Cookbook for the Heart and Stomach

the

COOKBOOK for the heart and stomach

THE COOKBOOK

FOR THE HEART AND THE STOMACH WHAT FUELS YOU? This zine is a cookbook to turn to when you are hungry.

Hungry for food, hungry for comfort, hungry for adventure, hungry for love.

FROM THE EDITOR We all have a complicated relationship with food. When I asked for submissions, I was asked again and again, but does it have to be food-related?

I suffered with disordered eating throughout my life. Yet as a Vietnamese-American who feels extremely disconnected from her Vietnamese identity, Vietnamese food is an important reminder that yes, I am Vietnamese. It’s when I’m wrapping a hundred spring rolls with my family for a last minute party appetizer for my mom, to stinking up the house with the smell of fish sauce and shrimp paste for bun bo hue, to eating thai chili peppers with anything we eat.

In this zine are people I love and what they create, however they share and interpret a recipe that they hold close to them.

LOVE, KHANH SAN PHAM

• • • COVER BY SAN PHAM + INSIDE COVER ART BY MANSHA KAKAR

JUICE

CARLINA DUAN

—for my friends, who I am in love with

so I swing open the doors and slice water melon radishes. so I kiss every body on the cheeks, dapple every window. one day I will wear clogs over a patch of excellent grass. one day I will crack open a can of yogurt. doves will leap out. creamy-winged, magnificent, this is a poem for all my friends who write me letters. who turn me inside, then out, then douse me in glitter. this is a poem where I bring in amirul and syafiq who stopped at my desk each morning to ask for blobs of peach scented hand sanitizer. a poem where the hornbills on my way to the malaysian school freeze in the sky, then turn back and caw, once, in good acknowledgement. a poem for the fruit stand. a poem for the hopeful rain. a poem for my purple water bottle I tout with me from meeting to meeting, snack to snack. at the gym, the black band I wore around my knee until it healed, miraculously, tissue growing atop old tissue, and I bought cookies and celebrated the thousand ways I could roll over gravel again. a poem for the first time my heart cracked, figgy, over the dust. whole seeds in a mouth to unswallow, spit back up. poem for the bike racks, poem for the air. poem to gulp to pulp. poem for waiting on a patch of grass for somebody to call you back.

poem for when he doesn’t. still, I’m alive, hello, see me in my jade green t-shirts, roses on my mother’s thumb. this is a poem. this is an earring through my left lobe. watch me glint. watch me tap my feet. watch me strut the earth. every body I love has entered the poem. every body I love is wearing plaid shirts and eating.

I take the late shift. I take care of my father’s fish, my sister’s dimples.

I am steamy, I am dancing, I am pouring orange juice into all of your cups, flood of love, shouting, drink, drink, wake up!

ART BY CHRISTINE NGUYEN

HOW TO SCREW UP AN OMELETTE CIERA BURCH

INGREDIENTS 4 Eggs; beaten like they stole something Butter Milk: a capful Pepper (black AND red) Salt (garlic, sea, and seasoning) Cheese (something shredded and orange) Spinach Bacon (preferable, but optional) Mushrooms (sautÊ them first, for God’s sake) DIRECTIONS *Crack the eggs. Add milk, salt, and pepper; beat together. Heat butter in the pan then pour the egg mixture in. Let it sit a minute then use your spatula to make it resemble something round. Add filling to half of the egg mass. Use spatula to fold the other half to cover the filling.

Try your best to flip the omelet; enjoy eggs + whatever filling when it all falls apart. *See NOTES for more information.

NOTES I can’t make omelets anymore. They fall apart and turn into scrambled eggs that always come out tasting rubbery or salty or bland. The romantic in me claims my new ineptitude for itself, says I miss my grandmother too much to cook breakfast without her guidance. The cynicism in me calls the romantic an idiot and reminds me that I was never that good at flipping them anyway, that they always turned into scrambled eggs—or else a mass of something between scrambled and fried—in the end, that cooking with her was something rare and vaguely stressful. The me that is the middle ground and most in control takes both sides.

