Even if The Food Section is inordinately fond of experimentation, one element of this publication has remained the same from the start: We write the stories, and you read them.
But as someone who’s fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of subscribers’ emails, I know you have stories to tell too. In fact, many of our readers have accumulated a lifetime of dining wisdom that other eaters are unlikely to uncover in books or via AI assistants. These folks know which dive bar in Nashville keeps a secret stash of fine cigars, and how to find the best pimento cheese ingredients in any grocery store.
In other words, they’re primed to make good on The Food Section’s promise of enriching subscribers’ culinary experiences. And because we’re keen on sticking around to keep up that important work, we’re going to sell them the chance to do so.
The Food Section today is proud to announce the launch of its Soapbox Sponsorship Circle. Patrons who join this elite group of supporters will be invited to author a 500-word essay—on a food or beverage topic of their choosing—for publication in this newsletter. In other words, you (or your gift recipient) are guaranteed a byline in a James Beard Foundation award-winning newsletter that’s been recognized by the American Society of Magazine Editors as the best in the country. Plus, your reflections, learnings, or opinions will reach more than 12,000 readers. Not too shabby!
Here’s what else the package includes:
- One round of professional editing
- A miniature TFS soapbox to commemorate your contribution
- Five free monthly subscriptions to share with friends
- A permanent home in The Food Section’s archives for your story
Because the holidays are fast approaching, we’re offering Soapbox Sponsorships for the low introductory price of $500. But we’ve budgeted for that price to go up next year, so now’s the time to buy.
A few more caveats: Orders must be placed by Friday, December 12 if you want to receive a presentation set in advance of Christmas Eve. Additionally, The Food Section reserves the right to reject submissions that are racist, sexist, transphobic, or otherwise offensive, a category which includes essays generated wholly by ChatGPT.
If you have other questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me at raskin@thefoodsection.com. But I’d bet one of the questions on your mind is “What would I write?”
Great question! To answer it, I gifted a Soapbox Sponsorship to my father, who turns 78 today (although you wouldn’t believe it if you saw him: His only recent medical mishap involved ziplining in the tropics.) Happy birthday, Dad!
From the mundane to the magnificent
My lifetime of food memories
BY JERRY MILLER PH. D
Food has always been an important part of my emotional life. I’m a psychologist, not a professional writer, so I may not be the best at putting my personal food stories on paper—but I know I’m not alone in having countless food memories that are meaningful to me. What might be unique in my case, though, is I have a simple way of conjuring those happy long-ago times and connecting the past with the present.
I grew up in Chicago, where I shared my childhood bedroom with my Sephardic grandfather. Sometimes he and I would join my mother around the bare dining room table to make borekas, which you might call a spinach pie. Borekas is the word for phyllo pies in Ladino, my grandfather’s first language. My mother would stir together the filling, and we’d help spoon it on to the pastry. Then, we’d fold them up, put the triangles in the oven, and wait expectantly for them to come out hot. Even if my mother was planning to serve them when my extended family came for dinner, my grandfather and I liked to eat them freshly baked with a hard-boiled egg.
We didn’t always eat at home, though. My grandfather was a regular at Chicago’s Greek restaurants: Even though he was born in Turkey, he felt a Mediterranean kinship with the Greeks. Everybody at the restaurants knew him: The owners, the cooks, the busboys, and the other frequent customers. When Morris Benjoya came through the door, a shout of “Morry!” always followed. Then, just before we left, whoever was behind the counter would command me to ‘open wide,’ and stick a fat kalamata olive in my mouth.
When I got a little older, I would venture out alone to restaurants close to our duplex on California Avenue. In the years right after my Bar Mitzvah, I loved going with my friends or by myself for a warm corned beef sandwich at a corner deli, where the meat was piled high and covered with bright yellow mustard. I always ordered mine with thick french fries and a real Chicago chocolate phosphate.
That deli’s gone now, just like Guey Sam’s, the restaurant near my father’s hardware in Chinatown where my favorite dish was the shrimp in dark garlic sauce. My parents and grandfather are gone too. But the warm memories of the meals we shared, and the dining excursions which shaped me, are as accessible as the Kroger on the edge of my Ann Arbor neighborhood. All I need to bring them back is an egg, an olive, or a chocolate phosphate. Sometimes, the way to preserve specialness forever is to connect it to the commonplace.
No Comments