I think it is fair to say there’s no country quite as fanatical about food as America. The Spanish may be pious about their paella, and the Italians are mad for their marinara, but Americans have taken food to a whole new level.
They worship at the altar of the golden arches and bow down in the shining light of the French-door fridge.
Since coming to America, I have had to learn a whole new vernacular in order to navigate my way around its ever-expanding menus. Tater tots, Cheez-Whiz, Hush Puppies and Cream of Wheat are all prime examples of Americans taking the simple fruits of the earth and turning them into something altogether more… beige.
None of the aforementioned foods can be found outside the country — it seems these delights are particular to the taste buds of Americans. Perhaps it is something to do with the obsessive culture of choice cultivated first in the States and now, to a lesser extent, exported across the globe. People seem to feel that to be forced to choose, or to be denied anything, is some sort of attack on their personal freedoms.
You want cheese from a can? You got it. You want a hot dog wrapped in fried bread? Try a corn dog. You fancy bacon and cheese sandwiched between two pieces of fried chicken? It might kill you, but go and grab a Double Down from KFC.
It seems anything you could ever dream of eating has been invented, packaged and sold in your local Walmart. Some beautiful things have come out of this overindulgence: I have developed a deep and meaningful relationship with kettle corn. However, the fact that more than 30 percent of Americans are obese may suggest it’s time for a break-up.
La Posada is an unfair marker on which to make assumptions about American food, much like judging someone’s entire family on the one terrible uncle who throws things at people. But there is nothing that makes me miss home more than a browse over Lapo’s offerings for the day. It is just so very foreign to me. The first time I tried to eat their chicken tamale I didn’t realize it was wrapped in paper. You can just imagine how that went.
Last time I checked the soda fountain, I only recognized about four of the drinks available, and to me French vanilla sounds like something you should put in your bath. The first week’s mealtimes were a lesson in taste-and-see. Biscuits and gravy in England are cookies and a brown, meat-derived sauce, so seeing these items for breakfast, together, had to be tasted to be believed. I must admit I was pleasantly surprised, although surprised nonetheless.
It didn’t quite meet the Full English Breakfast I have dreamt about since leaving England, but it was pretty darn tasty. If you were wondering, a Full English Breakfast, also known as the humble fry-up, is the staple breakfast of any Brit worth their weight in cooking oil. It consists of fried eggs, fried bread, fried mushrooms, fried tomato, fried bacon and sausages and it is the breakfast of Gods. It also shows that it is unfair to pin all the greasy blame on America because England is just as partial to a good fried meal.
I think the difference is that other countries manage to do this in moderation, highlighted by the fact that you don’t see Carla Bruni or Samantha Cameron spending a year and half trying to get their country fit.
Although I have tasted countless delicious meals in the home of my generous friends, when it comes to commercial cooking the message seems to be the bigger (and beige-r) the better. What I would do for something with crunch, or something still identifiable as having come from the ground.
It is no surprise that if you ask any student around you what they most look forward to when going home, they say a home-cooked meal.
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Good, familiar food seems to nourish the soul as well as the body, instantly relaxing, soothing and enriching the eater. Comfort food is not simply Oreos dipped in Nutella (which to me isn’t remotely comforting), it is food that tastes like home.
It taps into your earliest memories of eating the homemade cake batter when your mum isn’t looking, and sitting down to hot cocoa after a cold winter’s day. For most people, without realizing it, food is the fabric of life. I can remember every birthday cake my mum has ever made me, and every year the sponge tastes so deliciously familiar.
Being away from this probably influences my views on American food as being strange and unappealing; in reality, I’m sure if I offered up an American student a Full English Breakfast they would run to the nearest biscuit and gravy outlet.
Although I know two weeks into being home, I will be pining for Orville Redenbacher and his unreasonably tasty bags of goodness, I will undoubtedly be the happiest girl at my Christmas Dinner table this year.
Amy Dicketts is an exchange student from England.
