Intersectionality on my plate….and yours.

So. I read this post over at Pandagon, and I should know better than to pollute my mind with that mess in the comments section, but I did it anyway. Like the internet debacles over childcare and parenting (let’s be honest—mostly mothering), fatness, disability, feminism….a position is identified without (or with the vaguest) acknowledgement of the existence of differentials. And that plays out in hundred-yard comments sections.

This particular post riffs off of Mark Bittman’s earlier post decrying MickeyD’s new oatmeal offering, in short, “why the hell are all these lazy people eating overly-sugared, overly-processed oatmeal at McD’s, when it’s so damn cheap and easy to make it at home?” Bittman is correct in that oatmeal is easy to make at home, and that marketing is to blame in making drive-through oatmeal more attractive than even the instant packets that take 30 seconds in the microwave, but….he’s overlooking a whole lotta obvious. Lemme explain.

There are a lot of good conversations to be had about food: what we eat; why we eat it; who grows it and what their working conditions are; where we buy it; how we prepare it; whether we have access to it; how much it costs; what is subsidized and what that means at the grocery store; the heritage(s) and foodways that tell the story(ies) of our people(s); whose foodways are recognized and given primacy (either culturally or within the framework of global capitalism); the impact of food production methods on the environment and bodies of the workers; how food impacts our physical health and our moods; how the course of our lives impacts the simple act of cooking and eating; the images, sounds, smells and stories that are passed along to us and our loved ones every mealtime.

But that wasn’t the conversation being held there. Or a number of other places I’ve been to in the blogosphere in the recent past. Mostly, there’s a recitation of what I call (in general) the “justification pantomime”—the verbal proving of “I’m not one of those people; I do xyz!!!” Y’know, the dance of moral virtue, lest the suspicion be….that you are, indeed, one of those people. And depending on the size of the blog and number of commenters, the conversation can play out with just the back-patting of congratulations after confession time (provided that one gave enough proof of supererogatory behavior)…..

or, the well is poisoned by the Inquisition showing up (unlike in Monty Python, everyone in the blogosphere expects the Inquisition. Or should). Unlike the actual Inquisition, online heretics speak freely. Now, while I generally like to support heresy, in this venue, it just seems to provide fuel for fools. Keep the trolls under the bridge, and don’t poke ‘em with a stick.

Anyway. Not everyone speaks the same food language. Our experience colors our perceptions, our behavior, our mindset—but also our concrete reality. I don’t often respond to food threads; there’s just too much of a gap between my life and the lives of the frequent flyers on the feminist blogosphere. And for something as important as food, I want something more than an argument (or dismissal). The last good posts I read on food were Eating Bread and Been Thinking About Food.

Don’t get me wrong; I love cooking. LOVE it. Been cooking meals before I hit the double-digits. Useta pull up a chair to the stove when I was a kid, so I could stand next to my dad while he cooked sugu. Adding the spices in one at a time (hey, back in the seventies, they didn’t sell “italian seasoning” in Bumfuck, Downstate Illinois). Taste-testing. Maaannn, it was like alchemy. I thought I was learning the secrets of the universe in that pot. And God!!, the smell. I can smell it now, just thinking about it. That was part of the ritual, putting your face over the pot and breathing deeply, inhaling the rich essences of garlic, oregano, basil, thyme, marjoram, and rosemary. When the sauce was blended just right, it was time to let it simmer while the pasta was put on to boil. It was really important to get it al dente. (I never ordered pasta at restaurants then. Everyone else screwed it up—overcooked, mushy noodles with no “bite”. Gaahh! Not to mention really nasty-ass, sugary-sweet, sauce.) Before I left grade school I was asking for cookbooks as birthday and xmas presents. I discovered I had a gift for cooking, and that gift was recognized and supported by my family (and anyone else that got close enough to get invited to dinner).

