.

I heated the olive oil in the frying pan. Once the oil was hot, I placed the peppers into the oil, generously salting them. I put the lid on the pan to steam the peppers as well. They would be soft on the inside and crisp and salty on the outside. A delightful combination. As the fragrant smell of the olive oil, chornicchios, and salt filled the kitchen, I stood there thinking of Papa Nonno realizing how much I missed him.

Gloria Panzera is an English teacher living in Charlotte, North Carolina. Her writing has appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul: NASCAR and Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles.

Non-Fiction February 4, 2013

A Missing Ingredient

by Eve Turow

“What’s for dinner tonight?” he wrote me.

It was the first question he asked. We’d met online and within two days had discussed our favorite restaurants in New York and engaged in a flirtatious exchange on the delicious versatility of cauliflower. Our romance blossomed over words like “lily root,” “pork belly,” and “fried oysters.”

I had arrived in New York City just six months earlier. After making my way through the dregs of post-college confusion, I was finally set on a new career path in a new city. But tethered to my evolving self-definition came my utter bewilderment in not only how to find, but also how to define, the right partner for me. As my friends paired off, I sat before a list of profiles, unsure who to click and who to pass on.

A newbie to the online dating world, I decided to play the field: an amuse-bouche tasting of New York singles. There was the investment banker– charming, witty, but ultimately too focused on the bottom line, the doctor with an intriguing past but persist awkward stare, and the ad guy, who, while attentive, was too saccharine to take seriously. I was growing pessimistic and tired of the nerve rattling anticipation of each date and the depleting disappointment thereafter.

Then, after months of scanning profiles and exchanging disheartening messages with men I never hoped to meet, I had quickly developed a charming gourmand banter with a guy who appeared, at least in his carefully selected profile photo, quite handsome. For our proposed first date, he promised to take me to a hidden restaurant on a small street, the most romantic suggestion I could think of.

Repeatedly clicking on his photos, I could see he was of medium build with a wide smile that made his eyes squint slightly on his round face. I could imagine myself with him.

Still, I decided to test this man before agreeing to meet in person. I picked one of his favorite restaurants, copied down the address and dined to discern what I could about him. The food was good. No, better than good, it was great. A piping bowl of Thai noodle soup seeped in palm sugar, soy sauce and coriander propelled me to the stalls lining the streets of Bangkok. I groaned in satisfaction as I placed my face deep in the bowl, steaming myself in the aromas of fish sauce and simmered chicken broth. I hoped no one was looking. How could they know that I was not just celebrating a find of authentic Thai cuisine in Manhattan, but a man with sagacious taste?

“This is something,” I told a friend.

“Have you met?” he questioned.

“Well, no, but it’s something,” I reassured him. In my persistent quest to define what kind of man I wanted to be with, I had uncovered a key connection: food.

He worked in the food industry and had left his finance job to complete a year in culinary school and join the gastronome world. I had learned the basics of home cooking not from a professor but Ina Garten’s perfectly manicured hands on Barefoot Contessa and Mark Bittman’s quirky Minimalist videos: how to chiffonade my herbs, roast a chicken, steam fish. I enjoy having friends over for dinner, feel no guilt spending an extra few dollars on truffle cheese, and often find myself marveling at the television as Anthony Bourdain splits open a steaming crab in Cambodia or the creative minds of Iron Chef America magically transform a fish into slippery noodles.

As it seems to be for most 25 year olds, food is only growing in importance. I have heard theories that food is my generation’s indie rock; while it was once cool to follow the Pixies or Nirvana, it’s now hip to eat Korean tacos out of a curbside truck and pickle your own (organic) veggies (such as beets, ramps and carrots, which, tip: can double as home decor). But, to me, food is more than a fad; perhaps I will stop Instagramming photos of my lunch as time progresses but I can’t help feeling food itself will maintain its position on the high-standing podium. As I spend my days typing in front of a computer from the moment I rise to when the sun tucks itself beneath the horizon, food has become a distinct means to connect and to integrate new sensations into a life that is otherwise occupied with clicks, tags and pokes. There’s nothing I look forward to more than sitting at dinner with friends, the smell of burgers filling the air and juice running down my chin as I bite into a perfectly medium-rare patty.

