Celebration

C e l e b r a t i o n

Say Hello to OUR Staff

Editor in Chief ALEXANDRA CASTROVERDE

VP ROBERT BROOKS

Treasurer ASHLEY ZHANG

Vice Treasurer MIKAYLA STOCK

Advisor HEATHER KOLAKOWSKI

Managing Editor GRACE WILKEY

Editors CARINA LIN, CAROLINE GELLER, CAROLINE SUN, EFFAT RAHMAN, GARRETT EMMONS, JESSICA LI, KELLY RYOO, LAURA GRIES, MICHELLE WEI, SARAH AUSTIN, SYDNEY WAN, TYLER FOUCH

Contributing Writers ABBY REING, ALEX WEDGEBURY, ALLISON CHHAY, ARMITA JAMSHIDI, CELLA SCHNABEL, CONNIE

LE, GARRETT EMMONS, GRACE WILKEY, HANNAH ROSENBERG, JANICE JUNG, JINJEE DENNER, KAY MCILHENNY, LAURA GRIES, LEXIE GOLDMAN, MADI YEH, MAIA BHAUMIK, MARIA DIGIOVANNI, MAYA MAU, MIKAYLA STOCK, MIRA HARRIS, PARKER PICCOLO HILL, PRIYA PRADHAN, SOPHIE VERNIK, VICTORIA LEE

Layout Director ASHLEY JIAN Assistant Layout Director JACQUELINE WOO

Layout Staff ASHLEY JIAN, ANGELA YUAN, APRIL YOO, CHAYIL HYLAND, HANNAH SHELFER, HELEN STURMAN, JACQUELINE WOO, JENNIFER HUANG, KWAN ASADATHORN, MICHELLE WEI, ODESSA THOMPSON, PRANCE THONGYAI NA

AYUDHAYA, SHIEANA XIE

Photography Director EMILY LAM

Assistant Photography Director LULU GOLDMAN

Photographers ABBY REING, AISHWARYA RAJAGOPALAN, ANDREW ZHANG, CASSIDY TRYON, EMILY LAM, GRACE WILKEY, JENNY XIAO, JULIETTE HAAS, KAY MCILHENNY, LULU GOLDMAN, MARIA DIGIOVANNI, MELISSA SHAO, RAFAEL BITANGA, RIFQI MUFID RIANSYAH, VERNA LI, VIVIAN FAN

Culinary Director JONAH GERSHON

Webmaster CHASE LIN

Marketing Chair ANABEL MALDONADO

Assistant Marketing Chair OLIVIA SHEN

Social Media Chair ABBY REING

Assistant Social Media Chair JULIETTE HAAS

Event Chairs MARIA DIGIOVANNI, MADI YEH

Cover Photo by Emily Lam

Letter From the Editor

To celebrate a long week of surviving the turmoils of Cornell, I like to sit down with a home-cooked meal, whether it be one of my grandma’s recipes or something that appeared in a dream. This warm tradition gives me the motivation to push through all the work on my plate. Food is a tiny reminder to celebrate the big and small achievements in my life. While my weekly tradition allows me to celebrate the small, it isn’t every day that I have the platform like Crème de Cornell to celebrate the big achievements and important people in my life.

Today, I would like to give a toast to our amazing Executive Board and magazine staff for another year in the books! Sure, we’ve published four magazines, but there’s so much more to celebrate. We’re officially on Tik Tok, with this being the perfect opportunity to plug our account, @cremedecornell! We’ve also completed smaller tasks like buying our own softbox for magazine photoshoots. But these accomplishments come as a bittwesweet reminder that some journeys are coming to and end. Ever since my fall freshman year (2019), I have seen Crème in the hands of three amazing, now, women: Abby Reing, Chase Lin, and Priya Pradhan. Without them, Crème would not be where it is.

To celebrate their last semester with us, I want to dedicate this issue to them to highlight all the hard work they put into this club and how it paved the way for future Cornellian Foodies. I am incredibly grateful for their guidance this school year. With glasses raised high, let us celebrate and manifest, as I like to say, a whole new school year of accomplishments, recipes, and stories to tell.

Whether it is just getting through the week or turning one more year older, celebrations, according to our staff, are defined by food. Grab your favorite plate of food and celebrate a whole new magazine with us.

Alex Castroverde Editor in Chief

PHOTO:Vivian Fan

8 10 11 12 14 15

Party Like a Roman

From Weddings to Funerals: Golab Solidifying a Cultural Celebration

The Annual Burmese-Chinese Picnic

Sunday Dinner is Family Dinner

SPAM: A Hawai’i Delicacy

You are Cordially Invited: Brunch

Love and Good Food

Slavic New Year’s Eve

Cin Cin! My Grecian Easter Newari Bhoj (नेवारी भोज)

Break Thanksgiving Tradition With These Short Ribs

Noodles First, Cake Second

Konyakku – A Japanese New Year’s Superfood

Granitas

4 Years Later Cold Soup for Summer Days

Funfetti Cannolis

Graduation

Give My Regards to Crème

Donuts? Donuts.

The Perfect Fried Egg

Shower Beer

Party Like a Roman

By Garrett Emmons

From lavish dinner banquets to citywide festivals, ancient Romans loved to party. And no celebration was complete without food and drink. Looking back at the eating habits of partying Romans reminds us that the love of food, especially junk food, is a nearly indispensable part of being human, and might just provide us with some worthwhile recipes in the process.

Let’s start with the ancient Roman dinner party. Far from a casual get-together, dinner parties gave hosts the opportunity to impress their guests with lavish food and entertainment, which became increasingly extravagant as the Roman Empire increased in wealth and size. During these banquets, Romans reclined on sets of three couches surrounding a table so that all guests could easily access the food. Unlike the older Greeks, men and women feasted together at these banquets.

But what did they actually eat? Well, a Roman’s diet would have primarily consisted of cereals and legumes: rough loaves made from emmer and barley if you were poor, finer wheat bread leavened with yeast or sourdough cultures if you were rich; lentils and chickpeas; as well as the ancient predecessors to porridge and risotto. Romans also ate their share of produce, cabbage likely being the most popular green. They ate figs, melons, and pears, pistachios, walnuts, and almonds. Meat, in the form of poultry, mutton, pork, and beef, was less common on a daily basis but often composed the centerpieces at dinner parties, as we shall soon see.

One of the most evocative descriptions of a dinner party comes from the novel Satyricon, written by Petronius in the first century AD. Although satirical and exaggerated, his depictions would still have been very recognizable to his readers. In this scene, the narrator is at one wild dinner party:

We took up our spoons (weighing at least half a pound each) and cracked the eggs, which were made of rich pastry [...] I searched the shell with my fingers and found the plumpest little figpecker, all covered with yolk and seasoned with pepper. [...] four dancers hurtled forward in time to the music and removed the upper part of a great dish, revealing underneath plump fowls, sows’ udders, and a hare with wings fixed to his middle to look like Pegasus. We also noticed four figures of Marsyas with little skin bottles, which let a peppery fish-sauce go running over some fish, which seemed to be swimming in a little channel. (trans. J.P.

Sullivan)

A rabbit and bird wings combined into a Franken-Pegasus? Try serving that at your next Super Bowl party! But let’s not let bizarre, over-the-top descriptions get in the way of a powerful lesson that can be garnered from the ancient Romans’ word for dinner party: convivium. Its literal meaning is ‘living together.’ It’s a perfect reminder of the importance of sharing a meal with one another. Eating together is living together. And it has been for at least 2,000 years.

Another part of food culture that hasn’t changed since then is the love of junk food in particular. The fatty, sweet, salty kind. It likely comes as no surprise to anyone with a passing familiarity with Mediterranean cuisine that the Romans’ main source of fat was olive oil. It was a cherished liquid, with different regions known for different flavors and qualities. Lard was also used for certain applications. Refined sugar wouldn’t hit the Mediterranean for another thousand years, so Romans had to look to different sources to satisfy their sweet tooth. Honey and wine must were the most popular concentrated sources. Finally, salt was highly valued but not always readily available. Fermented fish sauce, called garum, was widely employed to add salty flavor.

One of the most tasty-sounding junk foods of Ancient Rome comes from a farming manual written by the famous senator Cato around 160 BC. They are called globi and basically amount to bite-sized, fried cheesecake balls. Technically, globi should be translated to “balls,” but Cato’s Globi sounds like a more appealing name to me than Cato’s Balls. But you do you. And don’t fear if you don’t understand Latin; I’ll translate (and update) it for you:

“Globos sic facito. Caseum eum alica ad eundem modum misceto. Inde quantos voles facere facito. In ahenum caldum unguen indito. Singulos aut binos coquito versatoque crebro duabus rudibus, coctos eximito, eos melle unguito, papaver infriato, ita ponito.”

The Roman calendar was replete with religious and other cultural festivals. During these times, the conviviality of dinner parties spread to the whole city. Public feasting and drinking occupied city streets, marketplaces, and the Forum, especially on holidays like Saturnalia, the ancient precursor to Christmas, where a “Ruler of the Saturnalia” would be appointed at random from the people to give comedic and absurd orders to partygoers—a tradition we should consider for Ithaca’s next Applefest.

A lot has changed in 2,000 years. Humans’ need and love for food haven’t. So no matter where you’re from, dine together, enjoy junk food, feast outside, and party like a Roman.

