kitchen sink zine: issue 02 growth & behold by kitchensink.zine

kitchen sink zine vol. 2

growth & behold

foreword Hello friends, It’s been a year of flux. First of all, we want to thank you -- contributors, editors and reader -- for your patience. As seasons changed, life and priorities also shifted. Consequently, we had to move away from our big ambitions for this second issue of the zine. Despite this, we were determined to see this zine to the finish line, no matter how long it took. This issue’s theme is centered on sitting with and beholding the feeling of growth. Growth cannot occur without change -- sometimes the feeling is exciting and other times its anxiety inducing. Regardless, there’s very little we can do besides holding space to observe it. As the first leaf of a new season caramelizes and falls to the ground, we wish you the best for wherever you are and whatever you’re feeling. Much love, kitchen sink 2

table of contents (i) he ones taken too soon / @instaebeth…………………………....………… 4 products / @kwayne_owens………………………………………………………………..6 labors of love/ @saraht_offical……………………………………………………….. 7 she / @instaebeth…………………………………………………………………………………….. 8 i am what i eat / 10 @gemtakesfoodpics…………………………………………. Recipe for coming out (to yourself) / 11 @anna_the_cheezluver………………………………………………………………………... 13 Recipe detective at your service / @joon.eats……………………….. 15 Untitled poem / @heironymousborscht………………………………………. 17 my mama, the slowness, & I / @thisisnotdaniela………………… 20 my kitchen renaissance / @_liamskii…………………………………………... 22 scallion pancakes / @narabakes……………………………………………………. 24 spaghetti was invented in China / @eatsbymeeeks…………. reclaiming home: tangible growth in the form of baked 26 goods / @erdbeertorten……………...……………………………………………………….. 29 pop-up pizza / @spoonfulof_ink…………………………………………………….. 30 underdog soup / @marie.con.miel………………………………………………….. 31 banana pancakes / @not_just_annie_body…………………………... 33 spitting citrus between pages / @emmamaar……………………..… 34 stewed saltﬁsh / @marie.con.miel…………………………………………………... grow and behold / @whatsfordinnerzine & 35 @serphinaoriana……………………..………………………………………………………………... My year of rest and (tastebud) awakening / 36 @charqtrie…………………………………………………………………………………………………….. 3

Elisabeth A. F.(she/her) @instaebeth

the ones taken too soon

We’ve all seen them: the light green tomatoes, the miniature bell peppers stuck in their transition from darkest green, the yellowish gray of stagnant vegetables, the off-color-hued produce that didn’t survive the frost. There is sorrow in seeing something gone before its prime, like a prize taken too soon. The hard frost came earlier than usual that year, surprising even the most knowledgeable growers. Cover it with a sheet or blanket at night, they said. That will keep your plants growing a few weeks longer until the hard frost comes. But even the flannel fitted sheet I found to swaddle my darling plants was an insufficient shield. As soon as I went outside, I knew. The damage was clear immediately. Hard frost, thick and white, sprinkled the still-green grass, and the air was heavy with cold. Even the best gardeners and vegetable farmers were thwarted. A friend told me he lost a van of cauliflowers to the hard frost, after finding them frozen to the core by morning. A neighbor brought a bag full of cabbages, tomatoes, and peppers hoping I’d find a use for them in their final stage. I did what I could with the dying produce, attempting to nurse it back to health in brown paper bags and warm spots on the counter. But it was no use. The speckled tomatoes turned soft and mealy, graying as they went. The peppers turned to mush at the bottom of the vegetable drawer. And the cabbage became sauerkraut, but only just barely, the slug holes dominated many of the good leaves.

Elisabeth A. F.(she/her) @instaebeth

There is a speciﬁc kind of sadness found in seeing the plants we nurtured for many months leave us like this. My partner’s grandmother used to say, “Don’t grow vegetables. They will only break your heart.” But no matter how many times the vegetables break us, we keep trying. As the air warms just slightly and the breeze is thick with the scent of earth, we return to our gardens. We rework the dirt, clean out stalks, and plan the placement of our seedlings. We replant tomatoes and peppers knowing the risks in our northern climate. We try again with our leeks and onions, our broccoli that slugs consumed before we could, our cabbage that wasn’t. And each time we survey our work, glancing across shoots of green and budding ﬂowers, we center ourselves to the Earth, choosing hope despite the uncertainty of the changing seasons.

Kwaku O. (he/him) @kwayne_owens

products “food is love and time” you once told me I couldn’t hear your words And I wish I listened sooner “sooner than i expected” days turned to months And I turn to that heat “heat the oil to the right temperature” the kelewele is insufficient by my neglect only And I told you

“you hold my frustrations and dreams” we wait for change to be lightning jolting from mind to mind And I can’t be that “that jollof speaks volumes” my tongue is tied and my hands are bound to chop, dice, slice, fry recycling like grains in the hourglass And I can hear you now “now what’s next?” i don’t know but I see an inﬁnity ahead. Food is love and time And I can’t rest

Sarah T (she/her) @saraht_offical

she

Elisabeth A. F.(she/her) @instaebeth

She sits at the porch table and eats. She may be alone, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling the cool June air on her face or seeing the sun-dappled canopy of lush oak trees around her. She looks down at a plate piled high with crispy chicken drumsticks and chickpeas with Castelvetrano olives, sumac, and lemony red onions. Sees a drink of Lillet mixed with white wine on ice in a clear blue tumbler atop a vintage table. She gives no thought to dining alone. Doesn’t worry what the passersby may think. She wastes no time wondering what they might say to each other, things such as: look at that poor lady // eating by herself // how sad. She takes the photograph before she eats, like the old days. Recently married and prior to that living together, she realizes it has been a long time since she’s cooked a big dinner for one.

