Gusto Journal Fall 2022

gusto

FALL 2022

Letter From the Editor

My two favorite places to eat are alone at a restaurant or at the too-small-for-fve cherry dinner table at home with my family. Te two couldn’t be more diferent from each other. Te frst is completely unfamiliar. I sit with myself, surrounded by people I’ve never met and will probably never again be in the same room with. Choosing from a menu that I haven’t seen before, plotting my own adventure for the next hour that I remain at the table. I don’t have to speak to anyone, save the person who stops by to ask what I might like to eat that night. It’s never lonely; the food on my plate keeps me company as I look around and contemplate the coincidence that landed me in a scene of 50 or so strangers.

Te other is one that I’ve found myself at thousands of times. I might even be able to recall the pattern of the wood grain that swirls around my place setting. Te food I eat is usually an iteration of a Frias family classic, ofen supplemented by the test of a new recipe or the very occasional take-out meal from the little sushi restaurant three turns down the road. Te people that gather there are the same as they’ve always been, other than the inches grown and the wrinkles creased in the outer corners of their eyes. We make jokes and argue and tell stories and shout. It’s a place that I always come back to, although the coming back happens less ofen as the years go by.

It’s funny that I feel most myself in two places that are so unlike. Te settings that frame our dinners out and meals at home are just as infuential as the food on our forks. Tey’re not just the places where we fnd ourselves, but also the people that meet there, the histories that intertwine, the conversations that we have, the mindsets that frame the way we’re afected by what’s around us.

Tis issue, we invite you to join us as we explore the settings that inform our experiences with food. Whether these be physical places, intersections of culture, states of mind, memories, or journeys of transition and personal development, we hope that you will immerse yourself in the settings that most intrigue us while also considering those that most intimately afect you.

We hope that our words will evoke memories of your favorite childhood movie theater, the thrill of your frst summer job working in the kitchen, your adventures abroad tasting foods you’ve always dreamed of, and the comfort of the dining table that remains a loyal constant through all change. Tat you’ll marvel at the magic of catching dinner fresh from the ocean, ponder the cultural exchanges that piece together the menus of your favorite restaurants, and fnd solace in the simple joy of cooking yourself a meal.

Eat well, read passionately, and be good.

Sofa Frias

gusto team

FALL 2022 ISSUE 8

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

MANAGING EDITOR

FEATURES EDITOR

FEATURES ASSOCIATE EDITOR

ESSAYS EDITOR

MUCHO GUSTO EDITOR

MUCHO GUSTO ASSOCIATE EDITOR

HEAD COPY EDITOR

CREATIVE MANAGER

ASSOCIATE CREATIVE MANAGER

MEDIA AND MARKETING MANAGER

BUSINESS MANAGER

FEATURES TEAM

ESSAYS TEAM

Sofa Frias

Margaret Kufner

Isabel Wibowo

Madeleine Sims

Gillian Mahoney

Lilly Mathieu

Emanuel Louime

Gianina DiDonato

Maia Rosenbaum

Sophie Borrmann

Adeline Kim

Lucy Haswell

Simon Hoefing, Carson Locker, Nathan Rhind

Maggie Beck, Astrid Langoe, Antontio Mata, Julia Marotti, Jane Paulson, Shelly Xue

MUCHO GUSTO TEAM

COPY TEAM

CREATIVE TEAM

MEDIA AND MARKETING TEAM

Rachael Fields, Maya Floreani, Isabela Gonzalez, Madelyn Lawlor, Jacob Ye

Katie Kitrick, Audrey Morken, Paige Nixon, Ella Song

Ryan Gonzalez, Madeline King

Lulu Arundale, Hannah Carroll, Ellis Craige, Josie Crockett, Mollie Forand, Grace Kneebone

Table of Contents

4 Chef Margaret

8 I’ll Buy the Tickets If You Buy the Snacks

12 Helen Au: Coming Home to Herself

By Margaret Kufner By Madeleine Sims By Sofa Frias

18 The Environment and How It Provides

By Carson Locker

22 Moroccan Cuisine

By Lilly Mathieu

26 American Chinese Food is Authentic

By Isabel Wibowo

32 Self-Care in the Kitchen

By Maya Floreani

34 Trust in Hospitality: Embracing Balkan Cuisine

By Antonio Mata

38 The Adventure Begins Again

By Gillian Mahoney

42 A Dining Table

By Emanuel Louime

Words by Margaret Kufner

Chef Margaret

Fire ticket 24. Tree salmon, and two steaks all day. How long until you are ready to go up? What exactly is in the dark chocolate espresso cake? Yes, Chef. I frst heard phrases like these when Food Network introduced me to the culinary world. As a young girl, the fast-paced, high-energy kitchen environment encapsulated me. My dream was to one day work as a chef in a restaurant and command the kitchen like Gordon Ramsey or bake eight-tier cakes emulating Buddy Valastro’s masterpieces. Tis childhood dream came to life when I walked into the Shelter Harbor Inn in Westerly, R.I. Te Inn is three blocks from my beach house and my frst time inside, I felt welcomed and cozy with its eclectic musical feel. Ironically enough, I was originally against working in the kitchen and trained to be a server. Kitchens have always been a place where I destress and let my creativity evolve, so I thought that working in one would strip the joy out of my biggest passion. I never wanted to dread cooking. I wanted to be able to create freely and design stunning dishes on my own agenda.

As a server in training, I was thrown into restaurant life, and the high-paced, urgent atmosphere kept me vigilant and engaged. I imminently began memorizing the menu, and eagerly garnishing dishes. Executive Chef Al was a pompous man who spent his life traveling to kitchens around the world, and the sous chef Dan was a kind soul whose creativity and favor combinations were unparalleled. I precisely noted techniques Dan

Photos by Sophie Borrmann

and Chef would use, and afer two weeks I felt confdent in my capacity to replicate many of the recipes. I thought about joining their team, but I was stuck on the possibility of cooking becoming ‘work.’ Chef recognized my dedication and culinary aptitudes, so he constantly pestered me to jump behind the line.

Early in the season, the remaining kitchen staf quit and I stepped in for one reluctant night. To my utter disbelief, working the line enthralled me. Te rush was unreal. In those frst six hours, I gained a deeper, more profound love for food that didn't even seem possible. Afer that initial plunge, I traded my server tray in for a cutting board.

Te following day, I walked into the Shelter Harbor Inn as a chef and ofcially started to live my childhood dream. I, Margaret Kufner, had just become the head pastry chef and line cook for a fne dining farm-to-table restaurant. I knew that every staf member doubted my culinary abilities and perceived me as simply a naive young summer worker. I was determined to prove them wrong not only with my skill set but with my professionality and desire to learn.

A professional commercial kitchen was a world away from anything I had worked in. Initially, I was shocked by how small the space was. Te Inn has a hospitable, colorful feel but once you walk through the large swinging black kitchen door, the atmosphere is transformed. A cofee machine that never seems to work, plentiful wine colors, and the bread warmer with our famous but deadly farmhouse corn bread frst greet you. As you continue, the hot steam of the dishwashers envelops your face, and then the line is front and center. Te line is set up in an L-shape with the grill adjacent to the saute, the cold salad station perpendicular to that, and the double convection ovens in the back. Dan, Chef, and I were the back of the house, prepping, cooking, and plating upwards of one hundred entrees a night. It was essential we were all on the same wavelength, knowing when and what to plate for every night to be a fawless success.

At frst, the kitchen was intimidating and I doubted my culinary abilities. Were there certain protocols I needed to follow? What did the diferent color cutting boards mean? What temperature should the oven be at? How should I cut these? I had a question about everything I was meant to do. For the frst time in my life, there were high stakes involving the food I was making. Gone were the days of experimentation and using my family as guinea pigs; everything needed to be perfect. If I messed up, the whole staf would feel a rippling efect. I strove to prove myself by fghting to make a good impression, show my skills, and not feel belittled or insignifcant in a male-dominated kitchen.