Ingredients

1 cup ricotta

1 cup whole wheat flour

¼ cup honey

1 tbsp. poppy or sesame seeds (more to taste)

4 cups neutral oil (for frying). Cato used lard, but I opt for canola.

Directions

1. Combine the ricotta and flour in a large bowl. Shape the mixture into roughly 1-inch balls.

2. Fill a heavy pot with the oil and heat until the temperature reaches 350 F (175 C).

3. Carefully place several balls in the oil at a time (depends on the size of your frying vessel) and fry until golden brown, roughly 60 to 90 seconds. If you do not have an accurate way of measuring your oil temperature, I recommend frying one ball at a time to start and making sure that they are taking the proper time to turn the right color.

4. Once the balls are done frying, place them on paper towels.

5. Pour honey and sprinkle seeds over them before serving.

“ The globi should be made like this … ”

PHOTO: RifqiMufidRiansyah

FROM WEDDINGS TO FUNERALS: Golab Solidifying a Cultural Celebration

By Armita Jamshidi

Golab in Farsi translates to “water of flower” and is quite literally made from extracting the natural flavor of roses by soaking them in water.

To embrace its pleasant floral taste and subtle aromatic scent, Iranians often use Golab both as an ingredient in pastries and beverages. Yet, growing up, I have learned that I’m not to touch the Golab in my pantry at home until a celebration occurs as it’s only used in beverages for observances. Because it is only seen in events ranging from weddings to the Persian New Years to funerals, Golab holds a meaning that radiates with its covetousness.

Last June lies my most recent memory with Golab at my babajoon’s (my grandpa’s) funeral in the States. I was curious as to why only Golab was served at such a saddening event where the room was overflowed with tears: it felt deeply immoral to drink rose water while mourning his passing. However, as the event proceeded and I avoided the table brimming with Golab drinks, my interpretation of his funeral shifted.

Babajoon’s funeral was rather an event to accept the remarkable life he lived, and the Golab solidified this significance. He was the kindest soul and lived a liwwwqfe filled with so much joy and impact. While fighting his illness, he continued to serve his Shirazi community to the furthest extent through his constant commitment to local businesses—an act of resilience that deepened the inspiration he left for our family

across the world. Taking a step back and looking at the full life he lived, I found comfort in knowing the exceptional legacy he built that illuminated his selfless character. It was only then did I start to understand the implications of the Golab at the funeral. And with that tender acceptance, I was fully able to appreciate Golab in a new way.

When I used to picture a celebration, confetti and “surprise!”

and parties came to mind. But, after Babajoon’s funeral, I grasped onto a new type of celebration—one that connects his family and friends through the experiences we had with him, the lessons we learned from him, and the happiness we shared with him. To these ends, I partake in the celebration of his life with a sip of Golab: a fine taste that ultimately serves as a gentle reminder of the varying ways cultures manifest celebrations and how these celebrations unveil themselves.

PHOTOS: Emily Lam

THE ANNUAL BURMESE-CHINESE PICNIC THE ANNUAL BURMESE-CHINESE PICNIC

By Allison Chhay

Since I can remember, my family has attended our community’s annual Burmese-Chinese Association summer picnic. It’s a humid all-day potluck celebration of our diaspora filled with food similarly reflecting the mix of our cultures.

Influenced by Indian, Chinese, and neighboring Southeast Asian cuisines, Burmese cuisine is characterized by spicy curries, rice noodle soups, and fresh salads with tamarind dressings.

Aluminum pans line the wooden picnic tables with Chinese style stir-fried egg noodles, yellow sticky rice with pe pyote (stir-fried peas and yellow beans), pickled tea leaf salad, and fragrant chicken curries. Aunties fashioned in plastic gloves would line up to dish out the goodies to us, and every year I can’t help but sneak some extra pyajo (crispy yellow split pea fritters).

Everyone sits on colorful lawn chairs and indulges on their plates piled high. Children run around the park with water balloons and old friends sit on bamboo mats chatting until the sunset. But, of course, no Burmese summer gathering is complete without the desserts. Tables are lined with various Burmese sweets, all cut into classic two-bite diamonds. The Burmese Banana Cake was my favorite of the desserts amongst the spread. A unique banana dessert with a slight sweetness, coconut scent, and dense yet custardy texture.

Burmese Banana Cake Recipe

Yields 24, two-bite-sized servings

Ingredients:

4-5 ripe bananas, mashed leaving a few chunks

1/2 cup sugar

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour

1/4 cup unsalted butter, melted

1 13.5 oz can coconut milk (3 tbsp reserved)

1/2 tsp salt

Optional Ingredients:

1/2 cup desiccated coconut

Red food coloring

2 tbsp white poppy or sesame seeds

Steps:

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F (180 degrees C).

2. Mix all of the ingredients together until a smooth batter forms (add in the desiccated coconut and 2 drops of red food coloring if desired.)

3. Pour batter into a greased 8 inch x 8 inch baking pan.

4. Gently spoon reserved coconut milk onto the surface of the batter. Swirl with a toothpick to form a marbled pattern. Optionally, sprinkle the top with poppy or sesame seeds.

5. Bake for 1 hr or until set.

6. Cool completely, cut into diamonds, and serve!

PHOTO: Cassidy Tryon

Looking back on my childhood, I’ve experienced many fond moments of celebration. Holidays, birthdays, vacations, and the sort have been a time to take a step back from everyday existence and celebrate the love that keeps my world together. As I’ve gotten older and life has morphed into something new, celebrations have changed their ways and developed meanings that would look quite different to my younger self. But no matter how different celebrations look, two things have continued on as overarching themes—love and good food, with both functioning as outlets through which the other showcases its light.

The earliest occurrences of food as a source of love come from my mother and the immense effort she would go through to make all of life’s good and bad moments into special ones. My anxiety-ridden days of elementary school would end in key lime bars from a local bakery and talks of how she would always be there for me when I was upset. Valentine’s Day mornings were characterized by the pitter-patter of my feet on the hardwood floors as I ran out into the kitchen to find a basket adorned with chocolates, candy, and other well-loved delicacies. Gatherings around the holidays included elaborate dinners, moments of laughter in the kitchen, and full bellies by the end of the night.

Although any excuse to celebrate with food is good enough for me, I will forever adore the long awaited annual process of making my mother’s lasagna on Christmas. With each layer came lessons in love, care, and attention to detail that I will cherish for the rest of my life.

Throughout

Love and Good Food

By Mikayla Stock

all the

celebrations

I’ve participated in, I’ve been able to learn the value of aromas, flavors, and presentation in providing a multisensory food experience as a way to spark joy and showcase a tender appreciation for others. I, without a doubt, can say that these experiences with my family are a large part of why food is so important to me today. I may not always remember exactly what happened at a family event, but chances are I’ll always remember the love I felt and the food that accompanied all of the joy.

As life moves along its long, complicated path, I continue to walk with the lessons I’ve learned about how food can bring us together and lead us to celebrate the journey that we’re all on. I encourage you to find ways in which you can share your love with others through food, whether it be through a homecooked meal, grabbing dinner with an old friend, or creating a basket for your partner filled with their favorite edible delights. Through an act of love so common to our everyday lives, we can foster deeper connections and celebrate each other in ways that words aren’t always able to. Ultimately, this defining quality of food makes it such a powerful tool on our everyday path to everlasting joy and appreciation for our time on this planet.

PHOTO:AndrewZhang

Slavic New Years Eve

By Sophie Vernik

One would think a 102 degree fever, a hacking cough, and being halfway through a new antibiotic regime to cure bronchitis would hinder a small seven-year old girl in a variety of ways, but not me—and, especially not on New Year’s Eve.

My parents had offered to stay home from our planned outings for the holiday, but I refused to let them do so, for there’s no celebration quite like a traditionally Slavic New Years. And so, I got all dressed up for the special occasion being held at our family friend’s home, donning a long emerald-colored gown with a velvet black belt. The dark mahogany dining room table, covered with an embroidered tablecloth, was ladened with a countless number of zakuski, or slavic appetizers, and a myriad of drinks, ranging from black currant juice to imported vodka. Though I wanted to fill my plate, I knew there was a second, third, and probably fourth course of food yet to come.

To celebrate the holiday, only the most classic dishes are served. Zakuski often include multiple different salads, such as olivye, which is similar to potato salad, but has a greater variety of chopped vegetables, pickles, and a meat. There’s also herring under a “fur” of different shredded vegetables mixed with mayonnaise,which was personally never a favorite. I’d ask my mom to make some for me and omit the herring, marking a line with toothpicks where it was missing. There are few more “salads” similar to these, but they all have one thing in common: they are incredibly time-consuming to prepare. All the vegetables need to be bought, washed, peeled, boiled, and diced finely. Additionally, there’s usually some form of meat added to the salad, such as diced chicken breast, which adds more substance and heartiness to the salad. When I made olivye myself one time, it took 5 hours from start to finish—but it’s worth it, as the final product leaves me going for seconds and thirds. Moreover, the leftovers on New Year’s Day rival those of Black Friday after Thanksgiving, as I usually have olivye with a toast for brunch whenever I wake up.

Aside from the salads, small pieces of black bread are classically paired with a (somewhat) thin layer of butter, and a smear of caviar. I distinguish the variety of bread used because it’s neither rye or pumpernickel, but rather a blend of rye and sourdough, giving it a tangy bite. This is often eaten with pickled foods that are spread on the table, such as pickles, pickled tomatoes, and pickled mushrooms.