I didn’t think of cooking as a gendered activity. In my world, men were as likely to cook as women. Especially dinner, since women were more likely to work the second shift (not the “second shift” as in home chores after the workday—I mean, 4:00PM – 12:00AM or thereabouts). I was well into grade school before I discovered the culture-clash of who was “supposed” to be in the kitchen. And well, “give me a child until he is seven…”, I already had my mind made up. No, what I thought was that cooking was an adult activity. Whoever was the chef was in charge of dinner. Got to decide what was on the table. And got to decide exactly how it would taste. No ifs, ands, or buts. Like most kids, I couldn’t wait to be an adult. And one way of getting that adult-like status was….through cooking. I noticed two things right away: the surge of self-esteem from compliments on my cooking, and the sense of accomplishment and power from a job well done.

Power. Or control, however you want to put it. Being in charge.

And that’s what the Bittmans, Pollans, Waters, Olivers and their kind just don’t get about the appeal of carryout. What’s really being sold, more than the new take on “health” food, or “convenience”, or even “status” or “normalcy”…..it’s having someone else do the scutwork for a change. Like I’ve said before, I love cooking. It’s my creative outlet. It’s in my blood and bones; and indelible part of who I am. But there is plenty of scutwork involved.

About that marketing: Starbucks marketed itself as the place to get a good cup of coffee cheaper than at the bistros. They set up shop all across the US, to the horror of urban hipsters who were more than willing to let the masses drink overheated percolated cheap coffee. And now…anyone can get a decent cup, anywhere. The marketing team at McD’s decided to go for the low-hanging fruit and advertise themselves as being the cheaper alternative to Starbucks.

What never gets mentioned in the blogosphere food wars: the destruction of the commons. Food deserts are a part of the fall of the inner cities (and so is suburban-style zoning and gentrification), but the destruction of the commons has been a part of the urban landscape for so long its existance is taken for granted. It’s telling that so many of the commentariat begin their justification pantomime with stories of how convenient it is to go out for food or coffee; a chance to read or chat or meet folks—but no! not at That Corporate Place!!

I’ve been around for awhile. Long enough to see middle Americans become familiar with my foodways. They recognize my vegetables now. They certainly sell more of them at the grocery store. A lot more of them prefer coffee my way. That’s been good for me; makes shopping so much easier (and cheaper). I remember kids standing around me at lunchtime like I was on exhibit; pointing and saying, “eww! gross!! what’s that?!!” Now, they want the recipe. *smile* But….along with that, school lunches have changed. A hell of a lot more kids don’t bring lunch; many of them because they’re getting free or reduced price lunch at school (welcome to the midwest, the land of the permafrost economy). Remember the Reagan administration’s insistence that ketchup is a vegetable? I do. Now flash forward thirty years: the lunchrooms at school don’t have real kitchens anymore—just warming ovens for the processed frozen foodstuff. Fast Food Nation has more background on changes on the wherefores and whys of the changing school meals; all part and parcel of early marketing and forming the next generation of processed food consumers—literally shaping their palates. A captive audience.

It wasn’t that long ago I mentioned (again) my well-worn critique of the lack of diversity of every sort in the feminist blogosphere. A narrow bandwidth of opinion means intersectional discussions are off the table. I’m an inveterate food snob, but don’t call me a foodie. Food is serious. Serious as cancer. This isn’t some pleasant pasttime, subject to the whims of fashion for me. Whole books have been written about the paths these trajectories follow in my world. My personal background provides the political answer to Bittman’s question.

Except….I don’t want to answer it as if I have to explain myself for not living up to a standard set by people who have more advantages than I do when it comes to managing time and money. I reserve the power to set my own standards, value my own time, balance my own needs, desires, responsibilities, dreams. That there are corporations that are poised to co-opt that for a profit still doesn’t negate how essential it is to recognize my limits: where they can be extended, where they can be shifted, where they can be accepted and honored.

I want to extend the conversation on food; not have it be the same old word salad with tired dressing. Something worth sinking teeth into.