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editors’ note This zine emerged from a group of three friends (Annie, Sam, and Yuka) that we called our “writing group.” But we did a lot more than write. We met monthly to tell stories, go on long walks throughout the Bay Area, and support each other as we used our writing to carefully explore ourselves. And we ate.
There was the Mapo Doufu Sam cooked; the fresh fish Yuka’s dad prepared; the tea and cookies Annie brought back from a trip to Japan. Always at the center of the table, comforting us as we told stories about who we are and how we got here.
And one other thing always seemed to come up, explicitly or implicitly: being Asian. At a meeting in Sam’s Oakland apartment about a year ago, Sam shared an essay he wrote about Rice and Eggs, a modified Chinese dish he ate growing up in suburban New York, and boom: the zine was born. We had so many stories to share about food and what it meant to be Asians scattered throughout the world. And, we suspected, so did our dear friends.
To the friends who took the time and energy to share pieces of themselves with us and all of the readers of this zine: thank you. Each piece you shared inspired awe in the three of us at the beauty of your art and the beauty of spirit behind the art itself. And like the Asian diaspora that brings us together, this collection of work is as brilliant as it is diverse, in both form and content. Bread slathered with butter and home-harvested honey
in Nairobi, Kenya. Cut-outs of handwritten noodle recipes. Eyes
that “looked like kimchi in the pale fridge light.” A “mass-
produced” and “decadent” piece of warm, buttery Aloo Paratha. Rhymes about weed and dim sum. Countless snapshots of young people making meaning out of food in bold, idiosyncratic, and inspiring ways. Thank you for stretching our understanding of how food and identity can intertwine, and for co-creating what we think is a testament to the immense joy, bravery, and creativity in our far-reaching community.
A lot has changed since we reached out to all of you for submissions. We’re in the middle of a pandemic that people like our former U.S. president have blamed on Asians (ironically, all three of us have friends and family in Asia who are able to live less restricted lives than people in the U.S. because of sensible communal responses to the virus). With economic rupture has come widespread hunger. Even if we’re lucky enough to be able to afford three meals a day, in most of the world, it’s unsafe to meet with friends and family in person unless they already live with us. We can’t gather in large groups to eat, and we definitely can’t cook together. The suffering wreaked by COVID can make publishing a zine about food and Asian identity seem frivolous.
At the same time, we think this zine is more important today than it ever was. We’re in need of soul-searching, of reimagined community, of pride in our Asian-ness, of art that helps us feel close to each other even when we’re far apart. Let this be the bite that holds you over until we get through this and can finally meet up for a warm, delicious meal.
Cheers,
Annie, Sam, and Yuka.
February 2021
menu food and identity
Viraj Sikand
5
popo’s doufu
Sam Lin-Sommer
8
jujube tea
Tina Liang
9
le pedí a Popo que me enseñara a cocinar / I asked Popo to teach me how to cook
Maya Faulstich-Hon
11
jook - a short story
H.K.
13
from my mother
Kaley Powers
16
red sauce
Pratishta Yerakala
17
sầu riêng cho con
Gabby Cohen
19
telangana charu: soul food
N.K. combini sandwiches
Yuka S. notes from my grandmother’s kitchen
Kevin Chen
illustration: Annie Zhang
24 25
27
ghar ka khaana
Nandini Singh
31
soupy thoughts
Susan Tharp
36
tangyuan from Tina
Anshu Gaur
37
dim sum
Karl Jiang
39
illustration: Annie Zhang
cover illustration: Yuka
food and identity
Viraj Sikand I grew up in Kenya, to Korean and Indian parents. I have a large family – my grandma was one of nine siblings, and each of them had their own children that all lived in and around the area. Our door was never locked, and people were always coming in and out of the house. Family events were loud, raucous, and buzzing with aunties and uncles whose names I never knew. My parents were never bothered by the idea of skipping school if there was a big family party to attend.