PHOTO: Rafael Bitanga

As one could expect, it’s difficult to pace yourself with so much delicious food in front of you. But it’s in everyone’s best interest: you want to try and enjoy the rest of the meal, and the hosts don’t want so many leftovers. Main courses are usually different variations of meat and potatoes, along with a type of white fish. After this, there’s a short break until midnight, when the champagne is popped and customary toasts to adieu the old year and embrace the new one are given. Families clink their glasses together first, and then extend to friends, making sure to tap everyone’s around the table. However, if there’s a child at the table (like I was at 7 years old), they surely don’t have an alcoholic beverage in hand. Instead, the adults gently tap their glass to the nose of the child, to toast to their new year.

And lastly, nobody could forget about dessert. Full stomachs are usually danced away by the time dessert is served after midnight, characterized by large Napoleon cakes. These are made with thin, flaky layers of puff pastry layered with a custard-like pastry cream. This is generally a dessert loved by all guests, along with Medovik, which is a cake with thin layers of honey cake and a condensed milk. Last, but definitely not least, is a Kyiv cake, which is a delicious Ukrainian cake with meringue and sweet frosting loved by many. All of this dessert and sugar at such a late hour might be what fuels the joyful dancing that follows until the early hours of the morning, which makes this holiday incredibly memorable. Once the toasts, meals, desserts, and dancing have tired everyone out, guests begin to leave. Usually, the host has so much extra food they start to send it home with their invitees. If this doesn’t work, they opt to invite everyone back the next day to finish what’s left, but this time in a more relaxing atmosphere.

Evidently, this holiday is near and dear to my heart, starting with the food, moving towards the drinks, and ending with my close family and friends surrounding me. One of the most weighty undertones of the food at gatherings of Eastern Europeans is that it unites those around the table for just a moment. Similar to the food, which is made of many bold ingredients that blend together harmoniously, guests from distinct and independent nationalities comprise a beautiful company to celebrate some of the most significant moments of the year together. And on that night when I was seven years old, I ate and danced the night away until dawn broke. All of a sudden, I felt better.

PHOTO: Rafael Bitanga

Similar to the food, which is made of many bold ingredients that blend together harmoniously, guests from distinct and independent nationalities comprise a beautiful company to celebrate some of the most significant moments of the year together. ”

CIN CIN!

By Parker Piccolo Hill

Every time my family gathered together to celebrate, the sound of glasses clinking would reverberate around the table. From the kitchen table to the dish, the name of the sound we made while cheering became our favorite dish to eat at family get-togethers.

Cin cin, or as most people call it, pastasciutta con ragù, is a delicious meat sauce eaten with pasta. The word actually originated from China, and is pronounced as “chin chin.” To make it perfectly, the pasta must be al dente, and the sauce must coat every piece inside and out. Within these rules, however, there’s room for much variation.

In fact, each region of Italy has their own version, but in my experience, I have found that the biggest shifts come from the smallest things—where and who the cook is!

In my family, each person has a different way of making cin cin.

My bisnonna would cook up a big pot, go heavy on the carrots, and serve it with crusty bread and thick slabs of parmesan cheese. Yet, as she got older, the Ukrainian woman who took care of her took over, and the hearty Italian flavors vanished.

My noma spices the sauce with a more Americanized touch, just like her name noma, a combination of the Italianword for grandmother, nonna, and grandma.

My nonno taught her his recipe, which uses red wine to craft a rich and flavorful sauce—a perfectly balanced ratio between the meat and the sauce to complement the pasta.

This recipe is the most familiar to me and conjures up memories of my cousins and I at the table where we ate bowl after bowl of delicious pasta.

My mom doesn’t cook cin cin at all. She is averse to meat, so she’s passed the recipe to my very American dad who supersizes the dish with full sprigs of rosemary and larger chunks of meat.

When I make cin cin, I try to emulate all of the meals I’ve had before. But I’ve realized that perfection doesn’t matter. I can try my best to make it taste like the versions of the dish that my relatives have made, but the most important point is the people who will be eating it.

The way cin cin is cooked varies depending on who and where you are, but the one thing that will never change is the atmosphere it creates.

At its heart, cin cin is a dish of celebration, and I know whenever I smell those fragrant flavors walking through the door, it’ll be a memorable day.

About the Recipe:

The whole point of making cin cin is to make it your way! Instead of a traditional recipe, here are some of the ingredients that are put in the classic cin cin sauce. Feel free to experiment because you really can’t go wrong.

Meat Basil Rosemary Tomatoes Salt Black Pepper

PHOTO: Juliette Haas

My Grecian Easter

By Mira Harris

For many, Easter conjures up images of plastic eggs, chocolate and fluffy white bunnies. In a Greek-American family, however, Easter means roasting whole lambs on spits above flaming charcoal in the backyard. There’s something incredible about standing around the fire, Greek music blaring, that still has me (a pescatarian of almost seven years) craving a bite of smoky, slightly-charred lamb. To many, the ritual may seem almost barbaric, but for as long as I can remember my grandfathers have made the annual trek to a farm in Lancaster, Pennsylvania to get the lambs. Once they return home, the process of marinating the lamb in olive oil brought back from Greece, lemon juice, crushed garlic and oregano begins.

The night before Easter we attend a midnight mass. When the clock strikes twelve the entire church goes dark. Each person holds a candle and a flame is passed around until the entire room is lit by candlelight. When we get home we eat toasted Tsoureki, sweet Easter bread, slathered in butter and play a game called Tsougrisma. Each player takes hold of a hard boiled egg dyed red. The goal is to tap your egg against that of an opponent without cracking your own. In the end, whoever’s egg remains undamaged is the winner. They are said to have good luck for the rest of the year.

The next morning we wake up early to set up white billowing tents across my grandfather’s backyard garden. Long folding tables are assembled waiting to be covered in food as people arrive. They bring flaky tiropita triangles stuffed with cheese along with decadent trays of moussaka and basticho. The former of which is a casserole with layers of eggplant slices, cheese, and meat sauce, topped with a creamy bechamel. The latter is sometimes referred to as “Greek lasagna” where layers of pasta are covered by a cinnamonspiked meat sauce, and even more bechamel. My favorite side is spanakopita, yet another layered dish where sheets of filo are alternated with a decadent spinach feta filling. The star is always the lamb, the cooking of which takes over the entire driveway. Charcoal is poured into long rectangular grills and relatives take turns manning the flames and slicing into the meat. A crowd always forms around whoever is at the grill of people waiting for an early taste.

A final table in the back of the garden is piled high with desserts. Fresh figs and crab apples from my grandfather’s trees highlight the table alongside honey soaked baklava. There is always an array of traditional cookies including kourabiedes, a shortbread-type biscuit made with ground almonds and dusted with powdered sugar. Greek music from my grandfather’s old radio fills the air and the garden is filled with family and friends enjoying each other’s company well after the sun sets.

Newari Bhoj (नेवारी भोज)

By Priya Pradhan

Celebrations come in all forms, colors, and occasions; yet, there’s one element that ties together celebrations across the globe: food. In the culture I grew up in, food is fundamental in expressions of love, joy, and good fortune. While my country, Nepal, may be more renowned for its majestic mountains, it is also home to over 100 different and unique ethnic groups, each with their own traditions, cuisines, and ways of celebration.

The ethnic group my family comes from is that of the Newars, who were historical inhabitants of the Kathmandu Valley, the current capital city of Nepal. In the past, my people worked as artists and advisors to the king, building the elaborate Durbar Squares, or Palace Squares, found in Kathmandu today. Over the centuries, they also cultivated a colorful cuisine that has often been synonymized as Nepali cuisine as a whole. From

the deep red of the liberally-used chili powder and the bright yellow and orange hues of turmeric-laden curries to the seared brown of the choila (a savory meat salad) and organic green of laptes (plates made of woven Sal leaves), Newari food is just as much a feast for the eyes as it is for the soul and stomach.

From my earliest days, I can recall distinctive dishes served according to different celebrations. On special occasions like birthdays, before embarking on travels, or during life-cycle events, we were served sagun. Sagun is a small auspicious offering that consists of a platter of khen (boiled then panseared eggs); bara (lentil pancakes); khasi ko masu (goat meat); bhuteko maccha (deep fried fish); raksi (home-brewed alcohol); and finally dahi (yogurt). When our family and friends got together to celebrate major festivals like Indra Jatra, Dashain,

PHOTO: Jenny Xiao

or Tihar, an appetizer of samaya baji was always served. Samaya baji is a platter of assorted premade and marinated side dishes that altogether symbolize good luck, fortune, longevity, and prosperity. Typically, it consists of baji (dried and flattened rice), samay (puffed rice), fried soybeans, bhuti (boiled blackeyed peas), broiled and marinated meat, dried fish, baras, and ailaa (homemade distilled alcohol).

But the essence of Newari cuisine is best encapsulated in elaborate Newari bhojs, or feasts, that are used to mark nearly any festivity—from weddings and coming of age ceremonies to religious observances. A Newari bhoj is more than a meal; it is a ritual that brings together delicious dishes imbued with centuries of tradition and signifcance.

