By Julia Realmuto

In the small town of Lambertville, New Jersey a modest white colonial restaurant carefully is situated on the calm Delaware River. While from the outside it may appear to be a home filled with history and stories of the past, the aroma from the charcoal grill lures diners in for their infamous Mediterranean cuisine. To this day, my family and I feast at this restaurant frequently, whether be it for special occasions or just a casual Thursday night meal, where we know we will get a delicious product and never be disappointed.

As a child, I was a parents dream I would not only eat my veggies but I enjoyed them, I wouldn’t limit my palate to steamed baby carrots but instead ate beets sprinkled with red wine vinegar that I had helped to prepare. My small fingers would be stained fuchsia from peeling the root vegetables. I never had to be told to eat anything; I trusted my parents’ guidance when it came to food.

On what is a typical hot and humid New Jersey summer night, the chant of crickets and the twinkle of thousands of stars in the sky heighten my senses. Once seated at our usual table at the Hamilton Grill Room, my parents place their anticipated appetizer order. After only a couple minutes, there appear atop a bed of ice cubes, a dozen super-fresh oysters on the half shell accompanied with a champagne mignonette and lemon wedges. At the age of eight however, when examining what was placed in front of my discovering green eyes, all I could think was ‘that looks slimy.’ As a child I had been to the beach countless times but this shell was like nothing I had ever send. It was oddly shaped, as well as rough unlike the clamshells I was used to collecting on the seashore. I decided this creature could only be the pariah of the ocean world was supposed to be consumed? Not possible. After watching my parents with amazement gingerly spoon on the champagne mignonette and effortlessly slurp down the raw oyster seemingly pleased, I was intrigued.

I looked to my parents for their permission to initiate what I would later become a defining moment in my long journey of food. As I somewhat nervously picked up the surreal aphrodisiac, prepared for me by mother, I mimic what my parents had previously demonstrated for me; and I cautiously slurp. Suddenly there is a myriad of flavors and textures exploding in my mouth. As the briny, chilled, smooth oyster glides down my esophagus, all I can think is ‘that was unlike anything I have ever tasted. After I took a few seconds to collect my thoughts about what I had just experienced I saw my parents waiting in anticipation for my review. When I went to grab another oyster they had gotten their answer, I was in love. Unfortunately, for my parents their daughter was developing an eclectic yet expensive palate.

Ever since that evening that served as an epiphany, my adventure with food has continued. Each time I dine at the Hamilton Grill Room; which is less frequently now that I am away at school, I make it a point to order the dish that opened my eyes to what the world of food held for me; each time this simple mollusk delights all of my senses, tantalizing my taste buds.

By Christine Meyer

Ah, the study abroad scene.  It’s that time in the typical Elon student’s college career when he or she travels to another nation, participates in the country’s zesty activities and traditions, dives into the exploratory opportunities, drinks the yummy wine, tastes the awesome food, and simply acts in the ways a young American abroad would.  If you have studied abroad, you understand these experiences.  And, I am no exception to this Elon norm and prominent college experience.

Travelling to Assisi, Italy with an eclectic group of twelve the summer in between my freshman and sophomore year, I engrossed myself in such Italian ventures.  I danced with the Catholic monks, travelled to old-timey festivals, conversed-or attempted to-in the city pizzerias, took multiple shots of espresso, and finally I ate a lot.  And then after I ate a lot, I ate more than a lot.  I simply did not want to be that one girl on the trip who sticks her nose up at the customs of the city and distances herself from the group.  Hell, I’m in Italy, why not try it?  Whatever, that it might be.

So, that was the approach I took towards many of our programs’ plans, especially when we all went to a cooking class/ food tasting.  Lezione di cucina aka this cooking lesson was one of our very first gatherings as a group.  We had only been together a couple days when we walked through hilly Assisi to arrive at our destination in the basement kitchen of a hotel overlooking the luscious shrubbery of the Umbrian countryside.

There the famed Chef Marco Gubbiotti was waiting for us.  Chef Gubbiotti looked like an Italian Casanova in the purest sense.  Dark eyes, dark skin, and dark hair, the women of our group were more than pleased to have this man teach us how to cook such fine Italian dishes.  There were just some minor leaps to hurdle: the master chef spoke to us in only Italian and at this point, my Italian was limited to meager words like dove, ciao and bellissima.  I could barely handle the kitchen lingo he was spitting at us in his fast native tongue.

