FLOR- What Connects Us. by Flor- An EWM in Italy Digital Magazine

WHAT CONNECTS US.

EWM IN ITALY

WELCOME TO FLOR

"THIS I WEAR"

Get to know the EWM Florence Editorial Team

Dive deep into the short essays written by our EWM students

MAY 2022 | ISSUE 1

FLOR

FOOD THAT SHAPED US Read all about the recipes and foods that shaped us

FSU INTERNATIONAL PROGRAMS FSU ENGLISH DEPARTMENT EDITING, WRITING, AND MEDIA IN ITALY

FLOR ISSUE 1 SUMMER | 2022 Editor-in-Chief Rachel Zak

Editorial Team Penelope Abreu-Castillo Julia Caterson Kendall Cooper Molly Dekraai Kenny Dryslewski Emma Gannon Sarah Moloney Keely Myers Tia Nicholson Amanda Sandiford Travis Zittrauer

EWM in Italy Program Directors Perry Howell Judith Pascoe

FSU Florence Program Director Frank Nero

FLOR

TABLE OF CONTENTS Introductions 04

"This I Wear" 10

Food That Shaped Us 20

Life Imitates Art 33

Highlight Reel 35

MEET THE TEAM Meet our team and read about why they chose the EWM Florence Program.

AMANDA SANDIFORD

KEELY MYERS

JULIA CATERSON

"As an Editing, Writing, and Media

"I joined the editing team to look at

"I have loved my experience as an

major who wants to go into the

writing from another perspective.

EWM major at Florida State

editing and publishing field, I am

I'm used to the creation aspect and

University in Tallahassee and in

excited to work on the editorial staff

not necessarily the editing side of

Florence."

to learn more about possible career

things."

paths and gain some experience."

PENELOPE ABREU

KENDALL COOPER

EMMA GANNON

"When I got an email introducing a

"I am a rising senior and a double

"I am a junior at FSU studying creative

brand new EWM program in Florence,

major in Media/Communication

writing and political science. I am a

Italy, I immediately signed up. I

Studies and Editing, Writing, and

stickler for grammar, so when I heard

couldn't pass up the opportunity to

Media. This is my first time in Europe,

about this editing opportunity, I

work on my major and gain editing

and I can't wait to continue learning in

couldn’t pass it up!"

experience all while living in a

and outside of the classroom."

beautiful country."

MEET THE TEAM

MOLLY DEKRAAI

TIA NICHOLSON

SARAH MOLONEY

Molly is a rising junior majoring in

"I wanted the opportunity to take

"When I heard about the new EWM

Media Communication Studies and

what I've learned at FSU and apply

program in Florence, I jumped at

Editing, Writing, and Media. In

it across new cultures and

the

Tallahassee, she works on the

traditions."

learning, local field trips, and

opportunity.

The

hands-on

videography team with Strike

syllabuses

Magazine. She is excited to explore

continue to draw me in and inspire

a new culture during her semester

me. I can't wait to see what else is in

abroad.

store!"

shaped

TRAVIS ZITTRAUER

KENNY DRYSLEWSKI

EWM WEPO Student

Florence

EDI

E OT

S ’ R N O T

As we approach the end of our second week in Florence, I find it incredibly hard to fit all of our experiences into the margins of a magazine. Between the late-night gelato trips and early-morni ng walks to the Study Center, it feels as if we have alre ady done enough to fill one of the hand-bound books we mad e in class.

Rachel Zak Editor-in-Chief

Change can be hard enough on its own, but addi ng a language barrier to it provides more challenges than any of us expected. Although Google Translate has been a trusty sidekick, it cannot be used to translate cultural differences. Being immersed in an entirely new culture has been difficult, yes, but as more time passes, we find ourselves more and more comfortable embracing the Italian way. You gather useful information such as: no one drinks cappuccinos after 12pm, dinner never begins before 7pm, and mosquitos will find a way into your room- no matter how tightly you closed the window. This week's edition focuses on where we come from . As we take a closer look at the objects, places, and experiences that shape and define us as individuals, the question arises: "How will this semester shape us?" Though we do not know this yet, I am excited to see what the answer will be.

Flor is a new and experimental thing, not only for me, but also for the entire EWM in Italy program. "Flor" is what connects us in the most literal sense. It is the four letters shared between the words "Florida" and "Florence," but the connection goes far beyond being solely phonetic. Florence brings us together in an incredible way, just as the EWM program has begun to do the same. Writing allows us to connect with others through the page, and I hope to share this connection with all of you. This is why we have come together as students and creatives to produce a digital magazine filled with our thoughts and reflections about our time in Florence. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed experiencing it. Ciao!

Learning Outside the Classroom

The EWM Summer Classes ENG4815 (“What is a Text?”)

W I e s i a h T and ENG3803 (History of Text Technology) &

“This I Wear” In our Tuesday/Thursday morning course in Florence this summer, we are exploring the concepts of text and textuality from lots of different angles. We are looking at as much as we can fit into five weeks, from how books are made to whether or not clothes or dreams can function as texts. In the essays that follow, students were asked to recall a piece of clothing that they remember strongly and that has been important to them, then to explain to the reader why that piece of clothing was important. This was one piece of a larger discussion we are having in class about how humans communicate with each other and how fashion might function as a text. How students defined "clothing” and “important” was left up to them, and you will see that they approached the general goals of this essay from several different angles. Whether or not you think that fashion can be a form of communication, you will see that these essays certainly communicate a lot about each author.

The Basketball Hoodie By Keelin Myers I was a collector of sports in my youth. I tried anything and everything that fascinated me. Soccer, dance, basketball, tennis, track, skiing, volleyball, fencing, softball, dodgeball, kickball, if you can name it I probably tried my luck at it. Some sports stuck more than others. Basketball was one of them. It was the sport that stayed with me for eight years. I enjoyed every moment on the court, even if I was on the short side I could run faster than anyone. If I couldn’t make it in closer to the basket I would shoot three-pointers instead. Basketball forced me to push myself and my boundaries. My love for it was solidified when I received my basketball hoodie. This was the first and only piece of clothing my parents purchased for me off the merchandise magazine we received every year. I had asked them every year to gift me anything from it because I would see all the kids in class with their hockey sweats or in their soccer lettermen and I always felt jealous. I wanted to represent my sport and team too. I wanted everyone to know that I was “cool”. So when I finally received my hoodie I did just that. I wore my Wayzata Girls Basketball hoodie every day during my fifth-grade year. Rain or shine (or snow), I had on that sweatshirt. If I was allowed to wear it, I would. The yearbook is my proof--there are multiple images of me in the thick blue hoodie with gold lettering on the front, the colors of Wayzata, with some sort of athletic shorts or jeans on. It was a bit bulky on me and made me look

smaller than I already was, but the bright grin plastered on my face is clear. I was proud to wear this hoodie. Even if it wasn’t made with the highest quality, it was priceless in my eyes. The hoodie represented all of the hours I spent on the court, all the shots I had made and missed, all the laughs and cheers shared with my teammates, all the love I held for the sport, and the people in my life who allowed me to pursue it. Sadly, I did eventually grow out of that sweatshirt, and it was worn down from all the washes. My last name frayed to the point that it only reads “M R S” on the back. It was at this time that I had stopped playing basketball as well. I had moved onto a new chapter in my life and had new clothes to express my new passions. So I had to toss it away. I never stopped loving basketball--it is, and always will be, my favorite sport. I have done enough to know what I like a don’t like. I will always remember that hoodie. It is the key item that represents that time in my life, and my memory keeps it alive to me.

