The Story Of My Life

Some say food is an exploration of culture, and taste evokes lush memories of the past. “ In An Island Passover” by Ethel G. Hofman, she described her life in the Shetland Islands. Every year, Hofman’s family celebrates Passover- a traditional Jewish holiday where time and effort to prepare a meal is like painting, and it takes months to reveal a masterpiece. While Hofman had a positive recollection of her family’s traditional cuisine, author of “Fish Cheeks”, Amy Tan did not share the same experience. Tan felt ashamed of sharing her traditional cuisine with a pastor's son whom she was in love with. Tan strived for her crush’s approval because she did not want to be deemed strange. Hofman and Tan had striking differences in

I shit on it.” But the reality was that deep down she was lying to herself. Nevertheless, she missed all of that -- the smells of lamb pörkölt (stewed and flavored with paprika) and stuffed cabbage. And just to have one more taste of sweetened porridge and rice, or those butter-creamed flaky tortes that had once graced her lips, at weddings. She certainly had never learned to cook well enough to prepare those things, with her mother passing away before teaching Ava to cook. There hadn’t been time to learn what village women taught their daughters. Not when her mother had been wracked with pain and worry.

“Boys, dinner!” Ma yells. We all bound to the dining room, having barely eaten anything all day. We see the same dinner we have every night, lentil soup, but it never gets old. I guess when we’re this hungry anything tastes good. We say grace and dig in, although we are still a little sad because of Pa’s death. After dinner, we all gather around the radio and listen to the latest news. Then we hit the hay after a long day, ready to do the same thing

Comfort food is easily defined; it is merely food that brings one comfort. Author and professor Chang-Rae Lee certainly seems to identify with that statement in his essay “Coming Home Again.” This personal narrative tells the story of the relationship between his mother and himself through a look at food and cooking in their lives. As he describes the comforting aromas of his mother’s cooking, readers are urged to look back on their own comfort foods, their own mothers. Although the essay is similar to an informal storytelling, if one looks at who the audience is, who Lee is, they can see that in reality it is a desperate warning to those who aspire to be successful.

It was early in the morning as Lillian and I got ready for our first day of our perplexing espacade to fulfill my grandfather's request. The artistic golden sun got up like a baby and began painting the eerie, dark and black sky into a bright blue one. The first task we started to do was go visit the cafe built under this aesthetic tower hotel. For both of us, I ordered a “Ful Medames” meal consisting the following: richly flavored beans accompanied by a colorful array of side consisting of smoky grilled flatbreads, creamy tahini sauce with a lemony kick, hard boiled eggs for sustenance, and refreshing chopped tomato and cucumber salads. Honestly, this meal was not so bad as I thought (if you’re wondering why, the most cultural food in this

Inside would be an outfit so stylish that it begged to be worn. Accompanying the clothes would be a small white box with a red rose bow that flopped over the sides of the box. Inside this box would be a ring from her collection or another piece of jewelry she had picked out for me. However excited I was for the presents, the excitement quickly turned toward thoughts of the upcoming meal she had prepared for the family. It did not matter what she had prepared for the meal; the kitchen always had such delectable scents that wafted through the air and just settled over the house. My mouth was in a constant state of salivation and my stomach waited expectantly for what was sure to be another meal that left my stomach uncomfortably full and yet yearning for more. And yet, no matter what she made, the best part of the meal that you always took thirds or fourths from came from the salad bowl. A simple salad served with homemade Italian dressing and fresh crumbled Roquefort cheese, it was what reminded me best of grandma.

There was a bit of commotion for a while. Cook brought in a pitcher of ale and mugs, as well as a heaping bowl of liver smothered in onions. The midwives woke Fleur and insisted she drink and eat at least a few mouthfuls. Fleur grimaced at the odiferous food, but ate and drank.

