I can always hear the beginnings of coffee before I can smell them. My Dad’s feet brush against the wooden floors as he sleepily shuffles to the kitchen, not quite lifting them to take full steps. He fusses around his corner of the kitchen, the spot where he drops his briefcase on the floor, and his coffeemaker rests on the table space above. Unfolding one of his many foil bags, he pours out a stream of beans, and they rattle into a plastic container. A few seconds later, the coffee grinder revs to life. The gruelling sounds of the motor––eeeeerr––travel into the living room, over the upstairs banister, and into my oasis of sleep. Sometimes I can roll over and fall asleep, but usually the sounds of coffee beckon me toward consciousness even before the drink has touched my lips. I’m officially awake.
When I was young, and my parents had still successfully written off coffee as an “adult drink”––“Caffeine is a drug,” my dad would say in between sips––the sound was temporal. It came every morning, along with my mom moving the curtains across the rod to let in sunlight and murmurs of early conversation before the whole house was up.
As I grew, so did my interest in coffee. The whir of the grinder, funnelling the fragrant beans into a coarse powder, became less abstract. I heard it as an invitation.
Like so many middle schoolers in my generation, I dabbled at first. My earliest coffee experiences were in the form of frappuccinos; cream and sugar with just a hint of espresso. It took me a while to realize that the ever-trendy (for its time) Cotton Candy Frappuccino was not, in fact, coffee-based at all.
My initial attraction to the drink was most definitely social. During my junior and senior years of high school, I watched my friends set thermoses of coffee on our designated lunch table, where we waited each morning for the first bell to ring. Then, I started to do the same. My favorite mom-and-pop spot in my hometown became Factory Fuel, a pottery kiln-turned-café whose coffee is far too strong for me but who I continue to support anyway. My sister and I take coffee runs with the same reverence and regularity that others attend church. Sometimes, I don’t even order. It’s as if I’m able to absorb and reflect the love that she has for coffee, just by watching her enjoy it.
Whenever I’m at home, I relish the cranking gears and occasional java scent that wafts its way up to my room. Unlike when I’m on my own or at school, my dad’s coffee doesn’t ask anything of me. No hike to the nearest Starbucks or dining hall, no bills to be forked over. I need only head down our carpeted staircase before my dad calls out cheerily, “There’s coffee!”
For all his resistance in years past, he loves that my sister and I are invested in his favorite drink. A caffeine dependence seems a small price to pay for the unfailing presence of the steaming beverage every morning and the chance to share it.
When I smell coffee, my first thoughts might be scattered. Filtering through my to-do list for the day, eyeing the shade of brown inside my mug to determine whether or not more cream is needed, mulling over breakfast options. But, beneath those surface-level concerns rests the presence of one person: Dad.
After class on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, I woke up from my cozy couch nap in my on-campus apartment to a sweet scent coming from the kitchen. Peeking out above my fuzzy blanket, my tired eyes were surprised to see my roommate Stephanie cooking with her younger brother Thomas. It’s a running joke in our room that Stephanie never cooks, so it took my groggy mind a minute to process what I was seeing and smelling.
“Steph?” I asked, “What are you making?” She turned around towards the common room, where I laid sprawled on the couch, and began laughing at the sight of my surprised expression.
“A traditional Chinese meal,” she replied. “Thomas came over for dinner, so I wanted to cook him something special.” I looked over at Thomas, a newly-arrived BC freshman, and got up to give him a welcoming hug. At the stage of meal-preparation I had woken up into, Stephanie was stirring tofu in a pot while Thomas chopped up onions.
Stephanie explained that they had just started, and asked if I wanted to eat with them when the food was ready. I was planning on eating my leftover takeout Chinese food in the fridge for dinner, and had been excitedly anticipating my beloved pork fried rice.
“If you like takeout Chinese, you should try this! It’s a traditional Chinese dish called Mapo Tofu.” Since she is notorious for never cooking, and I am equally as notorious for never trying new foods, I hesitantly expressed my worries that the flavor pairings would be too spicy for my picky palate.
However, on this particular Wednesday, something drew me in. Maybe it was because I was disoriented from my midday slumber, or maybe the swirling smells drifting through the small apartment compelled me to take a closer look, but regardless my interest was piqued. I stepped up next to Stephanie and asked her to walk me through the cooking process, hoping seeing each ingredient go into the dish would increase my willingness to try it.
“Well first, you cut the tofu into small cubes,” she said. “You begin to boil it in water, while dicing up onion, ginger, and garlic on the side.”
While monitoring and stirring the tofu, Stephanie began to fry sichuan peppercorns in olive oil in a separate pan. She explained it’s best to get pepper oil, but this works as a substitute in a pinch. While the pepper seeped into the oil, she began preparing minced pork in a bowl, marinating it with soy sauce, salt, and red pepper flakes. She told me you can use ground beef or pork for the dish, but that she had chosen pork this time.
Next, she added the onion, ginger, and garlic to the sichuan pepper oil. I was mesmerized by the resulting smells—a heavenly medley of sweet and sour, the nutty aroma of the ginger mixing together with the sharp spice of the pepper. After a minute or two of sauteéing, Stephanie added in one big scoop of bean paste, which comes in a small jar mixed with chili oil.
“This is the most essential ingredient,” she said, “it solidifies the spicy flavor.” Since the paste is thick, it’s important to add about half a bowl of water into the pan at the same time. She then cooked this on low fire uncovered for a couple of minutes, until it started to slightly boil. Next, she added the raw, seasoned pork at the same time as the tofu from the pot. Now everything was in one big pan, the different flavors combining in a diverse mixture. Together, they cooked for about five to ten minutes, which Stephanie stirred occasionally until the pork was fully cooked.
As she poured the steaming contents into a large ceramic bowl, her brother, Thomas, threw some white rice packets into the microwave. I was instructed to grab three small rice bowls, and three sets of chopsticks.
The rice packets were scooped into each of our small bowls, and we sat down together for the meal. I had never tried tofu before, so I was a little hesitant, but it smelled too good not to give it a try. I cautiously rose a bite of pork to my mouth first. As Stephanie instructed me, I combined it with the white rice, to neutralize the spice. While I slowly chewed, she and her brother looked at me expectantly for a reaction.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, “This is actually amazing!” We all laughed, surprised and pleased that Stephanie’s first attempt at cooking one of her family favorite meals turned out so well. For the next hour or so, the three of us sat around the table, eating and talking about Chinese dining culture.
“So usually when we have dinner as a family,” Stephanie explained, “there would be four or five dishes in the middle that we all share.” They told me their family, like many other homes of Chinese families, has a lazy-susan-style table to facilitate this communal eating tradition. Each person typically has their own bowl of rice and chopsticks, while the main dishes are all shared.