The recipe is made up. Or half remembered. Or changed for personal preference. I don’t know if we used four eggs—I just remember it was always more than three. I don’t think she added mushrooms, but I like them. She added seasoning salt, though; she addedthat to everything.

So much of memory involves smell but eggs don’t smell like much and she smelled like everything, like smoke above all else. It’s a scent I can never put into words despite the universality of tobacco, like birthing anger, giving it physical form, and then putting it in a wood stove with a handful of pine cones and cloves. Something sharp and heady and her.

You end up with an omelet: usually. Hers is better than yours. You will never taste her omelets again.

You wished she had taught you more, taught you to cook everything she’d ever tasted.

You’re grateful she didn’t—you wouldn’t be able to cook anything now.

• • •

ART BY CHRISTINE NGUYEN

phá»&#x; CHRISTINE NGUYEN

tomato salad is for LOVERS when I first met you, you cried talking about your mother, her art, how she remarried after your father to a woman who lights her up you told me that sometimes you’re overwhelmed when you see someone so in love, so happy that the waves of sunshine radiating off their bodies makes you weep you say you’re emotional, sensitive I see you as earnest, alive your scorpio moon watering you each time you see a couple holding hands in front of you, I placed a tomato salad with fresh herbs juicy, red, yellow, green soft you cried as I held your hand

2 yellow plum tomatoes 1 large red heirloom tomato Âź cup kalamata olive hummus 2 oz prosciutto 2 oz calabrese salami 2 oz ciliegine mozzarella balls 2 oz kalamata olives 2 tbsp caper berries Âź cup fresh herbs (parsley, sage, chives, mint) good olive oil balsamic glaze Maldon salt cracked black pepper

Slice the tomatoes and chop the herbs. Heap the hummus onto the center of the platter and spread into a circle. Arrange the sliced tomatoes on top of the spread.

In between the tomato slices, add slices of prosciutto and salami.

Pile on the ciliegine and the olives, nestling them into the bed of tomatoes. Top the tomatoes with caper berries, a hefty drizzle of both olive oil and balsamic glaze.

Sprinkle generously with Maldon salt + cracked pepper. Top with fresh chopped herbs.

To serve, place in front of someone you love. Hold their hand. Cry.

lauren elise marston

ART BY JILLIAN MILLS

In the morning, he makes us eggs with green chilis & chaat masala.

When they burn a little, I don’t complain.

In Karachi, we add fire to everything.

It comes with the earth, the dirt, and the hurt.

When I leave his place, I smell like home.

like home INGREDIENTS Butter, Eggs, Green Chilis, Chaat Masala, Salt & Pepper.

DIRECTIONS Add butter to a skillet and let it melt.

Then add sliced green chilis.

After a minute, add the eggs (make sure to whisk them in a bowl beforehand).

Bring the stove to a high heat and add salt, pepper, and chaat masala.

Scramble everything on high heat and take off the stove once the eggs are a little brown.

• • •

“baklava” except dad’s mom called the sweet softer, the wuh in baklawa, the mouth-roof-tongue-touch in buct-lay-wah her only assistant out of all the children, we damp ragged the phyllo while clarifying the butter. hummingbirded a bottle of rose water from a market she does not live close to, that we bring with us to Mid-Michigan. the sense memory is incandescent: walnuts & sprinkling sugar, brushbuttering the dough gold & slick, either sedimented tray or rolled together when we made fingers. my brother looks the spitting image of her son, with the jet hair they share & he makes adoption jokes but not today when I was her helper– a pair of her own arms.

-alex kime ART BY MANSHA KAKAR

APPLESAUC

PHOTO BY VICTORIA PATNAUDE

CE FOR TWO

by Evan Bradley

Applesauce for Two Lips Red, delicious cinnamon-sugar girl simmer with me.

Little spoons tender-sweet honey-crisp (I paint for you with nutmeg and clove.