The Backstory of a Bandana By Kendall Cooper I rushed around my parents’ house, desperately trying not to be late for my second day of work. Frazzled, I remembered how I had gotten slightly sunburned the day before during my first shift at the plant nursery. “Hey Dad? Do you have a bandana I can borrow?” He disappeared into my parents’ bedroom and returned with a navy, standard-size bandana with a white paisley design. I tied it loosely around my neck for protection from the boggy summer sun, and I was off to work. This was the summer of 2020, and I was employed at a plant nursery/garden mart on the side of a highway in northeastern Louisiana. I worked nine-hour days, every day, except Sunday, when I only worked a seven-hour day. I initially wore the bandana for sun protection, but it morphed into something of a fashion statement. Instead of wearing it around my neck, I started rolling it into a long strip and then tying it into a headband, adding pizzazz to my utilitarian bun hairstyle. On days when I was feeling fancy, I folded it in half to make a triangle shape and wore it with my hair down. No matter what was going on with my hair, I wore the bandana every day. In a job that required me to be in athletic, dirty, not cute clothes every day, that bandana became my way of still feeling like myself. During my first week on the job, I had an experience I’ll never forget — moving pine straw. At this particular nursery, pine straw was delivered to us in standard-size 18-wheelers

containers, which can hold 1638 bales of pine straw that measure 2.5 cubic feet each. I was one of three wildly underpaid employees tasked with hauling the pine straw from its original container to the nursery’s personal container. One of my coworkers unlatched the door, and I just remember seeing a literal wall of pine straw bales. Moving each bale by hand with only three people took half the day, and by the end, I was tired, disgusting, and acutely aware of how cushy my life had been up to that point. The task was both mind numbing and physically draining. And through it all, my bandana stayed put in my hair through sheer force of will. But what I didn’t know was that this navy-colored bandana had already lived a full life before it found my hands. My dad told me how he first acquired the bandana when he was racing motorcycles as a teenager in the ‘80s. He didn’t specify how he wore it, how much he wore it, or even why he still had it, but I felt honored that he had given this small, square cloth memory to me. I’ve always been very close to my dad, and he is a symbol of strength in my life. I think that the bandana became an extension of that, and I wore it to keep a piece of his strength with me in order to get through a tough time in my life. I worked at that job for three months out of sheer stubbornness, and I hated it. But I learned a lot about life — and myself. I learned that I am someone who is strong and resilient and capable of much more than I had previously thought, and I learned all of these things with a navy bandana in my hair.

My Father’s Landscaping Jacket By Emma Gannon Many of the articles of clothing that I wear pass through multiple hands before they get to me, mostly coming from Goodwill or other local second hand shops. I also have a tendency to borrow clothing from members of my family. Sometimes, these clothes have even been worn by other relatives before arriving at our house. While most of this second-hand clothing is purchased, gifted, or borrowed in very good condition, one particular jacket of my father’s is ripped and tattered from years of use. Growing up, I didn’t think much about the jacket. Its neutral colors had faded into obsolescence and its style seemed to disregard the norms of fashion. All I knew was that when my father was wearing it, he was going to do some landscaping in the backyard or take a trip to the nursery in my hometown. Given the rather mundane occasions for which this jacket was worn, I had no reason to attach any real significance to it. Sometime in the past decade, my mother also began to wear the jacket when completing the same tasks. During my senior year of high school, I started to care about the clothing that I was wearing and the message my fashion choices were sending to the people around me. I began to view clothing as a method of communication, especially intracommunally. But what surprised me as much as anyone is that my father’s landscaping jacket satisfied my fashion-based communication needs. One cold afternoon while I was trying to leave the house in a rush, this jacket was the first I saw, and I threw it on. To my surprise, it was a perfect fit and matched the aesthetic I was aiming for. When no one else in my family was wearing it, I would. Despite the fact that the jacket has very obviously been worn consistently for years (and not

to mention that it smells like fresh mulch), the first day I wore the jacket to high school, I received more compliments than I probably ever had for any other article of clothing. Though this can likely be attributed to the burgeoning era of distressed and vintage fashion, I would like to think my classmates’ interest in the jacket stemmed from the story the jacket very clearly tells. Clothing taken off racks at popular stores doesn’t have the same history or authenticity that secondhand (or even thirdhand, in the case of this jacket) articles of clothing do. Though the original function of my father’s jacket may itself have been rather routine, the jacket has become an integral part of my family history because it tells something about my family in a way that no new, unworn article of clothing could. It is possible to interpret the significance of such a garment in a myriad of different ways. Some may take it to represent my family’s stubbornness and disdain for change. It is also possible to suggest it shows a love of nature and the outdoors. Regardless of how the jacket is interpreted, it gives information about both the wearer and my family’s history, culture, and values. This is why I prefer to wear second-hand clothes. When walking the aisles of used clothing stores, I like to create a story for the pieces of clothing. I imagine people going to parties in the dresses I buy, traveling across the country in the jeans on the rack, getting promoted in the shirts in my hands. Every article of clothing in a secondhand store tells a story. Even if the consumer of this clothing is blind to this backstory, much of the beauty of fashion is written subliminally, between the threads.