At the bottom of our garden were two small bee colonies in wooden hives nestled in a little tree. Twice a year my dad would harvest exactly half the honey; “half for us,” he’d say, “and half for the bees”. “Us” meant inviting over friends and family, grabbing all the loaves of bread we could find, and working our way through the giant tubs of honey, spreading it thick over warm buttered slices.
When school ended, we’d all head down to the Kenyan coast. The days were spent wading in the ocean, picking up shells and snorkeling with tiny fish. In the cool, moonlit evening, we’d crowd around a fire and cook a big pot of mutton curry together, sipping soda while watching the lanterns of fishermen going out to sea at night.
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At 18, I left this life to come to America for school. Immediately, curries and chigaes made way for chicken
finger fridays and unlimited burritos. The dining halls were astonishing – over 10 kinds of cereals to choose from, chocolate milk on tap and every kind of peanut butter imaginable. And Clif Bars. My roommate and I ate 109 of them in 1 month, a feat I still have no idea whether or not to be proud of.
20lbs later and increasingly conscious of the yeti-like carbon footprint I was making, I self imposed a diet of daal. Luckily, I met people who were willing to share in this – while I cooked my gingery pulses, others started sharing their own flavors. What would start off as a simple meal on my own could easily grow into a feast with 6 friends and foods from all their homes. Daal was eaten with soba noodles and mapo tofu; channa masala simmered wonderfully with kabocha squash. My good friend in Michigan would eat 8 eggs a day for breakfast- I would join sometimes, and together we’d put kimchi on top. In every context, I grew to appreciate new foods, new cultures, new recipes.
My large Nairobi family is starting to thin out. People have left, others have passed on. My parents are still in Kenya, and the hives are still harvested, but maybe now only once a year. Still, there’s always a jar of honey for me to bring back to the States whenever I visit home. I occasionally try to recreate my grandfathers curries; each time the science of
cholesterol and his philosophy of more-and-more-butter never failing to duke it out in my mind.
It’s a playful fight though, I like to tell myself. And it’s a toss up as to which will win on any given night.
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popo’s doufu
婆婆豆腐 Sam Lin-Sommer
this is what i remember:
my parents telling me to try it.
‘mapo doufu is delicious!’
I remember trusting them.
I remember a mashed-up version of
popo’s face illuminating my vision
as i dished the reddest thing i’d seen
without food dye. milky white doufu
floating in crimson oil, flecked
with bits of pork. it was so hot
my dad winced as he ate it, blew his nose
on his napkin. it was fierce, popo’s doufu.
i took a bite, then another. earthy sweetness
coated my tongue, followed by slow fire.
is this where popo stored her fury?
that sacred thing, i glimpsed it
when she swung a hammer down
on a chicken breast, determination
in her shining eyes.
her body is gone now - the bicep that stretched tight
with every hammer swing.
i return to the doufu, night after night:
red paste frying on an open skillet;
garlic and ginger in shimmering oil;
huajiao,
flower peppers, silver beads of numbing heat.
jujube tea a recipe by 浴琪
as told to her granddaughter, Tina Liang
transcribed by Annie Zhang
ingredients • jujubes (red dates)
• goji berries
• ginger
• lots of water
steps 1. steam jujubes
2. mix jujubes with other
ingredients and water
3. let the tea sit overnight
4. consume!
some tips • drink in the morning because jujubes are a hot* food and
will help wake you up
• do not drink at night because you may have trouble
falling asleep *in traditional Chinese medicine, foods are divided into five categories: cold, cool, neutral, warm and hot. a diet that balances these five types of foods will help maintain good health and equilibrium in the body
a cautionary tale after receiving this recipe from her grandmother, Tina made her first batch of jujube tea. however, despite multiple days and nights of soaking in water, the jujubes remained solid and didn’t seem to be releasing any of their flavor.
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Tina’s attempt
it wasn’t until the next week that Tina realized she had made a fatal error.
she forgot to steam the jujubes.
the revelation was devastating. Tina turned to poetry to process her feelings.
a haiku
we don’t know if Tina has made any jujube tea since.
the moral of the story.....steam your jujubes!
