Asian Outlook | Spring 2023 Issue #1

11 | My Asian Parent’s Love Language | Brian Ly

24 | Show Some Love | Jessie Fan and Megan Pan

4 | Citrus | Anita Liu

5 | Seasons of Fruit | Daria Gaidamak

6 | How Different Fruit Would Act at the Gym | Rachel Choi, Bobur Malikov, Javonne Thomas and Vivian Yan

7 | My Mother Does Not Apologize With Her Words | Kathryn Kwon

8 | Blackberry Cobbler | Avery Sopchak

10 | I Am Not Scared of Death | Kathryn Kwon

editorials conscience

12 | Over Detailed Strawberry Milk Recipe | Sharon Zohirova

14 | Inside of a Durian | Jenny Zhao

16 | Blueberry Pancakes | Kaysie Liang

17 | Musings On Plates and Place | Rui Zheng

18 | Grapes | Carmen Tan

20 | A (Fruit) Basket of Family, Culture and Love: The Nutrients of Life | Jessica Kwok

22 | Conscience | Celeste Pietrzak

23 | Bun-Anna | Anna Liu

25 | Sixth Love Language | Jina Wu

26 | New York vs. Boston | Courtney Fu

Front cover photos by Miller Chemical Stone Fruits and Google

letter from the editor...

Dear Readers,

There were three possible themes for this issue: “snow,” “shoes” and “fruit.” All equally undefined. All equally perplexing. All equally concocted in the post-break grogginess.

But “fruit” won out. “Fruit” — more specific than “food” and broader than “mango,” “peach” or “apple” — evokes many things. Running barefoot through sprinklers in the grassy smell of summer break, adjusting a zipper at the back of a prom dress, vicious arguments and the reassurance that life rolls on. Fruit is also intensely sensory. Who among us can forget the watermelon juice dripping down our forearms as we bite close to the rind, or the shocking crunch of an apple testing the limits of our braces?

For this issue, contributors brought us citrus heartbreak, blueberry friendship and durian introspection. We held hands across decades and peered into private kitchens, all in the name of honoring the sweet, the sour, the meaty and the juicy. This is one of our most personal issues; reading it has been a privilege for me, and I hope it will feel like a similar privilege for you.

As always, this magazine would not exist without the constant support of the Asian Outlook E-Board. Spring semester often feels sluggish because it is the challenge before summer break, but goodbyes come sooner than the desire to speed off campus — and therefore I feel even stronger gratitude for everyone who has made Asian Outlook what it is. To spend time with our seniors is to have the wisdom to judge when to eat the avocado on the counter before it browns; to spend time with our new interns is to watch the flowers bud on the Spine.

With ripe appreciation,

Kathryn Lee Editor-in-Chief

ASIAN OUTLOOK EXECUTIVE BOARD SPRING 2023

President Vice President

Editor-in-Chief

Conscience Editor Secretary

Treasurer

Copy Editors

layout editors

Kathryn Kwon

Vivian Zhu

Kathryn Lee

Celeste Pietrzak

Anna Liu

Adrian Wu

Jessica Kwok

Jina Wu

Yaying Zhao

Megan Pan

Suhyeon Kwon

Tina Oh

Bryan Wang

Anna Liu

Publicity Chairs

Event Coordinators

Historians

Media Producer

Media Producer Intern General Interns

Kayla Maharani

Jenny Zhao

Kaysie Liang

Annie Liang

Fatima Gonzalez

Michelle Chan

Nan Lin

Chloe Hsiao

Brian Lum

Carmen Tan

Rui Zheng

Sophia Lam

EDITORIAL POLICY

Asian Outlook is the art, literary and news magazine of the Asian Student Union of SUNY’s Binghamton University. Originally conceived and created to challenge, redefine, re-imagine and revolutionize images and perceptions associated with Asians and Asian Americans, Asian Outlook also serves to protect the voice of those in the minority, whether by ethnicity, gender, and/or political orientation. All matter contained within these beautiful pages do not necessarily reflect the views of the editorial board. Asian Outlook reserves the right to edit submissions and publish work as deemed appropriate. Prospective contributors are encouraged to discuss their work with the editors prior to submissions. All submissions may be submitted as e-mail attachments to ao.editor@ gmail.com.