Being a line cook was new, but my role as executive pastry chef came with ease. Tis was my domain. For the frst time in my life, I had access to unlimited resources, equipment, and time to concoct whatever desserts I desired. Te little girl in me was jumping up and down with excitement over the industrial-sized mixer and vast array of pans. I began to imagine all the desserts I wanted to make over the course of the summer, which plates I wanted to use, and how I could incorporate the local in-season ingredients. Chef gave me complete creative freedom and trusted me with the sweet side of the kitchen. Every week I made four to fve fresh desserts, testing out unique treats such as fourless chocolate espresso cakes, key lime pie with coconut macaroons, and layered strawberry vanilla mascarpone cake. Making these was thrilling. I established some Inn classics like a freshly baked blueberry crumble with a crisp oat crust topped with local vanilla ice cream, and a melt-in-your-mouth warm chocolate chip cookie skillet. My favorite moment was when a dessert I had conceptualized was actualized on a plate.

As summer progressed my nerves calmed and I established my place in the kitchen. Slowly I began to think of nightly appetizer specials and made them solo. It was ironic because as a 19-yearold I was making half the food and all the desserts. Most people wouldn't believe that I had no culinary experience but Chef and Dan showed me the ins and outs of restaurant life. I was their apprentice. My night would start of slowly baking and prepping

in solitude, always singing the one song stuck in my head for that day. Ten the front of the house team would slowly trickle in and my mood and excitement skyrocketed. I was now surrounded by my close friends and had people to entertain me.

Despite Chef’s opposition, we transformed the kitchen into a vibrant, and talkative place. Te staf was mostly college students, and I was constantly at the bar or in the service area chatting up a storm. Once I heard the frst slow but mighty cranking of the ticket machine I sprinted back to my station and transformed into Chef Margaret. Te kitchen metamorphosed from an upbeat smiley environment into a realm of intensity and focus to produce unparalleled delicious dishes. From 5 p.m. to 9 p.m., I grilled steaks, plated salmon, oversaw desserts, ran to get more mayo, sautéed mushrooms, heated sauce, answered servers’ questions, and precisely worked in conjunction with Dan. Te thrill I got when I had a full line of tickets and 10-12 entrées in the works was unmatched. Exhaustion and stress would kick in but then I would see a slice of my cake brought out the door and all I could do was smile.

My cake. My recipe was being served to people daily. Tere is no bigger joy than seeing the twinkle on someone’s face when they take a bite of my food and their taste buds and eyes are stunned. I strive to create desserts perfectly balanced in bold and sweet favors with varying degrees of texture and breathtaking symmetrical presentations. Tat frst bite moment is the reason why I love what I do.

Te space was one of hard work but also of friendship and laughter. Once service died down, the last tickets went out, and Chef drove away the kitchen truly came alive.

My stress level plummeted and as we began to clean up, hysterics and zest flled the air. As students on our summer break, we had to have a little fun at work, and that is just what we did. We sprayed each other with the dishwasher hoes, made pancakes for dinner, and danced with the brooms. I met my close friends Evan and Emilie at the Inn and we became the inseparable Shelter Harbor gang. I spent over 400 hours of my summer in that kitchen, and the knowledge and friends I gained are irreplaceable.

My childhood dream was everything I hoped it would be and I came to appreciate and understand kitchens on a deeper level. Now at Boston College in my Vandy 8-man, I don't have a full kitchen but I feel more creative and knowledgeable than ever. I am defning my kitchenette as a kitchen and a place where I can freely create and express my deep love for food. Te Inn’s double convection ovens are being replaced by a small toaster oven, a full grill by a George Foreman, and our 16top burners by a single hot plate. Despite the diferent kitchen environments, I can put on my baking playlist, open the fridge, and let my brain run thinking of all the combinations that I could concoct with the limited ingredients and resources I possess. It is a culinary challenge that excites me. I have shifed from precisely julienning vegetables to simply cutting apple slices, but the knife skills and techniques prevail. My kitchen will never encompass the thrill of the Inn but I bring the same spirit and recipes to Massachusetts. I make dinner and dessert for my roommates, giving them small bites into such a huge part of my life. I am forging memories in a new kitchen environment with similar dishes and new knowledge. Now any culinary space brings back fond memories from when I was Chef Margaret.

Te Shelter Harbor Inn kitchen was where I improved my culinary skills and learned what it is to truly call yourself a chef. Dan was constantly teaching me small tricks and exposing me to new favor combinations. Te once scary and commonplace kitchen became a place I looked forward to walking into every day. I became accustomed to how you had to turn the oven a certain way, which knife I liked the best, and what the best spot on the grill was.

Te Shelter Harbor Inn menu was simple, local, and in season. Being by the ocean, seafood was a prime menu option and I had the pleasure of preparing both our top-selling dishes. Te coveted honey lavender salmon and watermelon swordfsh were ordered at almost every single table, and they soon became my favorite dishes to prepare. Te way the salmon and swordfsh would have perfect diamond-shaped grill marks was satisfying and perfected the dish. Finishing the night of with one of my SHI freshly- baked cobblers rounded out the Inn experience and lef guests full, content, and eager to return. Now I have since adapted the hHoney lLavender sSalmon and cobbler to be Vandy 5-friendly. Te Inn dish consists of fufy and rich mascarpone polenta, charred brussels sprouts, and a beautifully grilled salmon flet topped with lavender, infused with white wine, and drizzled with fresh local honey. My dorm version is not quite as fancy but emulates the dish in its favors and textures. Te cobbler would always change with the fruit season, but the buttery and hardy crumb would prevail. Now I make dinner and dessert for my roommates, giving them a small insight, and some bites into such a huge part of my life and who I am. I am forging memories in new kitchen environments with similar dishes and the same techniques. Now any culinary space brings back fond memories from when I was Chef Margaret.

Honey Lavender Salmon

Ingredients

2 fresh salmon flets

½ teaspoon dried lavender

Olive oil spray

Salt and pPepper

2 cups brussels sprouts, halved Honey for drizzle

Instructions

In a small mixing bowl toss the halved brussels sprouts in olive oil and season with salt and pepper. Place on a baking dish and bake, in the toaster oven set to convection at 425 degrees. Roast for 17-20 minutes or until lightly charred.

Spray the salmon flets with olive oil and season with salt and pepper to taste. Spread the lavender evenly along the two flets. Line the basket of an air fryer with aluminum foil. Place the flets in the basket and cook at 400 degrees for 7-10 minutes depending on the temperature desired. For perfect medium rare, cook for 7 minutes.

I’ll Buy The Tickets If You Buy The Snacks

On a chilly night in September, when the late afernoon sky was speckled with clouds and the air was starting to get the nip, usually indicative of fall, my roommates and I decided to take a trip to the Coolidge Corner movie theater, right in Brookline, a quick T ride away from our apartment. Full of old timey charm, Te Coolidge is my favorite theater in the area. With decadent crown molding on the ceilings, walls flled with ornate details, and lamps casting a golden glow on the walkways of the theater, it feels as though you’ve stepped into old Hollywood. It’s intimate, it’s cozy, and it’s the perfect place to spend a rainy afernoon.

So that’s exactly where we found ourselves, buying tickets at the box ofce window for the screening of Don’t Worry Darling, a movie we’d been counting down the days till release. But instead of focusing on the fact I was about to watch Harry Styles on screen for two hours, I found myself daydreaming of the big bucket of popcorn I was going to buy before going to my seat. I could already smell it, wafing through the doorway as I stood outside the building. It’s a smell reminiscent of every movie theater I’ve been to. Warm, salty, buttery. Te scent wrapped me like a blanket and cuddled me while I stood out in the cold.

While it’s not a bustling restaurant, a gingham picnic blanket, or a set dining room table, the movie theater is one of the greatest food spaces we can fnd ourselves in. It’s a safe haven for snacks. Take the buttery movie theater popcorn as an example. It is so quintessential to the movie theater experience that it’s in the name of the favor. “Movie Teater Butter” favored popcorn graces the shelves of grocery stores and anywhere else you can get the crunchy snack. It’s entirely inseparable from the movie theater itself, and every theater you enter is guaranteed to have a bucket waiting for you. Popcorn, candy, soda, and sof pretzels are the constants of the theater world, a comfort in the sense that no matter what theater you go to, you know you’ll have them waiting for you.

But the movie theater didn’t always smell like popcorn. In fact, when popcorn became a mainstream American snack in the mid 1800s, it could be found at circuses, fairs, outdoor sporting events, but not in the movie theaters. Andrew Smith who wrote, Popped Culture: A Social History of Popcorn, talks about how movie theaters resisted popcorn, because they didn’t want the rifraf associated with concessions. He writes, “ Tey were trying to duplicate what was done in real theaters. Tey had beautiful carpets and rugs and didn’t want popcorn being ground into it.” But as the movie theater clientele got larger and larger, popcorn seemed like a lucrative business avenue. So even when the theaters didn’t allow it, street vendors outside the cinema would sell popcorn

to patrons. Te theaters still didn’t budge, continuing to protest, ofen with signs hung about the lobbies asking people to check their popcorn with their coats.