Wash my brush with lemon juice— collage with traffic-light peel.)

Bodies, Golden-russet spice-warm woman let us eat.

Big spoons sugar-grit juicy-tart (I compose with saucepan and stovetop.

Writing and rewriting with bruise-soft apples— transmuting flaws into love letters.)

Applesauce 8 apples, peeled and cored ½ cup water ⅓ cup packed brown sugar 1 tsp lemon juice ¼ tsp ground cinnamon ⅛ tsp ground nutmeg 1 pinch ground cloves Peel and core eight large apples (cortland or macintosh are recommended.) Cut into small chunks and add to large saucepan or dutch oven. Add remaining ingredients to saucepan and mix together. Cook on low heat, stirring occasionally, until the majority of the apples have broken down, 30 to 45 minutes. Serve warm.

• • •

by Evan Bradley

MY RECIPE FOR A MEANINGFUL PAINTING INGREDIENTS - The right tools : a canvas, brushes and paint, a pencil for the preparatory drawing, an eraser and a pencil sharpener ; - A very vague idea of what you would like to paint ; - A mind filled with various inspirations ; - Your own experience and thoughts ; TO BEGIN, the idea of what you wish to represent must be of an extreme vagueness. For two main reasons.

FIRST, if you already know the result, what is the point of doing it? there is no exploration, no research, and most of all no magic. Art is the magic of tangible matter turned into sensations and ideas, therefore let that happen.

SECOND, the more vague the idea is, the less you will be tempted to force the painting into looking a certain way, which liberates the process of creating an autonomous work of art. Let the painting evolve before you and take whichever direction it wants to take.

BUT NOW, WHAT IS A VAGUE IDEA? FOR EXAMPLE: I want to paint dogs fighting, I want to paint myself, I want to paint a scene of several characters. That’s all you need.

There should not be any explanatory elements beforehand such as : I want to paint a Black man in pain to discuss the suffering of Black people in society.

WHY IS THAT? Well, the explanation does not come before the work of art, otherwise, it isn’t art, it’s just talking, it’s only concept.

ART BY CLEMENCE GBONON

SECONDLY, your mind should be full at the moment of painting. It has to be in a state of high inspiration. Go visit a few art galleries before painting, to see what is contemporary and to feed your creativity.

Even though the artist’s work might be very different from yours, it will still put your mind in a state of openness.

You might not even be conscious of it, which is perfect : your painting is the expression of the unconscious anyway.

LAST BUT NOT LEAST, your own experience will strongly come out onto the canvas. For example, if you wish to paint a couple and you are in an unhealthy relationship, it will show in the attitude of your characters.

Once again it isn’t conscious, let it happen, let your thoughts and fears overflow the painting, let it teach you something about yourself you did not even suspect. Never try to control your work into saying something specific, infuse it with life then let it talk for itself, LET IT LIVE ON ITS OWN...

CLÉMENCE GBONON

••• ART BY CLEMENCE GBONON

MANG

GOES THE MANGO IS THE FRUIT OF THE GODS. THE MANGO TREE IS THE SYMBOL OF LOVE, WEALTH, FERTILITY AND IMMORTALITY

DON’T EAT THE MANGOES UNTIL THEY ARE WRINKLY In Vietnam, I’m too tall, too American, depressed and a face full of pimples but here is a mango and I eat it sweet.

This sloppy, waxing crescent, with wrinkles running down its skin.

I hold these slivers, mouth tingling.

Press the cut petals of this orange fruit on my tongue, savor.

When my mom was a child, she saw an American take a slobbering bite of an apple.

A fruit with that much juice has to be the best fruit in the world.

In America she picked the reddest apple.

She took a bite.

Spat it back out.

This has no flavor.

SAN PHAM PHOTO BY ESHA BISWAS

DADU

ESHA BISWAS

MANGO LASSI BOISALI BISWAS Lassi (yogurt drink) is a very common drink in India, mainly because of the hot climate and it is very good for the body. So it’s made in lot of different flavors from mint, papaya, mint to plain roasted cumin flavor, etc.