CONTACT POLICY

Uninvited contact with writers and contributors is strictly prohibited. Please direct all questions, comments and complaints to ao.editor@gmail. com.

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Anita Liu

“citrus”

Bright orange \\\ b u r s t i n g \\\ in your curious mouth with every movement your of molars.

the taste of ripe clementines remains the same in every setting, flavor slides down the grooves of our taste buds; playing hopscotch on the doormat where you tucked away your traditions almost four years ago.

You long for the fruit with a taste that lingers beyond its dissolution. Milk pineapple is a good substitute for love — its acidity burns you just the same; except it stays, tasting saccharine. Lexie Liu attitude:

[ No need to open my mouth and speak. I can guess what you’ll say anyways, so I guess I shouldn’t ask — or maybe I’m scared of your answer. Ok? Ok. Ok ]

The sweetest taste nature’s palate can offer from seed and soil. found in an afternoon snack —

is best when shared with friends. Clementines always emulate the feeling of falling in love.

“不用开口说了

反正能猜到你的话 就不该再问了

Background image by Julie Aagaard

Seasons Of Fruit

By Daria Gaidamak

What does it mean for fruit to be in season?

Is it when it’s easiest to grow?

When it has the most flavor?

When it’s the most ripe?

The supermarket carries most fruit no matter what season it is anyways, so who cares?

Everyone loves fruit no matter what season it is,

Even though it is such a temperamental food.

Fruit bruises so easily and spoils so quickly.

Maybe that’s why it is such a symbol of love,

Why cut and peeled apples are the same as an apology.

Even when they’re out of season, the supermarket carries apples, So who cares?

Photo from Peakpx

How Differentfruit woulD Act At tHe Gym

by Rachel Choi, Bobur Malikov, Javonne Thomas and

Banana ��— Wannabe gym bros with toxic mentality

Cherry ��— Gym girlies who slay upper body day

Orange��— Ordinary people who come for health

Watermelon ��— Dad bods slay

Peach ��— Leg days only

Apples ��— Average gym bros

Pears ��— THEY DO NOT GO TO THE GYM

Mangoes �� and coconuts ��— Gym couples (wake up and break up. Just kidding, love you guys)

Blueberries ��— Pick me’s who go to the gym to take pics

Asian Pears ��— They go once a month to use the treadmill

Tomatoes ��— Uhm. Slay, I guess

Vivian Yan

My mother does not apologize with her words.

My mother does not apologize with her words.

She takes fruit from the bottom drawer of our fridge. Sometimes juicy green kiwis. Maybe even plump peaches. But usually crunchy golden cham-weh.

Dirtied peels, she rids the Korean melon of its skin. (Stripping away layers of anger, she soothes fresh wounds from recent arguments.)

Cutting into flesh, she brandishes her knife and with every division, comes reflection. (Sharp words that had sliced into skin earlier smoothed away on the cutting board.)

Brushing off tiny slimy seeds, my mother expresses her guilt in the cleanliness of each bit.

With soft steps, beautifully plated fruit finds its way to my desk. Her hand lingers on my shoulder; silent words only I can hear. Every bite whispers, I love you.

By Kathryn Kwon

Blackberry Cobbler

By: Avery Sopchak

My family is from Washington State and every summer we go visit. Washington is mostly known for rain and coffee, but the thing I associate with Washington the most is blackberries. The trailing blackberry is native to the state and the thorny bushes can be found everywhere: the sides of the roads, people’s backyards and along trail paths. My grandma used to have them growing in her backyard and we picked buckets of them each time we visited. My dad then made blackberry cobbler. This is his recipe.

