Regina Zbarskaya Ms.

Wilson AP Literature and Composition 20 March 2014 Sweet, Sweet Ambrosia Food balances the shifting boundaries of the expanding domestic sphere and the wilderness (Alexander). On humid, steam-baked days during the summer, the division between the sizzling nature outside and the crisp interior of my home was a long, tall glass of kompot. After I stepped into the recess of my house, the heat of exploring outside in the sun was not fully dissipated from my sweaty, glistening skin until the icy concoction chilled its way down my throat, taking the exhaustion and excess warmth with it. It left the wilderness outside and brought the home in. And with home, comes family. On one occasion, I happened to observe my mother in the process of composing the fine, translucent liquid. She had a habit of making the enticing ambrosia while I was at school, so for the first time I peered over her shoulder on my tiptoes and was taken aback when I saw that she was boiling the liquid full of apples and cranberries in the giant aluminum caldron on her stove. I had never imagined that the sweet, chilled drink was concocted first by boiling. As I continued watching, she would slowly stir the giant mixture with an unbending, rigid metal spoon and then drop, every couple of minutes, more platefuls of fruit in one after another. I was always surprised when she would calmly throw in bruised, diced apples. Good fruit, slightly bad fruit, fruit that would have probably gone bad because no one liked it: everything made its way into the enormous swirling container and somehow nothing ruined the sweetened blend. It was how I saw our family. There were always those embarrassing social events, family arguments, even people that were not exactly the cream of the crop type who went out and did things they should not have. But those bad apples and even the few altercations with my extended relatives and countless bickering with my parents did not ever poison the taste I had developed for my family. And in the same respect, I knew that no matter what I did, I would always be family to them.

An individual has multiple identities: cultural, religious, family, gender and each can be associated with a particular food (Twiss). In my mind, my chaotic family could not be better described than by the engulfing mix of the simmering fruit of kompot. The typhoon generated by the mixing of the kompot eagerly sucks up the fruit thrown into the mix, and no matter how hard I tried to deny the relation to my family or tried to shake the connection because of some minor embarrassment, it was impossible to escape it. Food can be used to assert our membership in certain groups and [to distance] ourselves from others, (Twiss) and I have come to the conclusion that, like the enveloping swirl of kompot, family sticks to each individual like flies to honey in both the best of times and the worst of times. After letting the kompot boil for about an hour, my mother would turn everything off and let the liquid cool for a couple of hours before finally putting it into the fridge. The next day, it would be the ice cold peace I have come to identify it with. Food can trigger memories and emotional responses, (Alexander) and kompot brings waterfalls of crashing ice cold relief in the dead of summer and in the heat of problems. Gordon states, when sick, or tired, or far from home, everyone seems to yearn for the gastronomic equivalent of a warm sweater, a kiss on the forehead, a favorite blanket. Kompot in scalding hot form is my family when I do not want it and kompot in chilling cold form is my family when I need it. I can turn to my family when in need of serenity and know that I will be bathed in cool and refreshing comfort, like I just came back from a hot run outside. When kompot is served, there is always a large plop as the fruit is scooped from the bottom of the container and into the thin glass cup. And even after one is done downing the drink, there are always fruit remains that one never knows quite what to do with. I never really want to eat them, but I cannot force myself to throw it away either, for I honor the fruits that the sweet ambrosia I just devoured came from. So I begrudgingly scoop them out of the bottom with a fork and finish the remains. In this respect, every individual is dealt with a unique hand; a family not of their own choosing. And all of us, at some point or another have to deal with members that we may not want around. Foster says that food indicates how characters are getting along something more has to be happening than simple beef, forks, and goblets,

(9) or just kompot and cups in this case. For me, kompot represents a time of absolute peace, but also the mix of misshapen characters that somehow manage to make a sweet family.

Works Cited Alexander, Vera. "Media, Food and Identity University of Copenhagen." Media, Food and Identity University of Copenhagen. N.p., n.d. Web. 19 Mar. 2014. <http://cemes.ku.dk/kalender/media_food_identity/>. Foster, Thomas C. "Nice To Eat With You: Acts of Communion." How to Read Literature like a Professor. New York: Quill, 2003. N. pag. Print. Gordon, Marina, and Brad Smith. "Comfort Foods." PBS. PBS, 2005. Web. 19 Mar. 2014. <http://www.pbs.org/opb/meaningoffood/food_and_life/comfort_foods/>. Twiss, Katheryn. "We Are What We Eat." The Archaeology of Food and Identity (2007): n. pag. Print.