As part of my research for my book, I’m watching a lot of telly, and so who better to watch with than a library shelf full of academics. Here’s the first with the University of Brighton’s Douglas McNaughton who teaches Film and Screen Studies.
I’m listening to a lot of BBC Food Programme podcasts at the moment as I prepare to hunker down and write my book for Bloomsbury Academic this summer. And as I listen to stories of Syrian food and make copious notes, I remember how much I learned from the Syrians on my own doorstep. And I didn’t even post the links here. So as I read, listen and cram, I’m revisiting my blog here with purpose. So let’s start with the sometimes great, often clunky, always heartwarming series I did earlier this year for Radio Reverb.
Food truck cuisine is just about the biggest thing in American food culture this summer, with foodies lining up for fresh grilled chicken sandwiches, tacos made to order or barbecued chicken and ribs in city parks. Kennesaw State University Journalism professor, Josh Azriel braved the Atlanta heatwave to get into the kitchens at the city’s Food Truck Park. He spoke with three food truck owners taking full advantage of this new culinary craze in the states.
Another guest blog from my colleague at Kennesaw State University, Dr Josh Azriel who is rising to my challenge of examining the relationship between food and the high streets of the world for my book ‘Taste and the TV Chef’..
It can be daunting breaking into food media, especially television. Yet, 23 year old Courtney Rushing, of Atlanta, Georgia in the United States has embarked on a new career. As a recent college graduate of Kennesaw State University, Courtney entered a Facebook contest and won an opportunity in June to appear on an American national television show, Live with Kelly and Michael. She led a cooking demonstration outside the studio on a sidewalk in New York City. She is waiting to see if she finished in the top 2 for cooking guest appearances with social media “likes” for a chance at a second appearance on the show. In the meantime she hosts a food blog, “Rushing to the Kitchen” at rushingtothekitchen.com.
Courtney sat down with Kennesaw State University Journalism Director Josh Azriel to talk food, her career and where she likes to eat in Atlanta.
Click here to listen.
One of the joys of being a media academic is the opportunity to work with people all over the world who love to ask the deeper questions of life. Media academia is like journalism with a bigger dictionary, but the best academics (and journalists) are the ones who prod in a way that leaves the interviewee and the listener with something to chew on. Dr Josh Azriel, once a journalist, now Journalism and Citizen Media Director at Kennesaw State University in Atlanta rose to my challenge of helping me research how food has formed city identity for my book Taste and the TV Chef by grabbing an interview with TV chef, Kevin Gillespie. Here’s his interview and a little background. Take it away, Josh….
In the last decade, Atlanta, Georgia emerged as a culinary destination rivaling other southern American cities such as New Orleans and Charleston. Atlanta is home to several celebrity chefs who appear on American television programs focused on cooking contests. One of the those chefs, Kevin Gillespie, finished in the top three on Season 6 of Top Chef which is broadcast on the BRAVO cable network. He holds the record for winning the most quick fire challenges on the program. Kevin will appear on CNN’s Culinary Journeys this summer. Kevin owns two restaurants in Atlanta, Gunshow and Revival (opens 23 July,2015) and is the author of two cookbooks, Fire in My Belly and Pure Pork Awesomeness.
48 hours in Toronto. It was just too rock’n’roll to miss. I was to present a paper on the ‘Making of Nigella’ a postmodern reading of the creation of gastroporn by the goddess herself at the Centre for Media and Celebrity Studies’ academic conference at Ryerson University in downtown Toronto before flying home the very next day. Jetlag? Shmeltlag; I’d got my Melatonin tablets and was ready to face my public. Conference season is a chance to press the flesh within our communities of practice, to engage with researchers in our fields. These were my people in the world of media literacy and cultural studies and I was ready to get excited again about deconstructing the modern world.
But it was also a chance to glimpse a city that I’d never seen, to taste the culture through its fab fooderies and piece together a jigsaw even if I didn’t have time to see the big picture. With the help of my conference colleagues, twenty-something PhD students Stephanie Patrick and Averie MacDonald, I set out to find the heartbeat of the city through its food and found it in Kensington Market and in a chat over a delicious Pad Thai. I asked them how food reflects the culture of a city and even a nation… Have a listen.
There’s something about a birthday these days that has me rummaging through memories for something I can’t quite put my finger on. Whispers of questions, dreamy, hazy smells of something important that I can’t quite remember have been making me itchy for a while, and I’ve had a yearning to go back to Wales, land of my mothers and my fathers, for months now.
