The walls of the “kill room” are lined with transparent plastic tarps. Not just the walls, but the ceiling and floor too. It makes for easy clean-up, and not a shred of evidence to be found after the kill. A man or woman, made unconscious, is laid on a plastic covered table in the center of the room. Their body is saran wrapped to the hard surface, and held down tightly so that when they wake up, they have no possible way to get up. Photos and newspaper clippings of the victim’s victims are hung around on the walls and ceiling as reminders to the lifeless body of the evil deeds they have done. Knives, power tools, and other deadly weapons are spread out on another table in the room. The scene is like something out of a bad horror movie, and it is clear what is about to happen in this space. The lifeless body suddenly becomes alert, and their eyes open wide. They usually struggle and stifle a scream, and their eyes dart around the room trying to figure out what is happening to them. They notice the photos of their victims hanging around them, and the lethal hardware strategically placed in an order of some kind on another table, and the fear sets in.
Dexter walks in calmly, with a determined look on his face. A smile creeps across his chin as he reveres in the fact that his victim is awake. Gracefully and routinely he takes a small, short knife out of his pocket and walks towards the writhing body. He puts the blade on the face of the squirmer and drags it across their cheek. Using a dropper, he takes a sample of the blood that drips slowly down the victim’s cheek. Dexter places the blood on a slide, and adds it to his collection of dozens of others he keeps safely tucked away in a place that only he can find them. This is when the victim usually asks why they are there, and why this Dexter has put them in that place. What did they do to deserve this? This is when Dexter looks at the man or woman in the unfortunate position of being about to be killed, and tells them to look around at the people in the photos staring back at them. He mentions “the code” and begins his work on dismembering their bodies while they are still alive, using various tools to get the job done.
This is a common scene on the show “Dexter” which plays on the Showtime network. It is about serial killer, Dexter, whose victims are killers. As a young boy, his mother was murdered right before his eyes, and he was adopted by the police officer who found him a couple days later in a shipping container. Ever since then, he has felt compelled to kill. It started off with just urges, but then his stepfather, Harry, showed him how to satisfy those urges in a way that he wouldn’t be caught. He would kill animals once in awhile when he really couldn’t hold back, but as he grew older, his father taught him how to kill human’s quietly, efficiently, and secretively. It became a way of life for Dexter, and to commemorate each kill, he would keep a sample of each person’s blood. He turned his fascination with dead bodies and blood into a profession as a blood analyst, and was a member of Miami metro homicide in Florida. Throughout the series, Dexter learns through experience how to feign feelings and commonality as he begins a family. He tries to “blend in” as his stepfather Harry suggested to him, to keep his anonymity as a serial killer.
Dexter is charming, handsome, and mysterious. To women, he is irresistible. He has perfected the act of “normalcy”, so much so that even his own wife does not know his true identity. Viewers of the show are enthralled by his hunt to find a killer to kill, and we root for him the whole time. Yes, I said it. We are on the side of the serial killer. Before “Dexter”, killers were crude and cold-blooded. “Dexter” shows us another side of the serial killer. It shows us the human side; the side that needs to kill to survive. Ah, the irony. As we watch, we hope that he finds the victim he is hunting, because we are made to feel like that person deserves to die for what they did. As we start to get to know Dexter, we start to believe the same things he believes: that people who kill the innocent should die for what they did. But wait a second, does that make us believe that in the real world, all killers should be put on death row? After watching an episode of Dexter during which I am fascinated by his killing technique, watching his victim get his limbs sawed off by a chainsaw and dumped into the ocean, I question the appeal. I wonder, how can the Showtime network as us, the viewers, to identify with a serial killer? How can the general public possibly relate with a person who kills people for fun; who needs to kill?
This statement makes me nervous. As I watch the show, I feel satisfied. I feel intrigued. I feel interested. However what does that say about me as a person? I don’t identify my personality with anger, but looking more into the reasons why I watch it, maybe I should re-evaluate myself. I have one friend who watches Dexter who hates gore. He can’t watch horror movies because of the blood and guts, however is enthralled with Dexter. As I hounded him with questions such as “Do you support Dexter’s decision to kill killers?” and “Is it possible that you might secretly be a serial killer?” I became more and more intrigued by viewer interest. “No Chelsea, I’m not a serial killer and I don’t support murder, there is just something about this show that grabs my attention and won’t let go.” What is that something?