Image by Jocelyn (Grandbaby Cakes)

Instructions:

4 cups fresh blackberries

½ cup sugar

3 tablespoon cornstarch

Zest of 1 lemon

1 cup flour

1 tablespoon sugar

1 ½ teaspoon baking powder

½ cup cold butter, cut into small cubes

½ cup buttermilk

Instructions:

Preheat the oven to 375°F.

Mix the first four ingredients together just to combine.

Pour into a 9-inch square glass baking pan.

Mix the flour, sugar and baking powder together in a bowl.

Add the butter and incorporate it into the dry ingredients using a fork or your fingers.

Stir in the buttermilk until a dough forms.

Drop spoonfuls of the dough over the berry mixture until it is mostly covered.

Bake in the oven until it is golden on top and the filling is bubbling for about 45 to 50 minutes.

Remove from the oven and let cool slightly before serving.

By Kathryn Kwon

My lungs first tasted bitter smoke in elementary school

Secondhand from the cigarette that hung from my Father’s mouth (my nose crinkled at the putrid smell then)

Warmth enveloped me. A haze circled me from the affection in finally spending time with him (the crisis of an unwanted daughter always falling behind a prized son) I chose to ignore how the air turned thin, choked by tobacco “Shh … it’s just a smoke break.” Don’t tell your Mom. a smile on my face for a smile on his

Acrid fumes overwhelmed me in my teenage years and breathing became a privilege (a prognosis of asthma) echoed coughs that riddled my night

As my Brother pocketed Marlboro packs and lighters hidden from watchful eyes (I have seen all)

“Shh … it’s just a smoke break.” Don’t tell Mom and Dad. a secret between a brother betraying himself to Dad’s habits and a sister deprived of kinship, eager to connect

They never told me how the smell follows scorched into my fingertips and captured in my clothes (Bitter taste and bitter feeling melding on my tongue)

How each burning breath is accompanied by a memory (of Dad’s cologne, our heavy lungs and once smiling faces) (of Brother’s words, our heavy hearts and knowing looks) of a “family” or the desperation to hold onto one

How the finished butt (flicked away out of sight) leaves a gnawing in the stomach a crushing sense of guilt (and an untimely piece of disclosure) but necessary for relief (Dad’s habits now echoing bitterly in me)

How Life becomes bold when you weigh your own on the line “Dohee, Sunghyun, I have bad news.” (the saltiness of tears stings my wounds starting at the beginning in my lungs and ending in my fingers)

How Irony catches you off guard

“Shh … it’s just a smoke break.” I promise I’ll stop soon. Lies that trickle from his lips like the smoke I once found comfort in as I pray that Time is more forgiving

(For I am not scared of Death but of Life’s wrath)

Photo via www.unsplash.com

I am not scared of Death (but of Life’s wrath)

My Asian Parent’s Love Language

By Bryan Ly

By Brian Ly

I went to Rose E. Scala, a pre-K to eighth grade school, which was conveniently a couple of blocks from my grandparents. The classrooms for prekindergarteners were separated from everyone else in the main building across the recess play area, in these big red trailers that reminded me of shipping containers. 5-year-old me thought a train had stopped there and offloaded the trailers. 5-year-old me was dumb.

But 5-year-old me made a crucial decision on a rainy day in that big red trailer. The teacher put down a variety of sliced fruits and let us wander around, trying them all. He decided that day that crisp apples were his favorite fruit — perhaps even his favorite food.

That day I walked home and professed my love for apples for everyone to hear: my friends, my imaginary friends, my parents, my grandparents and Max (my stuffed husky from Build-A-Bear). And in the days following my public declaration, there would be a container of sliced apples on the third shelf from the bottom of the fridge for me to find when I returned from my diligent preschool studies. I thought there must have been something akin to the tooth fairy (an apple fairy … or wizard — yeah, an apple wizard is cooler) who replenished my healthy snack of choice. As I said, 5-year-old me was dumb.