Another common style of eating in their home is hot pot. In this set-up, there is either a boiling pot in the middle of the table, or each person gets their own small one. There are a diverse variety of broths in the pots, which can be homemade or purchased pre-packed from a grocery store. The eating process then involves cooking your own raw meat and vegetables, and adding whichever sauce you would like—these are usually peanut or sesame-based. For hot pot, Stephanie recommended Q Restaurants in Boston.
Given my love of takeout Chinese food, I was interested to hear their opinions on takeout, or otherwise Americanized Chinese restaurants. In Stephanie’s opinion, the dishes at many of these places are sweeter and less spicy than typical Chinese cuisine. There is also less diversity, as they’re most often based on Cantonese food (from Hong Kong/southern China) or Sichuan.
In China, each province eats differently and has dishes that they are particularly known for. In Shanghai, Xiaolong Bao is the most famous regional dish—soup dumplings filled with chicken, pork, crab meat, or many other opinions. The food in each district has its own prevalent taste, she explained, and Shanghai tends towards the sweeter side. Another example is the Shanxi province, where Stephanie and Thomas’ dad is from, which is famous for a large variety of shapes and sizes of noodles. Noodles are my favorite, so I told Stephanie she should try cooking a dish featuring these next.
While we were cleaning up from dinner, I asked Stephanie about all the new sauces that had appeared on our counter since her most recent grocery trip. She told me she went to a store called Hmart, an Asian supermarket in Cambridge. She said she loves stores like Hmart, and a similar one called Super 88 Market, because they carry a larger range of Asian products. In other grocery stores, it is harder to find the variety of sauces needed for traditional Chinese cooking, as well as certain ingredients like tofu skin, fish balls, and salted duck eggs.
When it was time for Thomas to go back to his dorm on Newton, I thanked them both for teaching me how to cook Mapo Tofu, and talking to me about their cultural traditions with meals, opinions on Chinese cuisine, and recommendations for restaurants and grocery stores. Foregoing my typical pickiness, I exclaimed “Let’s go out for hot pot some time soon!” Stephanie excitedly agreed, and we decided I would accompany them on their next trip to Hmart as well.
On that rainy Wednesday, both Stephanie and I tried something new for the first time. She cooked a meal all on her own, and I discovered I liked the combination of the spice in the bean paste, the salt in the soy sauce, and the sweetness of the ginger—the rich blend of flavors present in Mapo Tofu. As we go forward into our senior year at BC, I can’t wait to try more of Stephanie’s cooking. Through both grocery shopping and cooking meals together, I am excited to bring cultural aspects and cooking traditions from each of our own homes to our new home together at Boston College.
As a kid, Food Network was my second Disney Channel. Immediately going for the couch and turning on Food Network was an essential part of my after-school routine years ago. For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to the kitchen. The creativity and care behind cooking intrigue me. In the grand scheme of things, meals are culinary visions that have come to fruition. What’s better than a network that consistently broadcasts these ideations?
Giada at Home was energizing, yet relaxing. Chopped was an inspiring thriller. Worst Cooks in America was informatively hilarious. Something that I have always appreciated about Food Network is that it does not limit the scope of food. Its shows are hosted by a broad range of people who represent different cuisines and diverse personalities. The channel is a haven for culinary education and caters wonderfully to those who are interested in expanding their skills in the kitchen. My love of food is greatly attributed to my long-founded respect for Food Network.
Two predominant categories characterize Food Network: one-on-one shows and competition shows. Both of these categories are uniquely valuable and provide viewers with distinct viewing experiences. One-on-ones are typically the most personal. They feature chefs who craft recipes while speaking to the audience, instructing viewers on following specific recipes. Helpful tips, step-by-step instructions, and reassurance permeate these programs. They are largely informational and, in my opinion, mainly meant for viewers watching at home to replicate the dishes they see on screen. Though not as entertaining as competition shows, one-on-one content is probably best for those who are trying to learn new cooking techniques. Barefoot Contessa and Giada at Home, examples of this Food Network genre, are shows in which the chefs/hosts address the audience as if they were friends absorbing their detailed suggestions.
Competition shows differ tremendously. The dynamic of competitions typically follows a template––contestants are gathered to battle against each other for a grand cash prize. A fundamental component of competition shows are time limits, which elevate the intensity of battle and captivate the audience amidst chaos occurring on screen. Contestants are usually tasked with speedily preparing a dish with some sort of common theme or unifying element, which all participants are to abide by and individually interpret. The hosts of these shows are usually chefs themselves and provide knowledgeable commentary or instruction while the participants are frantically cooking.
For example, Chopped successfully entices viewers by emphasizing both the harsh time constraints provided and the obscurity of the “mystery basket ingredients” which contestants are required to incorporate into their creations. The main purpose of competition shows on Food Network is to shed light on culinary determination; contestants on these shows sign up for personal reasons, whether it be to validate their careers, garner funds for their restaurants, or learn more about the art of cooking. Competition shows engage audience members by portraying heightened concentration among contestants, spontaneous creativity, and hunger for victory. By watching competition shows, I have learned that properly preparing a dish requires extensive precision. Judges are essential to competition shows, as they ultimately decide the winners of challenges based on performance. With their refined palettes, judges in this genre inevitably pinpoint the flaws or shortcomings that they observe in the participants’ creations. Minor mistakes send contestants home, reminding viewers that cooking is an art: in the kitchen, success mandates care and attentiveness.
Despite their differences, both Food Network styles embody the passion that food entails. On virtually any show on this channel, you find people who love being present in the kitchen so much that they feel compelled to share this profound enjoyment on a large platform. Whether you diligently take notes as Ina Garten explains her grilled cheese’s special ingredient, or you hold your breath as Bobby Flay hurriedly plates his entrée on Iron Chef America, it is obvious that Food Network shows are collectively meant to illuminate the innovative nature of gastronomy. On this channel, food is utilized as a vehicle for creative expression, and it knows absolutely no limits. What kept me so engaged with Food Network as a child, I believe, was the fact that I learned something new every single day. One day, I found out that pasta water is a thickening agent in sauces, another day I was instructed on how to dice an onion. The constant learning that I experienced endowed me with the insight that one never stops gathering knowledge about food. Nifty tips, recipes, and techniques know no boundaries.
Presently, I do not watch Food Network as often as I used to. I attribute this unfortunate decreased investment to my busy schedule, which involves less time to keep up with what’s new on the channel. However, I still keep up with Worst Cooks in America because of how humorous (and empowering) it is to watch clueless recruits grow as cooks and acquire new skills.
