Tag Archives: kitchens

A Handheld Cabinet of Curiosities: Kitchenalia, Social Media, and the Cultural History of Collecting

By Esther Martin

People love Stuff. They’ve always loved Stuff. For hundreds of years, humanity has made a practice of collecting the Stuff they love. These collections carry alternative implications, showcased and flaunted to establish both the status and identity of the owner. The act of collecting is easy to dismiss as a type of overconsumption, but it is deeply tied to a person’s need to establish their sense of self, and to identify where they fit into the social spectrum. Collectors become taste-makers, establishing what is worth collecting and showcasing. In the age of the internet, taste-making is done through content-making.

Britannica defines the term “collect” as “to get (similar things) and bring them together as a hobby.”Russell Belk, a Distinguished Research Professor and the Kraft Foods Canada Chair in Marketing at Schulich School of Business, York University, defines collecting as “the process of actively, selectively, and passionately acquiring and possessing things removed from ordinary use and perceived as part of a set of non-identical objects or experiences.” Collecting is more than the act of acquiring, but rather gathering items together with a specific and intended purpose.

Collecting became more defined during the Renaissance when the wealthy began establishing cabinets of curiosities in their homes. Dating back to the 1500s, early incarnations of cabinets of curiosities involved a full-size room containing a collection of artifacts and specimens acquired by a wealthy family or individual. Practically, the room was a way of storing an often exhaustive accumulation of artifacts and specimens, usually containing wonders of the natural world–such as animal skulls, “exotic” textiles, and preserved flora from all over the globe–making cabinets a kind of pre-modern museum, though highly personalized and private.

Göttweig Musaei Contignatio, between 1743-1745. Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons

However, the immediate intention of a cabinet of curiosities was to establish the elevated status of the owner and identify them as a person of intellect and good taste. A collection displayed in a cabinet of curiosities acted as a form of conspicuous consumption, informing visitors to the home of their host’s superiority. After all, not everyone could afford an entire room in their home dedicated to expensive objects, let alone the funds and means necessary to gather those objects.

Ferrante Imperato, Dell’Historia Naturale (1599), the earliest illustration of a natural history cabinet. Image Credit: Wellcome Library, London

The construction of cabinets of curiosities continued to change over time as the delineation between classes diminished. The cabinets became just that – actual cabinets accessible to the less wealthy but growing middle-class. Still, a cabinet of curiosities in one’s home was an indication of good taste and a reasonably stocked bank account.

Today in the twenty-first century, cabinets of curiosity have now reached their next phase of evolution: social media. Visual-based social media platforms, chiefly Instagram and TikTok, serve as modern day cabinets of curiosities where anyone can become a content maker and set up their own virtual cabinet to share their real-life treasures. The images and videos establish their good taste, trend-awareness, and clued-in identity. The types of collections showcased have expanded from curiosities of the natural world to include all manner of interests including curiosities of the past, the grotesque, and the accoutrement of everyday life, past and present. For example, someone may fill their instagram grid with aesthetically pleasing photos of their collection of mid-century typewriters, hand-embroidered 20th century handkerchiefs, or artfully displayed primitive pickling jars. These pickling jars, stuffed with old wooden spoons and whisks that will never be used, fall under the category of kitchenalia.

Collecting kitchenalia (a catch-all term for kitchen objects) has become more prominent especially among women content creators on visual social media platforms. Accounts may highlight collections of a specific brand, such as @Vampyrex on Instagram, who collects and shares her extensive Pyrex collection; specific types of objects, like @nancysdailydish on Instagram, which features English transferware from the 19th and 20th centuries; and a general array of objects, like theinfluencedmillenial on TikTok, whose kitchen is full of thrifted items imbued with nostalgic stories. There is even a hashtag dedicated to collected and thrifted-style vintage kitchens–#grandmakitchen, honoring the aesthetic aspects of women and kitchens of our past.

A selection of the Instagram grid of @Vampyrex. Image Credit: Instagram.