As 5-year-old me became 6, 7, 8, 10 and 13, I consumed a lot of Disney Channel. I soon realized that, aside from the general lack of Asian representation, my family was not like the fictional families on screen. I didn’t get hugs on the regular, dinners or gifts for straight A’s, or “I love you’s” and “I’m proud of you’s.” So I asked myself, is it so wrong to ask for these things?

My parents were both working people, so I barely got to see them as is; when I decided to go to high school in Brooklyn, it meant I would see them even less. The combination of classwork, commuting, extracurriculars and a social life meant I was out of the house from the early morning dew of 6 a.m. to the dimly lit roads of 10 p.m. By the time I got home, they were ready for bed and about to go to sleep. But I always found something when I arrived home — some fruit. On the dinner table was either a container of crisp apples, or a Tupperware of tangerines or a bowl of berries or a drum of dragonfruit. And perhaps it was the work of the apple wizard from my youth. But maybe, the real answer is that there was no patron of the mystical arts of fruit but my parents showing their love for me by leaving fruit. Something “not too sweet” for me to power through my homeworks due tomorrow or satiate my hunger during my procrastination Netflix breaks.

5-year-old me learned that “Actions speak louder than words,” and that container of whatever sliced fruit my mom had picked up at the grocery store meant more to me than any verbal “I love you” because it was my parents’ unique way of saying it.

Overly Detailed Strawberry Milk Recipe >:)

When you eat strawberries and you get to the bottom of the box where they’re less ripe -- and more busted up -- make them into something scrumptious!! Not your average Nesquik though way better!!!

INGREDIENTS: (this recipe is more ratio based than focused on exact amounts):

By Sharon Zohirova

This is dedicated to Jackie Choe and Rita Zheng. Thank you for making me soup that one time. And for Yaying. Please read my submission.

1 part strawberries

2 parts water

For every cup of strawberries, 1 heaping teaspoon of sugar

TOOLS:

Stove House with electricity

1. Finely chop up your strawberries and smush them. You could use a hand mixer or stand mixer, or even a food processor if you’re bougie like that. If you don’t have any of these appliances, just use a fork to smush down the pieces as much as you can. Boiling will do the rest for you.

Finely chop up your strawberries and smush them. You could use a hand mixer or stand mixer, or even a food processor if you’re bougie like that. If you don’t have any of these appliances, just use a fork to smush down the pieces as much as you can. Boiling will do the rest for you.

2. To the mushed strawberries, add sugar to taste. You can skip this step if you want!! Not sure how much sugar to add? One heaping teaspoon per cup of strawberries is a good standard.

To the mushed strawberries, add sugar to taste. You can skip this step if you want!! Not sure how much sugar to add? One heaping teaspoon per cup of strawberries is a good standard.

Add a 1-to-2 ratio of the strawberry/sugar mixture and water to a saucepan on medium heat. This amount of water will account for evaporation, as you’ll be doing this without the lid on. Mix the mixture so that the solid parts are not at the bottom of the saucepan. Let it boil until the water is a uniform, deep pink.

3. Add a 1-to-2 ratio of the strawberry/sugar mixture and water to a saucepan on medium heat. This amount of water will account for evaporation, as you’ll be doing this without the lid on. Stir the mixture so that the solid parts are not at the bottom of the saucepan. Let it boil until the water is a uniform, deep pink.

Strain the mixture so that the deep pink concoction is free of seeds and the flesh of the strawberry. Gently press the solid parts of the mixture

Durio Zibethinus

3.

Husk covered with spikes

Penduncle

Flower Soft Flesh Seed

1.

2.

4.

5.

Drawn by Madame Berthe Hoola van Nooten

Inside of a Durian

By Jenny Zhao

If everyone in the world were a fruit, I would be a durian. Not because I smell strange or because I have a spiky personality — rather, I think I’d be a durian because sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in. It’s silly to think about it from a larger perspective since I am part of clubs and I seem to have many friends, but it doesn’t always feel like I belong within those bubbles of relationships.