Guests sit cross-legged in orderly lines across the room on straw carpets, known as sukuls, as they are served often over a dozen delicacies, each presented in a sequence. I can clearly remember picking at the stray strands of straw from the woven mats as I impatiently and eagerly awaited each dish that was brought out. It was always a struggle to hold back my urge to dive into the meal until each item had been brought out and offered to me. Being one of the youngest members, I was always served towards the end since in my culture, age begets respect and honor. Despite the long rows of people to be fed, the food would never run out.

Once seated, the bhoj begins with the laying of a lapte (a plate made of Sal leaves). These plates are woven together with pine needles, making them completely biodegradable and ecofriendly. When laptes aren’t available, large circular plates of brass or copper are used.

To begin the serving, a handful of chiura (beaten rice) is placed in the center of the lapte, followed by a small helping of spicy fried soybeans, chhoyela (boiled or barbequed meat marinated with cumin, salt, chili, fenugreek seeds, ginger, and garlic paste), and fried ginger and garlic. While I’ve always loved the crunch and crackle of the chiura and fried soybeans, the overpowering and strong flavor of straight garlic and ginger have never quite appealed to me. Nonetheless, each time I attend a bhoj, I’m bound to unwittingly bite into a spicy chunk of garlic right when I least expect it.

As the serving progresses, aloo achar, a spicy potato salad, is placed next to the chiura Aloo achar is made up of diced boiled potatoes, marinated in sesame powder, turmeric, red and green chili, and fenugreek seeds. With a tangy and spicy kick, it’s one of my favorite Nepali dishes. Following this, a thick curry of meat, usually of water buffalo or chicken, is served over the chiura which softens as it steeps in the curry’s gravy.

Saag (spinach) fried with garlic and chili and a stew of gedagudi (mixed legumes) is served as well. Each bhoj differs slightly from the next; one might serve cauliflower curry while another opts for paneer instead. Nonetheless, each is delicious and will leave you wanting more.

Finally, it’s time to dive in! During Newari bhojs, we eat with our hands. While this might seem unconventional to some, it’s a very common practice in Nepal (and I think the food tastes better this way). Mixing the side dishes with the chiura, each handful of food is a melding of aromas, textures, and flavors. On occasion, strong notes of spice would dance along my tongue as I bit into a bit of aloo achar. In another bite, I’d feel the crunch of the soybeans and the smoky taste of chhoyela.

While it’s been quite some time since I’ve last had a real Newari feat, I can still remember how exciting it was to indulge in this mouth-watering meal. Each time I witness my mother and grandmother preparing for our traditional celebrations, there is never a need for measuring cups. Instead, they estimate the perfect proportion of spices to meat or heat needed to create the perfect golden brown all Newari meals.

I’ve met seems to have somehow picked up. Though a Nepali woman myself, I have yet to learn this near-magic

PHOTO: Jenny Xiao

Break Thanksgiving Tradition With These Short Ribs

By Lexie Goldman

Thanksgiving is arguably one of the biggest holiday celebrations of the year. Family members gather from around the country uniting to eat traditional foods: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and much more. However, my family’s Thanksgiving is a little different than the norm.

We don’t watch the Macy’s Day Thanksgiving parade or football but instead a steady stream of romantic comedies from the early eighties to late nineties.

Most of all, turkey is not the centerpiece of our Thanksgiving dinner. The real shining star is my mother Melissa’s short rib recipe. As soon as it hits November, text messages come flooding in asking if she will be making the short ribs this year. There have also been numerous attempts from other family members to find my mother’s recipe and steal it for their own Thanksgiving dinners. They are that good.

The ribs are braised in a stunning, light blue dutch oven, and cooked for many hours. The result: delicious pull-apart ribs. They are topped with a sweet, tangy gravy that is wine based and garnished with soft carrots. Finally, they are accompanied with sides of roasted pancetta brussel sprouts, my grandmother’s carrot pudding, and herb mashed potatoes. Our Thanksgiving dinner concludes when one cousin or aunt tries to take the extra short ribs home, creating an auction between family members. These ribs have become synonymous with celebration in my family, and hopefully they can become a celebration for others too.

PHOTO: Abby Reing

Melissa’s Braised Short Ribs

adapted from Epicurious recipe by Jenny Rosenstract and Andy Ward

Yield: Makes 12 servings

10 lbs. bone-in beef short ribs, cut crosswise into 2” pieces (if you don’t get lots of meaty pieces, order an extra pound. The non-meaty ones add flavor too)

Kosher salt and black pepper

3 tbsp. vegetable oil

5 medium yellow sweet onions, chopped fine

6 medium carrots peeled and chopped into small chunks

2 celery stalks, chopped

5 tbsp. all-purpose flour

Ingredients: 1

Preheat the oven to 350°F (176.7°C).

Pat ribs dry and season with salt and pepper.

2 tbsp. tomato paste 2 3

Heat ½ of the oil in a large Dutch oven over mediumhigh heat. Working in batches, brown short ribs on all sides until seared. Transfer to a bowl or plate.

1 bottle dry red wine or 3.17 cups red wine

3-4 big bay leaves

10 sprigs flat-leaf parsley

12 sprigs thyme

6 sprigs fresh oregano or a generous pinch of dried

6 sprigs rosemary

1 head garlic, halved crosswise or 2 tbsp. fresh minced garlic

4 cups beef stock (good quality 32oz box), may need an extra 8 ounce package

4 5

Using drippings in pot and if needed remaining oil. Add onions, carrots, and celery to pot and cook over mediumhigh heat, stirring often, until onions are browned, about 5 minutes. Add flour and tomato paste; cook, stirring constantly to coat veggies, 2-3 minutes. Stir in wine and scrape crusty bits from bottom of pot to combine, then add short ribs with any accumulated juices.

Bring the wine to a boil; lower heat to medium and simmer until wine is reduced by half, about 25 minutes. Add bay leaf, herbs and garlic to the pot. Stir in stock making sure to just cover the ribs (may need some extra). Bring to a boil, cover, and transfer to the oven.

Cook until short ribs are tender, 2-2½ hours.

*Note, it can be simmered on a stove top if there’s no room in the oven but be sure to watch to see if meat is tender enough. Bone should slide right out when done.

Transfer short ribs to a platter, trimming away the tendon.

6 7 8

Use tongs to remove carrots from the pot and put on side to top ribs for serving. Remaining liquid can be strained, separated and reduced for gravy.

E S F I R S T, C A K E S E C O N D

by Jinjee Denner

“ Even just one!” My mother exclaims before I even have a chance to sit down at the familiar dark wooden table in front of me. I don’t need to ask, I already know what she’s talking about. A tradition passed down from her mother who, just like her, doesn’t even remember the origin, this birthday ritual is not up for debate. “Where is it?” I respond, eager to get this one bite out of the way so I have room for the four-layer carrot cake with my name on it. She swiftly hands me a mountain of glossy tangled noodles, sitting on an off-white ceramic plate.

The tan translucent fibers raveled in shreds of bright orange carrots, fresh chives, charred red peppers, and thin-sliced shiitake mushrooms shake like a jello cake as it lands in my grasps. As I reach with splintering chopsticks for a singular noodle, preoccupied with dreams of the cold, smooth cream-cheese frosting on my tongue, the mountain of noodles releases a cloud of steam. Suddenly, my nose is flooded with the entrancing smell of sweet potatoes, sesame oil, and rib-eye fillet that dances in my nostrils even after the plate has landed on the table. A table that has felt each birthday dinner’s plates making circular indents on its softwood ever since I was old enough to remember.

I look down at the colorful twist of chap-chae noodles and take in another deep breath, welcoming the wide array of evocative smells that remind me of this time last year and each year before. The view of my older sister

smiling with overlapping front teeth is replaced with a much calmer version of the same girl. Although her teeth are now near-perfect, the same one-leg-propped-up-against-theedge-of-the-table stance hasn’t changed. Just like that, the thought of only one lonely noodle entering my watering mouth is out of the question. Not a neuron in my brain still cares about cream cheese frosting. All I can focus on is inhaling the vegetable and beef medley of these sesame-seed-covered glass noodles—my real birthday cake.

From sitting on my mother’s lap because I was too short to reach the table, to losing my first tooth in a shiitake mushroom, to being forced to make it from scratch during quarantine, to all of the many birthdays to come, no matter how excited I am to eat my cake on my birthday, one chap-chae noodle is never enough. Just as I once couldn’t imagine turning nineteen, I can’t begin to picture who we’ll all be next year. All I know is the same noodles will sit here between us, connecting all the versions of myself at this bumpy wooden table. My mother says that because noodles appear infinite when entangled on a plate, eating noodles on your birthday will give

PHOTO: Lulu Goldman

Konnyaku

A Japanese New Years Superfood

By Kay Mcllhenny

Devil’s Tongue. Snake Palm. Voodoo Lily. Elephant Yam. Konjac. Or as I know it, konnyaku—that strange ingredient that my mother cuts into dense triangles in oden soup, appears in the occasional sukiyaki setting, but always consistently materializes in our annual Japanese osechi meal, in the form of an elegant braid.

For a little background on osechi: Osechi is a traditional blend of Japanese foods cooked in celebration of the New Year. The tradition originated in the Heian period of Japan, introduced from China. New Year’s Day was one of the five significant holidays in Imperial Japan, so of course the meal associated with such a day must match in importance. Osechi is not a single dish, nor a structured feast; rather than being constructed of lavish appetizers and encores, osechi is organized in stacks of square bento boxes, jyubako, containing little bites of special foods with special meanings. The golden color of kinton, a blend of sweet yam and chestnut, symbolizes wealth for the coming year; kazunoko, or herring roe, manifests the gift of many children; tazukuri, dried sardines seasoned with soy sauce and sugar, represents the hopes of an abundant harvest.

