Robyn Lawley Strikes Again

Women's Body Image

Reading Response Four

         Okay, guys, here’s where I’m at, I love Thai Cuisine on Drake Road. Yes, that is the restaurant with the huge red neon letters. I couldn’t really figure out why they didn’t come up with a little more creative of a name, but I guess if they’re going for accessibility this is it. As the article points out, for people like me who have never been to Thailand, and never been told how authentic the food actually is, I really have no idea what I’m eating. Would we call it the Americanized cousin of Thai? However, it is actually probably a part of the middle ground that is discussed in the article, Culinary Tourism. There are the gold decorations adorning the walls, the elephants, the bamboo everything to make it appear “authentic.”

Now, let’s be real, when I go to Thai Cuisine I am mostly looking to get a plate of veggie, curry, pad Thai that I can eat for the next two days to feed myself. It’s slightly spicy, there’s egg, and I love noodles. I am probably not complaining. However, this is me that we’re talking about. I guess it kind of concerns me if people are attributing this to what a “Thai Experience” actually is. I’m trying to get my head all around this as I write it out, but maybe it’s not coming out very clearly.

            I also love Indian food. There’s this great restaurant in Ann Arbor called Shalimar that probably actually is pretty authentic. My dad is friends with the owner and that’s what he’s been told, something about various regions of India and the way that food differs, I’m not sure. I don’t really have time to go stay in Ann Arbor with my dad any more (I haven’t since I was much younger) so I’ve forgotten some of these things. I was however taught, that when you go to a foreign restaurant not to tempt the chef by ordering things spicier than what they appear on the menu, especially as a white girl in their restaurant.

I once went to a Thai restaurant in Battle Creek with my ex-boyfriend’s family and watched in horror as they ordered the “spicy” option on the menu. By the end of the meal they literally couldn’t talk their lips were so numb. Also, they didn’t believe me when I told them the water wasn’t going to do anything and that they should order a milk based drink…Anyways, I digress.

            I guess what I’m saying is that the whole experiencing food from different cultures is this double-edged sword (is that the phrase?).  I hope when I’m enjoying chicken korma, or naan bread I’m not actually “eating the other as a colonist,” or “taking over another group by appropriating its cultural traditions.” Instead, I hope that this is me learning to experience other flavors and tastes even if they are not completely accurate. Being a Midwestern girl, I can only eat so many potatoes.

            Also, speaking to authentic on a completely random topic, I got to thinking about my mom’s dinner parties as our own kind of foreign cuisine. I was wondering how authentic of a representation those dinner parties actually are of our “culture.” I mean, we’ve had to clean the house, she cooks a meal she normally wouldn’t take the time to do, and she dresses up for the occasion. Yes, this is my mom, but at the same time she’s been altered for the purpose of other people. How authentic can anything actually be if you’re sharing it? I don’t know, just some food for thought. Punny, right? 

Memoir-Final

When I say chicken veins, I think of chicken veins in my mind’s eye in all of their glory. I imagine the sinewy texture of them, like rubber, an opaque white with chicken drumstick batter flecking the surface. I imagine chicken veins in my teeth, in my hair, stuffed into the crevices in a lunchbox, in between my toes. The chicken veins, they loop around my fingers like rings.

When I say chicken drumsticks I imagine cold, fleshy, battered, glowing, white bone. I think of biting down on the flakiness of it. I taste the deli spices on my tongue. I can’t decide if they’re cheap, or delicious, or both. I think of licking the grease off my fingers when no one is watching. I find some pleasure when I slip the bones back inside a lunchbox. I feel the pleasure in being invisible with my bones and my veins to myself.

Growing up, I was, what one would call a nerd. I stood at 5’9 by the time I was in middle school as a regular girl giant. I believed hair gel was essential to every ponytail, I had baby fat despite my growth spurt, and I loved doing history homework. In this description of my middle school self I am ignoring my blue wire rim glasses, and the love poems that were scrawled into all of my notebooks, because I am too embarrassed to incorporate those things. If only I could tell my fifth grade self that Derek Klingaman turned out not to be so cool after all, maybe I could have stopped scrawling his name onto every available inch of paper.