Reflecting now on the impact that Food Network has had on my life, I can confidently say that the channel has taught me just how influential food is. By that, I mean that food has the power to touch the lives of so many people. The reasons behind food’s vast influence are the various individuals who can approach it their own way. As I alluded to before, assorted cuisines and differing personalities encompass food’s interpretation. Food Network shows represent such a wide array of cooking styles that audience members are bound to find at least one show on the channel that is relevant to their own cooking styles or kitchen experiences. On another note, watching shows that explore unfamiliar cuisines propel viewers to expand their realms of taste and share newfound recipes with family and friends. Tuning into Food Network means immersing yourself into a world of gastronomic spirit and divergent perspectives. Throwing yourself onto a couch and dialing the channel number on your remote is only the beginning: Food Network is a mindset changer.
String the two words “pumpkin” and “spice” together, and you’re left with one delicious thought: fall. The flavor appears beyond pumpkin pies, breads, and even the infamous Pumpkin Spice Latte, as seasoning infuses just about every food and drink that can’t be nailed down.
Two years ago, my mom and one of our closest family friends got into a battle of commercially autumn-ized foods. From mid-August to the end of October, each time they came across a new pumpkin spice item, they bought two; one to try, and one to give the other person. It wasn’t difficult to do. That year I realized the enormous scope of pumpkin spice. The ambiguous flavor had seeped its way into everycorner of the food market.
Both in and out of grocery aisles, pumpkin spice represents the commodification of an entire season. One night, between laughs, my Dad reported to the family that an auto repair shop he passed daily had a new sign, boasting, “We now offer pumpkin spice motor oil!” If you can’t beat them, join them, right?
I labelled pumpkin spice “ambiguous” only because nearly every time it appears in a processed seasonal food, it seems to have a different presence. Some versions place greater emphasis on the squash-like essence of pumpkin itself, and others play up the cinnamon with a whisper of pumpkin afterward. Given the context, a world in which a person can find pumpkin spice in everything from Cheerios to KitKats to Silk almond milk, the seasoning starts to resemble a marketing ploy more than a genuine flavor. Pumpkin isn’t exactly honored in Quaker brand’s Pumpkin Spice oatmeal, a product that could only be bothered to list “spices” as an ingredient with no mention of actual pumpkin whatsoever. Images of the orange gourd, however, are carefully printed across the packaging. This makes sense, seeing as companies are probably more focused on selling the idea of fall over nailing the accuracy of the spice blend.
Every year I buy pumpkin spice coffee creamer, and every year I’m disappointed. Maybe this says more about me than it does about International Delight. On the other hand, I would argue that something is missing from the creamer. The “natural and artificial flavors” are fine, but they don’t hold a candle to the experience of sprinkling pure pumpkin spice directly into a mug.
When I came across a plastic McCormick container in our spice drawer, labelled “Pumpkin Pie Spice,” my eyes nearly popped out of my head. I was under the tragic, misinformed impression that “pumpkin spice” refers to a concoction of flavors which each brand designs for itself. “So it’s real?”I wondered to myself. I thought pumpkin spice was the invention of advertising campaigns, an ever-changing mix of spices which companies deemed autumnal enough to sell as such.
Pumpkin spice has developed a bit of a bad rep. Sucked into a whirlpool of commercialism (the same way every processed food comes in peppermint after November), it can be hard to separate pumpkin spice from consumer culture. This is at no fault of the flavor itself, which is a sweet, nostalgia-evoking way to add dimension to fall dishes. The only elementary quality of pumpkin spice is the fact that so many companies have attempted to streamline it, and some have cut corners in the process.
Even back in 2017, Forbes wrote, “With the over-saturation of players now trying to take advantage of our insatiable, sweet appetite, there are also speculations that we may be at ‘peak spice.’ The numbers are starting to justify that claim, too. Analytics company, 1010data saw that from August to December of last year … there were 50% more [pumpkin spice] products offered by companies, but sales climbed a meager 21%.”
Is pumpkin spice exhaustion a thing? I wouldn’t know. I literally go weak at the knees at the first pumpkin-flavored product I see in stores––and then I buy it. I love fall, and I’m a sucker for strategic marketing. What I’m realizing is that I’ve lost sight of what actually constitutes pumpkin spice. What is most unfortunate about the boom in this seasoning is what has been lost as a result.
So what’s a consumer to do if they want to embrace the flavor authentically? My unsolicited advice would be to separate the parade of products resembling pumpkin spice with a staple you can hold onto year-round. Either invest in McCormick Pumpkin Pie Spice, a jar of Simply Organic’s Pumpkin Spice, or whip up your own––all you need is four to five ingredients. After cross-referencing recipes, I found that cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg are all essential. You can choose whether to add cloves, allspice, or both, but definitely pick at least one.
This way, you can choose which companies to rely on when it comes to getting the flavor right. And if anyone falls short? You need only head to your drawer to find your own stash of guaranteed fall infusion––no gimmicks, no false advertising, just a cozy and fine-tuned blend of spices.
I barge into my brother’s room and declare,“Time to watch!” He swivels around in his desk chair where he’s hunched over the PlayStation controller, fully absorbed in his Call of Duty game. “Okay, okay,” he laughs, switching the screen to Amazon Prime Video, where the long-anticipated newest episode of The 100 finally appears on the screen.
I excitedly clear some room on the little red couch in his bedroom, relocating the mess of laundry, deodorant sticks, and empty seltzer cans, sinking blissfully into my spot on the right side. Soon, our two dogs nudge their noses in, and they joyfully join us in the small space between my brother and me.
This is our quarantine routine. My brother, Brett, plays PlayStation until it’s late enough to switch to the nighttime activity: watching our show together. Our most recent show is The 100; after maxing out its Netflix reruns, we proceed to the current weekly additions to the seventh and final season. We sit with the dogs and watch.
However, there’s one more crucial component to the nightly ritual. Every single time we watch, Brett presses pause within the first couple minutes, turns to me, and says, “Want to make popcorn?” Regardless of the time of night, regardless of how hungry I am, I always say yes.
Keeping the show on pause, we bounce up from the couch and race to the kitchen, where we assume our designated roles in the popcorn process. I pick the red Whirley Pop up from its resting spot on top of the fridge, and Brett grabs the butter from its resting space in the door. I turn the stove burner on and pour some vegetable oil into the red metal pot with the wooden handle, while my brother slices the butter stick into thin, small segments. The next step is adding the kernels, which collide with the metal bottom of the pot with a familiar clang.