Yet, Chef Gubbiotti cooked with Umbrian flair, skillful but simple and speedy.  They were classic Umbrian dishes.  Historically, the food in Umbria and Assisi are characterized as peasant cuisine meals tied to its pastoral roots, resembling the town and environment itself as nature’s gifts appear to prevail in these intensive fields of green and olive trees.

But there Gubbiotti was, just chopping away, all the while giving us a play by play as if he was Michael Kay to our group of bobble heads with the classic I have no idea what you’re saying to me nod and smile.  I could handle the first couple of items on the dinner menu.  He started with a mixed salad accented with breadcrumbs, olive oil, lime, and salt- looked tasty and normal enough to me.  But as we went to reach for the plates, Gubbiotti signaled for us to hold and began stirring up another concoction.  This time he went for a thick red sauce made with two day old focaccia bread which thickens its texture, similar to a cooked sweet potato, and added it to a sizzling pot full of tomatoes, olive oil, basil, and herbs.  The sauce was covered with a cheesy topping of ricotta and olive oil and subsequently slapped with more olive oil on top of that.  Oh, I am in the clear.  I can totally eat this.  But darn, Chef Gubbiotti told us to hold one more time.  Out he brings some sort of circular substance with a pinkish hue and slaps it atop our bread crumbed salad.  Finally, one of our group members informs the rest of us that it is raw but apparently okay according to Gubbiotti because it’s salted.  Say what?

So here I was in this tiny, Italian kitchen about to taste this dish in front of me that appeared as some kind of raw substance.  I believe it was beef carpaccio, but I am still not entirely sure to be honest.  Now, I don’t even eat the Sushi from Simply Thai so when I just starred at the meal in front of me, my stomach seemed to sort of flop over inside my body.  But I was not alone.  The rest of my fellow Italian-venturing companions were alongside me.  And, I’m sure we all looked ridiculous as the nervous laughs seemed to pile up with increasing intensity like a slow clap.  Who was going to try it first?  Should we trust this foreign man who made foreign food that was foreign to even an oven?  My stomach still held that uncertain floppy feeling.

I dug in despite my nerves as well as the rest of my group members who I would get to know increasingly well over the next month.  And though I had no idea what I was eating and it’s still a mystery, the grub was tasty.  And to be honest, I was surprised that I actually ate and tried my “squezzal.”  The gracious amounts of wine Gubbiotti provided us with probably helped with my hesitation and looking back I can say for a fact that it undoubtedly did, but it was simply a fun meal with fun people that bonded us quickly.  It also allowed us to be much more adventurous with the food tastings to come complete with medieval cooking and food.  But, the unknown, uncooked, and undoubtedly scrumptious dish was my first squeezal.

By Phoebe Hyde

The suspense was overwhelming, meanwhile confusing. What could be so special about apple pie from Ohio’s Appalachian region, and why was someone bringing apple pie to Saturday’s Ohio University football game tailgate? Typically adorned with a lattice pastry crust and filled with sliced apples marinated in cinnamon, apple pie is a well-known staple of American culture; I could not for the life of me understand the hype around this particular apple pie from Ohio, nor the setting in which it would be served to me. Should I be expecting it to be topped with a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream and would there be some way to warm it up? I can’t eat cold apple pie…

Early that Saturday morning as my boyfriend Jake’s family and I prepared ourselves for a filled day of tailgating and football at Ohio University, we drenched ourselves in forest green and crisp white to prove our fandom. I was personally dressed in an oversized extra large Ohio University long-sleeve shirt that my boyfriend secretly lent me prior to our arrival, as this would be my first OU game. The bratwursts and onions were simmering in Uncle Kevin’s homemade beer broth and cell phone text chimes were filling the room as family friends were coordinating the location of the tailgate. Meanwhile, Jake received a text from his cousin stating, “I’m bringing apple pie J.” Keeping my confusion to myself, feeling as though I’ve missed some big secret about apple pie being an ordinary tailgate dish, I mirrored Jake’s excitement about his cousin’s “out of-this-world” apple pie. He must be one hell of a baker, I thought to myself. Maybe he’s just bringing it to the tailgate since he never gets a chance to see Jake. My mind wandered.

The morning turned to noon and we finally made our way to the packed lawn beside the convocation center. Moments later I was handed a tightly sealed transparent mason jar filled with light caramel colored liquid, and told to take a small sip (“small” being a critical word). I hesitate. “What is this,” I ask. “It’s apple pie,” Jake’s cousin confidently proclaimed while pushing the jar into my tentative hands.

