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Delicious, delicious s'mores. Courtesy of Flickr user Eric Dickman

Occasionally a discussion crops up over what constitutes “American food,” wherein some smarty-pants debunks the claim that [insert cherished culinary icon] originated here. I can just picture this person, pushing up her glasses and saying, “Well, actually…” (OK, sometimes this person is me.)

To such know-it-alls I say this: Back off the s’mores. As far as anyone can tell, the ultimate campfire treat is one food that’s as American as apple pie—and even apple pie isn’t an original American creation. But who else would think to sandwich a fire-blistered marshmallow and a chocolate bar between graham crackers, creating a delicious but incredibly sticky mess? If that’s not American ingenuity I don’t know what is.

Frankly, s’mores are a concoction that people of other nationalities often find mystifying; one commenter with the handle English Girl remarked on the blog Unclutterer, “I had no idea what s’mores are but reading through it sounds like a weird roasted combination of marshmallows and um ‘stuff’. Are Graham crackers a sort of savoury biscuit? Sorry but it sounds horrible!” Fine, more for us.

Though no one knows the identity of the genius who invented them (surely not the same person who gave them such a ridiculous name), the first recipe for “some mores” appeared in a Girl Scout booklet in the 1920s. Some sources say the Camp Fire Girls actually came up with the treat first; as a former vest-wearing member of the Shle-Ta tribe, it’s a story I’m inclined to believe.

Of the three main components of a s’more, only one is a natural-born American. Marshmallows date back to ancient Egypt (where they were made from the actual marsh mallow plant). Chocolate is of Mesoamerican origin. But Graham crackers were invented—or at least inspired—by a Connecticut Presbyterian minister, Rev. Sylvester Graham, in the 1820s. Sly Graham was a bit of a health nut and a prude to boot. He advocated a vegetarian diet that included unrefined wheat flour, which he believed would help suppress naughty carnal urges and “self-abuse.” If he were alive today he would probably keel over when he saw the orgy of sugar and refined carbs that is the s’more.

Although kids love roasting their own marshmallows, it usually takes an adult’s patience to do it just right. I define marshmallow perfection as a completely gooey interior encased in a lightly caramelized shell. Achieving this is a delicate art: If you try to rush things by sticking the marshmallow directly into the fire and igniting it, all you’ll have is a charred sponge. If you leave it near the fire too long, or tilt it at the wrong angle, you risk having it slide right into the embers.

Some people like to soften the chocolate by leaving it next to the fire. I’ve also seen people stick pre-assembled s’mores wrapped in foil close to the flames—not a bad idea if gooeyness is your main objective, but I would miss the crispy marshmallow exterior you can only get through unprotected proximity to fire.

Once, during a camping trip on Catalina Island, my friends and I experimented with substituting other candy bars for the chocolate. Peanut butter cups were a hit. Peppermint patties, less so. But I still prefer the original. Why mess with an American classic?

Bananas have been cultivated for thousands of years. But are the days of the familiar Cavendish numbered? Image courtesy of Flickr user Jason Gulledge

When I pack my lunch box in the morning, my thermos of tea and whatever I’ve decided to have for a midday meal is always accompanied by a banana. Force of habit—it has been my default snack-on-the-go of choice since my mom was packing lunches for me to take to school. And it’s a pretty popular fruit. The United States (as of 2005) consumes approximately 15 percent of the 80 million tons of bananas produced globally per year. But the sunshine yellow Cavendish bananas we see in the grocery store are the result of thousands of years of domestication—and a new study takes a multidisciplinary approach to figure out when and where wild bananas were tamed.

First off, a quick genealogical history: One of the fruit’s wild ancestors is the Musa acuminata, a spindly plant with small, okra-like pods that were bred to produce seedless fruit. At one point, this was crossed with the heartier-looking Musa balbisiana to create plantains, and it is from plantains that our modern varieties of bananas are derived. (And yes, there’s more than just the supermarket variety.) Banana pollen and stem imprints and other sorts of fossils do show up in the archaeological record, and it looks like Musa acuminata has been cultivated since at least 6,500 years ago; the oldest evidence comes from New Guinea. The study traced the spread of bananas around the world by looking at linguistic history, working on the premise that a cultivated plant carries its name wherever it goes, and if that plant is successful in a new culture, the plant’s name is retained. Trumping the cliché of Eskimos having 100 words for snow (or however that urban legend goes), Melanesia has more than 1,000 terms for different varieties of bananas. Combining archaeological, genealogical and linguistic studies, they trace various hybridizations and conclude that bananas were introduced to Africa at least 2,500 years ago.