Elisabeth A. F.(she/her) @instaebeth

She realizes something – those days, when she was adamant about getting a photo of the food on the table before eating – perhaps the ritual was an antidote to her loneliness. Perhaps she couldn’t imagine the food being seen by her eyes only. Perhaps she started photographing these ephemeral scenes as a record, as an interaction with the world, as a connection to something outside of herself. She now understands that perhaps that was the point all along. She looks at these old photographs periodically. And each time she does, she remembers she is alive.

Gemma S. (she/her) @gemtakesfoodpics

i am what i eat

Anna W.(they/them) @anna_the_cheezluver

Recipe for Coming Out (to yourself) 1.

Pick out a cookie recipe to be frosted What’s that phantom taste on the tip of your tongue? The one that’s been lingering now for a few weeks that you’ve been craving but haven’t made yet? Maybe it’s a snickerdoodle or ginger snap with vanilla icing, perhaps an old fashioned sugar cookie with strawberry buttercream. Most importantly for all recipes, one of those tubes of the writing icing; color of your choice.

Prepare the cookies Watch the ingredients transform as you mindfully mix them. The butter, once a smooth pale yellow brick, is now a light brown grainy splash in your bowl as you cream it with sugar. Each fold, each roll, each shaping brings you closer to its new form.

Prepare the frosting while the cookies bake. The smells are tempting you, keeping you in this moment, keeping you feeling at home with yourself.

Elisabeth A. F.(she/her) @instaebeth

Cool the cookies. Take a shower. Change your clothes. Maybe put on that tight sports bra that ﬂattens your curves. Maybe you tie your favorite scarf into a skirt so you can feel the breeze between your legs like you’ve never felt allowed before. Maybe you put on makeup that feels good to you; some eyeliner, some 5 o’clock shadow. Maybe you’re ready to put on all the things that feel right, maybe tonight you start with just a couple, just baby steps to coming into you

Frost the cookies With your freshly painted canvas of a body, prepare the canvas of your cookie. Give a slate to decorate.

Write your pronouns with the icing Write the ones that have been deep inside you. The ones you didn’t know you wanted to hear when they talk about you. The ones that make you feel yourself. The ones that feel good to you right now. Maybe, if you’re ready, put a name too. Recite them out loud as you write them in icing. Say them with your name. See how it feels, see what ﬁts

Eat the cookies Take a moment to read, to say and to listen to what’s on the cookie. Then take a bite, savoring every minute of the celebration. To butter and sugar and building a home within yourself.

Recipe Detective At Your Service

Shauna S. (she/her) @joon.eats

Pandemic Cooking led to a deeper connection with friends, family, and acquaintances. When I got the call that I lost my job due to Covid, I immediately headed out the door to my local markets and brought home a haul to cook for my house. Torn away from my restaurant manager schedule where I consumed the majority of my meals, this breakup gave me the time to get back to my cooking roots. Housemate dinner quarantine day 1, turned to day 2, day 3, and so on until there were only a few nights a week that my roommates didn’t get a home-cooked meal . A frenzy of cooking projects followed including homemade cooking videos to keep us entertained, recipe development to keep 3 meals a day an adventure, and roommate cooking classes. After 8 quarantine months of relishing in San Francisco’s prime produce and farmers markets, I took my appetite elsewhere to spice things up during a pretty bland time -Brooklyn baby. Yes, I went against the grain with this move. When one moves to a new city in the middle of a pandemic with an urge to connect with old friends and to make new ones, you have to get creative. As I settled into a new world of ﬂavors, cultures, and connections, food remained the top conversation starter. Brooklyn is a melting pot, and I jumped head ﬁrst into this fondue, making new friends from all over the world: Egypt, Trinidad, Cuba, etc., the list goes on.. The common denominator? Though previously too busy with their fast-paced, New York hustle lifestyle, they had all gotten the pandemic cooking bug. The interesting part was that most were still unfamiliar with their own cultural food traditions and deferred to Bon Appetit, NYT Cooking, and other popular cookbooks to get their recipes.

Recipes in testing: Armenian Dolmas - Caylah Jean (Painter and Set Designer) @caylah.jean Trinidadian Pelau - Omari (Musician) @swellmclovin

Lebanese-Cuban Kibbeh - Vanessa Granda (Photographer) @vanessagranda Cioppino - Mat Cullen (Set Designer) @matcullen Thai Green Curry - Madison Voelkel (Photographer) @m_voelkel Chili Crisps - Jonathan Yam (Data Consultant) @instaayam

Shauna S. (she/her) @joon.eats

I first noticed this trend with my new friend from Egypt. He grew up in Cairo and talked about this one dish that he misses -- a dish which his grandmother was known for preparing. . I asked if his mom could show him how to make it but no, she was not the kind of mom that cooked. As an Iranian German-Jew, I was shook. Cooking has been the connective thread to my immigrant background, so I just assumed that most people with immigrant families shared this common ground. This got me thinking: If someone raised in Cairo doesn’t know how to cook their grandmother’s dish, is this dish gone forever? Lost to her grave? This reminded me of another pre-pandemic moment... Just in the knick of time in 2019, I was lucky enough to spend 4 months traveling. The takeaway: tourist attractions are ruined by Instagram and selfie sticks. I don’t have time to see the Mona Lisa through someone else’s phone screen. I did, however, have time for breakfast, lunch, dinner, mid-day snack, dessert, and a never ending buffet of street food. As I threw temple plans out my Kyoto window, I stumbled upon a rice cracker shop deep in a neighborhood. With toddler sized jars full of cracker variations, the shore belonged to a keeper who is the third generation of their family to maintain the establishment full of homemade treats. This got me thinking, what if the shop owner doesn’t have an heir to his rice cracker temple? What if his next generation chooses programming over baking? Will these tasty treats be gone forever? Who is preserving these culinary traditions like the billionaires fixing the Notre Dame? These food businesses are artifacts and should be preserved and visited like any other cultural phenomenon. With these two experiences colliding and sparking the flame in my head, I set out on a mission to preserve culinary traditions while also making new friends. Friends of friends were connected to me with an interest in archiving a dish. Within a few months, I covered major ground: Cuba, Lebanon, Armenia, Thailand, China, Trinidad and San Francisco. Some had no clue where to start, others had an idea. Whichever part of the process they were in preserving their family recipes, they now had a recipe detective showing up on their doorsteps with a bottle of wine and bag of ingredients in tow. It was a first-time meeting for some, but those are my favorite. It’s almost like an awkward Tinder date, but instead of digging for conversation starters, you have appetizers and grandmothers to discuss. One by one, I recorded these dining dates and began recipe testing to come up with a final product of stories and recipes to share. I have voice memos walking me through each moment to preserve this experience and archive these culinary traditions. For the new and old friends that let this random girl into their kitchen, I thank you for teaching me about your art and showing me why Brooklyn is like no other place in the world, all while fueling my passion for cooking with new flavors and techniques.