With all this in mind, I decided to give Mr. Culinary a shot. On a cool winter evening, I met him at a bar on the Lower East Side. Before I left my apartment I downed a glass of wine to still my nerves, and as the moment to meet grew closer, I convinced myself I had over-rated this yet mysterious man. But he greeted me with a smile even brighter and more endearing in person. Over four glasses of Malbec, flatbread with butternut squash, and shrimp and grits, I got to know Mr. Culinary. He ordered my wine and watched for when my glass neared empty, asked if I wanted the last bite on the plate and later, how soon he could see me again.

For our second date he sent me five options for brunch, listing each restaurant’s specialty dish. We wandered his neighborhood and he pointed out his favorite cheese shop and another restaurant we surely had to try for brunch another time. In the days that followed, we texted one another photos of our meals apart: half-conquered pastrami sandwiches at Katz’s deli, a tower of seafood at Balthazar, the various stages of a Christmas seafood pasta he was preparing for his family, my depressing bowl of stir-fry eaten on my lonely Jewish singleton couch. He gave me a liter of extra virgin olive oil for Christmas that he assured me was pressed in the hillsides of Italy just that week. He understands me, I thought.

And three weeks in, I felt the stirring sultry bloom fading.

“I don’t know if he can talk about anything other than food,” I confessed to my older brother.

“Have you asked him non-food-related questions?” he inquired with a sibling’s all-knowing tone.

The next day, sitting across from my dark haired, hazel-eyed date in the Meatball Shop in Williamsburg, I tested out my brother’s advice. As the conversation paused and puttered between our bites of meatballs atop salad and spaghetti, I pushed the conversation beyond our usual domain. Sure enough my online epicurean was well versed in politics, books, TV. But as he talked about the health care bill and Obama, subjects I would generally gladly converse about, my shoulders remained tense, feet tucked beneath my chair. The new topics didn’t stimulate the conversation the way chicken liver terrine and burrata had in weeks past.

A few days later Mr. Culinary suggested cooking dinner at his apartment: carbonara and roasted brussels sprouts. We traded stories about our days as he blended the honeybee yellow egg yolks into the silky cream and I tossed the sprouts, oil coating my hands, smiling and laughing with eagerness for the delectable meal. At points, he would gaze over, examining me, I thought, and I would quickly look away.

After the meal, Mr. Culinary pulled me toward him, his back against the granite kitchen counter top. His hands felt misplaced on my hips. I didn’t want to lean forward for a kiss. I could feel perspiration gather on my palms and as I looked into his eyes, my stomach began to churn.

“I have to go,” I said quickly. His hands dropped as his head tilted in confusion.

“Ok.”

I picked up my things and left. Walking into the subway station, I couldn’t decide if my stomach flips were from the rich bacon and Parmesan carbonara or the remaining possibilities of the evening.

As I sat at home wondering how to explain my waning interest, an email arrived in my inbox: “I have really enjoyed getting to know you over the past few weeks,” he wrote. “We have so many interests in common but I know that it’s more about the intangibles when it comes to chemistry in a relationship.” And with that he clarified my own discomforts: it was the food talk that turned me on, not the man saying it.

Perhaps that was why I had been content sending and receiving twenty messages a day about cheese platters or cured meat tastings. It was only natural that I found back and forth messaging about meals of “short ribs with red wine Cab Franc from North Folk” exciting; providing details of our gastronomic ventures aroused the senses even from afar. And I was thrilled to find a man who could match my interests, who had wall art listing the ingredients in a Twinkie, who could teach me about the top producers of mascarpone or provide insight on the best homemade pasta in the city. The problem was, that was where the seduction ended.

How, I wondered, had I gotten to a place where I found food sexy enough to at least temporarily substitute for, well, sex? As much as I love the sensations of food and the intimacy of sharing a meal, no amount of food-talk can replace the other ingredients to romantic success. When did my liberal arts psychology mind turn to spice blends and Chez Panisse? And after all, I should have known sooner. He would prefer Momofuku’s $140 duck dinner, me: Vanessa’s Dumplings. Perhaps the titillation and excitement of it all blinded me to the most obvious realities, or maybe, in my discouraging and frustrating search for a compatible partner, a little sizzling, sautéing and simmering was just what I needed for a few weeks time.

