COMFORT FOODS
f a l l 2 0 2 0 / v o l x v1 i
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SAY HELLO TO THE STAFF Editor in Chief ABBY REING Treasurer & VP ALEXANDRA CASTROVERDE Managing Editor PRIYA PRADHAN Layout Directors CHASE LIN, MUFFIN LAOSIRICHON Layout Staff KWAN ASADATHORN, HELEN STURMAN, ASHLEY JIAN, ABIGAIL CASTRO, LIA CHANDRA, SARAH LANGLEBEN Culinary Director TRIN KITISOONTORNPONG Webmaster JANICE JUNG Social Media Chair JULIE CHEN Contributing Writers GABRIELLE HILL, CANDICE MAHADEO, GRACE TRAN, SOPHIA OPENSHAW, LUCAS GRAY, ALIYAH KILPATRICK, CONSUELO LE, RONYA STROM, MARIA DIGIOVANNI, ANNA BROWN, ALEXANDRA CASTROVERDE, HANNAH ROSENBERG, AARUSHI GUPTA, MADELINE YEH, AUDREY ANDREWS, MACKENZIE CHILDS, ALLISON FARIAL, EFFAT RAHMAN
Editors GARRETT EMMONS, ALEXANDRA LI, TEEVYAH YUVA RAJU, CAROLINE GELLER, SUE KIM, EMILY PARK, ILANA HILL, ALEXANDRA MICHAEL, PRIYA MUHKI, JACLYN LIU Photography Directors KEVIN CAVALLO Photography Directors HAILEY SCHWARTZ Photographers MELISSA SHAO, MIMI LI, AARUSHI GUPTA, MARIA DIGIOVANNI, JENNY CHEN, ASHLEY SHEN, EMILY LAM, ROBERT BROOKS, CANDICE MAHADEO, GRACE TRAN, ANNA BROWN, ALLISON FARIAL Event Chair ROBERT BROOKS Advisor HEATHER KOWLAKOWSKI
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After life throws me for a terrifying loop on a roller coaster ride, you’ll find me stumbling to the fair stand to pick up popcorn, zeppoles, or a steaming corn dog. While fear and uncertainty can often make us queasy, the solution for any epicurean is to turn to a long-time favorite snack. This year, my feet haven’t had a chance to land. Throughout the lockdowns, each month has brought its own unexpected twists and turns. Constant worrying over the world’s health, safety, and justice led me to crave comfort. After a long stretch of doomscrolling on Instagram and Facebook, I would turn to my oasis of picturesque comfort—Pinterest. Over the years, I’ve collected all types of boards: photography, home decor, style, but most of all, recipes. Reading blog posts and recipes written before quarantine gave me a comforting nostalgia for my old sense of normalcy. While I couldn’t reverse the clock permanently, cooking through sets of new recipes gave me an opportunity to breathe. At dinnertime, with my screen and mind full of recipes and ingredients, I could block out the stressful memories of the day and make hopeful plans for the next. I certainly wasn’t the only one who turned to food this year as a source of comfort. From sourdough to whipped coffee on TikTok, a new, younger audience was exposed to the exciting and healing powers of food. Within Crème de Cornell, we’ve certainly felt the uptick in interest from our peers. This semester, we’ve had the most contributors yet, many pointing to their experiences over quarantine as a defining moment in their culinary journeys. This fall’s edition recalls how comfort food has shaped a grandmother’s allknowing love, a student run pop-up restaurant, and the feeling of belonging at the George Floyd memorial. While comfort can seem like a passive response to struggle and pain, it is also a way to recharge. We can go on, we can make change, we can remember, if only we allow ourselves moments to gather our strength. As always, I and everyone at Creme de Cornell, hope that this issue finds you in health, happiness, and comfort. Abby Reing | Editor in Chief
A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR 4
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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Fueling the Revolution
22
The Emotion of Food
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Pistachio Chocolate Ganache Filled Cupcakes
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Sundubu Jjigae
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Pineapple Buns
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The Comfort of Repetition: How I Learned the Meaning of Comfort Food
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Comfort in Community
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The Perfect Paratha
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Comfort is a Pop Up Resturant: The 2Stay2Go Story
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Taiwanese Night Market
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Cultural Comfort Foods
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Vegan Comfort Food
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Wrapped Up in Dumpling Memories
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Rigatoni alla Salsiccia
20
Swedish Pancakes
32
Sop Buntut: Soup for the Soul
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Cornmeal Pancakes: Family Tradition & Rivalry
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Pista Love Cake 5
Fueling the Revolution By Gabrielle Hill “Hey, would you like something to eat?” I was standing at the intersection of 38th and Chicago in my hometown of Minneapolis, Minnesota. The temperature was stifling and the air was sticky under my mask. Crowds of people overwhelmed the intersection, a remarkable sight given the ongoing pandemic. There were stages in which local and national leaders were giving speeches, and painters were putting their mark on the city streets and the outer wall of the Cup Foods, which will forever exist in infamy. After weeks of protests and the city being on lockdown, I summoned the courage to enter the George Floyd Memorial site. Although it was near my house, as a Black person in the United States, I was and continued to be overwhelmed with grief and hurt at the violence that my community faces from our country’s police forces. However, as I entered the site, I realized the true nature and purpose of this now infamous intersection. The ordinary cross-streets had been transformed into what our community needed most: a space for Black healing, whether it be through art, music, community, or food. Overwhelmed with a sense of belonging and comfort that I thought disappeared with the COVID-19 and the recent police violence within the country, I was taken aback by a voice that called from my left: “Hey, do you want something to eat?” Turning to the direction of the voice, I saw a woman standing over a griddle, spatula in hand, diligently flipping golden pieces of french toast. I noticed the smoke from grills whirling through the air, the crackle of bacon sizzling around me, and the cantankerous voices of people partaking in the fare around them. My father was standing near a smoker that was black and rusted from years of good use.
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The man behind the grill, sweat dripping under the brim of his hat, was serving up full and juicy pulled pork sandwiches to passersby. I even noticed someone placing tortillas covered in a vibrant red sauce on a grill, sizzling as they added ground beef and cheese to it. Some vendors gave slight smiles, others didn’t look up from their prep stations, but all had a shared intensity and determination about them. One where the work was tedious, the weather was hot, but their presence was necessary. Perhaps they were advertising their business, I couldn’t tell. I don’t remember any signs.
But the reality is they were feeding people for free. I left the memorial that day having refused the french toast because of my own COVID precautions, but I arrived at home thinking about how food, who was making it and who was receiving it, told the story of Minneapolis in that moment. You see, all around the city, and even into the first and second tier suburbs, people were organizing food drives for the heightened population of the food insecure, whether it was from COVID-19, the homeless sanctuary, or the recent protests. The George Floyd Memorial site also became one of the key packaging and delivery points in the city, as volunteers put together food packages for the homeless as more donations came in. Inside the “little libraries” on the lawns of homes, books were replaced with cans of food, snacks, and water. I was reminded that my own home was situated in somewhat of a food desert, given that there is a lovely neighborhood co-op, but no one in the neighborhood can afford to shop there.
I think food plays a special role in the revolution: to strengthen the resistors and to comfort the grieving. Through the exchange of food, residents did for themselves and for each other what local and state politicians had not. We, as inhabitants of the city of Minneapolis, were looking out for each other in a way that no political official had offered to. Through the power of community organization, we could nurture each other through acts that could be described as communal self care.
Everything and everyone has their place in the revolution. Food won’t end police brutality or the homelessness that is endemic to the United States, nor am I suggesting that it will. We need significant systemic change that empowers communities and realizes a world where Black people are not terrorized by white supremacist institutions for simply existing. But I will say that I was comforted by these acts, these small exchanges between people. Because in our microcosm of the world, needs were being met and people were safe to simply exist. Perhaps that is why I felt so touched at the giving nature of the chefs and vendors at the Memorial site. The idea of being seen and visible to the world around you when larger systems of white supremacy want to suppress your every word and action, is revolutionary in and of itself. The woman standing at the griddle serving french toast saw me, and offered me a small form of respite in a time of terrible happenings on the precipice of great change.
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PISTACHIO Chocolate Ganache Filled CUPCAKES
Creating this cupcake recipe has been a journey spanning 10 years for me. I have made a total of 7 different versions of this recipe; some with pudding, some without milk, and even some with lard. It certainly serves as a solid reminder that baking is a labor of love. All along the way, I had friends and family joyfully agree to be my testers. These cupcakes can be the crowning glory of your party contributions, as they were mine. Most importantly, they are the perfect decadent comfort food to satisfy your sweet tooth.
