Gusto Journal | Spring 2023

SPRING 2023

g u s t o

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Letter From the Editor

Dear Readers, When I run through the picturesque streets of Boston, the people I pass continually amaze and inspire me. Two parents strolling through the Public Garden watching their newborn mesmerized by swan boats. A couple intimately holding hands gleaming up at the perfectly radiant sun. Friends sitting on a bright checkered blanket hysterically laughing and recapping last night’s events. Hypothetical stories flood my mind of who these people might be, where they may be heading, and most importantly, what type of cake they would adore.

As a die-hard frosting fanatic, I believe every person has a unique cake flavor combination that fits their personality and lifestyle. My best friend Eimilie’s is a light and bright blueberry mascarpone lemon cake. My dad’s is a dark chocolate cake with whipped banana filling and hazelnut Italian meringue. My roommates are a sweet yet salty pink raspberry cake with a pretzel crunch and dark chocolate cream cheese frosting.

Gusto’s is a champagne cake with passion fruit curd and white chocolate buttercream.

I’ve been obsessed with cakes since I was a young girl and this developing passion has influenced me to become the foodie and chef I am today. Something so novel that’s present at birthdays, weddings, funerals, and celebrations can be completely customizable and vary tremendously in taste and texture. People exhibit a distinct expression when they first take a bite of a delicious slice; their cheeks rise up, eyes widen, shoulders relax, and lips plump. With every new flavor combination, I strive for this moment; it’s what I live for.

For me, cake decorating is a distinct art; the fluffy layers are my foundation anchoring the design, the fillings an unexpected element of surprise, and the base frosting layer my blank canvas. Frosting bags lined up with various Wilton tips act as my paintbrush and an opportunity to freely create an individual showpiece that I know will stun a crowd. I developed my baking techniques by emulating the work of Duff Goldman and Buddy Valastro. They were the spark that ignited my love for all things sugar, butter, and flour. Now, I follow Lizzie Lin Johnson, a Boston-based entrepreneur, and Courtney Rich, a self-taught baker who believes cakes should be decadent and life-changing. Due to their work, my decorating style has transcended from flash colors and fondant to exquisite flavors with elegant decor.

In this semester’s issue, I challenge you to explore what has influenced your culinary life. Who impacts the foods you eat or create? Is it a childhood dream, family recipes, a local restaurant, or a viral TikTok? Food is an essential yet exhilarating part of our daily lives. What is on our plate depends on persuasions of the past and hopes of instant gratification in the near future.

Keep on cooking, Margaret Kuffner

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gusto team SPRING 2023 ISSUE 9

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Margaret Kuffner

MANAGING EDITOR

Emanuel Louime

FEATURES EDITOR

Madeleine Sims

FEATURES ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Isabel Wibowo

ESSAYS EDITOR MUCHO GUSTO EDITOR

Lilly Mathieu

MUCHO GUSTO ASSOCIATE EDITOR

Isabela González

HEAD COPY EDITOR

Gianina DiDonato

CREATIVE MANAGER

Maia Rosenbaum

ASSOCIATE CREATIVE MANAGER MEDIA AND MARKETING MANAGERs FEATURES TEAM ESSAYS TEAM

MUCHO GUSTO TEAM COPY TEAM CREATIVE TEAM MEDIA AND MARKETING TEAM

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Gillian Mahoney

Madeline King Katie Ballard, Adeline Kim Ani Andal, Julia Schultze, Liliana Simmons Daniel Baymiller, Maggie Beck, Sofia Frias, Antonio Mata, Julia Marotti, Jane Paulson Maya Floreani, Eunice Kang, Julia Santos William Cornelisse, Punnya Kalapurakkel, Carson Locker Sophie Borrmann, Joshua King, Hannah Phillips Hannah Carroll, Josie Crockett, Grace Kneebone

Table of Contents 4

On the Rocks

By Lilly Mathieu

8 The Nice List

By William Cornelisse

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Beyond Gusto: Life in Food Content Creation

By Isabel Wibowo

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Notes from a Day of Eating

By Sofia Frias

Struggle Meals in Retrospect

By Eunice Kang and Emanuel Louime

A Mouthful of Peace: How Comfort Food Brings Us Happiness

By Gillian Mahoney

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Platos con Pilas

By Maya Floreani

My Grandma’s Pie Crust, Served with a Side of Jealousy

By Julia Santos

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Nigiri “A Lo Pobre”: The Origins of Nikkei Cuisine

By Isabela González

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Gusto’s Cake

By Margaret Kuffner 3

On the Rocks Words by Lilly Mathieu Photos by Maia Rosenbaum The ice was melting, hastened by my balmy hold on the tinted glass and the strike of my opportunist straw. With every sip, in between my prosing of the protracted menu, the punch of tequila withered like the flowers five days over from a jubilant jour d’amour. It is simply the average risk of a serving “on the rocks.” The imminent fate of dilution as the order ticket machine continues to click.

As I sat slumped in the corner of the burgundy velvet booth, hypocritically postured for critique, I investigated the restaurant, and all of its elements, in the fashion of Anton Ego, simultaneously fishing for the drowned slice of lime in my spin of juvenile judgment. Oh, how I despise such watered-down dividends of the night’s relief, and more so, how I loathe the calories contiguous to the cuisine à la carte.

The critical evaluation of the restaurant permeated the discourse of the evening’s company, a crowd of four joining in to expose the flaws of the space—the symphony of the silverware scrapped from the table and the glares of the highbrow hostess. Yet, self-sounding as sagacious, our beleaguered critiques refused to satisfy our stomachs. Thus, we examined the profiles past the apéritif. Finding the double-cut smoked bacon as the begging bite, and an order was quickly placed.

After fifteen minutes and another salt-rimmed refreshment, I set my gaze on seven square slices of bacon, overlapped and plated under a sleeve of scallions and sesame seeds. The edges were crisp and coarse, yet their pink centers disclosed a particularly distasteful distinction.

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As I began to sink my impatient teeth into the slabs of swine, my mouth labored against its middle, leathered lot. Short of garlic and ginger gusto, the starter arose as a poor caricature of “Korean barbecue.” It was simply soaked in soy sauce and scarcely caramelized by sugar, and I quickly became bothered by its titular nod to Korean cuisine. While this cultural testimonial did not threaten to flatten regional differences, as many “Asian-inspired” dishes dare, it unjustly taped a label of “Korean” that it does not deserve to depict.

Stretching my fatigued jaw and exposing severely inappropriate behavior for such fine dining, I continued to nip at the suspicious serving, displeased by the perpetual chew of the bacon that was beyond its proclaimed double-cut.

Evaluating my personal state, I found myself almost irreversibly under the influence. I was indelibly buzzed by such ethnic cuisine served on the rocks, diluted and re-plated for our cash and consumption. And here, I have forgotten, or perhaps have never known, its veracity. What is Korean, and whatever the menu-maker thinks it is, continues to conflate and confuse. And it is as if I took a plush seat at the bar of the imperialistic savior of food fare, ever-so ready to continue its heavy pour.

Showcasing its slicing skills and passing along its paternalism of cuisine, this expression of empire robs and revises dishes with its wondrously “wise” thumb. Sometimes it leaves us to speculate its authenticity, yet more often, it sponsors us to neglect any investigation and to turn over our credit cards like diner coffee mugs awaiting a morning fill. Many times over, I would not have bothered to indulge my brain in such contemplation, but tonight the supposed celebratory meal quickly turned into a consideration of appropriation.

Restaurants, influencers, and myself included, adopt ethnic cuisines in our aims to recreate their exceptional and vibrant flavors. Yet, we simultaneously threaten to thin their authentic character and recast it as our own inventions.

As I returned my rugged, half-eaten slice to the center plate, my incessant criticism propelled a lengthy introspection, furnishing my insecurity of being a similarly callow cook.

I often scroll through socials and linger along food pages, where I then log new recipes and ideas in a scribble-stained notebook. I rarely pay attention to a meal’s origin. Rather, I note a dish’s structure, randomly sort ingredients, and imagine its flavor with the company of my chosen additions.

I prepare shawarma and pad thai, and I write my process in my university magazine as if I am positioned for such practice. Thus, this bite of bacon brought me a multidimensional discomfort: (1) Its rubber-like texture that could

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easily replace the sole of my converse, and (2) the realization that I am culpable of such a culinary crime. Now, I am awkwardly sitting on the ambiguous fault line between food appreciation and appropriation. Here, I cannot find a solution to my interaction within this binary. I can only recognize the imperative to interrogate the authenticity of ethnic cuisines, like Korean barbecue, served at such establishments. And perhaps aim to seek out the true thing—or at least hold myself accountable for my own food fixings.

