Sharing

The phone trilled, cutting through my fifth episode of “Duck Dynasty” like a screeching fishwife.

On the third ring I grudgingly picked it up.

I mean, it’s 2013. Why do we even have this??

“Hello? It’s Mrs. Alma. I’ve got some satsumas for y’all. I’m coming over.” Click.

Five minutes later, my petite, sweater-clad neighbor rang the doorbell. She held a hefty Wal-Mart bag of the sweet orange citruses.

“I can’t stay,” she said as she pressed the bag into my hands. “We had so many and I just thought you’d want some.”

With surprising speed, the octogenarian darted back to her home down the cul-de-sac.

The only thing sweeter than these satsumas is Mrs. Alma.

From the much-anticipated fig preserves Mrs. Debbie provides every summer to the wine and beer that accompany the Fontenot’s Friday evening porch gatherings, food and drink flow freely in my 16-house neighborhood.

Sharing food isn’t out of the ordinary.

When plaque paused Mrs. Helen’s heart, her neighbors quickly picked up the beat. Her home flooded with casseroles and cakes. Her husband didn’t go hungry.

There’s something special about giving food to one another. It ties us together, representing thanks, concern or well wishes. It shows how much we care.

In Louisiana, the kitchen is the heart of life; sharing food is equivalent of sharing love.

Coffee Time

The humid chill seeps through my sweatshirt as my friend mindlessly twirls an empty coffee cup side to side and debates the importance of graduating in four years. She misses the pointed look from a wandering barista. I guess he doesn’t feel our $3.98 pumpkin spice lattes justify a 3-hour campout.

I disagree.

Looking around, I notice the faces haven’t changed from my 11 a.m. arrival. The blonde teenager furrows her brow as she switches from yellow to lime green highlighters. A man in wrinkled plaid and jeans drags on another cigarette, earning a glare from his middle-aged neighbor leafing though the Wall Street Journal.

There’s something about coffeehouses that begs for marathon study sessions or drawn-out reunions. Maybe the fumes keep customers on an Energizer Bunny high, speaking, moving and sipping at heart-palpitation speed. Or it could be the free Wi-Fi.

Fueled by comforting scents of vanilla, hazelnut and mocha, coffee shop conversations dip into uncharted territories. They form the foundation of first dates and mend bridges of lapsed friendships.

Over the whirl of the coffee grinder, my friend feels safe enough to share fears of the future. Between sips, we reminisce about old memories and discuss the six months we have been apart. In the coffee shop, time stops.

Dia de los Muertos

While miniature American versions of superheroes, pirates and princesses head home to sleep off sugar-induced comas, Latin Americans south of the border flood into graveyards with candles, skeletons and mariachis.

Instead of the spooks and frights of Halloween, millions throughout Latin America celebrate the Day of the Dead on Nov. 1 and 2, a commemoration of friends and family members who have died.

“It’s not a morbid celebration at all,” history professor Stephen Andes said as he described celebrating the Day of the Dead in Sonora, Mexico. “At its core, it’s a celebration for family to get together to make a link with loved ones – even after they’re gone.”

During the two-day holiday, families visit the graves of deceased loved ones to clean the tombstones and decorate the sites with bright flowers and candles.

Celebrants work throughout the night.

Food contributes to a carnival-like atmosphere.

“There’s food vendors selling tamales and traditional candies like calaveras, or skulls made out of sugar,” Andes said.

Sugar skull candies range in intricacy.

Celebrants decorate the tombs and homemade altars with items that represent the deceased, Spanish professor and Costa Rican-native Lidia Byrd said.

“If they liked fruit, there’s fruit,” she said laughing. “If they liked tortillas, there are tortillas. If they liked mariachi, there are mariachis playing near the grave.”

Families also make pan de muerto, or bread of the dead, to eat at the gravesites, Byrd described. The sweet bread is flavored with anise seeds and decorated with sugar and bread pieces shaped like bones, which symbolize the dead.

Pan de muerto is traditionally served with coffee or hot chocolate.

The Day of the Dead’s emphasis on life is after death is a result of Mexican indigenous religions rather than a traditional part of Roman Catholicism.

“For us, when someone dies it is a continuation of the life,” Byrd said.

In an effort to obtain more Catholic converts, Spanish conquerors in the 1600s combined the Aztec celebration of the dead with the religious holidays of All Saint’s Day, Nov. 1, and All Soul’s day, Nov. 2.

The result, Andes said, is a holiday that is uniquely Latin American.

