An Italian Revelation In Six Courses

On Loving Pasta And People

by Jeanine Kim

Illustrated by Emily Saxl

cw: mentions of food anxiety and negative body image aperitivo: a selection of olives, warmed. paired with fresh-baked bread e taralli. olive oil not included at table. antipasti: a plate of prosciutto crudo, salame e speck, alongside pecorino e fontina. primi: spaghetti carbonara made with pecorino romano, eggs e guanciale.

Small cobblestone streets, clotheslines overflowing with bright linens and colorful underwear, tiny dogs yapping as they lick the crumbs of pastries and cornettos off the road—Italy is a picturesque destination, one colored by decades of romanticisation in the media. Despite its aspirational depiction as a nation living in rustic nostalgia where every street is imbued with thousands of years of history, the most popular thing about Italy is its food. Often called the best cuisine in the world, Italian food draws people in with its rich sauces, fresh flavors, and accessible appeal. However, despite the world's totalizing adoration, Italian cuisine is also a minefield of terror and paralyzing anxiety for those who struggle with eating and body image; every slurp of buttery pasta and every bite of cheesy pizza can spark panic beyond comprehension.

When I went to Italy this spring break as a romantic getaway with my boyfriend of over two years, it started off as a nightmare of deliciousness and temptation, one that triggered crushing guilt with every orgasmic bite of savory goodness. Yet, as the week progressed and I ate more (and more and more), the feelings dissipated. Rather than spiraling anxiety, I found myself in a perfect state of romance and bliss, one unencumbered by the ominous footsteps of worrying about macronutrients or calories.

A simple beginning to the meal, just enough to tease out my appetite without sating it. My favorite snack in the world is heated to perfection, bringing out its rich savoriness without overpowering the other flavors on the table. The absence of olive oil—a subtle reminder of how I usually douse my bread with it back home—brings out the guilt. And despite the bread's fresh flavor, I can't escape the sour taste in my mouth.

A platter of deli meats and cheese arrives to tempt me further: an explosion of flavor and salt that promises a delicious journey alongside a dose of regret once the meal is over. But I can justify it—after all, it's just protein and fat, the cornerstones of any good ketogenic diet. In my head, I see every piece of cured meat translating itself into muscle gains at the gym. As I reach for yet another piece of salami, I notice I've been eating the same amount as my boyfriend, and the shame kicks in once more; I put my hand down and wait for him to eat another few pieces before I partake.

The motherlode of terrors, the embodiment of my fear of Italian food. The pasta dish is the definition of food guilt, one that can't be justified by ketogenic dining habits. Pasta, iconic, delicious, and full of carbohydrates, is a fear food. The rich sauce coating every noodle with a delicate balance of creaminess and saltiness only adds to the increasing panic. I try to justify the meal with reminders of how much I've walked, as if the miles I've traveled today cancel out the monstrosity of carbs and fat I'm about to ingest, but that doesn't work. I don't feel better.

Pushing around the noodles with my fork, creating patterns out of guanciale and sauce, I look over to my boyfriend scarfing down his noodles without a care— the beauty of a person eating for pure pleasure and contentment. He looks up and smiles at me, and it all breaks. His enjoyment of the dish, an unthinking willingness to eat simply because he wants to and it tastes good, reminds me of what food should be like. His gaze, loving and affectionate, reveals that he doesn't care how much I eat or what I look like or how much I weigh; he loves me, just as I should for myself. Why should I worry about what I eat when no one else does? Rather than being a damning reminder of my weakness or a cruel example of caloric overindulgence, each noodle transforms into a revelation of acceptance and understanding. An exercise in self-hatred is diverted into love: for myself, for my boyfriend, and for food itself. secondi: saltimbocca alla romana dolci: tiramisu digestivo: a little shot of limoncello

This dish of veal, made in the traditional Roman style, is a regional specialty. It's emblematic of why I should let go: This, a once in a lifetime kind of dish, is precisely what I would miss out on if I let the little voice in my head win during this trip. Misgivings about eating baby animals aside, the dish is delicious. I allow myself to sink into the pleasure that is the combination of veal, prosciutto, and sage.