This I Wear: Socks By Sarah Moloney When I was thinking of which single item of clothing was and is important to me, I realized it is not outerwear, nor is it a single item. Instead, it is several pairs of socks, gifted to me by my mom. The trend started in high school. It was summer and my mom and I were at the mall, grinding out our last-minute back-to-school shopping. One of our first stops was Hot Topic. While there, I had passed up on some Yuri on Ice socks in an attempt at cost consciousness, even though it had become my favorite show. For the rest of the day, I thought of those socks, struggling to convince myself I didn’t need them. When we stopped to grab dinner at the food court, my mom walked off to use the restroom, and came back with a Hot Topic bag in hand. Opening it to see my favorite characters’ faces staring at me made me cry. I wore those socks every day until they were threadbare and covered in holes. After that, socks became my mom’s thing. I am materialistic and love stuff, collecting merchandise for whatever my interests are at the time. The majority of that merchandise has no function other than to sit on a shelf. My mom hates that, and strives to be a practical gift-giver, wanting to buy things I will use. However, she knows how much my interests mean to me. Her way of showing love is through supporting those interests, but in her own unique way. And that way is socks. The next set of socks I received the Christmas of my senior year. At that time, I was heavily into the k-pop group BTS. So what did I find when I ripped open my mom’s gift but seven pairs of

socks, each featuring a different BTS member in garish cartoon form. They were horribly cringey, one of the pieces of merch that fans made fun of online. But I absolutely adored them. Each day, I woke up and picked out my socks based on which member’s energy I wanted to channel that day. RM was for speeches, Jimin was for tests, Jungkook was for dance competitions. They were my emotional support socks. Those BTS socks even crossed the ocean and came with me to my first year of college in London. But disaster struck only two weeks in: two of my socks went missing in the laundry. I searched high and low, went through every machine, checked the floor and all my clean clothes. They were gone. I had lost something that connected me to my favorite band, and more importantly, to my mother. In my desperation, I abandoned all sense of shame and posted a picture of my missing socks to the group Facebook. No one came forward saying they’d found them, and I embarrassed myself for nothing. Then a miracle happened the week before I flew home for winter break. My socks just showed up in my last load of laundry like magic, as if they’d never been gone. The next two Christmases, I also got sets of BTS socks from my mom. She has now switched back to anime-themed pairs, like a pair of Sailor Moon cat socks for my birthday, and most recently, a set of Demon Slayer socks for Galentine’s Day. Most people don’t think twice about the socks they put on their feet, but for me, my sock reminds me of how much I am loved.

The Cheeto Dress By Amanda Sandiford When faced with the task of identifying a single item of clothing that was very important to me at some moment in my life, I was at a loss. Growing up as a younger sister and cousin, my closet was full of hand-me-downs that had more sentimental value to the original owner than to me. I thought maybe I could talk about the Snow White dress I begged my parents to buy me at Disney World, but in all honesty, I was four and don’t remember ever wearing it. I thought about my clothes in more recent years, but nothing stuck out to me as important. Sure, I have clothes I like, but there’s nothing in my closet that I truly couldn’t live without. At a complete and utter loss, I turned to the one source of inspiration I had left: my best friend of eighteen years. Surely after knowing me for so long, she could come up with some article of clothing that seemed important to me. When she uttered the words “Cheeto Dress,” I thought how could I have forgotten?

In short, I looked like I was wearing a dress made of Cheeto Puffs, and so, it became “The Cheeto Dress.” The Cheeto Dress was known to all —my friends, my family, even my teachers. Every time I wore it to school, my friends would come up to me and pretend to grab and eat one of the raised little dots, always thanking me for the Cheeto Puff. Some kids might have shied away from all the attention, but honestly, I think it made me love the dress more. I wore this dress every chance I got. It was always the first item in my dirty laundry hamper, because I’d wear it the day after my mom had washed it. I might think it’s ugly now, but I sure did love that dress.

See, when I was younger, I wore a lot of dresses. My closet was full of adorable little dresses—pink sundresses, plaid dresses, blue dresses with embroidery on the collar--you get the idea. However, in a closet full of charming, delightful dresses, my favorite dress in kindergarten might be one of the ugliest items of clothing I’ve ever owned. It was a hideous bright orange, with long sleeves and a matching headband. Both the headband and dress were made of minky dimple dot fabric, which means it had raised polka-dots all over. Picture Provided by Amanda Sandiford

The Swap By Tia Nicholson When deciding which piece of clothing to discuss, I bounced back and forth between various pieces that had been passed down from my grandmother to my mother, and then to me. After much thought, I scrapped this idea entirely and decided to discuss a very, very different piece of clothing. When I was a senior in high school, my best friend randomly decided to buy us matching sweatshirts. They were pieces of merch from a YouTuber that I don’t even watch named Ethan Klein. My best friend, Jack, bought them because they were on sale, and he thought they were funny. The only sizes that were left were about five sizes too big for us, but he bought them anyway. The sweatshirts started out as a joke, but we have made a tradition out of them. Since he goes to UF, we only see each other a few times each semester. Whenever we see each other, we trade the sweatshirts. “Why?” you might ask. Well, I have no idea. They are identical sweatshirts, but it has become a tradition, and far be it for me to ruin the tradition. The sweatshirts are the most obnoxious shade of Christmas green. The front of the shirt looks to be a generic ugly Christmas sweater design, but the closer you look, the stranger it gets. The front depicts Santa Clause in his normal costume: red hat and fluffy red sleeves. Santa is throwing up a peace sign with one hand. In the other hand, he is holding a vape. Behind him

is a cloud of smoke, and underneath that are little Christmas trees, Christmas lights, and snowflakes. Beneath the depiction of Santa Clause, a banner reads: “Papa Bless Y’all.” Each sleeve also depicts a vape with artfully shaped vapor coming out of it. Admittedly, when he first gave me the sweatshirt, I had no idea what I was looking at. I just found it amusing to wear ironically. To make it funnier, the sweatshirt fits me like more of a dress, coming down to my knees. For this reason, this sweatshirt is not something that I wear out and about while running errands or anything of that nature. It is mostly just worn around my apartment when it gets cold in the winter. While this piece of clothing might seem like more of a joke than an item of importance—understandably so—it still holds value for me. It’s strange and definitely not something I wear in front of most people, but the tradition behind it is very special to me. While my best friend only lives three hours away, it is still nice for both of us to have something of each other’s when we aren’t together. That is what makes the swapping of the sweatshirt something that means a lot to me, especially since it has been happening for almost four years. When I first received this sweatshirt, I had no idea that it would have any personal value for me. I envisioned it as something that would probably get donated to a thrift store. With that said, I am very glad I was wrong about that.

