In 1943, M.F.K. Fisher introduced her book with a question
that was posed to her frequently: Why do you write about food, eating, and
drinking? Why don’t you write about the struggle for power and security, and about
love, the way others do?
It’s a quandary many writers can relate to. There’s an
inherent judgment that rears its head when people meet writers. We’re asked to
account for other authors, such as when a fan asked Neil
Gaiman whether George R.R. Martin “had a responsibility” to finish the Song
of Ice and Fire series in a timely manner, lest he make his audience upset. The
now-famous “George R.R. Martin is not your bitch” meme has become a joke at comic cons and blogs
everywhere. When you’re an author, people are eager to share their ideas for
books you should write, regardless of
whether they’re in your oeuvre or if you are even remotely interested in the
topic. And they’ll follow up on it at the next barbeque you attend, too. Most
of it is perfectly benign and well-meaning. But for M.F.K. Fisher, she was
starting a whole movement of food writing that paved the way for the likes of
Ruth Reichl, Anthony Bourdain, and many others who are celebrities for it.
Fisher fought a battle on two fronts: being a woman pursuing
the lifestyle she wanted, and as she often comments in her work, writing about
food in a culture with Puritanical overtones that still can be rather uptight
about sensual descriptions.
Why write about food? Food,
security, and love are entwined. “I tell about myself and how I ate bread on a
lasting hillside, or drank red wine in a room now blown to bits, and it happens
without my telling it that I am telling too about the people with me then…and
their deeper needs for love and happiness. There is a communion of more than
our bodies when bread is broken and wine drunk.”
The Gastronomical Me
breaks from her usual format by writing about food without describing it. She
tells stories about the people she meets in her travels. In Burgundy, she
visits an old mill converted into a famous restaurant by a Parisian chef. The
food server is eager to provide a rich feast, but it’s more about the
experience of eating rather than details about the recipes.
There’s a dearth of recipes overall, but we learn a tamale
casserole caused a flood of tears and that Fisher liked to shake people from
their routines by “conquering the printed recipe” by being inventive. Eccentric
approaches are more memorable, she argues, and guests should be delighted by
innovative meals.
Not that she doesn’t have her old favorites. Time and again
in her books, she mentions Dijon gingerbread, a French classic.
I’m at a stage of writing my fourth novel where the urge to
finish it soon rises above all else. I’m well past the mid-point, and the
latter half is cruising along at a good pace. April’s round of NaNoWriMo should
bring it to its conclusion. An intensive editing process will follow before it
goes out to beta readers. Happily, I anticipate a fall release. While each word
of a blog post feels like a slight against the novel, I miss keeping up with
the blog—and working on this series about how food is portrayed in literature. My
shiny new Surface Book has given me the chance to write *and* cook for the
blog, now that my home office is too far away to keep an eye on a skillet that
may get too hot. I’ve been researching Dijon gingerbread for some time, and was
delighted to have the time to finally make it this weekend.
Recipes for Dijon gingerbread varied, so it led me to
experiment. Honestly, my first impression was that the combination of
ingredients would result in a super dense brick. What I got was an amazingly
fragrant and rich loaf of bread perfect for tea or breakfast. My search also
led me to find a chicken recipe where the gingerbread is used as a breadcrumb
coating. The hubs and I each enjoyed one solitary, sweet slice of the bread and
now it’s about to be pulverized for the sake of the chicken recipe. But I will
be making this Dijon gingerbread again soon.
Dijon Gingerbread
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 cups flour
1 tablespoon finely chopped candied orange peel (*recipe below)
1/2 teaspoon ground aniseed
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon cardamom
1/2 teaspoon nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons baking soda
1 egg
3/4 cup milk (almond
milk works well, too)
3/4 cup honey
Butter for the loaf pan
Preheat oven to 325 Fahrenheit. Mix dry ingredients first, then
the milk and egg. The batter is thick! Spread evenly in greased bread pan. Bake
for 35 minutes, or until you can insert a skewer into the middle of the loaf
and have it come out clean. (For me, the cook time was closer to 45 minutes.)
Candied Orange Peel
2-3 oranges
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup water
Using a vegetable peeler, remove zest from oranges in 1 1/2-
to 2-inch-long pieces. Cut the pieces into very thin strips, about 1/8 inch
wide. Cook in a small saucepan of boiling water for 5 minutes. Drain. Bring
more water to a boil and cook the orange peel for another 5 minutes. Drain.
Bring sugar and 1/4 cup water to a simmer in a small
saucepan, stirring until the sugar dissolves. Add the orange peel, cover and
simmer for 3 minutes. Transfer the syrup and peel to a bowl. Cover and chill
overnight.
Using a slotted spoon, transfer the orange peel to paper
towels to drain before using.