And my favorite, konnyaku. I love the versatility of the slightly briny, gelatinous mass of gray-mottled jelly that quivers at the end of my chopstick, the way it adapts to soak up any flavor it’s submerged in. The osechi in konnyaku is special, taking the form of a twisted braid, which is first cut into a slim rectangle and sliced down the middle. By looping its end through this

new slit, it resembles a neatly-wound rope. Though it’s hard to see it as being more than a gray ribbon of jelly, konnyaku in osechi cooking also carries a portion of the luck granted by the jyubako: the twisted rope is symbolic of a samurai tightening his reins in preparation for battle, granting you, the eater, with strength and spirit of mind going into the new year. I’ll be needing that for the rest of the semester.

If that’s not enough to convince you to try konnyaku, there are also numerous health benefits: the konnyaku plant is high in glucomannan, a dietary fiber used to make supplements and mixtures that have been shown to improve the condition of patients with type 2 diabetes. Glucomannan also plays a role in weight and cholesterol management, as well as regulation of bowel movements. Include glucomannan in your skin care routine—a 2013 study found it effective for acne and in improving skin health and wound healing! But don’t fret if you missed konnyaku in this round of New Years; charred konnyaku blocks make a nice, crispy steak, and shirataki noodles, which are made of konnyaku, are perfect for hot pot night. Or, if you’re a salad lover, incorporate some thin slices for some added texture.

Konnyaku is a super-food, healthy and celebratory and traditional in all its slimy, jiggly glory. Though it’s been a while since the New Year, it’s never too late to introduce some newfound samurai-strength into your lifestyle. It’s always the right time for a rope of konnyaku!

PHOTO: Kay Mcllhenny

By Maia Bhaumik

One of my Mom’s favorite desserts during Chinese New Year is almond jello and canned fruit cocktail. My mom has always loved the texture of the jellies and craves it all year long. Traditionally, we would only have that texture with grass jelly in boba or when we made finger jello from a box, but I wanted to create a dessert that both my mom and dad, who is very neutral about jellies, could enjoy while elevating the dish for classy celebrations. With spring coming soon, I knew I wanted something light and refreshing that would be fun to eat with these jiggly jellies! With my dad’s favorite cuisine being Italian, it instantly came to me: granita! The perfect base for a squishy topping. An easy italian version of shaved ice that can be almost creamy if the ice crystals are small enough. With these two elements, I can pay homage to both my mom and dad in one dessert just in time for their anniversary!

With a little bit of patience and very little work, you can have an elegant dish that is sure to delight. What’s great about this recipe is that you can mix and match with the flavors to your liking. If you don’t like grapefruit, use a different fruit; I like to use pomegranate to keep the pink color. If you don’t want champagne, use any other sparkling alcohol like cider! For best results, make the jellies 24 hours ahead so they can set up.

PHOTO:AishwaryaRajagopalan

Mint Lime Granita and Orange, Grapefruit, and Champagne Jellies

Mint Lime Granita and Orange, Grapefruit, and Champagne Jellies

For Grapefruit Jellies:

2 cups freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (from about 3 grapefruits)

¼ oz) packages unflavored gelatin

For Orange Jellies:

2 cups freshly squeezed orange juice (from about 6 oranges)

¼ oz) packages unflavored gelatin

For Sparkling Wine Jellies:

1 (750 ml) bottle sparkling wine, such as prosecco, cava, or Champagne ¼ oz) packages unflavored gelatin

cup agave or liquid sweetener

For Mint Lime Granita:

cups water

cup granulated sugar

Zest of 2 limes

cup freshly squeezed lime juice

1 bunch of mint + 20 leaves

For Assembly:

Toppings of your choice!

Ex. Pomegranate seeds, supremed orange slices, ice cream,

Instructions:

Make the jellies

1. Lightly oil three 9-inch square baking pans (use whatever you have but pans larger than 9-inches may make the jellies too thin).

2. Strain the grapefruit juice through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean measuring cup.

3. Heat half of the grapefruit juice in a pot over medium heat until simmering and then turn o the heat.

4. While waiting for the juice to come to a simmer, pour the remaining half of the grapefruit juice into a medium bowl and sprinkle the gelatin all over the surface.

5. Let stand for 5 minutes, then stir the juice gelatin mixture into the pot until combined.

6. Pour through the fine mesh strainer into a prepared pan and transfer to the refrigerator overnight.

7. Rinse the saucepan and measuring cup.

8. Repeat for orange juice.

9. Repeat for the sparkling wine, adding the agave syrup into the pot before pouring into the prepared pan.

10. When the jellies are fully set, slice them into cubes.

Make the mint lime granita

1. Pour 2 ½ cups water, sugar, and lime zest into a small saucepan and bring to a simmer.

2. Cook, stirring until the sugar has dissolved.

3. Add one whole bunch of mint to the pot and take o the heat.

4. Cover with a lid and allow to stand for 10 minutes so the mint can infuse.

5. Julienne about 20 mint leaves into thin small strips.

6. Strain the mixture through a sieve into a container that is about 12x6 in or larger.

7. Sprinkle the mint over the liquid and cover with saran wrap or lid.

8. Place into the freezer and check after 1 hour. If there are no ice crystals, check again in 30 minutes.

9. Once it begins to freeze, use a fork to stir the mixture. Break up the ice crystals and rake them towards the center. Place the mixture back in the fridge.

10. Repeat the scraping process every 30 minutes until you have fine crystals of granita. If at any time the granita freezes too hard, just leave it out at room temp until it is soft enough to scrape.

Assemble

1. When you are ready to assemble, place spoonfuls of granita into a martini glass and top with cubed jellies and toppings of your choice!

PHOTO: Aishwarya Rajagopalan

Sunday Dinner is Family Dinner

Sunday Dinner is Family Dinner

By Madi Yeh

One thing that I learned in college is that intentionality is the key to maintaining friendships and relationships amidst the chaos that is the glamorized college experience. With everyone balancing courses, jobs, extracurriculars, and cursed internship applications, spending time to maintain friendships and relationships during this college journey is often neglected.

It was from this idea that the family dinner was born among my friends. It’s a celebration of another week completed and of course, good food. The concept is to set aside time to make dinner together, catch up on the week, and simply enjoy our time together. Of course, we like each other enough to see one another outside of family dinner, but as a precautionary weekly ritual, we set time aside every Sunday night for a “home cooked” dinner together. From savory Korean barbeque wraps to make-your-own pizza (and the occasional reheated Taste of Thai takeout), each dinner is a group adventure into a new cuisine, a new flavor profile, and a new memory.

Occasionally, these weekly get-togethers come with an agenda. I am convinced that my friend Odessa’s hidden agenda is to turn us all pescatarian like her. Rylan probably hopes to villainize fruits and vegetables in our minds to mirror his own hatred, and Max will spend the rest of his life trying to justify that British cuisine is more than just toast sandwich—though unfortunately his attempts are futile. Sometimes I venture on a journey to spice everyone to death with a mouth-numbingly spicy yet flavorful pan-fried Szechuan chicken. Some say I’m a menace, but I’d argue I’m simply just adding a little spice to our lives.

More recently, family dinner has been an opportunity for me to recreate my mom’s home cooking and share my Taiwanese culture with my roommates. It’s one of my life’s greatest joys to see my friends’ faces light up when they try 滷肉飯 (braised pork rice, see Fall ‘21 issue for the recipe), and 鹽酥雞 (salt and pepper fried chicken) for the first time, or express their curiosity about my culture while learning to wrap 包子 (bao) together.

Arguably, the pinnacle meal of family dinner is frozen chicken nuggets (preferably dinosaur shaped). Typically served as a second dinner, my friends and I throw our taste out the window and settle for the delicious mediocrity of what we endearingly call “nugs.” It’s over nugs that the lively conversation drags into the night. From “If you were a car, which car would you be?” to “What are your thoughts on Helen Keller?” every conversation sparks an iconic debate, inside jokes, and memories that last beyond food.

A celebration doesn’t have to be formal nor flamboyant. In fact our family dinner is anything but that.

At the end of the day, the intentional community that is created in my apartment is one of the most consistent and healing parts of my week.

When life feels like it’s caving in, when exams and deadlines are looming over my head, and when I just need a breather from the chaotic school week, I always know that Sunday dinner is family dinner.

SPAM SPAM A Hawai’ian Delicacy

By Laura Gries

Life is full of uncertainty. In Hawai’i, however, Spam is always certain. If there is a birthday party in Hawai’i, it is certain that there will be birthday cake and Spam. If you need a quick breakfast before heading to school, McDonalds will be serving a McMuffin and Spam breakfast platter. If you’re at the beach with friends, some will be in the water surfing and others will be eating Spam. If a storm is brewing in the Pacific, it is guaranteed that every family on the islands is heading to the store to stock up on toilet paper and Spam.

While most people fear this mysterious meat, locals in Hawai’i can’t get enough of it. The introduction of Spam to the islands started off as a forced necessity during World War II. However, locals later adopted it into their cuisine, making it a staple in the Hawai’i diet. Now, there are hundreds of recipes coming from the islands on how to cook this salty canned meat, but the most popular way it's consumed is on top a block of rice encased with seaweed, called a Spam musubi.