But with the Great Depression, theaters looking to survive by any means necessary decided that selling popcorn was fnally something they were willing to do. It turned out to make all the diference. Te theaters that sold popcorn and concessions lived on, while those that didn’t sufered immensely. In 1945, movie theaters accounted for over half the popcorn consumed in America, and it became a snack and a space ofcially bound together.

Te food has become an essential aspect of the movie theater experience. Personally, it’s one of the parts I look forward to the most. It’s an environment that embodies the “treat yourself” mentality. Where else are you going to get a bag of hot and buttery popcorn and a box of M&Ms to mix in? It’s a treat to go to the movies; it’s an indulgence we grant ourselves.

However, it’s an indulgence we lost for the past two years. We resorted to watching movies from our couches, separated from others, while heating up a bag of microwave popcorn (or in some cases, with no snacks at all). We Netfix partied, binged, and spent weeks that turned into months, months that turned into years, alone with our televisions. Just like other food spaces, such as restaurants, the movies were no longer a place we could gather and feel safe. Tat’s what made the return to the theater so much sweeter. Suddenly all I wanted to do was get back in a big dark room, among friends and strangers, feeding of each other’s energy as we watched a larger-than-life movie on the screen in front of us. I wanted to smell the popcorn from my seat. I wanted to dip my hands in a

candy box and come up with a handful of Mike & Ikes. I wanted to get the biggest Icee I could get my hands on and drink most of it before the previews were over.

helen au: coming home to herself

Gentle note to readers: this feature mentions experience with an eating disorder.

For many of us, coming home is a ritual we practice every few months as we drag luggage through airports and across train platforms to distant cities and small towns scattered about the map like marbles spilled from a bag in Chestnut Hill. We may think of home as a physical place, a person, or even the smell of our favorite home-cooked meal. But maybe home is a place we make for ourselves. Perhaps it’s where we feel happiest with where we’re headed. For Helen Au, creator of With Helen, author of Cozy Vegan Pies and Tarts, and Boston College alumna, home is something she found in herself through years of taking brave leaps into new adventures.

On a slow Friday morning in early October, I sat down with Helen, who was a little over 200 miles away in New York City. Our computer screens opened the walls of my apartment to the walls of hers, putting us close enough to talk, laugh, and share for the next hour and a half. Her story unfolded in chapters anchored by the cities and towns she’s encountered over the years.

brockton, massachusetts.

Helen Au was born into a Vietnamese and Chinese household to her mother and father who immigrated to the United States from Vietnam. In the midst of political unrest, they parted with generations of family-owned businesses to start from scratch in Brockton. One thing that remained with the Au family was a shared love for food.

While Helen’s father worked as a chef in Chinese restaurants throughout Boston, Helen’s mother stayed home and raised her and her two siblings. Although her father cooked professionally, it was from her mother and grandmother that she learned to love food.

As a curious middle child, she cherished the time she spent alone with her mother in the kitchen. She beamed as she recalled following

Words by Sofa Frias

Photos by Helen Au

chestnut hill, massachusetts. her mom around the kitchen while preparing food, explaining “I think that’s when my love for cooking and baking started. From the connection part of it to my culture and also… spending time with my mom whenever I could.” She and her mother stocked up for their meals with weekly trips to Chinatown. As they hopped from store to store, taking refuge from the Boston cold inside warm shops flled with the aroma of roasted chicken and duck, Helen held the bags in anticipation of their return home for their meal.

Special occasions were spent at Helen’s grandmother’s house, where aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered a few times each month to share a meal. Her grandmother, who “was the funniest person ever,” would show her love through shouts and orders (in perfect grandmotherly fashion) as family members prepared food together. Helen marveled at the memory of her mother sitting on the foor with newspaper and a large cutting board set out to cut roasted pork with impressive speed. Between skilled chops of the knife, her mother’s hand would pass small bits of pork to Helen and her cousins to tide them over until they sat down and passed plates piled high with food from room to room.

Helen’s teenage years brought a shif in her relationship with food. Along with high school at Brockton High, a “little college” with over 1,000 students per class, came greater exposure to media, the judgment of peers, and an entirely new environment to navigate. In this major life transition, Helen felt that her food was the only thing she could control, and in her sophomore year, she developed an eating disorder. As her relationship with food strained, so did her connection with her mother. She refected on her experience, explaining “food was just nothing to me…It was what I enjoyed most,” but the judgment and infuence of others led her to push it away.

As she recovered in the hospital 45 minutes away from Brockton, she recounted the dinner she ate one night when she particularly missed life at home. Afer her meal, she was brought a piece of blueberry pie. She describes in the introduction to her cookbook, “I couldn’t even remember the last time I had eaten a piece of pie, as it was one of the many foods I didn’t allow myself to have.” To Helen, the pie felt like a piece of home, and it was the frst time she enjoyed dessert in quite a while, admitting, “to this day, it’s the best [pie] I’ve ever had. Even

if I made a blueberry pie, it tastes like nothing compared to the pie I had in the hospital.” Tat piece of hospital blueberry pie was a piece of herself returned.

Te care Helen received in her recovery inspired her to pursue medicine in her academic and professional life. While she initially imagined she’d be a doctor, she realized that the people who felt closest to her in her care were the nurses. She knew in her mind that she wanted to help people, but she also craved a meaningful connection with the people who would one day be her patients. So nursing it was.

In her freshman and sophomore years in the Connell School of Nursing at Boston College, Helen knew that she didn’t love the science that was so central to her courses, but she told herself if she could do it in high school, she could bear it for a few semesters. Two more years passed, and she found herself unhappy in the nursing feld. She thought back to her time spent as a patient in the hospital: “One thing I told myself when I got out was I’m not going to do anything that makes me unhappy. But that was exactly what I was doing for almost four years of my life.” She loved meeting patients and hearing their stories, but she realized that she was counting down the minutes until her clinical rotations ended. Helen knew she couldn’t spend any more time

Without much of a plan and little experience in the feld she wanted to pursue, Helen began working in social media, assisting bloggers and using that work as a window into the future she imagined for herself. On the side, she worked at austin, texas.

doing something that she wasn’t fully committed to, so afer graduation, she took a step back to reevaluate her plans. She searched for what made her truly happy, and the answer was easy: food. She knew she didn’t want to work in a kitchen full time, but as she was scrolling through Instagram, she found that people were a making living through food photography and blogging. She thought to herself, “Maybe I can try that,” and bought a basic camera and booked a one-way ticket to Austin. She was jumping into something new with the confdence in herself driving her forward.

new york, new york.

restaurants, practiced her food photography, and developed as many recipes as she could, knowing accepted the uncertainty of her professional life encouraged by the fact that she was working towards something she was truly passionate about. Over erent brands and bloggers, writing recipes and managing content for social media channels, building on her experience, and absorbing every skill she could. When her Austin lease began to near its end, Helen thought to herself, “I kind of want to live in New York for a little bit and see how that goes,” and so she

Finding herself in an uncharacteristically cheap one-bedroom during the height of the COVID-19

photography and posting food content to her social media accounts until she found herself feeling stuck. “Maybe food blogging isn’t right for me,”

back to when I was in nursing school and [felt] like something isn’t clicking.” At that point, Helen had amassed an Instagram following of over 9,000 accounts, and as she began to ponder her next move,

In her inbox, she found a message from a publisher asking her to author a cookbook. Presented with a seemingly impossible deadline for a cookbook of 60 pie and tart recipes, Helene declined and proposed some alternative ideas. To her dismay, rm on the pies and tarts, and Helen reevaluated her initial rejection of the project. She asked herself, “Should I make this leap? If I’m doing this cookbook,” Helen reasoned, “I would really, really have to cook.” Not one to turn down a

Helen put her work as a social media assistant on the back burner, transitioning to part-time to fulfll her basic needs as she focused most of her attention on the cookbook. In the early stages, she struggled with direction. “Why pies, why tarts?” she asked herself. She fipped through her past for some connection. Te blueberry pie. Troughout her stay in the hospital, the meal menu rotated on a regular schedule, but that pie only visited her plate once. Maybe the invitation to test and develop recipes for dozens of pies was a sign from the universe, Helen supposed. Te memory of her recovery changed her outlook on the task in front of her. “I wanted to use this cookbook to honor… that 14-year-old girl,” and she promised, “I’m gonna bring her home,” drawing a full circle on a chapter that she never felt fully came to its end.