THE MANGO LASSI RECIPE...

1 cup yogurt 1/2 cup mango pulp(from can is best) or few pieces of nice ripe mangoes Ice cubes About 2-3 tbs sugar, if needed Pinch of salt Put everything in blender. If too thick add some ice cold water.

You get the canned mangoes in the Indian stores.

My Dad used to make it most times. And he used to make them with fresh over ripe mangoes since they are abundant in India during the mango season.

Because of the hot climate the mangoes ripen very fast and they don’t taste that good by themselves but do well in lassis.

We all grew up drinking lassi, it’s very common in India.

I love the unique taste of mangoes, I think it’s the most popular fruit in India. We have more than 100 varieties of mangoes growing there.

stone fruit season the heat makes my limbs heavy, and i buy too many apricots. the sun wrinkles and i pucker, bite down, forget to swallow. i can’t sleep. i cut the rot out of nectarines, eat what’s left off the end of a paring knife, i’m careless. it takes weeks for my tongue to heal. i suck the pulpy pit of a mango over the kitchen sink, sinew stuck in my teeth like a grisly warning. i can’t sleep, so i wash the blood out of my sheets, so i drag my nails across my shoulders until it makes me tremble, press my thumb into plum-dark bruises and curse at my weak yellow flesh. i drive north, pluck cherries, swallow them whole and hope something bursts warm and ripe within me.

sahana prasad

FRUIT IN ASIA IS WHA

MY MOM DOESN’T EA

AT FRUIT SHOULD BE

AT FRUIT IN AMERICA ART BY SAN PHAM

fruit pa b irene

apyrus by e wei

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Though not super tasty, I sometimes e per st

• IRENE

eze the shit out of them at 8000psi in a egetable/fruit papyrus is made... it can uld not be confused as paper. Paper is hereas papyrus is bonded by the gum the plant’s cellular structure.

eat defect sheets as a snack in the patudio.

E WEI •

love simmers longer I am young and my love for my mother is really a love for her cooking.

She cooks when we are all still asleep, like a food fairy. I wake up on weekends to garlic sautéing in oil, to cardamom, to cloves.

I know these names because the spice tins are labeled, not because Mama tells me.

Still, I know them well. I can name the magic combination of seven spices.

We don’t speak, Mama and I, because we are always at risk of exploding, like the pressure cooker she sometimes forgets on the stovetop, full of the okra stew no one likes but we eat it, because she has spent the time.

Okra always goes in last, after the onions, after the garlic and meat, too tender to cook for long, it will break apart if you leave it unattended— I know this now. Mama stands with her wooden spoon held at the ready, her hand on her hip. Hurry, this pose says, I have other things to make. She cooks us stew when she wants to have leftovers, but my favorite is lamb she grills over charcoal in our backyard. This is a delicacy; lamb is expensive and takes forever to cook. Mama is tired, says it’s time I learn how to make my own dinner, but doesn’t show me how, doesn’t explain why her cooking requires no recipes, or how she learned to make food. I want to ask who taught her but I know it’s her mother.

I get married and I am hungry for recipes. I cook food that is different from what she makes out of spite, food that doesn’t leave my small apartment smelling like garlic, like onion, for days. I sear salmon in lemon butter and make eggplant parmesan with too much cheese. I take pictures of my creations to show my mother and she is offended. This makes me happy.