I’m Welsh. 100%. I’ve never had a Welsh accent, and apart from a Diolch and a few Gwlads, I’ve never spoken the language. We travelled the world, as Army families do, and a boarding school in Bath was more home than Abergavenny ever was over those interminable, friendless summers of my teens. I couldn’t wait to get out of Wales and continue to travel, and so I did and do, determined never to spend another summer in Wales.
Travelling has made me adventurous about how we live too. I could as easily live in rural Sussex as an ashram in India, a Victorian semi in Brighton or a top floor flat in Sydney overlooking Circular Quay. Home now is where my husband lays any one of his Fedoras and where the kids and dogs come back to after they’ve been wandering. I am a rootless romantic, always up for the next adventure, and I like it that way.
So why was I cruising with my girls through the Gower this week – or Gwyr, as I deliberately chose to spell it on Facebook? Why was I sitting on the beaches of my childhood in Port Eynon and looking down over the cliffs of Rhossilli at a sweeping sandy bay whose limp waves whisper some of those questions I can’t quite hear?
I knew it would be food that I was looking for; it always is. The last time I went chasing a whisp of a memory was after my father died two years ago. We spent his last days rearranging the family photo album of our Malay days in the ’60s, and I promised him I’d spend my 50th there with the family, sniffing our way back to the hawkers’ stalls of my early youth and finding the secret of our Malay curry. As I rediscovered the particular mix of spices that makes Malaysian food Malay, I remembered how important detail had been to my parents who had spent the rest of their lives making and remaking that curry until it was perfect, not for the Malays, but for them. It was, quite rightly, my father’s last supper.
And so as Auntie Eirwen and cousin Claire, four months younger and my playmate in my mother’s hometown of Llanelli sit down to talk food, we are propelled back to the ‘70s and Nana’s Sunday lunch of roast pork, apple sauce and mushy peas and the best gravy I’ve ever tasted. ‘Batchelors’, says Eirwen. Batchelor’s dried peas’. ‘She used to soak them’, chimes Claire. ‘Overnight in the net. And she always added sugar. ‘And butter’ adds Eirwen. ‘Just before serving them, she’d cut the net and add butter. Right at the end’. I am astonished at how much detail they remember.
Uncle John, Auntie Eirwen, Simon and Claire lived five minutes or so up the road from my Nana and Grandad who lived in the house where my mother was born. They still do. Separated by a wall from the Felinfoel brewery, the smells of my childhood were a mix of ale and roast pork, scrambled now as weekday teas blur into Sunday lunches. I remember almost nothing about those days other than those smells. Almost every memory is second hand.
‘Milk-fed pork’, says Eirwen. ‘She bought it in the butcher’s at Felinfoel.’ Hang on a minute; my dumpy, pinny-clad nana who fed the family while never leaving the kitchen, Margretta Williams who answered to ‘Get’ and called me ‘bach’, was buying milk fed pork like someone out of a Hugh Fernley Whittingstall series? I think I may have missed something. ‘She was a very slow cook but and you had to wait,’ explains Eirwen. ‘But what you had was excellent. She wasn’t one of these who would cook for you in ten minutes.’ Claire reminds me of her chips, crinkle cut, washed, dried, deep fried and then dried and deep fried again. ‘They were superb’.
Eirwen and Claire chat about Nana’s pikelets, served straight from the bakestone and crunchy with sugar and butter, one after the other for what seemed hours as we sat around the table playing cards. We never helped her. It was what Nana did, not us.
Audio: Eirwen makes pikelets, just like Nana did, for me and the girls. it’s the first time they’ve ever tasted them, and for me, it’s the taste I was looking for, that took me home to Wales.
I wonder about this woman who took such pride in detail I never noticed. I remember stories my mother had told me about her mother and her mother. And her mother. All from Llanelli, born and bred. Nana was brought up by her grandmother while her own very young mother, widowed when Nana was only four, went out to work. Nana would have been taught to cook by her grandmother, to buy well and to work with very little to go a long way. My mother had told me of the fish she would buy during the war from the fishwives who came door to door. She would stuff it with a single tomato and flavour it with herbs from the garden. ‘It was superb’, my mother would tell me.
Eirwen tells me more about the Penclawdd cockle sellers who came to the door with their wicker baskets draped with white cloths. ‘That was our Saturday dinner;’ she says in that lovely Lanelli lilt. ‘Bacon, egg and cockles’. Now almost 80, Eirwen is the keeper of the stories and tells me about Lanelli in the 1950s and the Italian ice creams and coffee of the Italian coal miners who brought the smells from home. ‘I’d have a knickerbocker glory’ she remembers. But only once a year because it was half a crown. It was so dear’.
As she makes me her own pikelets the next day, crunchy with sugar and butter, and shows me the family history Uncle John had been working on just before he died two years ago, I realise that no-one from this side of the family has ever moved. We look back through census record dating back to 1830, each family Llanelli born and bred.