From a young age, I’ve struggled with self-identity. Moving to New York City from California at a young age was already tough, as I had to leave behind memories and people that I don’t even remember anymore. However, as I grew up, even family became something distant to me. With my mom who always worked late nights, my dad who worked out of state, and my sister who was almost a decade older than me, I was almost always alone.

In elementary school, I tried to interact with my classmates to “fit in” and “belong,” and thus came my best friend at the time. She was willing to listen and hang out with me, connecting to the part of me that was merely a child yearning for love. We were close, but an argument drove us apart, and I was shattered. My parents continuously asked me where she was and what she was doing, but I could never give them a straight answer. I couldn’t accept the reality of things, where someone who I thought finally accepted me didn’t. The whirlwind of emotions spun through my elementary school self, and I was once again left alone. Once middle school hit, I was on my own again.

Middle school was a whole new experience for me. With new people and puberty going crazy, I had a really tough time adjusting. Luckily for me, however, I was able to

find people who broke into the soft interior of my shell, warming me. Those people were the ones who I thought would stick with me forever … and for a while, they did. Being with them allowed me to show off the side of myself that I would usually hide away behind my spiky exterior; it felt good to feel normal for once. However, I was still a durian, the fruit that scared people off. One of my close friends at the time suddenly cut off contact with me and I went into panic mode. What did I do wrong? Why was I being ghosted? It was like I was back in elementary school again, facing the realities of being abandoned. I tried everything to get in contact with him, but I never got through until I asked a mutual friend to confront him. He told our friend things about my personality that I’d never quite thought about before. Ever since that day, I overthought everything about myself. I couldn’t help but to retreat back into the safe confines of the spiky shell. I didn’t want to be seen anymore. If I wasn’t seen, I wouldn’t have to go through any more pain.

A durian is merely a fruit that is trying to survive. Its spiky outer shell and weird smell make people avoid the fruit more than others, but once you look inside, the durian is simply a fruit with soft and sweet innards. The spiky shell acts as a barrier to keep others away, keeping the inner self safe, and in that way, I relate to it. I try to build a barrier to keep others out and my inside self in. I don’t deny any parts of myself that I’ve shown or kept hidden. I don’t deny that my personality can be different and not welcomed by some. However, my inner child just wants to be seen for who I really am: the soft flesh inside a durian.

15 Vol. XlV, Issue I

Blueberry Pancakes

By Kaysie Liang

Ilove blueberries. Most people are going to look at this and think that I am just saying I like them because of their color or since they have the word blue in the name, but I genuinely do love blueberries.

When I think about blueberries, I remember a trip I took with my friends in freshman year of high school. One of their families had a summer home in the Hamptons that we had gone to a few times before in middle school, but our trip in high school was the most memorable to me.

It was June, during New York State’s Regents week, and since we all took our exams earlier in the week, we essentially had a two-week break before summer vacation officially started. We all met up at my friend’s house in Park Slope so that her mom could drive the six of us. Upon arriving slightly after noon, we immediately dropped our things to jump into the pool. We spent the entire day in the backyard. I remember swimming for hours, having countless water fights and pool noodle battles. I remember eating dinner outside as the sun set. I remember how we failed to make a fire in the pit for s’mores even though the others were so confident in their abilities since they had done it before. I remember one of my friends heating up chocolate in a bowl to dip fruits in, and I remember another friend licking the chocolate bowl of whatever was left. I remember it being pitch black outside when my friends figured out the disco light setting of the hot tub. I remember all of us exploring the basement storage room and laughing at the miscellaneous items pulled out from random piles. I remember me and the other girls getting stuck in the storage room where we tried to scare the guys by knocking on the wall of their room’s closet. I remember going to bed at 4 a.m., only to wake up at 6 a.m. and not being able to go back to sleep because my internal alarm at the time was extremely strong. I watched the sun rise on my own and waited as the others began to stir awake around 8 a.m.

And I remember the blueberry pancakes my friend’s mom made for breakfast that cool summer morning as we sat outside on the deck.