Maybe Dexter satisfies some kind of subliminal urge we have as humans, to get revenge on people who have done us wrong. Dexter only murders murderers, or people who “deserve” to die. He is a vigilante of sorts, clearing the streets of people who create crime, however along the way he creates a criminal of himself. Vigilantism, although not legal, is a common theme in movies, television, and comic books. The public will support and praise a hero for taking care of criminals, even if they are committing crimes themselves. We have become desensitized to the fact that these “heroes” like Dexter are breaking the law and hurting others. In the past, we viewed killers and psychopaths in a bad light. There was never any type of media showing serial killers in a positive light, because we couldn’t even fathom putting them there. However times have changed, and with the example of vigilantism and Dexter, one of the most popular shows on television, it seems that the public has started to change their opinion of murder.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Ecotone Publication
Ecotone: Reimagining Place
About
Ecotone was first started in 2005, and comes out of UNC Wilmington. It comes out twice a year. The purpose of Ecotone is to publish stories or art that re-imagine place.
Submissions
Ecotone accepts creative non-fiction, fiction, poems, and art focused on and reimagining place. The website defines “Ecotone” as a transition zone between two adjacent ecological communities, containing the characteristic species of each. It’s nature writing, but not cliché. It should break boundaries, and use vibrant descriptions.
• Reading dates: August 15-April 15
• One prose piece or 6 poems at a time (separate by genre)
• Prose - no longer than 30 pages, double spaced, one side of page
• Poems – single or double spaced, one side of page
• Only accepts snail mail, unless international
Description of Essays
Subject matter:
• Nature
• Animals
• Different places combined
• What is important?
• Natural world/human world
• Religion/Sexuality
Voice/Tone:
• Humor
• Informal
• First person
Form:
• Prose
• Double spaced
• Dialogue
Artistry:
• Literary
Length:
• Short stories
• Short Poems
Analysis
After reading a sample of entries in the Ecotone journals, I have found a broad variety of subject matter, purpose, and tone. The editors descriptions of the works that they publish say that the look for vibrant descriptions of breaking boundaries between nature and humans. From what I have read, the writers have really pushed those boundaries include almost any topic. They involve love, religion, and relationships. I think the audience this publication is aiming towards appreciates the simplicity of nature and our effect on it.
Links:
Ecotone: www.ecotonejournal.com
About
Ecotone was first started in 2005, and comes out of UNC Wilmington. It comes out twice a year. The purpose of Ecotone is to publish stories or art that re-imagine place.
Submissions
Ecotone accepts creative non-fiction, fiction, poems, and art focused on and reimagining place. The website defines “Ecotone” as a transition zone between two adjacent ecological communities, containing the characteristic species of each. It’s nature writing, but not cliché. It should break boundaries, and use vibrant descriptions.
• Reading dates: August 15-April 15
• One prose piece or 6 poems at a time (separate by genre)
• Prose - no longer than 30 pages, double spaced, one side of page
• Poems – single or double spaced, one side of page
• Only accepts snail mail, unless international
Description of Essays
Subject matter:
• Nature
• Animals
• Different places combined
• What is important?
• Natural world/human world
• Religion/Sexuality
Voice/Tone:
• Humor
• Informal
• First person
Form:
• Prose
• Double spaced
• Dialogue
Artistry:
• Literary
Length:
• Short stories
• Short Poems
Analysis
After reading a sample of entries in the Ecotone journals, I have found a broad variety of subject matter, purpose, and tone. The editors descriptions of the works that they publish say that the look for vibrant descriptions of breaking boundaries between nature and humans. From what I have read, the writers have really pushed those boundaries include almost any topic. They involve love, religion, and relationships. I think the audience this publication is aiming towards appreciates the simplicity of nature and our effect on it.
