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Arts
Wednesday, October 13, 2021 — 5
Content warning: Disordered eating
Writing was how I defined myself before
food was all that mattered. I was a writer.
This was the part of me that connected to the
world outside of myself, what I thought about
and what I wanted to do. I lived to tell stories.
They could be stories I made up, stories of
other people or stories of my own. It wasn’t
something I questioned or decided to care
about; it had always been there, as much a part
of me as my arms and hair and stomach.
I have thought many times about what
caused the descent that stripped me of
everything I once cared for, including my art.
I hated getting bigger from as long ago as I
can remember. I compared myself to everyone
at least as far back as my time on a gymnastics
team. In middle and high school, I was shy
and not good at connecting with people, and
instead of trying to get better, I told myself I
had nothing to offer. My personality was not
enough. Being good at writing certainly wasn’t
enough. I didn’t know how to improve those
things, but people told me I was pretty, so I
clung to the hope that I would find respect and
friendship by being “the pretty one.” I thought
that since people commented on it, if I could
improve my body, make it perfect, then it
would somehow solve all my problems.
My body mattered before food did, but
then the two became tangled together and
impossible to separate. Creativity stopped
mattering and turned scary. It was something I
couldn’t control. I never knew if it would come
to my rescue or push me away, making me feel
worthless. I stopped hoping for inspiration in
favor of control. So the mirror and the scale
and whether I ate only soup for dinner the
night before became ways of determining how
I was allowed to feel, what I was allowed to
do, what I could eat and what stricter rules I
would implement for myself.
It might seem like disordered eating would
leave you with more time. If I was eating less,
becoming less, food would take up less space in
my life. Instead, it took over and erased every
other part of me. I spent less time eating, but I
spent every second of every day thinking about
food, and everything else that once mattered
faded away. How could something as trivial
as my artistic pursuits matter when I was
missing something I needed to survive?
I did not realize I was being drained of
my passion for writing at first. There was a
wilting part of my brain that still liked the
idea of telling stories, but I had no energy to do
it myself, and even if I had, I would not have
known what to write about.
I still said that I liked writing, but at the end
of high school, when the writing program I
was in concluded, I had no plans to continue
the craft. I was preoccupied with scheduling
times to go to the gym and filling the tiring
hours of the afternoons trying to satisfy my
hunger with vivid images of eating chocolate
cake. The world around me that had once
ignited ideas in my mind was bleak, and I
didn’t notice that I stopped having ideas
because there was no spare room in my head
for them.
Advice books for writers said to “write
what you know” and “find a subject you care
about,” but the only thing I knew was the pain
of being consumed by thoughts of food, and I
couldn’t write about it, because I didn’t want it
to matter.
I hated the part of me that cared so much
about it and, beyond not finding a subject I
loved, writing itself was no longer a part of
me or a way to explore my world. Besides, that
world had turned so far inward and became
focused on something I couldn’t write about,
even if I wanted to.
In my second semester of college, years
after I started to lose my passion for writing,
I could go several hours at a time without
thinking about when and what I would eat
next. I still cared about my disordered eating,
but my fascination involved looking back on
my experience from the other side. I wanted
to express myself again, to say what I had felt
when I was trapped inside a body I refused to
love.
But even when my experience was easier to
talk about, it didn’t feel worth writing about.
I considered discussing eating disorders on
the YouTube channel I had at the time or
working my experiences into open-ended
school assignments involving writing. But
when I tried to do any research, it upset me
and I wanted to distance myself from the topic
completely.
Getting over my ruinous relationship with
food did not bring my passion for writing back.
It left an empty space, and my brain was not
accustomed to feeling joy from an activity
other than eating after starving. My art
became strictly scheduled. I finished a draft
of a novel, a thousand and then five hundred
words at a time, over the course of the summer.
I didn’t know if I cared about the novel — I still
don’t — but I enjoyed some of the writing.
Getting into descriptions brought me joy.
I never wrote more than I had to, never kept
going because I was enveloped by a scene.
I worried about the fact that if I didn’t force
myself to do the things I claimed to love, I would
not do them out of my own desire. The constant
anxious tension that came with disordered
eating had left, but nothing had taken its place.
A few nights ago, I was having a good
night. My work was done, and I gave myself
permission to relax and do nothing at all for
the next few hours before I went to bed. I
considered watching a show or reading a book,
but I was itching for something else, and I
knew that wouldn’t be satisfying. I wanted to
do something, something of my own. I wanted
to create something and put it out into the
world instead of just taking things in.