Eve Turow is Deputy Editor of The Inquisitive Eater. She is completing her MFA in Creative Nonfiction at The New School and currently works as Editorial & Executive Assistant to Mark Bittman. Her work has appeared in several publications including NPR’s “Kitchen Window,” The Chicago Tribune and The Atlantic. You can read more about Eve at eveturow.com.

Non-Fiction January 30, 2013

Gene Therapy

by Alison Kinney

When I was seventeen, my family attended a supper hosted by the Vietnamese-American Presbyterian church one town over. We’d never sampled Vietnamese food before; we had no idea what to expect, apart from a break in the churchly routine of roasts-and-pie, fish-and-chips, and Jell-O salad. We were slightly disappointed, but mostly relieved, that the chicken, beef, and rice dishes resembled the Chinese takeout we enjoyed.

That is, until I tried the soup: chicken broth with translucent noodles, chicken breast, and floating disks of scallion, along with some lacy, parsley-shaped leaves. One of the leaves stuck to my front teeth; I licked it off, chewed, and shuddered. “There’s something wrong with the soup,” I told my parents.

“It’s just chicken,” they hissed.

I took another sip and tasted something chemical, like soap, perfume, or embalming fluid. Or was it radioactive? It made my teeth ache. When I swallowed, a jolt shivered down my spine and into my nerve endings. I felt poisoned, maybe electrocuted.

It was my first taste of cilantro.

The aversion to cilantro has attracted a lot of Internet noise, because some research suggests that it’s genetic. People who’ve experienced the horror I felt that day—and felt again when I first tasted green curry and salsa—are only too happy to conclude that it’s hard-wired.

I no longer tasted the soapiness, shuddered with revulsion, or believed I was being poisoned. This time, I detected lemon and maple, a not unpleasant hint of green grass, and that unmistakeable cilantro flavor. If there was still a frisson in my backbone, it was only a thrill of surprise.

But our behaviors and attitudes, including our tastes, are complex processes that involve a lot more than Hate/Love, On/Off switches in our DNA. I discovered this when I was nineteen and dating a man who liked to cook with a lot of cilantro. He put cilantro in stir-fries, bean soup, and burritos, and I, gagging and sniveling, picked it out, frond by frond. He took me to a Thai restaurant where I tasted that horrifying first green curry, then another Thai restaurant, and an Indian restaurant. He chopped raw tomatoes—I hated raw tomatoes, too—and whole bunches of cilantro into salsa, opened a bag of tortilla chips, and said, “That’s dinner tonight.”

I have no idea why he was so persistent, but one day, several months and dozens of meals later, I felt a craving for salsa. He whipped up a mixing-bowl full and I ate half of it in one go. I no longer tasted the soapiness, shuddered with revulsion, or believed I was being poisoned. This time, I detected lemon and maple, a not unpleasant hint of green grass, and that unmistakeable cilantro flavor. If there was still a frisson in my backbone, it was only a thrill of surprise.

Whatever genetic inclinations I may have once had were now mingled with memories, the exhilaration of a new relationship, and a palate that had been shocked against its will into expanding. The disgust I’d felt at that church supper was real, based on the incontestable evidence of my senses, and visceral in the most literal way: I’d allowed a foreign body to pass my outraged tongue and enter my poor, vulnerable guts. But one of the privileges of growing up is to be given the chance to re-feel, re-sense, reinterpret our reactions, and discover pleasure where we’d previously only known bleh. Our gut reactions can change.

That boyfriend also taught me to cook, and the first thing I made was salsa.

Without cilantro’s tough love, I might never have come around to any of the foods that used to sicken me: besides raw tomatoes, every kind of cheese. And bananas. Pretzels. Strawberries. Mushrooms. Apples. Peppers. Sweet potatoes. Avocados. Licorice. Asparagus. Ham. Brownies. Green beans. Cantaloupe. Pine nuts. Peanut butter. Cinnamon. Oreos. Rare meat. Granulated sugar; I was the kid who discarded most of her Halloween candy because of the gritty bits.