Helen fnished her cookbook during a year-long interlude in Denver, ultimately returning to New York to continue pursuing what makes her happy, whether that be her current lifestyle blog, assisting in managing a start-up, practicing yoga, or piecing together recipes. Tis season of Helen’s life is one that she’s approaching with trust in and honesty with herself. And to anyone contemplating a major career path change, Helen says, “Go for it.”

The Environment and How It Provides

Words and Photos by Carson Locker

I shifed my weight as the small fshing boat made a sharp right turn, maneuvering itself through the array of buoys deep in the Florida brackish water. We were headed three miles out into the Gulf of Mexico; that’s where the scallops hide. Once into the pure salt water and past hundreds of other small boats, all anchored and with their red diving fags raised high, we slowed our boat to gently foat across the water. My brother and I leaned over the side of the boat, craned our necks, and squinted our eyes tightly to try and see beneath the murky water. We were looking for any quick fash of white buried in the plethora of deep green sea grass, indicating that there might possibly be a scallop waiting in the long arms of the ocean vegetation. “I see one!” yelled my brother. My uncle cut the power in the engine and dropped the anchor. I threw on my fns and pulled down my snorkeling mask, diving into the ocean before anybody else could. It was a race afer all, and despite being so far from shore, the water was typically never deeper than about 10 feet. A glimmer of shiny white in the corner of my eye caused me to dart to the lef, like a fsh that was spooked. I took a deep breath and dove straight down, reaching for the scallop as it clamped its shell open and shut, trying to ward of my grabbing fngers. I pinched the shell from behind and shoved it into my netted bag, quickly swimming up for air again.

Scalloping has led me to amass deep appreciation for how the environment provides and cares for its inhabitants in abundance. Each time my family and I venture into the Gulf, there are scallops waiting by the dozens in pods deep in the seagrass. Te act of diving into the open sea in search of catching my own food is invigorating–I am actively working with my surroundings. Te ocean raised these scallops in their salty hands and mildly cool waters so that they might be in peak form when I come seeking, and when the scallops’ months of practiced camoufaging into the sand trump the ability of my ametuer eyes, I am still satisfed. Te satisfaction is derived from the act of seeking and gathering my scallops, from fguring out over time the movements of the ocean to best maneuver myself with its currents, from the encounters with sea turtles and the like, or even just from listening to the hum of the boat while surrounded by loved ones.

Scalloping is a common practice to many people who line the northern Gulf regions of Florida. Te Florida scallops are bay scallops, the little sister to the sea scallops, which most people are familiar with. Sea scallops are large, marshmallow-like bites that are typically found 200 meters deep in the northwestern region of the Atlantic Ocean. Tey have a sweeter taste than the bay scallop and are nearly triple in size. Unlike the majority of other bivalve mollusks (such as mussels and clams), scallops are free-living and active, making the search even more like an interactive scavenger hunt. On the exterior of the scallop shell, in the crease where the two halves of the shells meet one another, are up to two-hundred tiny, neon-blue bulbs. Tese are the scallop’s eyes. Tese eyes work as an early-warning sign to help scallops fee from impending predators, encouraging the scallop to propel itself across the water by snapping its shell open and shut. Tis, again, makes the chase that much more exciting and energy-inducing. Tis efort can only be exerted from July 1st until the end of September, allowing the scallops time to repopulate again for the next season, where the same people will cruise west on their boats to max out on the scalloping limit, year afer year.

Once our boat maxes out on our two gallons of whole scallops, we return to the boating dock and spend hours shucking the scallops from their tightly wound shells, cleaning the fresh, white protein, that amounts to the size of my thumbnail when all was said and done. Tere are always local rivermen who wait on the docs when people return from the ocean, with signs next to their lawn chairs ofering to shuck the buckets of scallops–a surprisingly lucrative business. Usually only the tourists pay for this.

Te shucking, or shell and meat cleaning, process for scallops is tedious, because of its strong abductor muscle that holds the shell tightly shut to protect the precious scallop inside. For each one, a knife must be squeezed through the crease in the shell and turned sharply to pop it open. Ten, the scallops inside must be scooped out with a spoon and separated from its other internal parts. One bucket’s worth of shells equate to a standard plastic sandwich container full of scallops, all about the size of a dice. Te scallops taste best fresh, and are almost immediately brought to the kitchen to be popped into the refrigerator.

Preparation of the scallops can take on many forms, as the scallops can be seared, pan-fried, grilled, or even baked. Typically, my family and I will sear them and include them in a garlic lemon pasta dish. We use linguini boiled in heavily-salted water as our base, letting it sit in generous amounts of olive oil, lemon juice, and lemon rinds in the fridge for several hours to marinate. I prefer my scallops seared heavily in garlic and butter, with the pan on high and each side of the scallop getting to touch the hot pan for a brief moment, leaving the insides warm, cookedthrough, yet still pillowy sof while the outsides have a golden crunch, like a lightly toasted piece of ciabatta. We throw the fresh scallops into the pasta with chopped parsley, toasted pine nuts, and asparagus pieces. Te scallops

had gone from the ocean to our plates in a span of several hours.

My family and I have been scalloping every summer for as long as I can remember, each summer our eyes becoming more keen and our limbs longer and stronger for swimming. Te process is not difcult, yet as children each small action seemed like a feat. First, we would learn how to use our snorkel; always push a big breath of air out from your mouth afer diving beneath the water. Tis way you won’t have to take of the snorkel with each scallop you snatch. Other feats, such as learning to spit in your mask when it gets blurry or using a spoon when shucking scallops were easily acquired; however, it’s the appreciation that took time. Trough changing environmental factors, such as oil spills, rising sea levels, and higher temperatures, the Gulf has continued to provide scallops when I return. A relationship is not a one-way street. My parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles, who have been scalloping since their childhood, taught me this. To take from the sea we must also give; we know never to dump our scallop shells back into the river, to not pet wildlife, such as the manatees that are unnaturally used to human interaction, or to overfsh when there are set limits. I have learned to look out for the Gulf and its surrounding rivers, as it has looked out for me.

Scalloping is a tradition. Te process is time-consuming, from getting gas for the boat and collecting all of the right equipment, to boating miles of-shore and searching hours on end for the white shells, to sitting on the dock and shucking bucket afer bucket for one meal. While the scallops themselves are delectable, always feshy and slightly sweet but never too fshy, the beauty is found in the process, more than the end product itself. Tere is something freeing about having the ability to go to the source of your food and understanding its environment. Tere must be a basic knowledge of navigating the brackish water, of how far out to drive your boat to fnd the scallops, or how to store them on ice in the cooler so they don’t spoil in the transit back to shore. From this, I am able to develop a greater appreciation of my food, and the stories they carry. While I could purchase scallops from a food market on almost any given day, there is beauty in being able to know your food from the inside out. I knew the temperature of the water the scallops were found in, and that some of them had cool blue streaks on their outer shell. But most importantly, I knew they would be waiting for me, again, when I would return next summer.

Moroccan Cuisine:

Tis past June, I moved to Casablanca, a city on the coast of Morocco, where the North African country functions as the essential link between the European and African continents. Here, the geographic intersection of the Mediterranean Sea and the Atlantic Ocean illustrates the pivotal interchange between a multiplicity of societies, enumerated in linguistic complexity—where people speak and engage with others in limitless tongues. From Arabic, French, and Spanish to their own vernacular of Darija and the indigenous Amazigh language, Tamazight, this landscape ofers an expanse of culture imagined through language. Moreover, its architecture, music, and of course, cuisine, further embolden the country’s unique and multidimensional identity. Traveling through the country, it is evident that Morocco’s cultural abundance parallels the depth of favor revealed in its fundamental dishes. Tese few recipes demonstrate the expansive richness of Morocco’s culinary space, which capitalizes on robust spices and the harmonization of sweet and savory combinations. Between the traditional mint tea, lamb tagine, and vegetable couscous, these touchstones of Moroccan cuisine ofer a taste of the nation, while simultaneously inviting you to withdraw from your environment and escape to the land that meets at a multicultural crossroad.