Having been submerged in an ice-filled personal-sized cooler, the apple pie tasted cool and refreshing in comparison to the Oktoberfest brew I had been previously sipping on that had been quickly warmed by the sun overhead. The surprising taste of cinnamon and baked apples flooded my mouth with a lip-puckering sweetness. A grainy texture lingered on my tongue as the smooth liquid chilled my throat. I attributed the grainy residue to whole cinnamon sticks that had incompletely dissolved in the mixture. Granny Smith apples further contributed to the powerful tart green apple flavor, but there was undoubtedly another ingredient or two that contrasted the acrid taste. Pure sugar (makes sense!). Nearly six cups—a third brown and the rest white. But surely the two Granny Smith apples and six cups of sugar had to have also been accompanied by various complementary liquids to create this concoction that filled the transparent mason jar to the brim. After inquiry, I learned that one gallon of apple juice, a half gallon of “Simply Apple” brand apple juice, and one gallon of pasteurized apple cider were the cinnamon, sugar and apples’ counterparts. Oh, and one more integral component: Moonshine.  This “apple pie” just got a whole lot more dangerous. Among the ingredients previously mentioned, this recipe called for Moonshine—a liquid that is often substituted for Everclear for those without access to moonshine. To put this into perspective, this particular recipe equated to one that consisted of two full bottles of 190 proof (or 95% alcohol) colorless, unflavored, distilled Everclear, thus creating what I came to learn was the true name of this delicacy: apple pie Moonshine. And the story comes full circle.

Moonshine is an illegal whiskey produced in the United States. The term was derived from “illegal Appalachian distillers who clandestinely produced and distributed whiskey.” The presence of Moonshine production is a part of the Appalachian area’s culture, and dates back to the Whiskey Rebellion. The imposition of a tax on whiskey was considered an unwanted federal intervention and was largely ignored. Making moonshine was a way for rural farmers to quickly liquidate their corn when grain prices were low, but many were prosecuted for unlawful distilling. Although the hype around moonshine has been significantly suppressed, moonshining is far from totally over. The cultural history of moonshine in the area is rich and long-winded, but it was finally evident why trying this apple pie in Ohio was a necessity.

Today, Moonshine continues to be produced in the U.S. (mainly in Appalachia and parts of the South) and is often produced as more of a hobby than as a way of consuming a drink that was readily available and far cheaper. And lucky for me, I ran into someone who possesses this hobby. I personally found this to be an ingenious creation. A way to enjoy apple pie in the midst of the most appropriate environment—a brisk, young fall afternoon adorned with leaves changing from green to burnt orange that are being blown to the ground by the large gusts of wind, exaggerated in that one grassy field due the backdrop of the Hocking River. Cold apple pie was, in fact, delicious, and a seemingly underrated delicacy.

I imagine that there is an enormous market of people who have solely been exposed to the traditional warm, oven-baked American apple pie that is served on a white porcelain dessert plate after a Holiday meal. I also imagine that there is a plethora of individuals who are understandably naïve to the history, culture, availability, and creation of moonshine who would be eager to experience this distinct and tasteful rendition of the customary American apple pie. I was once a member of the untapped market of apple pie lovers, who are deprived of tasting a slice of this rare execution of this American symbol. My expectations of tasting apple pie during the Ohio University tailgate were far surpassed, and I encourage all readers to pursue an effort to become equally familiar with apple pie Moonshine as I now am.

Resources

http://www.everclearalcohol.net/everclear-alcohol-content/

http://www.theliquorstorechannel.com/everclear-grain-alcohol

http://www.ibiblio.org/moonshine/sell/prohibition.html

http://www.vintageperiods.com/prohibition.php

http://www.moonshineheritage.com/blog/popcorn-suttons-home/

http://www.whiskeywise.com/Moonshine-Whiskey.html

By Chelsea Vollrath

“It doesn’t really taste bad. It’s just…really salty.” She paused, concentrating on something still in her mouth. “And this hard ball in the middle kind is kind of freaking me out. Do I swallow it?” She did, and then laughed. He joined in her laughter. “It’s kind of chewy at first, but yeah there’s like a pellet or something in the middle,” he remarked, and then he swallowed it too.

I sat in shock, my lips pursed and eyes wide open, probably for longer than I should have.

My experience in China, more specifically, my dining experiences, certainly tested my Western sensibilities. After spending two months in the eastern country, I was used to the wait staff presenting a whole, raw fish for customer evaluation, and then bringing the whole fish back after it has been cooked. While I can’t say I was comfortable with the custom, especially not at first, it was one of the parts of the culture I was okay with not understanding but accepting. Eating fish eyes, however, is a custom I neither understood nor accepted.