By Candice Mahadeo
Makes 12 cupcakes. Prep time: 45 minutes. Cook time: 25 minutes. Rest time: 30 minutes.
Chocolate Ganache
Ingredients: 4 oz baking chocolate, chopped ¼ cup heavy cream Directions: 1. Put a heatproof bowl with cream over a simmering pot of water. 2. After 2 minutes, when the cream is near hot, add in chocolate and whisk frequently until incorporated, about 1 minute. The mixture should be glossy and smooth. 3. Take off the heat and put it in the freezer for 15 minutes. 4. Once cool, shape the ganache into dime-size balls with two spoons, and reserve 4 tablespoons of chocolate ganache for icing. 8
Chocolate Buttercream Frosting Ingredients:
2 sticks unsalted butter, at room temperature 4 tbsp cocoa powder ¾ cup confectioners’ sugar 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 tsp whole milk 4 tbsp chocolate ganache, at room temperature
Directions:
1. Whip the butter for 10 ½ minutes by hand with increasing intensity. (This is much easier in a stand mixer, for 4 minutes on medium speed, then 4 minutes on high.) 2. Slowly add the cocoa powder and confectioners’ sugar and whip for 7 minutes. (4 minutes on medium in a stand mixer.) 3. Add the extract and milk, whip for 1 minute. 4. Add the chocolate ganache, whip for 3-4 minutes until fluffy. You can add more confectioners’ sugar if the consistency isn’t as fluffy as desired.
Pistachio Cupcakes Ingredients:
250 grams cake flour (about 2 cups) 270 grams sugar (about 1 cup and 3 tbsp) 1 tsp salt ½ tsp baking soda 1 tsp baking powder 5 tbsp unsalted pistachios, finely-ground* 7 tbsp unsalted butter at room temperature, cut into 7 pieces ¼ cup neutral oil (like canola or vegetable oil) 2 whole eggs 2 egg whites, whipped to soft peaks 2 tsp almond extract 1 tsp vanilla extract ⅔ cup buttermilk ⅓ cup whole milk *Store-bought pistachio paste can be used here. It tends to be pricey and a good one is hard to come by; making it fresh is generally a bit safer and cheaper.
SATISFY YOUR SWEET TOOTH.
PHOTO: Candice Mahadeo
Directions:
1. Preheat the oven to 350˚F. 2. Stir flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, and baking soda in a large bowl. 3. Stir each tablespoon of butter with one at a time in wide circles and let it incorporate into the batter for 40 seconds each time. After 5 minutes, the end result should be a coarse meal, not a smooth batter. (This will take about 3 minutes if using a stand mixer) 4. In a separate bowl, whisk whole eggs, oil, and extracts until incorporated, about 1 minute. 5. Slowly stir egg-oil mixture into the batter, about 90 seconds. 6. In alternating 10-15 second additions, add pistachio nuts and buttermilk. The end result should be a smooth batter. Mix only until just combined.
7. Using a spatula or a wide, flat utensil, fold in the whipped egg whites. (It is best to whip these ahead of making the batter and keep them away from any heat source.) Remember to turn the bowl as you fold the egg whites and make long smooth strokes across and down the sides of the bowl so as not to overmix. The batter should be fluffy at this point. 8. Fill a prepared cupcake tin ⅔ high with batter. Bake in the center of the oven for 7 minutes. 9. Take out the cupcakes, fill each cupcake with a chocolate ganache ball, and use the surrounding batter to smooth the surface of the cupcake. Pop these right back in the center of the oven and bake for about 18 minutes. The cupcakes should be slightly golden. Let cool completely, 30 minutes, and frost with chocolate buttercream.
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pineapple buns People yelling over each other in Cantonese, frenzied fingers pointing at carts passing by, and roast ducks on spits set the scene: a Sunday morning at my local dim sum restaurant. I never thought the chaotic environment would be something I took for granted, but when the pandemic forced dim sum restaurants to close, I found myself continuously longing for just one more visit, even willing to sit through the hour-long lines. I missed the anticipation of waiting for a table, the hurried stamps on my bill, and the reveal of plates of har gou, siu mai, and cheung fun under bamboo steamer lids.
by Grace Tran
After one particularly stressful day of studying in quarantine, I found myself craving pineapple buns. It felt as if I hadn’t had one in years, though it had been a mere few months. On a whim, I looked up some recipes and to my surprise discovered that not only did I have all the ingredients to make my own, but the directions were quite simple. I didn’t have high hopes but after hours of kneading and kneading, I pulled the tray out of the oven to find that the buns looked exactly as I’d remembered, the topping golden-brown and cracked in just the right places.
Biting into the first soft bun, I felt transported back But most of all, I missed my pineapple buns, and to my childhood, when I would get dim sum after a the warm sweet scent I never failed to miss wafting long orchestra rehearsal or as a treat on weekends. towards me from the incoming dim sum cart. Ever since I was a child, pineapple buns or bo lo bao had been a staple in my diet and my restaurant orders. Even when I was filled to the brim with food, I would still take them to go for my breakfast the next morning. Whether plain, custard-filled, or steaming hot with a pat of butter in its middle, my family joked I could easily eat ten in one sitting.
For just a few moments, my troubles melted away. But even past that, I realized that the entire baking process had alleviated my stress. I was so focused on tasting the end result that I hadn’t had a moment to worry about anything else. It seems I’d stumbled upon the same realization of everyone making sourdough during quarantine. So for all of you who are missing Sunday dim sums at RPCC and want something to do with your day, I hope this recipe helps you get your fix!
Tip: While the pineapple bun is still hot, cut the bun open horizontally and slide in a pat of butter for a savory and meltin-your-mouth twist to this classic
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PHOTO: GRACE TRAN
For the topping: 4 tsp butter, melted 2 tsp milk 1 large egg yolk 1 tsp vanilla extract ½ - ⅔ cup sugar (can be adjusted to taste) 1 cup all-purpose flour ½ tsp baking powder ½ tsp baking soda
For the bun: ¾ cup milk ⅓ cup sugar 1 packet, or 7g, dry yeast ¾ cup heavy cream 1 large egg 2 cups bread flour 1 ¾ cup all-purpose flour 1 tsp salt 3 ½ tbsp butter, softened
To make the egg wash: 1. Mix all ingredients well in a small bowl. Cover and refrigerate until use. To make the topping: 2. Melt the butter in a pan or microwave and wait for it to cool. In one bowl, mix it with the milk, egg yolk, vanilla extract, and sugar. 3. In a second bowl, mix the flour, baking powder, and baking soda. 4. Combine both bowls and mix until a “dough” forms. It may be very crumbly; if so, add one tablespoon of milk at a time until the topping becomes more cohesive. 5. Press the mixture together to resemble a long bar then cover with plastic wrap. The topping may be reshaped later on, so the shape does not matter as much at the moment. 6. Refrigerate until use. To make the buns: 7. Add milk, sugar, and yeast to a large bowl. Let the ingredients sit for 5 minutes to allow the yeast to activate. 8. Add heavy cream, egg, bread and all-purpose flours, and salt. 9. Knead the dough until it becomes smooth and no longer sticks to the sides of the bowl or your hands
For the egg wash topping: 2 large egg yolks 2 tsp milk ½ tsp sugar
12. Divide the dough into equal pieces (around 15-20). 13. Form a ball with each piece. To prevent the dough from drying out, knead a few times before shaping. As you roll the dough, try to avoid cracks and keep the surface smooth. 14. Place each ball on the baking sheet, roughly apart from each other. If the sheet cannot hold every piece of dough, find another similar surface. Cover and let sit for an hour. 15. While you’re waiting for the second proofing, unwrap the topping and with a knife, cut it into the same number of pieces as the dough. The topping should be firm but slightly pliable. You can use your hands or a rolling pin to reshape each slice if needed. To bake: 16. Preheat the oven to 350 F. 17. Place one slice of the topping on each ball of dough. Do not worry about fitting the topping to the dough - they will look slightly like mushrooms and that’s okay :) 18. Generously brush the egg wash onto the topping slice. 19. Bake 15-20 minutes until golden brown. Enjoy hot and fresh with a cup of milk tea, or cover and eat them reheated later!