Picture Provided by Tia Nicholson

The Holy Grail of Shoes

showing me what I would classify as ‘old lady work shoes.’ She advertised them as good for the arches of my feet. I wasn’t amused. She was getting upset that I was turning down every single shoe she showed me, and that’s when I pointed out the age demographic of By Penelope Abreu-Castillo the store we were currently in. If you didn’t know, shopping for There were no women remotely women’s shoes past a size nine is hell. close to my age in sight. I sat down Or at least my experience with it is, and let her keep shopping. in fact, very much a living hell. Shortly afterward, we went into Trying to find cute shoes in my size another shoe store. This one was, is literally close to impossible. My struggles began at the ripe age of six, thankfully, filled with much younger people. The workers were when my shoe size decided to start matching up with my age at the time. really helpful as well. I pointed out This means that when I was in third the shoes I liked and they asked grade—eight years old and wearing a what size I’d like to try them in. I size eight shoe—I could no longer fit tell them I’m around a size ten or eleven. I’m told, “I’m sorry. This into girls’ shoes and had to shop in style only runs up to a size nine. the women’s section. Not everyone can say they have vivid memories of Could I help you find something else?” at least three times. It got to shoe shopping with their mom at the point where my mom asked Kohl’s from when they were eight them to just point me in the years old, stressing out over not direction of the ones they had in a being able to fit into the light-up size ten or larger. At that point, I Skechers shoes that they so gave up. desperately wanted. By fifth grade, I was ten years old with a size ten shoe. Thankfully, my feet were merciful, and they decided to mostly stop growing at that point. But it was at this age that I really started having issues with shoe shopping. I have had many, many shoe shopping horror stories, but the most recent experience happened right before I left for Italy.

The last store we went into that day was a Foot Locker. Here, I gave in to my urge to buy yet another pair of Converse. All I had to do was flag down a worker and ask if they had a men’s size eight pair of black Converse and I was set. I was in and out of the store within ten minutes.

Since middle school, my savior I went to the mall with my mom and holy grail through my shoe shopping issues have been to hunt for nice shoes. I ended up stomping in frustration around aisles Converse. Since they’re unisex shoes, they run in a large variety of endless very un-nice shoes. My mom kept

of sizes and I can always find a pair that I like in my size. I also love how quick and easy it is to buy them. It gives me the complete opposite experience that I get when I buy practically any other shoe at any store. In my lifetime, I’ve purchased at least nine pairs of Converse. I’ve had a pink pair, a white pair, a gray pair, a navy blue pair, multiple black pairs, a jean pair with white flowers on the sides, and my most recent purchase were cream-colored platform high tops with multicolored flowers on the sides. I currently own four pairs of Converse, two of which I brought with me to Italy (I wear them every single day). Converse may be horrible for my (mostly non-existent) foot arches, but I can’t beat what works so well for me. Every time I try to expand my horizons with shoes, I somehow always end up getting another pair of Converse. They’re like comfort food or comfort movies, but for my feet.

Necklace By Molly Dekraai To be completely honest, I don't have many sentimental clothing pieces. I have a favorite Led Zeppelin sweatshirt, a pair of zebra pants, and three Harry Styles shirts that are special to me, but they aren’t of the utmost importance in my life. Because of this, the prompt was daunting to me at first. But, then I remembered there is something that I wear every single day, without fail. I actually almost never take it off. The meaning isn’t based on family history or luck or tied to a special time in my life, but I’ve created the meaning myself, which is why I think it’s so noteworthy. The object I’m referring to is the turquoise necklace I’ve been wearing for a few years now. I believe that it was originally owned by my great grandmother, Georgia, and then my grandmother, and now me. After the death of her mother, Grandma gave all of her granddaughters some jewelry she had found. My sister Abby got a ring with silver and gold leaves she also wears daily, and my sister Kate received garnet earrings. Both LaVinah and my grandma owned numerous jewelry pieces that I admired all through childhood, but the first time I saw this necklace was when I was given it in high school. I wish I could tell you with certainty exactly where this necklace came from, its lineage of owners, why and when it was bought, and all the other background information, but I doubt I’ll ever know its true history. To be frank, my grandmother is not a person I very much enjoy speaking with. I actually loathe it. But, I promise, it’s not because I’m a brat. And it’s not just me. Also, I would have no problem repeating these

words directly to her, so here goes. When I was finally old enough to see it, I noticed what a stressor she was to my father, her child, and my mother, the daughter-in-law, and all six of my dad’s siblings. Strained marriages, teen trauma, and a myriad of undiagnosed narcissism disorders have caused her to be a pretty unpleasant person to be around. Phone calls with her are like pulling teeth, and I can’t remember the last time she did anything kind for anyone else. So, why do I want to wear something daily that reminds me of this woman? I don’t know why I just decided to put it on one random day and never take it off, but I’m glad I did. This necklace has become synonymous with me. If I’m not wearing it, something is awry. I’ve always wanted something that people know me for, and I feel like this necklace adequately does that, without being overwhelming or arrogant. My friends mention to me that turquoise reminds them of me now, and I get the kindest compliments from strangers almost daily. Even though the origins of this piece aren’t something I have the best memories of, I’m proud of myself for switching the narrative surrounding it. When I’m a grandmother one day, and I pass this necklace on, I want my grandchild to know I wore it in the most formative years of my life, all over the world. I want to show whoever gets it pictures of me wearing it- from my first day of school at Florida State, to swimming in the Mediterranean Sea, to my wedding day. I want my grandchild to look at my necklace and be reminded of the love I have for them and the joy I want them to feel, and I hope that I can start a long line of this tradition.

Oh, The Places You'll Go!

S h t a a h p e T d d o ENC3416 (Writing and Editing in Print and Online)

and ENC 3310 (Article and Essay Technique)

In the “Writing About Food in Italy” class, we use Florence as our classroom and write about all aspects of Italian food culture. Students learn from and emulate the writings of master food writers. They keep notebooks in which they copy out memorable sentences from the writings of expert cooks and food critics, as well as record the details of new food-related experiences. They use these notes to experiment with writing about food in several genres, including recipe, blog post, personal essay, travel narrative, and restaurant review. For the first writing assignment, students were asked to write a personal essay about a food or dish that is important to them or to their families. They were encouraged to introduce readers to an eating experience, including (if possible) a recipe.