I never ordered fish myself, or any meat; I decided to be a vegetarian during my stay in China for several reasons. I made a few exceptions when I was at up-scale Western restaurants where I felt I could trust the meat and in instances where I truly felt like I was missing out on part of the culture by not trying a specific meat dish. I tried the popular local dish in Yangshuo: stuffed snails; the pork and beef filled dumplings at Bao Yuan, a restaurant regarded for having the best dumplings in Beijing, and the various kinds of meat served with hot pot, the Chinese version of fondue. Aside from those occasions, I did my best to avoid it, worried about unknowingly eating dog, getting sick from rancid meat, and clogging my arteries with the copious amount of oil used during preparation.

We were on a trip to southern China for fall break and had just arrived at a hot springs resort in Guilin. The Beijing Center staff asked us to bring one nice outfit with us on the trip specifically for the dinner at the hot springs resort, so our expectations for the experience were set high. All of the dishes were pre-ordered, so within minutes of being seated, the wait staff started bringing dishes to our table. Starving, since we always seemed to be, we dove into the dishes immediately. As I spun the Lazy Susan to access the various vegetable dishes, my friends helped themselves to whichever dishes were in front of their place settings at any given moment. They ate some of the vegetables, but mostly feasted on the various chicken and pork dishes, and then on the fish once it was presented in the middle of the table. I watched as everyone dug in with their chopsticks and tried to navigate around the scales and bones to have access to the biggest pieces of meat possible. It always seemed like a lot of work; I was happier not having to deal with it.

On all other occasions where my friends and classmates ordered fish, they ate the meat on the body, and then moved on, but on this occasion, they were advised to look beyond the typical meaty areas. One of the staff members explained that, according to Chinese tradition, it is customary to give the honored guest at dinner the eye of the fish; eating it is said to bring good luck. An old adage of Chinese medicine recommends eating animal parts to nourish the same part within the human body. Applied to this situation, Chinese medicine would suggest eating fish eyes to improve one’s eyes and, by extension, vision. Being one of the recipients of the fish’s eyes, therefore, is a privilege.

Considering all of us at the table were technically guests, no one more honorary than any one else, it was a matter of who was willing to try it. There were only two people willing to try it, so it wasn’t difficult to decide who the lucky recipients would be.

One of the brave individuals was my roommate, which didn’t surprise me at all. She is half Chinese and was always more adventurous than most with her eating. She had been exposed to most of it years before on her first trip to China and at family gatherings. She is also just an adventurous person, so she probably would have been willing to try it regardless. The other student lucky enough to have the second eye was equally as adventurous since discovering he had a stomach of steel. That seemed to be an undeniable factor determining people’s willingness to try new dishes.

We rotated the Lazy Susan to my roommate, Caitlin, so she could take an eye first and then spun it to Matt’s place setting so he could take the second. Watching them reach into the eye socket and pull the eye out with their chopsticks made me cringe. The eye Matt was reaching for didn’t come out as easily as Caitlin’s. As he tried to separate it from the veins and whatever else was holding it intact, I turned away, grimacing.

When I turned around, they both had eyes in between their chopsticks and were lifting them up for everyone at the table to see. Again, I looked away. After everyone’s evaluation, fellow diners at the table initiated a countdown. “Three, two, one, go!” I turned back around in time to see both Matt and Caitlin guide their chopsticks in their mouths.

I decided that if someone had a gun to my head and was forcing me to eat it, or I was being presented with a million dollars, I would swallow the eye whole. That would assumedly make the experience a little more bearable. Caitlin and Matt wanted the full effect, though. I watched them both take their first bites. I tightly squeezed my napkin underneath the table, maintaining a look of shock and disgust across my face. I looked around and saw that most other people were making similar expressions. Considering I was usually more skeptical of aspects of the Chinese culture than most of my classmates, I didn’t feel as judgmental when I saw that everyone around me was reacting the same way.

In that moment, I tried to think of American food that Chinese people may find comparably repulsive, attempting to be less ethnocentric than I often was. I thought about it for about a minute, as everyone else laughed about and reflected on Matt and Caitlin’s experience. I couldn’t think of anything.

By Mia Brady

I felt the heat of the sun on my back, the sweat dripping down my neck. My legs ached from climbing flight after flight of the Lardarina, the seemingly endless set of stone stairs. As I took a moment to catch my breath, I grabbed my camera and snapped what had to have been my 100th picture of the sparkling Mediterranean. After a morning spent walking through the tiny village of Manarola, and a train ride to Corniglia, the endless blue of the ocean never left my sight. I had been in Cinque Terre, the five tiny cliffside villages on the coast of the Italian Riviera, for a few short hours, and I already knew it was a place I would never forget. I pushed myself to climb the remaining few flights despite the heat, knowing I had a much-anticipated lunch in my future.