            Now, you have to take into consideration how middle school girls are by definition. They are mean, and it is a cruel, wild world. In the cafeteria I was afraid to throw out my trash after lunch due to the sheer fact that I would have to walk in front of the entire cafeteria to do so.

My lunch was always packed by my mother in a blue insulated lunch box. All of my friends got to use paper bags. My mom told me that it was important to not be wasteful. I told my mom it was important to survive middle school so that you could move on with the rest of your life.

Often in this blue lunchbox, my lunch would be comprised of chicken drumsticks from Felpausch, the local grocery store. While my mom thought this was a special kind of lunchtime treat, I found it horrifying. Yes, you guessed correctly, the chicken veins. These veins infiltrated the very existence of these chicken drumsticks. They laced through the batter. They wound around the bone. In my fear of throwing out food in the cafeteria, these chicken veins found their post lunch home within the insulation of the lunch box.

After school it was my duty as a young girl to attend dance class. Ballet, Jazz and Tap were the best ways for all of us to spend Monday afternoons together. Our mothers decided this. This was before I actually loved dance. This was when dance leotards were literally the worst thing ever invented. I went to dance with the same group of girls that I grew up with, and they were the same group of girls that tortured the hell out of me on a regular basis. I never could understand why our parents insisted that we were friends.

While I took tap class the rest of the girls got to sit on the wooden bench in the lobby that was inside of the girls’ dressing room. Their mothers didn’t make them take tap like mine did. My mom told me it’s important to try everything. I told my mom that it’s important to survive dance class so you can move on with the rest of your life.

On that fated day I had chicken drumsticks for lunch along with their veiny counterparts. Those girls had figured out that I hid the veins in baggies in the corner; they had found my next weakness.

I left the resin filled dance studio to rejoin my “friends,” untie my tap shoes, brush my coarse pony tail out, put on my boots to go home. As soon as I pulled the brush through my hair and began to slide on my boots the group of girls erupted into laughter.

I remember my face getting flushed. I remember self-consciously going over everything I had just done to find an error in my actions. I remember the constricting of my throat, the rising heat through my body.

            Lucy called, “Chicken veins,” and they all laughed as if chicken veins in their stringed glory were the worst possible fate for any food, or in my case, girl. I remember the first tear that slid out, like hot embarrassment, like the way that chicken must have felt in the slaughterhouse.

The girls filed out, their soft ponytails bobbing. I pulled chicken veins out of the bristles of the hairbrush, out of the soft corners of my lined boots. I sat there with the chicken veins on my lap. I was able to fully cry by then, alone in the girls’ dressing room.

            Miss Tricia heard me. She was my dance teacher then, and the epitome of everything any of us wanted to grow up to be. She was sweet, patient, and graceful. She was like the light at the end of the tunnel for us in our awkward changing bodies. She saw the chicken veins, she saw my tears, and in a fit of anger that I had never seen Miss Tricia display she whispered between tight lips, “They’re just jealous Kate, they’re just jealous.”

            I threw away the chicken veins on my way out the door. They made a satisfying swish noise as I dropped them into the tin trashcan. I walked out into the snow, I got into my mom’s mini van, I went home. 

            My mom looked at me as I strayed in the hallway near the kitchen. In the way she tilted her head she let me know that she knew I wasn’t trying to guess what she had made for dinner. She opened her mouth and then closed it. I walked upstairs to peel the layer of dance leotard off my body before she could say anything else.

I like to think that she would have told me that being different was in my best interest. I like to think that I would have believed her, then.

I may have grown up, but the veiny taste of chicken drumsticks has not escaped me. Those veins are tough, they are sinewy, they are what carries the life through our bodies. This rare, blood mixture of who and what we are that highlights our differences, yet at the same time is our common thread.

