I Heart Farms

Delicious Treats, Part VIII: "No More Lobster Please!"

Pictured here: oh, one of the cutest little boys in the world. We had such a sweet Christmas, it's hard to let it go yet.

Here is the eight guest author, Monica Reyes, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

Monica Reyes, a sophomore at UCSC, was born and raised in El Salvador, where she ate more than her share of wild lobster. Her story of lobster reeks of nostalgia and nausea as she wistfully recollects her special family treks to the balmy seaside. Here, on El Salvador’s warm, salty beaches, her father caught and cooked lobster for his family, creating precious memories of a homeland which Monica revisits through the process of writing.

No More Lobster Please!
by Monica Reyes

For many people, their traditional dish comes from their native homeland. For Salvadorians, it is either popusas or tamales, while for Mexicans it may be posole, tamales, enchiladas, sopes and birria. The list goes on. One of my family’s favorite dishes is lobster with a side of salad—not what one would call a typical Salvadorian dish, but it happens to be our favorite.

I am not saying that we eat at Red Lobster. Instead we catch our own food, cook it, and eat it.  In the summer, when the sun is shining, and when it is the perfect time to go to the beach, we do what my dad likes to call “lagostear.” My mom gets the sandwiches and chips ready, and my dad packs his surfing wear, while my siblings and I wait in the car with our swimming suits on. It is on days like these that we have lobster for dinner, and it is precisely here where my story begins.

Delicious Treats, Part VII: "A Scrumptious Memory"

Pictured here: one of the many beautiful centerpieces that Logan's mother designed (and sold) for Christmas.

Here is the seventh guest author, Tanna Nguyen, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

Tanna Nguyen, a sophomore a UCSC, recalls family gatherings that honored ancestors on the anniversary of their death by offering special foods—crab soup, red rice, sliced pig. This poignant story of Vietnamese tradition underscores the importance of food not only in the here and now, but in the afterlife, as well.

A Scrumptious Memory
by Tanna Nguyen

It is ten o’clock in the morning, and I am awake. Not from the bright sun beaming onto my face, but from the clanging of pots and pans downstairs. My mom is preparing food for the family function and the aroma of different foods mixing together tickles my nose.

“Get up! We are going be late!” yells my mom as I stumble out of bed.

I am familiar with this routine now since about every month my family comes together at my uncle’s house to eat lunch. Not only is this a chance for everyone to be together but it is also a cultural tradition. In the Vietnamese culture, each family has a gathering when the death anniversary of an ancestor comes around to remember and pay tribute to their lives.

Delicious Treats, Part VI: Food, Weaponry, and Wheatgrass

Pictured here: our little grandson, Logan, who is almost four. Ya think he loves Christmas? He took some of his own money out of his piggybank to give his mama a present. (A silver picture frame that will soon hold this particular photo.)

I hope everyone's holidays are going smoothly: we had a very nice Christmas that was really about family, though my daughter is far away in Utah with her brothers, daddy, and his wife.

Here is the sixth guest author, Nicki Blaufard, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

Nicki Blaufarb writes about the uniqueness of being raised in the shelter of food conscious hippy parents only to be seduced by milkshake machines, packaged pizzas, and gooey sweets when she leaves the nest for college. Truly, a heroic journey, which tests and tempers Nicki’s love of good food.

Food, Weaponry, and Wheatgrass
by Nicki Blaufard

I am a product of proto-hippy type parents, the folks that followed around the Grateful Dead, took a liking to ‘Ghandi-esque’ ideals, hot tubs, and redwood trees and then became lawyers and nurses who practiced yoga and hiked religiously.  Being the offspring of such individuals threw me into the ever growing culture of those of us who strive to find the right way of living life, desperately seeking ways to make ourselves feel better, emotionally, physically, spiritually… It seems obvious then to start this adventure and deep search of the right way of living by embracing the essentials of what allows us as human beings to survive, the essentials, meaning, food.

Not a Delicious Treat: Homeless Garden Project Twice an Arson Target

Pictured here, a Christmas fairy, which is the creation of a young woman named Roisin, a ten-year-old artist living in Pescadero. Roisin's Christmas fairies were the hit of the holiday fair at Harley Farms Goat Dairy: she sold every last one of her unique creations. I'm the happy owner of one myself: it's on our Christmas tree with a blue lightbulb up its skirt.

I'm going to take a break from the Delicious Treats student memoirs to bring a bit of news about the Santa Cruz Homeless Garden Project. Being a coastal city with a mild climated, Santa Cruz has a fairly large homeless population. In 1990, the Citizens Committee for the Homeless here in Santa Cruz started a small quarter-acre garden on the west side of town, providing "job-training and meaningful work in a therapeutic environment." (That's from their website.) It's a fine, fine organization which has changed the lives of many people—both homeless people who received the benefit of the education and work, as well as the myriad volunteers, staff, and now the families who are the recipients of the weekly CSA baskets.

I was reading the Santa Cruz Sentinel (affectionately or irritatedly called "The Senile" in these parts) last week and read with a sinking heart that the Homeless Garden Project has twice been the victim of arson. The fires, lit exactly one month apart, destroyed a storage shed containing all their hand tools and most of their seed, and on Sunday night, their kitchen.

