THE WASHINGTON POST: Six things I’ve learned in 25 years of food journalism

In 1999, I had a revelation. I was a copy editor at the Boston Globe, angling for a promotion, when I realised that I was getting tired of working in news and needed a change. I bought the book “What colour is your parachute?,” sat with a pen and paper in hand, and closed my eyes. It was the first of what I expected would be many visualisation exercises aimed at finding my calling - imagine you’re happy, now imagine you’re at work, now imagine you’re happy at work! - and it lasted all of five seconds.

I opened my eyes and blurted, “It’s food!”

Thus began a quarter-century of food journalism, most of it here at The Washington Post, where I arrived in 2006 to edit the Food section. My tenure officially ends this month, because I’m taking a voluntary separation package and semi-retiring after almost 45 years of work in daily journalism. My reasons are personal: I want to spend more time gardening, volunteering, parenting, exercising, cooking and working on my own projects.

It will be another pivot in a career full of them. I have worked here longer than at any other place, but even after I found my passion in food journalism, my writing shifted focus a few times, right along with my life. In 2008, Judith Jones inspired me to start writing a column about embracing the liberating joys of cooking for one. A few years later, I started moving away from eating meat, I spent a year on my sister’s homestead helping her and my brother-in-law grow food, wrote about my own urban gardening efforts, and at some point along the way I met my future husband. In 2013 the column became this one, Weeknight Vegetarian: a celebration of vegetarian and vegan cooking.

I’ve never stopped learning.

As Food and Dining editor I’ve worked with not only the fantastic Post Food team but with countless talented freelance writers, cookbook authors, home cooks, chefs, farmers and gardeners over the years. Along the way they’ve taught me so many things about food, made at home and eaten in restaurants, that challenged my previous notions. Here are six of the lessons that have made the greatest impact on me.

Authenticity is a myth

Purists get hung up on what absolutely must be in a certain dish without allowing for the fact that cooking changes as often as language does. I know, because I’m a recovering purist myself. I used to say that the only authentic chili is Texas-style chile con carne, for instance, with no bean and no tomatoes. But then I stopped eating carne altogether. And I realised that the purism I had held so dear was doing a disservice to not only other traditional (and newfangled) chili recipes, but also to people with dietary restrictions like mine and to anyone who doesn’t have access to all the “right” ingredients but wants a bowl of spicy stew, too!

Often, what we consider the most authentic version of a dish is merely a snapshot, capturing when it was made a certain way and codified. That makes adhering to culinary authenticity akin to insisting that the neighbourhood you just moved into needs to stay the way it is right now, even though it’s only been that way since, well, right before you got there.

When cuisines travel, they don’t devolve; they evolve. Tex-Mex isn’t a bastardization of Mexican cooking; it’s a different cuisine entirely. Same for Italian-American vs. Italian and so many others. (By the way, did you know that spaghetti and meatballs actually does have a tradition in one part of Italy?)

Purism is no fun. If you insist on authenticity, you’re missing out on a lot of delicious food.

Respect beats appropriation

Isn’t it appropriation when people who belong to a dominant group cook the foods of marginalised people? It can be - especially when they take undue credit for it and when they claim that they’re improving on it.

When Andrew Zimmern got in trouble in 2018 after opening a fast-casual Asian American restaurant, it wasn’t because he dared to cook that cuisine, it was because he said he was “saving the souls” of people who have to eat the “horses--- food” of other Asian restaurants in the Midwest. (He later apologised.)

A few years back, Cook’s Illustrated magazine (a publication I generally respect greatly) rankled me when a writer claimed to have fixed traditional falafel recipes by adding a flour paste to the raw mixture so it would hold together more dependably while frying. As someone who has made thousands of balls of falafel the traditional way - and never struggled to keep them from falling apart - the idea was not just unnecessary, it was insulting. Were millions of us Middle Eastern cooks wrong? No.

