Massive: Issue 03 'Kai' by Massive Magazine

o editorial

Israel grips my supermarket trolley

I haven’t had McDonald’s in a year.

But I have had Subway, Oreos, Cadbury Chocolate, Doritos, Ben and Jerry’s, and maybe a slice of Pizza Hut.

All of these are brands on the boycott list — brands with perceived support for Israel and their genocidal war on Palestinians.

Fast food and cheap snacks have become such a normal part of modern eating. But after doing my best to boycott every brand on the list, I find myself struggling to even remember them all.

At a time when Palestinians are dealing with war, I can’t complain about having to cut out some foods.

But Israel’s hold on not only Palestine but the world is so strong that even the most passionate activists can’t avoid the tight grip.

Until more recently, Israel is one of the best countries for food brands to invest in. Israel’s known for its advancements in food technology and startups.

The successful food technology sector gives businesses access to new research and development in the food industry.

But it also makes them complicit in genocide. Oreo, for example, has invested in snack food startups, which could give them access to new product ideas.

In 2023, Israeli startups in the agrifood sector raised $300 million in capital according to The Times of Israel

But as people avoid brands spending their money this way, investments are dropping. In 2024, food technology startups in Israel received a lower $134 million, according to Statista.

Last year, Startup Nation Central reported that investments in Israeli startups had fallen by 60% since October 2023.

Not only this, but thousands of Israeli army reserves, including those working in startups, have been pulled in for duty on the front lines. Two weeks ago, the Israel Government approved a bill allowing the military to use an extra 400,000 reserve soldiers as negotiations for a ceasefire are delayed.

On January 15th, a ceasefire was announced. This was based on a three-stage plan presented by former US President Joe Biden. However, stage one expired on March 1st. The next day, Israel stopped supplies being allowed into Gaza territory. The ceasefire plan states that Gaza will be rebuilt over three to five years. However, we know it will take much more than this. The destruction is irreparable.

Boycotting companies does have an impact on Israeli investment. And I don’t want the same businesses putting food in front of Israeli soldiers, putting food in front of me.

But this is not a problem we can solve as individual consumers. Ending a war that has lasted almost 80 years lies in the blood-ridden hands of the ones feeding it.

When I see the streets of Gaza built up again, Israel’s grip on my supermarket trolley will loosen, and I can rebuild the contents.

—Love, Sammy.

C

Disclaimer: The views presented within this publication do not necessarily represent the views of the editor.

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P otlucks Not MeetingsPrayer

Aotearoa Filipino Potluck Club

I clutch a plastic container of kamote fries as I walk across Wellington, wearing a coat too large and too thick for a warm Summer evening, but just right for someone who recently migrated from the tropics. I swallow thickly when I find the flat building, both nervous and excited to be there.

There are a few people I’m keen to see at the potluck: Activists I met at the Palestine Solidarity March, and creatives from Massey University and the Asian Aotearoa Arts Hui. Other than these handful of acquaintances, I’m terrified to meet everyone else, a terror stemming from the question: What if this is the same as the prayer meetings I attended before?

The prayer meetings from my childhood were run by Metro Manila or Tagalog centric groups, as either dinner parties or potlucks. They were always led by middle-aged conservatives in heterosexual marriages who believe that the only way to become a good person was by being a devout Catholic.

Now, I’m openly queer, irreligious, and never pass as conservative by any means. But for years, that’s what I did. I pretended to be someone I’m not to be a part of something, anything. After leaving those communities, I never once looked back.

As I get closer to the flat, I tell myself, “If this group is the same, then I’ll leave too.”

I hear chatter from the hallway, growing louder when I open the door to the flat. I step inside, take off my shoes, and wave hello at the vibrant community of Aotearoa Filipino Potluck Club (AFPC).

There are around 30 people present, filling the space with the rambunctious laughter ever-present in Filipino gatherings. The dining table struggles under the weight of plates, bowls, and pots, overflowing with delicious home-cooked meals ranging from stews, to pastas, to grilled meats. It reminds me of the weekly family reunions held at my grandparents’ house,

and my heart aches for the time I spent on my phone, ignoring what was happening around me.

This time, I do what I wished I’d done during those reunions: I talk. I go around from group to group, getting to know the various members of AFPC. I discover many of them hail from all over Aotearoa, particularly from Te Whanganui-a-Tara and Tāmaki Makaurau. I discover too that many of them are like me: Queer creatives who engage in activism and the study of the diverse languages, cultures, and histories of The Philippines. Definitely a different crowd from my previous communities.

Instead of a Catholic prayer, a karakia is said before meals. Instead of Bible study, we sit together in a large circle and reflect on the host’s given prompt: A recent moment of sweetness. The stories shared vary in sweetness, ranging from pleasantly tangy, excruciatingly sour, and deeply bitter. We laugh at anecdotes, cry over losses, and grieve over our colonial pains.