I’ll admit— if Nicolas Cage cooked a meal
for me, I’d be a little weirded out, but I’d still
be flattered. Yet that’s exactly what he does
in Michael Sarnoski’s debut film “Pig.” The
premise is refreshingly odd. Reclusive truffle-
hunter Rob Feld (Cage, “Willy’s Wonderland”)
has his beloved truffle-hunting pig stolen,
and he embarks on a journey into his past life
to get it back. The film is an inversion of the
classic revenge story: Think “John Wick,” but
instead of the protagonist brutally murdering
his animal-abusing enemies, he shows them
empathy and compassion through the act of
cooking. In this film about grief and loss, food
takes center stage.
Human emotion and food are inextricable
from one another in “Pig.” Prior to retreating
into the Oregon wilderness, Feld was a
world-renowned chef, revered for his ability
to cook soul-piercing meals. However, after
the death of his wife, Feld became a recluse.
Nevertheless, food remains his love language,
a language made more potent by the tragedies
he’s suffered. And what language is more
savory than a lovingly prepared meal?
The act of cooking for another human being
is inherently selfless, and there’s a certain
vulnerability that comes with cooking: You’re
offering up your own labor to be enjoyed,
or critiqued, by others. There’s always that
tortuous moment when you’re waiting with
bated breath as your diner takes their first
bite. Do you like it? Is it okay? Do you want
more? Does it need more seasoning? These are
questions you need the answers to, but don’t
dare to ask.
Cooking is more than an act of vulnerability,
though; it’s an undertaking steeped in
empathy. How can you prepare a meal without
taking into consideration the needs of the
person you’re serving? How much avocado
should I use? Should I poach or scramble these
eggs? Is this too much oregano? Queries with
no purpose beyond the enjoyment of the guest.
Throughout “Pig,” Feld capitalizes on
food’s capacity to foster human connection,
and he uses his past as a chef to tease out
others’ dearest emotions. When the wealthy
businessman Darius (Adam Arkin, “Sons
of Anarchy”), who orchestrated the theft of
Feld’s pig, refuses to release it, Feld doesn’t
retaliate. Instead, he prepares a meal he had
served Darius and his now-comatose wife
years earlier. Previously, the meal (pigeon with
foraged wild mushrooms and huckleberries,
for those wondering) had a profound impact on
Darius, essentially revitalizing his marriage.
Now, Feld has cooked it again and sits down
with Darius to enjoy it. You know that scene
in “Ratatouille” where Remy’s dish launches
the antagonistic food critic into a series of fond
childhood flashbacks? This was basically that
scene, with food being the warmth that thaws
the frozen heart.
Comparisons to “Ratatouille” aside, this
scene in “Pig” prods at a fundamental truth:
Sharing a meal with another person is a deeply
intimate event. Once you finally take your
place at the table beside those you’ve served,
there’s a shared experience, the millions of
tastebuds of each person lighting up in unison.
I have this habit of being acutely aware of
the finite amount of time I have with those
I love. Every so often, I’ll get this feeling,
almost like a premonition: “Good god, I’m
going to miss this so much.” As a result, I tend
to mourn the absence of these “good times”
before they’ve actually passed. It heightens my
appreciation for the present moment: I clutch
these memories-to-be more tightly, love those
around me more deeply and hold them closer
to my heart. This is how I’ve come to feel about
the nightly dinners my housemates and I have.
Homemade ice cream is the
center of my life. Since starting my
summer job at a tiny family-owned
shop four years ago, homemade
ice cream has become my source
of peace. It grounds me and calms
me in any place and any situation.
When I travel, the first place I hit is
the destination’s signature ice cream
shop. Local ice cream stores, with
their homey air of familiarity, can
be serene. But the stores are also
exciting, immersing customers into
the culture of their community with
friendly scoopers, uniquely local
flavors and close neighborhood ties.
In my first month at the University
of Michigan, ice cream from Ann
Arbor’s local and family-owned
shops kept me sane.
On my first night of college, I
headed straight to Blank
Slate
Creamery.
Being
there reminded me of why
I chose the University. It
was loud and teeming with
young people, as much of
Ann Arbor is, but the warm
aroma of waffle cones,
cookies
and
brownies
surrounded me like a warm
hug.
Cute
chalkboards
covered in the writing
of friendly patrons and
servers covered the shop. Flavors
like Apple Cinnamon Crisp invited
me into my first midwestern fall,
while Wolverine Tracks reminded
me of the overwhelming spirit of
Ann Arbor. Browned Butter Cookie
Dough was so rich and comforting
that I (almost) saved some for
the
impending
first-day-of-class
breakdown.