Learning to love these foods wasn’t about mind over matter; it was a continual reassessment of the relationship between mind and matter. I began to want to eat food, not as something to like or dislike instantaneously and unthinkingly, but as an experience to regard with interest even, and especially, when my first reaction wasn’t delight. I wanted to learn how a food might change my mind, which is not always a comfortable process.

I spent much of last year living in France. On a vacation to the southwest, I ordered a goose gizzard salad for a first course. It was strange, overwhelming, and so tasty I cleaned the plate. At the end of the meal, I bit into a piece of aged local cheese. It was odd and overwhelming, and, to my embarrassment, I gagged. It was a learning experience.

But after a week of fatty fowls and organ meats, I returned to the markets of Paris, where I bought cilantro to stir-fry with cabbage, eggs, and sesame oil: for freshness, simplicity, a different shock to the palate, and a taste of the beloved and familiar.

Alison received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from The New School. Her writing has appeared in Gastronomica, The Robert Olen Butler Prize Stories, The Literary Review, and The Blue Mesa Review.

Non-Fiction January 28, 2013

Ode to Eggplant Parmesan

by Matt Kirouac

I have eggplant Parmesan to thank for my career. That sounds like a lofty statement, but it’s true. Had I not ventured out beyond the world of lasagna and meatloaf to try what I deemed “weird food,” as a teenager, I doubt I would have developed the passion for food that I possess today, and my career in food writing.

The very first time I tried eggplant Parmesan was in sandwich form at a deli attached to a super-sized gas station in Auburn, New Hampshire, the next town over from my home in Candia. I had seen eggplant Parmesan on menus in one form or another over the years, but certainly never felt the urge to try it, or even ask what it was. I couldn’t shake the idea that eggplant was some sort of plant that sprouted eggs, and the idea of that disgusted me. But for some reason, when that deli opened, I felt compelled to explore this seemingly exotic food. Prior to eggplant Parmesan, my childhood food memories mainly consisted of straightforward American fare, mostly made by my mom, such as American chop suey, lasagna, New England seafood, and “Chinese pie,” which is just shepherd’s pie that my mom inexplicably renamed. When I first told my mom I wanted to try this eggplant Parmesan sandwich, she warned me that I wouldn’t like it. Best advice I have ever ignored.

The sandwich was huge, made with soft French bread and over-stuffed with thick slices of fried eggplant, gooey cheese, and a boatload of marinara. It only took me a few bites to fall in love with it. The sandwich all melded together into one ambrosial mess. I really have no idea why my mom would think I would object to fried food covered in sauce and cheese, but I sure proved her wrong by devouring this truck-sized behemoth. I immediately became infatuated with different kinds of foods, and was determined to try as much as I could. Suddenly, I was cooking at home, ordering new things at restaurants, and begging my parents to take me to new towns and cities to eat. I was no longer content with the same old takeout, the same old pizza, and the same old dinner routine. In retrospect, I’m sounding a lot like a spoiled, picky brat, but I prefer to think of myself as cultured, which I’m sure my parents appreciated.

From that moment in my early teens to the time I moved to Chicago for college, my mom kept a steady supply of eggplant Parmesan ingredients at the house. It’s the dish I have prepared for myself more than anything else. It’s the dish I credit with inspiring me about food, and ultimately taking that inspiration to a whole new level in culinary school. Had it not been for this dish, I would likely not have moved to the big city, worked in restaurants and bakeries, or become a food writer. There is a special place in my aorta for this dish. No matter how far I go or what I do, though, no eggplant Parmesan will ever be as good as the sandwich that started it all.

Non-Fiction January 21, 2013

Time To Make The Donuts

by Anya Regelin

“Would you hurry up in there?” a voice said from outside the bathroom door followed by a loud banging.

“Just a minute,” I said for the third time flushed the toilet with my black clog.