Moroccan Mint Tea

Mint tea holds a prominent role in Moroccan society, standing at the cornerstone of hospitality and kinship. Tis recipe seeks to replicate its preparation on the Northern coast, where the Mediterranean meets the Atlantic. Te mint tea in this region distinguishes itself with the addition of fresh mint tea leaves placed right in the cup for a brighter favor.

Ingredients:

4 cups water

1 tablespoon gunpowder green tea leaves

2 sprigs of fresh mint leaves

4 tablespoons sugar

Instructions:

In a stove-safe teapot or a medium-sized pot, bring the water to a boil over medium-high heat. Add the gunpowder green tea to a separate serving teapot as the water comes to a boil. Ten pour the boiling water over the tea leaves while stirring with a spoon. Add the mint leaves and sugar and leave the tea to steep for at least 5 minutes to bring out the favor. Serve and enjoy!

Words by Lilly Mathieu

Photos by Sophie Borrmann

Vegetable Couscous

Couscous is not only a Friday favorite, but a tradition in Moroccan society. Every Friday, family, friends, and coworkers enjoy a couscous—a meal that no restaurant can truly replicate to the standard of home-cooked cuisine.

Ingredients:

1 ½ tablespoons extra virgin olive oil

1 medium sweet onion, chopped

4 cloves minced garlic

1 tablespoon fresh ground ginger

1 teaspoon nutmeg

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1 tablespoon harissa

1 tablespoon tomato paste

4 medium-sized carrots, peeled and cut into ½-inch chunks

2 medium-sized zucchini, cut into ½ inch pieces

4 medium-sized turnips, peeled and cut in half

½ cup dried chickpeas

3 cups vegetable broth

1 ½ cups couscous

6 cups water

Instructions:

In a large pot, heat the oil over medium-high heat and sauté the onion and minced garlic until fragrant. Add the fresh ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, harissa, and tomato paste with one cup of vegetable broth and frequently stir until the mixture is combined. Ten bring the broth to a boil. Chop your remaining vegetables — the carrots, zucchini, and turnips — and add them to the pot with the other 2 cups of vegetable broth. Stir the broth until the vegetables are well mixed, and bring the pot to boil again while adding salt and pepper to taste.

Reduce the heat to a simmer and cover the pot with the lid. Allow the vegetables to cook for an hour or until they are tender while stirring occasionally. When the vegetables are cooked, stir in the dried chickpeas and allow them to heat for a few minutes in the mixture.

Bring the cooking liquid to a boil in a separate, medium-sized pot. You can use water for ease, or chicken or vegetable broth for even more favor. Next, add a tablespoon of olive oil, a thin pat of butter, and a touch of salt. Stir these ingredients into the pot and add the couscous. Reduce the heat to a simmer and allow the couscous to steam for 5-7 minutes, or according to the package directions. Fluf the couscous with a fork to break up the clumps and transfer them into a serving bowl.

Bring the couscous and vegetables to your table to enjoy with friends and family. First, scoop a helping of couscous to place on the bottom of your plate, and then top with a generous serving of cooked vegetables and chickpeas. And as in Moroccan tradition, follow with the habitual post-Friday couscous nap!

Lamb Tagine

Te word tagine describes the conical clay pot used to prepare the dish. Tis shallow pot with a coneshaped lid is frequently used in Moroccan cooking, enhancing favor with its seal and allowing the ingredients to fuse over slow-cooking time. Tis specifc recipe replicates the cooking style and favor of traditional lamb tagine while allowing the cook to use a Dutch oven or a cast iron pot instead. Lamb tagine demonstrates the unexpected sweet and savory combinations which reappear throughout Moroccan cuisine. Te tender, spiced lamb is met with the sweetness and textural opposition of dates and apricots for a delicious combination of favors.

Ingredients:

3 large lamb shanks

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon kosher salt

1 tablespoon pepper

1 teaspoon ground ginger

½ tablespoon turmeric

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ tablespoon paprika

1 teaspoon nutmeg

½ tablespoon cumin

Instructions:

2 tablespoons butter

2 large onions, thinly sliced

6 cloves minced garlic

1 tablespoon fresh ginger, grated

2 cups chicken or lamb stock

1 tablespoon tomato paste

1 cup dried apricots

2 cups dates, chopped

½ cup sliced almonds

1 cup cilantro, chopped

On a cutting board, trim the lamb shanks of excess fat and coat with the olive oil, salt, and pepper. Ten, combine the ground ginger, turmeric, cinnamon, paprika, nutmeg, and cumin in a small mixing bowl. Generously smear the skanks in the mixture of seasonings, and allow the meat to marinate in a covered bowl for several hours or overnight in the refrigerator. Be sure to allow the lamb to return to room temperature before proceeding with the cooking process.

Warm the butter over medium-high heat in a traditional Moroccan tagine, Dutch oven, or cast-iron pot. When the butter begins to bubble, add the lamb shanks and cook for about 4 minutes per side, or until it begins to brown. Based on the size of the lamb shanks, you may need to cook the pieces separately so that they cook evenly and fat on the bottom of the pot. Afer they are cooked, place the lamb shanks on a plate.

Add the thinly sliced onions, minced garlic, and freshly grated ginger to the same pot used to cook the lamb. Allow the onions to brown for a few minutes in the residue of the lamb fat, and then add the chicken or lamb stock and tomato paste. Stir the mixture and add the lamb shanks back to the pot with dried apricots and chopped dates. Bring to a boil, and reduce the heat to a simmer. Cover the pot and allow the meal to cook for 1 ½ hours or until the lamb is tender, where the meat is falling of the bone. At this point, the liquid in the pot should be signifcantly reduced.

In a small saucepan, add the sliced almonds to toast them over medium heat for a few minutes until golden brown, tossing regularly to avoid burning. Serve your lamb, and garnish with the toasted almonds and fresh cilantro. Bon appétit, بالصحة (besseha)!

American Chinese Food is Authentic

Words by Isabel Wibowo

Pictures by Maia Rosenbaum

Te hong shao rou glistened on the gray granite island top, its sticky brown sauce coating every divet of bite sized pork belly marbled with juicy layers of fat in between tender meat. Te creaminess of the fat melts into the sauce, creating small pools of richness seeped into the dark brown, sticky concoction, decadent smoke rising in the air flling the room with a sweet soy sauce aroma only a loving home kitchen can create. Next to the pork belly is pork bone broth, stewed for hours before our arrival, foating on top are bits of dong gua, Chinese winter melon, that has absorbed all the juices of the pork, becoming translucent and sof, like a pillowy potato. Everything was served with freshly made warm rice in a bowl, chopsticks on the side already neatly displayed. Tis was the welcome meal at Jin’s household.

I was a guest for Tanksgiving break in New Jersey. We ate nanjing salted duck, mapo tofu, hotpot, kong xin cai (water spinach), a feast that fulflled all my Chinese cuisine dreams. Charlene Liu, the master chef of these dishes, had a special routine everyday to prepare the nightly menu, some of which could take hours just marinating, braising, steaming, simmering. It was a silent dance in the kitchen, a choreography only known to her but so intrinsic, a welltrained muscle, and it was fascinating to simply experience this at a distance.

“I’m still craving for food I grew up with,” Charlene says. “ I’m from Hunan. Hunan is famous for spicy food and smoked meat. So those are the foods I have always craved.”

Charlene says she started cooking in college, right before immigrating to Louisiana for graduate school in 1990, leaving her family and husband behind, who joined a couple years later. She imitated her mother growing up, learning the skills of the kitchen from passed down advice born generations before her. “My mom did most of the cooking, and I started to learn,” she says.

But when Charlene frst arrived in Louisiana, Chinese food options were slim. Te only restaurants available there were heavily Americanized Chinese food—the famed orange chicken, kung pao chicken, lo mein, and chop suey. Everything that Charlene defnitely did not grow up with.

“In Louisiana there’s no real Chinese food,” Charlene says. “Defnitely very Americanized, and for American people. [Chinese American food] is very diferent from what I consider Chinese food.”

It’s no secret now that Chinese American food isn’t authentic Chinese food. Tere are similar ingredients and favors, but Chinese American food and Chinese food can be completely separate cuisines in terms of gustatory invention and history. Yet Chinese American food does have a staple place in the American palette.

