Food as Art

One cannot begin to discuss the events of humankind without including food, be it the bison of Tuc D'Audoubert, the apple in the Garden of Eden, the Last Supper, the fall of Rome, the French Revolution or the Russian revolution of 1917 (“Bread, Peace and Land” was the rallying cry). Without argument, food has been and will continue to be at the core of the human experience.

Tom Standage does an excellent job in detailing the role food has played in shaping world events in his well-written book, “An Edible History of Humanity.” He cleverly describes food as the “invisible fork” that has “prodded humanity and altered its destiny.” Standage explains:

“To the discerning eye, food’s historical influence can be seen all around us, and not just in the kitchen, at the dining table or in the supermarket. That food has been such an important ingredient in human affairs might seem strange, but it would be far more surprising if it had not: after all, everything that every person has ever done, throughout history, has literally been fuelled by food.”

Understandably then, food, prose and verse have been married since the first word was committed to parchment. Our exposure to food and the written word begin at an early age with childhood rhymes like Miss Muffet’s curds and whey; Jack Horner’s plum pie; Little Tom Tucker’s white bread and butter; Peter’s pumpkin; and Sam’s green eggs and ham.

In the hands of a skilled writer, food can play a pivotal role in propelling a story forward, like Scarlett O’Hara’s fiery oath: “... If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never be hungry again.” Food can also be used quietly to explore a character’s cultural background. Amy Tan, for example, used food in “The Joy Luck Club” as a symbol for a mother’s love of her daughter.

That same idea of food as love and family was repeated in the Taiwanese film, “Eat Drink Man Woman” (and its remake, “Tortilla Soup”). Other books and films carrying on with the theme include the deliciously filmed German movie “Mostly Martha;” “Big Night;” “Like Water for Chocolate;” and “Pieces of April.”

Food is sensual and sexy as in “Chocolat” (more so the film version than the novel); “Dandelion” (originally “Tampopo”); “Woman on Top;” “Waitress;” and “Tom Jones.”

Food is sinful: “Vatel;” “La Grande Bouffe;” “The Cook the Thief His Wife & Her Lover;” and “Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs.”

Food is life-altering as “Babette's Feast,” “Julie and Julia;” “The Chinese Feast;” “Fish Fall in Love;” and “Ratatouille.”

And of course food can always be used as a shock factor, as in Günter Grass’ “The Tin Drum” when Oskar’s mother kills herself by gorging on fish and eels. Thomas Harris’ wickedly delightful Hannibal Lecter creates a howl with his recollection of a fine meal: “A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

In a terrific column on the role of food and literature, scholar Jonathan C. David explains:

“Because food customs call forth such a labyrinth of associations on the part of individual writers, and because the inherent sensuality of food involves not only the senses of smell and taste, but also the other senses, food is capable of evoking an avalanche of memories and feelings. Food imagery may appear, therefore, in literature as a source of deeply embedded associations that lead into the depths of individual and cultural memory.”

I found another enlightening essay at enotes.com exploring the ancient interplay between food and poetry: “Food has been a topic of poetry for many centuries and in many cultures; the notion that food writing and poetry writing are totally separate ventures is a recent development. Much of our knowledge of eating habits, culinary practices, and food taboos throughout history and around the world comes from poetry. Food in poetry also functions as a powerful symbol of spiritual and moral states, and at other times it is used as a sexual symbol.”

The Public Broadcasting System (PBS) delves more deeply into the subject of food in art and life with a very insightful, educational, entertaining website, The Meaning of Food. A great resource site, The Meaning of Food “is an exploration of culture through food. What we consume, how we acquire it, who prepares it, who’s at the table, and who eats first is a form of communication that is rich with meaning.”

Included in that site PBS has a fun slideshow dedicated to food in literature, citing classics such as James Joyce’s “Ulysses;” Miguel de Cervantes’ “Don Quixote;” Geoffrey Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales;” and John Steinbeck’s “East of Eden.”

Whether writing poetry or for the page, stage or screen, don’t overlook the powerful role food plays in our daily lives. As novelist and playwright J.B. Priestly so perfectly summed up life:

“We plan, we toil, we suffer - in the hope of what? A camel-load of idol's eyes? The title deeds of Radio City? The empire of Asia? A trip to the moon? No, no, no, no. Simply to wake just in time to smell coffee and bacon and eggs.”

If you don’t know how to cook, that’s okay. There’s no better time than the present to start experimenting and learning the “joy of cooking.” You’re life and your art will definitely benefit from it.

Here’s a great jumping off point where food and literature truly come together: “A Feast of Words: For Lovers of Food and Fiction” by Anna Shapiro. Shapiro has created inventive menus to accompany the pleasures of reading Proust, Dickens, Melville, and Charlotte Bronte. Over 50 recipes for such delights as Quail with Potaoes and Grapes ("Babette's Feast"); Lamb a la Robin (“David Copperfield”), and Meat Tart (“Ethan Frome”) accompany essays which expound upon the importance of food in such masterpieces as Anna Karenina, Moby Dick, and Jane Eyre.

Here’s to good cheer, good company and good food and great art!

Other resources:

Food in the arts

The Long History of Food in Art

Food and Eating in the Movies:

Better Food Writing: Adjectives

The Function of Food in Mediaeval German Literature

"Burying the Dead" - A poem by Donald G. Redman

“Burying the Dead”
By Donald G. Redman

You should decide what to keep and what to leave for dead
Before you pack all your crap in boxes and seal them up like coffins.
But I hadn’t done that; I’d crammed all my possessions haphazardly
Like an evacuee fleeing a hurricane.