Every Tuesday through Friday, the kitchen provided two hot meals for anyone who volunteered or worked that day: imagine its destruction. I am horrified, especially because the implication is that the fires were deliberate, targeted, and filled with malice. At Christmas time.

To make a long story short, I donated five boxes (250) of my farmers market calendars to their store in Depot Park, over near the Boardwalk. If you are in the area and want to make a difference, and get a beautiful calendar (or beeswax candles, preserves, knitted goods, or dozens of other items—very high quality stuff), please visit the Homeless Garden Project store as soon as you can. They're organic, and they're committed to providing the best service and products possible to our community.

Thanks for caring. (And for the record, I won't receive any tax benefit from the donation, as I'm self-employed. I had too many calendars as it was.)

That's all for now: I'll return tomorrow with another memoir from "The Meaning of Food" writing class.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: "Never grow a wishbone, daughter, where your backbone ought to be." — Clementine Paddleford

Thanks for visiting. And thanks for visiting the Homeless Garden Project's store, located near Depot Park. I'd call them for directions, as it's easier than trying to find it on a map:  831.426.3609.

Delicious Treats, Part V: "German Chocolate Cake"

Getting into the holiday spirit earlier than usual for me: maybe it has something to do with having a three-year-old boy in the house with eyes as big as basketballs when he looks at our eight-foot-tall tree. A tree which will likely stay up until the Superbowl: we're shunning the tradition of kicking it out immediately, as some heartless people do!

[Note: Our beloved friend, Charley, came home from the hospital last night, and we are so grateful. He's doing gr-r-r-r-reat!)

Here is the fifth guest author, Lindsay Elam, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Robin writes:

As Lindsay Elam weaves through her family’s mixed ancestry—so archetypical of this country—we discover many stories within the larger frame of her memoir. Her paternal grandfather has hidden his Native American ties; her maternal great-grandparents have emigrated from a German occupied city in Russia. Lindsay seeks to define vague spots in her lineage by rejoicing in the German Chocolate Cake of the holiday season, choosing to believe partaking in the cake honors her German ancestors.

German Chocolate Cake
by Lindsay Elam

“I cannot wait until we get there!” I said to my mother.

“I know sweetie, but remember it still takes us a little over an hour just to even get there,” she told me in a soothing, but at the same time irritated voice.

Once we were on the road I began to get more and more anxious. My little sister and I would complain when we got restless. She would complain about how she would burst if she did not go to the restroom, even though she just went about twenty minutes beforehand. I can honestly tell you that that girl has a bladder the size of a bean. Our parents would try to keep us occupied by bringing a small television so we could watch movies and not bother them, but we would continue to ask them “Are we there yet?” or “How much longer until we get there?”

After a long drive we finally arrived at the house. It smelled of smoked bacon and turkey, which had been in the oven all day. Our family stuffs the turkey with loads of stuffing, bastes it, and then places smoked bacon on top for extra flavoring. The best part about eating Thanksgiving dinner is the smell of the turkey cooking and eating the bacon. The first time I saw my mother stuffing the turkey, I did not understand why she was doing such a thing.

!I asked, “Mom, why are you putting your hand in its butt?”

Delicious Treats, Part III: "Tamales for Christmas"

Let not the presence of this photograph invoke the idea that the tamales in question are made with birria. No, this is just a sweet moment I captured at the holiday fair at Harley Goat Farms Dairy a couple of weekends ago. I just love it. Dee Harley's goats are so benevolent.

Here is the fourth guest author, Bianca Marquez, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

Of Bianca, Robin writes:

Bianca Marquez realized she was Mexican-American on the afternoon her mother returned from the grocery story with a sack of masa for Christmas tamales. The young Bianca watches in awe as her mother and grandmother prepare the tamales, but, despite their coaxing, she cannot bring herself to eat one. Bianca has laid out her story about this traditional Mexican dish so effectively that her eventual decision to try a tamale symbolizes an embrace of her ethnicity.

"Tamales for Christmas"
by Bianca Marquez

I was six years old, sitting next to the fireplace with warm blankets covering every inch of my body.  It wasn’t any ordinary time of the year. It so happened to be my favorite holiday of them all, Christmas. This specific holiday is a time of giving, loving, and an excuse to get together with your whole family.

As I was sitting by the fireplace with hot cocoa in my hand, I noticed someone was at the front door—my mom, coming from a long day at work. After a minute of waiting for her to barge into the door, I finally came to the conclusion that she might need some help. I threw off all of the blankets and ran straight to the door. I was right. She had gone to the market and came home with a porch full of groceries. As I ran the heavy grocery bags to my kitchen, I noticed that they weren’t the Vons bags that I was used to carrying across my house. These were bags from a completely different store, with cursive words “El Chapalito” on them. I was confused. It looked like alien food.

Delicious Treats, Part III: "What, Thanksgiving Again?"

Pictured here: the 25-pound organic turkey I cooked for thirty people this Thanksgiving.