10. Cover the bowl and allow the dough to sit for at least an hour. As you are waiting, line a baking sheet with parchment paper. 11. When the dough has risen to approximately twice its original size, remove from the bowl and briefly knead once
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Comfort in Community By Sophia Openshaw
An unpopular opinion, but I don’t like Mac & Cheese. To me, there is no comfort in one-dimensional flavor and instantaneous dairy-induced food comas. Being somewhat lactose intolerant may factor into this equation too. In the cold Northeast climate, it makes sense that the foods that people crave and find nostalgia in are thick, rich soups, hearty stews and some sort of cheese-pasta-potato permutation. However, not everyone in the world has the pleasure of experiencing the Ithaca winter. For some, braving the cold between the library and the warm tomato soup at the dining hall is an unknown existence. A world away from this Ithaca snowstorm, South East Asia offers comfort foods which are nourishing to the heart, playing an integral role in building community. For me, comfort is found in being jostled by my infinitely many cousins, aunts and uncles around a large table while heaping bowls of singang, a delicate tamarind based Filipino broth with eggplant, okra and commonly shrimp or Bibingkang Malagkit, a coconut sticky rice dessert topped with a broiled coconut caramel, are fought over.
Ingredients Sticky Rice Cake: 2 cups glutinous rice 1 ½ cups white sugar 2 cans coconut milk (400ml cans) 2 cups water ½ tsp salt Topping (Latik): 1 cup brown sugar ⅔ cups coconut milk (or 160ml can) 2 tbsp condensed milk or coconut milk (dairy free) Serves 2 8x8 aluminum pans (or 1 medium rectangular aluminum pan)
The first time I had Bibingka was at a Christmas party as a young child. My brothers and I were so entranced by it, we began to call Tita (auntie) Ann, ‘the Bibingka Lady’ and the nickname has stuck ever since. The very next weekend, Tita Ann came over to teach me how to make the dish which I’ve been making at Christmases and other celebrations ever since. I even made this last year for my first birthday and Friendsgiving away from home in a Low Rise 6 kitchenette, which goes to show just how college student friendly this dish is.
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PHOTO: Aarushi Gupta
Tita Ann’s Bibingka
Instructions 1
Soak the glutinous rice for at least 30 minutes (overnight is preferred) with one 400ml can coconut milk and 1 cup water in a mixing bowl.
2
Transfer the soaked ingredients to a medium sized pot and add the other can of 400ml coconut milk, 1 cup water and 1/2 tsp salt.
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Cook over medium heat. Stir the ingredients constantly to ensure the glutinous rice does not stick in the bottom of the pan.
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4
When the liquid starts boiling and the rice has grown in size, add the white sugar into the pot. Continue stirring until the rice is cooked and firm*, and transfer into pans.
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5
Heat a small saucepan over a low heat. Add the sugar and coconut milk to the saucepan and whisk constantly to break up any clumps. Add the condensed milk after the mixture has begun to feel syrupy. Continue cooking the syrup until it starts to boil and thicken. At this point, turn the heat off. Pour topping over the rice in the pan until it is fully covered. Broil the bibingka on the top shelf of your oven for 10 minutes, or until the topping begins to bubble slightly. Cool the bibingka for about 20-30 minutes, until the topping is set, then serve.
* Note: If you draw a line through the rice, the bottom of the pan should remain visible for a few seconds. (If the line disappears immediately, it isn’t ready yet). 13
Comfort Is A Pop Up Restaurant The 2Stay2Go Story by Lucas Gray COVID-19 a sense of those places that always embodied togetherness, reimagined to be exciting and nostalgic at the same time. It’s crispy fried chicken sandwiches and juicy burgers, dan dan noodles and healthy grain bowls, Mexican street corn and seasoned french fries, and it changes every week.
What is comfort? Comfort is that warm feeling of a blanket enveloping you on a really cold day. It’s friends and family laughing around a dinner table over the holidays. It’s a sense of safety and belonging, of nostalgia and love, of caring and representing. But at 2 Stay 2 Go, the latest addition to the Ithaca restaurant scene, comfort means something a little different. There, comfort is a group of college kids with an idea and all virtual classes having such a strong community around them that they are capable of doing what many would consider the unthinkable. It’s being free and brave enough to take a chance. It’s building a network, finding a place to start, and then assembling a team. A team to market and finance, to create and brainstorm, to prep and cook, to manage and clean, and of course, to have fun. It’s motivating that team and the greater community to help each other out simply because that’s the true definition of hospitality. It’s when a school and its alumni support their students. It’s people coming together to make something amazing happen in a matter of weeks. Comfort is found in the hours spent at local farms and meat shops talking to the farmers and butchers, selecting the perfect produce, freshest dairy, and best meats from within the community itself to take farm-to-table to the highest possible level. It’s carefully prepping those ingredients by hand to give a community dutifully staying reclusive to avoid spreading
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2 Stay 2 Go is an inventive student-owned-and-operated pop up restaurant located on 208 Dryden Rd. in Ithaca, NY. It is the late-summer pipe dream of Cornell School of Hotel Administration students Daniel Jones ‘22, Noah Horns ‘22, Robert Dandliker ‘22, Sabrina Sam ‘22, Darius Ganji ‘23, Luke Verzella ‘23, Chloe Kubrin ‘22, and Samay Bansal ‘21. In the 5 weeks leading up to its soft open on Thursday, October 8th, these 8 students, with the help of Annie Quach, the owner of the restaurant location and neighboring restaurant Hai Hong, did the necessary financing, networking, and marketing to open a pop up. The restaurant focuses on elevated comfort food, serving four main dishes and four sides prepared and cooked entirely by student chefs every week. However, as the name suggests, every week everything on the menu changes—except for the two most popular dishes. In order to make safety a priority during this COVID-19 pandemic, the restaurant does exclusively takeout and operates predominantly virtually to take orders. This rotating take out concept allows the chefs to feature a variety of farm to table dishes that explore how comfort food manifests itself across multiple different cultures. I had the opportunity to sit down with Noah Horns, coexecutive chef at 2 Stay 2 Go, after a spectacular opening week to talk about how comfort manifests itself in their maverick venture. As soon as I walked in the door, Horns greeted me with hopeful enthusiasm. Smelling the mouth-watering aromas wafting out of the kitchen and hearing that in the first three nights of operating they served over 600 people, I was anxious to hear more about their opening week. With the press packing every available table to interview the founders of the restaurant, Noah and I walked outside behind the back of the building to discuss his superlative pop-up.
At only 21 years old, Noah has been learning to cook all his life. He has worked in some of the finest restaurants across the country, and between him and co-executive chef, Robert Dandliker, they have over 13 years of kitchen experience. According to Horns, it’s all the tricks and techniques learned through experience that allow the creative freedom for making such inspired, elevated dishes. He explained to me that the idea behind comfort food was to evoke something more than just a flavorful meal. He says, true comfort food “makes you feel something, rather than just taste something. It brings you back to the meal your mom made when you were a kid, the best meal you had when you took that vacation to Japan or Mexico!” Interestingly, in Horn’s eyes, comfort is not synonymous with home—at least not entirely. It’s more about that feeling of warmth—whether from excitement or security—that certain memories will elicit and the dishes that trigger those memories. It’s a universal great feeling.
PHOTO: Ashley Shen
While the flavors of just their raw ingredients are unbelievably fresh, being farm-to-table is certainly not as luxurious as it sounds. It presents challenges to the chefs, but while some may be scared of the limited ingredients list, Horns and Dandliker have risen to the occasion. “Bobby and I do the entire menu ourselves. We design our menu around the ingredients that are available to us right now in New York and that’s very hard as we’re moving into the winter season. I have been working very closely with our producers and our farmers to understand the seasonal changes and what’s going to be moving off our menu as well as what’s going to become available as we move further into the winter. It’s constantly evolving to be the best version of itself.” Though talking about the seasonality of the food, Horns could easily have been describing the restaurant itself—always evolving. In this coming week they are attempting to launch two outdoor seating areas for the student community. Additionally, they have already begun thinking about continuing the project next year, and ultimately trying to become a permanent fixture in the Cornell student experience. But for now, they’re just happy to be doing what they love for such a strong community. “I couldn’t be more thankful for the support we’ve received from Cornell as a whole, from The Hotel School specifically, and from the university faculty taking meetings with us whenever we want help to work through issues. The immediate response from the Cornell community has been absolutely unbelievable. Some people have come everyday to eat our food, sometimes four nights in a row; I don’t think there’s anything in the world that could make me happier. And seeing everyone post it everywhere all over social media, getting excited to be a part of it—it’s amazing.”