While I cannot solve food appropriation, I can surely sober up. I can give credit where it is due and urgently diverge from the exploitation of such cultural culinary titles that serve a shallow aim at ethnic diversity.

There is an immense span to learn from the robust variety of culinary excellence and a limitless opportunity to beam with excitement upon finding a new fashion of food. While I have delved into such discoveries, I have come to recognize the concurrent and perpetual risk and fear that I am battling of stealing and stereotyping the unfamiliar. From the kitchen to a calloused café chair, the bite of unevenly burnt double-cut bacon has sponsored me to become a conscious cook and a conscious critic. And, of course, send back the servings of ethnic cuisines served on the rocks.

While there is no shame in sincere attempts at recreation, there is a dangerous threat of reselling and resharing the stolen without any genuine reflection and citation. Thus, I have now come to confront a paranoia of being complicit in these actions. I am undoubtedly uncomfortable with these ideas, but I find that this discomfort is far better than being inconsiderate or entirely incapacitated while under the influence of food appropriation.

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The Nice List Boston has a lot to offer, but sometimes the city makes you work for it. To discover the best there is, you have to trudge through some dirty water.

This goes for most things, but especially for food.

I’m always on the hunt for my next amazing snack, hustling between trains and buses, I’m usually following my nose down some back alley somewhere. Nowhere do I go to greater lengths than to discover the best hot chocolate. Most cups of hot chocolate I have tried lately have been pretty good, but why settle? When hot chocolate is done right, and its smooth flavor is elevated by a rich, decadent texture, our sense of childhood wonder returns and all is well in the world. The question is, how do I find the good stuff? An even better question is, how have others found it? Most people these days turn to the internet and Google. If you

ask a search engine what the best hot chocolate in Boston is, it delivers you a mirriad of links, many of which are “top 10 lists”. Are these top 10 lists really all they are stacked up to be? Is there truly no better hot chocolate than the number one spot? I grabbed my fraying train pass to investigate.

Words by William Conelisse Photos by Maia Rosenbaum

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One name consistency popped up at number one in Boston. Across many top 10 hot chocolate lists I could find, L.A. Burdick seemed to get the most attention.

Within a couple hundred feet of the beautiful Boston Public Library and the Copley train stop, it made a lot of sense that this chocolatier would be a popular spot.

When ordering your drink, you have three options: white, milk, or dark chocolate. I opted for the milk chocolate, and although it was really good, it wasn’t quite number one. Distinctly flavorful with hints of floral and citrus, it struck a beautiful balance between being overly rich while still being luxurious. Sipping it felt like hugging a warm blanket, fresh from the dryer. The beverage was definitely worthy of the top 10; it was almost everything you could want...almost. I felt thirsty after every sip, the sweetness

of the drink overpowered that coveted chocolate flavor.

It was also a little too coarse, every once and a while my sips would turn to sand, consequently seeping the joy out of the drink. Somewhere else in Boston must be able to do better.

Taking the train in the other direction, charging outbound towards Newton Highlands, I found a local chocolatier that didn’t make most of Boston’s top 10 lists. Cacao was hardly mentioned in my internet searches, yet it ended up being my favorite. Distinctly different from L.A Burdick, this cup offered warm earthy flavors of caramel, overripe cherry, and almond, all

lightly masked by the chocolate, yet certainly not hiding.

Decadently smooth, and with a proper amount of desired bitterness, this is a hot chocolate to coat the soul. One of those foods you could lean on to turn your bad day around.

Their adorable location, and local aesthetic only strengthen their now prominent place in my heart.

In the search for the ultimate in any food category, Google has its place. I never would have found Cacao if I hadn’t consulted Google for the best hot chocolate in the city. Top 10 lists are not best utilized as a concrete ranking system, but they are a great resource for pointing you in the right direction. If it’s on the list, chances are it’ll be really good; just, maybe not your number one.

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Beyond Gusto: Life in Food Content Creation

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The Babish Culinary Universe begins with a team of four or five crammed in a basement kitchen in New York City, with studio lights overhanging a worn and well loved butcher block island surrounded by three cameras: one free standing, one by the stove, and one by the cutting board.

The first scent that hits you is freshly brewed coffee.

As the day goes by, the kitchen is filled with the scents of whatever is cooking that day. Some days it’s the smells of the deep fryer, the sizzling oils dancing across the surface. Other days it’s going back to basics like a traditional carbonara. The scent of rich guanciale permeates the cramped kitchen as it melts into a pan, followed by luscious egg yolks to create a silky smooth sauce.

Every week— every day, new media content streams out of this kitchen (and one other) in the form of TikToks, Instagram reels, Youtube shorts, and, most famously, YouTube video series. The channel was first founded

by Andrew Rea who at the start hosted his single series, Binging with Babish, beginning in 2016. Rea’s culinary talents and creative spirit has amassed him over 10 million subscribers on his YouTube channel.

“He is the steam engine behind the channel, and works tirelessly to get content out every week,” said Nico Borbolla who is 23 years old and the associate producer at BCU. “Most everything else that happens at the BCU is to support him. He’s our leader.”

Rea’s universe is only expanding.

The channel has since grown to different series and chefs like Anime with Alvin and Street Food with Senpai Kai. The Babish Culinary Universe has certainly remained a staple and beloved channel in the food content creation industry for all these years.

But behind the creative genius of Andrew Rea and the meticulously yet heart warmingly made Instagram-worthy dishes, is a dedicated and spirited team punching out content in support of Rea’s bottomless ideas for wild recipes or recreations of the classics. Production is a rehearsed dance, with some organized chaos and improvisation sprinkled in.

“The system is down pat. All dialed into perfection,” said Borbolla. “But the real magic happens after you cook it. That’s really when I think food content creation becomes what it is.”

Borbolla was Gusto’s very own founder in 2018. It was his trip to Paris while taking a food writing class that pushed him to envision a publication dedicated to the beauty and culture of food; but Borbolla always had an affinity for the culinary world. Inspired by his obsession over food media sparked by cult classics like Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown, Borbolla wanted to create a space where food became the central feature of experimental, investigative, and creative writing. And here we are now. “[Gusto has impacted me] immensely. I didn’t even know that I wanted food as a career, even then I was a little bit trepidatious,” Borbolla said.

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Borbolla’s ultra unique, niche, fun, and unexpected job – (can you tell the Gusto team is jealous?) – introduced him to a world of content production that exists outside multimillion dollar studios and theater premiers. Instead, that content lives in our tablets, in tiny screens where viewers can enjoy a 10 minute respite from their day-to-day lives through food. Despite the ease at which we consume such content, there exists a system that requires precision, dedication, and, above all, team spirit.

Since taking that food writing class during a semester abroad in Paris, Borbolla had an inflamed passion for food and, perhaps, food as a career however that may take shape.

“It showed me how vast the world is. Once you care about it, you can’t get out,” he said. “You either have to make it a hobby or a career for the rest of your life.”

He remembers having to pick a recipe and write a story about it. It was a tomato stuffed with nuts and dried fruits

with spices, confited in creme de caramel for three hours until the shell was candied out. An intricate, elegant, and widely grand recipe that came from none other than Babish.

“It’s a fun full circle moment,” Borbolla said.

After graduating from Boston College in 2021, Borbolla worked at Issuu before joining the Babish crew. A friend recommended the job to him, and Borbolla realized this was an opportunity to get back into the food space. After a five month interview process, and two months of eagerly waiting, Borbolla got the call that swung open the doorway to a career path with food.

“Five years ago, food TikTok wasn’t a career people thought of. Five years before that, even food Youtube wasn’t a career either,” Borbolla said. “As long as you have that guiding centering light that ‘I want to work in food,’ the rest will work out.”

From selling ad packages and managing business revenue, Borbolla suddenly found himself planning a trip to California with backstage passes to Outside Lands for him and Rea. “I met all these people I never thought I’d meet like Roy Choi. Pusha-T walked right by me,” Borbolla said.

“A week ago I was in a different job.”

Recently, Borbolla and the team traveled to Ecuador, home to the world’s finest dark chocolate. It’s these moments that Borolla sometimes would have to pinch himself.

