I write this having just
signed my lease for the next
school year, petrified at the
prospect of having to cook for
myself EVERY DAY. Call it
lazy, characteristic of the weird
millennial-Gen Z hybrid I am
— I don’t care, I am the leftover
queen!
When
you’re
raised
by someone with a knack for
cooking sans the recipes, you
can’t help but feel like a fool
every time you enter the kitchen
(thanks Mom!). It’s more funny
than it is tragic — from making
playlists to slicing onions with
goggles on, I don’t think any
other activity better draws out
my creativity. However, I will
say that goggle situation was a
one-time thing. The true dream
team is the union between my
cooking and music.
Music is the key spice to all of
my recipes. I’m not particularly
adroit nor attentive in the
kitchen, so I’m certain my music
has
saved
countless
baked
goods. That being said, my
music taste for the moment can
get contextual. If I’m cooking
at my parents’ home over the
holidays, I’m inclined to listen
to Arabic music. It transports
me back to a Ramadan, my mom
pulling rotisserie chicken out of
the oven with the cold wafting
in from outside the way it did
10 years ago. Arabic music also
has a distinct character and
range to it, the energies shifting
from your characteristic love
song to unadulterated, unironic
patriotism. There was also a
point in the mid to late ’00s
where every Lebanese song
sounded like it came out of a
tropey spy movie — this is
my most ideal taste. It almost
elevates the task of rolling grape
leaves when Fares Karam is
blaring in the background over
a goblet drum.
More often, I have taken to
baking with my friend in her
apartment on Fridays. I consider
myself more of spoon licker in
these situations, occasionally
cracking the eggs or adding
a dash of cinnamon. But I
promise this bond is symbiotic.
These moments are when I feel
most like a DJ, cranking out my
very niche taste in rap music as
Makenzie works her magic with
the oven — we are now both
very enamored with Noname’s
Room25
and
snickerdoodles.
Numerous
Kendrick
Lamar
appearances also make their
way into this jam session as well
— I aggressively advocate for his
G.O.A.T status. The idea behind
this is for Makenzie to teach me
to bake as we exchange music
tastes, but it usually ends with
us lip syncing to 3OH!3’s “Don’t
Trust Me” and realizing what’s
in the oven.
I flounder in the summer
when it is necessary that I cook
on a daily basis. I have my fair
share of microwave magic, but
I’ll also occasionally turn to
sandwiches when I’m feeling
particularly
innovative.
The
sweet spot is breakfast foods —
it can’t get worse than a burnt
first pancake. This is where my
cooking music takes a turn for
the mundane and unexpected.
I’ll
find
myself
restrained
enough to listen to full length
albums or explore new artists
I
otherwise
wouldn’t
feel
inclined to. It makes for some
uncanny associations I can
never seem to rip apart. I refuse
to separate the scent of burnt
pizza with Tyler the Creator’s
Flower Boy.
I wouldn’t say I have any
interest in or hopes of becoming
a master cook, though I don’t
believe that has diminished
from
my
experiences
with
cooking. Beyond the hilarity
I attribute to my innumerable
defeats in the kitchen, some of
my best ideas for playlists and
opportunities to share music
root themselves here.
— Diana Yassin
I used to hate cooking, which,
in my Persian family where
the menu for dinner parties
was planned weeks in advance
and execution was an all-day
affair, was near blasphemy. But
I couldn’t deny it — I grew up
watching my various aunts, older
cousins and two grandmothers
bustle around different kitchen
backdrops cooking everything
from Zereshkt Polo (barberry
rice) to Bademjan (eggplant
and tomato stew) yet I could
never bring myself to recreate
these recipes back home. Part
of it was intimidation — Iranian
dishes are notoriously difficult
to make, and, since most recipes
are passed down between family
members, it’s hard to find the
best agreed upon recipe online.
Diving into a recipe that calls
for an array of herbs, different
types of beans and lamb without
really understanding how to
best cook the beans, sauté the
herbs and prepare the lamb is
a hassle at best and terrifying
at worst. However, most of
my
hesitation
came
from
the knowledge that I would
never be able to recreate the
atmosphere I saw surrounding
cooking in Iran. There, the
kitchen would be packed with
different
family
members,
each preparing or helping to
DIANA YASSIN
Daily Arts Writer
Our reflections on soundtracking in the kitchen
B-SIDE SECONDARY
‘Julie and Julia’ and the long legacy of food movies
After every movie, without
fail, I will watch the credits.