This concept is demonstrated by the restaurant’s diverse menu options, taking dishes and techniques from around the globe. Part of the international representation stems from Noah’s belief that comfort food is, “Different for everybody, but anyone who is Vietnamese will understand what a banh mi is, Americans will understand that grilled cheese and soup is a classic comfort dish- if you took anyone from the respective culture they would tell you that we hit all the marks, we checked all the boxes. This makes them feel like home.”
It certainly is.
The menu may be international, but the ingredients are all local-- really local. According to Noah, being farm to table was never even a question for the team at 2 Stay 2 Go. Most of the produce is from a small radius of local farms, the dairy is from the Cornell Dairy, the meats are sourced from Autumn’s Harvest Farm, and the breads are all from Ithaca Bakery.
Editor’s note: This piece was originally written and published in November when 2Stay2Go was up and running! Although now closed, we look forward to seeing the team return in the future. Keep up with them on Instagram @2stay2go.
The community believes in 2 Stay 2 Go, and there’s a unique comfort in rallying around something as simple as a pop up restaurant. The success in this semester alone is truly inspirational, but this probably won’t be the last you see of this triumphant comfort food eatery. However, the next time you see them, it’ll be a new experience with entirely new flavors—as it always is.
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CULTURAL COMFORT FOODS By Aliyah Kilpatrick
Originally hailing from Lexington, Kentucky and then relocating to Arizona, Henderson understands the strong connection to home and how food can help students feel better at Cornell. “Soul food is the food that I try to recreate on this campus for other people. Whether it’s Korean food, whether it’s soul food, whether it’s carribean food, I just try to provide those things on campus every once in a while for those students that might have those feelings or emotions attached to them.” People came from all over campus to my one dorm in Ujamaa to have William’s carribean food, soul food, and more in order to get a taste of their cultural comfort food. Clubs and organizations would also have William make food for them because they knew he would be able to create a sense of home for other students.
H
ome. Warmth. Family. Culture. The definition of comfort food can change depending on who you ask. Since Cornellians come from all different backgrounds, I wanted explore comfort foods across different cultures and how Cornell students cook their comfort foods for others at Cornell to expose them to their cultures.
“You have to have a little bit of heart, some form or emotion, or feeling connected to that movement,” said Henderson.
As an African-American woman coming from Syracuse, New York, I had a wide range of food options across different cultures, such as fried chicken, collard green, mac and cheese, and candied yams coming from home. In Ithaca, it is hard to find restaurants that serve soul food, my comfort food. It is also difficult to find Caribbean restaurants and African restaurants. As a freshman on campus, I learned how to cook oxtails in my dorm’s kitchen. People came from all over the dorm to the kitchen to tell me how good the food smelled when I was cooking. Food draws people together and oxtails reminded me of home when I was missing family.
“I really see how much people love my food, and I love to feed people. I love seeing the smiles on their faces when they’re enjoying the meal I prepared for them.” Henderson continues to cook, and he showcases his food on his instagram page “@soulofthesouthcooking”.
During my freshman year here at Cornell, I learned quickly that students became their own personal chefs and cooked food themselves. Whether they sold plates of food to other individuals, or they incorporated it into their events, they created their comfort food out of their dorm kitchens to bring people together. William Henderson Cornell ‘22 in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences studying International Agriculture and Rural Development, has found a way to create his comfort food at Cornell by cooking it for himself and others. “Invested in my culture is that soul food, where I come from, it’s candied yams, collard greens, mac and cheese, fried chicken, and so many more,” said Henderson. “Everytime I see that food on a plate, instantly it clicks for me. This is home. This is comfort. This is me. This is why I feel that.”
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and PH OTO &C n i o : Rob ert Brooks (food from C
or)
Many other clubs also provide food for others as well. For example, beef patties were made by the Haitian Students Association, jerk chicken was made by the Caribbean Students Association, and empanadas were made by the Dominican Students Association for welcome back to school meals. Another student that enjoys cooking for her others at Cornell is Yomaris Hernandez Cornell ‘23, studying Sociology and Economics in the College of Arts and Sciences. For Hernandez food and comfort food is deeply ingrained in her culture.
“Food is a way you show love in my culture,” said Hernandez. Coming from the Bronx to Ithaca, Hernandez decided to cook more of her comfort food here at Cornell for her and her friends. Her traditional Dominican foods such as rice, chicken and beans, cooking on campus mader her feel at home. After only cooking for a year, after cooking for her friends Hernandez said it was a special experience. “It turned into a redefining moment, developing a hobby. I started to realize that people liked my food,” said Hernandez. Cooking on campus gave Hernandez a sense of home here at Cornell, whether it was sharing it with her friends or herself, it helped her create a home away from home.
PH OT O:
Mim i Li
(food from Simeon’s o
om eC n th
mo
ns)
In the new world of the Covid-19 pandemic, more people are home. This means that they are cooking for themselves and their friends so that they can have comfort food outside of a dining hall.
They are cooking for each other in times of need to process grief, loss, and to bring themselves joy and happiness. Now more than ever, I have seen an increase in appreciation for food and cooking.
PH OT O:
Mim i Li
(food from Simeon’s o
om eC n th
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ns)
I have used cooking as a way to express my love and appreciation to my family. When I came home from college for the first time, my family had me cook oxtails for them. Despite the hardships of a pandemic, it was a way to lift our spirits and have our own comfort food together, as family.
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WRAPPED UP IN DUMPLING MEMORIES By Consuelo Le
W
hen my parents moved from Shanghai to the United States in the late-1980s, they made a conscious effort to explore American culture. They basked in the beauty of Niagara Falls and the nightlights of Times Square, participated in the quintessential American barbecue, and even found time to visit the White House. When I visited Johns Hopkins University with them for the first time, where they conducted their postdoctoral research, my parents brought me to PJ’s, a little pub stuffed into the basement of their old apartment complex. As we walked down a flight of stairs alltoo-familiar to them, they smiled, happily reminiscing in their memories. Our lunch was filled not only with food but also with stories of them eating buckets upon buckets of chicken wings in these exact seats with their college friends.
But even with all of these happy memories, I know they miss living in China, surrounded by their family and closest friends. When they moved to America, they knew they would grow distant from the culture that they had known for all of their lives. As a child, I had never contemplated the internal struggles they faced in merging their Chinese and American identities. Yet as I grew older, being Asian American became more significant to me. In these past few years, I have wanted to actively connect with my parents and their traditions, but I often feel as though I am not trying hard enough. After all, I have not visited China since I saw my grandparents six years ago, even though I used to visit annually as a child. Even though I tell myself that it is only because of my busy school schedule, the guilt comes creeping back every so often.
P HO TO: Je
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nny
Ch e
n
Just as my parents partook in American culture, by gorging on their bottomless buckets of wings, I try to connect with my Chinese culture by making traditional Chinese dishes with my family. Homemade bao buns and dim sum on the weekends were a staple throughout my childhood, but nothing stands out in my memory more than making dumplings with my parents. Even though I only have a few clear memories of growing up, I distinctly remember sitting on the kitchen counter and watching my mom prepare various fillings for that evening’s dinner. A mixture of scallions and eggs filled one bowl, while a filling of pork, spinach, and dried mushroom sat in another. My parents and I would sit around the kitchen table with homemade dumpling wrappers, our fillings, and a bowl of water.
Patiently and lovingly, my mom would show me how to carefully crimp and seal the tops of the white dumpling wrappers and how to ‘swaddle’ the fillings in pale yellow wonton wrappers so that they looked like cradled babies. While hers would stand up smartly and beautifully, mine would flop over, clearly more interested in being tasty than picturesque. After wiping the excess flour off the table, I would watch my mom boil, steam, or fry up our pockets of goodness. She would ladle fresh wontons into a delicious soup or slide just-fried dumplings, with their crisp and golden edges, onto a plate with a variety of dipping sauces, from soy to sesame to chili oil.
e Ch ny n e J O: OT PH
n
No matter how bad my memory gets in the future, I know I’ll never forget these moments. Making dumplings together was not just a way to get dinner done quickly; it was a bonding experience, a time for my parents and I to talk about whatever came to our minds. Sometimes my parents would talk about their research experiments, and I would talk about school and friends. Other times, we would talk about our family in China and our connection to our culture. Even though family life is hard sometimes, making traditional Chinese food together has always reminded me of my love for them and my family in Shanghai. Homemade dumplings are the one food in the world I will confidently claim, ‘my mom makes it better.’ The warm and uplifting memories of making and eating them with my family makes them the ultimate comfort food for me. One of the biggest downsides of being away at college is that I miss out on those weekend dumpling nights, especially when my parents send me pictures of their beautiful dishes while I spend the night nose-deep in biochemistry and physics textbooks.
