“Mommy, how did you learn how to do that?” my daughter asked as I absent-mindedly sliced a large Fuji apple so she could dip it in peanut butter. It struck me that I couldn’t remember NOT being able to slice an apple or do many other kitchen tasks that she does not yet know how to do. Someone, probably my mother, taught me how to cut up an apple, but it’s now part of my muscle memory, or embodied knowledge. Recalling his Bubbie’s challah bread, Urban Studies professor at Queens College Stephen Steinberg wrote, “How, after all, did my grandmother acquire her culinary magic? It required an elder not just willing but determined to share her powers with a neophyte. And it required an upstart who craved to follow the path treaded by forebears.”  Preparing food requires skill, repetition and improvisation, and many people (adults and children) lack the basic capability to make nutritious shopping decisions and prepare healthy meals or snacks. If parents' skills have been reduced to reheating packaged food, there is less and less cooking knowledge passed down to their kids. It is time to demystify slicing an apple and baking challah.

Offering nutrition education in schools could introduce and encourage life-long expertise in making and eating healthy food. Independent programs such as The Edible Schoolyard Project (ESYP) are bringing food nutrition and cooking education into schools. ESYP was started over twenty years ago in Berkeley California when food movement forerunner Alice Waters and then principal of Martin Luther King Jr. Middle School, Neil Smith decided to establish a garden and teaching kitchen to expand the school’s curriculum and sense of community. They saw it as a way to make studying fractions more relevant by using real world cooking measurements, and learning about heirloom seeds in conjunction with studies of ancient cultures. Almost instantly parent involvement resulted in transforming unused space into an unconventional classroom. ESYP’s mission is to create a nation-wide food education curriculum for pre-kindergarten through high school, using gardens and kitchens as interactive classrooms for traditional educational subjects, and providing free, organic lunches for every student. They claim that incorporating these food lessons into students’ coursework can change the health and values of every American child.

It’s not just happening in storybook school districts like Berkeley. In New York City disadvantaged schools are working with ESYP to incorporate hands-on food education, focusing on the goal of changing families’ mindsets and behaviors around healthy eating.  They also conduct cafeteria “try it” tastings to expose students to new and healthy foods. In Casa Grande Arizona, near the Gila River Indian Reservation, the Scholars with Shovels program is thriving. Students in grades K-8 at the Grande Innovation Academy have planted and harvested school garden produce that is used in their cafeteria. Their eventual objective is to develop a donation-based farmers market for school families that is run solely by the students.

The Portsmouth New Hampshire school system is also trying to incorporate more food studies into their programing. They offer a home economics-esque like program (now called Family Consumer Science) at the middle school, and a much more extensive culinary arts program through the Career and Vocational Tech department at the high school. But those are optional programs, and only a fraction of students participate in any kind of nutrition education or hands-on cooking instruction. In fact, the NH state minimum required number of credits for high school graduation is 20, including 14 content-specific requirements (math, English, history, science) and six electives. There is an additional almost-insignificant ¼ credit required in health. Tom Martin of the Portsmouth School Board remains optimistic about integrating food-related education in the classroom. “The exciting part is to figure out the possibilities of weaving nutrition and cooking education into everyone’s curriculum,” Martin says. “It will not be straight-forward at all, but I think there are many ways to apply pressure or integrate into existing curriculum or programs.” Life skills like nutrition and cooking are crucial to becoming a healthy and self-sufficient adult.

Each school in the Portsmouth NH school district (3 elementary, 1 middle school and 1 high school) has a garden, supported by parent volunteers. Program Manager for Portsmouth Farm to School, Kate Mitchell’s priority is to create a curriculum to offer teachers, which will allow them to integrate food education through the science courses. That was the administration's recommendation for the best opportunity to get buy-in from already overextended teachers. Mitchell is using ESYP resources to create the syllabus and credits “rock star teachers, passionate parents, and supportive principals as the greatest source of inspiration” for embracing food education in schools.