When I leave the potluck, I’m so full I can barely walk and I’m so excited to join the next one I barely sleep. Luckily, I don’t wait long. Many AFPC events pop up throughout the year, ranging from catch-up dinners to weekly Tagalog language lessons. Most are hosted by members for free. I clear my schedule to attend as often as possible.

The food is different each time. During a documentary viewing, I fill my plate with a mountain of fragrant jasmine rice along with a generous helping of savoury bicol express, peanutty kare-kare, and crunchy lechon kawali. Later, I add crispy lumpia onto the pile. I suck my fingers clean after eating sticky biko and caramelized turon for dessert.

At a vision board making workshop, I enjoy a brunch spread that consists of sautéed corned beef, moist scrambled eggs, fried Spam slices, dinner rolls a la pan de sal, and of course, garlic rice. While the components are not necessarily Filipino on their own, putting them all together becomes reminiscent of breakfasts I had growing up.

The venue changes as well, taking place in homes, cafes, restaurants, cinema houses, community centres, and even Zoom.

But while the food and venue constantly change, the sense of belonging remains the same.

It is this collective care, this sense of community, that urges me to stay. No matter how full my belly feels, I am always hungry for more.

I smile at the thought that I have found a space that treats individual people with the same love as the homilies and biblical passages of my childhood prayer meetings.

S tress Baking: Destressing or Disorder?

I baked 75 raspberry and chocolate cupcakes the first time I had my heart broken.

When my childhood dog passed away, I spent weeks perfecting my chocolate chip cookies.

During my first year of uni deadlines, I trailed every gooey brownie recipe Google provided.

In moments where anxieties fester, I knead them away. I watch them rise inside dough, only to punch them down once they’ve dwelled too long. I feel lighter as they cook. After, the house smells like baking. And my mind, for the moment, is at ease.

Stress baking is more than just wanting to whip up batches of cookies — it’s a coping mechanism to get people out of their own heads. Baking is an absorbing activity which uses all five senses. You can’t doom scroll with cookie dough on your hands, nor do you have time to think about much else when all your focus is on a recipe’s detailed instructions.

According to researcher Mintel Group, stress baking surged in popularity during the pandemic, with US sales of baking mixes and ingredients rising 25%.

The Wall Street Journal found that 40% of US consumers baked more post-Covid, with 34% using baking as self-care.

Professor Kirsty Ross, Massey University’s head of the School of Psychology, explains when routines became restricted in 2020, people sought structure.

"Baking had that structure and a predictable outcome during an unpredictable time where people didn’t feel in control."

For me however, the habit came from a learnt love of baking, and relaxation as a result. And then eventually abusing this.

As a child, I spent school holidays on my grandparent’s farm. My grandmother would guide my small hands through the notions of kneading dough, creaming butter and sugar, and testing if a cake was done with a gentle press of my fingertip. Baking wasn’t just an activity — it was a ritual, a form of love, a shared language between us.

The memories I have of baking feel golden, untouched by worry.

As I moved into my teenage years, my relationship with baking became more complicated. Social media labelled my childhood favourites as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Older family members, raised on diet-culture fads and calorie counting, added to the noise. I started seeing food less as something to savour and more as something to control.

Ross explains, “Your relationship with food is shaped by how food was dealt with within your family and how you were nourished.”

As my own eating habits dwindled — my baking persisted in a new form. Instead of nourishing myself with the things I made, I pushed them onto others. I’d bake tray after tray of cookies, plate up towering cakes, and watch as others enjoyed them, as if their satisfaction could fill the space I refused to.

Ross says this pattern isn’t uncommon among people struggling with disordered thoughts about food, shape and weight. She emphasises the importance of mindfulness when you use a strategy like stress baking.

She tells me that any coping strategy, when overused, can become unhelpful.

“Something can start off being really functional and helpful, and then context changes and your needs change, and it may no longer be that way.”

Ross says having a variety of tools to manage stress is key. “Trying to match up the need that you have with a strategy in your toolkit is really helpful. If you’re feeling bored while you’re studying, or you’re feeling lonely because you’ve just moved into a new flat, actively thinking about how you use these strategies is important.”

On the other hand, Ross says stress baking doesn’t have to be something deeper than needing a break from studying. But for those whose relationship with food carries extra emotional weight, it’s worth reflecting on whether baking is meeting a genuine need in a healthy way.

My healing process meant reclaiming baking for myself.

I had to learn how to be present in the process again. To enjoy the rich scent of vanilla icing and the warmth of a fresh scone with butter melting into it. Most importantly, I had to allow myself to enjoy what I created — not just as an act of self-care, but as a reminder that food isn’t something to fear. It’s something to be shared, yes, but also something to be savoured.