Crumpled toilet paper was on the floor, used paper towels spilled out of the trashcan, and a slippery mist of white powder covered everything. On the shelf over the sink sat three yellow, mutilated boxes of Argo cornstarch. On the front of each box, hovering over each cartoon Indian woman’s head, someone had scrawled with a black Sharpie: Bart’s Balls. Bill’s Balls. Devons’ Duds. It was hot on the line and the boys, well, they suffered.

Again, pounding.

“Okay!” I yelled, and turned on the sink while clutching a paper towel. It was early in the night; there was still soap.

In this sleekly designed three-star restaurant, every detail was carefully considered except when it came to the back of the house. There, the entire uniformed staff shared one washroom. Chefs, cooks, dishwashers, porters, captains, front-waiters, back-waiters, runners: we all had to stand on line.

I looked in the mirror and stared back at my pale face. Make-up was a no-no in the kitchen.

“Do it,” I said out loud, and cringed.

Do it was the buzz phrase running though the kitchen that week. It was initiated by Devon, the sous-chef, and was barked at overwhelmed cooks, complaining servers, and bored dish guys alike. It was a constant source of amusement to Mark, our Chef. When I said it, I felt awkward and plastic.

I swung open the door and glared at the blue shirted captain holding his toothbrush in his fist.

This wasn’t your typical cramped New York City restaurant kitchen. The space was wide open with sprawling stainless steel, white walls, ample low boys, and huge walk-in refrigerators. Across the kitchen and directly facing the washroom was the pastry area, where I worked. In the center of the kitchen, in front of two rows of face-to-face Viking ranges and four sweating cooks, was “the pass” where the Chef stood and orchestrated our night.

“Ordering: two Jon Dory, swiss chard, spring peas, followed by one baby lamb, butt-nut, fingerling,” called Mark. “Johnny, what the hell are you doing back there, I’m waiting on two guineas– you’re holding everyone up!”

“They’re resting Chef,” Johnny yelled back from his twelve-burner station, “two minutes.”

“You’re resting, Johnny, you are resting. Waiting on two guinea-hens!” he called again.

“DO IT!” Devon yelled from garde manger where he was demonstrating a perfectly plated foie torchone to Tony.

“Yes Chef!” Johnny said.

If Mark was in a good mood, we were in a good mood, but if he was in a bad mood we avoided all eye contact.

“DOWN!” yelled a runner, flying down the stairs from the dining room. He heaved the heavy tray on his shoulder and yelled “UP!” and ran out the door and up the stairs to expectant diners.

There were six of us pastry cooks, the only girls in the kitchen. Identical in our starched white jackets and pulled back hair, we had each developed a strong persona: the bitch, the martyr, the party-girl slut, the annoying little sister, and the “just-one-of-the-guys” best friend. It was my first two months and I kept my head down and I came off as aloof. Quickly, I became known as the stuck-up girl, though really, I was the uncomfortable girl. Before entering the elite restaurant world, I had visions of trips to the farmers market, heirloom blah-blah-blah, and hushed intellectual conversations of taste and texture. But this wasn’t art, it was the army, and I was having a hard time fitting into the club.

It was Sunday, and that night we were on a slow rolling wave. Lisa (the bitch) and I had our hands in a large, clear, plastic tub filled with cold water and a case of pomegranates. As we silently picked, seeds floated to the bottom, the pith to the top. In the morning, the day cooks would make sorbet from the juice. But for tonight, this was our Zen task, something to do while we waited for the next round of tickets to come flowing in.

Our machine came to life and spit out a single order.

“Guess what?” Lisa said, turning her head around to look at the order ticket without taking her hands out of the water.

“Ordering a donuts,” I said, sighing, and drying my hands on the blue towel that hung from my apron.

After a review earlier that month in The New York Times, we became known for our donuts. Cinnamon brioche and chocolate glazed; there were three of each on a plate lined up like little soldiers with donut hole caps on their heads. They were freshly made to order, smelled delicious, and were really, really cute. Almost every table ordered them, and they were quickly becoming the bane of my existence.

I carefully lowered the fry basket of raw donut dough into the hot oil and turned back to the jeweled seeds.

The line was in full force and Mark roared over the clamor.