The grass which has always been greener somewhere else for my family has always been home for my mother’s family and has drawn me back to find roots I never thought I’d need. Those hazy whispers of memories, a scrambled mix of Nana’s roast, Felinfoel ales and pikelets are like something out of the Bisto ad, luring me back to my family’s home of almost 300 years.
As the girls and I head back to Sussex where the Fedoras hang, we listen to Cerys Matthews sing songs from my past.
Sosban Fach, yn berwi ar y tân,
Sosban fawr yn berwi ar y llawr,
A’r gath wedi scrapo Joni bach
I sing along, hazy words fading in and out of memory, like the smells of pikelets and Felinfoel ale understanding nothing. And every word.
Audio: A whimsical adventure in sound as I came home again to Wales
Audio:Tania Swistun from one of the oldest cockles and laverbread stalls in the country tells how she has been at the family stall in Swansea Market since she was baby – in a box under the counter.
I’ve been meaning to take my husband to Dans le Noir, the London restaurant where everyone is on a blind date.. The idea of relying on taste, smell and feel alone as I find my way through a new menu, thrills me. But perhaps more importantly, it would give me an opportunity to prod at the unconscious mind of my man.
For Jed, dining in the dark could possibly be the biggest challenge of our 19-year marriage. Our relationship is based on a vive la difference kind of philosophy; he’s an urban dandy, I’m a country girl who’s lived in the city too long. He’s trawling the back waters of the web for new music; I’m happy with Radio 1. He wears the Star of David in his earring and I drag the kids to a carol service once a year. You get the picture.
And then there’s food. I grew up in a peripatetic family where food and storytelling were the only consistent things on the table. We picked up recipes from around the world and the smells of Malaysia filled my childhood homes from Germany to South Wales. The feel of baking and making is part of my muscle memory. Jed, on the other hand, may just as well have spent his entire youth never eating a thing. His interest in food is more about the markets than the meal, the old blokes selling the bamboo rizzlas next to the durian stall rather than the custardy-onion taste of the world’s smelliest fruit. He likes stories rather than smells. And he likes his food simple.
So when an invitation to a Battle of the Bloggers’ blind supper party at Brighton’s Dirty Blonde popped into my inbox, I pinged back my RSVP for the two of us. In the interest of journalistic enquiry, I would drag him into the dark until his senses had nowhere to run.
Among the bloggers, he would have to be a grown up rather than the ‘primitive child’ who psychologists say would only trust the food he has seen his parent eat. Afterwards, we would ponder on the 50 year legacy of his mother’s refusal to eat with the kids, and the food terrors would flood back, finally able to find a rational, mature mind to make it ok.
So I was a bit cross when he said he was busy that night.
I would take a real child then. Ok, so Loulou at 15 is already a foodie. She works in a gastro pub on Sundays and cooks three course meals for the family without biting a lip. But she’s still a child. Surely she couldn’t be blindfolded and fed who-knew-what? without at least a squirm. If she batted an eye, I couldn’t see it.
To be honest, Dirty Blonde isn’t really Dans le Noir. It’s more floaty gold muslin, glitzy chic beige and Made in Chelsea bling; being seen is probably more important here than taste. That’s ok; this is Brighton after all. And inviting the city’s bloggers to be blindfolded and served a taster of their eclectic menu was a genius way of getting us to write about the food.
Course by tincey-wincey course, we were spoon-fed morsels of meat, fish, even shots of cocktails and asked to guess the secret ingredients. By the third mouthful, we had mistaken rye for ciabatta, Southern Comfort for vodka and were heading for six courses of meatballs, scallops and an Asian fusion salmon that were designed to trip up the blind.
Loulou and I couldn’t even chat with our blindfolds on, let alone guess at the bacon jam and tomato concasse sweetening the scallops. We had been disabled, deliberately confused and dumbed on every level.
But it was fun. We tried to remember the name of that smoky, gooey vegetable… ‘AUBERGINE! ‘ .. and fell about as we waded through grassy herbs before landing on fennel. Actually, it was sage.
But isn’t that that what eating out is all about? Playing with the senses? Having a laugh? If it’s about spotting the truffle oil in your macaroni cheese, kill me now.
So we couldn’t tell our mirin from our Furi Kaki. So what?
Will we go back? Probably not. Come on; Terre a Terre and Indian Summer are next door. But will I tell people about dining in the dark at Dirty Blonde? Yup. Will I go to Dans le Noir? Yup. Will I take my husband? No way. I’ve got a new dining companion who, after a childhood of making and baking, is happy to play with her food. What have you got for us next then?