Sometimes, I get nostalgic and pick up a package of premade dumplings from the local Asian supermarket; but as I fry them up in Ithaca, I wish that I was standing in my Pennsylvanian kitchen, peering over my mom’s shoulder to check on when dinner would be ready. Her dumplings are my ultimate comfort food; they remind me that although the bond to my Chinese culture may be weak at times, I am keeping it alive by spending that time with my parents and learning about their experiences. Soon, I’ll be back in my grandparents’ apartment in Shanghai, sharing my latest college stories, hearing about the latest family gossip, and making dumplings with them, too.
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Swedish Pancakes by Ronya Strom If you’ve ever had to go to school on the weekend growing up, whether it was for a second language, to take your SATs, or those dreaded Kumon math classes, you can probably still hear your parent’s voice yelling at you to wake up after your fifth snoozed alarm. For me, something about going to Swedish school on a Sunday morning destroyed the concept of weekends as a time to relax, turning every Sunday into a battle between me and my bed. However, there was one rare exception that could flip the whole situation: the aroma of melting butter. Whether I slept for twelve hours or four, the sound of sizzling butter on a Sunday morning would wake me up instantly. In most households, the smell of butter can mean almost anything, but in my family, Sunday mornings and melting butter can only mean pannkakor, or Swedish pancakes. Paired with powdered sugar or jam (lingonberry and raspberry are the most common), these pancakes bring sweetness and a sense of joy, to even the groggiest of mornings. With simple ingredients and very little prep time, Swedish pancakes are an easy, traditional comfort food with variations existing across all of Northern Europe as well as some *mild* similarities to French crepes. Just don’t let any other Swedes hear you calling them crepes—that might end in a bloodbath.
RECIPE
Makes 7-10 pancakes 2 eggs ¾ cup flour 1 ½ cups milk ½ teaspoons salt 1 tsp vanilla sugar (or use normal sugar with a couple drops vanilla extract) 2 tbsp butter (plus more for frying) Instructions: 1. Combine all dry ingredients (flour, salt, sugar) together in a medium-sized bowl. 2. In a separate small bowl, Whisk together eggs and milk 3. Melt butter and combine into milk/egg mixture with the dry ingredients until uniformly mixed. 4. Melt butter in a frying pan and pour a thin layer of batter (just enough to cover the bottom). 5. When the pancake hardens and begins to turn matte, flip the pancake and fry for approximately 1 more minute until golden brown. 6. Repeat until all the batter is used up, greasing the pan with more butter in between every couple pancakes. 7. Serve with your choice of jam (lingonberry or raspberry is recommended) or powdered sugar!
PHOTO: Maria DiGiovanni
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Cornmeal Pancakes: Family Tradition and Rivalry by Maria DiGiovanni During a quarantine-induced quest for new dishes to attempt, I encountered a recipe for cornmeal pancakes. Being the life-long pancake enthusiast that I am, I could hardly wait to make them the coming morning and declared my plan to my parents. When I awoke the next day, I hurried downstairs, eager to bring my dream into fruition. Stepping into the kitchen, I was halted by the sight of my dad with a spatula in hand and pancakes sizzling on a pan—my cornmeal pancakes on a pan, to be precise. I felt robbed of a momentous opportunity. However, the change in events soon turned out to be a work of fate. My dad placed the stack of pancakes on the kitchen table before us, and we promptly dug in. As we each took in a forkful, our worlds changed. Those pancakes were wonderfully hearty, fluffy, and sweet, delivering a flavor that was somehow both simple and revolutionary. With every bite, the cornmeal’s texture and flavor seemed to warm the soul. By the meal’s end, my family had said farewell to ordinary, cornmeal-less pancakes. We welcomed these new pancakes into our routine. Almost weekly, my morning treks to the kitchen were greeted with the comfort of cornmeal pancakes. Even while I am here in Ithaca, my dad makes sure to send me a picture of the fresh stack he and my mom are eating at home—in my family, these pancakes are worthy of celebration. Cornmeal pancakes are now my dad’s precious craft, and my attempts at making them have never matched his. However, I sought to recreate this magical dish myself, and so began my search to create the ultimate cornmeal pancake recipe. I aimed to develop a recipe that enhanced the comforting cornmeal flavor while maintaining the fluffiness of pancakes. To further complement the cornmeal, I wanted to explore toppings—whether it be butter, honey, syrup, jam, or a harmony of them all. Whether or not my efforts proved to produce perfection, above all else, I hoped to create a dish that evokes the feeling of home that has come to accompany these pancakes. That is, after all, what comfort food is all about.
PHOTO: Maria DiGiovanni
RECIPE
Makes 12 servings ¾ cup all-purpose flour 1 cup yellow cornmeal 3 tablespoons granulated sugar ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 2 large eggs 1¼ cup buttermilk 3 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled Butter for pan 1. Mix dry ingredients in large bowl. 2. Whisk buttermilk, eggs, and melted butter in medium bowl, until blended. 3. Add liquid mixture to dry ingredients in large bowl and whisk until smooth. If batter is too thick, add 1-2 tablespoons buttermilk. 4. Heat pan over medium heat. Coat bottom of pan with small pat of butter. 5. For each pancake, scoop approximately ¼ cup batter onto warm pan, cooking until bottom is golden and bubbles appear on surface. 6. Flip pancake and cook until other side is golden. 7. Serve hot, topped with maple syrup, honey, jam, and whatever else your heart desires.
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THE emotion OF FOOD BY ANNA BROWN
When I was twelve my Ammachi (grandmother) taught me how to make pidi, a dish from Kerala that consists of rice balls cooked in a thick, starchy rice gravy. It was the first time I had ever heard of pidi, and I was determined to help. I remember her sitting at the dining table, rolling out the dough effortlessly with one hand and animatedly talking to my mom. “Don’t think about it, just squeeze the dough and release” she would tell me, laughing at my frustration. My Ammachi was always sitting at the dining table. Sometimes she would be hacking away at some tapioca for that night’s kappa puzhukku, other times she would be wrestling some jackfruit from the backyard for some chacka ada, but she was always sitting comfortably in her chair at the head of the table. As the years went by, she would stop hacking away at tapioca at the dining table. As she grew weaker, she would start giving instructions from her chair. “Add some of the chilies.” “Soak the tamarind.” “That isn’t enough salt.” To this day I don’t know how she always knew when there wasn’t enough salt without tasting it. There were many things Ammachi knew that I was amazed by. She knew exactly which banana blossoms were ready to be plucked. She knew which coconuts would have tender flesh. She knew how to tell if the fish brought to our doorstep by the fishmonger was fresh. She could tell you what type of banana the tree would form. She knew exactly when the jackfruit would ripen and fall. She could tell you if a rambutan would be sweet before peeling the shell. She could tell when the tapioca harvest was ready. Then suddenly, she wasn’t there to tell me if there was enough salt anymore. No one sat at the head of the dining table anymore. The tapioca would be harvested and given away. The banana blossoms would bloom and no one would pluck them. The jackfruits in our backyard would ripen and fall and no one would care. n row na B
: An OTO
PH
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Eight years later I stood in my kitchen trying to make pidi. It was a simple dish. Mix some hot water flavored with cumin with some rice flour and salt. Then knead. Yet, as I kneaded the dough trying to recreate it from memory, I couldn’t help but think that I was doing it all wrong. I tried to remember her advice: “Don’t think about it, just squeeze the dough and release.” But no matter how hard I tried they would never come out as round or as smooth as hers did. When I was done, I felt an immense loneliness. My pidi would never taste the same as hers.
But as I sat and ate, I couldn’t help but feel at home. I felt a warmth inside me, an incomprehensible, bittersweet joy. My pidi may not taste the same as hers, but I will never not think of her when I eat pidi. When I eat pidi, I remember the dining table. I remember my Ammachi sitting at the head of the table in her chair. I remember her hacking away at the tapioca, wrestling with the jackfruit. I remember her telling me there isn’t enough salt in that. I remember her walking through the backyard picking out banana blossoms. I remember her. And I find comfort in that.
Sundubu Jjigae By Alex Castroverde Sundubu Jjigae is my version of chicken noodle soup. It is not the soup itself that gives me comfort, even though the heat and spiciness envelop me like a warm hug when I feel sad. Rather I am calmed by the series of events required to make it, which remind me of home. After a hard day, my mother would sit my piteous self down and instruct me to wait.