SPAM MUSUBI

Yields 6-8 musubis

Serves 3 to 6 people (depending on whether it’s a snack or meal)

Ingredients:

4 cups cooked rice

1 can of Spam

2 sheets of nori Furikake (optional)

For teriyaki sauce (optional):

4 tbsp. shoyu

4 tbsp. sugar

To cook: Slice the block of Spam into 6 to 8 slabs, depending on how thick you prefer it.

Optional step: Combine shoyu, sugar, and water in a pan on medium heat and cook until a glaze forms.

Heat a pan (either with the teriyaki sauce or without) on medium and add the slices of Spam. Cook on each side until crisp and golden brown (approximately 2-3 minutes on each side). Take off heat and set aside.

To assemble:

Cut nori sheet into approximately 4in x 8in rectangles. Shape rice into a rectangular block using either a musubi/rice press or by lining a clean Spam can with cling wrap. Put rice into the container and press down.

Place this rice block onto the nori (optional: sprinkle a teaspoon of furikake onto the rice).

Add a slice of SPAM on top of the rice block and wrap the nori around.

Enjoy this ono (delicious) treat with your ohana (family)!

PHOTO: Andrew Zhang

PHOTO: Andrew Zhang

You are Cordially Invited:

B R U N C H

By Victoria Lee

I come from a household with an affinity for celebration— no birthday, test victory, or karate belt promotion escapes unaccompanied by a hefty dinner followed by cake (sometimes cakes, plural).

My familial instincts for celebration traveled to Ithaca with me. Prompted by a sunny Sunday morning’s text, “Where are we celebrating now that the prelim is finally over?”, I threw on my favorite pair of sweats and my battered sneakers without hesitation and headed over to Ithaca Commons to start the day’s festivities.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always looked forward to Sundays.

Instead of texts, I awoke to lively Cantonese and English chatter as my elders pondered over which restaurant would have the shortest lines for our weekly dim sum brunch.

Dim sum, a traditional Chinese meal composed of small dishes to be shared among family and friends, translates to touch the heart. The small portions were not intended to satiate an appetite, but somehow I was always stuffed by the end of the meal. It was easy to nourish both my heart and stomach when the teacups and plates never seemed to be empty. Dim sum took place at a large dining room full of commotion: adults exchanged spirited words between mouthfuls of food, children concocted mystery sauces with the condiments on the table, and servers yelled out the names of dishes on the carts they hustled around.

My eyes were mesmerized by the colorful bite sized bundles of ground meat and vegetables that made its way around the room on carts. The movement of an arm in the corner of my eye snaps me out of my trance; just in time, I see my grandmother sneakily placing the last chive dumpling on my plate.

Being at college away from home, I relish in the memory of the comfortable chaos of Sunday dim sum.

Back in Ithaca Commons, we squish our seats closer together so everyone has a spot at the table. Around us, big families and twenty-year-olds alike rehash the events of the previous week over a beautiful spread of eggs, bacon, sausage, syrup drenched waffles and fruit. The commotion in the room energizes me with an all-too-familiar feeling. There are no steel carts filled with dim sum, but in the company of waffles buried in berries and good friends, the stress of next week’s schoolwork seems so trivial. Like dim sum back at home, brunch had served its purpose once again—it incorporated delicious food, loved ones, and celebration into my weekly routine.

“Same time next week?”

PHOTO: Emily Lam

4 Years Later

By Alexander Wedgbury

My journey to food is very different from most people in the food and beverage scope at Cornell; whether they work at the Statler Hotel, write for Crème, or are the average fellow who enjoys the food scene of Ithaca. Mine started 4 years ago when I was at the lowest point in my life. I was hospitalized for a second time within two months in April of 2018 for suicidality. After thinking that my whole life was trending towards being a doctor after graduating from Fordham University with a B.S. in Biology on a pre-med track with the intention of attending medical school, I had to start over.

One of the greatest pieces of advice my therapist gave me was that after falling off that balance beam, I had been given the greatest gift anyone could have—a clean slate. Some of the things that I had previously done before turning to cooking and food that helped me with my intense mental illness symptoms were writing poetry, and spending more time in nature by longboarding, hiking, and cycling.

Now don’t get me wrong, I was a huge foodie before any of this, but I believed it was impossible to turn into a career. Taking a leap of faith, I thought, “hell, let’s give it a shot.” I was watching a BuzzFeed video (yes, I can see you rolling your eyes already) on how to cook steak. In the video they covered different methods on how to cook a ribeye whether it be a reverse sear, traditional, or just a straight sear. After watching that video, I asked my parents if I could cook a steak at home one day. Little did I know that simple “yes” would change my life.

For the next two hours, I felt my anxiety and depression symptoms wash away like a tide returning to sea. Even though slicing those onions made me cry, they were tears of joy and not of sadness as I realized that I belonged in this world of food and cooking. Cooking helped me practice mindfulness and stay calm. The process of completing and seeing out a task from beginning to end definitely plays a role. Watching those ingredients turn into a finished product gave me pride and joy as I was able to achieve something. Those small successes gave me confidence in the kitchen and I began to find myself. From that point in September 2018, I have been using my home’s kitchen as my own experimental lab to try new recipes, ingredients, and methods.

Through food, I discovered my new world. As I spend more and more days alive, I try to celebrate the little things in life. As I head into my third semester at Cornell, I have realized that there is no place where I would rather be, as Ithaca has been my second home for the last year. Cornell has provided me experiences with food that I could have only dreamed about. From having picnics on the slope with Crème last year, moving into a leadership role in the Statler Hotel kitchens, exploring the world of wines with HADM 4300, to finding others that are completely obsessed with food just like me, I have been able to find my home away from home.

However, if there is someone who has empowered me to take advantage of every opportunity, it has to be Chef Kris at the Statler. After having a rough first semester here, Chef Kris helped me realize that I can be so much bigger than myself and impact so many people in so many positive ways. He has helped me celebrate my life. I have come so far in my journey since those days in 2018 that all the little steps I have taken at the Statler can be meaningful and impactful. Handing off my passion to others is what I came here to do and I hope to continue to inspire every single day.

For me, I have found tying memories to food and to celebration, even amongst the little things, is what cooking should be about. Whether it be as monumental as the world record for the largest bowl of guacamole, or as small as cooking that NY Strip steak just over 3 years ago, food helps me recall positive memories about how far I have come and how much further I can go.

Using cooking as an outlet is why I am still alive and a reason to celebrate life, because we are all worthy of a second chance. As I start my role as Mental Health Education Chair for Cornell Minds Matter, I hope you find your reason to celebrate life every day.

PHOTO: Verna Li

Cold soups for summer days

By Maya Mau

The end of the school year at Cornell marks a lot of milestones: the end of the first Ithaca winter for some, graduation for others, and one step closer to what lies beyond Cornell for the entire student body. Cold soups are less popular than their hot counterparts but equally effective in counterbalancing Ithaca’s extreme weather. While a hot bowl of soup can wrap an eater in warm vibes in the middle of the winter when the temperature is below freezing, a cold bowl of soup is a good way to celebrate the new season during a heatwave when Cornell’s air conditioning system is broken and the temperature outside is ninety degrees.

One of the greatest aspects of Cornell is the diversity of its student body: every student comes to Cornell with their own background, and together we can share the best of our respective cultures and our love of food. From Spanish gazpacho, Mexican avocado soup to Moroccan tomato soup and Hiyashi Chuka, there are cold soups originating from every continent that can help mark the start of a new season.

Gazpacho, the classic cold Spanish soup, is traditionally made with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers, red onion, and garlic. In The Los Angeles Times’ “Forget what you know: This is gazpacho” (LA Times), Leslie Brenner discusses gazpacho’s long history dating back millennia: sometime between the 8th and 13th centuries, this soup was first made in Muslim Spain. Since then, Spanish chefs have added Sherry vinegar and olive oil to develop a more robust flavor.

To complement that flavor, Spanish culinary enthusiasts rely on bread; in the Los Angeles Times article, cookbook author Anya von Bremzen said, “A gazpacho is not a gazpacho without bread.” In fact, though the origin of its name is debated, it is likely the pre-Roman Mozarab word “caspa,” meaning fragments (as in fragments of bread). Despite this being a staple of Spanish culinary experiences, there are different variations based on region: in Granada, chefs add crushed cumin and in Cordoba, it is made without water. This cold Spanish soup could be just what is needed to celebrate the warm weather upon us.

Cold Avocado Soup, which can utilize ingredients originating in Mexico such as sour cream, is a creamier option for a cold day. Though it is possible to make without cream, it is a fat-filled option by nature; according to Mark Bittman in The New York Times’ “Is It Chilled Yet?,” the key to a good soup is selecting a rich and fat-filled avocado. In fact, there are only two key ingredients: avocado and milk.

The soup is already rich and flavorful, but additional ingredients can enhance that flavor and add protein. According to Bittman, some good additions are shrimp, grape tomatoes, sour cream, and cilantro. He additionally mentions that the dish is best served with salt on the side for eaters to add to taste, as cold soups rely more on added spices than hot soups. This soup is not necessarily Mexican per se but, as Bittman says, has “Mexican character.”

