The Simple Joys of Minnesotahood

You've probably been wondering what I'm up to these days. And by "wondering," I mean that when you see a cupcake decorated to look like a hamburger, you say to yourself, "Hey! A food that looks like another food! Caitlin loved those. Huh. Caitlin."

My internet silence is the product of about 50 percent laziness and 50 percent purposeful secrecy. I like imagining that, when you wonder about me on occasion, you entertain the thought that maybe I'm marooned on a jungle island with a bunch of strangers who resemble out of work actors from the 90's. (There's a frustrating lack of story resolve and a smoke monster that maybe eats people but, on the bright side, we've figured out the perfect amount of sand and stubble needed stay on the right side of the fine line between sexy-dirty and smelly-dirty.)

To communicate directly with any of you, I would have to reveal the not-very-Matthew-Foxy truth: That I am unemployed and living with my parents. I was accepted to the creative nonfiction writing grad program at Northwestern in Chicago, but I'm trying to find a job on campus before I enroll so as not to increase the amount of debt I'm already in. I've also been doing a lot of baking, reading* , and compulsive thrift store shopping. It would be a nice opportunity to relax -- if I wasn't so deeply concerned that this may be what my life will be like for the next five to 30 years.

I am enjoying being back in the Midwest though. I started really missing it around the time the third Baltimore native called me "nice" like it was, well, a four-letter-word. A ten-year-old girl I used to work with in Baltimore once asked me,

"Miss Caitlin, why you so nice all the time?"

I laughed. "Well, because it's just nice to be nice to people."

She raised her eyebrows at me. "Nuh uh. Some people? You just gotta be mean with 'em."

Lots of big city folk would agree with her philosophy. But Nice is my first language. When my father answers a call from a telemarketer, he sounds like he's politely refusing baked goods after a big dinner:

"Hello?...Fine, how are you?...Oh, no thanks. We're very happy with the service we have now...You have a nice evening too. Bye now."

To sinewy, Jegging-clad East Coasters that probably sounds like the talk of a spineless pushover. For me, it's Wild-Rice soup for the soul.

I haven't been able to slip back into the Minnesota swing of things completely effortlessly though. In my last entry, many months ago, I discussed my exposure to alternative lifestyles and my efforts to adjust. Well, once I got home, I had to adjust back. Sometimes, wandering the Streets of Rochester, I still forget that I'm not on the East coast anymore.

In Baltimore I took long walks because it was often best way to get places. In Rochester, I walk because there are only so many episodes of Vampire Diaries I can watch before all the shiny hair and creamy complexions give me a headache and I have to rest my eyes on some well-lit unattractive people.

One day, while I was dodging cars on my way to the Rochester Mall, a rusty Toyota slowed to a crawl alongside me. I was used to dealing with this sort of thing in Baltimore. When I was on foot there, I had to be prepared for horn honks, creepy eye brow raises and "hey baby's" yelled from the open windows of slow rolling vehicles. This is known as getting "Hollered at." So, in Rochester, when this beefy young driver with tattoos up and down his arms rolled down his window, I thought I knew what was going to happen next. In anticipation, I attempted a move I'd seen Baltimore women do. It's like a combined smirk and eye roll that says, "I am acknowledging you just enough to let you know that I am better than you, and you are pathetic." I should have known better than to attempt an advanced maneuver.

"Excuse me ma'am," he asked, "Are you lost? Would you like a ride somewhere?"

I had forgotten that I was back in a place where the only reason anyone would be walking across two medians and a car-wash parking lot is either because they've locked their keys inside of their car and they're going to pick up a spare, or because they're a crazy person. The fact that I refused his polite offer, combined with what must have looked like a grotesque eye spasm, probably convinced him that he didn't really want me in his passenger seat anyway.

People do get hollered at in Minnesota on occasion, but here, even the men who harass women on the street are more polite. A while back, I went to visit a friend in the big "Sin Cities" (AKA Minneapolis- St. Paul). It's a pretty sophisticated place compared to the rest of the state. They have whole stores that sell just one thing like makeup, spices, or Northface jackets.

As we were strolling along one of the ultra-hip shopping streets, a van full of slouchy-hatted college-aged guys slowed down beside us. We steeled ourselves.

"Excuse me ladies," they said, "Are you on your way to the food co-op?"

We...hadn't steeled ourselves for "co-op." We said, "Huh?"

They smiled, "Are you going to the organic food store up here? If you are, we'll meet you there."

We were not, in fact, going to the organic food store and we told them so. But we did sincerely wish them luck.

While we're on the subject of organic food, I have to say: The few awkward Baltimore flashbacks I've had on the mean streets of Minnesota are nothing compared to the cultural re-adjusting I've had to do in the kitchen of my own home.