DOMINICAN SANCOCHO By Penelope Abreu-Castillo When I was a kid, I hated Spanish television shows and Spanish music. They were constantly playing in my house. If it wasn’t Mamá (grandma) watching Caso Cerrado or La Rosa de Guadalupe on TV, it was Papi (dad) blasting Bachata in the living room. I would beg them to put on Disney Channel or to change the song to something in English. When I was a kid, I hated my hair. It was big and frizzy, and it wasn’t fair that I had to spend 4-5 hours in a salon chair to get it pinstraight like the other girls in my class. When I was a kid, I hated how dark my skin was and wondered why it didn’t look like the complexion of the others in my family or my classroom. My family would always point out that I was the literal "black sheep" of the family. My aunts and uncles called me "negrita," which always made me feel uncomfortable. They told me over and over how beautiful my skin was and how much they wished they could have my skin color. I would smile while silently thinking they’re just saying that to make me feel better. When I was a kid, I felt different. All. The. Time. At school, I was too Hispanic. Too Latina. Too different. At home and in my relatives’ homes, I was too American. A gringa. Again, too different. I’ve been told I grew up a picky eater. When I was a kid, I hated soup. I hated chicken that didn’t come in the form of chicken nuggets. Every other meal my parents gave me, I would

push away. I didn’t want the rice and chicken on my plate every day. I didn’t want the pastas or the mangú or the various kinds of meats my parents presented to me. I wanted to eat McDonalds and take-out Chinese food. Maybe I was a picky eater, or maybe I just wanted to be American. One of the meals my family eats fairly often is Sancocho. Sancocho is a hot soup we eat on every special occasion and at every large gathering. This soup originates from the Caribbean and has many different recipes that differ from country to country. Since my whole family is from the Dominican Republic, our Sancocho is more of a Dominican-style version, but Sancocho recipes tend to differ from family to family as well. When I was a kid, I would just eat rice and maybe some of the chicken from the broth. I refused to eat the soup like everyone else. My cousins and I always complained when we had to eat it on a particularly hot day. Nevertheless, we would all end up eating it anyway, sweating onto our bowls and plates. Now, I realize that my aversion to everything regarding my culture was a result of wanting to fit in with my peers at school. Through middle school and high school, I learned to love my skin. I stopped straightening my hair. My curls have never looked better. I started speaking Spanish again. I love watching novelas and listening to Dominican musicians like El Alfa. As I accepted myself and my culture, I gradually began falling in love with Dominican food. My family doesn’t eat Sancocho as often as we used to when I was a kid, but when we do, I pull out a big bowl and I fill it with chicken, beef, and lots of broth. I add rice to my bowl afterward and top it off with squeezed lime. It’s funny how one of my current favorite meals used to be my least favorite.

ingredient” per se, is actually Greek. The Cooper family jambalaya recipe uses copious amount of Cavender’s Greek seasoning, and that is the dish’s primary flavor profile. The jambalaya also includes butter, bell peppers, a white onion, green onions, lots of garlic, kitchen bouquet, jasmine rice, chicken tenders, andouille sausage, beef broth, hot sauce, Cavender’s and Tony Cachere’s seasoning— all quantities of which you By Kendall Cooper just have to measure with your soul. Chance finishes off the dish with cooked and seasoned Within the confines of the United States, shrimp, but I’m not a big fan, so I leave the there exists a beautiful mixture of cultures, shrimp out. Once all of those ingredients are cut, lifestyles, and, consequently, flavors. One of my chopped, or minced, they all go into a big rice personal favorite recipes to cook was passed cooker or pot on the stove — including the rice down to me by my uncle Chance. The jambalaya — and then you just wait until the liquid is fully recipe is relatively new, and I’m pretty sure absorbed. that I’m the first to have a deep emotional connection to it since nobody else in my family As I enter my senior year of college, I’ve been is particularly passionate about the intricacies making this jambalaya for almost three of cooking and baking. years now, and I have picked up some valuable tips and tricks for making the recipe. I used to Chance started bringing his jambalaya to think that you could only make it in a rice cooker family gatherings at least half a decade ago, and (that was the only way I had seen it done), but I the recipe’s origins are a mystery to both of us. learned that it actually cooks faster in a big pot The first time I ever ate it, I felt stars twinkle on the stove. To keep the sodium down, I in my eyes and butterflies soar in my belly. I actually dilute the beef broth to about half decided to stop begging for the meal every time strength or so — it won’t lose too much flavor I saw him, and I instead flat-out asked for the since the spices are already so strong. recipe. As I left for college, I wanted to know Additionally, I set the metal rice cooker pot/ how to make something easy, delicious, and actual pot on the stove on low heat and let the reminiscent of home. Chance told me that the butter and other ingredients congeal as I chop recipe simply did not exist and that I would the rest. As aforementioned, this jambalaya, and have to just watch him make it in order to learn all good Cajun recipes, calls for hot sauce. I use — and that’s exactly what I did. Tabasco since I like it best, but my uncle uses a Zatarain’s brand hot sauce that is actually pretty Jambalaya itself is a dish native to southern hard to find — even in Louisiana. Both work. Louisiana, and it dates back to the eighteenth century. It is one of what I like to call The Holy I love to make this dish for myself, but I Trinity of Cajun foods — the other two being really love to make it for others. Most of my gumbo and étouffée. Each of those three dishes friends at FSU are not southern, so many of them is comprised of the same flavors and rice, just at had never had this dish before I made it for them different consistencies. Gumbo is soup with during this year’s Mardi Gras. I decided to throw rice, étouffée is rice with sauce, and jambalaya a Mardi Gras party, complete with King Cake, is heavily seasoned rice. beads, and of course, my jambalaya. It brought so much joy to my heart to cook that dish as it I’m not entirely sure I should be giving this was intended — with good times and good away, so don’t tell my uncle, but the “secret company.

THE COOPER FAMILY JAMBALAYA

SWEET POTATO SALAD By Tia Nicholson Whether we like it or not, food is a defining character in our lives. You might have a dish that acts as a friend, bringing you comfort in the darkest of times. Or perhaps you have made an enemy out of your mother’s cherished tuna casserole. Foods aren’t just a crucial component of life because they provide sustenance; they also evoke strong emotions that influence our lives. I have always been the type of person who associates food with feelings and memories. While it may not be my favorite dish (flavorwise), my family’s sweet potato salad conjures many memories of my family crowded around the table together. These are core memories that I reflect upon even years later. My grandmother Lily prided herself on teaching my mother and me her recipes. These recipes were so ingrained within her that you couldn’t find them written down anywhere in her kitchen. She would simply recall them from memory, schooling me until I could remember the measurements and steps as well. I remember my grandmother’s calloused hands chopping up sweet potatoes while my mother and I would whisk together a maple syrup glaze. The smell of rosemary would waft through my grandmother’s tiny log cabin as we worked in harmony, smiling and fondly catching up on our lives. When I was a child, my parents moved across the country, separating me from my family. Holidays were one of the few exceptions, so when we came to visit, we would tell each other stories during every moment, but especially