“We get to see how chocolate is made from scratch, and fly a drone across the Ecuadorian jungle,” Borbolla said. “It’s a dream come true.”

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Unlike the warm hugs of our heaters in the North East, Ecuador is sticky and hot, like an oddly comfortable blanket of humidity layered with coatings of mosquito repellent to ward off the hundreds buzzing around. Beyond this blanket is the overwhelming vastness of green, thick jungles and undulating farmlands that stretch out against caramel dirt roads and gray brutalist buildings.

“The owners of the farm made us a drink, which was cacao juice, distilled or concentrated,” Borbolla explained, “and we had it with some rum which was infused with star anise. So good.”

But it isn’t Ecuador that makes Borbolla’s job all the more special. Something else that happens behind the scenes, behind the camera and equipment scattered around the kitchen, behind the lighting fixtures overlooking the classic butcher block, is a sense of amity, in fact, a sense of family, that influences every second we watch on screen.

“There is a real comradery. I associate a lot of media these days with isolation, you’re watching it on your phone alone in bed or whatever,” Borbolla said. “The actual process of creating has been one of the most joyous parts of my life, because we’re like a pirate crew.”

There’s Andrew Rea cooking up classics like an English breakfast, or cultural obsessions like the Last of Us rabbit that made viewers shed a tear and salivate at the same time. There’s Alvin Zhou whipping up comforting recipes straight from

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Studio Ghibli and other anime favorites. There’s Senpai Kai conjuring childhood snacks and meals from memories of street food stalls. Then there’s the crew, the producer, the editors, all the hands, brain power, and talent that stream into even just fifteen seconds of content posted onto shorts or reels. Then there’s Nico Borbolla managing the schedule, setting up meetings, activities, travel, events – keeping everyone afloat during their already busy days.

“It kind of feels like a start-up. You have to do a lot of things,” Borbolla said. “Even though my job is a lot of logistics, scheduling, and planning, I [sometimes] do the dishes [when] there’s a big shoot. We all hop in.”

As for the future of content creation, the possibilities are limitless. As we enter a world with AI and the metaverse slowly—or maybe even faster than we think—integrating into our daily lives, content creators have to adapt.

“I think the future is going to be more and more interactive.

There’s so much potential to food media when it comes to AI and, god forbid I say the word, metaverse,” Borbolla chuckled.

“Whatever media comes next, there will always be a large niche for food, because food grounds us back to reality.”

Yet at the heart of content creation will always be the team behind it. Whatever iteration the future will unfold, it’s people, plural, that will push this industry forward.

“The more you make it a communal effort, the happier and the more you find longevity in your career,” Borbolla emphasized. “It’s hard to do it by yourself. It’s really long hours. It’s a constant. It can be daunting.”

As the day ends with washing dishes and putting away kitchen supplies and film equipment, there’s always a moment of triumph for the team, celebrated by decadent bites of whatever was made that day. A treat for the team. Leftovers included.

“It’s a job based on consistency, and to find creativity and unison within this consistency is a challenge but a very welcome one,” Borbolla said.

Words by Isabel Wibowo Photos by Nico Borbolla

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Notes from a Day of Eating Words by Sofia Frias 8:00 a.m.

I need a cup of tea. My feet tip-toe across the cold hallway floor and into the dimly lit kitchen. The dishwasher drawer groans as I pull it open. I grab my green mug and ask it to wait patiently as I unload the rest of the plates, cups, and silverware before I start on my tea. I might be a monster for boiling my water for tea in the microwave, but after two short minutes of that agonal hum from the machine above the stove, my English breakfast is steeping.

I love when the eggs have those little brown freckles. I’m going for that one-handed egg crack trick. I could have been softer with the egg on the counter, but the pulling apart of the shell with my thumb and middle finger is pristine. A lot of egg goop left on my hand though, not sure if it’s really worth it for much more than the performance. Is it a performance if I’m the only one there to see? The eggs drop into the bowl with some chopped spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, garlic, oregano, salt, pepper, and dairy-free cheese. God, I hate dairy-free cheese. I sometimes wonder if it’s better than no cheese at all. I use one of my least favorite forks to whisk so it doesn’t feel so mean throwing it back into the dishwasher this early in the day. Pop the bread in the toaster and the eggs in the pan. Eggs on the plate and toast just perfectly burnt. I let it cool enough to spread some fake butter on nice and thick. Fake butter isn’t so bad, nothing like dairy-free cheese. Breakfast is good.

12:35 p.m.

My econ professor is saying something about Pareto optimality. I’m fifteen minutes away from my bolt home to eat lunch. I get to the apartment by 1:02 p.m. and go to the cabinet. It’ll be granola and milk and a fruit today. Scooping the cereal into my grey mug sounds like scooping dog food. My grey mug is for snacks and cereal. I wiggle some peanut butter off the blade of a butter knife, and it falls in globs. Some honey and cinnamon on top and a glug of milk, of course. It’s sweet and sticky and crunchy and exactly what I wanted. Katherine sits at the table with a plate of chicken nuggets. She recounts a dream she had about pistachio cranberry orange cake. I could probably make a pistachio cranberry orange cake. Kind of like that New York Times almond and citrus cake but with pistachio paste and cranberries instead of lemon. Is pistachio paste even a thing? Pistachio extract? I’d probably have to venture out on the B line to Whole Foods for something like that. Might need to cook the cranberries down and get some of the moisture out somehow. Probably something to be done over the next break at home where the baking shelf in the pantry seems endless. Here, all I have is space for a bag of sugar and flour.

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3:07 p.m.

The other day, I read this poem about sharing slices of orange with someone as a sign of care. My mom always cut oranges and gave them to me in slices that I bit from the rind.

My instincts protest the thought of peeling my afternoon snack, but it saves me from washing a cutting board and a knife. After a bit of wrestling and pulling, I have nine semi-neat slices. I pass a slice to Aoife, who sits at the table with her laptop. She asks if it’s one of the pink oranges that I bought at the store the other day. It is.

6:30 p.m.

I’ve been dreaming about sausage and peppers for the past few days. I walk home from my evening class planning my course of action, thinking about that time I texted dad for the recipe and he told me there really wasn’t one. He listed the ingredients: a pound of sausage, peppers, onions, tomato, and oregano. I’m sure I’ll figure it out. I get home and swap my coat for my bubblegum apron, wrapped once around my waist and tied in a bow in the front. Slice the peppers and onions are and throw them into a bowl; keep the garlic on the cutting board. Sausages in the pan first, just to brown them. Then the peppers and onions until soft. Garlic, just until I can smell it, then the oregano, salt, and pepper. Hey, I saw them this morning. Canned tomato. Sausage back in this time, but sliced lengthwise and face down to cook in the sauce. I clean up as everything cooks and snap a picture to send in the family group chat. I put my food in my big white bowl, because it always tastes better in that bowl. It tastes pretty close to how dad makes it.

Much better than the first time I made it last year. I pack up the rest to save for the next few days. I’m not meal-prepping. These are leftovers. Leftovers are cool.

9:24 p.m.

I could probably finish my homework in the next 30 minutes. Being done with homework means TV and a snack on the couch. I rescue my grey mug from the top of the dishwasher and wash away the memories of lunch. I pour myself some popcorn to keep me company as I rewatch Fleabag. This mug isn’t big enough; I go for a second helping about 15 minutes in. Almost bedtime. A piece of chocolate couldn’t hurt. It rests on my green and white napkin in between nibbles. I turn out the living room lights and run the dishwasher.

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Struggle Meals in Retrospect Words by Eunice Kang and Emanuel Loumine Photos by Madeline King

Eunice’s Recipe In Korean culture, food plays a crucial role in everyday life, with a significant emphasis on understanding national customs, traditions, and the unique meanings associated with dishes.

For example, miyeok-guk, or seaweed soup, is traditionally served as a birthday breakfast to honor mothers after giving birth, while tofu is often presented as the first meal to individuals released from prison to symbolize a fresh start.

As the firstborn child of newly immigrated parents from Korea to the United States, I was exposed to a diverse array of Korean flavors and dishes from a young age. Despite my diet consisting mostly of Korean food, I didn’t always understand the customs and traditions associated with each dish, as I do now. I never ate miyeok-guk on my birthday; in fact, I think the only times I recall eating the dish were post-service meals cooked by the Korean grandmas at my dad’s church. So, it wasn’t miyeok-guk that I looked forward to on my birthday; it was the soft serve that I knew my mom would finally let me order. Looking back, I don’t think I ever felt very sad about this. My birthdays were exciting because they gave my family a reason to splurge just a little bit more.

