Mirepoix found

There are theories that state that there is no true self. The idea of self, the notion of individuality, is nothing but social and cultural constructs that are mirrored in a person. These constructs include literal and material objects like clothing, cars, real estate, etc. Other constructs are more abstract, like gender specific behavior, the brave boy and sweet girl. Regardless, it can be said, that none of it really represents the self - just an idea about the self.

In Carolyn Rouse and Janet Hoskins, "Purity, Soul Food, and Sunni Islam: Explorations at the Intersection of Consumption and Resistance", food is a vessel to communicate social taboo, symbolism, history, gender, etc. In the article, it describes how food reinforces and possibly changes gender roles, separating and negotiating power between men and women. Also, food can become a method of discipline and self-discovery including moving away from food that represents impurity (pork) and cleansing ones body with pure foods (brown rice, milk, butter, fresh vegetables, etc.). Food then becomes a controllable piece of the idea of identity. It is a daily mirror of the self.

This week, my blog challenge is to write about a food that I have an affiliation with in terms of identity. This has not been easy. Most people think of food in terms of national identity, the Italian ziti Nona used to make or the Mexican tamales served at Christmas. For me, I do not have such an identity. I am a mix of European descendents that occurred so many generations ago, there are only rumors of my roots - a little German, Irish, and so on. I would hardly identify myself with American food - I just do not think a burger and fries cuts it. Frankly, it has been an awkward request-and then I though of it.

My mirror is soup. I have joked with friends that soup is my fifth food group. Year round, I find myself in front of a bowl at least once per week. From creamy clam chowder to lobster bisque, Vietnamese pho to my own homemade earthy soups of chunky tomato, chicken, veggie, and potato, I cannot get enough. One of the best meals I ever had was in the south of Ireland alone in a pub, its gift was brown bread dredged in cream of veggie soup with stout. Soup is unpretentious, real, earthy, and kind. It feels out of place in fine dining instead longing for good conversation with authentic people. It is a food that linked a girl born into sunshine with the girl who would grow-up and move to the rain. Eating soup with its slow demeanor gives me the space to think. Soup, its nook and crannie nature, its friend-next-door attitude, its lazy Sunday supper placement, reminds me of the idea of myself. A person that wishes to step outside a world that feels like a never ending dinner party of small talk into a place of authenticity and connection. It beckons me home.