while we were cooking. It was always a nice chance to play catch-up on all the little things we didn’t know about each other’s lives, whether that be funny stories of small interactions or updates on schoolwork and aspirations. This dish was a key component of holiday meals, whether Thanksgiving or Christmas. This sweet potato salad is a recipe that has been passed down on the maternal side of my family for more generations than I could count. Once my parents got married, it quickly spread to my father’s side. It is a staple, to say the least. This sweet potato salad differs from the traditional view of American potato salad. It combines rosemary-roasted sweet potatoes, toasted pecans, cranberries, caramelized onions, bacon, and a maple syrup apple cider vinegar glaze. When I was younger, we would follow the recipe exactly as we had memorized it, but once I turned fifteen and took up a vegetarian diet, my grandmother happily adapted the recipe to use tempeh in place of bacon. The maple syrup and apple cider vinegar glaze have the perfect combination of sweet and tangy. The toasted pecans and rosemary add an earthy taste, and the pecans add a much-needed crunch to the recipe. The bacon—or tempeh—adds a rich and salty flavor. With all of these diverse ingredients, the recipe covers many different flavor profiles, making it a favorite dish for any set of taste buds. Now, when I share this recipe with friends, I am always sure to tell them the story behind it. While my grandmother is no longer with us, it is a nice way of keeping her memory alive. Of course, I have pictures of my grandmother and me from my childhood, but I think the best memories are those that are easily remembered—not necessarily those that were caught on camera. This sweet potato salad always gives me a refresher of one of those core memories.

SWEET POTATO SALAD 3 cups of diced sweet potatoes Bacon (or tempeh) – cooked and crumbled Sauteed onions ½ bunch of green onions ¼ cup apple cider vinegar 1/3 cup of maple syrup ¼ cup dried cranberries Toasted pecans (measure with your heart)

Crepes are something I only ever make and serve to my family. Standing in the kitchen with my spatula and an omelet pan evokes Sunday morning brunch, me still wearing my church By Sarah Moloney clothes. It is all three generations of women slaving away in the kitchen, while my father and Most American families enjoy the usual brother wait in the wings, only willing to American fare of pancakes or waffles for their contribute to the eating of the meal. The fluffy, breakfasts and brunches. But my family has light crepes flavored with my preferred honey, roots in Austria, Hungary, and Germany, so we cinnamon sugar, and bananas are the perfect way prefer a style of pancake that is thinner and to wash away the lingering taste of cardboard more delicate, with a crispy, buttery communion. And after how much time I put into composition compared to a thick, fluffy one. getting those thin pancakes served, I am always These are crepes, or palaccinka/palatschinken. amazed at how quickly they would disappear off the plate. When I got old enough to use the stove, my grandma would (jokingly) complain about The first time I ever made crepes for family having to cook the breakfast crepes for my that wasn’t blood-related was during my family, walking around with an exaggerated freshman year abroad in London. I was eighteen, limp and holding her back while collecting the living independently for the first time in my life, necessary ingredients. I fell right into her trap and doing so in a foreign country. My new home and offered myself up as chef. was a winding top-floor apartment I shared with six others, called Flat 13. The seven of us became My grandma taught me to eyeball the correct a family, even if only for that one semester we consistency and texture of the batter, that an shared together. About a month in, I wanted to omelet pan is the cookware of choice, and how do something special for the six people who had to flick my wrist exactly right so that the crepe begun to mean so much to me. I sent out word would be even and smooth. My grandma taught that I would be making crepes that weekend and me how to serve them, stacked high on a plate asked them each to reply with their preference in with a buffet of toppings. My grandma even toppings. taught me patience, as it was my job to stand at the stove until all the batter was gone, even It was an adventure to make those crepes when the others were beginning to roll and fold because I had none of my usual brands of their crepes. ingredients and none of my usual cooking supplies. To top it off, I was working with a Based on that first lesson in crepe-making, I completely different system of measurement. But wrote down the ingredients my grandma used, it was all worth it to be able to watch my but no directions. That all is muscle memory. In flatmates trickle into the kitchen while I worked, cooking and baking, and in all other areas of one-by-one, half awake and still in their pajamas. life, I am an organized rule-follower. To stray Even though my crepes didn’t taste exactly how from the directions or the recipe is to court they would have in America, my flatmates looked disaster and dissatisfaction. But my grandma is at me as if I was the next Gordon Ramsey, the opposite. She will decide on a dish, pull up a begging for seconds as soon as they’d devoured recipe, and then not look at it once. Though the first batch. The dish I poured my love into this is not my way, crepes are the one dish in was loved in turn. That Saturday was one of the which I try to emulate her looseness. It is not first times I felt like an adult: autonomous and only the recipe that gets passed down, but also living my own life, but still connected to and the way in which it is made. building onto my family.

CREPES

CREPES Ingredients: · 1 cup of flour · 2 eggs · ½ cup of milk · ½ cup of water · ¼ teaspoon of salt · 2 tablespoons of butter (melted) Directions: - Mix ingredients in bowl and whisk well. Try to eliminate all the clumps of flour in the batter. - Spray pan with cooking spray. Heat pan on medium heat. A round omelet pan is best but use whatever frying pan is available. - Scoop the batter onto the pan, using around 1/4 cup for each crepe. Tilt the pan with a circular motion so that the batter coats the bottom surface evenly. - Cook the crepe for about 2 minutes, until the bottom is light brown. Flip the crepe with a spatula and cook the other side. Serve hot, rolled up with whatever toppings one wishes (honey, cinnamon and sugar, cut up fruit, Nutella, jam, peanut butter, etc).

THE BLACK BEAN SALMON By Keelin Myers People are consumers. We consume different cultures and ideas through fashion, art, books, media, gossip, and many more things. In my opinion, cooking is the most important thing we can consume as people. With the task of consuming comes the secondary role of critique. Every person wears the cloak of a critique. Now, I may not be well-versed in all subject matter, but I do have my strengths. I am a daughter. A daughter who is considered a picky eater by her relatives. In that regard, I am highly qualified to be speaking on homemade meals, especially those of my mother. In my family, my mother would be considered our Gordan Ramsey. A brilliant chef who yells at employees, but in my mom’s case, her employees work for free. She has glowing reviews by everyone from my grandmother to my dad’s old boss. She must receive constructive criticism from somewhere, and that’s where I come in. As a child, I would cast away delectable meals of gooey lasagna or tender slices of turkey and opt for, what I considered at the time, the magnum opus of cuisine. The PB&J. A symphony of flavors singing in harmony between two slabs of whole wheat. Years later, I look back and cringe at my ignorance. I would give anything to go back and eat the meals I deemed garbage with the palate of a seven-year-old. The negative reviews of meals changed after the salmon. If my mom had made it in my sandwich era, I would’ve laughed at her proposition of me eating fish. Luckily, I had developed a tongue by the time the salmon was introduced. The salmon recipe goes by many names: The Black Bean Salmon, Jill's Asian Salmon,