As they tumble out of the plastic container, I pay close attention to ensure I put in just the right amount. I’ve found you want a similar measurement to an ice cream scoop—although measuring would probably result in more accuracy, I always prefer to eyeball it. Once the kernels almost cover the surface of the pot in a thin layer, it’s time to close the lid and start stirring. The first couple minutes of heat are crucial—if you don’t churn the handle in that initial time frame, you’re probably going to be disappointed with some burnt pieces of popcorn later on.
The attention required for cooking in this stage is why my brother and I always say making popcorn is a two person job. While the oil starts to sizzle, and I continuously stir the kernels around with the handle, Brett finishes up slicing the butter. Once the oil is hot enough and the initial kernels begin to pop, he throws the butter into the microwave. We have this down to a science. Popcorn takes approximately three minutes and somewhere around 40 seconds is the sweet spot for melting, so it’s best to start the butter about two minutes into the popping process. This way, both pieces of the savory snack finish simultaneously.
When using the Whirley Pop, it’s best to continue swirling the handle until there’s too much resistance to stir, since this means the pot is so full of popcorn that there is no more space. When this happens, I quickly grab two large plastic bowls from the cabinet opposite the stove, preparing them on the counter. As I move, I listen to the sound of the slowed popping, counting as the amount of seconds between each pop! lengthens from less than a second, to a second, to a couple of seconds. Once there are about two to three full seconds between each, it’s time to remove the pot from the heat. Any longer than this, and the kernels will burn, but any shorter, and there will be too many uncooked pieces.
Holding the Whirley Pop by the wooden handle, I carefully separate the steaming popcorn into the two bowls, trying my best to evenly distribute. This is somewhat of a messy endeavour—a fact well-known by our two dogs, who religiously rush over to collect any precious pieces that may accidently escape to the floor. Once the pot is emptied of the popcorn, I place it on an unused burner to cool off.
Next is the mixing process. Brett and I both like the charred, half-popped pieces the best, so it’s important to have a fair mix of bright white fully-popped pieces and darker brown half-popped ones in each bowl. I typically try to turn one bowl over on top of the other, placing their sides together to create something like a makeshift maraca. Once they seem as sealed as two smooth plastic surfaces can get, I shake the contraption vigorously to integrate the pieces. This is another potentially messy part, probably the second favorite step of the dogs.
After there seems to be a solid mixture of different types of popcorn pieces in each of the plastic bowls, it’s my brother’s turn to take over. Using a potholder or paper towel to help with the heat, he slowly drizzles the sizzling melted butter over each bowl. Once half the butter is on, he picks up each bowl and tosses the popcorn pieces in the air, thoroughly mixing. Next, he can finish pouring the rest, while I retrieve the pink himalayan salt shaker.
Salting the popcorn is the final step of the process, and the only one that we do truly individually. I am a huge salt fan, so my taste buds prefer more of a salty coating to the popcorn than his do. I grind the salt onto my bowl while he finishes buttering his, and then he finishes off the process by slightly salting his pieces. Together, we rinse off the butter bowl in the sink, grab some paper towels, and head back into his room to resume watching our show.
While composed of many small (yet crucial) steps, the entire popcorn popping process takes us less than five minutes. Sometimes we talk during it, sometimes we sing, sometimes we fight about who’s going to rinse the dishes, but regardless of any debate that occurs, we always slip into our familiar roles to get the job done swiftly and successfully.
In a time when so much feels disrupted and different from our old lives, sticking to routine has been a blessing to help me get through monotonous days. While popping is a short routine, and not a very significant one, these small moments that I share with my brother have meant a lot to me in the recent months. I love popcorn regardless of how or where it’s made, but Whirley Pop watch parties have a special place in my heart.
In the next couple weeks, the life we’ve come to know will be upended once again. Brett will head to his apartment in Amherst, and I’ll move back into BC. Despite watching the previous seven seasons together, when new episodes of The 100 come out in the fall, we’ll have to watch them separately.
Recently, my roommate has been sending us screenshots of supplies she’s buying for our new kitchen—pots, pans, spoons, measuring cups, knives. “What else do we need?” she asks in the group chat. Although I like to eyeball the measurements and never use an ice cream scoop for the kernels anyway, I feel the need to suggest we get one for our room. I like the security of knowing it’s there in the drawer if I need it. I like its smooth red handle and familiar resting spot next to the silverware in my kitchen at home.
“Maybe an ice cream scoop?” I text back, knowing they’ll probably assume I mean for ice cream. But secretly, I know its real purpose, popcorn. “And I guess we need a butter dish?” I suggest sadly, as it sinks in that I’ll have to take over Brett’s butter melting process all on my own.
Although I don’t suggest it to the full group, of course I know that I’ll need to buy a Whirley Pop. Our dad is from the midwest—as are Whirley Pops—so my brother and I grew up making popcorn with the appliance. It’s a family tradition that has since become a sibling tradition. After five months of religiously popping popcorn on the stove, the microwave bags I’ve made in previous dorm rooms are just not going to cut it this year. As my brother and I move into our separate apartments to begin our sophomore and senior years of college, respectively, I’m left to reminisce on all the late nights we shared together during quarantine, eating popcorn and binge-watching Netflix. Maybe my roommates will learn to like the Whirley Pop as much as my family does, or maybe popping popcorn will become a solo tradition at school. Either way, I will find a way to continue my popcorn-making process at college this fall—Whirley Pop pot and all!
Here’s a sentiment contrary to much of what we’ve published here on Gusto: “Not every problem can be fixed with food.” So spake the sagacious A.J. Soprano on a show concerned chiefly with three things: capitalism, sin, and baked ziti. Spoilers ahead for The Sopranos.
Italian-American food can seem so pervasive in stories about the Mafia because its story is emblematic of the American immigrant experience. The wave of Italian immigration into the U.S. at the end of the 19th century forced an entire culture to adapt to what was readily available—that is to say processed meats, larger portions. A trace of the true self exists in the false self. Got any macaroni and gravy?
The mob, on the other side of the same coin, is the much-mythologized story of an illicit economy that operates under the economic rules of capitalism but above its moral ones. Instead of memos and conferences, you have sit-downs and coercion at gunpoint. Instead of layoffs, you have “whackings.” The explicit violence of the mob reveals the implicit violence in any capitalistic society; instead of winners and losers, you have the alive and the dead. There’s nothing but brutality. Inequity. Pain. Above all else, absurdity.
How do we escape the guilt we all feel from this implicit violence we know exists in our daily lives? Well, therapy, obviously. But Tony Soprano, boss of the Soprano crime family, after seven years of therapy, goes nowhere. He can’t break out of his indulgent lifestyle and the violence that permits it, even though the show gives him seven seasons of chances to do so.
Tony binges. A glutton through and through, he binges on alcohol, drugs, sex, and more than anything else, food. Because food, as wonderful as it is for bringing us closer to others, is not the answer to the problem of personal responsibility. Instead, we hide from our true problems behind it.