Links:
Ecotone: www.ecotonejournal.com
Monday, November 29, 2010
Revised Essay 1 (forgot to post)
A rusted school bus drove us down a winding dirt path into endless vegetation towards El Triunfo, Guatemala. The lush greenery was like a flood spilling over onto the road. Cows and pigs strolled alongside the bus as we passed through village after village of homes made out of scrap metal and old wood. A bus packed full of high school students, obliging adults, and endless luggage pulled up to a deteriorating building known as the town’s one schoolhouse. Dozens of children surrounded the bus making it difficult for the driver to pull up onto the oddly flourishing grass patches in front of the school. Guilt overwhelmed me as we piled off the bus in our traveling attire, our hands hauling suitcases and food. The children stared at us in wonder as we started to greet them. They formed a seal of bodies around the bus as we stood up to take in our first glances of the town where we would be staying for the next eight days. There were one hundred of us, and we had signed up for a mission trip to this tiny city in Guatemala to build homes for people whose own were destroyed by natural disasters, or could not afford to build one.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but then it hit me that I wasn’t just there to build houses. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was overwhelming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. They were honored to show us where we would be staying, and as guests we were put in the most impressive building in the town. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted community.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overpowering fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. The village was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black night alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and extremely dark so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper into the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? If I did, how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? My breath became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still worried about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and pulled me closer I knew they were comforting me; telling me that everything was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
On the last night in Guatemala we were served the most remarkable and expensive feast that was ever served in El Triunfo. It was only ever made for weddings. It was pork cooked from the pig I had seen gutted earlier that day. As we sat down on painted picnic tables with the ones who had prepared it, and the rest of the neighborhood to enjoy this incomparable meal, I felt safe.
We piled off the bus and were immediately bombarded with hugs of gratitude from the many children that had come to greet us. One child’s grubby hands grabbed my cheeks and brought my face down to hers. Her eyes filled with tears as she cooed at me in Spanish in a dialect that I couldn’t really understand. I started to pull away but then it hit me that I wasn’t just there to build houses. Other children started to come over to me, pulling on my t-shirt and opening up their arms for an embrace. The love they poured out was overwhelming. It took us hours to move the ten yards from the bus to our sleeping quarters in the schoolhouse. They were honored to show us where we would be staying, and as guests we were put in the most impressive building in the town. Once we put down our luggage in the twenty by twenty feet cement classrooms, we set off on a tour of El Triunfo and to meet the rest of the residents of this uncharted community.
The next few days were a blur of sweat, tears, and overpowering fulfillment. The people in this community were unlike any I had ever seen. It looked like something out of National Geographic. The village was filled with thick jungle-like brush that was impossible to tear through without a machete. People bathed naked, unashamed, in the streets; in the tiny dribble of water they called their canal. Chickens, cows, roosters, and massive pigs walked freely around the dirt roads, only to be slaughtered later right in front of our eyes, and fed to us soon after. They even saved their fattest swine for our arrival. Families constantly came up to us, throwing their arms around us saying “Te amo, te amo!” and smothering us with kisses. We had worship every night in a building in the center of town, which everyone attended. We sang songs in Spanish and English, and the love and tenderness in that room was tangible every night.
On one of the hottest nights I can remember, a little girl who couldn’t have been any older than two or three was sitting on my lap during our worship time. Out of nowhere she started to weep uncontrollably and cry out “Mama! Mama!” I did not know who her mother was, but it was after ten o’clock in the evening, and I was sure that she was tired and needed her mother to take her home. I asked the little girl in my broken Spanish if she wanted me to take her home, and she responded with action. She got up and sprinted into the pitch black night alone, without warning. I was sure that she had walked home hundreds of times alone, but it was late and extremely dark so I was afraid to let her go. I knew she lived in the middle of the thick jungle, so I grabbed the machete which was leaning against the wall- I was petrified and I didn’t know what was living out in the brush this time of night. With no flashlight to my name I ran after her, saying “Niña, Niña!” at the top of my lungs. I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand leading the way into the woods.
She was barefoot, and even in my sneakers I was falling all over myself as she stayed steady, still gripping my hand like a vice, pulling me deeper and deeper into the tangle. The fear was palpable. I felt like insects were crawling all over me. As I used my machete to chop down the brush in our path I heard dogs, or what I hoped were dogs howling in the distance. I heard other noises that to this day I cannot identify. The young girls hand was gripping mine so tightly that it felt as if my fingers were swelling up. It was nighttime, but sweat was still dripping off my face rapidly as the fear ran all throughout my body. Every step we took brought us further and further into the brush. I started to panic; What if I couldn’t find this little girls home and we had to sleep in the jungle? If I did, how was I going to get back to the schoolhouse where I slept? My breath became shallow and short. We started to walk a little slower as the little girl started to call out for her mother; “Mama! Mama!”