On my twenty-fourth birthday, Mama calls and says: “This is how I make the lamb you like,” then tells me the steps. I am in the middle of stirring sauce and I’m too surprised to thank her so I say, “I’m making lasagna,” and I almost hear her shake her head. She says, “Wait,” sends me recipes of my favorite dishes and I forget about the sauce, let it simmer too long. I think: love simmers longer.

nihal mubarak ART BY CASEY JONG

sudanese lamb recipe (shayyah) INGREDIENTS: • Lamb shoulder meat, cubed • 1 medium yellow onion • 1 small green pepper • 4 cloves of garlic, minced • 1 lime • ½ cup plain yogurt • 1 tablespoon white vinegar • 1 teaspoon salt • 1 teaspoon pepper • 1 teaspoon coriander, ground • ½ tablespoon seven spices

INSTRUCTIONS: 1. Place meat, juice of lime, yogurt and spices in a large bowl. Mix well 2. Julienne the pepper and onion and add to the meat mixture 3. Allow the meat to marinate for 1-2 hours 4. Heat 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil in a pan and add the meat without draining any of the marinade. Cook over medium-high heat for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Let cook for 10 more minutes, until the meat has absorbed all of the liquid 5. Alternatively, for more authentic Sudanese shayyah, follow steps 1-3. Light charcoal in a grill/pit and fan until smoke rises. Cook the meat for 10-15 minutes, until tender ART BY CASEY JONG

ART BY CRYSTAL BI

I decided to share a tempeh yaki onigiri recipe and then wrote a poem about the people I want to cook this for/share it with.

Tempeh Yaki Onigiri (Tempeh fried rice balls) INGREDIENTS

• Tempeh (one pack is fine) • Rice (white rice works best, but feel free to explore!)

• Sesame seeds (optional) • Shoyu (soy sauce) • Cooking oil • Tempeh Marinate Cumin

Sesame Oil Paprika

Red Pepper flakes (a few generous shakes)

Sriracha (a few generous squirts)

Brown Sugar (1 generous tablespoon) Shoyu

INSTRUCTIONS

1. Rinse and cook rice (be mindful not to cook rice that is too soggy, or onigiri will fall apart!)

2. Cut tempeh into small cubes ½ -1 inch is good and place in tupperware or bowl 3. Add marinate ingredients (sesame oil, shoyu, cumin, paprika, red pepper flakes, sriracha, brown sugar) and stir. There aren’t exact measurements for all these ingredients, so follow your stomach!

4. Let tempeh marinate for 15-90 minutes 5. When rice is finished cooking, stir in sesame seeds and let cool 6. Pan fry tempeh until golden brown and set on a plate 7. When rice is cool enough to handle, place rice in your hand, place one piece of cooked tempeh in the middle and mold into onigiri. Do your best to get the tempeh in the middle, covered with rice on all sides. Place a relatively strong amount of pressure when molding onigiri to ensure they maintain shape in the pan.

8. Heat up pan (med-med high heat) and apply a thin coat of cooking oil on the pan. When pan is hot, gently place onigiri in the pan (leave enough rough between to flip). Either drizzle or brush shuyo on top of onigiri. Once bottom is fried slightly, flip. Apply shoyu to other side of onigiri. Repeat.

9.Enjoy with community or with yourself!

ART BY AIKO FUKUCHI

• • • the year’s harvest i have a love who is a steady heartbeat pumping dark, red, blood. i have a love who is a lakeshore warmed by the clearest, brightest skies. a love who is the hottest embers in a campfire. deep, purple, grounded. thick heat. a love who is the first cool breeze you feel on a still, wet, ninety-five degree day in august. who is a tart, sweet, pink-yellow, michigan cherry. who is an oak tree with deep roots and reaching arms. deep green leaves on one branch, shining gold leaves on another. a homemade raspberry-peach jam spread over a crispy, buttered waffle. the smell and chill of the first fall morning. the best french fry you ever ate.

aiko fukuchi

• • • ART BY SAN PHAM

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cheese-stuffed buns:

BY ASHLEY BISHEL this is a recipe i got from someone who i don’t really talk to anymore. 1 we made them together once and they were so simple and delicious that i asked for the recipe for the dough immediately. there’s a part missing: once you’ve let the dough rise you separate it out into equally sized balls and then you add a chunk of a cheese of your choice to the middle. (be careful not to overstuff them.) the type of cheese doesn’t really matter. when i make it i just use whatever is in the fridge. i think cheese that you can cut into cubes or small chunks is a little easier but shredded works too. cheddar is always good. i like pepper jack. i proceeded to make a lot of positive memories with these buns that don’t include this person at all. (a metaphor?) i first made them for a work potluck in 2017 where people usually bring brownies or cookies and i was like ‘i’m going to be different and bring something SAVORY.’ they were a little under-baked but they all got eaten anyway. i made them for my housemates a lot senior year. we would watch netflix in the attic while they were baking and then eat them straight out of the oven. i made them on thanksgiving the year after i graduated which was the first year i took over most of the cooking for my family. when i was feeling lonely last year i picked up yeast at the target on ashland and divison on my way home from work and made them in my big beautiful chicago kitchen. (rip my island.) they smelled so good they managed to lure my roommate and her long-distance bf out of their room to see what i was making. you’ll notice that there isn’t a specified baking time. i asked about that when we first made them, and xxxxx said that i just had to keep an eye on them. i was really scandalized (i’m type a, i like to have a plan.) but it’s actually fine! i promise. start with like 10ish minutes and then take a peek at them and see how they’re doing. they’re done when they’re golden brown. how long that takes will depend on your oven, but you’ll know it when you see it.

1 we used to talk every single day and for a lot of reasons (some are my fault, some are her fault and some are no one’s fault) we don’t anymore. we are no longer close. but we have so much common history that there are artifacts of her all over my life two years later, like this screenshotted recipe. it used to feel worse than it does. the buns still taste good, though.

MORGAN LYEW (MOMO)

ART BY MORGAN LYEW

rlds, A girl een two wo caught betw ree? th or was it ather Her grandf es ey with soft er voice, and a soft chuk ladles hot s. into 6 bowl Cold hands t walk from a shor rmth. wa reach for ng turkey Thanksgivi supple strands dances with and of Fu Chuk rice. overcooked scallions Sesame and er th swirl toge air as the fall night. rlds, chills the A girl een two wo caught betw ree? th or was it Sun-kissed d up knees with scrape skin, g and glowin rl a young gi ll. be rings the ather Her grandf or do e th r. at ange pitche with an or iz ma er mm Su swims with milk t cold, swee sugar. g and meltin the Zenith Yankees on crowd; me excite the th come ho they've bo their shoes. on d mu with , A girl two worlds at home in ree? th or was it

Mom’s Salted Duck Eggs

by Connie Qi

EVER

since I moved across the country from my parents, I’ve had serious cravings for home food. Cooking is the way my family shows their love for each other, and recently I’ve been learning recipes from my mom in an effort to not lose my connection with my roots. It’s been a joy learning to make the dishes I grew up with and sharing them with my partner as we create a little home of our own.

Salted duck eggs always bring me back to mornings growing up. My mom would make a big batch and we would have them for weeks, to eat with rice porridge for breakfast, sandwiched into mántou (steamed buns), or baked into mooncakes.

The salt makes the egg whites soft and extremely salty, but the yolks are the star of the show - they solidify, and ooze with a rich umami flavor.

RECIPE

-Eggs. Duck eggs result in a richer flavor but they are harder to find, so we often use chicken eggs -Any clear liquor, my mom uses gin -Salt 1. Wash the raw eggs in water and let them dry completely overnight.

2. When dry, dunk each egg in the liquor, then roll in salt, covering the entire surface.

3. Wrap each one in Saran wrap, or put them all in a ziplock bag.

Place in a cool, dark place for ~3 weeks. How long it takes depends on the size of the egg and how salty you like it. You can always try one at 3 weeks and if it’s not salty enough, wait longer.

4. Hard boil them when you’re ready to eat them.

5. The salted eggs are hard to peel, so it’s easiest to cut them in half with a sharp knife, through the shell, and eat with a spoon.