Charlene’s daughter, Madeline Jin, says, “I think it’s another example of POC changing their culture to ft into white standards. I don’t crave it at all. Like Panda Express is something you get at an airport, it’s good when you’re drunk. It was good when I was a child.”

Madeline mirrors a wider rejection of Chinese American food as inauthentic takeout. As the famed Ali Wong says, “‘Frankenstein’ food: an unholy mashup of all things sticky, sweet, deep-fried, and doused in MSG, jammed into a takeout container. It casts a long shadow over other Chinese cuisines—allegedly tricking non-Chinese people into believing all Chinese food is this way. It’s a foreign cuisine, one we distance ourselves from, one we’d never claim proudly as our own. It’s food for non-Chinese people, not for us.”

It’s easy to discard Chinese American food as a white-washed cuisine made for white American society, an erasure of Chinese culture; but the conversation around authenticity is perhaps more nuanced, and accepting this broad narrative may be erasing the hard earned history of early Chinese immigration, forging a new cuisine, a path of survival, so ofen overlooked as low standard food.

Is credit given where credit is due?

genesis and survival

Te 1849 Gold Rush drew a massive wave of emmigration from China to California, particularly from the Canton region. Most Chinese men worked in mines and farms, working grueling hours with even worse pay. Tey were heckled and ostracized from white status quo society. Tey were banned from immigrating to the U.S. with the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act, the frst and only act of its kind to ban immigration based on race. But the food was a diferent story.

Chinese immigrants began to open a fourishing restaurant scene, most of which sold dishes derived from Canton. Te frst was Canton Restaurant in San Francisco, opened in 1849. Tese establishments were known as “chow chow” restaurants, noticeable by its signature triangular yellow fag hanging above the door, beckoning and calling other Chinese immigrant neighbors to revel in their cultural foods dearly missed from the mainland. Substitutions were already starting to take place, though minor in mostly fresh produce like broccoli for kailan or bok choy, white button mushrooms for shitake, carrots and peas for water spinach and pea shoots. Substitution called for improvisations, and this skill was a means of survival.

Tese restaurants, by the Chinese and for the Chinese, were met with criticism and confusion by white Americans. Tey were repelled by things like poultry feet and tripe, deemed as barbaric.

Yet the tide began to turn when exoticism in literature grew out of a growing class of bohemian writers and intellectuals. Chop Suey became the term coined in the late nineteenth

century, characterized by all-you-can-eat cheap price tags. Tides changed yet again during the economic downturn of the 1870s, leading to the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act to “protect” white labor. Chinese immigrants began to experience a dichotomy of both exotic praise of their culture yet were outcasted from society. In September 1885, 150 white miners attacked a Chinese miner population in Wyoming, killing 28, injuring 15 more, and efectively forcing out hundreds of the Chinese community. Te Rock Springs Massacre was only a symptom of the wider growing anti-Chinese rhetoric in the United States. Political taglines like “ Te Chinese Must Go” proliferated mainstream media and political discussions during the late nineteenth century. Despite the hardships of immigration, 100,000 Chinese

people lived in the U.S. by 1880, and with more Chinese immigrants coming to the US under select clauses despite the ban, more Chinese restaurants began to open. Afer decades of persecution on the West coast, Asian immigrants began feeing to the East. In New York especially, Chinese American restaurants rose to popularity, now more catered to white American palettes using less spice, more sugar, and boneless meat. In New York City alone, the number of Chinese restaurants quadrupled between 1910 and 1920. At the same time, depictions of Chinese communities and neighborhoods became more demonized with caricatures and imagery of dirty and sinful streets. News and magazines started to put out stories about the dirty streets of Chinatown, like the 1902 article from

the San Francisco Chronicle depicting “grotesquely dressed children scurry[ing] among the horrid odors and heaps of decaying fruits, vegetables and fsh … And a howling mob of cats and dogs are chasing one another, the children and themselves in a sort of wild dance among the heaps of refuse.”

Even so, ChineseAmerican food bafed the Chinese back home. Chinese statesman and political reformer, Liang Qi Chao, visited New York in 1910 and tried the famed chop suey. He was shocked at the sheer popularity a dish so far removed from its cultural origins that it was commercialized and created for the American “addiction” had. “As for what they call ‘chop suey,’” he fumed, ‘“the cooking skills involved are so subpar that no one in China would ever eat it.’”

But that didn’t stop Chinese communities from settling. Tey created thriving neighborhoods, had children, continued to work grueling hours, and, above all, continued to cook.

the claim to authenticity

Authenticity was never the goal, it was to survive. What do we mean by authenticity? How do we defne authenticity in an environment that violently manipulates cultures into substituting and changing, forgoing traditions to adopt new ones?

“I wouldn’t say I like Chinese American food,” Charlene says, the question catching her of guard. Te thought of

Chinese American food to be viewed as anything more than an American-born rip of is shocking to say the least. “It’s very diferent. Usually Chinese American food, lots of them are fried, and they also use lots of sugar.”

Yet Chinese American food can somewhat become a kind of necessity when home feels too far away. “But I do eat them, because that’s all there was back then.”

Today we see conglomerate chains of Chinese American food, namely the ever so famous Panda Express and PF Chang’s dominating a $20 billion dollar market. Both of these franchises were actually founded by Asian men with their own histories of immigration. Yet perhaps it’s these chains that cloud the humble histories of Chinese American food genesis, of the chow chow restaurants with their yellow fag, signaling the hopes of a taste of

home in a new and foreign country, one that devalued and debased their very citizenship and humanity. I’m not saying by any means we should confate Chinese American food as authentic Chinese food, and the danger of this is the overall whitewashing of cultural foods in America, the wilful ignorance of non-Chinese to refuse traditional Chinese food—that very confation oversimplifes an ofen complex and painful history into a well-packaged American triumph.

What we know is that context and history matter. Nuance matters. Te environment in which food and culture is born matters. Perhaps we can recognize a new subset culture of what it means to be Asian American, one that doesn’t ignore the multiculturalism of the community, the many painful stories of immigration embedded in national memory, but a culture that is forging a new way forward, and all in all, still a cause worth celebrating.

Self-Care in the Kitchen

Words by Maya Floreani

Photo by Sophie Borrmann

It starts with chopping. I love chopping—the steady feeling of a heavy, powerful tool in my hand, in control of the constant rhythm, thumping as it hits the board. I let my mind wander as I perform this therapeutic action on my own beat. Relaxing, yet productive, this is my form of meditation. On rainy days, I might plug in a podcast or listen to Jack Johnson, but sometimes I simply take this as my time to think and refect. While preparing a delicious meal, I let my thoughts buzz around wildly; I ponder what my life will be like post-grad, or recall that awkward conversation from a week ago, or a fond childhood memory.

Chop, chop, chop. I remember when my dad taught me how to cut with a real knife, “like a chef.” Watching him quickly dice an onion with precision (and without a single tear), I thought: wow, my frst introduction to being an adult. I was determined to develop that skill someday—and show it of, too. “Make sure you curl your fngertips in,” he cautioned, slicing a rosy heirloom tomato… Chop on my trusty wooden cutting board. A luscious olive oil drizzle here, a dash of salt there. Beautiful aromas of fresh herbs and garlic fll the quaint kitchen as I prepare a wholesome dinner in my home away from home. Having this “home-cooked” meal makes this dorm feel a little more like home, I think to myself. Cooking is my happy place, where the memories food back into my mind. I get to be creative and try new things. Anything I want. Everything is a possibility. Every foating thought is welcome.

As I search for the safron in our never-ending spice cupboard, my mom and grandma prep the ingredients for our signature Spanish rice, flled with the ferce favors of capers, peppers, and hard-boiled eggs. This is always my favorite dish at our parties. I love the way the ingredients sound in Spanish—alcaparras, azafrán, aceitunas, y arroz. Our red kitchen is small but has all the tools and people needed to make the gathering a success. Outside, festive tables eagerly await the chatter of our guests. I chop and add, adoring the smells as I

watch the fery spice turn the long grains deep yellow. I wonder if they will notice if I take this olive out of the dish and eat it. Also, why is it called Arroz a la Valenciana? And why did grandma grow up with it in Guatemala? I miss the paella from my travels in Spain. Sssssss. I’m interrupted by the sound of favors in harmony.