But as it turns out, the Cavendish we hold so near and dear needs to do a little more evolving if it is going to hold on. On a genetic level, our supermarket bananas lack diversity, meaning they are especially susceptible to disease, such as black sigatoka, a fungal disease that is proving to be impervious to fungicides. Such pests are putting this variety of banana at risk—with some scientists saying it is careening toward extinction. Some creative cultivation may be required. A candidate for a new supermarket variety of banana is the Yangambi Km5, which is native to the Democratic Republic of Congo. A fertile plant and highly resistant to disease, the only trait keeping it from being suitable for shipping is its thin peel.

The increasingly popular SodaStream. Image courtesy of Flickr user greychr

For the past year or so I’ve been hearing people rave about this amazing new contraption that magically turns your tap water into seltzer or, with the addition of flavor concentrates, soft drinks. As someone who goes through a 12-pack a week of lime seltzer, this struck me as a brilliant idea—a way to save money and send fewer cans to the recycling center—but I never got around to buying one.

Last week I finally got to try one of these SodaStream gadgets at a friend’s house, and it worked as promised. I was completely sold.

I’m embarrassed to admit that it didn’t occur to me until I mentioned it to my editor that do-it-yourself seltzer is hardly a new concept. Seltzer bottles—also known as soda siphons—have been bringing the fizz to the table for centuries, and in snazzier style.

SodaStream works the same way as those old-fashioned seltzer bottles, by infusing water with pressurized carbon dioxide.

Even SodaStream itself is just an update of a product that’s been around for years. The company’s roots go back to 1903, when Guy Gilbey (a surname familiar to gin drinkers) invented the first home carbonation machine, in the United Kingdom. A smaller version of the machine was popular in Europe and elsewhere for decades, but it wasn’t until 2009, after a global brand revamping, that the product became widely available in the United States.

A recent article in Slate points out how successful the retooling has been: Worldwide sales climbed from 730,000 units in 2007 to nearly 2 million in 2010. The gadget’s entry into the U.S. market seems to have come at just the right moment, when a perfect storm of economic, environmental and health concerns about sugary sodas have converged with an increased interest in do-it-yourself everything, including food and drink. There’s also a nostalgia factor—not for the modern-looking device, but for the old-time soda fountain treats like phosphates and egg creams that the seltzer recalls. Last week the New York Times highlighted a new crop of soda jerks around the country who are bringing fizzy back.

Customization at home is one of the SodaStream’s selling points: It allows you to adjust the amount of fizziness and flavor syrup (and hence, sweetness) in your drink. It’s also possible to make your own creations. During maple-tapping season in the Northeast, Kristin Kimball, farmer and author of The Dirty Life, tweeted her recipe for “Essex Farm soda”—carbonated maple sap with a splash of vanilla. Blogger Andrew Wilder wrote about the SodaStream bar he set up at a party, which led to some creative mock- and cocktails—the Cucumberist, with cucumber and mint, sounds right up my alley. Even better, the blog Former Chef gives a recipe for a spicy-sounding homemade ginger syrup that includes cardamom, allspice, black pepper and star anise.

Suddenly my old standby, lime seltzer, is looking a little vanilla. It may be time to experiment. But I haven’t decided which home carbonation system to buy: Those vintage soda siphons would look great with my other retro barware, though they may or may not work well anymore. New versions, like the sleek aluminum seltzer bottles made by iSi, are also an option. Or, of course, there’s the SodaStream.

One thing is clear: My 12-pack-toting days are numbered.

The classic gin rickey. Image courtesy of Flickr user teamperks.

Shoomaker’s was a D.C. dive bar founded by a pair of German immigrants and later bought by lobbyist and Confederate army veteran Colonel Joseph Rickey. The rickey was concocted at his bar sometime in 1883. (Rickey himself is sometimes credited as the inventor of the drink, but others point to bartender George Williamson.) The combination of bourbon, lime, ice and seltzer water was a refreshing hit and is one of D.C.’s culinary claims to fame. Since 2009, July has been known as Rickey Month, when local mixologists provide their own distinctive spins on this incredibly simple drink. And this summer, the rickey was officially declared the city’s native cocktail, honored by a plaque unveiled this past Sunday at the J.W. Marriott located roughly where Shoomakers once stood.

With so many public displays of affection for a cocktail, I had to wonder what all the fuss is about. And there’s a good way to find out.