Untitled Poem

Lena W. (she/her) @heironymousborscht

I. i buy nice cotton underwear, reheat the soup & sweat beside the stove, the plant whose mind carries loneliness out of me perspires also even in winter the great horned owl goes on out the window how the stars enumerate the mind could be heaven in a manner of speaking the mind happening is just frantic percussion the heavens dense and denser as you look my mouth superﬂuous like gender like everything else from the inside is full minded even /w most of the leaves gone It doesn’t matter that this isn’t the only tree for miles this is the tree outside of my window my love, my neighbor ppl make tender music

II. i am rich! on a diet of metadata w/ your voice in it probably heaven smells beethoven you said the universe tastes salty and crunchy but also not like anything at all

when you sing it’s the light i can't capture w/ my iphone camera You walk the perimeter of a lake, accrue zinnias, you are not gracious. You mispronounce heaven, turning the long A into an anvil. 15

Lena W. (she/her) @heironymousborscht

III. I walk to the left of the rain, i walk to the right of the rain, then i walk into the center of the rain. I swear oﬀ indecision, imprecision-a song I listen back to. What if the moon has phantom limbs? illuminating the idea outside of myself, away from the world softly. (that Rhapsody!) I like it how the wind, my blue pen, heaven illegibly make love to the foraging. Is there anything that isn’t romance? I have tons of lemons. The ﬁfth planet from the sun parents me. The breakfast you make shines on me like nobody else in the world, like dharma, like eternity is in love w/ me et al.

I try my best with pieces missing in the century in which it is still meaningful to share a stroll under an umbrella, in which we swap umbrellas. Wonderfully bisexual panthers have sex in the subarctics. People begin statements with “Frankly...” in the nearly translucent off-hours. The older I get, improving my posture, in the secrecy of her poem, causality deepens. I love the gates of sleep, how the female clown fish handles her disputes, the buck embroidered onto your grey sweatshirt. W/ a snake charmer’s duende, I air-dry the teal pants & wash my hands in warm water until my fingers bleed, HAHA! The coda, its metallic face shining like the first tooth I lost. Symbiotic mutualisms fall out of the sky! The dog unawares makes a puddle w /the sun & such languor. It’s invisible, unfortunate--not knowing how to lick my elbow. 16

Daniela B. (she/her) @thisisnotdaniela

My Mama, the slowness, & I How lockdown cooking taught me a lesson about time, purpose and the people I love.

I’ve always been aware of the care and tenderness that goes into preparing a meal, but I don’t think I had fully comprehended it until this year. During my childhood in Spain, my mother would prop up a little stool for me in the kitchen to talk to her as she cooked, not minding if she had to repeat what she had said various times for me to hear her over the sounds of stove-top sizzling. I never quite understood it while I watched her, absorbing the performative quality; the grating and the stirring, fingers gingerly dancing across cutting boards. Nor did I understand it when I performed other little rituals like setting the table. Always the same order: cutlery first (“No Daniela, not those! Those are for special occasions only!”), then glasses, then plates. I would dive in and out of the kitchen, dangerously harpooning my mother’s path as I dotted backwards and forwards, stacks of precious cargo in my arms. Nor did I understand it when my mother would finally set down a plate of steaming food in front of me and make a joke, wiping her hands on her apron. “If it tastes off, don’t say anything,” she’d say. “It’s probably just what I was feeling like today.” My mother always believed you can taste the emotions of the cook in their food, the same way the characters can taste Tita’s emotions in Like Water For Chocolate. Even then, however, I still don’t think I fully understood the role of care in the kitchen. I lacked something crucial to fully make sense of it: an awareness of the scarcity and sacredness of time. It is only when time is a currency, and one you have all-too-many shortages of, that you really begin to make sense of the significance of stretching that time for things that might not necessarily require such devotion. To carve out time, and then use even more than what you had set aside. To make something from scratch and by hand, when there are store-bought alternatives you buy every other week. The realization that to care so much while cooking is really just to care so much about someone else.

