I’m not really sure when the shift to becoming a foodie occurred. My parents loved to brag about our road trip to Quebec and how their seven-year daughter survived for three weeks on little more than yet another variation of a grilled cheese sandwich. I also made it to Denver and back a few times, subsisting on much the same diet.
Why grilled cheese? Onions.
It’s simple: I abhor onions and had reached a gross-out point at which I could not bear the taste of one more unexpected onion entering my mouth. I’d been bombarded in the least likely places. At the beach, I cried over my salad when I realized some maniac had slipped raw onions into the Thousand Island dressing. I recoiled when hamburger after hamburger still bore witness to the remnants of chopped onions a line cook had scraped off my order.
Few foods were safe: grilled cheese, seafood, raw veggies, dessert, and tea. Even French fries were suspect since they were fried alongside onion rings.
It’s not that I’m a particularly picky eater, really. I dislike onions and their kin and avoid under-cooked meats. To me, pink meat is under-cooked. Go argue with someone else. I have no desire to eat organ meats. Horseradish and I do not agree, leaving wasabi for everyone else to enjoy. Other than that, I’m relatively flexible.
At seventeen, I was granted the privilege of driving once Momma realized I’d happily do the food shopping. Our budget was tight, but I clipped coupons and followed the weekly sales, allowing me occasionally to buy 2 slices of Fresh Market New York style cheesecake for Momma and me.
By nineteen, I was cooking bi-monthly for the ravenous members of Clemson University's Spanish Club and had spent two summers eating my way through Mexico. On campus, I lived primarily on knock-off Chick-Fila sandwiches, unhealthy cereal, and iceberg salads from Harcombe. Outside the dining hall, I was branching out in my cooking, specializing in mushroom and bacon quesadillas at home and vats of Spanish rice for club meetings.
Through summers in Mexico, frequent trips to Florida, and beach getaways, I forgot to fear onions and focused on what I liked. I sharpened my preferences for Veracruz and Pawley’s Island shrimp, steamed oysters and mussels, mangos and lime, chili and tomato, Tequila and champagne, and grits and omelets.
A stint as a banquet server at the Marriott and the addition of Stax Omega and Stax Grill to Greenville introduced me to non-southern entrees such as Greek Chicken, Chicken Oscar, and Chicken Cordon Bleu. Apparently, I liked chicken. I added asparagus, spinach, feta, crepes, ricotta, raspberries, and vinaigrettes.
From twenty to twenty-three, I made new strides outside the typical Sunday dinner table. At an Atlanta wedding, I met bagels, lox, and cream cheese. I quickly learned not to take large bites of an untoasted bagel as I chewed a single bite seemingly forever. I’d been a fan of Brie, nuts, Vaughn Russell mints, and fruit since I could reach the table at art receptions and weddings but now re-encountered sushi and pate. I passed on both.
Then came the hummus stage. At USC in the 1990s, mead, homemade salsa, and hummus were hot items. Ritchie’s salsa – though onion-laden – was terrific. As was the mead that flowed through the English department parties. But the hummus I sampled proved unappetizing. I realized later that it was probably oversaturated with fresh garlic; however, I was repulsed by hummus for a decade. Graduate school and visits to Greensboro brought Indian food with its curries and coconut soup.
Perhaps my greatest advancement during these years was successfully preparing a Saint Valentine’s dinner with my housemates, Mary and Christine. For some odd reason, perhaps because there was a 20-pound turkey crowding our freezer, we decided to try out our skills on a Thanksgiving-inspired meal, complete with my Holiday Inn-donated turkey. Free holiday turkeys were a standard perk of the hotel business, and I gladly sacrificed my yearly poultry gift to the starving student cause. Preparing Valentine’s dinner instilled the confidence in me that I (with the help of friends) could entertain a large group of people without relying on my Mexican recipes.
My nickname became June, and I pondered how my identity as a feminist moderate could co-exist with my June Cleaver alter-ego.