To put it simply, I am a foodie. I love food, and I love what food can do to enhance one’s experience of a place. It isn’t exactly an exaggeration to say that part of my decision to study abroad in Italy (and Florence, the capital of Tuscany no less) was influenced by the prospect of amazing Italian meals. So when my professor, who was leading this class daytrip to Cinque Terre on this beautiful September day, shared that we would be having a complimentary lunch at a restaurant overlooking the ocean, I was excited. And after hiking for hours, I was hungry and ready to eat.

Our tour guide had prompted us that our meal would consist of seafood antipasti and pesto pasta, both of which are famous dishes in Cinque Terre. I have always enjoyed most fish and shrimp, but my love for seafood stops there; there’s something about the consistency that I cannot get past. When I heard that we would be having seafood antipasti, I reminded myself to be open-minded. I distracted myself with the unlimited water (something you never get in Italy) and unlimited bread (this is a little more familiar…). It wasn’t until the waitress brought out our antipasti di mare that it hit me: this was not like any seafood I had ever tried before.

I stared at the full plate for a few seconds, craning my neck at different angles to try and figure out just exactly what the thick, white creaming substance on the lettuce leaf could be. I couldn’t decide what looked less appetizing- the thin slab of some sort of white fish with the skin still on, or the purplish tentacles. My first reaction was to move my chair back and make a face. I sifted through the mix of potatoes and cold squid, eating only the potatoes. I pushed the white fish aside, which my friend insisted had to be sardines, and sifted through a portion of octopus, avoiding touching the tentacles with my fork. This was not the grilled salmon or shrimp scampi I was used to.

I glanced around the beautiful outdoor patio overlooking the cliffs, filled with tables of my classmates. Some were pointing at their plates, looks of utter confusion on their faces. Alright, so I wasn’t the only one to find this meal… less than appetizing. But others were diving right in. One being my friend Erin, who was sitting directly across from me. We made eye contact as she was mid-bite. She put down her forkful of the whitish gook.

“Mia, have you really not tried anything yet?” she asked, baffled. “It’s so good!”

“Eh, this isn’t really my thing. I can see the tentacles.”

“Just try it at least, come on. Look at where we are” she insisted, motioning to the color faced homes to our left and the rolling hills and cliffs to our right.

Although I hated to admit it, she was right. I wasn’t going to let my squeamishness get the best of me.

“Fine. I’ll have a bite… but…” I said.

“Good! Go ahead. The squid,” Erin said.

I gave her one last look of hesitancy, poked a chunk of the purplish, pinkish squid, which stayed on my fork quite easily, leading me to believe that it would be chewy (ew!), took a deep breath and brought my fork to my mouth.

I was right; it was chewy. Very chewy, and had a somewhat squishy texture to it. But as I chewed and chewed, there was nothing that really stood out too much about the taste. It tasted like seafood, but nothing spectacular. After I swallowed my first bite, I looked at Erin and shrugged.

“Not too bad. But I don’t get it… what makes this so good?” I didn’t particularly like it, but I didn’t particularly dislike the squid either.

On a whim, I cut the sardines in half and took a bite. Now this I did not like. The slick, thin fish was so incredibly salty that it was overwhelming. I’ve always considered myself a “sweet” person, and this salt was just not for me. I made a face that had the whole table laughing and swallowed.

“Ew” I managed to utter.

“Oh Mia, stop being a baby. How much would you pay me to eat this?” Erin said, as she held up a full baby octopus on her fork.

“No you won’t….” I said in disbelief.

“I will too, I’ll do it for free,” she said.

And just like that, she popped the, baby octopus, tentacles, head and all, into her mouth. I watched in disbelief as she chewed (and chewed and chewed) and swallowed.

“Yum!” she exclaimed.

I did not go as far as Erin, but I did learn a lot about myself, as well as seafood, during this cliff-side lunch. For one thing, I know I’ll never eat sardines again. Previous to my experience in Cinque Terre, I had immediately associated the word “seafood” with the Americanized version. This was the first time that my eyes had really been opened to a differentiation of what I was used to. My trip to Cinque Terre is an experience I will never forget; the spectacular views of the Mediterranean, the challenging hike through the cliffs. And of course, the octopus and squid on the plate in front of me.