Short Essay #1: Food and You

Doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles

My family is completely Americanized. To give an example, I once went with a friend to an authentic Mexican place and ordered fajitas which, according to my delightful and Hispanic dining companion, are “white people food.” I am a mix of English, German, and Italian with a splash of Austrian thrown in, and even so, no occasion at my house has ever elicited cultural foods. Even my pure-blooded Sicilian grandmother rarely pulls out a traditional Italian dish. This has never really bothered me before. I mean, from time to time do I wish I could say that I rolled and dried noodles with my Nani or made (insert traditional English dish here) with my dad? Sure I do, but I also realize that however badly I’d love to speak fluent Italian, I’m an American. That is my childhood; those are my roots. The closest thing my family has to a traditional meal is fondue every Christmas Eve, and I’m not even sure what country that originates from.

Cultural ties aside, food still produces strong personal connections for me. Being a military kid, I have lived many places in my life, and each place has come to be associated with a different set of foods. For some reason or another, my memories of places tend to revolve around the food I experienced there. Some of the strongest food connections I have are to memories of my time in Germany.

My family lived in the little town of St. Leon-Rot for a little over two years. Other than traveling, one of our regular pastimes was to participate in volksmarches. Half way through a march there would be a little stand selling the most simple and yet delicious sandwiches ever. A generous slice of baloney rested in a thickly buttered (with real, unsalted butter) roll, and by roll I mean German brochen, the best bread on Earth. Brochen, a hard roll, is firm with a soft inside so that when you bite into it, it provides the perfect crunch. The taste always reminded me of a good soft pretzel. I’d usually split the baloney sandwich with my mom and wash it down with some water before getting back on the trail.

I will never forget my experience with schneeballen. My family was visiting the town of Rothenburg when we wandered into a pastry shop. They had many of these sugared or dipped or chocolate drizzled balls on display. Scheeballen, German for “snow balls”, basically consist of pastry dough cut into strips, formed into a ball, and then fried. They can be covered in a variety of toppings. The first time I had one (and the last time honestly) I purchased a scheeballen covered in powdered sugar. To eat it, I had to break off loose pieces from the ball. With the first bite my family knew we had made a mistake. While scheeballen look pretty, they taste like stale pie crust. Our pastries didn’t go to waste however; then and every time we visited Rothenburg after we bought scheeballen and fed them to pigeons in the town square.

One of my favorite foods was only made available by the fest (an equivalent to the American carnival) that came into town each year. Normally pommes frites (French fries) would not be that interesting, but at the fest they came in a paper cone, fried into perfectly crisp, golden-brown circles, and covered with curry ketchup. They were the perfect, mouth-watering snack.

Another favorite of mine was spaghetti ice. Just as it sounds, this was ice cream made to look like a miniature bowl of spaghetti. The vanilla ice was piped into long noodles which were then covered with cherry sauce for the marinara and ground up peanuts for the parmesan cheese. The shop that sold this concoction was right down the street from my friend Emily Halls’ house. I remember we would walk back up the street with the treat in our hands and eat it at her solid table with iron legs using the little ice cream spoons that came with our purchase.

Other foods that remind me of Germany are those staples: bratwurst and schnitzel. Bratwurst is just grilled sausage, but in Germany it’s placed in brochen (this is essential) with curry sprinkled over it and served with a side of sauerkraut. Schnitzel is pork that has been pounded extremely flat and breaded and fried. Schnitzel is to Germany what chicken strips are to America; it’s prevalent on every child’s menu. Contrary to the song, I can honestly say I never had schnitzel with noodles; mine always came with pommes frites.

Although not technically “food,” the drinks I had in Germany are equally significant. First off, my family had a bit of a culture shock when we found out there were not only no refills, but drinks came without ice and exactly measured as to the amount. If you ordered a klein (small) a tall, heavy glass was set in front of you with the drink poured right to the half-liter mark etched in the glass. When eating out, I generally ordered Apfelsaftschorle, which is a mix of apple juice and sparkling mineral water. My brother got Spezi, a combination of Coke and what is usually orange Fanta, a drink as common in Germany as Diet Coke.

If I had been of age at the time, I could tell you all about the significance of Oktoberfest and beer, but as it is, my last story is about kinderpunsch. Every Christmas my family would walk to the Weihnacht markt (Christmas market) nearby and shop. The best time to attend was at night because all the lights around the booths and hanging in the trees would be on and sparkling. The downside to this, of course, was that Germany at night in December was cold, and so my mom would buy us kinderpunsch. Bought half for the warmth and half for the sharp taste of the cider, kinderpunsch was an important part of the holiday tradition. It was close to hot apple cider, but with a stronger flavor of tea and some unknown spice that made it taste exactly like Christmas.

I never get to experience these foods authentically anymore; they survive purely in my memories as anchors for the many events of my childhood.  Although I don’t have strong cultural ties to food, I still identify with certain dishes. Nerds in frozen yogurt remind me of South Dakota, frozen orange pops remind me of Virginia, and bratwurst will always remind me of Germany. Though I don’t eat strange dishes around the holidays or come home to noodles drying on the racks, food still makes up my personal identity. I am a part of my own culture, with a unique set of dishes that define me.