University alumn Janice Sigler,
along with son Nate Nuttle and
husband
Jerry
Sigler,
opened
Blank Slate, an all-natural and all-
homemade ice cream store, in 2014.
Since then, the family has become
an invaluable member of the Ann
Arbor small business community
and invaluable to the life of many
students and local regulars. In their
eight years, the family has grown
closer to one another and stayed true
to Ann Arbor.
“It’s been eight years, and I’m
still kind of dumbfounded by the
opportunity that the community has
given us … but also by the opportunity
I was given by my own family, having
built this place,” said Nuttle, Blank
Slate’s operations manager, in an
interview with The Daily.
The
family
sources
local
ingredients ranging from RoosRoast
coffee, to HOMES Brewery beer, to
Frog Holler produce and Guernsey
Farms Dairy. Through their focus
on community, Blank Slate uplifts
fellow local businesses.
“We get to share each other’s
customers,” Nuttle noted. “When we
worked with HOMES Brewery, that
was a big partnership for us, because
people who go to HOMES might not
go to Blank Slate, and people who go
to Blank Slate might not know about
HOMES yet.”
On the third night of Welcome
Week, I walked the literal and
figurative “lonely road” of State
Street to my current campus favorite:
Michigan
Creamery.
Michigan
Creamery reminded me so much of
my workplace that I almost called
my boss (largely because I wanted
to steal their creative flavors for
next summer). It has the perfect
diner feel, with bright blue walls,
fun colorful lighting, a mural of Ann
Arbor and just about every ice cream
and chocolate treat imaginable. As
I dug into my Detroit Grand Slam
ice cream (salted caramel espresso
swirl with espresso chocolate flakes),
heaped with hot fudge, I worried
that I’d feel painfully nostalgic for my
classic American summers. Instead,
I felt content.
While employees do not make the
ice cream or chocolates on-site, they
locally source all products.
“All of our products are Michigan
made,” owner and manager Sarah
Seta proudly emphasized in an
interview with The Daily.
The sense of artisanship and
Michigan loyalty permeates the
store, which Sarah and Jim Seta
opened on State Street in 2012.
They provide treats, discounts and
funding for local schools, churches
and nonprofits while employing
many
University
students
and
serving students stumbling down
State Street into the late night. Their
stunning display of Alpine Chocolat
Haus artisan chocolates and lineup
of coffee treats from local
favorite Bearclaw Coffee
has customers wondering
if two desserts are too
much (it never is).
“Everyone
that
we deal with are also
family-owned
local
businesses. So we relate
to the way they run their
businesses,” Seta said.
“And their products are
exceptional.”
If you say you like ice cream, every
local will steer you to Washtenaw
Dairy. As I sat down to write this
article, I realized I had never visited.
But as soon as I walked in, I never
wanted to leave. In the best possible
way, it feels like somewhere a
grandparent would take you on a hot
summer day. Vintage posters cover
the dark wood-paneled walls. Next
to the rows of Stroh’s homemade ice
cream (a Detroit classic) and lines of
fresh donuts and coffee, is the perfect
little town store, with dairy products,
wine and beer (in kegs too!)
You’re
standing
before
your
stovetop, spatula in hand as the oil
begins to heat up in your pan, the sun
already setting and casting a shadow
of the clock tower across from your
kitchen window. Your stomach and
the burner growl in anticipation as
you scroll through your playlists,
looking for the perfect song to start
your cooking: one hand clutching a
bowl of ingredients just inches away,
ready to be stir-fried, the other hand
hovering above your phone screen,
deciding
between
the
melodic
gems of Brazilian Samba or Spanish
Bolero.
Yes, the dinner playlist — it
certainly necessitates such delicate
attention. It’s much like the indecisive
shower-goer
moments
before
stepping into the heat of the bath,
one foot dry, one foot wet, frantically
making their mind up on what songs
might fill their eight-minute scrub.
The
dinner
playlist
(otherwise
known as the cooking playlist, or
songs to fry to, slice-n-dice tunes, the
chef’s curation, a “vin et fromage”
soundtrack, if you will) differs from
a selection of shower melodies in
that it isn’t a simple block of sound
to fill a space of time with but rather
a deliberate curation of music that
builds upon and improves a mood or
a feeling.