This originally started because
I
was
waiting
for
those
surprise Marvel endings, but
now it’s more about looking
for random people in the cast
like the interns and the other
background people who helped
bring the movie to life. Looking
back, though, one key cast
member is always missing: the
food. Maybe this is because
food isn’t a person or, more
likely, it’s because the movie
credits the prop or set designer
under which the responsibility
of food falls. The thing is,
food is always in movies and
always makes an appearance.
It’s an A-list star that gets
less attention than the intern
making coffee runs
“Julie
and
Julia”
is
a
movie that emphasizes the
role of food in our lives in
an extreme way, yet never
actually
acknowledges
its
part in building the movie. It
starts with Julie Powell (Amy
Adams, “Enchanted”) deciding
to cook all 542 recipes in Julia
Child’s (Meryl Streep, “The
Post”) “Mastering the Art of
French Cooking.” Not only
does the food serve as a catalyst
in Julie’s life, but it’s also the
thread that holds the whole
film together. Without it, there
is
no
connection
between
Julie and Julia, and there is
no movie. “Julie and Julia”
also carries the distinct air of
a romantic comedy, but both
characters have already found
their “one.” So what gives? It
could be the fact that “Julie and
Julia” is a Nora Ephron movie,
but I think it’s because we are
still watching two characters
fall in love — just with food
instead of a person.
Another part of food that
“Julie
and
Julia”
captures
beautifully
is
its
dynamic
relationship
with
someone.
Turning something as simple
as a piece of beef into beef
bourguignon or killing a live
lobster is an intimate process
that brings Julie closer to food
and, subsequently, the audience.
Together, we go through the
same emotional turmoil when
the stew is ruined, or a freshly
murdered lobster is slathered
in butter for our enjoyment.
Not only that, but food is also
used as a tool of empowerment
for Julia. As a woman in 1950s
Paris trying to break into the
cooking world, a mostly male-
dominated profession, she has
her work ahead of her, but food
doesn’t
discriminate.
Food,
instead, is Julia’s key to a life
that is more than just being a
diplomat’s housewife.
Julia Child and food also
have a unique relationship:
Before
her,
food
wasn’t
recognized as widely in the
media as it is today. There were
no “cooking shows” or Food
Network. So, while we may owe
our enjoyment of media to food,
food owes its own media legacy
to Julia Child.
It could be argued that the
way food gets used is up to the
directors and producers, but
that is true for all actors. In the
same way that an actor’s talent
can get lost in a director’s
vision, so too can the essence
of food. We can see in reality
television
shows
like
“The
Kardashians” that food isn’t so
much of an art as it is a spark for
drama. Heated arguments are
made over Waldorf salads while
family announcements occur at
a backyard dinner. One of the
more iconic dramatizations of
food is a drink thrown in anger,
frustration or even just plain
fun.
Other
times,
food’s
role
as
a
character
(like
in
“Julie and Julia”) isn’t as
important as its place in a
character’s personality. Take
“Gilmore Girls,” for instance.
Lorelai
(Lauren
Graham,
FILM NOTEBOOK
prepare a dish. Cooking was
an
extravagant
affair,
the
clamour of different voices
climbing over each other and
multiple appliances clanking
against pots and pans serving
as a constant soundtrack to the
whole endeavor. There was no
appeal in coming back to my
silent kitchen and attempting
to make these meals if I knew
the most important part of the
meal — the company — would be
missing.
I
cannot
tell
you
what
changed this past summer,
what shift in mindset caused
me to wholeheartedly start to
love cooking. Perhaps it was my
resolve to leave Persian recipes
behind for the time being and
turn to more friendly dishes.
Perhaps it was my discovery
that music could just as easily
replace the chatter and the
clamour I had grown up with.
Or perhaps it was a little bit
of both that caused me to
dedicate the empty stretches of
late afternoon that oftentimes
come during summer months
to
learning
and
mastering
recipes I stumbled upon online.
Most importantly, the songs
that accompanied my cooking
helped make the food more
intimately mine, tumbling out
of my speakers and providing
me the company I needed to
enjoy my time alone in the
kitchen.
The
first
recipe
I
truly
mastered, the one that was most
integral in changing how I felt
about cooking, was the French
dish ratatouille. When I first
started learning, it was deep in
the middle of this past summer,
and both Playboi Carti’s Die
Lit and Parquet Courts’s Wide
Awake
had
just
dropped.
