Cooking and Screaming by Adrienne Kane

Author:Adrienne Kane
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2009-03-01T16:00:00+00:00

NOTHING SAYS MORE about a neighborhood than the types of food that line the shelves at the local market. The grocery store that I grew up with was vast yet standard: plastic gingham bags full of sliced sandwich bread; more than a few boxes of rice mixes with “exotic”-sounding flavors: Mexican Fiesta and Oriental Surprise; heads of iceberg lettuce; and a small selection of boring apples. My new cavernous home of delectable food products was only blocks away from our apartment. Berkeley Bowl was a food lover’s dream: part health food store, part ethnic market, part gourmet food shop, with a produce section larger than entire New York City food emporiums. Come summertime, there would be at least three or four types of rosy apricots housed in wooden crates that lined the aisles, not to mention apriums, plumcots, and pluots for those who preferred to mingle their genuses with the delectable plum.

Not every day that I spent toiling over my cookbook was as delightfully simple as the day that I had begun. There were days when my computer sat looming in the corner, the keyboard taunting me and the screen displaying rows of uninspired prose. Each word that I typed seemed trite, every phrase too elementary. I would be blocked, and I knew what I had to do—go to the Bowl for inspiration. Pulling the granny cart behind me, its wheels creaking with each rotation and its wire frame painted periwinkle blue, I would slowly make the sojourn to the market. For once, I would not think about my gait and the length of each stride that I took; instead, I thought about what there would be at this glorious market. What was in season? What perfect piece of fruit would be available? Would there be an herb that I had yet to try? Would I make a protein-filled supper in my sturdy cast-iron dutch oven or would lighter fare be on the menu tonight?

As I approached the final block of my journey, the cars began to pile up around me. People in Berkeley can be vicious when it comes to their organic produce. The same people who gathered weekly at Ashtanga yoga classes, unisex quilting bees, and Tilden Park for lengthy hikes discussing the latest achievements of their precocious honor roll offspring were now honking at one another in their Toyota Priuses, jockeying for a precious parking space in the crowded Berkeley Bowl parking lot. I would slip in the front entrance, thankful for once that I did not have a car.

The chill of the grocery store air gave me goose pimples as the gentle rotting fragrance of ripe fruit filled the air. I would hook the granny cart onto the front of my shopping cart and place my right hand on the handle, letting my palm grasp the bar tightly. Then the obstacle course would begin: bumping carts with people going in opposing directions; swerving to miss the young child running loose among the jars of jam; and

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