A simple combination of ladyfingers, coffee, and cream, tiramisu stands the test of time as a dessert beloved by all. Even beyond its mass appeal, it is one of my favorite sweets, with its delectable texture and its perfect balance of sweet and bitter. Spooning mouthful after mouthful, the dessert melts into my entire being, filling me with satisfaction. After the plate is finished, having split the dish with my boyfriend, my sweet tooth isn't fully sated. But salvation awaits: I remember the little cannoli place down the road. I smile to myself as I count my euros, eagerly anticipating the sweet treat that will await me after this dessert is over.

The limoncello shot, wildly popular in Italy, is something that I cannot understand. Though the practice of having an alcoholic drink following a meal is common throughout the world, the appeal of the Italian choice, limoncello, eludes me. A sweet vodka infused with lemon, it is simultaneously too saccharine and too strong. As I pucker my mouth at the unpleasant flavor, I regret my choice of digestivo, feeling the collection of pasta and meats rise in my stomach at this unwelcome addition. But still, when the warm feeling settles and I look up at my sweet boy smiling down at me, I feel better. My stomach, filled with delicious food, and my heart, filled with pure love, is full and at peace. And I look out onto the Roman street ready to tackle all adventures and meals that await me.

My Dad Presents: Zhuge Liang

the man, the myth, the legend

by AJ Wu

Illustrated by Hannah Zhang

“Liu Bei’s men were getting closer. You could hear them beating their drums, waving their torches, shouting their war songs into the frigid air as they sailed closer and closer.

Cao Cao’s enemy camps were caught unawares on the riverbank and frantically assembled to face what appeared to be a massive army.

Only Zhuge Liang, Liu Bei’s best and most trusted strategist—and the organizer of the whole affair—knew the truth. He knew that the cacophony of drums and yells were produced by fewer than 30 men. He knew that under the thick cover of fog, Cao Cao’s armies on the riverbank would not be able to tell the size of the approaching enemy fleet. The straw-stuffed dolls that filled each boat would appear as formidable enemy soldiers, standing six feet high and carrying giant staffs.

Zhuge Liang peered out at the banks, squinting to see Cao Cao’s next move. A war horn sounded twice. A volley of arrows darkened the sky, arcing through the falling snow, finding their marks buried deep in the army of straw men that Zhuge Liang had filled his fleet with.

Zhuge Liang ducked to safety, satisfied. His men hunkered down below deck and waited out the attack. By the time the fleet had sailed miles beyond the enemy camp, they were 100,000 arrows richer without having expended any of their own resources and Cao Cao was none the wiser.”

My dad paused to catch his breath. I leaned back against an old oak and waited.

“Tell me more about Zhuge Liang.”

“Well, he was the most cunning man in the Three Kingdoms. He was brave and loyal. He was decisive and always weighed every move he made against the consequences that could follow.”

I practiced my swordplay with my hiking stick—a spindly branch picked up half a mile ago—against the tree, denting the stick with every carefully placed strike.

“He was all these things. And he was still only a man.”

Whenever my dad and I went hiking, we would pass the time by telling stories. Or, more accurately, I would pester him to tell me stories about my two favorite subjects: his own childhood, and the legendary Chinese hero, Zhuge Liang.

While we are quite sure Zhuge Liang is a real man who lived and died during the Three Kingdoms period, what we know of him today has long since left the constraints of his actual life and slipped into legend. His most well-known exploits were recorded as historical fact and some of his more mythological feats were sprinkled into the 14th century publication of Romance of the Three Kingdoms. He is known as one of the greatest Chinese strategists who ever lived and his cunning schemes are retold often and with many dramatics to Chinese (and Chinese-American) schoolchildren. He was one of my favorite heroes growing up.

My dad told me about Zhuge Liang because I liked hearing about him. But as I grew older, I realized it was also because he didn’t really know what to say when I asked him to tell me stories about himself. Stories about historical heroes were easier and more fun.

I learn my dad’s narrative from other people. My parents met in high school and my mom tells me about how absurd my dad was as a teen: how he would rather play soccer in the rain than study for the gaokao; how he wrote (plagiarized) love poems in her yearbook and letters after high school; how he had poor vision but no glasses so his teachers always thought he was rude when he ignored them in the streets; how he was brilliant and always top of his class despite these various little faults.

He mentions once that he might’ve been a physicist if they had stayed in China. I ask if he’s happy doing what he does now.