When Richard realized that his father was the reason that he was hungry, he began to dislike him. After being beaten up on the way to the groceries store, Richard’s mom made him go back for a second and

Conversely, the speaker of “The Hunger Past” tells the tale of how her father influenced her to appreciate the simplicity of properly cooked food, contrasting the depth and profound influence demonstrated in “Two Fish, One Morning”. Ignorant to the beauty of properly cooked meat, the speaker initially dismisses her father’s comment on her inability to properly cook, claiming that her overcooked meat was how she liked it. However, after observing her father’s “vigor and passion” during each meal and tasting a properly cooked yakiniku, the speaker finally comes to understand why her father and grandfather insist on certain cooking methods. Appreciating “the full-bodied taste of the beef [that] coated [her] mouth”, the speaker comes to the realization

When I was twelve on my mom’s birthday I walked into the house where her and dad were sitting having beers in the kitchen. Everyone was home as we were about to have dinner soon and mom was barbequing steaks. I asked her if she could cook mine a little more because I didn’t like the blood in it. Her response to me was a violent outburst about how unappreciative I was and how some people didn’t have anything to eat and that I would eat my steak whatever way she cooked it because I was lucky to have it. I tried to tell her again that it made me gag and that I did not like my meat not cooked.

We were conjoined twins, and they separated us at birth. “You were a very special case” mom told us, “joined at the stomach.” That separation must have changed everything. Growing up we weren’t very close at all; Martha was her own person as was I. She was more into her books and her grades, and I had my sports and makeup. We didn’t have time to want to hang out with each other, and mother could never get us to agree on anything - except eating.

The family I visited consisted of a mother, father, and daughter. They all greeted me very warmly. I followed their lead and made observations as to whether I should take my shoes off or leave them on. They provided a shoe rack where everyone already placed their shoes. I took mine off and placed them on the rack. After greeting me, the mother and daughter disappeared into the kitchen. The father guided me to the dining table and explained that dinner was almost ready. We sat at a round table that had a large wall hanging of Buddha. The daughter brought out some tea which she served first to her father and then me. The daughter went back to the kitchen. After a few minutes the mother and daughter emerged carrying large plates of food. The mother placed a plate of chicken, beef, and shrimp in the center of a flat glass wheel located at the center of the table. The daughter placed a bowl of rice, saucer, and chopsticks (including a fork just for me) in front of every place

Some of my earliest memories with my family take place around a dinner table. Back then, I sat in a booster seat, because the table towered over me like a skyscraper. One night, as I picked through my vegetables in hopes of identifying anything unworthy of eating, I couldn’t help but get distracted by my parents’ voices as they discussed adult things. For me, dinnertime was the part of the day that I spent scrutinizing every piece of food on my plate. For my parents, however, it was so much more; every night, they would sift through the details of their days, discussing and debating every topic in the world. I watched as they listened to each other intently, accepted each other’s ideas, and grew closer together. I desperately tried to understand their

This is it, the first day of school. For breakfast we cooked up eggs, bacon, and hash browns. For some reason, my father never ate his food in front of me; he just took his food to his room and ate it in there. Hungry for food? Certainly not, but I was hungry for ink. I certainly wouldn't want to deprive myself from ink, if I deprived myself from ink there was no telling what could happen. Telling my father that I was going to eat my food in my room like him. Letting me eat in my room, my father smiled at me.

People don’t realize the sad truth that I’ve been holding on for and secretly suffering with most of my life. People seem to see me as a girl that is naturally bubbly, happy, and outgoing. This was a way for me to hide my real emotions in the time when my depression and anxiety were major factors impacting my self-esteem, just a couple of years ago. So, yes, I admit it -- I was a victim of depression and anxiety. My anxiety has been occurring ever since I was a toddler. My usual anxious behavior would be when I would easily get nervous, wouldn’t talk that well in order to be understood, would go through emotional meltdowns at times, and so forth. My depression however, seem to connect a lot with my anxiety because of my meltdowns and it would easily bring my self-esteem down. One interesting fact about my depression is that it got extreme when I was in middle school. Many events in that time of my life made me feel absolutely worthless inside.