The craziest thing was how I felt no exhaustion. The joy of being gathered with my friends, eating blueberry pancakes while talking about things I can’t remember and just enjoying the moment, has become one of my favorite memories. What’s even funnier is that until that day I had never had blueberry pancakes; they were simply not my first choice for pancakes. Yet from that moment on, I associated blueberry pancakes with this silly overnight trip at the end of my freshman year of high school and the memories I made with these people.

From a philosophical point of view, blueberries are like people. On the outside they are a pristine blue color but not some sort of unnatural solid shade — though the color blue appearing in nature is rare as it is. They taste better when you eat a couple at a time. They are beautiful and unique, and they are completely different in appearance internally: green and soft with the potential of being sweet or sour. Yet when they are smashed or preserved — applied pressure in the form of force or heat — the blue and green subside to present a dark shade of purple. So people are like blueberries in the way that they are complex and capable of such drastic changes. That is my complicated answer. My simple answer, however, is that I love blueberries. Especially blueberry pancakes.

Musings On Plates and Place

By Rui Zheng

Mom always tells us to eat our fruits. Every day, there is an apple, or an orange, or a plate of strawberries sitting atop the dinner table for us after lunch. We happily consume the sweet, juicy treats, taking the meticulous love with which they were prepared for granted.

We all move out at some point. Home suddenly isn’t three stories with two parents and a full, clean kitchen. Home is now a cramped room in a drab suite, where the water is either too hot or too cold and the mini fridge can’t even fit a full head of cabbage. Home is now broken heaters, and a bitter chill leaking in through the window that says: stay in bed, stay in bed, stay in bed. And now it’s been a month since I’ve felt the sweet crunch of an apple. And now I can’t tell if it’s just seasonal depression or nutrient deficiency. Maybe both.

Last week, I went to Walmart. Although I have the store layout memorized, I always take my time to browse through every aisle. After I observed all the varieties of Band-Aids sold, I found myself faced with a wall of multivitamins. I didn’t use to believe in dietary supplements — why take a gummy or a pill when you can, like, eat a balanced diet?

Sorry me, I don’t do that anymore.

19 is a weird age. I feel mature — independent, but not enough to muster up the drive to go downstairs to the communal kitchen and cook myself dinner. My room is a mess and here, there is no looming presence of Mom nagging me to clean up. Does it make me childish to wish for a plate of strawberries, meticulously washed and refreshingly cold?

I got two cartons of blueberries on my way out. I don’t know why exactly, but I finished all of them that night.

By Carmen Tan grapes

I disagree with the saying that “life is like a box of chocolates — you never know what you’re going to get.” Because life isn’t like that. It’s not always sweet and nice and wonderful. As someone who isn’t lactose intolerant, I think chocolate is something that is good most of the time.

Life is like a bunch of grapes. I should know. I’ve eaten grapes. The thing that makes them immensely different from chocolate is that grapes can be really bad or really good from each one to the next. The small unripe ones are sour and maybe even bitter. The ones that are cut from being thrashed around taste bruised but still sweet. You can’t really change the way grapes are — it’s all from the journey that they’ve been on.

Maybe your mother squished them a little too hard in the reusable bag along with her wallet and keys. Maybe your brother swung the bag a little too much and the trip made them woozy and warm under the sun. When they arrive at the table, you really don’t know which grape you’ll pick up once they’re all washed and shiny under the living room light. Grapes are what I think of as a snacking fruit. They’re small and you can eat a lot without thinking. When you’re distracted by talking with your friends or watching the latest episode of a show, you don’t know what grapes you’ve grabbed off the stem.

The sour grapes make your lips pucker as if all the moisture is draining out. They remind you of the bitter moments, the skin too tough and the pulp too much. Arguments and fights between loved ones. Game pieces left at the table after someone storms off. Rejection emails for something you looked forward to. Choked feelings when a friend has a situation you don’t know how to handle or resolve. The skin is too tough and the pulp too much.