Post-peel-and-wash, my grandma passes me carrots to grate. Carrot cake is her favorite, and she loves making it to share with our family (and especially my Nonna). Somehow the recipe changes a bit every time, but I suppose that’s the fun of her iconic carrot cake— always an experiment, involving chaos in the kitchen and four on our forearms, yet it somehow always turns out tasty. Crack, mix. I wonder if she’ll ever write the recipe for me. Remember when she put a whole cake in my suitcase when I went back to school? Whew, my arm is getting tired. Orange batter drips, drips of the edges of the bowl, the spatula, the counters, our fngertips. Mmm. I lick my fnger. I never mind the cleanup. My grandma boldly puts our concoction into the oven with no timer. “I’ll tell you when it’s ready.” Her way of saying, ‘I love you.’ Maybe this is the meaning of family. Dysfunction mixed with togetherness.

My experiences cooking have been a lesson in mindfulness—a therapeutic safe haven for my deepest internal monologue. I get to explore and learn about myself in a time reserved for creating. It’s personal growth, it’s art, it’s love. An act of self-care, cooking provides food for thought and food for the soul. Whether cooking alone or with others, for ourselves on the daily, or for a special occasion, food fosters a positive mental environment where nothing is of limits, and we can truly embrace ourselves. Cooking is a hug for our thoughts, a buoy for the troubled seas in our minds, a free trip to escape our worries and travel beyond this world.

Trust in Hospitality: Embracing Balkan Cuisine

Vulnerability is empowering when it involves trusting others’ judgment of food. Studying abroad in Croatia during the spring semester of my junior year allowed me to immerse myself in an environment that valued my culinary experience, that concerned itself with expanding my palate. From the majestic waterfalls in Plitvice Lakes National Park to the lively Croatian National Teatre in Zagreb to the ochre-toned rooftops in Dubrovnik, Croatia is a visually stunning country. Te locals I encountered there were nothing but generous, helpful, and willing to engage in meaningful conversation.

A memorable experience that I had while studying abroad occurred on the day I turned 21: May 2nd, 2022. On that day, the atmosphere of Zagreb was bright and joyous. Dina, our Croatian cultural guide and makeshif mother while abroad, went out of her way to buy me a slice of birthday cake. Except, it was not a traditional vanilla cake with buttercream frosting and sprinkles, as one ofen sees in the United States. Rather, Dina brought out a slice of mađarica to the backyard porch where I was seated at the European Center for the Study of War and Peace. While blowing out the candle on top of the cake, I felt appreciation and care surrounding me. Additionally, feelings of gratitude, intrigue, and trust fowed through my mind as I took the frst bite. Mađarica is a layered dessert that pairs a simple butter cake with decadent chocolate flling. Although the pastry was one I had never eaten on my birthday before, I was absolutely willing to enjoy mađarica, kicking of my 21st year in a positive way. Te rich chocolate was particularly memorable, since it opened my eyes to how delicacies like mađarica can signifcantly broaden your horizons. Smooth and not too sweet, the flling elevated the taste of cocoa powder to astonishing heights. I will never forget how thankful I was, and still am, that my 21st birthday treat was mađarica.

Words and Photos by Antonio Mata

At an earlier point in the semester, Dina had taken a group of us students to a restaurant called Plac Kitchen & Grill, just minutes on foot away from the Ban Jelačić Square in Zagreb. She was ecstatic to introduce us to a dish that the restaurant specialized in called ćevapčići. We were warmly welcomed at a table outside in an enclosed space that shielded us from the rainy weather on that chilly evening. When we received the menus, Dina highly recommended that we order ćevapčići, or grilled sausages that are commonly eaten in Balkan countries. Te sausages, ofen made from a mixture of ground beef and pork, are served with warm pita bread, sliced raw onion, and a red pepper sauce. My serving of ćevapčići eventually arrived with a side of golden french fries, and I was ready to try the dish. Reminding me of both kebabs and gyros, yet bearing an individualistic character, ćevapčići was one of my favorite meals that I tried during my time abroad. Te sausage links bear a smokiness to them not just because they are grilled, but also because they are seasoned with paprika. Wrapped around pufy pita bread, the savory sausages paired perfectly with the sweet red pepper sauce and the tangy and almost spicy red onion slices. I was no longer eating a hotdog from Costo in Pembroke Pines, Florida. Instead, I was across the North Atlantic Ocean indulging in a classic Balkan dish. Mentally, I was in a state of elation, feeling grateful that Dina took us to Plac Kitchen & Grill and revealed yet another part of her culture to us with open arms and a genuine spirit.

Croatian cofee–strongly resembling Bosnian and Turkish cofee–is another culinary staple that refected an environment of inviting hospitality and wonder for me while I was abroad. As a cofee lover myself, I was curious and thrilled to drink Croatian cofee made by Dina before class. I walked into the kitchen downstairs at the house where I took classes one morning, and Dina had both a small pot ready and a bright red package of

ground cofee. Although I was accustomed to iced cofee from Starbucks and Dunkin’ Donuts, on that weekday morning, I felt motivated to try cofee in an alternate form. Dina brought water to a boil in the small pot with a handle that stuck out vertically, and then added the fnely ground cofee from the package. Mimicking instant cofee, the grounds mostly dissolved rapidly in the water. Dina poured the cofee into mugs for a few of us students, and then she demonstrated how specifcally to consume the beverage: in the Balkan region, it is a common practice to dip sugar cubes into the cofee and take small bites of said cubes where the cofee has been absorbed. Tis heavily difered from what I had been used to in the United States, which was cofee drinks with syrups mixed into them already. However, yet again, I excitedly embraced the custom and dipped a large sugar cube into my steaming cofee. Te earthy, slightly bitter cofee was enticingly balanced by the intense sweetness of the sugar cube. Biting into my frst cofee-soaked sugar cube again reminded me of the power of trust in others’ culinary judgment. Before that moment, I would have never thought that I would be drinking cofee in a “deconstructed” way, when compared to the lattés of American cofee chains. In an environment of welcoming hospitality, compassionately enhanced by Dina, I felt empowered by the thrill of culinary fascination.

In order to enjoy the food and drink of a culture distinct from your own, I believe that you need to genuinely trust locals’ suggestions. Trough dishes like mađarica and ćevapčići, and a beverage like freshly-made Croatian cofee, I learned to channel my intrigue into trust. Dina helped cultivate a learning environment that not only ofered suggestions, but immersed us students into the world of Balkan cuisine. On my fight back home to Florida, I felt sad to leave such kind people and a beautiful country behind, yet I was thankful that I allowed myself to wholeheartedly embrace culinary staples that I had not known about before.

The Adventure Begins Again

Te sunset painted streaks of orange, pink, and purple across the sky. Te mountains stood dark in the distance. Te Alhambra fortress glowed in the dim light, and the city below us slowly lit up. I took another bite of my falafel and veggie wrap, and the crunchy, fried chickpeas fueled my tired legs. My heart rate had fnally slowed from the trek up the hill to the San Miguel Alto lookout in Granada, Spain.

Tis hike and picnic on the hill before the setting sun had become part of our weekly routine in the last few weeks we were abroad. A group of friends from my BC program and I would order food from a local restaurant, and a falafel and shawarma stand called Shawarma King became our favorite. We’d then make our way up to the highest viewpoint in the city. Granada is known for having some of the best sunsets in the world, and we were not going to let a weekend go by without catching as many rays as we could.

Afer almost fve months abroad, the ritual sunset picnic was one of the last in a long string of food adventures in Spain. I had entered this new environment with an open mind; I had long imagined myself eating a leisurely dinner at 9 p.m. and zapping my taste buds with classic Spanish favors. Every culinary experience was a step further away from the comforts of my American routine. Te meals pushed me to make the most of my time in Granada by trying all its food scene had to ofer.

Churros, one of the more well-known Spanish dishes, opened the gates to the adventure. My friends and I frequented the local cafés close to our school building, stopping by for a mid-morning snack between classes. Te churros were dense and chewy on the inside with a crispy exterior, and the chocolate dipping sauce added the perfect touch of sweetness. It was a simple step into the new way of life, but I still cherished this addition of a mid-morning treat to get me through the rest of my classes.