At the end of season one, Tony talks to his family at Artie Bucco’s restaurant during a scene so idyllic I thought it was a dream sequence; he tells them, “Someday soon, you’re gonna have families of your own, and if you’re lucky, you’ll remember the little moments like this, that were good.” The entire conceit of the show is encapsulated in this moment. Tony set Artie’s restaurant on fire earlier in the season and is now proselytizing the sanctity of family.
Or consider the season finale, which took place at a dinner table. What the food and the dinner table represent, namely family connection and commitment to the people close to us, are ultimately just the necessary setting for what is a completely disinterested future. Tony lives, Tony dies, Tony grows angel wings and soars out of Holsten’s, it doesn’t matter. The universe slouches forwards and the answers to our questions about it all, unfortunately, do not lie in the onion rings (best in the state!).
That’s the blessing and the curse of food writing; you can find the poetry in even the smallest things, the meaning in all the morsels and mealtime conversations, but you never get closer to changing. The great lie of any type of analysis is that it is an end in itself. It is a stop on the journey, the destination is something far greater. Fail to acknowledge this, and you remain like Tony at the end of the series, drenched in guilt and absolving yourself through psychotherapy and family.
If you think religion is the way out, think again. Father Phil, a character who literally stands as a mouthpiece for God, uses the innocent façade of food to masquerade his deeply repressed sexual feelings for the women in his life. Carmela even calls him out on it!
Food in The Sopranos eventually comes to represent the gluttony of the everyday American, be it the literal indulgence in plates of “fat and nitrates,” as Meadow puts it, or the psychological absolution of guilt by masquerading one’s shadow aspect as an innocent acolyte of tradition. Food, like religion, is not our ticket out of guilt in the modern world, as much as we’d like to pretend it is.
This might seem like an overly cynical take, but The Sopranos is an overtly cynical show, one that spends seven seasons telling us, in Emily VanDerWerff’s words, that “though people can change, most are unwilling.”
So, what’s the way out of this endless cycle of self-justification? The “stagmire,” as Little Carmine would have it? The answer might be in Little Miss Sunshine.
Gabagool is the trigger for many of Tony’s panic attacks, which Melfi connects to Marcel Proust’s madeleine from his tome In Search of Lost Time, where a bite of the cookie releases in him a torrent of memories. Little Miss Sunshine, the movie playing during Silvio’s last appearance in the hospital, references both Proust’s and Nietzsche’s belief that true change only happens through suffering. Regarding Proust, Steve Carrell’s character says, “…he gets down to the end of his life, and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered, those were the best years of his life, ’cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn’t learn a thing.”
Paul Dano’s character is a Perspectives student who reads Nietzsche for the first time and decides that no one understands him, tortured soul that he is. Tellingly, Nietzsche was unapologetically pro-suffering. The Nietzschean Übermensch is the person who can find meaning and growth in the suffering, thereby not only overcoming the pain of life but evolving because of it. And since society is relentlessly evolving, it behooves us to change with it.
Many, many characters on The Sopranos suffer. Angie Bonpensiero suffers not only the complete and abrupt unknowing of Big Pussy’s fate (sound familiar?), but she suffers the indignity of continued harassment by Tony and embarrassment in front of Carmela. In one scene, she’s seen giving out samples at the grocery store. Carm finds this embarrassing for Angie, but it can also be seen as Angie shedding that behind which she hides her full potential, as she literally gives away food. It is after this that we see her evolve into one of the most high-functioning people on the show. She takes this suffering and reinvents herself, fundamentally changing and rising above Carmela especially, whose own addiction to Tony’s lifestyle makes her resent Angie all the more.
Because while Tony represents the outward violence and brutality of capitalism, Carmela represents those of us addicted to its indulgent lifestyle, stuck in the tension of hatred towards it and dependence on it, frustrated and longing for an escape we can never find. Even worse, Meadow and A.J. represent future generations, by which creator David Chase seems to tell us that there simply is no easy escape from the cycle, whether you’re a college dropout or a Columbia grad.
Suffering is the only true way out of this vicious cycle of indulgence that only seems to beget more guilt and self-loathing, because it is the only thing that fundamentally changes us. Ultimately, you can’t control what happens in this world, and pain is going to come your way. How are you going to create meaning from this pain? Are you going to retreat to drugs, like Christopher? Are you going to indulge your machismo and violent tendencies instead of owning up to yourself and making a change, like Melfi gives Tony so many chances to do?
Suffering is something we must embrace and not shy away from. If The Sopranos is about people who want to change but can’t, one hypothesis Chase gives as to why they fail is because they don’t fully acknowledge their suffering. They cover it up, chiefly through food.
Tony and Melfi’s therapy ends with her realizing that someone like Tony will not only refuse to grow and learn from therapy, but will use the lessons learned in therapy to improve his illegal actions. The same can be said about food and what it means to us. If we want to grow and change, food can promote that and bring us closer to ourselves and to other people. But if we have no desire to because we’re comfortable in our old ways, we will use food as both sword and shield; it becomes at once the absolver and the indulgence. I wish someone would write 95 theses about this.
Food is a wonderful thing, and it can help us find meaning in our suffering. When Artie Bucco, after six seasons of humiliation and denigration by Tony and the Mafia (they stuck his hand in a pot of boiling marinara!), finds himself with burns on his dominant hand and an ego torn to shreds, he finds his meaning again through a recipe for rabbit from his father. It’s a powerful scene, because it’s Artie finally being honest with himself and facing the future in the best way he can. As Hemingway wrote, “a man can be destroyed but not defeated.”
The fatal flaw of so many characters on The Sopranos is their belief that they are defeated when they’re not even destroyed. Maybe the way out of this self-pity lies in the Ojibwe saying that makes its way to Tony’s hospital room in season 6A.
The world is bigger than us. Food can represent that enormity, the beauty of nature and our ultimate subordination to it, and can reveal in us the ability for goodness and concordance that we all have inside of us. But we have to stop hiding behind our myopic view of it.
Only when we are honest with ourselves can we find the uninhibited beauty in what we eat.
Will you be indifferent?
POSTSCRIPT: So what, no fuckin’ ziti now?
My take on The Ending
As we’ve discussed above, The Sopranos is full of people who talk a lot about changing, but who don’t. Instead they believe. Believe in God, believe in themselves, believe in others, you name it. I don’t think Chase is a proponent of atheism, but I do believe he’s interested in the idea of how to act in a post-God world — by which I mean a world whose people have to make their own meaning since industrialization shattered the omnipotent notion we had of religion.