“I think you can see the Day of the Dead celebrates a lot more whimsical, lighthearted intimacy with death,” Andes said, contrasting the holiday to the American tradition of Halloween.

“Halloween is a completely different holiday. It’s all about being scary. They might be around the same time, but that’s not what Day of the Dead is about.”

Pulled to Tradition

I can count the number of weddings I have attended on one hand. Maybe two, including ceremonies I was young enough to witness in diapers.

But countless hours of “Cake Boss” and “Ace of Cakes” taught me the importance of buttercream frosting, fondant roses and intricate piping. Everyone pays attention to the wedding cake.

So following my oldest cousin Amanda’s incense-filled nuptial mass, I knew to keep an eye out for a white, sugary tower.

Found it.

The reception room pulsed with lights and body heat as Amanda and her ten bridesmaids surrounded the triple-tiered confection. Each grabbed a white satin ribbon that protruded from the cake.

With varying degrees of grace, the bridesmaids pulled, revealing silver charms. Licking off the extra icing, the women held up their prizes. Everyone cheered.

“What’s that?” a man who had acquainted himself with the open bar slurred.

“Cake pulls,” a fellow witness answered. “It’s a Southern thing. Very New Orleans.”

According to Southern tradition, each pull holds a special meaning.

The Victorian-influenced tradition is simple: guests select ribbons connected to silver charms. Each charm symbolizes a different meaning, from luck and prosperity to romance and upcoming marriage. Sometimes brides let guests pick at random, others select specific messages for pullers.

Amanda chose the latter, which is how one bridesmaid knew the significance of pulling a fleur de lis.

“It’s because I just moved to New Orleans,” she said. “It stands for a new beginning.”

As the bridesmaids moved away, Amanda and her new husband took their inaugural bites, missing once and laughing continuously.

Two hundred guests later, the cake was gone.

Trick or Treat?

Rip. Crunch. Chew. Swallow. Halloween candy disappears in mindless raze.

Even the most disciplined dietitians crumble in the sugar-soaked holiday’s wake. It’s impossible to stop with just one piece.

While ghosts and witches elicit screams and terror, the scariest part of Halloween lies in the bottom of pillowcases and plastic pumpkins. Seemingly innocent “fun-sized” chocolate bars and candy hold a horrifyingly high amount of fat, sugar and calories.

What’s worse, the individually wrapped treats rarely include nutritional information. Instead, companies list calories and ingredients on the wholesale bags.

So, before you inhale your sixth miniature Snickers, take a moment to realize what you’re putting into your body.

Halloween takes no prisoners.

Here’s some of Halloween’s most popular candies. Information from Cooking Light.

1. M&M’s Milk Chocolate Fun Size

73 calories, 2g saturated fat, 9.3g sugar

2. M&M’s Peanut Fun Size

90 calories, 1.8g saturated fat, 9g sugar

3. Hershey’s Milk Chocolate Fun Size 

77 calories, 2.7g saturated fat, 7g sugar

4. Branch’s Candy Corn

53 calories, 0g saturated fat, 11.7g sugar

5. Snickers Fun Size

80 calories, 1.5g saturated fat, 8.5g sugar

6. Sour Patch Kids Mini Bag

50 calories, 0g fat, 10g sugar

7. Baby Ruth Fun Size

85 calories, 2.3g saturated fat, 10g sugar

8. Tootsie Pop

60 calories, 0g saturated fat, 10g sugar (contains trans fat)

9. Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Snack Size

110 calories, 2.5g saturated fat, 11g sugar

10. Skittles Fun Size

60 calories, 0.7g saturated fat, 11.3g sugar

11. Almond Joy Snack Size

80 calories, 3g saturated fat, 8g sugar

12. Twix Fun Size

80 calories, 3g saturated fat, 8g sugar

13. Kit Kat Wafer Bar Snack Size

 70 calories, 2.3g saturated fat, 7g sugar

14. Starburst Fun Size

2 Starburst candies: 40 calories, 0.8g saturated fat, 6g sugar

15. Milk Duds Snack Size

53 calories, 1.2g saturated fat, 9g sugar

Losing Control

It’s a test: twelve choices of cold, creamy frozen yogurt.

Staring at my options, I debate between chocolate, peanut butter, pistachio and banana nut bread. Tough decision.

What keeps me up at night.

Seven sample cups later, I’m slightly full and increasingly torn. Pistachio it is.

I pull the lever and pour one, two, three swirls around the bathtub-sized “cup.” It’s time to move on to toppings.

In a move half science, half artistry, I add cookie dough and chocolate sprinkles to my froyo. My sister suggests condensed milk. I acquiesce.