Daniela B. (she/her) @thisisnotdaniela

This continued on for the majority of my life. I always admired and was thankful for my mother’s cooking and her commitment to taking care of our family, but that was all. In college, my relationship with food and how it interacts with my relationship with time was not one that I could pay much mind to. Quite simply, I viewed cooking as a means to an end. I acknowledged it as a necessary process and even enjoyed it at times, but it was never anything beyond that. Preparing couscous in the morning to take to class, or simmering tofu to add to coconut rice and kidney beans, or even baking box mixes of banana bread on the weekend with my roommate when we could find a quiet moment. Carrying out the act of cooking was to step closer to the finished product, so everything I did, I carried out in anticipation of it and not for the sake of it. And then... and then. After so many years spent living apart, I found myself under the same roof as my mother once again. In Mexico City, of all places. A city I had never lived in growing up, but only heard of fondly from my family. It all felt so surprising that my mind kept almost convincing me living with her was a foreign, new experience but I never listened to it. Being with my mother in Mexico tasted too familiar on my tongue, slipping into old habits and rituals like the way in which I set the table. Always childlike, never childish. We no longer own the little stool I used to sit on, having lost it in one of our moves in the past. Maybe from Spain to England, where I spent my adolescence? Or was it when my mother moved from England to return to Mexico, her homeland? I wonder if I would even fit on it today. As a child, I remember having ample room on it for me to sit and for my legs to dangle, but then again, a lot of childhood memories look so different when you see them again today. Everything is so much bigger when you’re a kid. On the other hand, I did find myself with something so sought after, something I otherwise don’t normally possess: time. My mother found the same. The pandemic thrust us suddenly into a perplexing new world where time shared together was simply not running out. As someone who had only viewed cooking as a means to an end, I could allow myself, for the first point in my life, to take time out of my day to do it. I could really indulge in the slowness of cooking, a side to it I had never been able to experience before. Cooking itself was starting to become an activity entirely separate in its worth and purpose to eating. I knew about the intimacy of sharing a meal, but I was not aware first-hand of how that intimacy begins with the preparation of it.

Daniela B. (she/her) @thisisnotdaniela

Rituals even took on a different feeling. Challah bread every Friday was no longer just a tradition carried out mechanically. The street vendors who bike down our road, selling banana-leafed tamales or milky coffee at the same hour every day, punctuating what would otherwise be a timeless period as days bled into each other. But at what point precisely did cooking become something more? At what point did I become aware it was slowly reframing anything I do to come from a place of care? I remember clumsily trying to navigate spending more time with my mother in the kitchen. We ignored the piles of her cookbook collections in favor of more familiar recipes. The lekaj cake my great-grandmother would make, with the adaptions my grandmother perfected, each bite bursting with touches of orange and honey and spices along with her gratitude. The pasta e fagioli soup my late grandpa used to love having his daughter-in-law make for him, aromatic spoonfuls of longing encased in beans. The latkes I grew up eating, each crispy mouthful leaving an aftertaste tinged with nostalgia. In sharing this time, cooking together would each day have less and less to do with the final product and more to do with how we could bond over it. Just small moments of nothing but my mama, the slowness, and I. One November evening we tried to follow my friend’s recipe for pie crust but couldn’t. All the labor we had put into it should have felt in vain, but it did not. Even if that labor bore no fruit, it somehow did not feel like a loss. For the first time, the purpose of cooking had completely shifted in me. I finally understood the care and tenderness that goes into it. Even from afar, we could give each other the gift of time in this way. Coming together as a family with my sister in England and my grandparents in Spain and baking lekaj in unison over Zoom. To share space in spite of distance, disproving the notion that togetherness can only be geographical. Until the day we can all cook together again, I am grateful I have my mother to stand beside and hug tightly as she dices garlic, unrushed and unfaltering.

My Kitchen Renaissance

Liam S.(he/him) @_liamskii

Nourished by the thought of breakfast alone, I now awake at a much more reasonable time, somewhere around eight. I was never one for mornings, simply enjoying the comfort of messy beds much more. But I’ve found a new appreciation for mornings. Not only do I awaken to the chirping of birds, I get to eat another meal! I’ve always felt a guilt for cramming in so much between midday and nine at night, so to spread out the joy of eating is a great pleasure. I don’t eat loads, but I do enjoy what I eat. For breakfast I take the time to brew dark roast coffee in my French press, and carve an apple into tender slim slices. Depending on the season I might indulge in another piece of fruit, particularly plums -- they do seem to be more readily available regardless of season because Spain is so generous as to send us some golden beauties. I like to think this past year has been educational, even if my patisserie course was canceled. Despite being a complete novice I have continued to learn and develop, attempting new recipes; failing and succeeding in equal measures. When in need of a reliable win, I can always turn to the baking bible that is Mary Berry’s ultimate cake book as these are the original scriptures for any baking fanatic. Baking has been somewhat of a blessing and a curse this past year. It has given me focus and drive, allowed me to supply my friends with a sweet treat when I cannot comfort them in a dimly lit café, and offer my usual self proclaimed sage advice and anecdotal tales of distraction. For that I am thankful. However, always having a cake tin out on display is dangerous for a sugar addict like myself. A sliver of cake becomes a slice; one biscuit becomes one and a half (with the other half lost in a cup of coffee). There is of course comfort to be found in food, but I fear my dependency on food for more than nutrition can be dangerous. Self-control is a blessing we’re not all gifted with — my self-awareness will have to do, sending me warning signals before I need to buy a new pair of jeans. I can always turn to my elasticated trousers in an emergency, but I liked to preserve them for true moments of need.

Liam S.(he/him) @_liamskii

In an attempt to conserve my current trusty jeans, I decided to go on a bit of a health kick. I don’t believe in fad diets since an unfortunate incident with some slim fast circa 2019, but I do believe in eating fresher and eating less. Instead of relying on my usual repertoire of quick easy meals, I began using my time to try new recipes, and shop around for fresher ingredients. My quick meal habits came about because of my unsociable work schedule, but this year I’ve had more time and a healthier routine. I actually made the meals from some of my favourite cookbooks, discovering a variety of new dinner champions from the likes of Nigella Lawson, Jerry Mai, and Anna Jones to name but a few. It’s so easy to get into a rut cooking the same meals again and again. Even just one new meal a month is a refreshing change from the status quo. I think the variety of meals has not just saved my ever-dependent tinned tomato diet, but given me a whole new zest in the kitchen. I now complete meal prep with pep; a stark contrast to my old sluggish enthusiasm. Overﬂowing, the fruit bowl now glows with exotic kaleidoscopic beauty. The veg box, less colourful, still sparks excitement. New spices and condiments ﬁll my dreams and kitchen cabinets. But I think it is more than just the shiny newness of the unfamiliar that brings pleasure. It is the chance for a new experience, and an opportunity to learn and develop. Like the many screws and dowels of an ikea chest of drawers I spend more than the estimated time building, golden beetroot and some hot sauce I struggle to pronounce constructs something beautiful and sturdy I come to rely on.