The overly sweet grapes make you feel like you need a glass of water. The sweet, sweet memories from past years. Remembering the time you listened to stories about the different people your family members were, the different lives they lived. The connections you held with everyone, laughing together until your stomach hurts and your cheeks too. The sweetness of the grapes dissipates and you feel the emptiness when it’s gone.

The grapes that aren’t too sweet or too sour always have a good texture. They are plump and give you something to chew on. Not the sweetest memories or the most sour, but the moments when you feel accomplished. You’ve done something for yourself and you’ve gotten through the tough parts. The seeds have shrunk against the pulp and you can hardly remember how bitter they were before. Passing an exam and feeling good about yourself and your abilities. These grapes are more satisfying than the small ones, but they taste neutral, even bland.

Each grape is different from the last, from the skin to the pulp. While chocolate in most chocolate boxes will be sweet, the taste of grapes fresh from the stem can’t be predicted. There’s no manual with pictures to describe each grape with its ingredients; there’s no cheat sheet. Living and how to live — there’s no book that could possibly describe everything. Everyone’s experience will always be different. Some of us have more sour grapes and some of us will have sweeter ones from time to time. Maybe you know what grapes you like; you plan out everything once you go to the market and you pick the best bunch. But there’s no guarantee that every grape in the bag will be as sweet as you expected. Grapes are unpredictable — life is unpredictable.

A (Fruit) Basket of Family, Culture and Love: The Nutrients of Life

By Jessica Kwok

When the idea of “fruits” was first proposed, I thought it was too silly to be the theme for our magazine, crossing it off in my mind as an actual option. And then I read the fruit-related prompts and boom, I was sold on the concept. For days after, my thoughts kept circulating with different ideas for a possible piece to submit. The underlying thread connecting these thoughts was my love for fruits.

And upon further reflection, it’s clear just how much fruits have given me throughout my 20 years of life — not just in terms of nutrients, but in warmth and memories. I love fruits, really. So it feels wrong to not include at least a snippet of each passing thought, because like fruits, stories are best shared — with family, friends and even strangers (heyo!).

Family

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. As the resident host family, it’s my personal vote for the “most wonderful time of the year.” Close family friends and relatives gather around our dining table to enjoy an absolute — in both size and quality — feast. The staples include potato salad, baked ziti, mixed cubed vegetables, char siu, pecan pie and, of course, turkey stuffed with my mom’s signature celery and chestnut stuffing.

This whole-day operation is actually set in motion a month prior by the search for the perfectly sized turkey, appropriate for the number of confirmed attendees. Preparation then commences a few days before the big day to allow for the turkey’s complete thawing. And every year, I wake up to the bustling sounds of my parents at work in the kitchen. Even in my sleepy state, I still know my tasks: take over the tiring chopping of the celery, peel the eggs and potatoes, go out and buy any missing ingredients as well as the best pecan pie from my local Italian bakery and assemble the post-meal fruit platter with my mom.

Maybe it’s the fact that the fruit platter is a collaborative effort between my mom and me that makes it stand out in my mind. As I rummage through our fridge, living room or the shelves to pick out the fruits to be featured, my mom channels her inner food designer to create a pretty spread on that one specific flower-printed plate used for these types of occasions. The product differs from year to year, and the fun lies in the distinct fruits we choose to put together. I will admit, though, that our platters are in need of some improvements, as they’re more so jumbles of items than cohesive works. Thankfully, there are many more Thanksgivings to hone our assembling skills. And presenting the platter to the oohs and ahhs of our guests always brings a smile to my face. So no matter how full I am by the end of the main course — and I always stuff myself in classic Thanksgiving fashion — my stomach is ready to welcome the juicy tangerines, dragonfruit, apples, etc. The night would not be complete without those fruits, truly.

In my Chinese culture, fruit is held in high regard and can be found in various facets of our daily life and yearly traditions. There are so many superstitions that the Chinese believe in that I’m unable to keep track of all that I hear from my parents, but it is clear that these superstitions hold great importance based on how my family approaches special events as well as normal situations.