The song goes, “don’t stop believing,” but Chase ends it after “don’t stop.” Abruptly. Because the idea isn’t to believe anymore. It’s to do. Don’t stop, that powerful imperative from one of the most iconic American songs, is a call to action.
Showrunners are like gods. They create and control lives, the choices people make, will manifest occurrences that can be punitive or merciful, and exist in a mode of time that is separate and more infinite than that of the characters in a TV series. Chase sets up all sorts of possibilities for Tony’s fate and then cuts us off in an attempt to clue us into how it feels to have your God be killed. That’s why it’s so visceral.
But he tells us, in his final words, “don’t stop.” Not believing, but being. Because ultimately it isn’t our beliefs that make us who we are, it’s our actions, how we conduct our being in our every waking moment.
When confronted with the indifference of the world, don’t stop.
Culinary bliss, in my perspective, is defined as a moment of gastronomic euphoria. When in a state of gastronomic euphoria, one revels in the delight that food can ignite. As a person, I consider myself to be extremely detail-oriented. Whether it be through sight, smell, or taste, my attentive nature seldom falters. Unfortunately, this heightened sense of observation causes me to automatically pinpoint shortcomings or deviations of preference when it comes to food. When taking the first bite of a dish, I immediately determine if it appeases my palette. Before eating, my stream-of-consciousness always poses the question, “Will this meal be a hit or miss?” Lasagna is a masterpiece that undoubtedly transports me to a state of culinary bliss. Always a “hit,” lasagna is my absolute favorite meal to savor.
Italian cuisine, in particular, satiates my taste buds like no other. Chicken parmesan is always a treat when in the mood for poultry and fried calamari is a gift of the sea. Within this realm of food, pasta is a culinary star. Its delicate texture and ability to soak up flavor cannot be overlooked!
Pasta has the undeniable ability to complement the various sauces that could accompany it. Creamy sauces enhance the richness of pasta; the acidity of tomato-based sauces beautifully cuts through pasta’s starchiness. Lasagna explores both of these dimensions. Béchamel sauce, the buttery and smooth white sauce that is typically used in lasagna, indeed highlights the richness of the layered noodles. Blanketing your taste buds with a subtle savory pop, béchamel sauce is a crucial component of successful lasagna. On another note, the tomato sauce fused with ground beef takes your taste buds in a completely different direction, heightening your meter of enjoyment. The tomato paste usually added to the tomato sauce provides a strong concentration of tomato flavor, emitting subtle acidity while also bringing out the saltiness of tender beef.
The cheese in lasagna fosters intense satisfaction. Shredded mozzarella layered between the noodles functions as an adhesive, yet it also melts in your mouth and contributes a subtle hint of sweetness. Ricotta is another type of cheese that lasagna champions, also sweet and soft. My preferred way to eat ricotta in lasagna is when it is mixed with sliced basil, given that it acts as a vehicle for this herb to permeate the dish with aromatic freshness. Parmesan cheese is an ingredient that ties the entire dish together. Sprinkled on top of lasagna before entering the oven, parmesan cheese’s nuttiness and salty bite facilitate harmony amongst the meal’s components. While baking, the parmesan cheese forms a golden crust on top of the dish, balancing gooeyness with crunch. Once out of the oven, the scent of lasagna is pleasantly pungent and overwhelmingly inviting. The driving factor behind completed lasagna’s delightful scent is the dried oregano sprinkled on top before baking. Finished lasagna visually begs to be eaten. From the golden shade of the crust to the sight of texturally diverse layers, the dish is simply irresistible.
Lasagna has been a personal favorite for an extended period of time. It is in the comfort of my home where I am able to best indulge in lasagna, as my mom cooks it with extra care knowing that I love it. Every time I find out that my mom is making lasagna, a huge wave of happiness overcomes me. It’s quite ridiculous just how ecstatic I get to smell the oregano, to marvel at the golden crust, to take the first bite from my plate. Apart from the sadness of leaving my family behind, a concern that crossed my mind before moving to Massachusetts was how much I would miss my mom’s lasagna. My perception of successfully executed lasagna is informed by my mom’s interpretation of the entrée, crafted with so much patience and attention. When away from home, moments of culinary bliss are few and far between. While at college, I crave the culinary bliss that my mom’s lasagna produces.
It has become a tradition to eat lasagna every time I visit my family at home in Florida. Acutely aware of how much I miss her lasagna, my mom never fails to receive me at home with the dish as soon as I arrive from Miami International Airport. My flights from Boston usually arrive around lunchtime, so I practically start eating as soon as I get home. After quickly transporting my luggage to my room, I join my family at the lunch table and watch my mom cut me a piece of her culinary triumph. The mozzarella stretches and the steam rises, indicating comfort and warmth.
As I take the first bite, my thoughts center on the perfection of this dish. There are no errors, the lasagna is out of this world. My mom’s lasagna fulfills the mental criteria that I judge lasagna by: it’s savory, it’s sweet, it’s velvety, and it’s crisp. A year into college, I view lasagna a bit differently. Though it remains a favorite of mine, the emotions I associate with lasagna are new. The culinary bliss that I always treasure when indulging in it is now accompanied by appreciation for returning to a loving home. The euphoric moment is, after all, fueled by thoughtfulness and kindness. I would not change a single thing about my mom’s lasagna, just how I would not change a single thing about the care and receptivity of my home.
For a long time, whenever I heard the phrase “breaking bread,” I thought about a religious ceremony. I envisioned the flavorless, unleavened discs I grew up receiving at Catholic masses after they were lifted, blessed, distributed. It wasn’t until recently that I realized the phrase can (and often does) refer to any instance of communal eating. You don’t typically hear about a person breaking bread alone, although eating alone is common and perfectly acceptable. Breaking bread happens with others, a testament to the atmosphere of camaraderie established by sharing a meal.
The last full day that I spent with my grandmother was centered almost entirely around the breaking of bread. I had planned a very last-minute trip from North to South Jersey, and when I called to be sure she was free for the day, she excitedly confirmed and said she would take me to lunch. That made me squirm a little.
I love eating out as much as the next person, but I didn’t want her to feel as though she needed to feed me just to merit my visit. The purpose of my trip was to relieve a bit of her loneliness, if only for the day. I didn’t mind what we did as long as we were doing it together––we could’ve sat and talked in her living room for all I cared. In true grandparent fashion, though, she loved anything to do with entertaining her grandkids. I knew there was no point in suggesting we stay at her home.
The next day, one sleepy car ride and a huge coffee later, I pulled up to the sidewalk in front of her little white house. I lugged two huge cooler bags out of the backseat, and she opened her door just as I got to the front step. “You came all this way for me!” she said, a little teary eyed.