The antidote to appropriation is respect, which comes from understanding, which can come from connecting to cooks who are intimately familiar with a dish or cuisine, everything that goes into it - and why. When I was researching my book “Cool Beans,” I made falafel with Fava Pot owner Dina Daniel and her sous chef in Virginia. They showed me how Egyptian cooks know when they’ve adequately pulsed the mixture of soaked legumes, herbs and more: by squeezing together a bit in one hand. If it holds together then, it’ll hold together when you fry it.

Respect means owning up to your own lack of experience, giving credit where it is due, letting go of judgement and being transparent about your motivations.

Food can unite, but it can also divide

You know the idea: Food is the great equaliser, and sharing a meal can help people find common ground.

The most important word in that previous sentence is “can.” Last year, when a Palestinian chef partnered with a Jewish food writer on a series of dinners in D.C. that would benefit both Palestinian and Israeli organisations, pro-Palestine critics demanded a boycott. She invited her chief critic, another Palestinian woman, to a conversation over a meal, they brokered an understanding, and the boycott was cancelled.

At other times, food can be the source of conflict itself, such as when the 2024 fight for a better grocery store in rural Maryland ended up reopening the town’s racial wounds.

As anyone who has avoided bringing up politics at the Thanksgiving table knows, food isn’t a magical healer. It’s neutral. The turkey doesn’t care whom you voted for, and you and Grandma might agree on how to cook the greens. But does that mean that she will hold her tongue about your same-sex marriage? Not necessarily. And that may very well make you less likely to want to sit across the table from her at the next holiday gathering.

Food can help people let their guard down, but it’s not everything. A meal doesn’t cause people to see eye to eye unless they want to.

Seasoning is everything

Seasonings, spices and, perhaps most of all, spice mixes are an instant portal to another part of the world. Za’atar transports your dish to the Middle East, berbere to Ethiopia, gunpowder to India, ras el hanout to Morocco, five-spice to China. They’re not the only thing you need to know to understand another cuisine, but they can give you a literal taste of it.

Seasoning is so powerful, in fact, that as a plant-based cook I have found that many times the appeal of a traditional meat-based dish isn’t the meat itself but the flavourings that go with it. That’s the case with the Tofu Chorizo I made that fooled the family of my friend, author and TV host Pati Jinich. The chiles, garlic, oregano, vinegar and more made her husband and sons respond the way they would to pork-based fresh Mexican chorizo, and they didn’t know it was tofu until we told them so. They were gobsmacked - and went back for more.

And seasoning is personal

Recently, my husband was upset to learn that his mother can’t cook anymore. Or that’s the way he put it after a visit to Houston. He tasted the chicken she made and was aghast. “She always used to season her food,” he told me.

His family has Louisiana roots, and what he means by seasoning is typically the makings of a Cajun-style spice mix: salt and pepper, of course, but also garlic powder, onion powder, paprika and cayenne pepper. Maybe more. Did his mother lose her ability to make food taste good, or did her own palate simply change to the point that what she thinks tastes good and what her son thinks taste good no longer align?

I’m fascinated by these differences. The more you talk to people about what they like and dislike, in fact, the more miraculous it can seem to find a recipe that satisfies many people. The amount of salt that someone finds right, for instance, is so subjective that I recently heard two colleagues (politely) disagree over a mere ¼ teaspoon of it in an entire quart of ice cream.

That recognition is one of the reasons we offer so many substitutions in our recipes, and why we publish a range of dishes for a range of tastes. Everything might not be for everyone, but hopefully something catches your eye - and lives up to its promise.

Eat and let eat

When I started writing a column about plant-based cooking, I vowed that I wouldn’t use the space to judge people for eating meat. Food can be political, no doubt, but food is also incredibly personal. I have always wanted to make sure to provide an example of how eating less (or no) meat and eating more vegetables could be delicious and satisfying, and I’ve been honest about how some of my own reasons for doing so are connected to concerns about my health, the health of the planet and the well-being of animals.

I always have such a hard time understanding people who react to other people’s food - a recipe they wrote or a dish they wanted in a restaurant - with an in-their-face judgement often expressed with little more maturity than “Ew.”

Children know better, or at least the ones who are taught “Don’t yuck on my yum” do. It’s not only impolite, it’s also politically ineffective to use the moment when someone is starting to dig into a meal as the opportunity to tell them all the ways they’re wrong about their choices.