Out of nowhere, a dim glow started to materialize in the distance. I could barely make out whether it was a light or a firefly. When the little girl noticed it, she let go of my pruned hand and sprinted towards it. I chased after her, anxious that she would get lost in the wilderness. I lost sight of her, but I heard a door slam ahead of me. I followed the sound until I saw a house with a hazily lit lamp hanging above the door. I thought that was the home of this young girl, but I wasn’t completely sure. I was alone now, and beyond horrified. The howling growls of unnamed animals were growing louder and more distinct. I ran back in the direction in which I came from, desperate to find a way out of the obscurity, using the machete to clear a path. When I emerged from the wooded area I found myself right behind the schoolhouse where my group of volunteers slept. I was out of breath, and tears were welling up in my eyes. I was relieved to be out of the woods, but still worried about that little girl finding her mother. I ran around to the front of the schoolhouse where some of the Guatemalan mothers were slapping tortillas in their hands back and forth for the next day of meals. Panting, I tried to tell them in my broken down Spanish what happened, and when they realized what I was trying to say, they started to giggle and extend their arms out to me. A flood of emotion washed over me as I started to cry. I kept saying over and over again, “Tengo miedo, lo siento,” because I didn’t know what else to say. Still hugging me, they looked me in the eye, and started to speak to me calmly and quietly in their native Spanish dialect. I didn’t know what they were telling me, but as they grinned and pulled me closer I knew they were comforting me; telling me that everything was okay, that she was okay, and that they were grateful for my compassion.
On the last night in Guatemala we were served the most remarkable and expensive feast that was ever served in El Triunfo. It was only ever made for weddings. It was pork cooked from the pig I had seen gutted earlier that day. As we sat down on painted picnic tables with the ones who had prepared it, and the rest of the neighborhood to enjoy this incomparable meal, I felt safe.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Draft for reflective analysis
Throughout my young adult life, my favorite and most elaborate type of writing came in the form of my personal diary writing. I could write for hours about myself and my experiences, perhaps because I lived the story, perhaps because I am just a straight up narcissist. As I would like to disband the second assumption, I must write it in case it’s true. I came into this class not knowing that I could use that type of writing in my work, and therefore was not expecting to throw myself into my writing as much as I did. I have discovered throughout the many different means of learning about creative non-fiction that we have embarked upon, that I am a creative non-fiction writer. I always have been, without knowing it.
I first connected my diary writing to this course when we were to write journals, starting on the first day of class. I distinctly remember sharing with the class my story of my mother finding my diaries, and reading all of them behind my back. Although that was a tragic event in my life, the devastation I felt showed me even more how much I cared about writing about my day’s events, and experiences I have had. The journal writing in this class was not only helpful for thinking of things to write about, but was also therapeutic. Since I don’t feel comfortable keeping a diary at home anymore, it was nice to have prompts to write about in class that would let me write down my past experiences, while also giving me ideas for new essays to write. I wrote about things that were uncomfortable for me to write about, things or events that I haven’t thought about in years, and little anecdotes from my childhood. The journal writing paved the way for my first “I” essay about my trip to Guatemala, and the little girl I met there. I don’t think I would’ve written that story down unless I had the opportunity in this class. It is a story I always wanted to have in print, but never got around to, or never felt motivated to do. Learning that that specific story from my life was considered creative non-fiction was the motivation I needed to write it down.
As I grasped the concept of the “I” essay quite easily, the “eye” essay was not my strong point at all. I felt like whatever I would write about would turn into a story about myself, because in order to write about something I care about, it would probably surround a story about an experience I’ve had. When I wrote the “eye” essay’s, they came out really factual in some places, and story-oriented in others. It didn’t mesh well, or flow. Reading works by John McPhee helped me a little to realize that I could involve my story in an “eye” essay, especially his story “The Patch”. The way he intertwined his personal story with facts about pickerel sucked me in, even though I don’t give a damn about fish to be honest. I wanted to create a piece like that with my “eye” essays, which I tried especially hard to do with my essay about Dexter.