Since my grandma passed away three years ago, the rest of my family has taken over the duties of maintaining the altar in the household. It currently stands three tiers tall in the corner of our living room, and while a bit of a shocking change from what used to be a coat rack, it’s settled in nicely as part of our living space. My mom diligently cares for it now, making sure to cycle out the fruit every two to three weeks depending on the specified dates on the lunar calendar. It’s become routine for us to ensure that the heavens are always able to enjoy the fresh pomelo we present to them on each of the three plates. And when the replacements come through, it’s always suggested to eat the old pomelo for good fortune. I remember this to be the case for any fruit that’s spent time on the altar; my grandmas would tell me to eat this-and-that fruit, as they are blessed with luck.

Then, whenever it comes time to perform our yearly visits to relatives’ homes, it is customary to bring along a bag of in-season or lucky fruits like oranges and red apples. Fruits are the default item to gift as you enter the house and are likely to be received with an “oh, you didn’t have to, I have so many already,” which is often true from a quick glance at the dining table. Even so, I’m a firm believer that you can never have too much fruit and thus I will certainly carry this practice into my future adult life.

And more specially, on the day before Chinese New Year, my family and I wash ourselves with the leaves of mandarin oranges to invite good fortune for the new year. The supply of those specific stemmed-with-leaves-still-on mandarin oranges in supermarkets skyrocket as the New Year approaches; every person is guaranteed to leave with at least one bag of them. I’m not sure how common a practice this is among the community, but it’s very aromatic and refreshing when the last bucket of water is poured over your head, and you step out ready for the coming year.

Love

I wouldn’t say that I get homesick, but there have been times when I’ve really missed the food — the daily home cooked dinners that my parents make for my brothers and me, the random snacks we buy at Jmart over the weekend and last night’s leftovers for lunch — and it’s fruits in particular that I crave the most.

Of course, it’s not that Binghamton doesn’t have fruits to offer; I know where to find them, and they’re certainly accessible with a quick walk to a dining hall or a trip to Target. I’ve eaten my fair share of Walmart green grapes, tangerines and tropical mangoes, but it’s the small acts associated with fruits that I’m missing here.

It’s picking out red apples that my mom inspects before placing them into the bag, knowing that I’ve succeeded in finding good ones for her to use in her smoothie. It’s scanning over the two and a half aisles dedicated to fruits at Jmart wishing I could taste them all. It’s my dad always buying two new bags of tangerines when there’s still enough to last at least a few more days, overstuffing our coffee table’s baskets. It’s the bananas with plastic wrap at the top of the bunch that my mom likes to turn into banana bread if nobody eats them fast enough. It’s my mom always arranging a plate of fruit for my brothers and me an hour after dinner when I was younger and still cutting up whichever fruits I’m craving that night when I’m home for break.

I’m grateful that the drawer we’ve dedicated to fruits in our fridge is never empty, and for as long as I’m at home, I will continue to draw comfort from sliding it open to look at what’s in stock without any intention to eat anything there (a bad habit of mine). It’s simply one of the many signs of love that fruits have shown me, and I know more love will come to fruition for us all.

conscience conscience conscience

Bun-anna

by Anna Liu

SHOW

Some Love

By: Jessie Fan & Megan Pan

Show Some Love is an ongoing photographic series that seeks to explore the human desire to love that emerges even in a time of hate, as seen through New York City’s Chinatown after the wave of anti-Asian hate that arose due to the COVID-19 pandemic. This work aims to depict the familiar corners of Chinatown that are touched by love and light even in a time of darkness.

Background Photo from iStock 25 Vol. XlV, Issue I

New York VS. Boston

As someone who has been constantly going back and forth between two cities in the last 6 months, sometimes it’s nice to take a breather and just enjoy the charms of each city. As a New Yorker who now resides in Boston, I always get the question - how do you like it? My answer - just different vibes. So here’s a collection of photos gathered from my adventures between the two cities.

By Courtney Fu