Writing About Food. What this blog is all about.

Since beginning this blog – and the course at UTS – just three years ago, the world has changed dramatically. Back then, it seemed necessary to remind people that food was a political subject. Today, with 800 million people hungry and over one billion overweight, with food riots in the Middle East and Africa, and crops that could be used to feed the starving being diverted to make biofuel to keep the cars of the wealthy on the road – it’s bleeding obvious.

Which makes writing about food in all its forms a rapidly growing and increasingly important branch of journalism, a discipline that demands the contribution of the senses, the intellect and the enquiring and sceptical mind.

The course is designed to increase students’ sensual appreciation of food and their ability to communicate this; to understand the political and social implications of food and –increasingly importantly – agriculture in the twentieth century and to offer a brief introduction to the historical background. And to help those who need it, to develop their journalistic skills:  assume nothing, ask everything.

The course also includes a component on critical writing, especially as it relates to restaurant criticism, recipe writing, and an all important session on how to sell your writing.

“It is possible to imagine” writes Felipe Fernández- Armesto in his book Food A History, “an economy without money and reproduction without love, but not life without food.” It is an all consuming subject, one that refuses to stay in a single box. Food, its distribution, depiction and effects can also be found in the study of such disparate disciplines as economics, medicine, science, increasingly politics and, often, art.

Food is a political topic because it covers health, human rights (culinary philosopher Michael Symons has pointed out that two most basic human rights are, one, the right to eat, and two, the right to choose what we eat), the economy, culture, and tourism. How many wars have been started from squabbles over land? Land to grow food.

All this means that when the next thing that you put in your mouth – or don’t – could kill, maim, sicken or delight you, the food writer can never ever say “I don’t know what to write about.”

If, after reading these posts you would like to register for the next short course, follow this link to UTS:

http://www.shortcourses.uts.edu.au/code/coursedetails.php?&sc_code=HSS36

Alternately, email me, John Newton, at jnewton@newtricious.com.au

feast

It was always cool and dark under my parent’s house. The sun would beat down on the yellow grass, flies droning lazily in the summer heat, but it was safe and sheltered in the pungent earthy space under the back stairs. Squatting Papua New Guinean style I would carefully mix the ingredients to the right consistency, running my hands through the rich slippery sauce. Using a practiced eye I sprinkled a little more of the dry ingredients then a dash of water from the chipped bowl. I had promised my guests my famed stew, sparkling with olive oil and succulent tomatoes and served with fresh energetic bread. Moments before we gathered to eat I would throw the heavy potatoes into the sauce. They poised expectantly on the surface before sinking with a slurp to the bottom on the bowl. I then portioned it out into a motley collection of bowls, garnished with freshly ripped leaves and solemnly placed it in front of my ravenous guests.

The atmosphere was always lively at those feasts under the stairs. Big Ted, a cherished friend from my earliest days, would wear his best yellow cardigan. My two floppy dolls were always in attendance, usually sporting bizarre new hair cuts, their heads lolling from the soporific effect of the food.

Blue Eye Dragon

Ever since becoming a Pyrmont dweller five years ago, I have been a faithful devotee to a lovely little Taiwanese eatery that I discovered in the area. Quietly tucked into a bottom corner of a block of units, Grain is a nondescript little joint from the outside, the shy neighbour of the noisy up-market pub next door. Inside, it is a simple yet cheerful place, decked out with old-fashioned Chinese block tables and stools; serving what is arguably the best salt and pepper squid in Sydney.

A shared passion

Food has always played an important part in our relationship, and thinking back on our time together, this pattern began early – with two occasions in particular. The first occasion was what you might say was our first real ‘date’. He was cooking me dinner; I had no idea what to expect. Watching him in the kitchen, though, it became obvious that he knew what he was doing. His movements had a fluidity and an assurance that comes with practice and success.