The artist at work.

The combination scale/cash register reveals the damage. I walk away 6 oz. heaver and $4.37 lighter.

The first bite tastes heavenly; the second, just as good. But three bites into my masterpiece I hit a wall.

I’m full.

But I keep eating. By the time I finish, I’m uncomfortable.

I’ve always had difficulty with portion control. The deadly combination of eyes-bigger-than-stomach syndrome plus there’s-starving-children-in-Africa guilt created a supersized problem.

With its unlimited samples, massive cups and generous self-serve set-up, Yogurtland presents a particularly challenging environment.

However, it isn’t unique. Most restaurants and fast food chains offer more than we can, and should, chew. In the past twenty years alone, serving sizes increased by more than 30 percent.

Likewise, super stores like Sam’s Club and Costco fuel the portion distortion. We can buy more, so we do.

Curbing our appetites can be difficult, but it’s possible. Taking the time to consciously eat and enjoy each bite keeps us from overindulging.

Maybe if we prioritize quality over quantity, it will make eating a little sweeter.

Market Day

Rumbling thunder and sheets of rain clear the Red Stick Farmer’s Market as Karen makes a bumbling, halfhearted entrance. Sodden patrons dart from tent to tent, determined to scoop the freshest gourds and goat cheese. Vendors entrench themselves into Walmart folding chairs.

Frances Chauvin slowly counts her pies – blueberry, Granny Smith, pumpkin, coconut, cushaw – each sealed in store-brand bags. The 81-year-old turns to restock her dwindling display of shoe soles, crispy cinnamon and sugar-dusted pastries. Business was brisk before the rain.

Chauvin perks up as a woman emerges from the deluge. Without hesitation, she asks for pecan.

It is a wise choice.

“It’s for my momma and daddy,” the woman says as Chauvin bends down for a plastic bag. The customer describes how she makes every meal for her 86 and 87-year-old parents.

“I just like to surprise them every once in a while,” she says. “They were so good to me, and my momma really misses cooking.”

Her eyes seem moist. It could be the rain.

Drops of water from the tent ceiling distract Chauvin. Her pies are in danger.

A neighbor uses a bamboo pole to push the pockets of water over the edge of the tent, creating temporary waterfalls. Before Chauvin can ask for help, he walks over.

She gives him a thank you shoe sole.

The rain slacks as a middle-aged man toting a toddler walks up to Chauvin. She smiles and hands him a pre-bagged pie.

“He comes every weekend, pushing his father in a wheelchair,” Chauvin says quietly. “He lets his father pick out a pie and I hold it for them while they eat breakfast. His father has Alzheimer’s and would eat it right away otherwise.”

The pair walks off into the rain, the little boy stopping to step in each puddle.

Mixing It Up

It’s an away-game weekend. I’m home and have time to kill (read: procrastinating).

It’s going to be a fun night.

I rip open the bag and pour the mixture of flour, oats and chocolate chips into the bowl. One egg follows a stick of slightly chilled butter.

Cool butter creates a chewier cookie – a tip from pre-pariah Paula Deen.

The oven dings as I hurry to mix my ingredients. I flirt with salmonella and eat enough dough to make three cookies before lining the sheet with asymmetrical balls.

There really should be more on the sheet.

Within 20 minutes my warm, buttery confections are ready for a glass of milk.

I have a helper in the kitchen.

The simplicity and speed of cookie mixes make them bake sale fodder and sleepover staples. But when did it become normal to use pre-made mixes and bags instead of flour and elbow grease to make one of America’s most traditional treats?

Traditional? Wrong.

Despite cookies’ seventh century origins, mixing in chocolate chips only became popular in the 1940s. Massachusetts-baker Ruth Wakefield believed adding semi-sweet morsels would melt throughout the cookie. Instead, the chocolate retained its shape, and Toll House cookies were born. (Toll House Inn was where Wakefield made her chocolate masterpieces.)

Newspapers helped the cookie spread like wildfire, promoting the recipe as a classic New England dessert. Considering the recipe was less than a decade old, I’m assuming editors were exercising poetic license.

Meanwhile, companies like General Mills experimented with dry baking mixes. Problems with packaging and spoilage kept the mixes off the shelves until 1947, where the fictitious Betty Crocker debuted a ginger cake recipe.

Throughout the decades, Betty dominated the piping-hot cake and cookie-mix market. And while I am perfectly happy to let Betty do the heavy lifting, some prefer making the dessert from scratch.

For those wild souls, here is the original Wakefield recipe, courtesy of Serious Eats.