I watched her dance in the kitchen as she prepared this warming dish for me.
PH
T O
O :M elis
She would then place a cloth mat and the stone bowl filled with Sundubu Jjigae in front of me, and the smell alone would make me feel better. I hope you enjoy this recipe as much as I did growing up. sa Sha o
Steps: Ingredients:
2 tbsp neutral oil ¼ yellow onion, diced 7 oz soft tofu, cubed 2 cups kimchi, cut into long strips 1 sprig of green onions, cut into long strips 1 egg 2 cups of water 1 tbsp gochujang 3 tsp soy sauce 3 cloves garlic, minced ¼ cups dried kelp ¼ cup dried mushrooms (optional) 3 oz meat (optional)
1. In a medium bowl, pour warm water over the dry kelp and/or dry mushrooms. 2. Place the stone bowl with some oil inside on top of the stove and heat it up on high heat. 3. Once the oil begins to smoke, add the prepared kimchi, onions, and garlic into the bowl. Let it cook on medium heat for 5 minutes. 4. Add the water from the kelp and mushrooms into the bowl and bring to a simmer. Then, stir in the gochujang paste and soy sauce. 5. Once fully incorporated, add the kelp, soft tofu, mushrooms, and meat. Let it simmer for about 10 minutes. 6. Remove from heat and crack an egg into the bowl. Place the lid on top, and let the soup cool down for 5 minutes. 7. Open the lid, cut some green onions on top, and enjoy!
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The Comfort of Repetition: How I Learned the Meaning of Comfort Food by: Hannah Rosenberg
I seek comfort in repetition. A lover of routines, I wake up at the same time every morning that affords me a large enough block to fit in my breakfast making, coffee sipping, and newspaper reading, perhaps with some leeway for a quick walk or last minute assignment. My breakfast itself is likewise strictly patterned in order to quell any morning uncertainties: I add spices, nuts, homemade granolas, and seasonal fruit to a bowl of oatmeal, and I buzz to my coffee maker to complete that ritual, changing up the coffee blend every bag down. But my love for cooking, new recipes, and concocting baked goods can overcome my desire for comfortable certainty. When the pandemic escalated across the U.S., and March rang in the Great College Student Diaspora, every ounce of life that I could look to for stability and comfort had wilted away. Once home, I tried to channel the overwhelming feeling of life upending into new habits and cooking, boundless walks, bread baking, and cake decorating. But even these activities could not bring me back into a stable orbit, or provide me with the sanctuary that routines in otherwise “normal” life had. The early stages of sheltering at home in my New York home were unsettling and
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painful, and I was desperate to find something—food, an activity, a routine—to comfort me. During my first weekend home, my family and I yearned for a respite from the increasingly horrific news reports. That respite was food. After my parents, sister, and I sat around our couch over-contemplating where to order dinner from, we decided on Blue Dolphin South, a newer addition to a restaurant, Blue Dolphin, that we had eaten at for over 10 years. Blue Dolphin, a small Italian, family-owned establishment, carved out of the building of an old diner, has provided my family and me with birthday dinners, sauce-laden pastas, wine-infused fishes, and crisp vegetable sides since I was five-years old. I can trace my love for food to the progression of the meals I ordered at Blue Dolphin. First, it was pasta bolognese in elementary school. Then as I stopped consuming red meat, fusilli aum aum—spiraled pasta fused with sautéed eggplant, mozzarella, and tomato sauce—became my order in middle school and high school, always with a side of olive-oil coated garlicky broccoli, and wedges of airy Italian bread that complemented the savory sauces. As I latch onto routines,
especially those entrenched in nostalgia, my family’s expeditions to and meals at Blue Dolphin encompass the comforts of restaurants and food. Back on the living room couch, we ordered a handful of Italian dishes over the phone, and arranged for curbside pickup, a new contactless facet of pandemic dining. I ordered orecchiette with chicken meatballs and broccoli rabe, my sister chose fusilli aum aum, my dad went with eggplant parmesan, and my mom selected chicken scarpariello. That first Blue Dolphin meal, after months of RPCC fried rice and repetitive salad-bar salads, was glorious. The four of us sat around our wooden kitchen table, and laddled up pasta onto our plates. We took turns grabbing chunks of Italian bread from a paper bag and swiping the leftover sauces with it. “Can I try this?” was repeated, as we took turns spooning pasta dishes and eggplant parm onto our dishes.
This experience, and the food itself, was comforting, how carb-rich, and well-spiced dishes envelope the body and mind in a hug, how meals entail conversation and togetherness. For that one night, until we checked our phones and my mom retreated to the T.V. room to watch the news, I felt secure in the bubble of my home, thanks to Blue Dolphin South’s food. As we approached mid April, I became more acquainted with Zoom classes and seeing my past classmates as virtual boxes in our distant bedrooms. Throughout this abrupt transition to online school, our Saturday night Blue Dolphin South meal gave me something to look forward to, a rest in the week, and a comforting meal and ritual. So, every Saturday, around 7:30 p.m., my family would head to our living room and dial up the restaurant.
Over time, the owner began to recognize our order, and my family developed a relationship with him, over the phone, and through a crack in our car window during pickup. Despite the barriers of masks, hand sanitizer, and the omnipresent fear that a loving stranger would have the virus, food proved essential to connecting us to each other and to the restaurant owner during a time of disconnection. Like most routines during the March through August fivemonth stretch, the novelty and comfort that their stability once provided eventually grew old. After venturing on the same walk, a loop of connected roads, around my town for months, what once brought me tranquility became droningly the same, and I began to feel a bit trapped in my town’s bubble. And after ordering from Blue Dolphin South more than 20 times, the comfort of the routine, nostalgic flavors, and pasta’s soothing qualities, waned. The Saturday supper had become another aspect of the repetition and sameness on which month-after-month of pandemic life brought. Although by July and August I still took pleasure in a restaurant meal, my relationship with Blue Dolphin South’s food mirrored my feelings toward being at home and gearing up to return to Cornell for the current semester. They both once protected me from the dangers of the outside world, but I was ready for a change and to experience something new. I am grateful that we were able to order from a restaurant, and that Blue Dolphin South has survived this tumultuous time.
While I feel a scramble of emotions for returning home in November, I know I can count on Blue Dolphin South to provide my family and I with a loving and comforting meal once more.
blue dolphin south
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The Perfect Paratha by Aarushi Gupta
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I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but taste is 90% smell, and out of the five senses, smell is the one most closely related to memory. Given this, it’s no wonder why even a small whiff of freshly baked pumpkin bread or your old favorite perfume brings along a flood of memories. For me, the sweet, savory, and doughy smell of parathas takes me back to my grandmother’s kitchen. Growing up, my family traveled to Dubai every summer to visit my grandparents. Seeing family was always nice, but the thing I most looked forward to as a child was eating garma garam (piping hot) parathas. Even now, just the thought of the soft dough, perfectly encasing whatever filling my heart desires, makes my mouth water. The filling is what defines the dish, so depending on what you do with it, it can be anything from a hearty meal to a delicious dessert—making it perfect for any and all times of day. That’s my excuse for having parathas for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even dessert! My fond memories of parathas begin with my sister and I trailing behind my grandma into the kitchen to be her “helpers.” At five and seven years old, we couldn’t be trusted to do the cutting and cooking, so our grandma assigned us the task of making the dough. In reality, this just means mixing atta (wholemeal wheat flour) with water in the right ratios. Despite the task’s simplicity, my sister and I needed a good half hour to get a consistent mixture (and then to clean the dough off our hands, of course). Once the dough was ready, we watched in enchantment as our grandma took a piece of dough, lightly flattened it, and added a scoop of sugar for the filling—one of our favorites. She carefully wrapped the dough into a tight ball, bulging with the sugar, and our jaws dropped when she’d flatten the dough into a paper thin layer with no filling to be found. No matter how many times we’d watch her make parathas, we
were always astonished at how the sugar would magically vanish. After frying the parathas for a few minutes on the stove, the light tan dough turned golden brown and we knew our parathas were ready to eat. Unlike at home, where we had to be called to the table multiple times to eat, my sister and I raced to eat the parathas the instant they were set on plates. We paired the still sizzling parathas with cold yogurt to ensure we didn’t burn our hands or tongues while wolfing them down. Although I have yet to find a paratha that tastes as good as my grandma’s, the smell of any paratha brings with it fond memories of my grandma and a great sense of comfort. In our family, parathas are synonymous to home. It is routine now that everytime my sister or I come back from college, we pick up an aloo (potato) paratha on the way home. I believe the comfort of parathas extends even to people without the memory associations that I have. Just like a friend who can perfectly match your energy level, parathas will take the shape of whatever you need in any given moment. Need a recovery meal during a cold? Have a hara bhara (green) paratha whose spinach-atta crust and radish filling will nurse you back to health in no time. Need some sweetness to get over the bitter pain of a breakup? Have a cheeni (sugar) paratha whose oozing sugary goodness will make you fall in love so hard you’ll forget their name. Stuck in a rut? Have a paneer (cheese) paratha with a side of achar (pickled fruits and vegetables) whose citrusy, spicy flavor will replenish your zest for life. Looking for a protein fix after a workout? A keema (minced beef) paratha is your best bet. The possibilities are endless!