Nobody wants a food sermon. So I don’t preach. Partly that’s because I know it never worked on me. Tell me I should do something, and I’ll pick apart your reasoning. But tell me why you do something, and I might be inspired.

That brings me to my column’s final recipe, something I’ve delighted in making this summer that I hope exemplifies some of the reasons I do what I do. It’s a corn gazpacho, made from fresh summer corn blended with other typical gazpacho ingredients: tomatoes, bell pepper, jalapeno, cucumber, olive oil and sherry vinegar. The Spanish mainstay that I know and love - I’ll call it traditional or classic, not authentic - originally included bread, but the starch in the corn makes that unnecessary. I’m not “fixing” gazpacho; I’m celebrating it.

I love the flavour of in-season raw corn, but avoiding cooking it serves another purpose beyond the taste: Along with ice, it alleviates the need to chill the soup after blending.

I think the gazpacho is perfect just the way I wrote it. But you should make it your own. Season it to taste. And in that “Eat and let eat” spirit, I give you permission to add whatever you’d like. If that includes bacon, so be it - I won’t yuck on your yum.

Consider the recipe my parting thanks to you readers for being more than readers. I hope I’ve taught you some things over the years, but let’s be clear: In emails, phone calls, chat messages and comments, you’ve been my teachers, too.

Corn Gazpacho

Raw summer corn stars in this refreshing cold soup, along with yellow cherry tomatoes and bell pepper, plus a spark of heat from jalapeno. Serve as a first course on its own, or as a light lunch or dinner along with bread.

Servings: 4 (makes about 6 cups)

Total time: 20 minutes

Substitutions: Fresh, raw corn >> frozen corn or leftover cooked corn. Yellow bell pepper >> orange bell pepper. To make it spicier >> leave the seeds in the jalapeno. To make it less or not at all spicy >> use half the jalapeno, or omit it. Basil >> mint. Sherry vinegar >> red wine vinegar.

Storage: For the best flavour, serve right away or within 24 hours. Refrigerate leftovers for up to 4 days.

INGREDIENTS

4 cups (2 pints/20 ounces) yellow or orange cherry tomatoes, divided

2 mini cucumbers, divided

2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil leaves, divided

2 garlic cloves

1 yellow bell pepper, stemmed, seeded and cut into large chunks

1 jalapeño pepper, stemmed and seeded

4 cups fresh corn kernels (from 5 to 6 ears), divided

1 cup ice cubes

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for serving

3 tablespoons sherry vinegar, plus more as needed

1 teaspoon fine salt, plus more as needed

Water, as needed

DIRECTIONS

Halve 1 cup of the tomatoes and thinly slice 1 of the cucumbers. Transfer to a small bowl and reserve for garnish.

Cut the remaining cucumber into chunks and transfer to a blender. Add 1 tablespoon of the basil, the remaining 3 cups of tomatoes, the garlic, bell pepper, jalapeño, 3 cups of the corn, the ice, oil, vinegar and salt. Blend until smooth. If the soup is too thick, add water as needed to reach the desired consistency. Taste, and add more vinegar and salt, as needed.

Serve immediately, or cover and refrigerate until ready to serve.

Just before serving, stir the remaining 1 cup of corn and the remaining 1 tablespoon of basil into the reserved tomatoes and cucumbers.

Divide the soup among bowls. Top each with about 1/2 cup of the garnish, drizzle with olive oil and serve cold.

Nutritional information per serving (1 1/2 cups plus 1/2 cup garnish): 305 calories, 16 g fat, 2 g saturated fat, 41 g carbohydrates, 483 mg sodium, 0 mg cholesterol, 7 g protein, 6 g fiber, 16 g sugar.

This analysis is an estimate based on available ingredients and this preparation. It should not substitute for a dietitian’s or nutritionist’s advice.

From Food and Dining editor Joe Yonan, inspired by a recipe by Nava Atlas in “Vegan Soups and Stews For All Seasons” (Amberwood Press, 2024).

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