Te elongated eating schedule also provided ample opportunities for adventure each day. Te long gap between lunch and dinner stretched out the afernoon, and with the especially late sunsets in the spring, each 24 hours felt signifcantly longer. Lunch was the biggest meal of the day and featured three courses: a carb or starch, a protein and salad, and bread and fruit on the side. My favorite main course was tortilla, a potato omelet cooked in a skillet and served in slices, typically at room temperature. It housed all the familiar notes of a Spanish dish: the salt, the oil, the richness from the potato and eggs. Tin potato slices studded the sturdy egg. Teir creaminess made them the perfect pairing for the fufy egg. I always looked forward to digging in as the scent of the lightly fried protein and starch wafed through the dining hall.

Words and Photos by Gillian Mahoney

Each afernoon, especially on the weekends, was a blank canvas for culinary experiences. I could go to a local pastry stand to get my favorite spinach, onion, and cheese empanadas, or gelato from the popular Los Italianos shop. In the spring, they served slices of chocolate and cofee gelato cake in crisp sugar cones. I understood why the line always spanned the entire sidewalk. Te sweet vanilla frosting complemented the deep cofee favor, and a layer of chocolate fakes added a nice crunchy texture. A layer of orange gelato made for the perfect tangy refreshment in the sweltering heat.

As the months passed, I tried a range of dishes. I was so excited to experience everything I could while I had the chance. I never knew when the next day would come that I could try something like octopus in Galicia. I was surprised at the push and pull between chewy and crispy as I took my frst bite. Te dish had the signature Spanish layer of olive oil. I tasted the heat from the sprinkle of paprika and the fshiness similar to calamari. Yet the suction cups of the tentacle stuck out at me as a tangible reminder of the adventure I had embarked on. Tey marked the diference between the octopus and the seafood I had eaten in the past, almost like I was a sailor at sea encountering a new creature for the frst time. In a way, I was just that.

Each new food I tried was a way for me to make the most of this new way of life. Te culinary adventure showed me that I could push myself to be more creative with what I ate. I wanted to soak up every moment spent overseas, because it eventually would come to an end.

When I got back home to Arlington, Mass., my sense of adventure slowed to a stop. I slipped back into my familiar routine. I cooked oatmeal for breakfast and tofu for dinner. Although I had craved the apple cinnamon and soy protein of home, the welcoming sweetness and warm spiciness reminded me that I had landed back in my comfort zone.

Everything was suddenly drenched in monotony. I felt that there was nothing to explore, that nothing could possibly compare to the salty, oily, hot, sweet, and bold favors of Granada. When I sat at the dinner table with my dad or watched a show with my mom, I missed the laughter of my friends around me. I missed the best sunsets in the world.

I had always thought that to go home was to go back to reality. I was where I was supposed to be. Studying in Spain was part of a fantastical European experience that couldn’t possibly bleed into my real, American life. Tat culinary adventure was impractical; it carried no longevity. Back in reality, there were no quaint outdoor cafés flled with churros and tostada. I could never fully replicate that curiosity around food that Spain brought out in me, and I didn’t even have the energy to create variety in what I cooked. Once I had a set of meals I enjoyed cooking, I didn’t have the time to depart from what I knew best. A return to the home environment meant a return to the hustle and bustle of work and school. Once I was surrounded by the familiar and settled into a routine, I struggled to break out of it.

I began to question what I really wanted from each environment. How could I strike a balance between the curiosity, independence, and adventurousness of Spain and the comfort and routine of home? I knew that cooking and eating could be at once new and exciting and old and familiar. Afer all, I had craved my oatmeal breakfasts and tofu dinners while abroad. It was just a matter of blending routine with spontaneity. I would have to take the independence and curiosity from Spain with me as I moved on. It meant that while I didn’t necessarily have to give up the few recipes I rotated through during the week, I had to push myself to break out of the routine once in a while. In the end, I knew that sense of adventure would always be with me.

So, the sunset picnics didn’t last forever. But maybe I could climb up the steps to San Miguel Alto in another way, by mixing new and old. I could add an extra sprinkle of salt or drizzle of olive oil to my tofu. I could admire the streaks of orange in the sky above Gasson Hall as the sun sank down. Te food I ate didn’t have to be any less bold just because I was back in a familiar environment. I would take all I had learned in Granada and infuse it into my cooking at home. I would begin a new, Granada-inspired adventure and look over my hometown from a diferent point of view.

Dining Table

AAn ethereal autumn light streams through the lace curtains, projecting dancing shadows of delicate fowers across the room. Te curtains open, painting the mahogany-colored table and chairs with the gentle, but radiant, early afernoon sun. Te landscape just on the other side of the wall is both familiar and breathtaking. Nature is readying for the cold months. Te lush vibrance of the leaves fades nearly silently at frst, before suddenly and stunningly—like the transformation and emergence of a soufé from the oven– a new landscape is born. Auburn, amber, and golden fames fll the sky, becoming a calm but beautiful apocalypse looming over.

Gentle winds dislodge shards of the stained canopy, raining fre upon the earth in a brilliant circus. A woman fnally wrenches her gaze away from the window, before returning to the stove to address the now screaming kettle. Te foral teacups play one sof chime when placed upon their matching saucers, and a second when gingerly set upon the table. Te yawning white cups, speckled with wispy black threads of tea are flled with hot water that swirls and eddies as it transitions to a chestnut brew. Upon the table alongside the tea and accouterments lies a small smattering of cookies and a partially-sliced loaf of Italian sourdough, both fresh from the bakery down the road. Afer a morning of yard work, a cup of hot tea and a slice of buttered crusty bread await.

Te sharp November air provides a polite introduction before making itself a guest. It whirs through the open window, but fnds the impedance of a dense, silk winter curtain. Te frigid air worms its way around, between the pleats and folds before it escapes into the warmth of a vibrant room through the center crack and wafing edges. Within it one discovers a musical cacophony of smells, plates, love, and laughter. A dozen hands work feverishly to set the mahogany table. Tey cover the abstract hazel grooves and sorrel knots of the antique with a perfectly symmetrical creme cloth decorated with intricate fowers and vines. Pristine plates and bowls

with gleaming gilded rims are added, nudged, then adjusted until perfect, and a freline works to populate each setting with its own freshly polished silverware. Te fnal pieces, before the awaiting feast can be brought out, are two cranberry candles atop gleaming candelabras, but lighting them threatens to reveal the uninvited guest. Afer a struggle to light the frst candle, the party assumes incompetency on the part of the matchbook holder, but afer lighting the second candle, the one closest to the window, it is quickly snufed by an invisible but bone chilling spectre. From the crowd someone exclaims, “close that window before my food gets cold!” Despite its best eforts, the bitter exterior air was not welcome at the meal.

It looks as if the luminance of heaven itself is trapped on the other side of the curtains. Bright white light bleeds around their edges, penetrating the room with divine beams and casting elongated shadows of the table, chairs, and the potted lavender orchid at the table’s center onto the opposing wall. Opening the curtains suddenly is blinding. On the other side lies a noiseless wilderness. It appears as if heaven— the clouds and the stars themselves— had fallen upon the earth, draping it all with pristine powder and crystalline ornaments. Caribbean songs play sofly from another room, evoking images of balmy beach days and coastal villas, as if to challenge the frost a wall away. Multicolor mugs and bowls of varying size are set upon the table on top of corrugated primary color plastic place settings. Te mugs are flled with rich, creamy hot chocolate that drapes itself into the cups. Te room, despite its initially sterile lighting, is now flled with warmth and the scents of fresh cocoa and cinnamon. Te bowls receive healthy ladles of a chunky winter squash stew. Each piece of beef or vegetable is coated with a velvety gold sauce and releases tendrils of steam that catch the light and dance gently in the drafs of the room. Before anyone digs in, they all raise a glass and wish each other a happy New Year and Haitian Independence Day.

Words by Emanuel Louime

Photo by Sophie Borrmann

Acknowledgments

We would like to sincerely thank Lynne Anderson, our faculty advisor, for her years of support and guidance. Her literary and culinary expertise, words of encouragement, and belief in Gusto as an organization and publication are invaluable. Further, the production of this issue would not have been possible without David Curley of Progressive Print Solutions and Susan Dunn, director of Boston College’s Center for Centers. Lastly, we are incredibly grateful to Helen Au, Charlene Jin, and Madeline Jin, our wonderful interviewees, for sharing with us their stories, experience, and wisdom.