See, In Baltimore, I worked hard to make creative, tasty food within the parameters of our many dietary restrictions and a budget so tight that pre-shredded cheese was a special-occasions-only item. My housemates rewarded my efforts by treating me like a culinary goddess among mortals. They’d gush over the food I made with words like, "orgasmic." Men and women proposed marriage to me on a daily basis.

Here in Minnesota, words like "orgasmic" aren’t allowed. Or, they are, but you have to go behind a curtain in the back corner of the video store to see them. Minnesotans don't generally gush. When my family likes a meal, the warmest compliment I get is, "Good supper Caitlin. Very tasty." That's cool. Their praise is understated, but sincere. It’s just that, a lot of the time, my meals don't even make it to "very tasty." I’m learning the hard way that LVC food doesn't translate very well to the Heartland.

I have a vegan friend who talks about not being able to tell the difference between food being regular good and "vegan good." That is, when your diet is very limited, you get used to eating a lot of below-average food because that's what you have to do to stay alive. So, when anything above-average crosses your palate, the taste-bud synapses in your brain get excited and confused. You imagine your tofu stew gilded with Michelin stars. It probably is pretty good, but you don't realize that it wouldn't taste as good to people who don't eat plain oatmeal for lunch on three out of five weekdays.

I realize now that some of the food I was eating was really only "Volunteer Corps good." My skewed perception of food reality led to a lot of questionable meal choices like, say, eating raw-cabbage and hot-sauce slaw for four meals in 48 hours. Or, beginning a passionate love affair with Kale -- the fervor of which is both irrational and alarming.

My parents are usually game to try whatever I want to make. Though, my mom can't completely hide her skepticism. We have had the following conversation a number of times:

I'll say, "So I was thinking about making this delicious Carrot and Orange soup for dinner on Tuesday."

Then my mom says, "Oh, Carrots and oranges? That sounds...interesting."

I – as a native speaker of the deeply nuanced language of “nice,” – recognize "interesting" as a red-flag word. Sometimes it means, “Something new I’d like to try.” More often it means, "Weird and gross"

So, I'll say, "Mom, if that doesn't sound good to you I can make something else."

My mom: "No, no. Make the carrot and orange thing. I'm sure it will be delicious."

Me: "Are you sure?"

My Mom: "Yes. Of course."

Then, after I've served the dish, I'll ask what everyone thinks. And my mom says, "I like it. I was skeptical when you were telling me about it earlier, but it's actually pretty good."

Me: facepalm.

I do appreciate that she makes an effort to be supportive. My siblings, on the other hand, extend me no such courtesy. They are both food traditionalists. Usually, the biggest compliment I get from my 19-year-old brither is, "It's not as gross as it looks."

When my sister was home for Christmas break, she valiantly kept her mouth shut throughout the bulk of my holiday cooking experiments. But when I suggested making cranberry eggnog cinnamon rolls for Christmas breakfast, she snapped.

"Caitlin, you always start out with good food, but then you make it weird. ‘Oh hi. I’m Caitlin. You want some chocolate crinkles? I made them by mixing up some delicious cookies…then I put gross mint in them! How about some ginger cookies? They were too tasty and not-weird at first so I added some chili powder.’ Leave your damn cranberries out of my cinnamon rolls!"

(That last part may have been implied, but it was implied strongly.)

When I mentioned the marriage proposals I’d received thanks to my cooking skills, Abby looked doubtful.

My mom said, "Caitlin, I guess you're like the prophets -- they never had respect in their own homes."

Rather than give up on trying to shove quinoa and kale down my siblings' throats, I've decided to start calling myself Food Moses.

And yet, though my culinary point of view has been expanded, there will always be a special place in my heart for good old fashioned Midwestern cuisine. Where else do people have the balls to call a dish that includes both Cool-Whip and candy bars a "salad"?

Despite having to make a few minor re-adjustments, I meant it when I said it was good to be back. I love this place where women wear embroidered sweatshirts without a trace of irony. Where a girl can grow up to be a Dairy Princess -- and she can also grow up to be the professional hired to sculpt the Dairy Princess's likeness out of butter. Where hugs must be earned. During my time away, I’ve been exposed to a lot of new things. Some have stuck and others haven’t. I’m sure I’ll continue to explore new places. But, Minnesota will always be home.

This is about the time of year where I regularly pledge to do regular updates here. At this point, I'm guessing you know better than to believe that. I almost know better than to believe myself.

But not quite.

Talk to you again soon! Furreal this time. Kisses!


*In this case, I am utilizing the less common definition of "reading" which is: Watching daytime marathons of Millionaire Matchmaker.