The hashtag #grandmaskitchen evokes the nostalgia and emotional connection involved with  kitchenalia collecting. Content creators see themselves in their collections of kitchenalia and establish identities and expertise that are fabricated from trips to the thrift store. Since food, cooking, and the kitchen are evocative of personal history, content makers establish kitchenalia as an integral part of their personality and status. Kitchen objects, which may be considered traditionally mundane, gendered objects advertised primarily to women as part of their unseen labor as homemakers and providers, suddenly become elevated in value through their incorporation into content makers identities. By elevating kitchenalia to be worthy of collecting and redefining it as “of value,” the women showcasing their virtual cabinet of curiosities are also showcasing identities they’ve invented and advertise online.

Collections tell the story about the collector and what they value–pristine objects, name brands, and the status quo; or they have deep-held beliefs that they will one day make money off these objects and secure their future. Women content-makers and taste-makers who collect kitchenalia demonstrate that what is valuable is identities rooted in the appearance of a history and connection to the kitchen. Their Instagram and TikTok pages serve as a guide for future kitchenalia collectors to determine what material culture of the kitchen holds no value, and what items are worth the money and effort to acquire, enhancing their existing identity.


Esther Martin, MLA, is a food folklorist and writer who specializes in foodways, material culture, and online education. Her work has appeared in The Oxford Companion to Cheese, We Eat What? A Cultural Encyclopedia of Regional Food, and An American Girl Anthology, with upcoming work in The Recipes Project. She has presented at The Museum of Food and Drink, the Association for Food and Society Conference, and the Rutgers Online Learning Conference. She holds an MLA In Gastronomy from Boston University. Find her at esthermartin.substack.com.

Say Ohm: Japanese Electric Bread and the Joy of Panko

By Nathan Hopson

In 1998, the New York Times introduced readers to an exotic new ingredient described as “a light, airy variety [of breadcrumb] worlds away from the acrid, herb-flecked, additive-laden bread crumbs in the supermarket,” with a texture “more like crushed cornflakes or potato chips” than its plebeian brethren (Fabricant 1998). That ingredient was panko, which has since become a staple for American home and professional cooks alike. In 2007, panko accounted for only 3% of US breadcrumb sales, for instance. Five years later, one in six American households regularly stocked panko in the pantry. Panko caught on because it is crunchier (and stays crunchy under restaurant heat lamps), absorbs less oil, and adds more volume than traditional breadcrumbs (Nassauer 2013).

Why are these Japanese breadcrumbs different? How did they get to be that way? The story told by American manufacturers such as LA-based Upper Crust Enterprises―an ironic name given that the secret to panko is crust-free bread―is that “Japanese soldiers during World War II discovered [that] crustless bread made for better breadcrumbs as they cooked it with electricity from tank batteries, not wanting to draw the enemy’s attention with smoke from a fire”(Nassauer 2013). Upper Crust’s president, Gary Kawaguchi, affirmed this account in a recent interview.

This is a cool story. Turns out, the truth is just as cool.

Japanese inventors had tinkered with electric cooking prototypes since at least the 1920s. Then in 1933, the Imperial Japanese Army (IJA) commissioned a “field kitchen that can prepare both rice and bread”(Aoki 2019, 11). Cost was no object and time was of the essence. As Katarzyna Cwiertka has noted, the military generally advocated bread, but there was a special urgency in light of the logistical difficulties of supplying rice to new front lines in Siberia and Manchuria. In 1937, paymaster captain Akutsu Shōzō’s design became the “Type 97” field kitchen, first deployed with the IJA’s First Independent Mixed Brigade that year (Uchida 2020, 2–4). The 97’s cooker was an insulated wooden box with electrode plates attached to the base and four sides of the interior. The highly efficient cooking process Akutsu used goes by several names, including ohmic and Joule heating. It is a form of electroconductive heating that passes electric current through foods to heat them rapidly and uniformly, quickly producing a light, yeasty, crust-free bread.

Figure 1: Type 97 field kitchen interior structure. Courtesy of JACAR.

After the war, companies such as Sony began selling rice cookers and bread machines that adapted these wartime technologies, and DIY home bread makers were showcased in magazines and newspapers. Influential women’s magazine Shufu no tomo and the inaugural issue of boys’ DIY magazine Shōnen kōsaku both featured instructions for bread makers derived from Akutsu’s design in 1946, reflecting the popularity of electric power in light of consumer fuel shortages and, conversely, excess generating capacity with military factories shut down (Uchida and Aoki 2019, 484).