Scallion Pancakes

Alissa, (she/her) @narabakes

Scallion pancakes (葱油饼) are commonly found in Chinese street food vendors and they make a great snack and side dish. Pan-frying it gives a crispy and ﬂaky exterior with a chewier interior. This recipe uses sesame oil in place of lard or chicken fat as a healthier (but equally good) option. Makes 4, Takes about an hour

DOUGH 300g (about 2 cups) all purpose ﬂour 1/2 tsp salt 195ml warm water 1 tsp sesame oil neutral oil for brushing

FILLING 1 tsp ground white pepper or ﬁve spice 1 tsp salt 1 1/2 tbsp sesame oil 1 tbsp all purpose ﬂour

2 stalks of scallions, chopped neutral oil to grease surface

1. Mix flour, salt and warm water. Knead briefly to incorporate all the flour. 2. Knead oil into the dough until smooth. 3. Brush dough with a layer of oil and cover to rest for 30 mins. 4. Combine pepper, flour, salt and oil. Set aside. Heat oil on medium-high heat until it begins to smoke 5. Mix oil into pepper mixture. Let the mixture cool. 6. Divide dough into 4 parts. 7. On a greased surface, roll a piece of dough into a 30x25 cm / 12x10 inch rectangle. 8. Brush a layer of the spice mixture and add a layer of scallions. 9. Roll the dough from top to bottom and seal both ends of the dough. 10. Stretch the dough and leaving one end uncut, cut the rolled piece of dough horizontally. 22

Alissa, (she/her) @narabakes

11. Roll both strands of dough inwards, forming a heart shape 12. Stack one roll over another, and let it rest for 10 mins. Repeat with remaining pieces of dough. 13. Roll out a pancake into an 18 cm / 7 inch disc. 14. With oil on medium heat, cook both sides while ﬂipping and rotating occasionally, using chopsticks to slightly separate and loosen the layers. 15. Cook the pancake until both sides are golden brown and crisp (about 4 mins). Repeat with remaining pancakes.

Tameka A, (she/her) @eatsbymeeeks

Spaghetti was invented in China

For 20 years, I held on that Marco Pollo brought noodles to Italy from China. When I learned about this in second grade, my 8-year-old self was blown away. For several months my class rotated substitutes who would throw on a movie to keep us preoccupied. One day, we watched a film about China’s inventions. While watching reenactments of the building of the great wall and silk in Neolithic China, we learned that spaghetti was created in China first. I had only known spaghetti to be an Italian dish. I didn’t consider that the only side dish I enjoyed was lo mein from a Chinese spot down the street from my house. I held onto that fact, because I know it seemed unbelievable. I prepared to argue with anyone who didn’t believe that the Chinese invented spaghetti. I designed the debate in my head and patiently waited for a moment to school someone on spaghetti. That moment never came until now. After a year in quarantine, I have learned to roast a duck, prepare a fresh squid, and use my unused produce for a delicious stock. But the one thing that I’ve always prepared myself for is knowing how to make lasagna from scratch. Creating anything from scratch is to make it without any ingredients or materials prepared ahead of time. Why would I ever need to know how to make an entire lasagna from scratch? Because what if I need to! I started off developing my own tomato sauces, adding flavors from my Cape Verdean culture to enhance the traditional Italian recipe. In 12 months, I became accustomed to buying Roma tomatoes and placing them right into a pot of boiling water to peel. To buy a store-bought sauce has become unfamiliar to me. Then I was introduced to shredding my cheese, and the store-bought mozzarella bags became foreign and unnecessary. Why buy it in a bag like I’ve seen my mother do for years when I could get fresh mozzarella, parmesan, and imported pecorino romano and shred it for a better melt and taste. To challenge me, I learned how to make ricotta cheese, yes, ricotta cheese. It is impressive how eight cups of whole milk and 2 cups of cream with lemon juice and a thermometer can convert you into never repurchasing homemade ricotta. 24

Tameka A, (she/her) @eatsbymeeeks

Then came my proudest moment, the lasagna sheets. I’ve never been to Europe or eaten at an authentic restaurant in the North End of Boston. As familiar as Italian food is, I’ve never experienced genuine, authentic Italian cuisine. I watched countless videos searching for one with an easy formula for egg pasta, but I never found one. I discovered that pasta starts from flour, which is essentially a powder and cannot be measured by cups because it’s never consistent. I made up a song in my head to memorize that for every 300g, add 185 g of your wet ingredients. I told everyone who would listen that pasta dough needed to be weighed, not measured by cups. I practiced my kneading method with my t-shirts on the laundromat’s folding table before touching the dough. And when I finally introduced my room temperature eggs to my 00 flour, I made sure to start from the larger number on the pasta machine and kept extra flour on hand. Layering those thin, fresh, sheets on top of my homemade sauce and ricotta, was breathtaking. I had made something I’ve always bought at stores. The sheets were so delicate but strong enough to hold hardy sauce mixed with fresh tomatoes, beef, and minced pork. The ricotta was creamy with a hint of sweetness that paired well with the unique spiciness of my sauce. It was an unbelievable feeling knowing everything in the pan was made by my own hands. Cooking has become what I enjoy the most. I am so intrigued by where foods come from and the science behind it all. I can spend hours talking about recipes from different countries and certain dishes because I just want to know. I want to understand why foods are popular in different regions and why some are not. I want to understand the process and enjoy every part of the process of creating a dish, even if it means me spending hours in the kitchen. In an area like mine, it’s almost unnecessary to make anything from scratch when you have access to it all, but like that little Chinese fact I never got to use in a debate, I just appreciate knowing how far food has traveled through time.