Conferences about my work were also a helpful way for me to learn more about my writing. After each conference I would come out knowing something about my piece that I did not know was there. These hidden messages also became apparent when I read my story aloud during our performances at liberty hall, and when other students in the class read my writing. Whether it was positive feedback about how the piece made a particular person feel, or whether it was advice on how I could improve my essay, it all led to my ultimate better understanding of creative non-fiction as a whole.
I first connected my diary writing to this course when we were to write journals, starting on the first day of class. I distinctly remember sharing with the class my story of my mother finding my diaries, and reading all of them behind my back. Although that was a tragic event in my life, the devastation I felt showed me even more how much I cared about writing about my day’s events, and experiences I have had. The journal writing in this class was not only helpful for thinking of things to write about, but was also therapeutic. Since I don’t feel comfortable keeping a diary at home anymore, it was nice to have prompts to write about in class that would let me write down my past experiences, while also giving me ideas for new essays to write. I wrote about things that were uncomfortable for me to write about, things or events that I haven’t thought about in years, and little anecdotes from my childhood. The journal writing paved the way for my first “I” essay about my trip to Guatemala, and the little girl I met there. I don’t think I would’ve written that story down unless I had the opportunity in this class. It is a story I always wanted to have in print, but never got around to, or never felt motivated to do. Learning that that specific story from my life was considered creative non-fiction was the motivation I needed to write it down.
As I grasped the concept of the “I” essay quite easily, the “eye” essay was not my strong point at all. I felt like whatever I would write about would turn into a story about myself, because in order to write about something I care about, it would probably surround a story about an experience I’ve had. When I wrote the “eye” essay’s, they came out really factual in some places, and story-oriented in others. It didn’t mesh well, or flow. Reading works by John McPhee helped me a little to realize that I could involve my story in an “eye” essay, especially his story “The Patch”. The way he intertwined his personal story with facts about pickerel sucked me in, even though I don’t give a damn about fish to be honest. I wanted to create a piece like that with my “eye” essays, which I tried especially hard to do with my essay about Dexter.
Conferences about my work were also a helpful way for me to learn more about my writing. After each conference I would come out knowing something about my piece that I did not know was there. These hidden messages also became apparent when I read my story aloud during our performances at liberty hall, and when other students in the class read my writing. Whether it was positive feedback about how the piece made a particular person feel, or whether it was advice on how I could improve my essay, it all led to my ultimate better understanding of creative non-fiction as a whole.
Audience/Journals for my work
I think the audience for my work will be someone who can appreciate humor and descriptive language. A lot of my writing relies on the reader being able to visualize in their head what is going on, in order to get a full appreciation for the writing. The reader should also like to read true stories about things that have actually happened, and maybe empathize with the impoverished. The story that I want to submit is the story about Guatemala and the little girl, so it will be easier to pinpoint which publication I should submit to. Maybe it would be a website that has stories about nature, because the descriptions in my writing is a lot about the nature and animals around me at the time.
http://fourthriver.chatham.edu/index.cfm
This literary journal would be a great one for me to send to. They tend to publish works about people writing about humans and thier environment. I don't know if my work would fit in perfectly because it says they like works that explore landscapes in new ways, however they may appreciate my story.
http://www.ecotonejournal.com/index.php/home/about/
I clicked on this link because of the word "eco" in it, which I thought might be about the environment. When I clicked on the "about" link it said that this literary journal likes works that are about "place". I like that it says a "vibrant literature of place."
http://fourthriver.chatham.edu/index.cfm
This literary journal would be a great one for me to send to. They tend to publish works about people writing about humans and thier environment. I don't know if my work would fit in perfectly because it says they like works that explore landscapes in new ways, however they may appreciate my story.
http://www.ecotonejournal.com/index.php/home/about/
I clicked on this link because of the word "eco" in it, which I thought might be about the environment. When I clicked on the "about" link it said that this literary journal likes works that are about "place". I like that it says a "vibrant literature of place."
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Eye Essay #2- New Topic- Caesar Salad
My family and I walked into the outdoor seating area of the restaurant we were going to in California that night. I was young, and I was so picky when it came to food that the only thing I could order off any menu was Caesar salad. I didn’t eat chicken fingers, steak, pasta, or even sandwiches at the time, so my Caesar salad obsession became a running joke in the family. As we approached our new table, the jokes began.