In the 1960s, the new postwar frozen food industry hungered for high-quality breadcrumbs. Wheat had poured into Japan after 1945, the result of food aid; the use of bread and other wheat products in Japan’s school lunch program; and endless marketing promotions. Although ambitious American visions to recenter the national diet on wheat were soon abandoned, US agricultural imports and food technologies remained critical to Japan’s changing postwar food systems. Improved and upscaled food processing equipment met a market awash in cheap wheat, enthusiastic consumers (about half of whom owned electric refrigerators by the mid-1960s), and improved logistics. Frozen foods were among the shiny new things of postwar Japan’s shiny new “bright life,” and the mass use of frozen foods to cater the 1964 Olympiad and 1970 World’s Fair made them even more attractive symbols of Japan reborn.

These factors spurred rapid growth in breadcrumb demand, which was met in large part by the industrial-scale use of ohmic heating to create “electric breads” that were airy and uniform, and fried up crisply and uniformly when made into panko (Uchida and Aoki 2019, 485).


Sources Cited

Aoki Takashi. 2019. “Denkyokushiki chōri no hatsumei kara panko e tsuzuku rekishi oyobi saigen jikken.” Science Journal of Kanagawa University, no. 30 (June): 9–16.

Fabricant, Florence. 1998. “From Japan, the Secret of Crunchy Coating.” New York Times, December 1998.

Nassauer, Sarah. 2013. “Panko Tries to Find a Place in Every Pantry.” Dow Jones Institutional News, March 7, 2013.

Uchida Takashi. 2020. “Suihan o kigen to shi panko seizō ni tsuzuku denki pan no rekishi (1): Rikugun suiji jidōsha to Kōseishiki denki suihanki to Takara ohachi.” Tōkyō Yakka Daigaku kenkyū kiyō, no. 23 (March): 1–14.

Uchida Takashi, and Aoki Takashi. 2019. “Suihan, denki pan, pan seizō ni itaru Nihon no denkyokushiki chōri no rekishi: Rikugun ‘suiji jidōsha’ o kigen to suru denki pan jikken.” Nihon Yakugaku Kyōiku Gakkai ronbunshū, no. 43: 483–86.


This post is part five in an ongoing series by Hopson on the history of nutrition in modern Japan. You can read his previous post here.

Meals on Wheels: The “Kitchen Cars” and American Recipes for the Postwar Japanese Diet

By Nathan Hopson

From 1956 to 1960, the USDA Foreign Agricultural Service (FAS) sponsored a fleet of food demonstration buses in Japan (“kitchen cars”) to improve national nutrition and fuel the nation’s economic recovery with more “modern” and “rational” cooking methods and, most importantly, ingredients (i.e. American agricultural surpluses: wheat, corn, soy, and to a lesser extent meat, dairy, etc.) The concept was first floated to the US by Dr. Ōiso Toshio, chief of the health ministry’s nutrition section, 1953-1963. Along with the school lunch program instituted under the US occupation, the kitchen cars became one of the most important tools for marketing American farm products in Japan. The school lunch program, centered on bread and (reconstituted skim) milk until the 1970s, taught young Japanese new tastes. The kitchen cars taught their mothers to reproduce those flavors at home.

The initial fleet of a dozen buses, operated by the Japan Nutrition Association (a semiprivate organ of the health ministry), reached over two million people in towns, villages, and apartment blocks across Japan. The nutritionists staffing the buses put their professional imprimatur on the many novel foods they demonstrated, and distributed samples, nutritional pamphlets, and the day’s recipes to their audiences of mostly housewives. The kitchen cars were wildly popular. When US funding expired, local Japanese governments built their own to meet public demand; the number exceeded 100 by the end of the 1960s. Though it is difficult (impossible?) to quantify, the kitchen cars contributed in subtle but profound ways to transforming the postwar Japanese diet.

Despite their popularity at the time, today the kitchen cars are mostly forgotten. When they are remembered, it is mostly for destroying “traditional” Japanese dietary patterns and contributing to the “Westernization” of the diet during the period of high economic growth. This backlash stems in part from the fact that American financing was hidden not just from the public, but also from all those who staffed or assisted with the kitchen cars. Still, in the short run, these buses were a win-win for the US and Japan. America’s Cold War “Food for Peace” campaign put agricultural surplus to work supporting a critical ally, and Japan received enormous amounts of free or cheap food and generous development loans.