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Maya Faulstich-Hon
le pedí a Popo que me enseñara a cocinar / I asked Popo to teach me how to cook
jook - a short story H.K.
My grandmother would make me jook whenever I got sick. Jook is Korean rice porridge, basically the same as the congee made by our more Western cousins, a dish that my grandmother swore would fix even the stiffest of colds. Obviously my grandmother has a flair for embellishment, especially when it came to her cooking, but that is not to say that her jook did not do wonders for the countless colds I would get throughout childhood. Every bowl I ate, I would feel more and more alive. And every time she would give me that bowl, she would always say “Get better soon”. She would sit next to me, her own bowl in hand, and we would eat in a comfortable silence. The only sounds heard in the room would be our spoons scraping the last bits against the bowl. It was a curious thing, that a bowl of rice could release such happiness and joy for those few sweet minutes that all pain and aches would just magically cease to exist.
I’m 34 years old now; my grandmother long gone, but her jook and the emotions elicited remain. I would make my grandmother’s jook for Sarah whenever she was sick. Each time I made it, I touted it as a wondrous health elixir that was passed down from generation to generation in my family. In reality, I just used some instant rice and put whatever was in our fridge at the time but it seemed to always help her get over the same colds I used to get as a child. I would make it for her when we were in college, after 13
we got married, and when she was in the hospital.
When she was transferred from the ICU to her own room, she immediately asked me to bring jook for her. She said she wanted to imagine that she was back home with me and the jook would help bring her there. I happily obliged, bringing two portions so we could eat together; she never did like it when she had to eat by herself.
I haven’t seen her since she was admitted weeks ago, I was so afraid of losing her. I would eat mountains of jook at home hoping that I would somehow transfer its healing properties to her. The first time I brought the jook for her, her eyes looked like kimchi in the pale fridge light; so bloodshot against a palette of bright white. Her smile was cracked but strong; her nails chipped but clean. She always was a fighter, that was why I fell in love with her so. As was customary in my family “tradition”, I set her bowl down and told her to “Get better soon”. I sat next to her, my own bowl in hand, the two of us finally eating in comfortable silence I have not heard in weeks. The only sound coming from her hospital room was the faint beep of her heart monitor and our spoons scraping the last bits against the bowl. She looked at peace, as if she took a hit of the purest morphine available. I left that night to go back home, telling her that I would bring more jook for us to share tomorrow morning.
I wake up and head to the hospital, two portions of jook in hand, feeling that life would finally turn around after
months of uncertainty and pain. I didn’t know that I would always have an extra portion of jook after that day.
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Kaley Powers
red sauce Pratishta Yerakala this recipe is for a red sauce for a pasta dish. it is neither italian nor authentic but it is delicious. my family and i went to an olive garden only once. yes, we know that that’s not real italian food either, but what was clear was that the flavor profile and notes and combination of ingredients would never live up to my parents’ palettes. instead, when we wanted sandwiches or pastas or other american foods, my mother would “spice” it up her own way by adding literal dozens of serrano peppers. my palette now resembles theirs and requires at least a few shakes of chili flakes on a pizza slice or carbonara. it’s not that buttery, creamy, delicate food isn’t good enough. but searing, bright, explosive flavors are what we crave most. ingredients:
• one packet of crimini / white / baby bella mushrooms, finely chopped
• one packet of shitake mushrooms, thinly sliced
• like a whole bulb of garlic (hehehe) thinly sliced
• 2 shallots, finely chopped
• cherry or grape tomatoes
• 2 jalapeños, de-seed one of them, finely chop both
• two sprigs of basil, rolled up and sliced into ribbons
• 1 big can of crushed tomatoes
• crushed red pepper flakes
• box of pasta of your choice (rigatoni or long pasta is best
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)
recipe:
1. throw the mushrooms into the saucepan on medium high
heat, let alllllll the moisture and water evaporate out
2. meanwhile, bring up some water to a boil, add a buncha
salt (1-2 tablespoons) and throw the pasta in
3. add the garlic and shallots with a drizzle of olive oil, some
salt, and black pepper. turn heat to medium, let the garlic
and shallots flavor the oil until fragrant and golden brown
4. add tomatoes and jalapeños, stir until tomatoes are seared
and jalapeños are wilted
5. add crushed tomatoes, add more salt and pepper to taste.
