tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-311085682011-04-21T21:53:51.463-07:00This is the blog celebrating the food writing created during the UC Berkeley Extension course "The Literature of Food," conducted by Evan Elliot during the Summer of 2006. Posts include assignments and readings provided by Evan Elliot, followed by individual works written by members of the class: Lindsay Bruel, Kelly Carcione, Simona Carini, Kathy Holland, Erin Lott, Kristy Regan, and Annie Wilson.Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.comBlogger141100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1155066964070758052006-08-08T12:54:00.000-07:002006-08-08T12:56:53.406-07:00

by: Simona Carini The little girl with big green eyes looks up at the middle-aged woman. The woman gives to the girl a small cake, a baked bowler hat without brim, its rounded top covered with egg white icing dotted with colored sprinkles. The little girl's face melts into a smile, her big eyes a deep pool of crystalline joy. She places her small hands around the side of the cake and carries it

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1154113586875671082006-07-28T11:59:00.000-07:002006-07-28T12:06:26.883-07:00

by: Erin Lott It isn’t late when Michael, Diane, Josh and I turn left up the drive of Tenuta Villa Floritta, lined with geraniums and row upon row of Prosecco, pinot bianco, and verdiso grapes. It is hot; we have been in Italy for a week now, and we are getting ready to leave San Michelle di Floretto and head to Roma. But before we leave the north of Italy for the capital city, we want bubbly

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1154112966397943252006-07-28T11:52:00.000-07:002006-07-28T11:56:06.406-07:00

by: Katherine Church Holland “Just remember to pace yourselves,“ our daughter Cameron whispered as we bumped along a pothole-riddled road on the outskirts of Gurjaani, dogs flying left and right. “It’s Leila’s birthday and our last night here, so the supra will probably last forever.” My husband, Pete, and I nudged each other, confident that we would be out of there in an hour or two. After

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1154112736038706872006-07-28T11:45:00.000-07:002006-07-28T11:56:58.876-07:00

by: Annie Wilson “A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,A jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread – and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness-Oh, wilderness were Paradise enow!” The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishapur, stanza 12Edward Fitzgerald 1859 The Summertime produce section of any Whole Foods market makes me misty-eyed with longing. I go to my neighborhood Whole Foods on

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1154057520905406172006-07-27T20:29:00.000-07:002006-07-27T20:32:00.910-07:00

by: Kelly Carcione Day #28 It is mid-April and we are pre-vacation in Vacationland. That much was clear during our 60-hour stay in Maine, most of which was spent seeking out open lobster shacks. There hasn’t been much excitement driving through Maine’s backcountry either, at least not until the dog spotted a roadside moose and exploded like a firecracker, bouncing around the backseat. For the

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1154057320801627892006-07-27T20:25:00.000-07:002006-07-27T20:28:40.803-07:00

“Unfortunately, my dog died tragically when it was hit by a car. Happily, my cat is still actively alive.” "He recklessly drove down Market Street at 90 miles per hour.” “Harry tripped and bashed his shin painfully on a tree stump.” “Don’t be cool. Cool is conservative fear dressed in black.” [Bruce Mau] “The brilliant comedian Steven Wright once wrote . . .” “Barry Bonds

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1154057084429770572006-07-27T20:22:00.000-07:002006-07-27T20:24:44.433-07:00

What makes a memoir? More often than not, memoir is autobiography, narrowed to present a particular aspect of a person’s life. Jacques Pepin wrote a memoir of his kitchen apprenticeship, for example. Ruth Reichl wrote about her years as a restaurant reviewer. For our purposes, a memoir is a memory that prompts reflection or that sparks a story. “The Measure of My Powers” by M. F. K. Fisher

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1153629378689591902006-07-22T21:31:00.000-07:002006-07-22T21:36:18.700-07:00

by: Katherine Church Holland“Kitty,” my father asked, looking up at me from his fusty old typewriter, the kind that always entrapped my fingers when I tried to use it, “Kitty, what is the French translation for green salad? “Salade verte, Papa,” I sighed, regretting that I had ever told my parents that I had been a French major, albeit for only one short collegiate quarter. “Why?” “Well, I’m

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1153426677894442532006-07-20T13:15:00.000-07:002006-07-20T13:17:57.920-07:00

by: Simona Carini My aunt Lucia never married and loved her five nieces like daughters. I was the favorite. My aunt's main role in my childhood and adolescence was to answer Yes to my requests to compensate, at least in part, for the immutable No I would suffer from my mother. My aunt would knit, sew and cook for me pretty much whatever I fancied. My aunt Lucia lived all her life in Poggio

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1153414993209112782006-07-20T09:54:00.000-07:002006-07-20T10:03:13.213-07:00

by: Annie Wilson I was not even counter-top height when I began asking my mother if I could help to make dinner. Her typical response was usually along the lines of: “It would help me if you would set the table.” Insisting, I would ask for a different job, one involving something more important than napkin-fork-knife. With an irritated sigh she would then say: “You know how I learned to cook? I

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1153414358037775692006-07-20T09:45:00.000-07:002006-07-20T09:53:34.850-07:00

by: Erin Lott She was the first woman I knew who didn’t like to cook. Her own mother, my grandmother, cooked. She had her own garden in the backyard with green beans and tomatoes with smooth, glossy flesh, but my mother opened boxes, boiled water, poured milk—the one requisite at any dinner—and called it a meal. My grandmother cooked for eight Catholic children on no money, no college

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1153372199329709192006-07-19T22:09:00.000-07:002006-07-19T22:40:49.740-07:00

by: Kristy Regan“Roasted salmon in a fennel cream sauce,” I say, beginning to recite the menu from the latest dinner party I’ve given. My mother ooh’s and ahh’s over each course. If I’m talking about making carnitas she tells me what an adventurous cook I am. Yet when visiting her in Iowa last Thanksgiving my mother frowned as I threw more salt into the mashed potatoes. “What do you have against

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1153109934661098822006-07-16T21:17:00.000-07:002006-07-16T21:18:54.706-07:00

On Day One of this class, you wrote a brief portrait of a person who, early in your life, influenced your views on food.Well, here’s your chance to extend that portrait, or to write a new one.Please keep in mind “The Queen of Mold” by Ruth Reichl, “My Education in Cooking” by Judy Rodgers, and “Bread Winner” by Susan Choi. These essays gained much of their life from vivid images and concrete

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31108568.post-1152856872653296502006-07-13T22:53:00.000-07:002006-07-13T23:28:46.923-07:00

When Eve ate the apple and then told Adam about it, she launched a genre that we now call food writing. This genre today encompasses recipes, reviews, and articles of all kinds. In this course, I've narrowed the topic to nonfiction food literature - that is, food-based essays that attract writers and readers who see food as a universal binding agent and as a doorway to big themes such as love and

Pink Ladynoreply@blogger.com3