S ipping Sprite on Milk Crates A childhood watching the Culinary art of my father

There is an Anthony Bourdain stock image quote that Dad often sends me on Facebook:

"You can always tell when a person has worked in a restaurant. There's an empathy that can only be cultivated by those who've stood between a hungry mouth and a $28 pork chop, a special understanding of the way a bunch of motley misfits can be a family.”

Bourdain is the only ‘famous’ chef my dad, Nick Arnold, doesn’t loathe. He sneers at celebrities on MasterChef in pristine white jackets that waffle about sangria-poached venison or duck blood and rosemary pannacotta. Yes, he thinks Gordan Ramsey and Jamie Oliver are crocks of shit. He says they haven’t even touched a frying pan in 20 years.

Dad is a real chef. He has sworn and sautéed his way through London’s fine dining scene, Windsor Castle, and to his café in Martinborough, Café Medici.

After being shamed for his dyslexia, he left school at 16 and was given two career options by my grandmother: Taxidermy or Culinary school.

Dad’s 40-year love affair with Culinary arts is a tumultuous one.

The six-foot-tanned Englishman is a walking mosaic of his life on the line. His arms are engraved with white scolds, fingernails yellow from mincing garlic, a twisted back from lifting heavy potato pots, buckled knees from hand scrubbing lino floors and a faulty heart valve from four decades of brunch service.

Dad’s Culinary career was my childhood. I was sitting on metal benchtops before I could walk. One of my earliest friends was a pretty, blonde waitress who gifted me a Little Einsteins bed set.

Dad opened our family café when I was 5 years old. A beaming tan bungalow building , lined with Italian oil paintings and a vine-draped courtyard.

In the early days of Medici, Mum was working at the hospital, so Dad took on the challenge of looking after two children under age 6, whilst simultaneously running a new café and catering company.

After school, my sister and I would sip Sprite sitting on milk crates. As night fell, we’d fall asleep in the back of Dad’s car during service, only to wake up in the morning somehow in our beds.

Once, I asked Dad what his job would be if he wasn’t a chef. He said a doctor, which always confused me because he’s shit at Maths and Science (something I unfortunately inherited).

But Dad has sacrificed his life for the service of others. 50th birthdays, golden anniversaries, memorials, and most rotary functions — Dad has done and seen it all. Whether it is paella for 70 people, a whole spitroasted pig or a Barbie princess cake (for my 6-year-old self), he pours devotion into every meal.

Though he enjoys serving others, it’s taxing. Dark bags under his eyes, or seeing him knocked out on his bed still wearing his chef jacket, are common scenes.

Often, cooking is all he can think about. Going out to dinner can feel like stepping into his office as he takes out his black leather notebook, scribbling about shellfish allergies and how many sourdoughs he must order in the morning.

He once told me this kind of life is lonely.

On one of our long patio talks in Martinborough’s Summer heat, he told me some people only see him through his service.

Despite cooking in the homes of the aristocracy, where they will coo and applaud, they still see his souffles and braised lamb as his identity.

But that’s the life of hospitality. It’s a hushed, sometimes fucked-up association, built on an understanding of the beauty of a crisp beer after a long shift, or the joy of fries from a metal bowl.

Dad’s colourful community is banded by his utter love for food.

The loyal Martinborough crazies who barge into the kitchen unannounced to see him. The butcher who will put his hazards on to have a beer with mid service. And Mum, who has worked every function by his side and happily eats toast with him at 2am.

He’s taught me all that I know about food and what it means to serve others. He taught me the best brownie recipe is gluten-free. Never get cross with food. Your vendors, friends, even co-workers can become family. And always buy your garlic peeled in bulk.

Older now, with salt and pepper hair, he tells me he’s too old to be a chef. His feet are too slow to dance to other chef's rhythms, and his words jumble up long dockets. But 40 years is a love too deep to turn from. Like the crack head to the pipe, he craves the rush.

His love lies in his vast cookbook collection, three trophies from Wellington on a Plate, and the baking career of my sister, Olivia. His love for food is sprinkled, chopped and sautéed into every meal I make.

Those damn handcuffs

So, when me and my partner were still living in the Cube Hall, we were getting hot in the bedroom after two, maybe three bottles of Soju. I pulled out handcuffs my friends had gotten me for my 18th birthday as a classic gag gift. Lost in the moment, I cuffed us to my vintage headboard I bought from the thrift.

Everything happened and the mirage faded as it does. It was then that I remembered my friends had attached the cuff keys to my actual keys that sit by the front door. The colour drained from my face.

We could not break these cuffs and we really, really tried. I have no clue where they got the damn things from. We realised we would have to call someone.

So, I called my friend, the very same one that bought the cuffs, to let themselves in to our Cube flat. They grabbed the cuff keys, unlocked my door, and threw them in my room without looking.

This friend was a legend and pulled it off. But they definitely knew what happened and we never lived it down.

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