Here is the third guest author, Mike Drizik, from Robin's Somers' writing class at UCSC, "The Meaning of Food." Her students are offering up  their memoirs of childhood food, and it's my pleasure to publish them here.

[That Robin and I ran into each other in the emergency room at the hospital last night should tell you that things have been a little crazy for us both, hence the gaps in posting. (Nothing is wrong with either of us—family members are ill, and prayers and good thoughts are appreciated for Charley and Mary.]

About Mike, Robin writes (forgive me, Anthony Bourdain):

Mike Drizik, a sophomore, has the distinction of being the only student who came to the course knowing of Anthony Bourdain (he finds Bourdain entertaining, but doesn’t think much of his writing). Mike offers a story riddled with angst and wry wit about his Jewish heritage and his love/hate relationship with family dinners.

Thanksgiving Again?
By Mike Drizik

I dreaded sitting at the table from the very moment I heard a relative call and invite us to the dinner, almost to the point of fearing calls from my Aunt and Grandma. Any chance they had to come up with anything even remotely worth noting, much less celebrating, they would call up the entire family, knowing that undoubtedly at least a few would show up. Come the time of the year that we’re approaching now, I become particularly distressed knowing that I will soon again have to be in the company of my family, around a dinner table, much more often than I would like in much less time than I would like. Truly, there are few more frightening notions. Now, there’s nothing particularly wrong with my family! Don’t get me wrong! They’re kind of closed minded, money obsessed, and rude, but they’re all right. I got used to it. It’s just that when you put ten of these Russian-Jews around a dinner table with a couple bottles of vodka and endless wine, all hell ensues and I desperately want to shoot myself.

Delicious Treats, Part II: "The Food of My Family: Ham Pot Pie"

Pictured here: an old shot from Justin Severino's wooden work table at his butcher shop kitchen. I thought I'd re-run it to accompany the food memoirs of Rene Tanaka.

Teacher Robin Somers writes: "Rene Tanaka, a history major at UCSC, writes about a favorite Christmas dish, her grandmother's ham pot pie, which isn't she claims isn't really a pie. You'll have to read her story to discover why. Old family recipe included. Thank you, Rene. With whetted appetite, I'm going to give it a try."

"The Food of My Family: Ham Pot Pie"
by Rene Tanaka

It’s Christmas morning, and my body is pulsating with excitement.  At seven in the morning, I am the only one awake in my house, and I wander the hallway somewhat loudly to “accidentally” wake up my parents and sister.  I get to the tree and peruse the presents.  Slowly, the rest of my family begins to lumber out of their rooms.  “The quicker we get through the presents, the faster we can get to Grandma’s for breakfast,” I shout.

However, the best part about the twenty-fifth of December are not the presents from Santa Claus, it’s the breakfast my grandmother would make for us.  It wouldn’t be anything fancy or flashy, it was just plain, good, wholesome cooking, which is to say the best kind of food imaginable.

Delicious Treats, Part I: "The Meat Capital of the World"

Pictured here: outside the River Cafe & Cheese Shop, a table decoration at the flower shop. "Take a picture, it'll last longer" is true.

A day late, here is the first of the memoirs of childhood food by one of the students in Robin Somers' "The Meaning of Food" writing class at the University of Santa Cruz, with Robin's preface.

Beef takes a prime seat in Clio Berhnardson-Massolo's memoir about her childhood trips to Argentina where she stays with grandparents in the old family home. Her scenes, laden with ample servings of traditional meat dishes, illustrate the importance of food to Argentinian culture. As Clio prepares to return to Argentina this holiday, she anticipates major changes. Her grandmother has passed away, the old house has been sold, and Clio has become vegetarian.

Clio, a gifted writer, is a sophomore at the University of California, Santa Cruz, majoring in environmental studies.

"The Meat Capital of the World"
by Clio Bernhardson-Massolo

Entering elementary school in Oakland, California, I first had to get a physical from my pediatrician because I’d been out of the country for a substantial amount of time. Blood was drawn, eyes, ears and mouth checked, and shots administered. Waiting for some test results in the lobby, my mother and I watched the doctor enter, check his chart, and wrinkle his brow. He called over a nurse and murmured something low under his breath, pointing to the chart. My mother began to worry that something was wrong with me, and so asked the doctor if anything was the matter.

“Oh, well, there’s no problem, per se, Mrs. Massolo, it’s just that we’ve never seen an iron level so high in a child as with your daughter,” he said.

My mother sighed with relief, explaining to him, “We’ve just spent a year living in Argentina.”

A Favor for Facebook

Pictured here: one of the new kids on the block up at Harley Farms Goat Dairy, where I spent two happy afternoons selling calendars at the holiday fair. Which has nothing to do with this post, which I'm doing as a service to an e-mail I got yesterday from a young woman who works for Facebook. (All you elders, it's like MySpace for the tasteful and intelligent. I removed my repetition about "don't get me started," but PLEASE do not ask me how hideous MySpace is. Unless you want the full-on Rosanne Barr description of just what is wrong with the media right now.)