​ Ultimately we rely on zealous parents, willing volunteers, and progressive teachers to make this happen, not policy coming down from on high. Individuals in neighborhoods across the country are taking the initiative to help cultivate fresh, locally grown food on school grounds, teach children cooking skills in classrooms and cafeterias, and implement composting programs. There may never be an official “food education in schools” policy, but American schools can continue to build on the enthusiasm of their communities and teach future adults how to slice an apple.

Restaurant Review
The Malt House
9 Maiden Lane (between Broadway and Nassau)
​New York City
Open 11am-4am
 
The Malt House is tucked down a small side street caddy corner from Zuccotti Park - the site of the Occupy Wall Street protests - and is usually teeming with bespoke tailoring, high-priced haircuts, and a distinctive Bro vibe. Despite the obvious money-making arrogance in the ether, I always enjoy myself at The Malt House. Just steps from the New York Stock Exchange, the studded steel beams and dark wood décor is substantial, encouraging a fantasy that this Wall Street watering hole could survive even the most devastating disaster.  I have been here with colleagues for many a happy hour, to take down numerous wire baskets of high-end pub grub. The group favorite is the Cheese Curds; chunks of panko-fried white cheddar, served with a chipotle aioli, simultaneously conjuring  intense pleasure and a wee bit of remorse.
 
My favorite time to come to the Malt House is after 9:00, when the slick, virile brokers have worn themselves out with their insufferable boasting and zigzagged back uptown to their soulless high-rise studios. I have the bar mostly to myself, and I relax into the leather barstool softly, as if I am settling on top of a cloud. The usual affable bartender Labhaoise (pronounced Leesha) isn’t there tonight. Her replacement, a dark sturdy man who was more indifferent than genuinely welcoming, poured my wine and took my order; a glass of Pfalff Pepper Grüner Veltliner from Austria and the pan-roasted chicken. It might not sound noteworthy but it was blissful.
 
The generous pour was pale gold and I knew this wine was especially multifaceted and food-friendly. Well-balanced between peppery and fruity, this wine incarnated the Pfaffl family’s Viennese terroir and granted my taste buds a trip to Austria for $13 a glass.
 
The crispy, bone-in, half pasture-raised chicken was served upon an imperfectly round loop of mashed potatoes, stacked with sautéed kale, roasted mushrooms, and delicate au jus gravy that trickled off the potatoes like tiny umami creeks. As I cut into the chicken the skin crackled briefly before the knife continued into the juicy, warm-but-not-steaming meat. I gathered a bit of everything on my fork, and the grassy, garlicky kale stems snapped to attention. I could practically feel the vitamins coursing through my body, and self-consciously admired my virtuousness for enjoying kale at this level. I indulged in a bite of chicken that was mostly skin. It was impressively peppery and just the right amount of salty. The herbs from the crisp outer layer scratched the roof of my mouth and my tongue, giving the temporary sensation of burning taste buds. But my palate quickly recovered, prepared to absorb this simple and soothing combination of senses. Only slightly more dignified than licking the plate clean, I dragged the last bites of chicken through the traces of the potatoes and au jus. With each twirl I wished there was a little more of both to keep the perfect ratio of chicken to veggie to gravy intact.
 
The Malt House is a perfect spot to grab a post-work happy hour drink and gastrosnack. But if you really want to enjoy this oasis of true comfort food in the most rigid of neighborhoods, come late when the Wall Street Bros have all but disappeared.

“The sting was worth it,” she said.  I could nearly feel the low buzz of commotion in Gran’s childhood house in Lagro, Indiana.  It was a Saturday in early July of 1933, which in her house meant lemonade day. As the oldest of six she was preordained with the privilege and responsibility of squeezing the juice from the mountain of spectacularly sour lemons, remembering the tiny cuts on her fingers that stung more than she had expected. She gripped the lemons as tight as she could as the juice spat into the brown spotted potbelly clay pitcher. The pitcher was ancient even back then and reserved especially for lemonade days. She was eleven and small for her age, but she was the expert and she was in charge.
 