When the meal was ready, he produced a big blue bowl of pasta, with the vibrant red and yellow of baby tomatoes and lively green basil and marjoram all competing for attention. Their smells combined with the tang of red wine vinegar and the unmistakable pungency of garlic, and as he grated parmesan cheese from a large block over my bowl, it quickly melted into the mound of pasta underneath. Upon tasting, it was the perfect mix of richness and fresh flavours. Then he brought out a foil-wrapped loaf and unwrapped it, still steaming. The baguette had been sliced diagonally and evenly, and was crisp on the outside, garlic butter dripping from inside the cuts. The pasta was one thing, but homemade garlic bread quite another.

Bang the gong; it’s Chow time

Where men fear to tread is the place The Captain, Mr Pink and Myself found ourselves. The dark, ominous, fleetingly lit back streets of Millers Point to the western side of the

Harbour
Bridge. “Aren’t we there yet?” whined Mr Pink. “Not much further now” assured The Captain, in his unwavering commanding tone. “Eek” Myself thought to himself. An eek born from the fear of dark places where young hoods may spring from shadowy corners with a home made jimmy to stick in places that people don’t wish to be stuck. An eek born from the uncertainty that a Hezbollah rocket may stray of course and find its landing spot adjacent to my unarmoured body.

oh so sweet

If a fellow human were to chew a handful of a food substance, then offer it to you for your eating pleasure, what would you do? You would refuse the saliva infused ball of goop. And this was my stance for many years when it came to honey. Nectar sucked into a little bee’s stomach, regurgitated into another bee’s mouth, masticated, mixed with insect enzymes then spread on the wall. A wholly unappetising concept to say the least. And this unpalatableness was not aided by school breakfasts. Dirty jars of honey with bits of butter, jam, and vegemite trapped in its ooziness. Obviously the double dippers had not been taught of the benefits of using separate utensils when gouging from one toast-spreading source to another.

A Call to Arms

In this time of political correctness, it’s time to take action. Time to say “no more”. Time to demand that the racism, prejudice and discrimination in the fruit, vegetable and pulses world is stamped out! We talk about black beans, brown lentils, and red lentils. Named for their colour alone. The colour of their skins. Not after any nutritional attributes they have, but only on appearance.

pho

The ubiquitous pho (pronounced “fuh”) is the national dish of Vietnam. A single whiff can conjure images of intensely green rice paddies lovingly tended to by bent over figures topped with conical hats or the roar of hundreds of motorbike engines flowing through the city streets like a rough, unforgiving river. Nothing reminds me more of the dizzying pace of the streets in Ho Chi Minh City or Hanoi than a single slurp of this intensely flavoured rice noodle soup.

“Noodle soup?” you say incredulously.

No, it is not just a noodle soup. It’s a laborious expression of love; it’s the root cause of sudden intense salivation; it’s the pho experience.

For most people, Vietnam is a country that offers vibrant metropolitan cities and idyllic country side. However, when I found out I was being temporarily released from the working week to trace the coast of Vietnam from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi, it wasn’t the palm tree lined beaches or the exotic Mekong Delta that sparked my interest. I barely glanced over pictures of beautiful ancient temples. The historical site of Hoi An with its long meandering alley ways didn’t even register on my itinerary and it wasn’t the bustling market places that sparked pre travel jitters – it was the pho.

BUTCHER SHOP CAFÉ, MUDGEE

Dad described my friend Kate as “a meat and three veg girl”.I told her, then realised I shouldn’t have. Intended as a compliment, taken as an insult, all he meant was that, “she keeps it real”.

I’m in Mudgee, 4 hours west of
Sydney in an old butcher shop that’s now a café.

DUMPLING AND NOODLE HOUSE, POTTS POINT

Saturday is beer and dumpling day.We’re at the ‘Dumpling & Noodle House’ in Potts Point. It’s the size of a 4WD (it’s full), there’s only one door ( we walk through it). If there was room, this place would be jumping.