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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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