I noticed a simple menu card. Is it Swiss? Is it New York, Polynesian, or French cuisine? Or should I call it Japanese since I saw it in a Tokyo hotel translated for the convenience of their guests?
I see cards like this in a lot of places in different languages. Familiar dishes from around the world, all cohabitating at the same table.
These dishes are familiar. Common and easy to find in Iowa, Germany, Saudi Arabia, Australia, India, Brazil, Canada, Russia, or even Japan.
And in Chicago, Boston, or Los Angeles, is it foreign to eat pizza invented in Italy, hamburger originally from Germany smothered in an adaptation of Chinese kê-tsiap sauce, or Mexican style salsa, guacamole, and tortilla chips that dominate Super Bowl Sunday? What about the middle-eastern hummus and Greek yoghurt sections found in every supermarket? Is that foreign?
There are differences, of course. Everyone has different takes on rice, pasta, meats, and vegetables. How foreign can any of it be?
Growing up in Alaska, I lived outside the world, everywhere else was foreign. Little did I realize how much of the world was with me, even as I stood at the edge of nowhere.
Readers of my book from around the world have told me how familiar the story is, how much it reminds them of their own origin story. It could be one more exhibit to dismantle the myths of foreign-ness. I hope so.
Keep chasing lights.