Growing up, my family lived on a tight budget, and my mom often cooked for convenience using minimal ingredients. She gravitated towards meals that she could cook in big batches and feed us for the next few days, one of which was the sweet pumpkin porridge with mochi balls, or danhobak-jook with saealshim.

As a kid, I hated this dish. Maybe my taste buds hadn’t fully developed, or maybe it was because my mom would make it once, and we’d eat leftovers for the next few meals. But as I grow up and move through new stages of my life, I find myself craving this dish more and more and requesting it as often as I am able to. I’m sure my request surprises her each time, especially given the countless times I complained or came home with a thermos full of barely touched porridge. As I reflect on my years growing up and why I now crave it living away from home, I realize it’s because of the sense of warmth and familiarity associated with my mother’s cooking. Without even realizing it, my view of danhobak-jook as a struggle meal has shifted to a comfort food that reminds me of home, my heritage, and my mother’s love.

Growing up, I had a difficult relationship with my mom, and I think I projected a lot of those difficulties onto even small things like our family’s “struggle meals”. I recall feeling frustrated and even resentful at times when we had to eat the same thing for several meals in a row, but now, I see these meals in a different light. They were nothing short of a reflection of my mom’s love and sacrifice for our family. She cooked what she could with what she had to make sure we were fed and taken care of, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

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Sweet Pumpkin Porridge with Mochi Ingredients:

For porridge: 1 kabocha squash (roughly 2 lbs) (or any other yellow/orange sweet pumpkin) 2 liter water 1 tablespoon glutinous rice flour/sweet rice flour 2-4 tablespoon sugar (depending on desired sweetness level) 2 teaspoon kosher salt ½ teaspoon cinnamon (optional) Pine nuts for garnish (optional) For saealshim or “sweet rice mochi balls”: ½ cup glutinous rice flour ¼ teaspoon kosher salt 3-5 tablespoons boiling water (depending on brand, start with 3)

Instructions:

For porridge: Rinse and dry the kabocha squash. Since it can be hard to cut the kabocha when uncooked, microwave on high for around 4 to5 minutes first. Let the squash cool for around 5 minutes before cutting it in half and scraping the seeds out. Place the kabocha squash in a pot of water and bring to a boil. Once the water is boiling, cover the pot,reduce heat to medium, and let it cook for 15 to 20 minutes—until soft. While the kabocha is steaming, make the sweet rice mochi balls. Scrape the kabocha flesh into a blender with water and blend until it reaches a smooth consistency.

Place the blended mixture back into an empty pot and simmer on medium low heat for around 5 minutes. Add the glutinous rice flour, sugar, and salt and whisk until no lumps remain. Carefully place the mochi balls into the mixture and cook until soft—around 10 minutes. Finally, garnish with pine nuts and a sprinkle of cinnamon if desired.

For saealshim (sweet rice mochi balls): In a mixing bowl, combine the glutinous rice flour and salt. Carefully add boiling hot water and mix with a spoon until a dough starts to form. Knead the dough with your hands until smooth.

Divide the dough into mini balls, around ½ inch in diameter and set aside.

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Manny’s Recipe I stared out the window and squinted in a futile attempt to activate my latent X-Ray vision. I was almost home from school, and I could catch a glimpse of our red chimney above the hedges, but the anticipation was almost unbearable. After a long day of learning fractions, being scolded for my backwards Es, and getting shit on in two hand touch football, my only consolations were getting to lay down, annoy my big sister, and watch crappy YouTube videos.

The school bus made its final turn, passing the bushes obscuring my view and revealing home. The leaves of the twin cherry blossom trees in the front yard began transitioning to their deep amber hue as winter drew nearer. The two trees were separated by a tall black lamp post, and the grassy island surrounding the cherry blossoms and post was distinguished from the rest of the yard by a horseshoe driveway with its vertex at the hill’s summit where our home stood. The house itself was an off-white raised ranch with presidential blue shudders and a ruby red door. It was a gorgeous autumn day and a beautiful scene of my sacred place, but at that moment I couldn’t care less about the changing of the trees or the color of the shudders. Parked in the driveway was Mom’s creme 1998 Toyota Highlander. My elation grew and the stresses of the day seemed miniscule as one thought overtook my mind: Mom is home!

I grabbed my bag and dashed off the bus and up the hill almost tripping on a pothole in the fissured asphalt. My sister trailed behind me, markedly less excited, but still incapable of fully concealing her delight. We opened the door to be greeted by a cacophony of smells and the sound of Haitian Kompa. Fabuloso, MainStays cinnamon candles, and smoked fish battled for dominance over our noses, but the fish, as it had many times before, prevailed.

My sister and I shouted enthusiastically “Hi Mom!” up the stairs, before dropping our bags, stripping off our shoes, and sprinting up to the kitchen to meet Mom and the food that awaited.

My mom served us plates of espageti ak aranso—spaghetti with smoked herring. It was a prime example of food to send your kids to school with if you’d like them to become victims of bias motivated incidents in the early 2000s, but it was delicious and each time we ate it, it filled me with immense joy and a feeling I can only describe as belonging.

The three of us, once gathered around the kitchen table, would debrief our days. My sister complained about the boys on the bus that made fun of her hair or how difficult the math she was learning had become. I launched into rambling explanations of the obscure fun facts I had picked up throughout the day and remarked on how bad I was at sports since the other boys played in the peewee leagues. My mom ran down the list of errands and chores she had completed on her ‘day off of work.’ She always managed to squeeze weeks of backlogged tasks into a day or afternoon.

Time seemed ethereal in moments like this. My sister, mom, and I would converse, bouncing between subjects and stories at random, regardless of whether it was a school night with homework to be done or if the threat of work early in the morning loomed overhead. We laughed, smiled, and appreciated the unexpected opportunity to share in each other’s company, even if only for a meal.

Looking back on memories like this I experience a warmth and fondness that I have yet to find elsewhere even after having removed the rose tinted goggles of my youth. One of my pivotal moments of realization occurred when I was talking to my sister and mom and recalled how much I have missed

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eating espageti ak aranso since becoming a vegetarian.

My mother responded with slight confusion and skepticism upon hearing this. She was shocked that after eating it so often, especially with its distinct flavor and smell, I still yearned for it. Still not seeing the full picture I became confused as well, so they explained it to me. Espageti ak aranso was what we ate when we had nothing else to make. It was our struggle meal.

I didn’t know how to feel with my matured understanding of my childhood; for a while I felt guilt. In retrospect it seemed so obvious that my household wasn’t the most well off. My parents had separated in 2004 and divorced in 2005, leaving my mother as the sole breadwinner for two kids. She worked her ass off to make our lives the best they could be, but she had to constantly juggle being a mom, homemaker, and anything else her cherished but demanding dependents could concoct. I recalled every temper tantrum I threw because I couldn’t add a pack of Pokemon cards to the shopping cart; every pout I gave when Mom had to work Saturday instead of taking us out; every time I began expositing about my own day before even taking a moment to consider her baggy eyes or slouched posture.Each recollection of my ignorance was accompanied by a pang of regret. For a while I silently accosted myself for that which I didn’t know or couldn’t control, but I’ve come to realize the pernicious effect of my mindset.

I should not fixate on the challenges of the past for the sake of some sort of ass-backwards repentance.

We’re allowed to find the good in things if we so choose, and there’s no guilt in seeking the light in dark places; that’s where they shine the brightest. I now recall espageti ak aranso, and, yes, I am reminded of the difficult times it represented for my family, but more so I am reminded of the love and experience that surrounds it. I consider how my mom would take the time to make sure my sister and I had a hot meal even after the longest days of work or errands. I’m reminded of the pride I felt when listening to my sister talk about dance or her art. I imagine the twinkle in my mother’s eye as she told us stories of waking up to the smell of espageti ak aranso before heading off to the beach with her friends back in Haiti.

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Even when my family couldn’t give me everything material I wanted, they more than supplemented it with love, meaningful narratives, and a sense of genuine care.

I would gladly have my home smell like smoked herring for the rest of my life if it means I could hear my mom tell me about her favorite beach in Haiti for the first time over again.