Her little sister Celene scooped the sugar, her eyebrows high with concentration, her brothers brawled and most of the water sloshed its way into the pitcher. I can picture her humming as she stirred, summoning her inner maestro pretending to conduct the Chicago symphony orchestra as her tall wooden spoon cut through the syrupy, lukewarm summer treat with precision and style. The lemonade looked pale and unexciting, but when she bent over the pitcher and drew in the scent, it conjured the illusion that she was surrounded by a solacing lemony fog.  
 
They had an early Westinghouse Electric Refrigerator, also making her house a big attraction for popsicles on summer days. That refrigerator lasted for many years and was replaced reluctantly after it had worn out. It was celebrated the way some families revere pets. Even though they had a fridge, they still loved to chase the iceman’s truck as he delivered blocks to their neighbors who did not yet have refrigerators. He offered them small chunks of ice that had chipped off the larger blocks, and they would use them to transform their lemonade from tepid to thirst quenching in mere seconds.
 
When she finally drank, the pinwheels of sweet and tart swirling in her mouth at the same time was always a mini thrill, even though she knew it was coming. They all inhaled it enthusiastically, their gulps slowing to sips so they could make it last as long as possible. They took turns climbing the cherry tree outside, while their mother and aunts fanatically canned summer fruit that they had all driven what seemed like hundreds of miles to pick.  The strawberries were nothing like the flavorless and pithy fruit found in the produce section of any grocery store in January, in New Hampshire. These tiny, juicy berries were made into a special jam, the recipe her mother invented. Many decades later a friend told Gran that she still used her mother’s strawberry jam recipe.
 
Gran was a child in the midst of the Great Depression although she has no memory of being deprived of anything.  “Life was much simpler in every way,” she recalled as I imagined my now 93-year-old Gran, using a small wooden step stool to take down that lemonade pitcher for lemonade day. She didn’t know any family in her tiny Indiana town of 415 who loved lemonade more than they did. Making and drinking that sweet drink was the highlight of her summer.
 
That old brown spotted pitcher, now veiled by the glass in my mom's hutch practically whispers "The sting was worth it." 

Do you fancy bubbly or beer, exquisite edible flowers or fiery shrimp curry, refreshing sorbet or caramel sea salt chocolate cupcakes? Yes to all of the above? This year’s 20th anniversary of the Share Our Strength Seacoast Taste of the Nation event did not disappoint!  

Thanks to the generous team effort of passionate chefs, restaurant owners, wineries, breweries, corporate sponsors, donors and guests, we were able to raise over $130,000 for No Kid Hungry initiatives - connecting NH kids with food where they live, learn and play.  

Despite the area’s flawless beaches, quaint town squares, and abundant farmland, hunger is a reality right here on the New Hampshire Seacoast with 1 in 5 children unsure when or where they will have their next meal. Many of these kids who receive free or reduced-cost school breakfast and lunch are especially at risk of hunger right now with schools closed for the summer. Share Our Strength Seacoast grant recipients are working hard to reach thousands of kids with summer meals in cities like Portsmouth, Dover and Seabrook.

More than 1,000 people gathered last night under the majestic white tents at historic Strawbery Banke to sample the vastly creative bite-sized fare of local restaurants, and wash them down with the finest NH wine and beer. From brand new restaurants such as Gigi's at York Beach to the steadfast Blue Mermaid of Portsmouth, these chefs brought their A-game, and the crowds roared.

Last year, I was so inspired by this event that I sought a place on the board of Share Our Strength Seacoast. During this, my first year on the board I’ve seen first hand the labors of love that go in to orchestrating such an extravagant culinary event, as well as the direct benefits the funds have on area organizations who help fight childhood hunger.

If you’ve never been to a Seacoast Taste of the Nation event, here’s proof that feeding hungry kids can be fun!