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Taiwanese Night Market By Madeline Yeh
For me, comfort food comes from a small, rusted cart located in the alley of a busy street in east Asia. In Taiwan, the night is reinvigorated by the hustle and bustle of the night market. Located across Taipei, and in each municipality, these markets overflow with the smell of fresh Taiwanese dishes, the multicolored lights of street carts and stores, and the dimmed chatter of vendors and passersby.
There is something strangely comforting about the night market’s environment, with crowds of people gathered and enjoying the night under the neon glow of restaurant signs and lanterns.
2. Taiwanese Fried Chicken 鹽酥雞 (yán sū jī) 鹽酥雞: crispy, juicy, and perfectly seasoned. What’s not to like about Taiwanese fried chicken? Unlike other famous fried chicken varieties, Taiwanese fried chicken is flavored with the distinctive spices of Taiwan, five spice, and white pepper to create a delectable dish and easy finger food. 3. Beef Noodle Soup 牛肉麵 (niú ròu miàn) While each municipality of Taiwan will argue that theirs is the best rendition of beef noodle soup, there is no doubt that this qualifies as a Taiwanese comfort food. The chewy noodles, combined with the rich beef broth, makes for the perfect noodle soup.
Tourists from across the country and around the globe come to Taiwan just to experience the night markets, which are also known for their cheap and authentic Taiwanese comfort foods. For as little as 120 yuan (4 USD), you can easily get your fill on some comforting Taiwanese dishes.
4. Ba-Wan Dumplings 肉圓 (ròu yuán) Pronounced as “ba wan” in Taiwanese, ba-wan dumplings are Taiwan’s traditional dumpling, made from a starchy, translucent dough and filled with a savory pork or chicken stuffing. The best part? Its salty, sweet sauce.
A starter’s guide to Taiwanese comfort foods (in no particular order):
5. Oyster Vermicelli Noodles 蚵仔麵線 (hé zǐ miàn xiàn) Known as “orh ah mee sua” in Taiwanese, oyster vermicelli noodles are the chicken noodle soup of a Taiwanese kid’s childhood. Consisting of a thick savory soup, fresh oysters, and chewy vermicelli noodles, this dish is a key part of the Taiwanese comfort diet.
1. Braised Pork Rice Bowl 滷肉飯 (lǔ ròu fàn) 滷肉飯, also known as a braised pork rice bowl, could easily be considered Taiwan’s national treasure. A savory, aromatic rice dish flavored with soy sauce, five spice, and star anise spice, and featuring melt-in-your-mouth pieces of pork belly.
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Braised Pork Rice Recipe: Ingredients:
2 whole shallots 2 medium cloves garlic 2 tbsp oil 350 g medium fat pork (五花肉) ½ tsp five spice (五香粉) ½ tsp white pepper (白胡椒) 1½ cups soybean paste (醬油膏) ¼ cup soy sauce 6 cups water 2 star anise spice (八角) 2 tbsp rock sugar (冰糖) 1½ cups fried shallots (油蔥酥) 5 eggs (optional)
Instructions:
1. Finely chop the shallots and garlic into ½ cm. cubes, then heat a pan on medium heat. Add the oil to the pan, and allow it to heat slowly. Add the shallots and stir fry until they begin to lightly brown and add garlic. If you would like to add eggs to your dish, hard boil and peel them at this step. 2. Slice the pork into small cubes and add to the pan. Stir fry until the pork becomes white. 3. Add five spice, white pepper, soybean paste, and soy sauce to the pan. 4. Transfer the meat and sauce mixture to a larger pot. Once transferred, add water, star anise spice, rock sugar, and fried shallots to the pot and begin to cook on low heat for 1 hour. Optional: If adding eggs, add the hard-boiled eggs to the stew pot at this step. 5. After 1 hour, check the stew, and add additional sugar or water to adjust flavor to taste.
PHOTO: Emily Lam
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Vegan Comfort Food
BY AUDREY ANDREWS
The idea of “love languages” on social media is nearly ubiquitous. Scrolling through any platform, you are bound to see someone humorously, or seriously, describing how they show their affection to their friends, family, or significant other. It would be easy for me to write off “love languages” the same way I do the MBTI or horoscopes—just another personality test with no real purpose beyond a fun icebreaker or sleepover activity. Unfortunately, due to personal experience, I think this idea holds (too much) water. My mom became vegan to improve her health over a year ago. Because I love to cook for my family, her new lifestyle choice came as a disappointment to me. I could no longer give her spoonfuls of rich butternut squash soup— laden with heavy cream—or tastes of my buttery homemade pain au chocolat. At first, I would forget about her dietary restrictions and make her a plate, only for the meal to be woefully rejected. For a time, I gave up. I was uninterested in her soy-based chorizo or the “vegenaise” she put on her sandwiches. I thought, why try to emulate perfection with the real thing so close by? I continued cooking for my siblings and dad and paid little attention to my mom’s growing portion of the fridge. The shelves were slowly filled with (less than adequate) substitutes for her favorite foods: vegan ranch dressing, burger patties made from black beans and farro, and Halo Top “ice cream.” However, while cooking for my birthday last year, I finally realized the full impact of comfort food. I was in our small kitchen, whisking roux to a rich golden brown and grating cheese for the bechamel sauce. My friends were arriving soon, and I wanted to shove my signature homemade gruyere mac and cheese (topped with crispy sage and toasted breadcrumbs) in the oven before they arrived. During the meal, I saw a clear juxtaposition between my mothers’ plate and mine; her mundane spinach salad (with dried cranberries and a sprinkling of hemp seeds) next to my slice of cheesy, breaded goodness. That winter, her comfort food deprivation only worsened. I could
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see the craving in her eyes as our kitchen filled with the scent of my grandmother’s blonde brownie recipe, as we snacked on brie and crostini, rich foie gras, and the truffles and little wrapped caramels left out on the bar. I felt like I was being deprived too; I missed her comprehensive reviews of what I made, her honest criticism and her genuine praise when I made something especially delicious.
Cooking a meal and making someone a plate is what I would consider my “love language.” It communicates beyond words. It says, simply and on a primal level: “I made this for you, I don’t want you to be hungry. I hope you like it. I love you.” Thus, I begrudgingly put aside my skepticism of meat alternatives and began a rewarding new challenge. I set out to make comfort vegan food my mom would love, inspired by the dishes she missed the most. I started simple, making a maple syrup-sweetened banana bread (using a flaxseed egg). I quickly graduated to making my favorite complex chocolate cake recipe by using coconut oil instead of butter and applesauce instead of eggs. I made panna cotta with agar-agar in place of gelatin. I started researching, reading a multitude of blogs, and browsing the many carefully curated vegan Instagram pages. I had been cooking since I was very young, but now, I was finally being pushed outside of my comfort zone. Learning about vegan replacements for animal products helped teach me what makes a recipe tick; what exactly makes something taste light, rich, meaty, creamy, comforting? How can I preserve the essentials of a recipe, even when replacing some of the most prominent ingredients with animal-free alternatives? My mom’s—initially irritating— new lifestyle choice became a reason for me to experiment gastronomically and become a better cook in the process. In my pursuit of vegan comfort food, I made one especially significant breakthrough: liverless pate. Before becoming a vegan, it was one of my mom’s favorite comfort foods, always
reserved exclusively for her birthday, Christmas, New Years, and Valentine’s Day. The bulk of the original spread is made of butter, chicken liver, and heavy cream, seasoned with herbs, garlic, shallot, and alcohol, usually port, bourbon, cognac, or brandy. I researched and tried out many vegan alternatives, using lentils, eggplant, chickpeas, and other ingredients to try and mimic different aspects of pate’s unique, savory, rich flavor. Through trial and error, I finally found a combination that perfectly evoked the meaty flavor and unique nuttiness of the spread; cremini mushrooms and toasted walnuts, blended with sautéed onion, minced garlic, olive and coconut
oils and seasoned with hickory-smoked salt, black pepper, fresh thyme and parsley, finished with a splash of bourbon. I remember clearly the night I brought my mom thick slices of fresh-baked sourdough and the set pate in a little white ramekin, and her genuine disbelief that I had recreated one of her favorite foods. It wasn’t easy. It was often frustrating. It felt like a waste of time. But all of that extra time and effort spent to accommodate her new needs became worth it. In that moment, I was able to express my love for her in a way that other love languages could only hope to achieve.