Cabin Salmon, and many more. It is all the same recipe, all the same fish. It is the only tried and true fish recipe that has made it into our monthly rotation of meals. We were first introduced to the recipe by my Aunt Jill at her cabin, hence some of the recipe's titles. I know she got it from some website since it is an Asian dish and ingredients but I’ll never get to thank the original amazing cook; their name is now lost to me. We all fell in love and had to get our hands on this fish. It became a staple in my house to the point that I could recognize it was salmon night when the aroma of hoisin, soy sauce, and garlic would slither its way into my room. It became a household recipe that visitors would ask for by name when they would come and join us for meals. What’s interesting is that my mom and both her sisters make it for their families, but we have never once had it at our big family holiday gatherings or luncheons. The salmons will never be compared to each other. Even though I believe my mother's would beat out the rest. The recipe itself is simple and to the point; there isn’t much room for confusion or misinterpretation. All the directions and ingredients are laid out in a way that a novice can comprehend. The most time-consuming portion is making the sauce, but it is what enhances the recipe to God tier. It's only meant to coat the salmon, but when you eat it with white rice, you instantly lather the rice in the sauce as well because you don’t want the rice to be excluded. My mother was kind enough to leave important safety tips for fireor accident-prone chefs like myself. I was handed this recipe and a jar of fermented black bean paste when I went off to college. I hope to master my salmon recipe and share its nostalgic and heavenly taste with my loved ones. I also hope to one day give this meal to my mom, as the daughter who was once her biggest critic. I want to have her sit down, relax, and consume my cuisine. Who knows? She might shoo away my meal and decide on a PB&J instead. For old times' sake.

THE BLACK BEAN SALMON 2 Tbsp peanut oil 2 Tbsp Sesame oil 2 Tbsp fermented black beans 1 Tbsp ginger 2 garlic cloves 2 Tbsp Sake or dry white wine 3 Tbsp Soy sauce 1 Tbsp Hoisin 1 Tbsp brown sugar 1 Cup chicken stock pepper 4 salmon fillets (Costco skinless cut into 2 inch wide fillets) 2 scallions/green onions diced 1/4 cup cilantro Heat oils in skillet over medium heat, stir fry black beans, ginger, and garlic 2 min. Add sake, soy sauce, hoisin, brown sugar, stock, and pepper, stir for 3 minutes. Add salmon and turn to coat, cover and cook 4 min. per side. Serve over rice and garnish with onion and cilantro. Yum! 'I usually double the recipe and use one monster salmon from costco. I use 2 large fry pans to do it all at once. Oils splatter so look out!

VEGAN CHILI By Emma Gannon No one in my family is particularly passionate about food. Oftentimes, any meal that is specially made is done sans recipe by my father. As a marathoner, my father has a unique view of food, believing it is simply a source of sustenance rather than something that should be enjoyed for the sake of it. On my maternal side of the family, my grandmother possessed a similar sentiment. Instead of viewing food as something to be enjoyed, she saw eating as something she had to do to survive. In fact, she wished she could take a 2,000-calorie pill once a day. Given the utilitarian feelings about food possessed by members on both sides of my family, it follows that food isn’t a major part of our family life; this is true with the exception of three recipes. The first, originating, at the very least, with my maternal grandmother, is the cheese puff pie. The second, which has been my father's signature since his twenties, is a calzone. The final, and most recently acquired recipe, was taken from a book written by ultrarunner Scott Jurek, a name that is inherently linked to ultrarunning (defined as any race longer than a marathon). In his book, titled Eat and Run, the recipe is officially called Minnesota Winter Chili, but in my family, it is known simply as vegetarian/vegan chili. Unlike the other cookbooks written by runners that my father and I have collected over the years, this vegan chili does not contain any unavailable or unaffordable. ingredients. While these other cookbooks try

so hard to be healthy that they become inaccessible, Jurek’s recipes understand that regular, everyday ingredients contain just as many health benefits as any of the so-called super ingredients other runners use in their cookbooks. In the approximately five years that my father has been making this recipe, it has diverged slightly from the official Minnesota Winter Chili. Two ingredients have been abandoned entirely: the bulgar wheat (the only ingredient that may be unfamiliar to the average chef) and the vegan sour cream (sour cream is never in our refrigerator). Otherwise, most of the peppers, beans, and spices have been kept consistent with the original, though some may be added or subtracted depending on what is already in the cabinets. Growing up in New Hampshire in a climate akin to that of Minnesota, warm, filling recipes are a staple during the long winter nights, and this recipe perfectly satisfies that need. Served out of a crockpot, the recipe feeds my family dinner and lunch for the next week (or longer, as it can be frozen). I would bring a thermos full of the chili for lunch throughout high school during the winter. Now, my father makes it right before I come home during breaks as a welcome present. If I could, I would eat this vegan chili every day. Despite my general apathy towards food, this recipe genuinely gets me excited to eat. The following page contains the original recipe taken from the book. As stated earlier, my father slightly deviates from this recipe.

VEGAN CHILI 2 tablespoons coconut oil or olive oil 2 garlic cloves, minced

1/2 teaspoon black pepper 1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes

1 cup finely chopped onion 8–10 medium mushrooms, finely chopped

1 15-ounce can tomato purée

1/2 cup finely chopped green bell pepper

1 15-ounce can kidney beans, drained

1/2 cup finely chopped red bell pepper

1 15-ounce can black beans, drained

1/2 cup finely chopped carrots 1 jalapeño pepper or other hot pepper, seeded and minced (optional) 1 cup frozen corn kernels 1 teaspoon ground cumin

1 15-ounce can red beans, drained 2 1/2 cups water 1/2 cup dry bulgur wheat Hot sauce or cayenne pepper (optional)

1/2 teaspoon ground coriander 2 tablespoons chili powder, or to taste 2 teaspoons sea salt, or to taste

1/4 cup minced fresh cilantro, for garnish Tofutti sour cream, for garnish (optional)

Add the oil to a large pot. Sauté the vegetables and spices in the oil over medium to medium-low heat for 10 minutes or until tender. Add a few tablespoons of water if the veggies begin sticking to the pot. Add the remaining ingredients except the cilantro and simmer over medium-low heat, covered, for 30 minutes. Stir and simmer for an additional 20 to 30 minutes until the veggies are cooked through. Season with salt and, if more spice is desired, hot sauce or cayenne pepper to taste. Serve sprinkled with the cilantro. Tip: Leftover chili freezes well.

