flawed reproductions
This Week in Reading
Consider the Oyster by MFK Fisher
My secret favorite genre of reading is the food memoir. I love an anecdotal book scattered with imprecise recipes. I love how cozy and intimate these types of books are. I sometimes read cookbooks the way I would read a novel, starting at page one and reading through to the end. I find instructional writing comforting— it is meditative to read complicated things broken down into small manageable steps. It is soothing—to be told what to do.
MFK Fisher is one of the original food writers and food theorists, and in this book, she considers the oyster, for 75 pages. She considers it as an animal, considers it as a stew and on the halfshell, considers its alleged powers as an aphrodisiac, considers its history, considers the pearls it has the potential to create. She considers the oyster personally and culturally. She talks about frying oysters (in only crumbs and butter, she begs us, none of this batter nonsense), talks about the drinks that can be paired with it. Fisher approaches the oyster from all angles and reveals that actually, there is a lot to discuss.
Food connects us to our topography, to our history, to our culture. When you swallow an oyster, suck the briny sweetness greedily from its ragged shell, what you are tasting is the ocean. You are tasting geography— the Atlantic saltier and stronger, the Pacific mild and sweet. A good oyster bar will tell you the origin of their shellfish. When you order a dozen on the half shell you are sampling the shores of Prince Edward Island, the inlets of Maryland, the bays of the Olympic Peninsula.
Cooking is a memory play. Almost all cooking is a form of reproduction. We are trying to make dumplings like the dumplings our mother made when we were a child, add the same combination of spices to our jarred spaghetti sauce that our dad did. Even cooking that isn’t overtly nostalgic is an attempt to revisit and relive: a recipe is a set of instructions to replicate something that someone else has already made, whether that be my mother’s chocolate cake or a meal I had at a restaurant or even the glossy photo in a cookbook.
It is a memory that we can smell and taste and consume, a memory we can literally bring inside of us. Eating is one of the most intimate, and most mundane forms of remembrance.
And yet— like all reproductions, cooking is inherently imperfect. The recipe called for spinach, but I substituted kale. Butter instead of shortening. I might realize that I don’t actually have coriander in my spice cabinet and omit it all together. And even if I source all the right ingredients, and follow the recipe down to the last comma, even then! The dish I make will not be the same as the one I set out to make. My oven might run hotter, or my glass casserole dish might transfer heat differently than a metal pan. My pinch of salt is inherently unique to my fingertips. The milk I buy in California will taste different than the milk raised in Vermont, produced by cold weather cows eating different hay. Our tastebuds may lack the sensitivity to discern these differences— and our memory the detail required to recall discrepancies— but the dinner you prepared last night can never be repeated, not really. Every time we cook, the meal we produce is a sum of a thousand changeable variables. It is the product of you and that time and those ingredients in that space.
Perhaps that is what is so compelling about the oyster. Most often eaten raw, unadorned besides perhaps a sliver of lemon, its simplicity exposes its complexity. Each oyster is a microcosm of flavor. Though presented so nakedly, it provides a wealth of discussion. Food is the vessel for so much. It is a way for us to commune with history, both personal and broad. It can be global, but also hyper local.
I would not describe myself as a foodie, though I would say I am ambitious home cook. That being said, bad food is more than just disappointing or sad— it is offensive. It is offensive to the ingredients, to the hours of labor spent by farmers and fishermen to grow and catch those ingredients. It is offensive to the centuries of human history that birthed such a diverse, dynamic cuisine. Our cave-ancestors did not discover fire just so you make some kind of lumpy flavorless dish.
But while food automatically inserts us into much bigger dialogue, it is also, just food. MK Fisher tells us that oysters pair best with wine, as the French serve them, or with a light ale, as the Brits do. Americans like to eat oysters with a cocktail, but the liquor burns our palette, leaving us unable to fully appreciate the nuance of the oyster. But though we may not be eating our oysters the “right” way or the “best” way, it does not hamper our pleasure. There is so much to think about and say about any given meal, but this same meal can also be enjoyed simply, silently and physically, separate from its broader context.
Further Reading:
My favorite food memoirs are Home Cooking by Laurie Colwin and Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking: A Memoir of Food and Longing by Anya Von Bremzen. Fiction wise, Heartburn by Nora Ephron and Kitchens of the Great Midwest by J Ryan Stradal are both charming and light and sprinkled with recipes.
Also! This Lucky Peach guide to oysters is fascinating and thorough and I think about it frequently.
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