Moroccan Tomato Soup, which some believe is derived from gazpacho, has its own flair. In New York Times’ “Moroccan Tomato Soup,” by Amanda Hesser and adapted from a recipe from Barbara Kafka, the simplicity of the soup is emphasized. With spices toasted in a saucepan, it is distinct from its Spanish counterpart. However, after being cooked, it is similarly refrigerated so it can be served chilled.

My personal favorite cold soup, however, is Hiyashi Chuka, which literally means “chilled Chinese” but is more commonly referred to as cold ramen. One of the greatest assets of this dish is its flexibility and versatility. Just like hot ramen, there is a certain joy that comes from having a large, personalized bowl with toppings and broth catered to my liking. Tadashi Ono’s “Japanese Soul Cooking” describes the dish as a “ramen salad,” with its cold temperature and tangy, savory flavors.

My favorite way to garnish my Hiyashi Chuka is with sliced ham, scallion, and tamago, a thin egg crepe. Some people like seasoned shrimp and imitation crab on theirs to add protein or sliced cucumbers and diced tomatoes to enhance its salad-like qualities. With its unique flavors and customizability, it is my favorite way to celebrate a warm summer day. Ono’s recipe and Namiko Hirasawa Chen’s Just One Cookbook website both shaped the way that I make this dish now:

Hiyashi Chuka

Yield: Serves 4

Sauce Ingredients:

6 tbsp. soy sauce

4 tbsp. sugar or honey

3 tbsp. rice vinegar (unseasoned)

2 tbsp. roasted sesame oil

2 tbsp. water

1 tbsp. toasted white sesame seeds

Tamago Ingredients:

2 Eggs

2 tsp. sugar

¼ tsp. kosher or sea salt

1 tbsp. neutral-flavored oil

Noodle Ingredients:

4 packages ramen noodles, best is fresh

Toppings (Pick and Choose)

Sliced ham

Cooked shrimp

Imitation crab

Sliced cucumber

Diced tomato

Sliced scallion

Toasted sesame seeds

Chopped lettuce

For the sauce: Pour sauce ingredients in a bowl and mix.

For the tamago, a thin egg crepe: Whisk the ingredients together. Heat oil in a pan, and cover the bottom of the pan with egg mixture.

Cook it in the pan on both sides until mixture is set. Remove from pan and slice the crepe into thin strips.

For the noodles: Cook the noodles according to package directions. Drain the water out of the noodles and distribute noodles on serving dishes.

Place desired toppings on top of the noodles, then pour the sauce on top.

F u n f e t t i

Childhood, for many of us, meant frequent visits to a grandparents’ house. No matter the occasion, such visits became a celebration of sorts. The moment I walked in the door, my grandparents would inundate me with affection. Amid smothering hugs and kisses, my adolescent mind most of all craved the surefire showering of sweet treats.

While those youthful moments are now crystallized into memories, indulging in sugary delights made time with my grandparents quite the jubilant affair.

Each summer of my childhood promised a trip to my maternal grandparents’ beach house. The Jersey Shore already offers a range of seaside delicacies: we indulged in soft serve and curly fries on the boardwalk and consumed hoagies and chips hastily under beach towels (where the seagulls couldn’t find us). However, I cherished no treat more than the Funfetti cupcakes that routinely greeted our arrival. Because my grandmother stored them in the refrigerator, my siblings and I devoured the cupcakes whenever we emerged from the midsummer heat. While our trips to Wildwood have become less frequent, our love for Funfetti cake has lived on. Innumerable get-togethers have since featured this classic confection. In recent years, I have come to love creating homemade cakes for family occasions, but we refuse to abandon the magic in that blue box.

Meanwhile, every occasion with my paternal grandparents, immigrants of Sicily, involved several Italian treats. Ordinary visits featured Gran Turchese cookies and espresso; winter holidays promised panettone. Yet, the most ubiquitous dessert has forever been the cannoli, which hailed from Sicily just like my nonni. Regardless of how many courses we consumed beforehand, we always concluded a holiday meal with a cannoli. To this day, I cannot resist the crunch of that flaky shell and the gush of delicate ricotta filling. As I grew older, I have not only indulged in these Italian delights but helped my nonna fill countless cannolis. With better know-how of the beloved cannoli, it is now my turn to create something special for my grandparents.

To honor the nostalgic celebratory treats shared with both sides of my family, I decided to combine them—so I created the Funfetti cannoli. To make a simple cannoli that preserves the iconic Funfetti flavor, my recipe features Pillsbury’s cake mix and frosting straight from the baking aisle. To keep it simple, I used cannoli shells from the grocery store, but you can make them homemade or even use wonton wrappers.

These cannolis commemorate the kindness I have received from all of my grandparents from adolescence into adulthood. Pairing culinary fusion and family union, this Funfetti cannoli embodies the best celebration of all: bringing together the ones I love.

PHOTO: Maria DiGiovanni

C a n n o l i s

RECIPE

Time: 40 minutes (includes chilling)

Serving: 12 mini cannolis

Ingredients:

1 package (15 oz.) whole milk ricotta cheese

1 box Pillsbury Funfetti Premium Cake & Cupcake Mix (15.25 oz.)

1 box Pillsbury Funfetti Vanilla Flavored Frosting (15.6 oz.)

12 mini cannoli shells

Confectioners sugar

Food coloring (optional)

Instructions:

1. Scoop the Funfetti icing into a microwave safe bowl and heat in the microwave in 10 second intervals until the icing is thinned but not liquidy (approximately 30 seconds). Put the sprinkles from the icing can to the side.

2. Add confectioners sugar to the icing in teaspoon increments until it appears to have the consistency of royal icing (approximately 10 tsp.). Adding confectioners sugar ensures the canned icing, which is made to be creamy, will harden on the cannoli shells. If you want some extra color, you can add food coloring to the icing.

INSIDER SECRET

These cannolis taste best after sitting in the refrigerator overnight.

INSIDER SECRET

3. With a knife, smooth the icing onto the top of the mini cannoli shells. Place the shells on parchment paper and put them in the refrigerator to chill.

4. While the icing on the cannoli shells hardens, whisk the ricotta with 8 tbsp. of Funfetti mix.

5. After 30 minutes, take the cannoli shells out of the refrigerator. With a small spoon or knife, fill the shells with the ricotta mixture by stuffing small spoonfuls into each side.

6. Sprinkle the ends with the Funfetti sprinkles.

7. Enjoy with loved ones!

College is a double edged sword. Our semesters were decorated with days at the Farmer’s Market and sunsets on the slope, and nights stolen by frat parties and surrendered to chemistry prelims. But our graduation is just around the corner and serves as a ceremony of our 4 momentous years at Cornell. We want to honor each and every moment of our journey here, from the clueless freshman days to the still-clueless senior year. This article is a celebration of our highs, our lows, and most importantly, our friendship.

Janice: Connie and I are travel companions, rock-climbing buddies, co-chefs, and so much more, but it all started on my 21st birthday. Stricken with fear of Covid-19, we decided to celebrate my coming-of-age with delectable desserts from Mango Mango and a lot of wine. This momentous occasion was our first meal and celebration together. Looking back now, the cold mango desserts were perhaps not the best food pairing with our hastily chosen wines, but the prospect of “being legal” and the presence of good friends made the night unforgettable. Connie and I ended the night with a quick stroll to 7Eleven where I had my first-ever taquito. It was an exquisite roll of cheese and grease and the perfect start to a wonderful friendship.

Connie: As we entered senior year, our schedules got crazier and harder to align. Packed with holding office hours, finishing group projects, and the *stresses* of passing Beers class, getting through the week warranted a celebratory meal in it of itself. Although going out and trying new restaurants is always fun, Ithaca’s weather often leaves us not wanting to leave the house. One wintery weekend, in an attempt to put our energy into something that wasn’t studying, the two of us embarked on an ambitious journey of home cooking: quesabirria. These delicious tacos are decorated with an exorbitant amount of cheese and lime before being dipped into a rich consummé. Our first mistake was choosing to start this recipe at 6 p.m.; even with a pressure cooker, I already knew we would not finish for hours. But nevertheless we persisted, toasting chilies and mixing spices while watching Don’t Look Up and slowly emptying a bottle of red wine. Upon blending our consummé, toasting our tortillas, and joking about our mishaps along the way, Ithaca had plunged well into darkness. Finally eating a decadent but satisfying meal at 9:30 p.m. is an apt metaphor for our time at Cornell. The path was difficult and we sometimes felt we may not finish, but in the end, it was well worth it.

If Saturday wine nights and HADM 4300 taught us anything, it’s how to pick the best bottle of bubbly for graduation. We are ready to pop some champagne and order takeout from our favorite spots over the years, curating our ultimate send-off feast. But our advice to all undergraduates? Don’t wait until your last moments; celebrate every step of the way for the sake of good memories and friends—like we did!

PHOTO: Vivian Fan

PHOTO: Vivian Fan

to Give My Regards Crème

By Abby Reing

In college, our four years of adventure and shenanigans all culminate at the ceremony of ceremonies—graduation. As Pomp and Circumstance rings on the hill, thousands of students pose for photos, shake hands with one another, and receive their long-awaited diploma. While one-too-many late nights fueled by Libe coffee may have tested our patience, it seems that many graduates tear up at the thought of leaving this school we’ve called home. Bittersweet, it seems, is the best way to describe it.