Ingredients:

1 pounds dried spaghetti ¼ cup neutral oil ⅓ cup smoked herring, roughly chopped, deboned, and soaked overnight 1 onion, sliced 2 scallions, sliced, with whites and greens separated 1 red bell pepper, sliced 3 tablespoons tomato paste 2 cloves of garlic, minced or crushed 2 tablespoon Haitian epis ½ scotch bonnet pepper, deseeded and minced (optional) 2 tablespoons cold butter 1 tsp dried oregano (optional)

Instructions:

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil and cook the pasta until just shy of al-dente. Set the pasta aside and reserve at least 1 cup of pasta cooking liquid. In a large saute pan, heat the oil over medium-high heat before adding the smoked herring. When the herring beginsis beginning to brown add the onion, scallion whites, and bell pepper, then sautée until the onion is just beginning to turn translucent. Add the tomato paste, epis, garlic, and scotch bonnet and cook until fragrant. Incorporate ½ cup of pasta cooking liquid and the pasta. Cook, stirring occasionally and adding additional pasta cooking liquid as needed until the pasta has reached your desired doneness and the sauce has thickened. Remove the pan from the heat and add the butter, stirring vigorously to emulsify the sauce. Season to taste with salt, but be cautious; the smoked herring is already heavily salted. Garnish with the dried oregano and reserved scallion greens and serve!

Recipe adapted from: suzonspice.com

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A Mouthful of Peace: How Comfort Food Brings Us Happiness Words and Photos by Gillian Mahoney Comfort food is what we gravitate toward for a little bit of peace in the whirlwind of school, work, and life. It’s nostalgic, like grilled cheese or noodle soup. It’s nourishing, if not for the body, then for the mind. We turn to comfort food when we feel overwhelmed; when we need a meal to bring us joy. It reconnects us to family and culture, to safety and security, to happiness and the carefreeness of being young. It grounds us when everything around us feels unstable.

We take in the carbs, salt, and warmth to fill us up, to make us feel better, and to remind us that these foods will always be there for us when we need them.

The things that we love most about comfort food are just that—feelings. Certain emotions, such as stress or sadness, lead us toward food for relief. We reach for the pasta or the ice cream because we want something to lift us up when we’re down. We seek to change our emotions from distress to happiness, and we use food as a tool to do so. In turn, comfort food fills our stomachs and our minds with a sense of well-being. With comfort food, we know everything will be okay.

But we’re left to wonder how chocolate cake or pizza actually make us feel better. A recent study notes that comfort food allows us to feel in control. While the rich fudginess of chocolate cake and the perfect blend of tomato and cheese is certainly a factor, sweet and starchy food helps our bodies produce serotonin to calm us down.

We enter a temporary state of relief from the pleasure of eating food that tastes good, lessening the impact of stress hormones. The food itself lowers stress levels and even numbs emotions tied to being overwhelmed. When we consume foods rich in carbohydrates, research shows that we can feel less irritable or anxious. Eating salty, fatty food such as bacon or cheese actually stabilizes our heightened emotions in times of uncertainty. Some of the country’s

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most popular comfort food products developed in response to consumer needs in difficult times.

Many people turned to the beloved Kraft Mac & Cheese, for example, for a moment of joy during the Great Depression.

It’s natural for people to rely on what we eat to bring us a sense of control when our emotions overpower us. When we reach back in time for childhood favorites, we unconsciously crave past feelings of protection and security. Meals like peanut butter and jelly, hot dogs, or cheeseburgers remind us of when our worries were simple. Nostalgic bites make our responsibilities melt away, and for just a little while, we feel that someone is watching over us again. We feel the warmth and love from our youthful, sunny days, and a weight is lifted. With the power that comfort food has to replace uncertainty with a clearer, happier state of mind, we take all we can get.

When life gets to be too much, the first thing I think of is pasta. It’s the perfect comfort food because it’s inherently a blank canvas. I can pair a wide variety of shapes with a rainbow of sauces and mix-ins for the perfect meal every time.

A longtime favorite combo is butternut squash ravioli with cherry tomatoes, arugula, and shaved parmesan in pesto sauce.

I love the sweetness of the ravioli and the acidic tomatoes with the savory basil and sharp cheese. I’ve always enjoyed pasta with pesto, and I wanted to find a way to bring in more flavors for a more well-rounded dish. I prepare the ravioli as a way to relax on the weekends, and it’s usually a treat at the end of a long week of studying and writing papers. Just as comfort foods numb the bad feelings and replace them with good ones, this ravioli dish also lets me breathe a sigh of relief amidst everyday stressors.

Yet I want to dig deeper into this definition of comfort food. Is it always a formula of sadness plus unhealthy food equals happiness again? When I asked my dad for his perspective, he gave a similar take. He doesn’t necessarily seek something that’s nutrient-rich. He looks for a meal that is flavorful, warm, and hearty, much like the fullness that people look for to feel safe. His dish of choice is a savory grilled lamb or duck with crispy fingerling potatoes, paired with a vegetable or

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salad. A splash of color on the plate goes a long way to ensure that the meal is balanced. His ultimate comfort food, however, is chicken wings. He has his own recipe. There’s a seasoning of salt, pepper, garlic and onion powder, and other spices. But the crown jewel of the wings is the final coating of parmesan, basil, and crumbled duck bacon. The chicken wings are not only a favorite of his but a highly requested dish at all family gatherings.

Comfort food, then, brings people together. The flavors are just as memorable as they are soothing to the soul, and that is what my dad loves most about his favorite meal. In this way, comfort food can be just as bold and powerful as the feelings that compel us to enjoy them in the first place. Sometimes it takes a standout meal to truly lift our spirits, something elevated and exciting that jolts us out of the monotony of routine. In this sense, comfort food highlights who we are as people. As a creative home cook who loves thinking outside the box, my dad’s favorite, comforting dishes connect back to his identity.

These definitions of comfort food, though, get me thinking about their boundaries. Is comfort food solely a source of comfort, forever obligated to restore positive emotions and take away the bad ones? Are food and emotions part of an equation that is easily solved with a scoop of ice cream and a slice of apple pie? Good food

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doesn’t always need to numb our emotions. I take a step back to think about what foods I reach for when I’m happy, hopeful, and empowered. Maybe we can use comfort food to reinforce these good feelings instead of being their sole provider. Comfort food, in turn, can confirm our sense of self.

What foods inherently signify happiness?

The first item that comes to mind is the classic birthday cake. Light and fluffy vanilla cake. Vibrant funfetti sprinkles. Sweet and buttery vanilla frosting. And we can’t forget the candles, aflame with the glow of celebration at the beginning of another year of life. We eat this dessert because it celebrates who we are.

It doesn’t need to dull what we feel or inject us with new energy. The layers of cake, frosting, sprinkles, and candles bolster our milestones in life. We eat birthday cake because we’re already filled with the hope that a new year will bring, and that is enough.

I typically look at comfort food as a temporary fix to all my problems.

If I can take a bite of carb-rich pasta, go sugar-crazy with ice cream, and sip the saltiness of ramen broth, then all my worries feel a little less burdensome. Comfort food, according to the standard definition, numbs and replaces what we don’t want to feel.

The sadness and stress drains us until we reach for our favorite foods for a sense of control. For a mouthful of peace and the nostalgia of childhood. But what I know now is that the comfort food we rely on doesn’t have to fit neatly into an equation, into which we enter sad and come out happy, problem solved. Our emotions influence the way we eat as a way for our bodies and minds to tell us what we need. Whether we feel like we can conquer the world or just take a deep breath, comfort food will support us. We don’t need it to make us feel better. We have it to reaffirm who we are.

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PLATOS CON PILAS

Feminism, Food, and Ancestral Tradition at Café Mayapán 28

Words and Photos by Maya Floreani

We pull into the gravel parking lot, facing a sun-washed building layered with a beautifully vibrant mural of mystic indigo, empowering pink, sunny orange, and tropical parrot-green tones.

It’s like even the building knows its familiares are just a few yards away, perfectly reflecting the authentically colorful houses in Mexico. In the artwork, a woman holds a book and a dove—a symbol of female empowerment, community care, and knowledge. Fourteen of us pour out of the van and walk into the unique structure, our stomachs eagerly anticipating the delicious mole and nopales con queso we have been told so much about.

As part of the Arrupe group at Boston College, I had the unique opportunity to visit the US-Mexico border to learn about migration and current policy from an immersive, faith-based perspective. Our experience at the cooperative La Mujer Obrera— host of Café Mayapán—was our introduction to the intersection between migration experiences, feminism, food, and ancestral tradition. Much more than your typical casual coffee stop, Café Mayapán and La Mujer Obrera come together to emphasize education, activism, and community-building.