6. Enjoy with rice porridge or oatmeal, or as a side dish to any rice + stir fry.

ART BY CONNIE QI

by mitra mogharei

FRUITCAKE

by Elena Robidoux

AT CHRISTMAS

there is fruitcake. No, not the fruitcake you’re thinking of. I’m talking about my cousin. My cousin, who sits with his legs crossed and wears pastel khakis and sips eggnog with his pinky out.

Look at that fruitcake, my Dad whispers audibly in a crowded room.

His attempts at subtlety never fail to amaze.

Why can’t he just act like a normal person, he continues, making me squirm on the faux-velvet couch. I wince at the sound of his voice, like a dog habitually hit by his owner. Why is it that you feel most related to a parent in these types of situations? Genetic culpability, I’ll call it.

My Dad’s behavior is not new; ever since I can remember, he has been homophobic— a reality that has strained our relationship like the Achilles of an overzealous marathon runner or a vat of watery noodles.

I can remember the exact moment when my brother hit puberty, not because his voice cracked or his stubble poked through his face, but because that was when my Dad started asking him if he had a girlfriend. We’d be in his car, making our ritual Sunday trip to Dunkin Donuts, when he’d turn his fat neck around towards the back seat: Hey bud, he’d preface, his vernacular Boston, hyper-masculine. Ya’ seein’ any girls, bud? I don’t get you. When I was yah age, I was seein’ so many chicks. I couldn’t keep em’ off.

The monologues were choppy, delivered through a mouth full of butternut and strawberry frosted dough. Crumbs careened from his lips in all directions, gathering in an anthill at his crotch.

Shut the hell up, Russ, my brother would grunt, adverting his gaze out the car window. His only weapon in these situations was my father’s first name, one that, when used, challenged his paternal clout.

ART BY SAN PHAM

I CAME HOME RECENTLY

and saw my brother mowing the yard.

His body has changed, become hulk-like from compulsive weightlifting. I can’t help but wonder if his new habit is some protective measure. That by inflating and hardening his arms and chest, he is somehow immunizing himself against any homo allegations.

As we got older, the interrogations only worsened. Oftentimes, my Dad and I would take long walks in the expansive state park in our town. Usually, the only sound either of us made during these walks was that of our shoes crunching down on rogue pinecones and brambles. But more often than not, my Dad would use our time together to probe me further about my brother: Is ya brotha, you know... weird? he’d say, his coded bigotry something I had not yet deciphered.

Dad, I have no idea what you’re talking about?

Is he…gay? I never see him around with no girls. He didn’t go ta prom and he’s always alone or with ya’ motha. What’s that about?

I don’t know, Dad. I don’t think so, but I honestly couldn’t tell you, I’d relent, looking down at the day-old horse pies and sunlight wood, trying my hardest to salvage the moment.

I felt sad for my brother, sad that he was subject to so much microanalysis. But at the same time, I felt so, so relieved because my Dad’s gross obsession with my brother’s sexuality took the heat off of mine.

SINCE FIFTH GRADE

, I had been developing an attraction to girls. Sometimes I’d let my mind run wild with fantasies, staying up late in my closet with a sheet over my head to gaze at female celebrities in magazines, hoping that monthly sleepover with my soccer team would spiral in the direction of truth or dare. I would pine quietly, but aggressively: a slave to the hypothetical. Other times I would deny these tendencies altogether. Although I didn’t believe anything my father said, and although I felt no kinship towards him whatsoever, there was still some undetected part of me that felt like my feelings were deplorable, abnormal even. I didn’t want to be a fruitcake, even if in my heart I believed it was fine if other people were.

To my dismay, I couldn’t stay insulated from his questions for long; when I entered college, my father started to ask me what guy I was dating and if he was my boyfriend yet. I had dated people in the past, had mock boyfriends here and there, but nothing serious. To satiate, him I forged relationships; there was Matt from my geography lab, Ian from my hall and Jordan, the business major from Sigma Phi. When these fabrications didn’t feel adequate, I blew jerks, slept with randos, and led the kind ones on until I started to hurt them almost as much as myself.

