MINNESOTA FOOD...OR HOW I LEARNED THE MANY USES CREAM OF MUSHROOM SOUP

Be afraid...be very very afraid. That is what I would have said to myself prior to moving here some thirty years ago or so. If I had known that the rest of the world didn't eat like those in Los Angeles did, I certainly would have stocked up on food. Even thirty years ago the variety of foods available in LA were more than just international, they also had their own regional influences. I remember growing up in some of the lesser affluent neighborhoods, East LA, Compton, Watts...remember, we were poor white trash. Even though my mother was Native she had left that long ago and far behind. In these neighborhoods, we were white.

We lived for a while in a small two room "hovel" attached to a garage behind the house where the "landlord" lived. The "landlord" was an illegal just trying to make it in a better place with his family...which included his mother and other extended family that changed with regularity. What I remember the most was his mother having a stone pit built into the corner of the kitchen. She would sit there and take the masa flour and make tortillas with a steady slap, slap of her hands. They would come off the rocks hot, smoky, and crisp. Not out of a plastic bag. There were homemade tamales at Christmas, menudo on Saturday mornings and a plate always there for me whenever I stopped by.

When my mother got a job for a period of time, we would move. The next move took us to Compton. It is now called South Central in all of the movies with all of the gangs. There were no gangs then, even though there were our feeble attempts to start one. The lesson that I treasure the most from this period of my life was learning how to accept and be accepted. My mother was often gone on her own expeditions and I was, luckily, taken it by the other mothers in the neighborhood. For it was a neighborhood then, not a 'hood.

I remember iced tea out of mayonnaise jars with enough sugar to make it almost tea syrup. I remember barbecue on pieces of soft white bread, with no plate, just a sloppy handful of food that made you want more and more. I remember sweet potato pie and fried chicken and grits and my palate expanded with every neighborhood.

And then, I was on my own in LA. Running away when I was sixteen, full of the self confidence that would take me many places I probably should never have been, but with also the survival sense to stay just this side of jail and death. That was when I discovered Chinese, seafood, Korean, Thai, Ethiopean and every other ethnic derivative that was available. I have always been known to say, "Food, my favorite meal."

When I was ready for my wild, wild ways to come to an end, I moved to Minnesota. I was truly shocked at that time to learn that refried beans were not available in the grocery store, no salt pork, no fresh or dried chiles, no nothing that wasn't what I came to call...Minnesota White Food.

The first clue came when I went to a "potluck" dinner. "What is that?" I had no clue. It means you are invited to dinner with a group of other people. Oh, and you bring the food. Not a real social custom I grew up with, but, after all, wasn't this just another ethnic neighborhood I had moved into...Only here, all of the people were, well, white.

The person who was supposed to bring a salad brought....JELLO. Hello, Jello isn't even a food, much less a salad. And I don't care what you put in it, it's primary use is for hospitalization and then it should be so solid that it is one degree this side of gummy bears. I was amazed. Where was the lettuce? The tomatoes? The onions? Anything fresh and crispy? Not there, you can be sure. There were times to attempt to turn it into a real food...why, we can throw in a banana. White. See the connection?

Next came the "hot dish." Having grown up poor, there were many times that what we ate was what was in the cabinet. Thrown all together with hamburger, tomato sauce, and tabasco it was called a casserole. Not a hot dish. A hot dish is what it was served in. Here a hot dish is comprised of cream of mushroom soup, flat noodles, meat, and, if you want to live on the edge, you can crumble up some potato chips on top before you throw it in the oven. Adds a little hint of the exotic, those potato chips do.

I had never had Jello or cream of anything kind of soup in my house at any time. I still don't. It has been thirty years and I haven't given in. I have had a variety of roommates over this period of time. I have learned that you can make "chili" with cream of tomato soup and ketchup. That there is a time honored way to serve broccoli with cream of mushroom soup, Velveeta, white rice and milk. I dared to throw some water chestnuts in one time for a little texture, and you would have thought I desecrated some deceased mother's grave. Why, in Minnesota, you can even make a complete meal without using any spices except salt and pepper. And, speaking of Velveeta, just what the hell kind of cheese is that? I think it is the jello of cheese. The cream of mushroom soup of the dairy world.

And then, there was the shock of my life. Tuna Hot Dish. I had eaten Tuna in salads, broiled with a slightly pink center, and raw in sushi. But never, never in my wildest dreams would I have concocted a combination of canned tuna, cream of mushroom soup, elbow macaroni, frozen peas and milk baked to solidified mass in a pyrex baking dish. I tasted it once, and that was the end of that. "Stick to your ribs" is more than just a phrase here.

Now in thirty years, some things have changed. We have a Taco Bell's, a Taco John's and...miracle of all miracles, two authentic Mexican restaurants where chile rellenos don't mean scrambled eggs with canned chopped green chiles and cheddar cheese in them. Still no real barbecue. And, although, in a few of the "tonier" places to eat, you can order sweet potato fries, that's about as exotic as it gets.

Now, I don't mean to imply there are no ethnic foods available here. There's lutefisk...that's fish, dried and stored in lye and then soaked to restore it to consumable texture...that texture being slimy and and the smell being stinky. Served at the holidays, you will be forced to try it...with butter or "cream" sauce. I did try it. Once. And when I say that it is the most amazing taste in the world, it is not in a nice way. And there is lefske...a potato based flatbread eaten with sugar sprinkled on it. A tortilla it is not. You can throw as much red stuff on it as you like and it is still...tasteless. That is the pattern I call the "Minnesota White Food" syndrome. If it isn't white and has more than a little flavor, well, it isn't food.

You don't have to give into it. But, you can't avoid it. I still yearn for those palate stimulating foods of yore...and if I want them, I can make them a little easier now...more ethnicity has crept into the great northwoods over the past thirty years. I have developed a taste for the less exotic. It was necessary to survive. But, my roommate still shakes her head when I buy salt pork, and she and most others refuse to try menudo, and pie crusts made with lard...why, that's what Crisco was invented for. The smell of those things cooking in my kitchen take me back quicker than anything to the days where things seemed held together by those smells and plates of delicacies. To the days where I felt loved by strangers and fed by kindness.