Upon moving back to Greenville, I was indoctrinated into the world of Pita House. Who knew that I’d been missing out on falafels, chicken shawarma, stuffed squash, and other Middle Eastern staples I now couldn’t live without? Just give me a Middle East plate, no onions, and a sweet tea, and I’m deliriously content.
Greek food has been an integral part of Greenville cuisine since the 1950s when the influx of Greek families, who promptly opened dozens of successful restaurants, introduced feta and gyro to the meatloaf and potatoes crowd. Today, Greenville gets its Greek fix through Stax Grill, Como’s Pete’s, Never on Sunday, Stax Omega, Olive Tree, Acropolis, Stax Peppermill, and many other local eateries.
Oyster roasts have become more popular in upstate South Carolina, during months with an "R," as fundraisers that blend raw and steamed oysters, BBQ with generous fixings, open bar, live bands, and silent auctions into an event well-worth its ticket price. Momma and I attend these as annual mother-daughter outings. Although we share a love for shucking and eating oysters, I choose to eschew all condiments except fresh lemon. Let others waste their time with Texas Pete Hot Sauce, horseradish, and Saltines; I'll take my oysters straight up, thank you.
My favorite foodie extravaganza, hands down, is a four-day Greek food orgy otherwise known simply as The Greek Festival. During these blessed days, the downtown parking lot of St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church transforms itself into a paradise offering roast lamb, dolmades, spanikopita, moussaka, loukoumades, and baklava. I’ve been known to count out my change so I can pocket a few tiropitas for later. Tiropitas, those amazing filo dough pockets of feta, make an awesome breakfast. By the end of the Greek festival, I’m as stuffed as a grape leaf.
Now that we live within walking distance of St. George’s, I can only imagine the damage I’ll do to our weekly grocery budget beginning May 17th. Opa!
For this year's Greek Festival: http://www.stgeorgegreenville.org/calendar
Originally published as "On becoming a quasi-foodie… Sweet Tea and Pound-cake"
February 2010/ Revised March 2018
...
Why grilled cheese? Onions.
It’s simple: I abhor onions and had reached a gross-out point at which I could not bear the taste of one more unexpected onion entering my mouth. I’d been bombarded in the least likely places. At the beach, I cried over my salad when I realized some maniac had slipped raw onions into the Thousand Island dressing. I recoiled when hamburger after hamburger still bore witness to the remnants of chopped onions a line cook had scraped off my order.
Few foods were safe: grilled cheese, seafood, raw veggies, dessert, and tea. Even French fries were suspect since they were fried alongside onion rings.
It’s not that I’m a particularly picky eater, really. I dislike onions and their kin and avoid under-cooked meats. To me, pink meat is under-cooked. Go argue with someone else. I have no desire to eat organ meats. Horseradish and I do not agree, leaving wasabi for everyone else to enjoy. Other than that, I’m relatively flexible.
At seventeen, I was granted the privilege of driving once Momma realized I’d happily do the food shopping. Our budget was tight, but I clipped coupons and followed the weekly sales, allowing me occasionally to buy 2 slices of Fresh Market New York style cheesecake for Momma and me.
By nineteen, I was cooking bi-monthly for the ravenous members of Clemson University's Spanish Club and had spent two summers eating my way through Mexico. On campus, I lived primarily on knock-off Chick-Fila sandwiches, unhealthy cereal, and iceberg salads from Harcombe. Outside the dining hall, I was branching out in my cooking, specializing in mushroom and bacon quesadillas at home and vats of Spanish rice for club meetings.
Through summers in Mexico, frequent trips to Florida, and beach getaways, I forgot to fear onions and focused on what I liked. I sharpened my preferences for Veracruz and Pawley’s Island shrimp, steamed oysters and mussels, mangos and lime, chili and tomato, Tequila and champagne, and grits and omelets.