Before lunch, we had some unpacking to do. Two slices of homemade chocolate cake from my mom were carefully placed in a container, as was a portion of our dinner from the night before. String beans from our garden, lollipops we thought she might like, half a loaf of banana bread. There were also frozen homemade meals for her to store, packed in small Tupperware with labels and dates scrawled on post-its. We wedged the additions into her fridge and freezer, emptying the bags.
The lunch spot of choice, pre-selected by my grandmother, was a small Italian restaurant called Carollo’s. They undoubtedly offered menus on-site, but she had me look up the digital version before leaving so we had extra time to pore over the options. New York arguably boasts some of the best pizza outside of Italy itself, and New Jersey shares this virtue. South Jersey streets are studded with pizzerias, and each takes itself very seriously.
When we pulled up to the restaurant, she explained the pandemic-era procedure for Carollo’s take-out. We went inside, placed our orders, paid, and then waited for the food to be done (all while wearing masks). She had her pick memorized, and I only needed to skim the menu once more to make my final selection. I picked a table on their patio while she waited inside and eventually emerged with a tower of white Styrofoam and a huge grin.
We opened the boxes one by one and arranged them across the table. I was starving. She had a small container of hot French dip for her steaming sandwich, and there were several seasoned rolls to share. My mouth watered when I unboxed my summer salad, sprinkled generously with fruit, goat cheese, and chicken lightly charred on a grill.
Carollo’s has a token dessert that greets guests as soon as they walk in. At the top of the glass counter, next to the register, a metal tray always sits piled high with what look to be slightly enlarged Munchkins. Zeppoles are small balls of fried dough rolled in sugar, and my grandmother never leaves without a few. We had a box of those as well.
The two of us chatted from our spot in the shade, laughing about family drama and wallowing in our self-pity over the uncertainty of the next few months. I told her about my plans for the fall, about our most recent beach trip, and about the ways I had been keeping busy. She was wise and witty in her responses, as usual. When we were both done eating, she asked if we could stay for ten more minutes.
A few hours later, after we had taken the long way back to her house and finished catching up, I was getting ready to head back home. Just as I was about to leave, my grandma pulled out the same ice packs I had carried that morning, and then she began retrieving item after item out of her fridge. We reversed the entire unpacking procedure, as this time she prepared to send me off with her own gifts. Mozzarella cheese she knew our family would use. A box of donuts she told me she would never finish alone. A bottle of pomegranate juice “for the health benefits.” On a whim, she came across a tin of her Christmas cookies in the freezer and tossed them into the cooler as well. “Christmas in July!” she’d laughed. My grandmother’s holiday cookie trays are legendary. I had no idea that she kept an emergency store year-round. She also sent me with all of the zeppoles.
“Grandma!” I exclaimed with mock frustration, “save some for yourself!” She gave me a mischievous smile and waved her hand.
“No, I just had some the other week. You take them,” She insisted.
By the time I got it all into the car, the backseat was just as full as when I had left. I thanked her for the day and told her I would be back soon. We waved vigorously in favor of hugging each other (following pandemic protocols), and I was off.
Very unexpectedly, just five days after I saw her, we received a call explaining that my grandmother had passed away. Who knew that our day together in late July was the last time I would have the privilege to break bread with her? After years of holiday dinners, preschool lunches (she was my first babysitter), and summer breakfasts, the last hours I spent with her were at yet another table together. It was ninety degrees outside, social distancing measures were still in place, and neither of us could be sure how the next few months would look. In that moment, together, none of it mattered. We loved each other, we were happy, and we were content to wonder at the joy that a good meal brings in even the craziest of times. Our conversation wouldn’t have been the same if it wasn’t over food.
There is something incredibly satisfying about nourishing someone you love. To sit shoulder to shoulder or face to face while you eat together, sharing bites and pausing to chew and swallow. Nourishment can also happen from a distance. Shipping cookies in a care package to someone far away, grocery shopping for a significant other … or exchanging miscellaneous foodstuffs through your granddaughter. Separated by a few hours of highway, my mother and grandmother spoke everyday on the phone, but that was something entirely different from opening food that was prepared ahead of time for each other. Food is a currency of love.
Thank goodness my grandmother requested lunch together. I have to get through every meal for the rest of my life without her. What I initially saw as an unnecessary expense for my grandmother is now engrained forever in my memory as one of our most impactful days together. She was one of my favorite people in the world, and we showed affection for one another in many ways, but food allowed us an unparalleled platform for love.
“What’s the first thing you think of when you hear ‘Alicia’ and ‘food?’” I casually asked my friend, Caroline, in the car. “PICKY!” she exclaimed, laughing. I rolled my eyes and looked out the window, smiling as I considered this. We and five of our other friends were en route to a quick weekend getaway in Maine filled with some much-needed swimming, canoeing, paddle boarding, relaxing—and most importantly for my friend group, cooking.
Despite the short duration of our vacation, we had packed the bed of a big black Toyota Tundra with enough groceries to last a week. Oat milk, gluten-free pasta, clarified butter, almond butter—you know, the essentials. When a nutrition major, a person with celiac, a vegetarian, two Paleo-enthusiasts, and a self-proclaimed “picky-eater” get together, the menu for group dinners has a restriction or two. Our meals are often gluten-free, dairy-free, and added-sugar free, but surprisingly, they are anything but bland.
Each morning, we ate avocado toast with Everything But the Bagel seasoning, or coconut milk yogurt with strawberries, blueberries, and granola. For lunch, we made kale salads with seasoned shrimp, fresh off the grill. Dinners took the most preparation and were always my favorite part of the day. The first night, we had a Spain-themed dinner, complete with a vegetable paella and a variety of tapas—bruschetta, serrano ham, brie, and oven-roasted brussel sprouts. All of us have spent some time in Spain at some point, and paella and tapas hold a special place in our hearts. On night two, we made a rice pasta dish with peppers, tomatoes, onions, and Rao’s tomato sauce, which more than justifies its price with the absence of added sugars.
Although I ate almost all of this, my friends still call me picky. It is definitely true that as an opinionated, particular child, I declared early on that I would not eat cheese, sandwiches, soda, eggs, and other common foods. In fact, when I was younger, it was easier to list the things I wouldn’t eat than the things I would. To this day I still don’t like any of the foods on that list, but my palette and willingness to try new foods have drastically improved. While there are a lot of factors at play in this widening of my culinary horizons, the biggest one is the strong influence of my friends.
Due to allergies, intolerances, and just general preferences, the vast majority of my hometown friends eat an objectively healthy, clean diet of whole foods. However, most of them did not always eat this way. As kids who grew up on sugary cereals for breakfast, the switch to avocado toast as adults was a big one. On one of our cloudy Maine mornings, I sat down with my friend Caroline, the nutrition major, to unpack the reasons for her personal health-food transformation.