Jillian B, (she/her) @erdbeertorten

Reclaiming Home: Tangible Growth in the Form of Baked Goods I was so looking forward to flying home from Canada to Germany last summer. For the first time in a long time it felt like Hamburg, where I was born and raised, was calling to me. Since moving away, every return fills me with a swirling mix of emotions: excitement and bittersweet nostalgia sitting heavy in my stomach. I walk the familiar streets very softly when I first arrive, like someone gently pressing a bruise to see if it still hurts. It feels like real-time exposure therapy but every visit back helps me bring some long-buried joy to the surface and leaves me feeling stronger. With my summer plans cancelled, yearning for home comforts was kicked into high gear, so I started searching for recipes that reminded me of going to a German bakery: my dad coming back from the Bäckerei with warm buns for us to slather with butter and squish fresh sugar-dusted strawberries on top of. Plum cake, apple cake, poppy seed buns, pretzels. Every time I took a bite of a new creation, I was transported straight back to Hamburg. Looking back over the past year, I can see that researching and baking recipes from home has allowed me to honour the parts of my history that I felt didn’t belong to me for so long. It makes me very happy to share this recipe for Franzbrötchen with you, a sweet croissant-cinnamon bun hybrid which originates from Hamburg in the 1800s!

Jillian B, she/her @erdbeertorten

Mini-Franzbrötchen Makes 18 or so Dough 16g active dry yeast (2 packets) 200ml milk 50g granulated sugar 500g all-purpose ﬂour 1 room temperature egg 50g softened, room temperature butter ¼ tsp. kosher salt (a good pinch!)

Butter block 20g all-purpose ﬂour 200g room temperature butter (you want it to be soft enough to help you shape it but not so soft that it’s hard to work with)

Finishing touches 30g softened, room temperature butter for spreading Cinnamon sugar: 100g sugar, heaping tbsp. of cinnamon, 2 tsp. salt

PREP: Line 2-3 baking sheets with parchment paper. Leave butter out to soften. Mix cinnamon sugar ingredients together. DOUGH: Mix 200ml of lukewarm milk (around 110°F) with the 16g of active dry yeast and 60g of granulated sugar in a medium size bowl. Let sit for 5-10 mins until creamy and bubbling so you know the yeast is alive. Whisk the egg into the yeast milk mixture. Into a large mixing bowl, add the yeast milk mixture, 500g of flour, ¼ tsp. kosher salt and 50g butter. Using a dough hook, handheld mixer or even your hands, mix everything until a dough forms (about 4 minutes or so). Sometimes I need to add a little splash of water if the flour isn’t fully incorporated into the dough. Form dough into a ball, cover with a damp towel and leave to proof in a warm spot for an hour until roughly doubled in size. BUTTER BLOCK: Use the same dough hook, hand mixer or a spatula to mix 20g of flour into the 200g room temp butter. Scoop the mixture out onto a large piece of parchment paper and then cover with another sheet of parchment paper. Roll this out into an 8 x 8-inch square. Use a bench scraper or your hands to help shape the butter, but remember, it does not have to be perfect! Once shaped, pop this butter block (plus both parchment sheets) into the fridge so it can become nice and cold.

Jillian B, (she/her) @erdbeertorten

DOUGH: Once the dough is done proofing, roll it out to a large rectangle (about 3 times the size of the butter block) on a very well-floured surface. Take your cold butter block out of the fridge and place it in the center of your dough rectangle. Fold the dough into thirds to completely cover the butter and use your fingers to seal the seams. Roll the dough out again and fold it into thirds, re-flouring your work surface if you notice the dough sticking at all. Repeat this step another two times. If your kitchen temperature runs hot, you may find it helpful to pop the dough into the fridge for 5 minutes between each lamination. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Roll the dough out one final time on your floured work surface into a 12 x 22-inch rectangle. Brush the dough with your 30g of softened butter, leaving a small half-inch border unbuttered. Sprinkle cinnamon sugar on top of the butter. Working from the long edge of the rectangle up, roll the dough into a tight log with the seam facing down. I recommend placing the log into the fridge, if you can, for one final chill before cutting. Using a sharp knife, slice off each end to make the roll more uniform and then cut the remaining dough into 1½ inch slabs (roughly the width of two fingers). Holding the handle of the wooden spoon vertically, press down on the slab and then place on a parchment lined baking sheet. Do this to the remaining dough slabs, spacing them roughly 2 inches apart. Sprinkle any remaining cinnamon sugar on top of each little Franzbrötchen and then let proof for another 15-30 minutes. Bake your Franzbrötchen for 13-15 minutes until slightly golden around the edges. I like to finish them off with a quick broil until they are golden all over. Best eaten warm. Guten Appetit!

Courtney B, (she/her/hers) @spoonfulof_ink

Pop-up Pizza I split the last bite of pizza crust between our dogs who have been patiently waiting, and begging as we pulled tomatoes, garlic, and basil from the garden we were able to tend to during the furloughed summer and stretched the dough after it rose and stretched again the mother yeast from poland adding a unique complexity to the grated cheese purchased from the market down the street that crisped the crust along the edges in the Detroit-style pan that came out of the oven and into repurposed boxes then brown paper bags with sharpie-squeaked names of what began as just friends and family porch drop oﬀs has since grown to customers purchasing goods online as they pick-up orders from a window in our front room with a sign taped beneath it shouting a bold thank you.