Inside the cooperative’s building, rooms are filled with posters from different historical moments and community projects—photographs of El Paso’s booming denim industry and NAFTA infographics, but also children learning from la madre tierra as they help out in the garden, strong women giving speeches, young girls learning the magic of Mexican cooking and artesanía, families advocating for better systems. These are images of explanation and injustice, but they are also images of courage and pride, and the walls are flooded with these educational resources, not to mention decorated gloriously with heartfelt community murals by talented local artists. Brilliant colors are everywhere, from the paint to the handcrafted bracelets, earrings, and ponchos that came straight from the other side of the border—the motherland. The women at La Mujer Obrera explain that these handicrafts were made by women in Mexico trying to support their families using their traditional knowledge. Selling their artesanía in the US provides a better quality of life at home.

Rooted in the Mexican culture and indigenous traditions from the homeland, the café creates authentic dishes from fresh, natural ingredients. Not to mention, the café prepares food with traditional methods and centers its educational aspirations

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around this cultural embrace. As we savored saucey enchiladas, handmade tortillas, flavorful chile salsas, and artisanal aguas frescas, we were informed about the cooperative’s mission of uplifting the immigrant and first-generation community in barrio Chamizal. Beautiful food alongside impactful conversation, all united at the same long table. It was a scene of empowerment, hope, and change.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Ana Gomez, head Coordinator of Projects at Café Mayapán.

Originally from Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, Ana has worked at the Café for the past 23 years, when the organization found her, she says. In 1998, she and her husband were let go from their jobs at the American Garment factory in El Paso, Texas. That day, La Mujer Obrera was there to inform migrants like Ana about their rights as workers, and the rest is history. For the next 23 years, she gained valuable experience at La Mujer Obrera, raised her two children in El Paso, and eventually took on a leadership role at the Café, where she enjoys creating in the kitchen, structuring Café projects, training her colleagues, and hosting community cooking classes. Most of all, she says, she has loved learning how to fight for her community, united with others. She takes great pride in supporting the projects of colleagues across departments of the cooperative. “In the end, our mission is one and the same for the Chamizal community,” Ana tells me.

La Mujer Obrera was founded in 1981 by the efforts of working-class women in the southern central region of El Paso. Ana explains that it was created to combat injustices occurring in the factories at the time of NAFTA’s passing, which incentivized businesses to run factories in ways to maximize profit, even if it meant worker abuse. The women used the term “sweat-shops,” or talleres de sudor, to emphasize the maltreatment and unsafe working conditions present in these locales, especially during the denim industry’s boom, in which El Paso was the top supplier of America’s favorite bluejeans.

On top of this, Ana describes that workers were given unfair wages for their work. Therefore, the organization was born as a testament to the founding ideal of “work with dignity.” The Café followed in 2000.

Ana tells me that the organization advocates for seven community rights in particular: education, preservation of culture, fostering relationships with nature, healthy and sustainable food, youth development, the rights of workers, and activism against labor injustice. She notes that now, the cooperative has focused its initiatives more directly on problems that challenge the development of the Chamizal neighborhood.

The Chamizal is one of the poorest communities in El Paso, and is home to many

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migrant families and their descendants. The low-income neighborhood tends to be disproportionately affected by environmental contamination, low access to resources, and a faltering school district that leaves children of immigrants with little opportunity to empower themselves. Essentially, the community remains largely disregarded by local government officials, a city made invisible as it is covered by layers of smokey pollution and empty promises.

The significance of the cooperative’s location lies in the fact that El Paso is an important line of passage for migration. It is a city sheltered by menacing walls—some even topped with spikes in an effort to “show teeth” against immigration, namely during the Trump Administration’s “Build a Wall” campaign. At the same time, El Paso is a gateway to get to other places of the US. Despite its hard exterior, for many migrants, it is actually a bridge of hope and opportunity—the first step to the American Dream. For many migrants, it is a welcoming place where many choose to stay. It becomes home—that fleeting four letter word that is chased, sometimes for generations, before it returns a warm embrace, a whisper that you belong here, regardless of what your status on a paper reads, or where you came from, or where you meant to end up. So, El Paso is, quite literally, the path, the passageway to the US, humanity’s dreams of a better life, and of what it means to be “home.”

Furthermore, the Chamizal neighborhood specifically is home to a high percentage of Mexican migrants, both documented and undocumented, as it is so close to the North American crossing. The neighborhood holds this name in homage to the Parque Chamizal, or Chamizal Park, which is a park of special significance to Mexican citizens. It was divided in two after negotiations between the North American and Mexican governments, so when migrants cross from Mexico to El Paso, they finally arrive at the other side of this long-lost historic park. “It is not just a park, but a part of our identity,” Ana says. In fact, the cities of El Paso and Ciudad Juárez are so intertwined through culture and geography that they are considered almost extensions of one another, a single unit. Some work and live in El Paso, and some cross the border daily to get to work. Ana says that there is such a strong relationship between the people, food, and entertainment that even the schools in the area provide a bilingual program and educate the students on the ties between the two cities. The community has received La Mujer Obrera with open arms, and other organizations with similar initiatives like Familias Unidas and Proyecto Verde have dedicated themselves to supporting the families as well.

As for the food prepared at Café Mayapán, Ana emphasizes that the food is authentic Mexican cuisine. Our table is full of fresh shredded lettuce and tomato pico, rich and creamy mashed avocado, the classic zesty Mexican rice, and hearty refried beans accompanying flavorful meat and veggie delicacies. The Café’s promise to its clients is about a balanced compromise between quality ingredients and preparing tasty food that is still accessible. The food is prepared the way mothers and grandmothers would make it—no frills, but the common, family-style staple recipes to be shared and savored. Authentic Mexican cooking is characterized by the use of natural products and ancestral methods. In this way, preparing the food is a labor of love and a tradition passed down across generations. El asado is a prime example of Mexican cooking, involving an open-air barbecue. Ana also notes that traditional methods of cooking avoid frying or processed food. Other influences on the food include the very art on the walls of this deeply-ingrained cultural space. Ana tells me that the murals and paintings of indigenous Mayas, animals, and agriculture are fundamental to how Café Mayapán perceives itself and its mission.

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“The people who work at Café Mayapán are like me, Mexican, and they work with great pride at this establishment,” Ana says. “Mayapán is a concept where our experiences and knowledge count. It is a place where we can practice our culture and our traditional culinary skills. Most of all, it is a place where we can learn.”

Café Mayapán uses primarily natural ingredients from the environment when possible. Ana says that she is also working with another La Mujer Obrera project called La Tierra es Vida to grow and harvest their own products for the restaurant. In the future, they hope to create a section on the menu with completely locally-grown food from their own backyard garden.

Ana says the most important ingredients to highlight include cactus, calabacitas (a type of pumpkin or squash), and maize. These three ingredients are found in many of the dishes on the menu. Ana also notes that the food is not only influenced by their Mexican heritage, but by their historic indigenous roots as well. This is a natural influence that comes from integrating indigenous ingredients such as maize, cactus, beans, and squash—ingredients that are part of the land and their identity.

Ana tells me that the cooperative is currently creating a community garden through a project called Tierra es Vida so that someday all ingredients can be locally grown. The past few years have been spent preparing the garden’s soil, researching plant life, and gaining agricultural knowledge. Ana says part of her role at this time is to find new recipes and adapt old ones so that they can select what staples need to be planted in their jardín.

Beyond the local-level perks, Café Mayapán and La Mujer Obrera are dedicated to cultivating a community garden for the sake of environmental justice and sustainability. They acknowledge how important it is to be an active participant in caring for the planet. After all, the environment has in many ways influenced the beloved food they are able to make. To follow rich traditions, they have to protect la madre tierra. This is why projects such as Proyecto Verde exist. This initiative promotes that families have individual backyard gardens to sustain themselves, as well as a larger garden for the whole community. Rather than impact the environment, they collaborate with it. Another example is Tierra es Vida, which focuses on growing food for consumption and then completing the cycle by composting, returning the scraps to the source. The restaurant has also been taking strides towards producing less waste as part of these initiatives.