“Are you guys still drunk out there? Order, fire, pick-up: tuna, frisse, add truffles, one more jew-chokes. two all day.”

Jew-chokes? I thought, turning the phrase over and over in my head. Jerusalem Artichokes. I looked up and smiled when I got it, and accidentally caught his eye. I blushed, he smirked, and I quickly looked down and kept picking.

“DO IT!” Devon yelled from inside one of the walk-ins.

Choruses of “Yes Chefs” gurgled from the line.

“Your donuts,” Lisa reminded me.

I pulled the basket out of the hot oil.

Burnt.

I showed the fryer basket to Lisa and she rolled her eyes. The delicate chocolate donuts had not only overcooked, but had also burst open, floating in the oil like a bunch of cracked, brown turds. I dropped in a new order, and was about to throw the ruined ones out when inspiration hit. I took two of the chocolate donuts, wrapped them in a paper towel, put them in my apron. No one was on line for the washroom. The savory side of the kitchen was fully slammed with everyone hovering over their stations cranking out food.

“Can you finish this these donuts?” I asked Lisa.

I ducked into the washroom and lay one of the donuts on the edge of the toilet seat. I put the other on the floor right beside the toilet, and kicked a piece of crumpled toilet paper next to it. I stood back to survey the scene: subtle, authentic, and completely gross. Quickly, I walked back to our station.

“Did you just …” Lisa started to ask, fighting back giggles.

“I did! Don’t laugh!”

Our ticket machine started buzzing. Lisa called out orders and we got busy. Tony walked off his station and went into the washroom. Not even five seconds later, he walked out, wide eyed.

A minute later, we heard “DOWN,” and a blue-shirted front waiter clomped down the stairwell, across the kitchen, and straight into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Our ticket machine was going crazy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bart, the vegetable guy walk off his station, untie his apron, and get on line for the bathroom. One of the porters emerged from the dish room and stood behind Bart. The waiter was still in there.

One order was rolling in after another, and I was trying to follow the action at the other end of the kitchen without losing it completely.

The door flew open.

“It wasn’t me,” she announced, emerging with a fresh coat of lipstick on. “UP!” she yelled, running upstairs.

Bart walked in, and then walked right out.

“It wasn’t her?” he said, loudly.

“Na, man, I saw it there too,” Tony yelled from his station.

“Chef!” Bart said, and walked over to talk to Mark in close conference.

“What the fuck, fucking animals,” Mark said, “Devon! Where’s my fucking sous-chef? I need a sous-chef here!”

Devon was pulled off the meat line where he was berating Johnny, comparing him to a weak little boy, wondering how he can get a woman in bed if he can’t sear a little piece of thymus gland right.

Lisa and I were trying hard to keep it together.

Mark and Devon had disappeared while the guys from the line were taking turns walking in and out of the bathroom, dramatically tying their dishrags around their mouths and accusing each other of the offense. When Mark and Devon reappeared, they were in full dishwasher cowboy regalia with elbow length rubber gloves, long plastic aprons, and blue rags tied over their faces. Devon was armed with a spray bottle and a hose, Mark with a broomstick.

“Animals!” Mark yelled, bending over, trying to nudge the turd off the side of the bowl with his broomstick.

“Do it Cheffie,” Devon yelled back, “DO IT!”

All of a sudden, the action stopped and they looked over at us, faces red, no sign of amusement.

“You?” Mark said to Lisa.

“No,” she said, saucing a plate, wiping tears from her eyes, and jutting her chin out at me. “Her.”

I was in the middle of about fourteen things, but I could feel myself freezing up.

Mark walked toward me, his arm outstretched, holding the donuts, which didn’t look much like turds anymore. I started to panic, wondering what in the world had possessed me. Was I so desperate to be one of the guys that I had stooped to potty humor?

“Well,” he said, “I guess you gotta shit with the crew to be part of the club.”

From that point on I was known as the Donut Girl, which I embraced, because hey, it could have been worse.

Anya Regelin has cooked professionally for the past 13 years. She currently chefs for private clients while working on her MFA in Creative Non-Fiction at The New School.