Marie F, (she/her) @marie.con.miel

Underdog Soup

Annie S, (she/her) @not_just_annie_body

Banana Pancakes Banana Pancakes were once reserved for rainy weekend mornings and dad’s suggestion, a special ritual in itself. I loved to watch him flip them in the pan, one-handed, sometimes looking the other way as they flew and met the pan again with a sizzle. I tried this technique many times and almost always ended up with rippled, doughy discs. I still sometimes end up with a fractured, doughy sweetness -- I call it pancake scramble, my own personal invention. The Banana Pancake was the first thing I learned to make when I moved on and lived on my own. Though routine by then, they remained a favorite because of their familiarity and symbolism as my own personal culinary triumph. I mastered the blind flip, the perfectly browned, crisped edges and the right kind of non-doughy softness. I started making them for everyone, but especially for lovers in the morning. Because Banana Pancakes are the perfect fusion of intimacy, care, and satisfaction, crowned with an overwhelming sweetness. They’re easy to make with others and incredibly forgiving -- their ingredients and toppings relatively mutable with the same resulting warm, tender bite. My lovers did as they should, loved me and my pancakes, and soon I was making banana pancakes as an offering of intimacy to my roommates’ lovers and friends too. The tradition crossed the world with me, following me to Denmark, where I shared stacks of banana pancakes with new friends and lovers too. I had the distance to see what this ritual had become: a method of building community, a stacking of lives and finding the sweetness that coated us all. I stepped back and saw what I had built with my intimacy, my warmth, and my love. And here I am, sharing it with you, too.

Annie S, (she/her) @not_just_annie_body

A Loose Recipe for New Lovers and Friends With green bananas, peel one or two, place in a bowl, and microwave for 1 minute With brown, spotted bananas, peel and place in a bowl Mash until your prefered lumpiness Add a splash of vanilla, a pinch of salt, and two shakes of cinnamon Toss in equal parts milk to your sweetened banana blend And mix until you reach a homogenous wetness In a separate bowl, add about a cup and a half of flour, two teaspoons of baking powder and mix. Don’t over-mix. You’re looking for a batter that is thin enough to pour, but thick enough that it holds its own shape when it hits the pan. If needed, add more milk (for thinning) and flour (for thickening) Fold in your favorite toppings (mine are chocolate chunks or lemon zest and blueberries) Pour batter in a hot pan, preferably a well-seasoned cast iron or a non-stick with plenty of butter Pour just one pancake, watching this first one very closely Flip once you see the bubbles in the middle stop popping. Finish cooking on the other side and throw this one to the dogs. The first one never turns out well anyways. Continue this practice until you have a happy stack and a happier home With Love, Annie

Emma M, (she/her) @emmamaar

Spitting Citrus Between Pages Hallucinations of identity Speak with subliminal burns and soft wolﬁsh wetness. I create, only to be destroyed by lips.

Culinary omniscience.

Hazed photographs of past meals, etched upon ravenous skin. In darkness I taste you, and I know it’s you because it tastes like me.

Translucent memories vibrate within ﬁelds of wild garlic, whispering Inhale. Obedience does not belong in my kitchen. (At times, neither do I.)

Yet there she is, Hunger.

Wake up early and embody the essence of morning light. Create a space where you feel passion, maybe you ﬁnd yourself in the kitchen, brewing coﬀee with a touch of cinnamon. Sometimes accompanied by an orange which drips down unknown skin. Surrender to this moment. Find a notebook and write.

In which way does food ripen your being?

Marie F, (she/her) @marie.con.miel

Stewed Saltfish some call it bacalao, baccalà, or morue salé, but we call it saltfish. shipped to the first caribbean british colony as cheap food for the enslaved who stewed it down with spicy peppers, sweet onions and thyme. time heals all wounds they say, as they draw out the salt from their generational wounds, soaking in a fresh water bath. no meat during lent and absolve yourself of the sins of home-grown temptations. every easter sunday, I rose like the holy spirit we left a spot at the table for, to the familiar scent of this (dis)comfort food. grandma hated fish but loved jesus and her island’s sun-bleached rocks. so, she simmered its pin bones with garlic, tomato and, tenderness and served her history up to me on a plate. all i can think to say is can you pass the rice and peas? 450g saltfish 1 onion, large, chopped 4 cloves of garlic, minced 2 tomatoes, large 1 hot pepper 3 tsp thyme Black pepper Soak saltfish overnight to rehydrate. In fresh water, boil for thirty minutes. Cook garlic, onion, tomatoes and hot pepper in a large pan with oil over medium-low heat for five to seven minutes. drain and shred fish. add to pan with black pepper and thyme. cover and simmer for 5 minutes. serve hot with rice and black-eyed peas.

Seraphina E, (she/her) @whatsfordinnerzine & @serphinaoriana

Grow and Behold Spring ushers in the winds of change, Longer days with friends to entertain. More time outside in a garden to tend, To herb boxes, flowers and then spend, Time planting something new to cultivate and grow, From seed to sapling, nature’s tempo. Providing extra care needed to nourish, You sit back and watch it flourish. Then pick it, chop it and put it on your plate, Serve it up nicely for your mate. It’s great using fresh grown produce in cooking, For the whole community we should be ensuring, That there is enough food for everyone, For tasty meals at home under the sun. Through challenging times we must rally together, To ensure that things do get better. The past, present and future of dining around the dinner table, Will continue to bring everyone together and enable, Grounding conversations, to pause and reflect, On what matters most, what we seek to perfect. This is what I find most motivating, Growing, cooking, feeding, cultivating, Change both small and big collectively, Grow and behold transformations attentively.