I had the fixings for a rickey at home and decided to give it a go before trying to order out at the local watering hole. Although gin later became a popular alternative to bourbon as the liquor of choice for this drink, I can’t stand the stuff—it always registers on my palate as Christmas tree swill. I opted for the colonel’s original recipe. Pulling out the relevant odds and ends from my cupboards, I cued up a how-to video in which self-ascribed booze nerd Derek Brown showed me the proper way to throw one together, never minding the fact that he was mixing his with gin (ptooey!). (However, according to drinks expert David Wondrich, it creates a cool, dry drink that would make for desirable imbibing when the mercury climbs past 90.)

My cocktail was tasty and refreshing and the carbonation from the club soda makes it fun to sip on. The lime and the bourbon paired well—a little tart, a little spicy—but as is, it was unremarkable. I kept thinking that it needed a little more in there to really make the flavors pop—like ginger. If I ever decide to order this one out, I have a better idea of what to expect and what local variations make the rickey a cocktail to be reckoned with. Looking at the winners of last year’s rickey mixing contest, it seems you can get some knockout results and still keep the process of mixing the drink pretty simple. The Washington Post has a recipe that seems to fits my personal bill should I decide to mix this one again.

For those of you who don’t especially care for spirits, there is a mocktail (non-alcoholic) version of the rickey that you can use to cool off on a summer day. For those who like the harder version of the drink, the Mariott’s 1331 Bar and Lounge will be offering half price rickeys throughout July.

Making pigs in a blanket was a "true test of patience and stealth" for the author. Courtesy of Flickr user prizepony.

For this month’s writing invitational, we asked you to tell us about your relationship with your kitchen. We got some terrific essays that we’ll post on the next several Mondays. First off is Ashlee Clark’s reminder that, no matter how small or inconvenient or outdated your current kitchen is, chances are you had it worse in college.

Clark is a freelancer writer and editor in Louisville, Kentucky. She writes about local food and frugal eating at her website, Ashlee Eats.

Dorm Food

By Ashlee Clark

I traveled through a medley of kitchens befitting of the life of a young adult during my college years. Dormitory kitchens were the worst.

These kitchens were dark and abandoned rooms at the end of the hall outfitted with a stove, sink and little else. The rooms always smelled of stale pizza and popcorn from other students’ half-hearted cooking endeavors.

In the three dorms I lived in during my time as an underclassman, there was usually just one kitchen on each floor. I had the misfortune of always being on the opposite end of the hallway from aforementioned cooking spaces. Every time I got an itch to eat something that required more prep than tuna salad, I would have to gather my meager collection of utensils in a plastic grocery bag, go to the kitchen, make my dish, then take it all back. God forbid you leave your cooking tools in a communal kitchen. It would take only five minutes of your absence for your cookware to end up in the trash or in someone else’s grocery bag.

Making pigs in a blanket, a comfort food that nourished me through many Western Civilization study sessions, was a true test of patience and stealth. I never realized how much it took to make this tasty treat until I had to carry it down a long, The Shining-esque hallway. There was the tube of crescent rolls, the package of hot dogs, the cheese slices. The Pam, the baking sheet, the oven mitts. The knife, the spatula, the plate.

I would spread my supplies across the Formica countertop and assemble my meal by the dim light above the oven. But slicing and stuffing a hot dog with cheese and rolling the creation in dough was simple compared to getting my meal back to my room with the original number of pigs in a blanket in hand.

The scent of processed meat quickly slid under the doors of my neighbors as my meal baked. Hallmates to whom I had never spoken would slide down to the kitchen and create some idle chitchat before finally asking me to share. My hungry belly wanted to yell out, “Make your own, buddy,” but my Southern manners always made me oblige their request.

So to avoid sharing my bounty, I had to cook with ninja-like stealth. As soon as I slipped my baking sheet into the oven, I began covering my tracks. I threw away plastic cheese wrappers. I vigorously washed my utensils. I gathered everything I could back into my grocery bag and waited for the dough to turn a golden brown and the cheese to start dripping down the sides of the meat. At the first sign that my meal was complete, I took the tray in one oven-mitt-covered hand and the grocery bag in the other. I peeked my head out the door and sprinted down the hallway before someone discovered my culinary delight. This task was made difficult by the clanging of the utensils against my aerosol can of cooking spray, but I never stopped. If someone stepped out of their room, I gave them a simple nod without slowing my pace.

I repeated this process a few times each month for much of my college career. All that sneaking around taught me how to cook in an inadequate kitchen under extreme pressure. And I still have a soft spot for pigs in a blanket.