Bloody Well Write

For those who don’t know me well, I will share this morsel with you:

I’m all about food.

Granted, I’m a pescetarian — someone who doesn’t eat land animals (e.g., chicken, cow, pig, sheep, etc.) — but I do eat seafood and fish, in addition to fruits, dairy products, grains and the occasional vegetable. And tomatoes? They’re OK, I suppose. I’ve eaten them my entire life but haven’t really been in awe of them.

Not, that is, until the past decade, when a friend introduced me to Insalata Caprese. Now, I’m hooked.

Insalata Caprese translates from Italian into English thus: salad from Capri. OK, so what does that mean? It’s a super-simple salad that consists of slices of fresh tomato (I like Roma tomatoes but any tomato that can be cut into relatively thick slices can work), slices of buffalo mozzarella and leaves of fresh basil, all layered and topped with ground pepper, salt and a drizzle of olive oil.

The simplicity of such a salad is deceiving, for the flavors unassumingly complement each other exquisitely. Popular variations include swapping olive oil for an Italian dressing or — my favorite — a balsamic vinaigrette or reduction.

Yummy.

Insalata Caprese (http://www.flickr.com/photos/79928508@N00/4487629379/)

I’m not sure if it’s just coincidence or if it’s the Italian way of imbedding national pride in the local cuisine, but the layered salad shares the same colors as the Italian flag. Sort of reminds me of a very American dessert made to look like the American flag, with white whipped topping, blueberries and raspberries.

Anyhoo, the point of this entry is to clear up the pronunciation issue surrounding this phenomenally simple first course. How the heck do you say Caprese?

From what I’ve gathered through personal accounts, Internet research and an unofficial survey of friends with decent vocabularies (!), it should be pronounced like this:

Ka-PREY-zay.

Now, dear Bloody Well Write readers: If you think that I’m blowing smoke and have it on authority from your great-grandmama (who’s from Capri or Naples (not Florida, BTW) or such) that it should be pronounced XYZ, then by all means, send me a message and I’ll revise this post. But as far as I know — and how I’ll be embarrassing myself in the future to all friends, family and complete strangers who will listen to me babble about the fantastic foods that I love — I’m saying Ka-Prey-zay Salad.

Happy trails!

SAK

It’s 11:10 p.m. A little while ago, I decided to write a quick blog post and so looked up a few things, trying to decide what to write about. Then I remembered something I had learned in school a long time ago: The difference between the term Asian and Oriental. Yep, that’d make a quick post.

But then I thought, hey, that class was awhile ago and I better double-check what I think I know in case I am remembering it wrong. And wammo! No more quick-and-easy post.

What I learned years ago was this:

• Oriental refers to things (e.g., rugs, food, furniture).
• Asian refers to people.

Sounds straightforward enough to me. I’ve explained it as such to lots of folks over the years, including parents and friends. But when I looked it up, I found a great blog with lots of comments. Reading those comments provided so many perspectives. Here are a few examples, paraphrased unless otherwise noted:

Oriental is a derogatory term, referring to things from the East. People, if it’s not already clear, are not things. Things can be bought; people, not so much (or at least they shouldn’t be, on several levels).

Oriental and Asian basically mean the same thing: They are broad, “lazy” terms for a wide variety of people. A better choice may be, if the need to classify exists, to refer to what country a person is from (e.g., Japanese, Korean, Filipino) because it is more specific.

Terms can be generation-specific. One person’s grandmother may call herself Oriental and think all the fuss is silly, while a younger person may take offense to being called Oriental.

Asians, Orientals, Asian-Americans — no matter the term used, those who are lumped into such a broad category don’t have a lot in common except that they are subjected to racism and ignorance and (I quote) “ching-chongery.”

Oriental rug (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/psyberartist/3949077735/)

The discourse went on, and I highly recommend reading those posts. My takeaway from reading them is that someone is going to get upset about something, no matter what you do or say (or don’t say), but that’s not at all limited to the Asian-Oriental discussion; that’s just how life is about every single subject out there.

It seems to me that the majority of those who posted on this topic seem to agree that they don’t want to be called Oriental (except for a few grandmothers who balk at all the nonsense) and a lot would prefer not to be called Asian.

