Grits for the Road

Inspiration for a few reflections on the culinary aspect of this trip came from the meal I just finished – more specifically, from the tough butt-end of a loaf of seedy bread I bought seven days ago in Iowa City.  When I pulled it out of its weakened, flimsy paper bag 30 minutes ago, I thought I might need a chisel to get through it, and I don’t have a chisel on me.  However, with its accompaniments of a lump torn off a stick of supermarket extra-sharp cheddar that was one of the cheeses I didn’t want to leave to grow mold in the refrigerator at home, an only-very-slightly-wizened apple purchased at the Falls Church Farmer’s Market just over two weeks ago, and a small handful of trail mix, it comprised one of the tastiest meals I’ve ever eaten.  Hunger may not be the best seasoning, but it is certainly one of the most effective and versatile.

My sincere enjoyment of this motley picnic reminded me of a friend saying, “There are a lot of good eating places on your route,” when she heard a bit of my proposed itinerary.  It took me a moment to process, because food was never much of a thought when I began planning the trip.  I value and treasure good food (I can still taste the mushroom crèpe that was part of my birthday dinner at L’Auberge Chez François last month, I remember with delight beans on toast prepared by an English friend more than ten years ago, pumpkin soup at a vegetarian restaurant in Paris longer ago than that, a cheese soufflé I made at home a couple years ago, when the ex, who hates eggy things, was out of town), but as important as it is at home, or when choosing a restaurant, it seems entirely incidental to me when traveling.

I suspect part of that is because I am a vegetarian, and as such tend to pack a small stash of soybeans when headed for Paris, so I don’t go hungry and protein-deprived in a worldwide culinary capital.  I am not excited by Kansas City barbecue, Maine lobsters or the chance to try a caribou steak in Alaska.  I was once enthusiastic about getting a real Irish potato while on a trip around Northern Ireland; and it was quite good, though more impressive for its size – it took up more than half of my dinner plate – than for its flavor.

The larger part of it is because I’m much more interested in museums, mountains and monuments than in breakfast, lunch and dinner, which I can get anywhere.  Yes, in Paris I want a crèpe Gran Marnier (“pas de sucre, s’il vous plaît”) from a sidewalk cart, and in England I want a warm beer in a pub, and in St. Louis I really, really want the chocolate sauce at Cardwell’s at the Plaza, but mostly I want to stroll along the Seine, and go horseback riding in Hyde Park, and peruse the fabulous and free St. Lou zoo and art museum.  Food is more a necessity and occasional treat, not a main point.

Further, when I do start engaging with my meals in a dedicated way, I’m almost certainly walking.  So as I strolled through Iowa City one morning in search of breakfast, I had time to get all picky and reject the bagels there, and the eggs here, and hold out until I came upon the almond-spinach smoothie at Bread Garden Market.  Some of the things I watch for while walking include chocolatiers, local cheeses, savory and sweet pastries, raspberries, blueberries, papaya and fresh tomatoes, and previously-unknown pasta sauces and dips.  But zooming along the highway at 70mph the only guideposts that crop up, generally, are for wineries, and wine tasting is contra-indicated for highway-zooming.

Of course I’ve been eating.  I brought the cheddar, a gorgonzola dolce and an aged goat cheese with me from home, along with the fresh mozzarella, nectarine, roll and banana-chocolate-chip muffin I ate on day one.  I also packed about eight Virginia apples and one Virginia pear, a large bag of trail mix and a smaller one of soy nuts to add, and a few chocolate bars for emergencies.  There’s a small jar of cocoa mix in with the food supplies, too, but I’m beginning to doubt I’ll use it.  I’ve had complimentary breakfast buffets of varying quality at three hotels, a couple hip sandwiches in hip Chicago and Detroit, and a gourmet pizza in Iowa City, with two glasses of sparkling wine.  There’ve also been a few hunts for non-dairy protein when I start to feel cheesed-out.

And although I threatened to eschew corn syrup early on during my million-mile drive through corn country, I am going to get really corny now:  the best meals by far have been the ones taken with friends.  D.J.’s festival of fresh baked goods and bounty of veggies, taken in company with her chattering children; K.R.’s just-picked-this-up-at-the-market hummus and tabouleh with a rotating cast of kids and a friend I haven’t seen in too long; a pitch-in potluck of guacamole, barley soup and sparkling wine on a drizzly day with E, M and M and L and J and two others whose names escape me; B.D.’s fresh-squeezed apple juice and homemade rolls heaped with cole slaw (also probably homemade; I think she can’t help herself), with the baby squawking and smiling at the other end of the table.  These are meals that make memories, and I’d be just as happy if they were stale bread and supermarket-brand cheese.  That said, the apple juice was fabulous.  As were the kale chips.  And the soup.  The middle-eastern dinner, too – Detroit got a lot of immigrants from that area, and they do their pita bread right.

As I write this, I’m in Fairbanks, and I’m pretty sure no vegetarian ever came here for the food.