80 Breakfasts is a blog that covers many cuisine topics, but really its about morning dining, via 80 Breakfasts.
Posts Categorized: Writing
This week the food issue for the New Yorker is released, read about king’s meals, food politics, foraging, etc, via New Yorker.
On Monday, Writer’s Center Stage and Cuyahoga Public Library brought Michael Pollan to Cleveland to speak. He happened to be free for lunch and seemed delighted to be taken to The Greenhouse Tavern (above, photos by Donna Turner Ruhlman), for a taste of fall. Pollan, who lives, teaches and writes in Berkeley, CA, is tall and lanky, bobs his head a lot, smiles easily, and is engaging in conversation. He was for years a magazine editor in New York, and left full-time employment with no small amount of anxiety to complete his first book. His second book had mediocre sales, he noted (I read it long ago, excellent book). The Botony of Desire faired better, but it was The Omnivore’s Dilemma that transformed him from non-fiction author and journalism teacher into a national spokesman for the urgent food issues we Read On »
It’s one of my enduring childhood memories, a gift from my mom. I was seven or eight, my mom in her early thirties, late morning, august sun, we stared at the six full tomato plants we grew behind our garage. I don’t know if she actually spoke but her urgent and determined movements said, “Let’s do this.” She wrenched two ripe tomatoes from the vine. I followed her to the kitchen. She rinsed both tomatoes briefly under cool water but they stayed hot the sun. She gave one to me. She shook salt on the one she held, and it stuck to what water remained. Something was going on, but I didn’t know what. Then she bit into the tomato as if it were an apple, closed her eyes once. She salted the exposed flesh, Read On »
Three years ago on this date, a Saturday, Donna, my mom, I, the kids, our dear friend Stu, and the dog spent the morning standing vigil as my father succumbed to the lung cancer. Mom had gone to the farmer’s market and gotten corn and she and I stood at the kitchen island plowing through a dozen and a half ears, butter dripping off our chins. My dad, Rip, hadn’t been conscious since very early in the morning, 3 am, Donna and I on the bedside, holding his hand. Realizing the end was truly near, he wanted our assurance that I had indeed returned his library books. I had. “We love you, Dad, we’re going to be fine, don’t worry, everything’s going to be OK.” By eleven a.m., he breathed sporadically. I hoped he could Read On »