Ratatouille
is
essentially
a
summer vegetable medley —
a mix of eggplant, zucchini,
tomato
and
onion.
I
have
memories of walking down to
Lucky’s Market to gather the
vegetables
with
songs
like
“Shoota” or “Mardi Gras Beads”
blaring out of my headphones.
Unlike most French cooking,
ratatouille does not have a
set recipe; rather, it differs
depending on the cook. The
only aspect of ratatouille that
is definitive is the detail that
makes its flavor so distinctive
(and worth the long cooking
time): all the vegetables are
oven roasted separately, well-
bathed in olive oil and then
roasted together again in order
to revive the flavors. It is a dish
that is simultaneously very easy
— it’s only roasted vegetables,
after all — and very difficult:
These
roasted
vegetables
have to be prepared, chopped
and seasoned with care in
order for the best flavors to
come out. I found that playing
slower songs — “Nakamarra”
by Hiatus Kaiyote and “The
Bird” by Anderson .Paak come
to mind — when prepping
the
ingredients
helped
me
achieve the best results. “A
bird with a word came to me /
The sweetness of a honeycomb
tree,” .Paak croons, and it was
near impossible to not pause
whatever I was cutting at the
moment and take a step back,
knife held aloft, and assess the
scene around me in relation to
the smooth groove of the song.
Everything was harmonious:
The underlying bright jazz
instrumental matched the hue
of the vegetables spread across
the cutting board, the late
afternoon breeze entering my
sun-drenched apartment was
as light as .Paak’s voice. It felt
good to be cooking this dish in
this moment. It felt right.
The total time to make
ratatouille
hovers
around
three
to
four
hours.
The
majority of this comes from
the extensive period you have
to let the vegetables bake in
the oven. Therefore, for all
the time you spend actually
cooking ratatouille, you spend
even longer waiting for it to be
done. To distract myself from
opening the oven every five
seconds, I usually soundtracked
this period with songs that
announced
themselves
with
intensity.
Vegetables
stewed
under sprigs of rosemary and
thyme. I let Princess Nokia’s “I
don’t give a fuck” attitude in
“Flava” rattle the walls of my
studio. I tried to teach myself
to dance to The Pharcyde
“Soul Flower” remix (failing
miserably). I watched as Young
Thug’s “Memo” serenaded the
sunset. And finally it was time
to eat what I had made.
Kendrick
Lamar
and
De
La Soul, Frank Ocean and
Toro Y Moi, Mos Def and
KAYTRANADA
...
most
of
the music I usually like to
listen to in the summer has
now inexplicably been tied
to cooking ratatouille in my
cramped kitchen, excited for
whatever the rest of the night
had in store for me with warm
weather still feeling like it
would last forever. I still very
much enjoy cooking now. The
months have turned icy, but
ratatouille,
and
the
music
that for a short period of time
turned empty space into one
filled with life and sound, will
always remind me of why I fell
in love with the art of cuisine
in the first place — music and
food blending together to create
flavors I never knew existed.
— Shima Sadaghiyani
WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
WIKIMEDIA COMMONS
“Parenthood”)
and
Rory
(Alexis Bledel, “Handmaid’s
Tale”) are known for their
voracious appetites, and much
of the show’s plot occurs
either at Luke’s diner over a
hamburger or Friday night
dinners
with
Emily
(Kelly
Bishop,
“Bunheads)
and
Richard (Edward Herrmann,
“American
Dad”).
Food
is
present throughout the entire
show, and not once has anyone
stopped to consider just how
critical it is to the success of
the characters — it makes them
relatable and quirky and brings
the audience closer to the
Gilmore family.
Whether
it’s
the
main
sticking point for a movie or
a defining characteristic for
a lovable TV personality, the
best part of food in film and
television is the fact that there
is no drama. Food doesn’t,
and
will
never,
care
that
Hollywood has never given it
any recognition. All it really
wants is to be there for us
when family drama comes to a
head during a holiday romantic
comedy or a character needs
some kind of quirky hobby. The
least we can do is appreciate
the steam curling up from a
soup or the satisfying first taste
of a new dish, both in film and
in life.
COLUMBIA PICTURES
SHIMA SADAGHIYANI
Daily Music Editor
EMMA CHANG
Daily Arts Writer
6B — Thursday, December 6, 2018
Arts
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com