Eat. Sleep. Deny. Like clockwork. The lengths people go to avoid shame are impressive. During this time, I impressed myself at how well I caged my heart, lived so numbly and predictably, and made it all look fun.

AS THE YEAR PROGRESSED

, my yearning for an organic connection with someone began to erode all of the groundwork I had laid to keep my front up. I wanted to experiment. I wanted people to know I was queer, and that meant looking the part.

Thanksgiving of my freshman year I chopped off my sandy locks and watched them fall against scuzzy dorm linoleum in matted clumps. I got a nose ring from a seedy tattoo parlor downtown and a stick-and-poke tattoo of a warped star from my friend Dana in her stuffy bedroom-attic. But despite all of these aesthetic changes, I wasn’t ready to come out; I still found myself mourning my past self, the one that could so easily navigate the straight world, unnoticed.

The most difficult times occurred when my Dad would come to visit me at college in Burlington, Vermont. Burlington is a liberal mecca within Vermont— a crunchy haven for lesbians and queers in an otherwise backwoods state. In Burlington, fruitcakes were unavoidable; we’d be walking down the street, in search of a place to have breakfast, when he’d spot two women peacefully holding hands.

Like a birdwatcher, he’d stop dead in his tracks to observe: Whata they doin, huh. Ah they togetha or like friends or somethin?

Yeah, Dad. They’re just friends, I’d retort, not wishing to incriminate myself or draw more attention to the scene than already existed. The attempt was otiose; later on, we would run into my friend Hanna, the sleeveless kind of dyke, who had just dyed her armpit hair green.

IN MY JUNIOR YEAR

, I fell in love. For so long I had tried to convince myself that I was some variation of straight, that my attraction to women was a phase like chokers or Nintendo 64. And although being in love with a woman felt natural, like tulips opening or sun showers, it felt equally criminal to fully embrace. Up until that point, everything good I associated with being queer eventually came back to fruitcake: universally undesired, fruitcake.

Later on, I came to discover that a priest had molested my uncle— my Dad’s younger brother—when he was sixteen. My uncle S. came out only a few years after the incident. This abuse, according to my Dad, turned him gay. S fled Boston to California in his early twenties, became an at-home gardener for the LA elite and cut all ties with his family thereafter. I only found out about S after uncovering an old picture of him from my parents’ wedding. He looks exactly like my Dad: stalky, olive skin, with the kind of onyx-black hair only grown by an Italian. +++ In August of my junior year, I decide to reach out to S on Facebook.

I want to support—council for the decision to come. This is the same month I tell my Dad about everything, about you. The gesture is symbolic: a bridging of my careful separation between family and identity, between my father and myself. In both instances, I speak with brevity. When I ask my Dad about S, he never says much. His reaction to my confession is equally mute. The pain of remembering is too crushing, it seems. I think it’s easier for my Dad to make up some arbitrary claim about S’s sexuality than it is for him to admit the tragedy was and still is, out of his hands. And in some ways, I feel the same. That it was easier for me to accept my father’s philosophy, to feign agency over whom I did and didn’t love, than it was to withstand the possibility of disappointing him; maybe the only things keeping us from loving unconditionally are those stories we tell ourselves, which we inherit, then make true: like fruitcake, like tradition.

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ART BY SARAH GAY O’NEIL

THE CREATORS CRYSTAL BI ASHLEY BISHEL BOISALI BISWAS ESHA BISWAS EVAN BRADLEY CIERA BURCH CARLINA DUAN AIKO FUKUCHI CLEMENCE GBONON CASEY JONG ALEX KIME MORGAN LYEW LAUREN ELISE MARSTON JILLIAN MILLS MITRA MOGHAREI NIHAL MUBARAK CHRISTINE NGUYEN SARAH GAY O’NEIL CONNIE QI VICTORIA PATNAUDE SAN PHAM SAHANA PRASAD ELENA ROBIDOUX IRENE SUH IRENE LIN WEI

COVER BY CASEY JONG+ INSIDE COVER ART BY MANSHA KAKAR