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Rigatoni alla Salsiccia by Mackenzie Childs Serves: 4 Total time: 45 minutes
INGREDIENTS:
PHOTO: Ashley Shen
Before returning home for breaks, I mentally compile a list of restaurants I want to visit. Highlights of this list include Antico Pizza, where I celebrated my 18th birthday; Taqueria del Sol, specifically for a fried chicken taco; and Novo Cucina, my family’s favorite restaurant in Atlanta. These are places full of memories where my family and I celebrated birthdays, holidays, and academic successes. To me, these restaurants serve comfort food—food with a nostalgic or sentimental value that, when tasted, bring back a flood of memories. This summer, however, home wasn’t the same. When I returned to Atlanta in March, it dawned on me that not only would I be unable to visit these places to be reminded of old memories, but we also could not return to make new memories. A few weeks prior to Mother’s Day, my mom approached me and requested that I replicate her favorite meal—rigatoni with sausage and pink sauce Novo Cucina. And so I headed into the kitchen, apron on and wooden spoon in hand, to test and trial this recipe. In the process, I built upon existing memories and sentimentality to create a new comfort food. I have made this dish for Mother’s Day, my mom’s birthday, and for my grandparents and the memories of those occasions have helped to further cement Rigatoni alla Salsiccia as a comfort food.
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8 oz Rigatoni pasta ½ cup pasta water 1 lb bulk Italian sausage 1 medium onion, diced 1 tsp dried basil 1 tsp dried oregano 1 tsp dried parsley 1 tsp crushed red pepper ¾ cup half-and-half ¼ cup white wine 1 tbsp tomato paste 16 oz can crushed tomatoes 1 tbsp flour ¼ cup shredded Parmiganio-Reggiano cheese
INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Cook pasta one minute less than al dente, according to package directions. Before draining, reserve 1/2 cup pasta water. 2. Heat a large skillet over medium-high heat. Add sausage and cook through. Remove sausage from the pan, drain, and set aside. 3. In the same pan, sauté onion until it is translucent. 4. Then, add the tomato paste, dried spices, half-andhalf, wine, tomato sauce, and flour. Stir until combined and bring to a simmer to thicken. 5. Once small bubbles appear, add the sausage and stir until the sausage is broken up and evenly distributed through the sauce. 6. Then, add the cooked pasta along. Add pasta water, a little at a time, until the sauce clings to the pasta. 7. Finally, add the cheese and mix until melted and well combined. 8. Serve topped with more cheese, if desired.
SOP BUNTUT: SOUP FOR THE SOUL
BY ALLISON FARIAL
Although notorious among college students for its instant noodle Indomie Mie Goreng, Indonesian cuisine has so much more to offer than just a 12-inch packaged, dried noodle dish. Indonesia arguably curates the most aromatic and spice-laden foods in the world–dishes that take beyond five minutes to cook and require more than just a pot of boiling water.
INGREDIENTS:
1 lb oxtail 2 ½ garlic cloves 4 whole cloves ½ tsp crushed nutmeg 1 tbsp of vegetable oil ½ cinnamon stick ¼ lb carrot ¼ lb potato ½ tomato ½ scallion 1 tsp salt ½ tbsp white sugar 1 tsp ground white pepper 50g shallots ½ tbsp chopped ginger ¼ diced white onion 1 lime 1 Chinese celery leaf deep fried shallots (optional) steamed white rice (optional)
Having lived in Indonesia for the past 18 years of my life, I would often find myself craving a bowl of my mother’s Oxtail Soup (Sop Buntut), more so than a bowl of Mie Goreng. Oxtail soup is a popular Indonesian dish that is served not only by street vendors, but also by 5-star hotels–particularly because of its sentimental, nostalgic value. This soup, commonly enjoyed with a warm bowl of white rice and deep-fried shallots, is a wellknown masakan ibu (translated to mother’s cooking). There is no doubt that Cornellians of all cultures and races must be missing their own version of masakan ibu. But regardless of where you are from, you must get a taste of Indonesia’s–specifically my mother’s–hearty Sop Buntut, as it never disappoints.
DIRECTIONS:
1. Clean the oxtail by placing it in simmering water for about 8-9 minutes. Drain and remove the oxtail from the water in the pot. 2. Transfer the oxtail to a soup pot* filled halfway with water and cook for 2 hours on medium-low heat until meat is tender. 3. While waiting, prepare the spice paste. Grind together the shallots, minced garlic, crushed ginger, and diced onion in a mortar and pestle. Set aside. 4. In a frying pan, add in the spice paste along with vegetable oil, cloves, the cinnamon stick and nutmeg. Saute for around 3 minutes on medium heat. 5. Once the oxtail has finished cooking, strain out the excess oil and foam. Then, add the spice paste into the broth. 6. Bring the broth and oxtail back to a boil. Add in the carrots and potato, then season with salt, sugar, and ground white pepper. 7. Reduce the heat and simmer once the potatoes and carrots start to become tender. 8. Turn off the heat and enjoy with slices of tomato, finely-chopped scallion, Chinese celery**, lime juice, and a warm bowl of white rice topped with crunchy deep fried shallots! Notes:
ri Fa on llis :A TO PHO
* You can use a pressure cooker to reduce the cooking time to 40 minutes. ** Parsley is a good replacement for Chinese celery.
al
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Pista Love Cake
By Effat Rahman Ingredients: For the cake: ½ cup unsalted butter ¾ cup sugar ½ tsp vanilla extract, or to taste ¼ tsp rosewater, or to taste 2 eggs ½ cup milk 1 ¼ cup all-purpose flour ⅓ cup shelled pistachios 1 tsp baking powder ⅛ tsp salt Cardamom seeds (or ⅛ tsp powder) For the frosting: 3 cups Powdered sugar ⅓ cup Butter Rooh Afza (optional)
Directions:
PHOTO: Melissa Shao
As part of the Bangladeshi diaspora, I have had the privilege of indulging in both American and South Asian desserts. The aromatic taste of cardamom and rosewater brings me back to my childhood when I would eat shemai (vermicelli pudding) after coming home from the masjid on Eid mornings. My mother would stand over the stove for hours, stirring boiling milk and infusing spices and sugar into a dessert she knew would be devoured in less than a day. As I found my way into the kitchen over the past few months, I admired the time-saving methods of many Western desserts, mainly the ease of baking cakes. At the same time, I admired my parents’ nonchalant disregard for the measuring cups that I so dearly clung on to, instead opting to let their intuition and instincts guide them. In this recipe, I opted to forgo the measuring spoon for some of the ingredients, opting to taste and adjust the batter as I prepped.
This recipe for pistachio-cardamom cake is a love-letter to my heritage; an amalgamation of the perfumed spices and improvisation of South Asian cooking techniques with the ease of Western baking practices.
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1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. 2. Place the pistachios in a food processor/blender to crush them into a fine powder. 3. Peel the cardamom seeds to release the aromatic seeds inside, and crush using a mortar & pestle, or just buy cardamom powder. 4. Whisk the ground pistachios, all-purpose flour, cardamom, baking powder, and salt together. 5. Beat the butter in a separate bowl and add sugar gradually. Cream the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Mix in vanilla extract and rosewater into the butter and sugar mixture. 6. Beat the eggs into the butter mixture one by one until well mixed. 7. Add one-third of the flour mix into the butter. Once that is fully mixed, add half of the milk. Alternate between the flour and milk into the butter mixture until it’s just combined. Be sure not to over mix or the cake will be tough. 8. Pour the batter into a greased and floured 9-inch round pan. 9. Bake the cake for about 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. 10. For the frosting, cream together the butter and powdered sugar until light and fluffy. Rooh Afza is a red rose-flavored syrup that is a staple during Ramadan, but it is optional. I added it into the frosting for a slight tint and flavor. 11. Let the cake cool before icing it. Decorate with leftover crushed pistachios, almonds, or even dried rose petals.
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` CREME de cornell
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