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In addition, the café has some seasonal specialties. In September, they prepare los chiles en nogada, Mexico’s beloved national dish of poblano chiles stuffed with picadillo and topped with a walnut-cream sauce, pomegranate seeds, and parsley. Another iconic recipe is mole oaxaqueño, a stewed meat dish that mixes chiles with chocolate. This dish is often reserved for special occasions and even has its own festival. On Día de los Muertos, a day of special significance for Mexicans to commemorate the lives of their loved ones, Mayapán prepares tamales oaxaqueños, a traditional dish that involves wrapping a sticky maize-based dough called masa in a plantain leaf and steaming it. Tamales are a labor-intensive process, but when the savory mole oozes out in that first bite, all the hard work pays off—definitely not forgotten, but worth it. Merece la pena. Ana says that Café Mayapán also prepares special foods when catering for weddings, birthdays, and other events. Above all, they aim to cook with traditional methods from mothers, grandmothers, and other women who have come from various cities in Mexico— Puebla, Michoacán, Chihuahua, Oaxaca, and so on. This is how the women learn about each other and find solidarity—preparing the food from their region is how they share their experiences from their residences in Mexico.

I asked Ana what her favorite dish is at the Café—surely no easy question when all the plates are so unique and delicious, prepared with love by strong, hard-working women like herself. “Nopales asados rellenos de champiñones con chile chipotle,” she says. She loves this dish because it is a tribute to the past that belongs in the present. A dish of roasted cactus filled with mushrooms and chipotle peppers, it is made with indigenous products and methods, while also being healthy—the perfect triage for the Café’s core goals. It is the edible manifestation of activism, justice, identity, and influence.

Ultimately, Café Mayapán’s efforts are a fight for basic rights and community dignity. The organization prioritizes pushing agendas for health, education, housing, diet, peace, and political liberty, all while conserving identity, cultural gastronomy, tradition, history, language, education, and above all, a united community. A united front on the frontera, preparing platos con gusto, con pilas. ¡Sí se puede!

For more information, please visit http://www.mujerobrera.org/

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My Grandma’s Pie Crust, Served with a Side of Jealousy Words by Julia Santos Photos by Madeline King I propped myself up on the step stool and rested my arms on the kitchen table. As I peered over the edge of the table, my eyes were met with a neat ball of pie dough sitting on a messy, floured surface. I couldn’t help but play with some of the excess flour, scattering it around the table to create patterns and miniature mountains. My grandma sandwiched the dough between two sheets of wax paper and began expertly rolling it out. She pushed the rolling pin in one direction, then rotated the mound of dough and pulled the rolling pin back in the opposite direction.

My sister, Halina, and I watched in awe as our grandma worked, using a skillful and calculated approach to roll out the dough. Gradually, a perfect circle of pie dough formed on the counter. My grandma had the ability to cut pancakes into precise squares or slice potatoes into uniform circles, so her flawless rolling technique came as no surprise to me. This memory appears to be a wholesome experience, of a grandma sharing her love of baking with two of her granddaughters. However, I dreaded the part that was coming next.

“Ok girls, this is looking good,” my grandma said. “Halina, do you want to use your special trick to flip the dough into the pie pan?”

“Yes!” Halina squealed excitedly. She rolled up her sleeves and stepped up to the edge of the table in preparation.

Halina peeled off the top layer of wax paper, leaving the circle of dough on the bottom sheet. Then, she inverted

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the pie pan on top of the dough and seamlessly flipped the dough into the pan. Halina peeled off the wax paper to reveal a perfectly lined pie pan. The dough was centered in the pan and evenly covered the sides, creating the ideal base for a fruit filling. She stepped back to admire her work, beaming with pride.

“Good job, Halina. I have such a talented and creative granddaughter,” my grandma praised. Halina smiled, practically glowing from the compliment. While this should have been a sweet family moment, all I could feel was a pang of jealousy tugging at my heart.

As the younger sister, I was used to feeling envious of Halina. She is two and a half years older than me, and while this difference feels almost trivial now, it meant everything back then. Halina was a living embodiment of the phrase “anything you can do, I can do better.” Since she was older, she was better at sports, better at reading, better behaved, a better student. If I could find anything I was better at, I seized on it. For example, Halina was unable to pronounce the “sk” sound correctly, like in the word “skirt.” Although I was younger, I was able to correctly pronounce “skirt” and surpass my sister’s pronunciation. I loved to hold this over her. I would flaunt around singing “skirt skirt skirt,” while Halina was left feeling furious and frustrated, only able to say “sirt.” Besides this useless skill, however, it felt like I was always behind. Halina was a constant reminder of my inadequacies, and I couldn’t help but regularly compare myself to her. I desperately wanted to be just like her but couldn’t overcome the obstacles that my younger age imposed on me. The two and a half years she had over me gave her an inherent advantage in everything that we tried, baking included.

Whenever a family gathering rolled around, like Thanksgiving, Christmas, or a birthday, two recipes were followed. The first recipe was my grandma’s pie crust recipe, included below. The second recipe described the order of events: 1. Halina and I helped my grandma make the pie crust.

2. My grandma rolled out the pie crust.

3. Halina did her special trick to flip the pie dough into the pan.

4. My grandma praised Halina.

As much as I loved baking with my grandma, I hated the part where Halina got to show off and receive special recognition. All I felt was unworthy, untalented, and undeserving.

After one pie making session, I decided that enough was enough. Halina had invented her pie flipping technique, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t work to improve my baking skills. I dedicated myself to baking, hoping that one day I too could impress my grandma and earn her praise. In a competition against my sister, I started practicing cookies,

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cakes, and breads. Unlike some of our other competitions, Halina wasn’t aware that she was my opponent. She noticed that I began baking more often, but only I knew that at the root of every dessert I made was the desire to be better than my sister.

As Halina pursued other interests, baking became “my thing.” Naturally, the next time my grandparents visited us, I whipped up a multitude of sweets. Like any proud grandparent, my grandma shared how impressed she was, assuring me that each dessert was even better than the last. I received the compliments that I had been craving for so long, feeling accomplished and proud of myself. What I experienced most deeply, however, was a sense of peace, for I had accepted the fact that my sister and I would always excel at different talents. Instead of striving to be just like Halina, I could focus on doing what I enjoyed most.

I became the baker of our family and finally surpassed my sister in a skill. My love of baking may have stemmed from a place of jealousy and comparison, yet I am almost thankful to Halina for being the sister that she was. Without her and her patented pie flipping technique, I never would have found a hobby that brings me so much comfort and satisfaction. Now, when it comes time for a family gathering, I feel honored to be the one entrusted with baking a dessert. But what brings me even greater joy is that I can prepare a beloved family dish with my sister at my side—as my sous chef, obviously. I oversee her as she measures out the ingredients, while I carry out the main steps of the recipe, but I always let Halina take over when it’s time to flip the dough into the pie pan, as this will forever be her area of expertise.

Ingredients:

For the crust: 1 ½ cups all-purpose flour, sifted 1 teaspoon salt ⅓ cup neutral cooking oil (canola oil, vegetable oil, or grapeseed oil) 3 tablespoons cold milk

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For the filling: ⅓ cup granulated sugar 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon cornstarch ½ teaspoon lemon zest 2 ½ cups fresh blueberries 1 tablespoon lemon juice For the crumb topping: ¾ cup all-purpose flour 3 tablespoons granulated sugar 3 tablespoons light brown sugar ½ teaspoon cinnamon ¼ teaspoon salt 5 tablespoons unsalted butter, melted and cooled

Instructions:

For the crust: Preheat the oven to 475°F. Stir the flour and salt together in a medium-sized bowl. Mix the oil and milk in a measuring cup. Pour the liquid mixture into the flour and salt. Stir with a fork until the dough is smooth and evenly mixed.

Press the dough into a ball and divide it into two pieces. Roll out one half of the dough between two sheets of wax paper.

Continue rolling until it reaches a large circle, wider than the top edge of the pie pan. Transfer the circle of dough into the pie pan. Use Halina’s method or any other method. Crimp the edges to make a decorative shape.

Prick the bottom of the crust with a fork. Bake the crust for 8 to 10 minutes in the preheated oven, until the crust is lightly browned. Let the crust cool.

For the filling: Combine granulated sugar, cornstarch, and lemon zest in a large bowl and mix well. Add in the blueberries and lemon juice and toss to mix. Let the filling rest for 20-30 minutes or until the blueberries release their juices.

For the crumb topping: Combine flour, granulated sugar, light brown sugar, cinnamon, and salt in a medium bowl and mix well. Add in melted butter and stir until combined.