“So Chelsea, what are you going to order tonight, shrimp?” My mother chuckled.
“Let me guess, what are YOU going to order tonight?” My sister guffawed.
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if our waiter was named Caesar?” My father questioned.
We sat down to open our menu’s, and of course, Caesar salad was on the menu. Our waiter came over to the table, looked me straight in the eye, and said,
“Hello and welcome! My name is Caesar and I’ll be your waiter this evening.”
My family and I burst into laughter so forcefully that we scared our waiter and he didn’t come back to our table that night. After we recovered, my father said
“Chelsea, you should write a book about your experiences with Caesar salad.”
This isn’t a book, but it’s a first step.
It took me awhile to realize that it was a little bizarre that the only thing I could order at a restaurant was Caesar salad. My mom would always have to check the menu before we went to make sure they had it, or else I would only eat from the bread basket or be cranky and whiny all night. I was clearly spoiled as a child. If we were going to an extended family members house for dinner, I would have to bring my own bottle of Caesar dressing to the event, just because I knew I wouldn’t like anything else. It wasn’t embarrassing at the time, but even typing it now is uncomfortable to me.
As I looked a little more into the Caesar salad phenomenon, I found out that it was actually originated by a man named Caesar Cardini. Italian born, he created the recipe by just throwing together ingredients he had lying around the house. A controversial ingredient in typical Caesar dressing is anchovies. It is a little known fact that when the dressing was first invented, it did not include anchovies at all. The anchovy flavor came from worcester sauce. Whenever I was served a Caesar salad with anchovies in it, I would send it back. Little slippery fish aren’t to my liking. Julia Child, the well known chef, even ate at Cardini’s restaurant where the Caesar dressing was first invented. Reportedly, fifty years after she first tasted it in the 1920’s, she called Cardini’s daughter for the recipe. The Cardini brand dressing was trademarked, and is still sold in supermarkets all around the world.
If we made Caesar salad at home, there was only one dressing I would eat, and that was Cardini’s original Caesar dressing. With 17 grams of fat, it was a significant contributor to my weight gain throughout my childhood. I ate it every day with some lettuce, some croutons, and sometimes some parmesan cheese. It became an obsession. As I started to gain weight through high school, I tried to switch over to light Caesar dressing, instead of the original kind. Bad move. It tasted like watered down parmesan cheese soup.
As I got older, my palette grew more sophisticated, and now I eat just about anything. But my taste and love for Caesar salad stays the same. Over the years I have even made some variations to my usual lettuce, croutons, and dressing combination. Sometimes I’ll add bacon, red onions, and the most recent addition, grilled chicken. But one thing I have never, and will never like in my Caesar salad, is light dressing, or anchovies.
“So Chelsea, what are you going to order tonight, shrimp?” My mother chuckled.
“Let me guess, what are YOU going to order tonight?” My sister guffawed.
“Wouldn’t it be hilarious if our waiter was named Caesar?” My father questioned.
We sat down to open our menu’s, and of course, Caesar salad was on the menu. Our waiter came over to the table, looked me straight in the eye, and said,
“Hello and welcome! My name is Caesar and I’ll be your waiter this evening.”
My family and I burst into laughter so forcefully that we scared our waiter and he didn’t come back to our table that night. After we recovered, my father said
“Chelsea, you should write a book about your experiences with Caesar salad.”
This isn’t a book, but it’s a first step.
It took me awhile to realize that it was a little bizarre that the only thing I could order at a restaurant was Caesar salad. My mom would always have to check the menu before we went to make sure they had it, or else I would only eat from the bread basket or be cranky and whiny all night. I was clearly spoiled as a child. If we were going to an extended family members house for dinner, I would have to bring my own bottle of Caesar dressing to the event, just because I knew I wouldn’t like anything else. It wasn’t embarrassing at the time, but even typing it now is uncomfortable to me.