My guess is that they would prefer to be called by their names. Just a wild guess on my part — mainly because that’s what I would want if I were them. I’m 1/4 Armenian, but I don’t want to be pigeon-holed as Armenian. Sometimes, I don’t even want to be pigeon-holed as me. But that’s for another day.

Generalizations have their place, I suppose, but not at the risk of hurting someone’s feelings. We all bleed red. Live and let live. To each his — or her — own.

Happy trails!

SAK

New Orleans has had its share of excitement lately. What with Hurricane Katrina making a complete mess of things, Brad Pitt (with Angelina Jolie et al. in tow) bringing the Make It Right project to the Lower 9th Ward, the Saints winning the Super Bowl XLIV and the annual Mardi Gras celebration topping off the football frenzy, the Big Easy is proving to be the home of a bunch of hearty souls.

New Orleans is famous for so many reasons: fantastic Cajun and Creole dishes, festive jazz, smooth hurricanes (the drinkable kind) and flowing, fanciful — and now green — architecture. The Crescent City has a language all its own. There are no medians in the streets; that strip of land that separates the paved street is called neutral ground. They have not a single canoe; a pirogue (sounds like PEE-row) is the flat-bottomed version that navigates the bayou. And don’t even think about walking on a sidewalk; it’s called a banquette.

Pat O'Brien's famous Hurricane (photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/bigberto/2826375336)

So how should the name of NOLA be pronounced? It makes the most sense (to me, anyway) to say it as the residents do. And the residents call it N’Awlins. They can spot a tourist out of sight but within earshot when they hear their fair city’s name pronounced New Or-le-uns or New Or-LEENS. That last one sort of sounds like a line from a bad ’80s movie, doesn’t it?

So it’s N’Awlins — pronounced with two syllables but as close as you can get to one.

Now go put a pot o’ water on the stove; them’s a mound o’ crawfish ta boil and we’re all fixin’ ta suck da heads and squeeze da tips.

Happy trails!

One of the most popular demographic maps on the Net these days is one that shows how people across the United States refer to the carbonated drinks that help round out the ubiquitous value meals.

Soda.
Pop.
Soda pop.
Coke.
Cola.
Soft drink.
Fizzy drink.
Sugar water.
Tonic.
Dope.
Sludge.

Good grief. Those add up to a lot of descriptors. So what’s the lowdown?

Lucky for me, someone else did the research, polled the peeps and plotted the map; I get to just relay the info. So here are the results of who says what where (click on the map for a detailed view):

Pop vs. Soda Map (image: http://tastyresearch.files.wordpress.com/2006/10/popvssodamap.png)

Soda — derived from soda water (sodium bicarbonate with acid, which is where all the fizz comes from) — is the word of choice for those in the Northeast, Southwest and, oddly enough, the St. Louis area.

Pop — introduced in 1812 by English poet Robert Southey describing “a new manufactory of a nectar, between soda-water and ginger-beer, and called pop, because ‘pop goes the cork’ when it is drawn, and pop you would go off too, if you drank too much of it” — is predominant throughout the Midwest and Northwest, as well as Canada and Britain.

Coke — probably a popular moniker because of the Georgia-based Coca-Cola plant — rules the South.

Other terms are much less popular in the U.S., although some seem to have staying power, such as soft drink, which tends to be used on menus. Australians and New Zealanders prefer soft drink, as well, although lolly water sometimes wins over in Australia. Brits tend to order a pop or fizzy drink, while thirsty Scots order a ginger. Tonic gets the nod in the Northeast, especially in Massachusetts. Sludge wins out for those who think that all of the sodas and colas are a waste of money and terribly unhealthy, no matter where they live.

A cola, by the way, refers to the caramel color of the drink, so clear or other-colored drinks (e.g., Sprite, 7Up, Crush, Mt. Dew) aren’t technically colas.

The AP Stylebook (at least my 2007 copy, anyway) doesn’t mention the soda-vs.-pop controversy specifically, but it does describe several trademarked drinks as soft drinks, so that would be my suggestion if you’re writing or speaking publicly about such carbonated delights.

Me? I was born and raised in the Midwest, lived on the West Coast and in Colorado and adore New York and New England — and I tend to call the carbonated stuff coke.

But I prefer Diet Pepsi.

Happy trails!

SAK