I remember once sitting on the floor of the dance studio examining the veins in my feet while I pointed my toes. I now like to think of the veins in my changing awkward bodies while I was still a child dancing. I like to think that it was supposed to happen, like that. 

Memoir-Rough Draft

When I say chicken veins, I want you to see chicken veins in your mind’s eye in all of their glory. I want you to imagine the sinewy texture of them, like rubber, an opaque white with chicken drumstick batter flecking the surface. I want you to imagine chicken veins in your teeth, in your hair, stuffed into the crevices in a lunchbox, in between your toes. I want chicken veins to loop around your fingers like rings.

When I say chicken drumsticks I want you to imagine cold, fleshy, battered glowing white bone. I want you to bite down on the flakiness of it. I want you to taste the deli spices on your tongue. You can’t decide if they’re cheap, or delicious, or both. I want you to lick the grease off your fingers when no one is watching. I want you to find some pleasure when you slip the bones back inside a lunchbox. I want you to feel the pleasure in being invisible with your bones and your veins to yourself.

Growing up, I was, what one would call a nerd. I stood at 5’9 by the time I was in middle school as a regular girl giant. I believed hair gel was essential to every ponytail, I had baby fat despite my growth spurt, and I loved doing history homework. In this description of my middle school self we are ignoring my blue wire rim glasses, and the love poems that were scrawled into all of my notebooks, because I am too embarrassed to incorporate those things. If only I could tell my fifth grade self that Derek Klingaman turned out not to be so cool after all maybe I could have stopped scrawling his name onto every available inch of paper.

            Now, you have to take into consideration how middle school girls are by definition. They are mean, and it is a cruel, wild world. In the cafeteria I was afraid to throw out my trash after lunch due to the sheer fact that I would have to walk in front of the entire cafeteria to do so.

My lunch was always packed by my mother in a blue insulated lunch box. All of my friends got to use paper bags. My mom told me that it was important to not be wasteful. I told my mom it was important to survive middle school so that you could move on with the rest of your life.

Often in this blue lunchbox, my lunch would be comprised of chicken drumsticks from Felpausch. While my mom thought this was a special kind of lunchtime treat, I found it horrifying. Yes, you guessed correctly, the chicken veins. These veins infiltrated the very existence of these chicken drumsticks. They laced through the batter. They wound around the bone. In my fear of throwing out food in the cafeteria, these chicken veins found their post lunch home within the insulation of the lunch box.

Now shifting gears with me, after school it was my duty as a young girl to attend dance class. Ballet, Jazz and Tap were the best ways for all of us to spend Monday afternoons together. Our mothers decided this. This was before I actually loved dance. This was when dance leotards were literally the worst thing ever invented. I went to dance with the same group of girls that I grew up with, and they were the same group of girls that tortured the hell out of me on a regular basis. I never could understand why our parents insisted that we were friends.

While I took tap class the rest of the girls got to sit on the wooden bench in the lobby that was inside of the girls’ dressing room. Their mothers didn’t make them take tap like mine did. My mom had told me it’s important to try everything. I told my mom that it’s important to survive dance class so you can move on with the rest of your life.

On this fated day I had chicken drumsticks for lunch along with their veiny counterparts. Those girls had figured out that I hid the veins in baggies in the corner; they had found my next weakness.

I left the resin filled dance studio to rejoin my friends, untie my tap shoes, brush my coarse pony tail out, put on my boots to go home. As soon as I pulled the brush through my hair and began to slide on my boots the group of girls erupted into laughter.

I remember my face getting flushed. I remember self-consciously going over everything I had just done to find an error in my actions. I remember the constricting of my throat, the rising heat through my body.

            Lucy called, “Chicken veins,” and they all laughed as if chicken veins in their stringed glory are the worst possible fate for any food, or in my case, girl. I remember the first tear that slid out, like hot embarrassment, like the way that chicken must have felt in the slaughterhouse. The girls filed out, their soft ponytails bobbing. I pulled chicken veins out of the bristles of the hairbrush, out of the soft corners of my lined boots. I sat there with the chicken veins on my lap. I was able to fully cry by then, alone in the girls’ dressing room.