As I looked a little more into the Caesar salad phenomenon, I found out that it was actually originated by a man named Caesar Cardini. Italian born, he created the recipe by just throwing together ingredients he had lying around the house. A controversial ingredient in typical Caesar dressing is anchovies. It is a little known fact that when the dressing was first invented, it did not include anchovies at all. The anchovy flavor came from worcester sauce. Whenever I was served a Caesar salad with anchovies in it, I would send it back. Little slippery fish aren’t to my liking. Julia Child, the well known chef, even ate at Cardini’s restaurant where the Caesar dressing was first invented. Reportedly, fifty years after she first tasted it in the 1920’s, she called Cardini’s daughter for the recipe. The Cardini brand dressing was trademarked, and is still sold in supermarkets all around the world.
If we made Caesar salad at home, there was only one dressing I would eat, and that was Cardini’s original Caesar dressing. With 17 grams of fat, it was a significant contributor to my weight gain throughout my childhood. I ate it every day with some lettuce, some croutons, and sometimes some parmesan cheese. It became an obsession. As I started to gain weight through high school, I tried to switch over to light Caesar dressing, instead of the original kind. Bad move. It tasted like watered down parmesan cheese soup.
As I got older, my palette grew more sophisticated, and now I eat just about anything. But my taste and love for Caesar salad stays the same. Over the years I have even made some variations to my usual lettuce, croutons, and dressing combination. Sometimes I’ll add bacon, red onions, and the most recent addition, grilled chicken. But one thing I have never, and will never like in my Caesar salad, is light dressing, or anchovies.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Eye Essay #2
Wine.
This isn't a draft yet. It's just a couple of ideas I will embellish on during my essay.
~ To me, wine is just something that tastes good. Sometimes it's fruity, sometimes it tastes like grass, or dirt, and sometimes bread. I don't drink it the proper way, however I have been taught endless times how to. I don't drink white wine with chicken and fish, and red wine with steak and pizza. I don't really follow any rules when it comes to wine ettiquette, and I think it's made my love of wine even more prevalent.
~ I have taken countless adventures to vineyards on the east coast, and some on the west coast but that was before I was of age. I love the smell of the barrels, the grapes, and the cold basements where they do the bottling. My family is really into wine, and my mother used to work in a wine shop. I've learned a lot from her about different kinds of wine, however the one thing I have learned is that my mother has almost turned into a bit of a wine snob, which makes me and my father laugh. I won't bother buying a wine unless it's under 10 bucks, regardless of the type. However my mother has many different qualms about the way I deal with wine, because of her "experience" in the business.
~A lot of my family parties revolve around wine. People will bring different kinds, and there will maybe be 10-15 bottles at the bar, opened, even if there is only 10 people at the party. Now there are no alcohol abusers in the family, however it is not uncommon to see someone guzzle at least four glasses of wine in a night.
~ I would like to explore different critics of wine and how they describe it. I have no idea what people are saying when they say a wine tastes "fleshy" or "oaky". What does that even mean? Have these people tasted oak or flesh?
This isn't a draft yet. It's just a couple of ideas I will embellish on during my essay.
~ To me, wine is just something that tastes good. Sometimes it's fruity, sometimes it tastes like grass, or dirt, and sometimes bread. I don't drink it the proper way, however I have been taught endless times how to. I don't drink white wine with chicken and fish, and red wine with steak and pizza. I don't really follow any rules when it comes to wine ettiquette, and I think it's made my love of wine even more prevalent.
~ I have taken countless adventures to vineyards on the east coast, and some on the west coast but that was before I was of age. I love the smell of the barrels, the grapes, and the cold basements where they do the bottling. My family is really into wine, and my mother used to work in a wine shop. I've learned a lot from her about different kinds of wine, however the one thing I have learned is that my mother has almost turned into a bit of a wine snob, which makes me and my father laugh. I won't bother buying a wine unless it's under 10 bucks, regardless of the type. However my mother has many different qualms about the way I deal with wine, because of her "experience" in the business.
~A lot of my family parties revolve around wine. People will bring different kinds, and there will maybe be 10-15 bottles at the bar, opened, even if there is only 10 people at the party. Now there are no alcohol abusers in the family, however it is not uncommon to see someone guzzle at least four glasses of wine in a night.
~ I would like to explore different critics of wine and how they describe it. I have no idea what people are saying when they say a wine tastes "fleshy" or "oaky". What does that even mean? Have these people tasted oak or flesh?
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