I settled into a bombed-out apartment, my precious junk
Still in boxes strewn about like caskets after a flood.
A naked bulb dangled above,
Casting an ugly white light on the carnage below.

The windows were stripped bare so the whole world could see in.
The wooden floors needed to be refinished and
I thought maybe I’d do that before the furniture arrived,
But who was I kidding.

It was cold outside, gray, and getting dark.
A good day for a funeral.
But first I had to pry open those damned boxes like a grave robber and
Loot the valuables before I could dispose of the corpses.

A small box branded “Important!” laid disemboweled on the floor.
It had held the corkscrew I was now using to open
The first of several cheap bottles of red wine
I intended to spill that night.

But what good is it to mark where the corkscrew is buried
When you forget to label the crate with the wineglasses?
Screw it.
I’m not above drinking from the bottle.

I’d seen the winos on Camp Street do that –
Drink straight from bottles shrouded in brown paper bags.
That was back before the Warehouse District got so gentrified.
Before the World’s Fair came.

Every Friday as I left work I’d see them milling about Camp Street
With upturned grins and upturned bottles.
Come Monday I’d find them passed out in doorways or hobbling,
Battered, bruised and bandaged.

I shoveled through the box with the corkscrew
And dug up a portable clock radio and plugged it in.
Townes Van Zandt was singing “Nothin.’”
I walked to the window to peer out, but only saw my reflection.

I was well into my wine when
I unearthed a squat, metal penny bank.
It was from my youth, a safe to store my valuables
Though I apparently never considered money valuable.

My parents had been purging their house of artifacts
From our childhood, returning shit to their rightful owners.
The safe was mine and so I had the burden of carrying it
Around like a cremation urn.

The door was sealed shut by a tiny combination lock.
I turned the bank upside down and discovered I had been trusting in my youth,
Or I had been forgetful.
Printed in black permanent ink: 24-14-3.

I opened the vault and withdrew a plastic bag
Stuffed with envelopes in lavender.
I knew instantly what they were:
Love letters from a romance I had long left for dead.

After our relationship had returned to dust
I apparently had been unable to destroy the letters
And instead entombed them inside a toy bank.
That’s why you don’t let the living bury the dead.

It must have been out of morbid curiosity
That I opened the bag.
Almost immediately my nostrils were filled with
The intoxicating scent of perfume.

Like a lover preparing his beloved’s funeral attire,
My old self had arranged the letters neatly, orderly,
And placed them within the crypt in chronological order,
Embalmed in her perfume.

Nina Simone was casting a spell on me from the radio.
Perfume filled the air like hoodoo incense
And my old girlfriend was suddenly standing there,
A ghost in the corner of my room.

Maybe I was thinking I could resurrect the dead;
I slowly removed the envelopes from the body bag
And began reading the letters one by one,
Starting with the first letter I had ever received from her.

Of course she had promised me her undying love
And hearing her whisper those words once more
Made me want to believe all over again.
But they were after all just empty promises ushered from the grave.

And then came the letters from the bottom of the pile.
Based on her stilted responses, I must have been writing in anger.
I had been angry – she was throwing dirt on my grave and I was scared
Like someone being buried alive trying to claw his way out of the coffin.

Re-reading the letters lead me on a long emotional march
From a joyful Mardi Gras parade to a somber funeral procession
And she was there with me every step of the way,
Waving her perfume-soaked letters like a handkerchief in a Second Line.

When I was finished I was as broken and battered
As a Camp Street wino on Monday morning.
I piled off the bottle and opened the window
And fanned her perfume out into the cold dark air.

I killed her again later that night.
This time by fire,
Burning the letters in a funeral pyre.
Ashes returning to ashes.

I’ve gotten better at burying the dead these days.
I’ve buried a few more relationships since then.
A marriage.
My parents.

The hard part is letting the dead stay dead.
For if you don’t,
They will surely rise from the grave
And eat your heart out.



Copyright 2010 Donald G. Redman All Rights Reserved

Texas Poet Twists Newsprint Into Poetry

Austin Kleon is a Texas-based poet, writer, cartoonist and designer. He's found a creative way of making poetry from the newspaper. His first book, Newspaper Blackout, was published this summer.
Now this is a fantastic idea!
Video link follows:
Texas Poet Twists Newsprint Into Prose : NewsHour Poetry Series : Video : The Poetry Foundation

The genesis of a poem: Driving and Crying

Last night I had what I call a “thinking dream” – I’m neither fully awake nor fully asleep. I’m vaguely aware that I’m dreaming and can manipulate some of the images I see internally while adding commentary. I have these “thinking dreams” quite frequently.

I'm jotting down here the images and emotions I had in last night’s dream with the intention of giving shape and meaning to the vision in the form of a poem.

Driving at night on a winding, curvy blacktop road with tall trees shooting upward from either side of the road (Natchez Trace perhaps). Bright headlights, bright solid white line demarking the edge of the road and reflective yellow dotted lines down the center. A pickup truck. Ice chest of beer in the bed. A can of beer wedged between my thighs. Hot beer tossed can – the sound of a full beer can hitting the pavement – a thud? Reflection of dash instruments cast in side window. A ghost thumbing a ride. My ex. A deer – a fawn – leaping in front of me. A crash. Busted windshield. Full moon. Drag body to the side of the road. Look back, in the distance, standing in the middle of the road, the ghost of my ex. Music. “Driving and Crying”? Jimmy Buffet? Running scared.

And now the creative process begins...