PRIME RIB By Amanda Sandiford The holiday season is a time for traditions —watching cheesy Hallmark Rom-Coms, opening presents on Christmas morning, putting WD-40 in my dad’s stocking every year because he asked for it once as a teenager—but one tradition almost everyone has in common is food. Everyone I know has a different tradition revolving around food during the holiday season, whether it’s getting Chinese takeout on Christmas day or making sugar cookies from scratch and spending an entire afternoon decorating them. For my family, the most important Christmas tradition we have is Christmas Eve dinner. Each Christmas Eve, all of my grandparents and aunts and cousins pile into our dining room for a homemade meal. Everyone contributes sides and/or desserts, but the real star of the show is not the key lime pie or green bean casserole—it’s my mom’s prime rib roast. I’m not exactly sure how the tradition began, whether it was a meal my mom used to have on Christmas Eve growing up or if she simply made it one year and it stuck, but we’ve eaten prime rib for Christmas Eve dinner every year I can remember. The sides paired with it have changed over the years, varying based on what my grandparents were willing to cook, but the prime rib has stayed consistently delicious. It’s one of my favorite foods in the world. The savory meat is enhanced by au jus and, from what I hear, horseradish (I don’t personally like horseradish, but all of my family members tell me it’s tasty). Of course, this isn’t to say that the prime rib is always perfect. Cooking it requires you to place the meat into the oven at five-

hundred degrees Fahrenheit for twenty minutes before turning down the temperature and letting it roast for anywhere between one and three hours, depending on how many pounds of meat you’re cooking. After cooking it every year since I was little, my mom, you’d think, would be an expert at remembering to turn down the temperature of the oven. This was not the case in 2020. Maybe it was the stress of the pandemic getting to her, or maybe she was a little too relaxed—after all, she normally has to prepare the meal for twelve to fifteen people instead of the meager five that year—but in any case, she forgot to change the temperature, and as we were watching some forgettable holiday movie on Netflix, all of a sudden the smell of smoke wafted in from the kitchen. She caught it in the nick of time, but the outside edges were a bit more charred than was desirable. For me, the dish has become synonymous with all the things I love about Christmas— family, home, and love. It’s best enjoyed with the company of all of my relatives crammed into our dining room, with too many chairs for the table, bumping elbows and laughing about it. It serves anywhere between five and fourteen, all depending on which family members are available, and I feel lucky to be a permanent part of the headcount.

BBQ PORK SHOULDER By Molly Dekraai

know how to even begin this process. However, I can try and explain it from the perspective of someone who is not as involved in the direct cooking process, but is involved in the experience around it.

My father’s task starts early in the morning, usually before I’m even out of bed. Around 9, I’ll walk outside to see him tending to his creation. He’ll be sitting on the porch, tinkering with his special Green Egg-branded thermometer, with our Chocolate Lab Kris at his feet. Either a football game is playing on the TV or Tom Petty radio is playing from the speakers. Every few hours, I walk back outside to watch him slightly open or close the small door on the dome of the grill, getting the temperature just where he knows it should be. When we decide we’ll be having an Egg His best friend, also named Kris, will come dinner, specifically the pork we tried once for over from two doors down to drink a beer and Easter and never got tired of, my dad will wake watch more football while we wait. up even earlier than usual to prepare for the long day ahead. After getting charcoal, visiting The excitement reaches a crescendo when the butcher across the bridge, texting his the meat is finally released from the dome of friends to alert them of what’s to come, and The Egg, wrapped in a beach towel, and donning his Master Chef apron (personalized placed in an empty cooler to rest before with his name), he’s ready to begin his process. dinner. It’s at this moment someone runs to Not only is my father a Virgo, he is also a Publix for sides, my favorite sauce is made, military veteran, so he has it down to a science. and any guests arrive. After what always feels Much to my dismay, my dad decided to take up a new hobby involving food right before I left for college. In the last three years, he has become a master of the Big Green Egg. The Egg, as he lovingly refers to it, is a big grill that sits on our back patio on a table he fashioned himself, including the wheels on the bottom of it. It reminds me of a huge pressure cooker, and the science and art behind it is beyond my realm.

To be completely honest, I don’t really know the exact steps he takes in order to produce the most delicious meat in the world. In order to reach a better understanding of this affair, I asked if he could send me a written explanation of his steps, and this is what I received: “Pat dry, fat cap side down. Rub with seasoning. Place on grill, low temp, ~270 grill temp/~225 dome temp. At 160 deg internal temp rap in foil and flip over, fat cap up. At 190 internal temp remove and wrap in towel and put in cooler for ~ 1 1/2 hours. Pull apart/eat.” Not only is there zero context and a spelling error, but I think most people can agree they wouldn't

like far too long, the meat is pulled out and torn apart by another special gadget of my father's, what he calls his pork claws. Then, after a hard day’s work, it’s time to eat. For me, this eating experience is so important because of how much work my dad puts into it. He’s a man of few words, so showing his love through his actions is important to him. His meticulous procedure is easy to poke fun at, but it brings him joy to make something for everyone to enjoy, no matter how long it takes him. I’m sure spending all day in his backyard with his dog isn’t too bad, either.

Uffizi Gallery

Here's What our EWM Students Had to Say About It

The large two-story building occupied by the Uffizi Gallery was built between

Kendall remarked that the photographs

1560 and 1580, and was designed by

of The Birth of Venus are unable to do

Giorgio Vasari. The world-renowned

the beautiful piece of artwork justice.

Uffizi is known for its marvelous

Seeing it in person was her favorite part

collections of ancient sculptures and

of the gallery visit.

paintings-most notably an invaluable collection of ancient statues from the

Penelope tells me that the ceilings were

Medici family.

by far her favorite thing to see. The ornate gold embellishments and intricate

While there is plenty to see and do in the

art on each and every panel were

Gallery, our students took a break from

mesmerizing to look up at. Though it did

appreciating the art and attempted to

make our necks a little sore, it was worth

become the art. Posing left and right in

it.

front of their favorite statues, they attempted to capture the true essence of the works of art.

Top Left: Sarah pictured at our orientation dinner Top Middle: Kendall posing in front of Tindaro Screpolato– a sculpture featured at Boboli Gardens Top Right: Dinner with a view for Julia's 20th birthday

Middle Left: A few of the EWM students on their way to the Study Center for their first class of the semester Middle Right: Heading home from brunch

Bottom Left: Rachel and Julia testing their karaoke skills at a local restaurant and bar Bottom Right: Keelin trying a new dish that featured an entire shrimp

MAY 2022

FSU INTERNATIONAL PROGRAMS FLORENCE ITALY Phone: 850.644.3272 Email: IP-Info@fsu.edu Instagram: @FSU_Florence