Even now, with months left until the big day, I sit in Mann Library clutching my chai latte with a fluttering feeling in my chest. Eight semesters, each marked by new friends, new Crème e-boards, new restaurants, and new hobbies, have somehow snuck by my otherwise attentive eyes. As a wise Tik Tok sound once said, we take photos of things we’re afraid to lose. Perhaps that’s why I’m running out of phone storage.

While so many things have morphed with time, my obsession with good food hasn’t faded. I wrote my admissions essay on macaronage (the art of making French Macarons), studied food science, took both hotel and CALS wines classes, and spent all eight semesters on the e-board for Creme. During my freshman year, I went to the beekeeping club to learn about honey extraction and taste fresh honeycomb. Now I’m writing my senior thesis on antifungal proteins found in honey.

Looking back, there were so many “firsts”—from elaborate wine and cheese nights to peanut butter washed down with iodine-purified water on my first backpacking trip. I learned how to fold dumplings in my sophomore dorm kitchen, and baked sourdough bagels during the first round of quarantine

in 2020. Memories of picnics on the slope and outdoor dining at The Rook were some of the sweetest parts of such a twisted year. With my Crème family by my side, I always could count on someone to join me while exploring a new restaurant, improvising a new recipe, or getting creative with photography.

Now, as the days count down, I’m hyper aware of how many experiences will be my last. My last date night, my last launch party, my last photoshoot, my last wine night. I’m saying yes to everything, even fishbowls, because I know I will always yearn for these fleeting moments with these very special people.

When I come back for homecoming as an alum, everything will have changed—Cornell, Collegetown, Crème, and myself. While that all seems scary now, I know I will return with a smile on my face. Blissful in nostalgia, proud of all of our accomplishments, and excited for the future. I’ll do my best to remember that, and sing through the bittersweet tears—Give my regards to Creme, ‘cause I’ll be back next fall!

#CALS!

D onuts D onuts ? .

By Hannah Rosenberg

No, this isn’t the beginning of a new John Green novel, but the weekly Sunday text exchange between my friend Anil and I. At 3 p.m. sharp on New Week’s Eve and the sunset of the weekend (Sunday), we’d drive to The Cornell Daily Sun’s office, just off of the Commons. Our destination: One Ring, Ithaca’s homemade donut shop. A small but vibrant shop that sells fluffy, buttery brioche donuts and cakey vegan potato donuts.

Since COVID began, One Ring has closed indoor dining for customers—instead, donut-buyers purchase their confections at a window in front of the store. A menu board hangs next to the window. To vegan or not to vegan? Chocolate or vanilla glaze? Chocolate or jam filled? Decisions, decisions. After some difficult deliberating, we’d ultimately purchase our usual: one vegan and one non-vegan donut, each pastry’s flavor in tune with the season. During the fall, One Ring sold vegan apple cider donuts: a cinnamon-spiced fluffy, cakey donut with a dash of acidity from the apple cider, dusted in cinnamonsugar. When Hanukkah came around, the donut haven sold Sufganiyot, jelly donuts that are eaten during the holiday.

With two parchment-paper bags of donuts and the occasional coffee in hand, Anil and I would walk back to The Sun office, climb up the concrete steps, enter the newsroom, and sit down at a Sun logo-emblemed dusty table. Each one of us would peek into the donut bags, pinch the desserts out from their hiding, and place the donuts on top of the white parchment

I’d rip a piece of the donut off, then Anil would do the same.

We’d tap our donut hunks to each other, donut cheers!, and we’d take a bite, first savoring the donut’s crisp exterior and then the soft, cottony inside.

“Ok, next one.” We’d repeat our procedure with the unsampled donut.

Donuts tasted, Anil and I would give a review of the desserts that would drive food critics to tears: “I like this one better,” was our trusty One Ring review. For the next 15 minutes, until other editors arrived, we’d work our way through the donuts, laughing and chatting about the previous week and sharing amusing roommate stories. Like little kids eating Cheetos, our hands would soon be caked with powdered sugar and hardened icing.

Eventually, the slamming sound of The Sun’s weighty wooden front doors would fill the office, and editors would enter to begin “desking”: editing articles and photos or laying out pages for the next day’s print paper. Anil and I would close up shop and head to our computers, me to edit photos, him to parse through articles.

Our weekly donuts allowed us to celebrate the weekend and the joy of eating homemade donuts together in a building that has etched a mark in our hearts. Sometimes, all you need is One Ring donuts to send you off into the week and to ease the Sunday scaries.

The Perfect Fried Egg

By Cella Schnabel

Celebrating is sitting down for a grandiose meal with friends, family, or just a fork. There are incredible dishes full of caviar and duck and caramelized ventrèche. But in an opposite and equal force: familiarity is a celebration For me, that’s the perfect fried egg.

To both make and enjoy the Perfect Fried Egg, there are essential ingredients. The perfect fried egg is impossible without a well-lit kitchen. If you're eating a fried egg in the dark, the once lavish yolk and the supportive, gentle egg white become cold and lonely.

Ingredients:

1. Lamp (and ideally– a window and some sunshine)

2. Two medium eggs

3. Heidelberg French peasant bread

4. A quarter stick of butter (salted)

5. A music speaker

6. Good company

Instructions:

1. Queue up Beyonce.

2. Cut a slice of the very long bread in half and throw it in the toaster. The toaster setting should be around a 6. However, I tend to over-toast.

3. Set the caste iron skillet on medium high heat.

4. Put a generous amount of butter in the pan (more than you think). Move the butter around to ensure the egg won’t touch a butterless part of the pan.

5. Figure out how to get the perfect cup of coffee going and give the pan a second to heat up.

6. You must let the pan heat up. Do you have a pet to feed? Do that. Children to make lunches for? Get out the bologna. A book to read? A mother to text (she’s up, I promise)? Grades to check? Sorry if you’re in calculus. Pot hot? Add egg.

7. Crack the egg on the side of the pan, like a pro. You can still use two hands though because this isn’t the egg olympics. Although, sort of. Crack more than one egg.

8. Keep pan HOT! Leave the egg ALONE! Let the egg settle in peace.

9. Turn the pan down to medium now.

10. Once the whites are hard and can flip without a rip, it’s time. Flipping time. If you have more than one egg in the pan (which you should), separate them with your spatula.

11. Swiftly put a stiff spatula under the egg. A long, flimsy spatula is not your friend. It’s all in the wrist. Keep the egg close to the pan.

12. Once flipped, again let the egg rest. Go retrieve your toast and butter. Generously. And with a little haste.

13. Plate egg with toast and the coffee you made on step 5.

14. Toppings vary (obviously). I recommend salt, nutritional yeast (for people who aren’t vegan—google this), and crushed red pepper. Other good choices include cheese, avocado, kimchi, Sriracha, sesame seeds, pepper, and hot sesame oil.

15. Sit down with the book you chose on step 6. You’ll quickly find you can’t eat a book and read an egg at the same time but aesthetically, this is important.

16. Put the book down to better handle the firm whites and mostly runny yolks.

17. Celebrate.

PHOTO: Emily Lam

S HOW E R BEE R

PHOTO: Grace Wilkey

Whether it is celebrating a hot girl looking your way in class or simply making it through a long week, college parties are a joyous clashing of off-brand Red Solo cups. When you’re home alone though, the cheap, red vessel feels isolating and unceremonial. To that, I say no more. Revolutionize your solodrinking experience and crack open a cold one in the shower. I promise it is less pathetic than its sounds. Mom, Dad, this is not a cry for help, rather an opportunity to celebrate.

The art of the shower beer all starts in the shower: a steamy, warm, and ultimately relaxing oasis—provided you are not in a dorm.

Showers are the beginning and the end of my day; though for the purpose of a shower beer, we’re focusing on my nighttime routine. Marking the end of the day, showers melt away the stress held in my muscles and help me unwind. Amplifying that nighttime experience is an occasional shower beer, accompanied by some great music. The soundtrack to my shower is none other than the booze-filled stylings of George Thorogood’s “I Drink Alone.”

Yes, the shower is fifty percent of the equation in the concept of a shower beer, but the experience is dependent on the quality of the beer chosen. Note: PBR and Bud Light can confidently stay out of the shower unless you are ceremoniously pouring it down the drain. What you should consider, though, is a craft

brew, whose crisp brightness acts as the shining star of the experience. I suggest finding a local brewery, as there are many sprinkled throughout the Finger Lakes, and cracking open a highly-recommended beer under the trickle of the shower. This is your second warning, though, to avoid any beers that might find their home on a frat house floor.

It’s an easy practice to laugh at, but I find it to be the perfect way to enjoy a beer. Because of the warm environment of the shower, your focus is drawn to the aromas of whatever beer you choose. Lean into that, savoring an IPA’s hoppy floralness, or a deep, chocolatey stout. You’ll experience a melange of sensations. The hot water stippling your back contrasts the cold beer and the condensation dripping on the floor, providing a rather awakening experience, despite the alcoholic nature of the activity.

No matter, the act of drinking a beer in the shower still rivals any spa experience, just with more mental stimulation than expected.

As you can see here, solo drinking doesn’t have to be as concerning as it might sound. Just follow these steps and you’ll find that you don’t need much to unwind and celebrate life’s little successes: getting up before 3 p.m., making it to work on time, or simply existing. The bar is low, so go forth and crack open a cold one, minus the boys.