MRS. WAKEFIELD’S CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

Ingredients
• 2 ¼ cups (12.375 ounces) flour
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter
• ¾ cup (150 grams) brown sugar
• ¾ cup (150 grams) white sugar
• 2 eggs, beaten
• 1 teaspoon soda
• 1 teaspoon hot water
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 3 cups (18 ounces) semi sweet chocolate chips

Procedures
1. Sift flour together with salt and set aside.
2. Cream together butter and sugars. Add the eggs mixing until combined. Dissolve baking soda in hot water and add alternately with flour mixture. Add vanilla and mix until thoroughly combined. Stir in chocolate chips. Cover and refrigerate for 36 to 48 hours.
3. Preheat oven to 375°F. Scoop out rounded tablespoonfuls refrigerated dough and roll between hands into a ball. Place onto a parchment lined baking sheet and press ball down to flatten. Bake for 7 to 9 minutes or until golden brown. Cool cookies on the pan for 2 minutes then transfer to wire rack to cool completely.

Impressions

By all accounts it should have been a good evening.

The margaritas were strong and the salsa, spicy. The birthday girl’s quesadilla oozed Oaxaca, while fajitas sizzled and popped on the iron skillet.

And we couldn’t wait to leave.

Nothing compares to the taste of poor service.

The comedy of errors began as soon as we walked through the door, where the hostess explained that our party of nine would have to wait between 20 to 30 minutes. Fair enough. We parked at the bar and inhaled chips and tequila.

Twenty minutes passed – then 30. We bobbed our heads to the ‘90s cover band and looked longingly at two empty tables that could seat our small army. They were reserved.

Forty minutes into our wait, Birthday Girl called a vote: eat outside or prolong our fasts. We shuffled into the wake of a Louisiana typhoon and pushed two wet tables together.

Our server approached with peace offerings of chips and salsa. As she turned to leave, one member of our party asked for salt.

“Salt? I think we’re out,” the server said in thick Eastern European accent that dared us to question her again.

She returned with a salt refiller.

“It’s all we have,” she growled before taking our orders.

We would have to make do.

Assaulted by mosquitos and a blanket of humidity, we perked up as our plates emerged from the kitchen. But instead of the usual warnings accompanied by sizzling entrees, the server pushed hot plates into our hands.

Startled and slightly singed, silence took over the table as we satiated our hunger.

Two members of the party, however, could only watch everyone enjoy the food. The server delivered the wrong order of tortillas.

A request to the manager brought the server back with the correct tortillas and a visibly stormy attitude. We all cringed in our seats when she joked(?) that we should finish soon.

Taking the hint, we asked for the checks. The server collected our credit cards, and we waited. And waited. We joked about waiting and then waited some more.

Slightly concerned that the server had returned to the homeland with our cards, I flagged down one of her coworkers. After explaining our dilemma and giving a brief physical description, recognition lit our savior’s eyes.

“Oh, her,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll handle it.”

Uh oh. Within minutes she blustered out of the kitchen and threw the receipts at Salt Requestor, not even making an effort connect cards to owners.

We were eager to skip formalities, too.

Collecting our things, we ran out the door. The party was over.

Last Meal

We’ve just met and have already discussed the pleasantries of hometowns, mutual friends (or lack thereof) and  ridiculously oppressive heat. The beginning of an awkward silence hangs over the conversation like a buzzard.

I have to keep it at bay.

“If you were on death row, what would your last meal be?”

Sometimes the question surprises people, and they awkwardly answer predictable lobster. Others go whole hog. They envision Almas caviar, Kobe beef and the ice cream sundae they once saw on a Travel Channel food show.

I’m not really looking for a particular answer. Like all good questions, it’s meant to open a door and change dialogue.

It’s a trick I learned from my dad, a true conversation artist. As a teenager, I rolled my eyes and apologetically shrugged as Dad posed this question to each of my allegedly criminal friends. I thought learning someone’s last meal was pointless and awkward.

Today, I know better.

Some people use last meals to try something new or unattainable. They think, “If I don’t have it now, I’ll never try it.” These individuals are the go-getters, the experimentals. Their conversations travel to faraway countries and obscure dishes.

Others, like me, plan meals closer to home: Grandma’s rice and gravy or Dad’s gumbo. Their last meal embodies memories and relationships. These discussions move backward to family stories and favorite vacations.

We may not think of it often, but a person’s last meal connects us through universal experience of food. It dives into the meat of the conversation and gives deeper insight into memories and dreams. Ultimately, it leaves us feeling full or hungry for more.

Photo source: James Reynolds