As folks who’ve followed The Food Section for a few months no doubt recall, one of the unique ways that readers can support this independent publication’s culinary storytelling is by chipping in some of their own.
Namely, members of our prestigious Soapbox Sponsorship Circle get the run of a Friday newsletter to publish their hottest food takes, or most meaningful food memories. It costs just $500 to buy placement rights for a 500-word essay, which receives a permanent home at thefoodsection.com, alongside the James Beard award-winning food journalism made possible by paying subscribers.
When we debuted this program in December, it never occurred to me that TFS readers might be shy about sharing their opinions. Thus far, though, we haven’t had any takers for this rare chance to reach thousands of Southern food enthusiasts, even though the package also includes:
- One round of professional editing
- A miniature TFS soapbox to commemorate your contribution
- Five free monthly subscriptions to give to friends
It’s not entirely accurate to say this opportunity has gone entirely unclaimed. Since I launched this program by gifting a Soapbox Sponsorship to my father in celebration of his 78th birthday, he decided to do the same for my mother’s 78th birthday this week—even though she might have preferred a University of Michigan milk chocolate bar. Happy birthday, Mamala!
N.B.: I only have two parents, both of whom were only children, so there are no aunts, uncles, or cousins to keep TFS going through familial support. Please consider contributing your wisdom and sponsorship dollars to this publication today!
Bigger fish to fry
Looking beyond a food allergy
BY EMILY MILLER
I was only two years old when I learned that food could kill me.
My mother was preparing fish in our small galley kitchen in Brooklyn. Intrigued, I touched the fish, anticipating the delicious dinner ahead. I then inadvertently wrapped my fish-juiced fingers around my arm, which promptly turned flaming red and swelled enormously.
After various home remedies were deployed unsuccessfully, a doctor’s visit confirmed that I had a very serious fish allergy. The doctor described to my parents what would happen if I went into anaphylactic shock or suffered an asthmatic attack and explained I couldn’t ever eat fish or shellfish. This wasn’t too big a problem for a toddler but as I grew, I became aware of my limitations.
Despite never eating “brain food,” including such Jewish staples as lox and smoked sablefish, I’ve become a wised-up interrogator of restaurant servers to ensure no hidden fish has seeped into my meal. I can always tell when a cook has used the same kitchen tools for fish, meat, and vegetables: my lips swell at the first bite of tainted fried mushrooms.
Living in Brooklyn, I did find many other food delights. A Charlotte russe with swirls of homemade whipped cream was a special treat on a weekend walk with my parents. The neighborhood deli featured a perfect afterschool snack of warmed piece kishka wrapped in wax paper. A steaming hot dog with mounds of sauerkraut was the perfect lunch. Chinatown was always beckoning with new dishes and flavors and anything chocolate was an unabashed pleasure.
My allergy has not tempered my love of food. In fact, being vigilant about what I can’t eat has helped me savor what I can.
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