“Food is medicine,” she told me, in reference to the time her doctor told her she could be on the path to diabetes if she kept eating the way she had been. With the switch to a healthier lifestyle (which included changes in her activity level in addition to modifying her eating habits), she noticed a reduction in joint pain and a better sense of overall well-being. This did not entail diets, which she called “unsustainable,” criticizing the role of targeted marketing and the promise of quick weight loss with too much restriction and rigidity. “It’s about finding the alternatives,” she said, “Eating as much as you want, but of the right, whole foods.”
Last summer, my friends and I decided to embark on a health-food expedition. Grocery shopping, meal-prepping, and cooking became exciting hobbies to fill the precious gaps in our otherwise overlapping schedules. Due to a mix of advice we’d heard and articles we’d read, we decided to try “food combining.” When preparing our group dinners during this time, we tried something completely new to me — steering away from pairing starches and proteins and instead placing vegetables at the center of the meal. Picky eaters tend to cling onto the things we do like, and we are often afraid to switch up our daily diets. I have always liked most meats, and my previous vision of a meal typically included meat, starch, and vegetables. I quickly learned I do not always need meat to feel full, and healthy pasta dishes with veggies are just as satisfying as pasta with chicken or meat sauce, for example.
With a (more than a few) “gentle” pushes from my friends, I tried things I’d never dream of putting in my mouth before: zucchini noodles, kale chips, chickpea pasta, kombucha, the list goes on. Most notably, the discovery of gluten-free toast with almond butter and fruit, or with avocado and tomatoes, has opened my eyes to a whole new world of breakfast foods and snacks. Following the summer, the specific guidelines of the “food combining” cleanse didn’t necessarily stick, but my new-found zest for finding healthy alternatives revolutionized the way I think about food, and transformed my eating habits in a sustainable way.
Everytime I cook now, I ask myself “what is the healthiest and tastiest way I can make this dish?” For example, when I stir-fry chicken, I tend to use liquid aminos rather than soy sauce for a lower sodium option. Each time I bake, I use recipes with almond flour and coconut sugar (I swear paleo brownies are better than the regular ones!). With the help and support of my friends, I expanded my ingredient repertoire. I discovered if I cooked my own food, I could pick the ingredients I wanted to pick, enjoying the taste more and feeling better both physically and emotionally as a result. I fell in love with the healthier alternatives, loving them both for the way they made my body feel and their clean, fresh tastes.
Today, I don’t focus too much on the “rules.” If I feel like having ice cream, I don’t criticize myself for breaking the goal of eating mostly dairy-free. I am not fully “free” of any food group, but rather, I am conscious of my overall food choices and find healthier and tastier alternatives when available. While I’m sure many people would still call me “picky,” I don’t completely agree with that anymore. Sure, I’m never going to like cheese, but my palette has expanded dramatically, and in an absolutely positive direction—much of which can be attributed to the strong role models I have in my friends. As we sat around the camping table filled with colorful, well-balanced plates in Maine, I felt so much gratitude for my friends’ beneficial influence on my eating habits. I’m still picky, but at least now I’m picking the things that feel right to me!
Paella: a symphony of texture, flavor, and splendor. The culinary complexity of paella is unmatched, one’s taste buds go on a rollercoaster ride while indulging in this dish. Even though paella is a stand-alone meal, it is wonderfully intricate. My mother usually makes this recipe on warm summer days when the grill is practically begging for interaction.
Throughout my entire life, I have enjoyed assisting my mother in the kitchen, whether it be slicing vegetables, stirring the contents of a pan, or seasoning the day’s protein. On paella days, I exult in helping with all three tasks. Before the action at the grill begins, it is crucial to engage in mise en place. This French term is widely utilized in the culinary world, and it means “to set up.” My mother and I evenly dice the red bell peppers and onions, sprinkle salt and pepper on all of the incorporated seafood, and slice the chorizo into fourths. After mise en place, crafting paella is a matter of assemblage at the grill.
First, we add long-grain rice to the hot pan and stir it for a while, along with olive oil, the diced red bell peppers and onions, garlic paste, and a key ingredient, saffron, which lends the rice mixture a color like pure sunshine. The time has come to add the seafood. From shrimp to scallops to squid to clams, the seafood in paella is the star of the dish. We transfer the heftily-seasoned marine delicacies to the pan where the saffron begins to transfer its rich and aromatic essence, taking its role as co-star. Once the shrimp turns pink, we submerge the contents of the pan in seafood stock, cover the pan entirely with aluminum foil, and close the lid of the grill to allow the rice to cook through. After about a half hour, the rice is tender and the time has come to add the pre-cooked chorizo. We let the chorizo warm up and become fully incorporated into the rice before the final step, which is to sprinkle a touch of salt onto the paella before serving.
Watching the grand paella pan make its way from the grill to the center of the dining room table is truly a magnificent sight. Before spooning the entrée onto our plates, my family takes a few moments to admire the masterpiece sitting before us. As the steam rises, we can smell the earthiness and sweetness of the saffron. The aroma of paella is spectacular, but the flavor is simply exquisite. As the combination of rice and seafood enters our mouths, we are immediately hit with the rice’s savory punch. Though the seafood offers the perfect bite, the shrimp, scallops, and squid eventually melt in our mouths. Seafood has a way of absorbing savory notes while also retaining its natural sweetness, a pleasurable dichotomy. The warmth of the dish engulfs our taste buds, providing us with intense satisfaction. The tenderness of the rice beautifully contrasts with the seafood’s firm texture. Paella, even by itself, never feels like an incomplete meal. As noted earlier, the dish is elaborate and multifaceted. Apart from the rice and seafood’s harmonious relationship, it offers the freshness of the vegetables, the spiciness of the chorizo, and the crunchiness of the slightly-burned rice at the bottom of the pan. When eating paella, our taste buds run in a million different directions. That’s the beauty of this meal.
Paella is not the easiest thing to cook. In fact, successfully executing paella requires extensive organization and patience. However, the result is beyond worth it, and the process has its unique perks. Cooking meals can sometimes be frustrating because they can have various, seemingly unending components. Oftentimes, people have to worry about separately preparing sauces or side dishes. Although paella has an abundance of components, crafting it is a one-pan task. Once all of the dish’s elements have been merged in the pan, more effort is not required to complete your dining experience. Paella’s multidimensional nature makes for a well-rounded meal, no side dishes or sauce required. Once you have the pan sitting in front of you, your thoughts do not pose the question, “What else?” As soon as paella is introduced to your palette, your mind (and mouth) revel in complete satisfaction.