Assembly: Preheat the oven to 375°F. Transfer the blueberry filling into the baked crust. Sprinkle the crumb topping over the filling.

Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour 15 minutes or until the crust and crumb topping are nicely browned and the blueberries are bubbling.

Variations:

Some other family-favorite fillings include chocolate or banana pudding. Bake the crust separately and prepare the pudding according to mix instructions, or make the pudding from scratch. Allow the crust to cool before filling with the pudding. Top with whipped cream and/or fresh bananas (for banana pie).

Filling and crumb topping recipe adapted from bonappetit.com

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Nigiri “A Lo Pobre”: The Origins of Nikkei Cuisine Words by Isabela González Photos by Maia Rosenbaum My face never fails to light up whenever somebody says their favorite food is sushi. Almost immediately, I begin scrolling through the menu of my favorite sushi restaurant: Osaka: Cocina Nikkei. Qué rico un ceviche “Wasabi” con un maki “Acevichado” y un “Paiche Misoyaki,” I think to myself—white fish and scallop ceviche with a citrus wasabi sauce, shrimp tempura and avocado maki topped with white fish and ceviche emulsion sauce, Amazonian fish dressed in a coconut butter, miso, and lime sauce, wrapped in a banana leaf. This is “cocina Nikkei.”

Nikkei is a word coined to describe people of Japanese descent living abroad. However, through the growing popularity of Peruvian-Japanese cuisine, the term is now commonly used in the culinary world to describe the specific merging of Perú and Japan. As Nikkei chef Mitsuharu Tsumura puts it, Nikkei is not Japanese food with Peruvian ingredients or Peruvian food with Japanese ingredients, it is a cultural merging, es el “resultado del encuentro y diálogo entre dos culturas.”

The Japanese first arrived in Perú in 1899. Japan had been struggling with an unemployment crisis, so emperor Meiji decided to send the unemployed abroad to find work. Future Peruvian president, Augusto B. Leguía, was the CEO of an international sugar company at the time and suggested emperor Meiji send a group of uWnemployed men to Perú to work in the sugar industry with him. The first wave of 790 Japanese workers soon arrived in Perú on April 3rd, 1899. The workers were pleased with the quality of life in Perú and started encouraging their family and friends to move across the Pacific Ocean with them.

Following the success of his men in Perú, emperor Meiji sent eighty-two additional groups of Japanese workers to the South

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American country, this time including women and children. The Japanese immigration eventually ended in 1923, with a total of 18,727 Japanese people living in Perú.

This is the start of what Michelin Star chef Mitsuharu Tsumura considers to be the first phase of Nikkei cuisine. Since not all the Japanese immigrants arrived in Perú with jobs in the sugar industry, they had to find work in whatever way they could.

For many, this meant using their knowledge of cooking to open modest restaurants or sell food on the side of the street.

Although, as Mitsuharu emphasizes, the immigrants were not aware that they were pioneering a new cuisine, “se trataba de sobrevivir haciendo lo mejor que sabían hacer,” and the Japanese flavors started merging with Peruvian seasonings. There was no wasabi in Perú, so the Japanese would grate ginger instead or buy powdered mustard. There was no shoyu, so they would have to manufacture a homemade version from scratch, balancing and experimenting with Peruvian sauces and flavors to approach a similar result as to what they had in Japan. Nikkei cuisine was born out of necessity. It was simply the Japanese immigrants making do with the ingredients they had available to them in Perú.

The Japanese also helped revamp the Peruvian seafood culture. Since both countries have access to the richness of the Pacific Ocean, their cuisines are naturally very entangled with seafood. However, because seafood is more prominent in Japan, they taught Peruvians the importance of freshness and making use of your resources when it comes to cooking. They introduced Perú to cooking with octopus and crab, and the importance of plating raw dishes on the spot. The latter was

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especially revolutionary when it comes to ceviche: Perú’s national dish. Peruvians would have the raw fish soaking in a lime juice-based sauce all day long, making a big batch in the morning and selling it throughout the day. The fish would be cooked almost entirely through. Then, the Japanese started selling their versions of Peruvian food that consisted of ceviche being assembled on the spot, and Perú never looked back.

The second phase of the cuisine, according to the world-renowned Nikkei chef, was the introduction of traditional Japanese cuisine in Perú. In the 1970s, Japanese companies start coming to Perú and found themselves in need of their native dishes. Specifically, they missed the technique and wide array of seafood characteristic of Japanese cuisine. Therefore, classically trained Japanese chefs, like Nobuyuki Matsuhisa (Nobu) and Toshiro Konishi, were able to make their rise and introduce this new cuisine to the Peruvian public.

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And then came the merging of the two: the third phase of Nikkei cuisine. Japanese modified Peruvian food and classic Japanese food combine to create “sushi Nikkei.” When I think of sushi, this is what comes to mind. Most, if not all Japanesestyle restaurants in Perú, serve Nikkei cuisine, and Mitsuharu’s Michelin Star restaurant “Maido” is an exemplar in this field. Named by “The World’s 50 Best” as the 11th best restaurant in the world and the third best in Latin America in 2022, “Maido” is giving Nikkei cuisine the recognition it deserves. Everything about “Maido,” ranging from the dining room setting

to the degustation experience, is Nikkei. Even the names of the dishes themselves are Nikkei, including snippets of Peruvian slang like “A Lo Pobre Style” nigiri and “Que Tal Concha” scallops. Mitsuharu even does a great job of staying true to the Japanese influence on Perú in the aspects of resourcefulness and sustainability. In his menu, you can find the origin of many ingredients—razor clams from Huarmey, Paracas scallops, sea urchin from Marcona—which are not only native to Perú, but found on beaches that are relatively close to the capital. This honoring of the roots of Nikkei cuisine is what makes “Maido” truly exemplar. As stated by “The World’s 50 Best,” “Maido” is locally sourced Peruvian ingredients combined with elevated Japanese techniques that result in an “explosion of fantastic flavour.” This is what Nikkei cuisine is all about.

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Gusto’s Cake Ingredients:

Champagne Cake: 2 ¼ cups all-purpose flour 2 ¼ teaspoons baking powder 1 teaspoon salt ¾ cup unsalted butter, room temperature 1 ½ cups granulated sugar 5 large egg whites, room temperature 1 ½ teaspoons vanilla extract Passion Fruit Curd: 1 cup granulated sugar 4 egg yolks 1 large egg ⅔ cup passion fruit puree ½ cup unsalted butter ½ teaspoon salt

Words and Photo by Margaret Kuffner

White Chocolate Buttercream: 4 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature 24 ounces white chocolate chips, melted and cooled slightly 2-3 cups powdered sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Preheat the oven to 350°F and grease three 6 inch round cake pans. In a medium mixing bowl, combine the flour, salt, and baking powder then set it aside. In a stand mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, add the butter and beat until smooth. Add the sugar and beat on high until light and fluffy, around 2 to 3 minutes. Reduce the speed to low and add the egg whites one at a time making sure they’re fully incorporated after every addition. Alternate adding the flour mixture and the champagne; start with the flour and have three additions of dry ingredients and two additions of champagne. Spread the batter evenly between the three pans and bake for approximately 35 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.

For the curd, whisk together the sugar and egg yolks. In a medium saucepan, heat the passion fruit puree, salt, and butter on low until all the butter is melted. Remove the pot from the heat and slowly whisk a few tablespoons of this mixture into the egg mixture. Add the mixture a few tablespoons at a time until none remains. Pour the combined mixture back into the pot and heat on medium heat for 5 to 6 minutes until a thick curd consistency is met. Be sure to continuously stir the bottom and the edges so the mixture does not curdle. Chill the curd for at least three hours or overnight until completely cooled.

For the white chocolate buttercream, add the butter to a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Whip on high for 3 to 5 minutes until the butter turns a pale white color. Add the melted and slightly cooled white chocolate. Slowly add the powdered sugar and then vanilla extract until fully incorporated.

To assemble, place ½ cup frosting on one layer and spread it around the base of the cake. Then add half the curd. Place another layer of cake on top and repeat. Once the layers are filled, crumb coat the cake and let it chill for 10 to 15 minutes. In true Gusto creative fashion, decorate the cake in whichever way you’re influenced to do so.

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Find us online at: Website: bcgusto.com Facebook: /bcgusto Twitter: @bcgusto Instagram: @bcgusto Email: bcgustomag@gmail.com 43

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