Joanna Biggers, (she/her) @biggersbakery

My Year of Rest and (tastebud) Awakening When I think about my relationship with food now, compared to just one year ago, it’s astounding how much my thoughts about it have changed. For the longest time, food had very simply been a necessity and I took a very functional approach to it, cooking quick and easy meals that would fulfil my appetite. Practically was paramount along with efficiency - recipes requiring more than a few pieces of equipment were banished to the very back of my mind (and heaving bookcase). One pot wonders were a staple - perennially firm favourites, largely because of the minimal effort required and next-to-nothing washing up (a chore I detest as much as taking the bins out). Speed-cooking was a trait I inherited from my mother who was never one to spend hours in the kitchen. The thought of tenderly stirring a risotto for forty-five minutes would give her mild heart palpitations and an intricate bake or show-stopper meal (I’m thinking along the lines of a succulent beef wellington) would be completely out of the question. So it’s no wonder I left home armed with a selection of meals I could cook in twenty minutes (or less). Pasta and pesto, beans on toast (if I can class that as a meal), a cheese omelette and packet chips and a chicken caesar salad made up my entire repertoire. I was perfectly happy cooking these meals, nipping in and out of the kitchen with lightning speed and leaving myself plenty of time to unwind afterwards in front of the television or laptop or simply with a book. If I could reduce the cooking time by taking a shortcut (something I look back in absolute horror at now) I would unquestionably do it. A few weeks into furlough though and a sort of food-awakening had begun. Being confined inside for most of the day, the kitchen had first been a place of comfort and then a place of creativity. Somewhere I could lose hours of the day in, gently whisking a creme anglaise, pouring hours of unrequited love into hand laminated croissants, creating a chocolate entremet with that all elusive mirror glaze. Food slowly started to infiltrate my everyday life, making itself at home in my daydreams and igniting an outlook on food I didn’t know I had. It sparked a desire to absorb as much information and content as I could get my hands on. Podcasts, cookery books, kitchen stories, newsletters, food zines gently held my hand and guided me through the many weeks of lockdown. I’d plug in my earphones and head out on a run with Nigella whispering in my ears about the secrets to a great baschemel or how to prevent a hollandaise from splitting. 36

Joanna Biggers, (she/her) @biggersbakery

Novels were replaced with cookbooks that I’d read from cover to cover, picking up tips, tricks and the chemistry behind cooking. The best ones telling me why a recipe was special to them or describing a dish or bake in such an enticing way that I’d be itching to make it the next day. It could be something as simple as home-made bread toasted with lavish amounts of butter and sea-salt spread on top. Or a proclamation of love for crumpets, which would propel me to repurpose my sourdough starter or immediately head out to the shops in pursuit of this humble bake. I began thinking about different flavour combinations, stepping widely out of my comfort zone into the word of spice macerated strawberries and sumac, bay leaves in brownies, roasted peaches and freshly-picked thyme. The possibilities were endless and I began to develop a to-bake-list of recipes as I read more and more widely. Lately, I’ve noticed that my mind has become a sort of Etch a Sketch for new ideas, I trace the outlines of bakes in my head when I go on my daily walks, twirling thoughts around until a vision of what I would like to achieve becomes crystal clear. I then put pen to paper, immortalizing my ideas in ink on the back of napkins, old receipts and pieces of scrap paper which inevitably end up dotted around our entire home. I find them tucked into the back pocket of jeans when I go to do the laundry or falling out of the many notebooks I seem to be constantly accumulating. The more time I spent in the kitchen, the more my confidence grew and intuition started to take over. I could tell by touch whether something was cooked or not and increasingly trust my palette - bravely adding more seasoning then a recipe stipulated, cooking rice and pasta to that sweet point where it’s cooked but still has a bite to it and tweaking meals so they were more in line with what made our taste-buds sing. I’d unknowingly developed an obsession with food, appreciating flavour nuances that would have undoubtedly passed me by in the past. Being in the kitchen lightened the heaviness of the pandemic restrictions and gave my week's purpose, in a time when I couldn’t work or see loved ones over the border…. (to be continued)

Joanna Biggers, (she/her) @biggersbakery

… I found that now there weren't enough hours in the day to bake or cook as much as I’d like to. My uncurbed enthusiasm meant that we had a surplus of bakes permanently in the household and so I began doing doorstep deliveries of food parcels to nearby friends to avoid any food waste (and ridiculously high sugar consumption). Said friends spurred me on to create a food journal in picture form and Instagram really came into its own here - a place to share my bakes (the good, the bad and the many wobbles) and connect with other food obsessives. This has led to more opportunities than I could have ever considered. A few weeks in a much-loved Edinburgh bakery over December, the chance to supply to a new business in town and connections (and now friendships) with the kindest, most engaged community of fellow foodies have all come about from documenting my tribulations in the kitchen on this app.

There’s now not a day where I don’t think about food (possibly not even an hour) and it’s become something that’s so ingrained into my every-day life that it’s hard to imagine a time when I didn’t think about food in this way. It’s no longer just an essential requirement but an outlet that’s become a source of so much reward, that’s touched my life and those around me. I see food now as an expression of love, of creativity, nostalgia and ultimately, of yourself. Presented with a stretch of free time now I would practically prance into the kitchen - it’s the same sort of feeling I get when I have the opportunity to peruse an old second-hand bookshop for hours. Being surrounded by food feels like home, it’s comforting and familiar and brings unparalleled happiness to me.

acknowledgements This was truly a community created zine. It would not have been possible with the enthusiasm and support of everyone involved. Thank you all so much ♥ Editing Molly S. / umamimolly Marie / marie.con.miel Shreya Kareti / explodingkimchi Rachel / notbarefoot_contessa Taylor / tailsbeth Arielle / ariellevetro Rowan W / rororo_boat18 General Sophie A / _sophaloaf_ Danielle G / mysillelittletasks Mary W / maryelizwhite

Like what you read? Want to keep in touch? Have ideas for issue #03? Follow us @kitchensink.zine 39