The division of time in the creation
of a dinner vibe, the ambiance and
the adherence to an established
aesthetic (Italian food necessitates
not just pasta but Dean Martin’s
“That’s Amore,” of course) all point
to an effort to fit pieces together into
a feeling. From the taste of cast-iron-
crisped rosemary focaccia to the
music filling the incursion from start
to finish in accordance with a style. As
we curate a playlist of all our favorite
hits, an image forms of what we want
our 7-9 p.m. attempts at the culinary
arts to look and feel like. Music is the
dancer that accompanies us in our
deep-seated need to romanticize, to
aestheticize, to create excitement in
the mundane.
Cooking,
and
by
extension
“dinner,” is a start-to-finish journey,
a commitment. First, there’s the
careful selection of a recipe from your
TikTok recipe favorites or, perhaps,
your YouTube channel “Binging
with Babish” video bookmarks. Then,
you take to purchasing ingredients
days in advance from a corner store
farmer’s market or the endless aisles
of a supermarket. Finally, comes
the mental preparation, the actual
preparation and the ceremonious
start, the waiting, the checking, the
re-checking, the plating and then
sitting down with the end product:
dinner.
What better way to spend time
agonizing over the perfect sear on
a steak or the rising of a levain bread
than with the faithful sounds of the
music that has accompanied us in
every comfort, discomfort and those
moments in between in our lives?
Maybe, you’re listening to the
folk of Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon” or
the soul on Marvin Gaye’s “What’s
Going On” on repeat while eating stale
crackers and cheese because you’re
trying to get closer to home than you’d
ever thought possible.
Maybe it’s The Beatles, Bob Dylan,
Hendrix, The Velvet Underground,
Fleetwood Mac, Stevie Wonder and
Elton John — the music your father
played set to the ill attempts at cooking
he too employed in his dinner nights
for you as a kid.
Maybe you instead require the
up-beat tunes your mom included
alongside her culinary endeavors,
with Diana Ross, Janet Jackson,
Madonna, Phil Collins and Bowie.
Maybe you’re even a culinary prodigy,
and Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” plays
as you compose your symphony of
eclectic plating decisions — complete
with an internal monologue worthy
of a Chef’s Table voiceover narrating
your life’s work.
Or maybe the dinner is instead just
a blank canvas for your body’s beat,
and to fill that is the dance tunes of
House or Techno, pop like Dua Lipa
or Justin Bieber, Ariana Grande,
Rina Sawayama or songwriters with
screamable melodies: Rodrigo, Eilish,
The Weekend, a music video for
whatever recipe pops to mind at 7:45
p.m. Maybe classics like Patti Smith,
Elliot Smith, Joni Mitchell and PJ
Harvey set the singer-songwriter
stage for a night you wish was rainy,
ending with a warm pan shakshuka
with flatbread.
Whether we like to admit it or
not, the music we choose to play says
something about ourselves, just as the
food we decide to cook does.
In a restaurant, selection is an
ill-afforded luxury. Although menu
items come aplenty, your options are
limited to just that: choices on paper.
The food comes cooked by another’s
attention, wine or beer poured by
somebody else’s steady hand. And
the music is carefully curated by the
Top 40 hits on Spotify the manager
has been getting really into ever since
they discovered the term “boomer,”
and realized that it can indeed be
applied to 32-year-olds. But in our
own kitchens and our own dining
tables, music is chosen by us, as is the
food we decide to serve.
Maybe
your
soundtrack
of
choice is none at all. You opt for
silence
because
the
auditory
pleasures of food cooking mere
inches away from your ears is
certainly enough to fill the silence
of the evening. Some might call you
weird, but you know in your heart
of hearts the sizzling of onions in
a pan preparing for your signature
roasted garlic pasta sauce brings
just as much joy as the sizzling of
Doja Cat on a heartbroken trap
beat. The dinnertime playlist is
not for you, then. But no matter,
because you appreciate the beauty
of the mundane, this everyday
shakedown of routine into a
masterful seduction of flavors and
tastes and spices and textures.
Dinner is hard, making it is hard
and no matter how hard we try to
decorate the time with artsy plating,
Instagram-worthy setups and the
music we listen to, it does get quite
boring. We get restless, tired and
exhausted from the whims of our
lives.
Disordered eating and the death of my creativity
Love is the secret ingredient in ‘Pig’
Exploring Ann Arbor’s local ice cream
scene to find home
Deconstructing the dinner playlist
ERIN EVANS
Daily Arts Contributor
TATE LAFRENIER
Daily Arts Writer
KAYA GINSKY
Daily Arts Contributor
CONOR DURKIN
Daily Arts Writer
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Design by Elizabeth Yoon
Design by Erin Shi
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