            Miss Tricia heard me. She was my dance teacher then, and the epitome of everything any of us wanted to grow up to be. She was sweet, patient, and graceful. She was like the light at the end of the tunnel for us in our awkward changing bodies. She saw the chicken veins, she saw my tears, and in a fit of anger that I had never seen Miss Tricia display she whispered between tight lips, “They’re just jealous Kate, they’re just jealous.”

            I threw away the chicken veins on my way out the door. They made a satisfying swish noise as I dropped them into the tin trashcan. I walked out into the snow, I got into my mom’s mini van, I went home. 

I may have grown up, but the veiny taste of chicken drumsticks has not escaped me. They are tough, they are sinewy, they are what carries the life through our bodies, our changing awkward bodies while we are dancing. 

Designer Desserts

As I was reading one of my favorite blogs, I came across this little article. It's talking about Laduree using Lanvin and creating pink bubblegum macaroons!

I completely thought of Kelsey and her little designer desserts. Look how pretty they are!

Eat Me

Miss Representation

Hey Guys,

Here's a photo I saw on Miss Representation's facebook. It reminded me of our discussion in class with Robyn Lawley and Ralph Lauren.

I posted a link to the trailer for the documentary.

(They actually show an old Ralph Lauren photo that's been intensely photo shopped)

It summarizes the main points in about eight minutes.

You should check it out!

Upon Finishing A Cook's Tour

I felt a little strange. The second half of the book didn’t fill me with the urge to travel so much as it made me a little confused. I think Tony Bourdain lost me around Tokyo, or maybe it was England when he begins elaborating on the life of a chef. I had been enthused at first by his bad attitude, his smoking, the drinking and the danger, and in the second half I was more critical of it. How much of his, “nothing to lose” attitude was real or constructed? He was always careful to mention what could go wrong in everr situation. When I watched a few clips of the show on YouTube, I picked Cambodia and Russia, the two that fascinated me most. I don’t think it’s the food so much as the place though. As Bourdain explains though I think that they are intertwined enough.

In the show you can see his mannerisms, as Kelsey Baak mentioned in class, and see how they apply within the book. He is on the little boat in Cambodia cracking jokes about Gilligan’s island while the cameraman shoots up close scary men that invade their boat. I like being able to see this, but I enjoy the book more, because I feel like his adventurous self is balanced out with honesty, if only a little.

It is however interesting to read the book, and then go watch clips of it. I enjoyed seeing what matched up in my head and what didn’t. The tiny fried birds in Cambodia looked exactly like they did in the TV show. I didn’t know whether to be disturbed that I could imagine the tiny crunch of bird bones, or pleased with my imagination.

            But, back to my original point. By the end of the story I had enough of Bourdain’s bad attitude, his hating on vegetarians, his constant notation of ‘whores’ and ‘beautiful women’ throughout the narrative. What I had trouble reconciling with was, isn’t Bourdain as privileged as these vegetarians that eat bland vegetables and sit in their house that he spend a whole chapter complaining about? After all, just because he has seen the plight of the world doesn’t make him any better if he’s just seen it for his benefit.

I am reminded when he pays the boy that has driven him around all night $2 extra, and yet he mocks people that sit in their house and send a few dollars to help the reconstruction of the rain forest. Is this not similar?

            His constant attention to women also leaves me a little confused. I begin thinking things like, “where is Nancy,” and, “why did she not come with him.” Throughout the story she is only mentioned when he needs to call her to remind her of something, at least for the most part. There are exceptions, such as the beginning and the end of the book where he seems genuine about his wife, and to her. Because of this, I end up being conflicted.

            In the end though, there is still something in me that wants to eat a cobra’s heart, even though I am absolutely terrified of snakes.