A stint as a banquet server at the Marriott and the addition of Stax Omega and Stax Grill to Greenville introduced me to non-southern entrees such as Greek Chicken, Chicken Oscar, and Chicken Cordon Bleu. Apparently, I liked chicken. I added asparagus, spinach, feta, crepes, ricotta, raspberries, and vinaigrettes.
From twenty to twenty-three, I made new strides outside the typical Sunday dinner table. At an Atlanta wedding, I met bagels, lox, and cream cheese. I quickly learned not to take large bites of an untoasted bagel as I chewed a single bite seemingly forever. I’d been a fan of Brie, nuts, Vaughn Russell mints, and fruit since I could reach the table at art receptions and weddings but now re-encountered sushi and pate. I passed on both.
Then came the hummus stage. At USC in the 1990s, mead, homemade salsa, and hummus were hot items. Ritchie’s salsa – though onion-laden – was terrific. As was the mead that flowed through the English department parties. But the hummus I sampled proved unappetizing. I realized later that it was probably oversaturated with fresh garlic; however, I was repulsed by hummus for a decade. Graduate school and visits to Greensboro brought Indian food with its curries and coconut soup.
Perhaps my greatest advancement during these years was successfully preparing a Saint Valentine’s dinner with my housemates, Mary and Christine. For some odd reason, perhaps because there was a 20-pound turkey crowding our freezer, we decided to try out our skills on a Thanksgiving-inspired meal, complete with my Holiday Inn-donated turkey. Free holiday turkeys were a standard perk of the hotel business, and I gladly sacrificed my yearly poultry gift to the starving student cause. Preparing Valentine’s dinner instilled the confidence in me that I (with the help of friends) could entertain a large group of people without relying on my Mexican recipes.
My nickname became June, and I pondered how my identity as a feminist moderate could co-exist with my June Cleaver alter-ego.
Upon moving back to Greenville, I was indoctrinated into the world of Pita House. Who knew that I’d been missing out on falafels, chicken shawarma, stuffed squash, and other Middle Eastern staples I now couldn’t live without? Just give me a Middle East plate, no onions, and a sweet tea, and I’m deliriously content.
Greek food has been an integral part of Greenville cuisine since the 1950s when the influx of Greek families, who promptly opened dozens of successful restaurants, introduced feta and gyro to the meatloaf and potatoes crowd. Today, Greenville gets its Greek fix through Stax Grill, Como’s Pete’s, Never on Sunday, Stax Omega, Olive Tree, Acropolis, Stax Peppermill, and many other local eateries.
Oyster roasts have become more popular in upstate South Carolina, during months with an "R," as fundraisers that blend raw and steamed oysters, BBQ with generous fixings, open bar, live bands, and silent auctions into an event well-worth its ticket price. Momma and I attend these as annual mother-daughter outings. Although we share a love for shucking and eating oysters, I choose to eschew all condiments except fresh lemon. Let others waste their time with Texas Pete Hot Sauce, horseradish, and Saltines; I'll take my oysters straight up, thank you.
My favorite foodie extravaganza, hands down, is a four-day Greek food orgy otherwise known simply as The Greek Festival. During these blessed days, the downtown parking lot of St. George’s Greek Orthodox Church transforms itself into a paradise offering roast lamb, dolmades, spanikopita, moussaka, loukoumades, and baklava. I’ve been known to count out my change so I can pocket a few tiropitas for later. Tiropitas, those amazing filo dough pockets of feta, make an awesome breakfast. By the end of the Greek festival, I’m as stuffed as a grape leaf.
Now that we live within walking distance of St. George’s, I can only imagine the damage I’ll do to our weekly grocery budget beginning May 17th. Opa!
For this year's Greek Festival: http://www.stgeorgegreenville.org/calendar
Originally published as "On becoming a quasi-foodie… Sweet Tea and Pound-cake"
February 2010/ Revised March 2018
...
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