Figure 1: Kitchen car demonstration in rural Aomori, year unknown (probably 1950s). Courtesy of the Aomori Prefectural Museum.

The photo above shows a typical scene from a day in the life of the kitchen car. The audience crowds around the back of bus, which opens up like a thrust stage for the nutritionists to perform upon. The gathered women listen intently, some taking notes. The kitchen installed in the rear of the bus is the state-of-the-art chrome and gadgetry emblematic of the new postwar “bright life” of happy consumerism. The nutritionists in their white lab coats bring the authority of science. The foods they are preparing may not seem like the stuff of American farm surplus propaganda, but as Ōiso himself observed, “Propaganda is truly effective when people don’t notice it.”[1] To wit, the noodles are most likely soba: buckwheat mixed with (American) wheat. Even subtler is the use of sautéing, undoubtedly in (American) corn or soy oil. This kind of gradualist approach, expressed in slogans such as “Flour-based food once a day,” helps explain both why nobody suspected American involvement and why the kitchen cars were so popular and effective.

Few detailed records of 1950s’ kitchen car menus remain, but those that do are consistent with accounts from the 1960s. A list of favorites from mid-decade Okayama prefecture includes milk donuts, udon stew, sautéed amaranth leaves with liver, fried meat and vegetables with ketchup, vegetable cream soup, fried soybean fritters, chicken and peanuts in tomato sauce, bok choy with peanuts and mushrooms, and cheese sponge cake. Roughly simultaneously, the prefecture’s public health center sponsored competitions for original, tasty, nutritious, economical foods (about ¥20 each) using ingredients like soy, skim milk, and flour. Winners included vegetable omelets, fried tofu-wrapped sardines, fried sardine balls, and mysterious entries such as “nutritional bread” and “nutritional fried dumplings.”

These lists lend credence to the remarks of Richard Baum, Ōiso’s initial American collaborator. In a 1978 documentary, Baum expressed immense satisfaction at the kitchen cars’ success. As he explained, “the housewives would come out and gather around and learn how to make different wheat foods. And then they would get to sample the wheat foods. And they found these very delicious and so they would say ‘Oishii desu. Mō sukoshi’ [This is delicious. A little more, please].”[2]


[1] Quoted in Takashima Teruyuki, Amerika komugi senryaku: Nihon shinkō (Ie no Hikari Kyōkai, 1979), 106.

[2] Quoted in Takashima Teruyuki, Shokutaku no kage no seijōki: kome to mugi no sengoshi (NHK, 1978).


This post is part four in an ongoing series by Hopson on the history of nutrition in modern Japan. You can read his previous post here. This entry is based on his article “Ingrained Habits: The ‘Kitchen Cars’ and the Transformation of Postwar Japanese Diet and Identity.” Food, Culture & Society, November 2020.

Workshop Notice: “Kitchens in Britain and Europe, 1500-1950” (London, 18th Jan 2017)

For all of you interested in kitchens and material culture – this workshop sounds like it’s a must-go! Take note: Registration closes 11th January, 2017.

kitchen-graphic
Koch unnd Kellermeisterey (1550). Image courtesy of the Welcome Library.

The Centre for the Study of the Body and Material Culture is hosting a one-day workshop, ‘Kitchens in Britain and Europe, 1500-1950’, 18th January 2017 at Senate House, University of London.

In recent years the home has come to be the focus of multidisciplinary and cross-period inquiry, yet the kitchen, although seen as the ‘heart’ of the home in some places and periods, is still a relatively under-explored space. Studies of material culture, technology and domestic work all point to the kitchen’s wider social and cultural importance.  Since the early modern period, kitchens have been a nexus of class interaction, and the place of domestic food production. Subsequently, studies of the kitchen have the potential to contribute to social and cultural histories of everyday life. This workshop brings together scholars researching the histories of the kitchen from a range of geographical and chronological perspectives.

The deadline for registration is Wednesday 11th January. For more details, including the programme and how to register please see:

https://www.royalholloway.ac.uk/history/research/researchcentres/csbmc/kitchens-cfp.aspx

Questions? Get in touch with the organiser Katie Carpenter @ Katie.Carpenter.2010@live.rhul.ac.uk.