IT isn’t bad, of course, he reflects, Not bad at all.

“Can you tell me another Zhuge Liang story?”

We approach the summit and cover the following Zhuge Liang tales: how he summoned the eastern wind to set his enemies’ ships on fire, how he incited a civil war by sending rival kings insulting poems, how he performed a ritual to extend his lifespan by twelve years but was interrupted by battle before it could be completed. How he may have been a hero, but he still feared death.

Everyone says I look like my dad. When I compare pictures of us in childhood, we’re nearly identical. According to legend, Zhuge Liang was “eight feet tall, like pine and cypress.” My dad is considerably shorter, but I suppose he casts a tall shadow.

Personality-wise, the differences intensify. While I’m short-tempered and stubborn, he’s exceedingly reserved with a long fuse, but is also uproariously funny on the rare occasion he chooses to speak up. He goes to great lengths to keep the peace wherever he may be. Family friends, church members, and relatives all point out how humble and tolerant he is—to the point that it’s a running joke in some circles and has gotten him elected to lead multiple religious study groups against his will. It’s something I admire greatly, but is simultaneously annoying: It’s difficult to know what he’s really thinking and feeling.

The sun trickles into the parking lot. I’m driving clumsy circles around cones he set up, plowing into a fair number as we go.

He taught me how to drive with more patience than was reasonable. Some days we would listen to my music, some days we would listen to his. Others, we wouldn’t listen to anything at all because he was cross that I kept talking and getting distracted, my eyes drifting off the road.

We drive up Sugarloaf Mountain a few minutes after it has officially closed. He shrugs. “How do you enforce the closure of a mountain?” The sun dips, yet it’s hot and humid. We don’t end up staying long.

My favorite Zhuge Liang story was the one about the empty city:

Cao Cao’s men were gaining. Liu Bei’s forces were spread thin. Zhuge Liang had received word that Cao Cao’s men were less than a day’s march from taking Xicheng. Zhuge Liang only had a small number of men with him in Xicheng; the bulk of the Shu army were deployed elsewhere. What was he to do?

“I’ll tell you what he did.”

He sent the few soldiers he had to disguise themselves as civilians and sweep the streets. He instructed local children to sing and play happily. Zhuge Liang himself sat in the middle of the main road and played the guqin. He ordered the main gates to be swung wide open. And then he waited to see if his enemies would fall for his gambit. When Cao Cao’s general Sima Yi arrived, he was surprised to see an empty city with open gates and suspected an ambush. He promptly retreated. Of course, like many of his ploys, it was only a trick of the eye. Sima Yi only saw what he suspected to be true. Zhuge Liang was known for being careful and pragmatic; how could an empty city be anything other than an ambush? How could Zhuge Liang be anything other than what he was?

When my family talks about love we talk about it in English, not Chinese like we do everything else. I think it distances things. Or maybe it makes it more real. Maybe love is so sacred that we can’t speak about it in the same language we use to talk about groceries or cleaning the bathroom, everyday drudgeries.

A few months ago, I turned to the true source to get my fix of historical drama and political intrigue. Actually reading the text of Romance of the Three Kingdoms felt like a return to something I had known all my life, my dad’s retellings in their original form.

There were unexpected twists that my dad hadn’t told me (though to be fair, it’s very long). The most surprising was Zhuge Liang’s death after leading five failed campaigns north and the eventual fall of the Shu. I suppose I had never thought too hard about what happened to him at the end. But then, it didn’t matter much because his life had grown so large in the end that it had eclipsed his death.

It’s hard to maintain your heroes as you grow older. These days I’ve mostly outgrown Zhuge Liang, but my dad and I still connect through our shared set of cultural references, though I have to study to keep up. I listen to his Eagles CDs and point out when Don

Henley comes on the car radio to make sure he knows that I’m listening closely. I watch a few seasons of Seinfeld and Longmire, and form a respectable number of opinions about soccer players. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned to see him as a man who, fortunately, happens to be my father, but possesses all the normal flaws and inconsistencies that that comes with. Even so, it’s comforting to see the spots where we overlap and differ, and to know that I’m growing into someone I admire overall. Beyond the physical resemblance, perhaps another area of similarity is that we both feel most comfortable discussing our own lives and relationship through other people’s stories. And that’s a constant that’s becoming alright with me.