add crushed red pepper flakes to taste. ( you can add a
pinch of
sugar here to settle the tinny taste of canned
tomatoes) cook and stir until completely incorporated
with the rest of ingredients. (you can add a splash of red
or white wine and cook until it evaporates. this works best
with meat or meat substitute!)
6. strain the pasta juuuuuuust before al dente and cook with
the sauce. IMPORTANT: add pasta water with the pasta to
the sauce!!! stir in the ribbons of basil now as well
7. serve and enjoy !!!
sầu riêng cho con
Gabby Cohen My mother places a huge, spiky green fruit larger than the size of a basketball on a plastic stool in front of her. In one swift butcher-like chop, the durian splits in half and inside its sharp shell of an exterior, I see beautiful alien-looking lumps of sweet, smelly goodness. My mother smiles at me wide, revealing a few of her missing teeth.
“Con ơi,” she says to me, calling me over. Quite literally, the phrase con ơi translates to ‘hey child,’ but for me and my mother, it is also the only way she knows how to say I love you.
“Ăn đi. Mẹ cắt sầu riêng cho con rồi.”
Without hesitation, I plop myself down next to my mother and grab one of the lumps, shoving it into my mouth, as durian goop drips all over my face. I lick my fingers with sweet satisfaction, and keep biting into my lump of durian until I arrive at its center, its remains now a clean, brown pit.
“Ngon không con?” my mother asks me, her eyes not lifting from the fruit.
I nod with a huge smile, durian still in my teeth, “Delicious!”
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The durian is a fruit with a terrible reputation. During a touristy vacation in Bali last year, my Airbnb host brought me a plate of fruits and asked, “Would you like to try some durian?” Before I could respond to tell her how happy it would make me, she adds, “You know durian, the stinky feet fruit.”
The stinky feet fruit, it’s been branded. An image of the tropics, the wild beast of Southeast Asia, and the crazy and strange fruits one may find here. But for me, durian is none of those things.
For me, the only way durian and feet exist in the same sentence is when I remember my mother’s feet underneath her hips, when she sat in a squat on our back porch with a durian in front of her, her body low to the ground, precise.
“Fresh from the market in Little Saigon,” my mother replies. “Now, go wash your face while I clean up before your dad gets home.”
My mother and I only ate durian when my father was not home.
The smell of durian was always unbearable to him, understandably so, for a man who grew up in New Jersey and had never been exposed to any fruit outside of the banana-orange-berry family in his life.
Like so many other things, durian was one of those things that my mother kept between us, between the spaces of phrases and words that only she and I spoke, existing only in the world we created for ourselves.
My mother and I grew to develop a complicated relationship, veering in and out of estrangement throughout my adolescence. I suppose it doesn’t quite matter what happened between us anymore, so much as how those events set off a chain reaction resulting in where we are today, the immeasurable distance between us.
Physically, my mother lives on one end of the world in America, my old home, and me, on the other, in her home of Vietnam. But there is more to distance than geographical location.
My mother has often told me that she doesn’t really understand me, and in truth, I think she is right.
Now that we are so far apart, I try to excavate some of our pleasant moments. I remember the feeling of air rushing through my brain and the wind blowing in my wavy, non-Asian-like hair, as my mother and I sped through the LAX airport’s tunnel, the orange-yellow glow of its lights against the night, when we picked my father up from another one of his business trips. I try to piece together their lives before I discovered that she and my father had fallen out of love, or perhaps, when I realized that they were never really in love to begin with. 21
Sometimes, I imagine the woman who was not yet my mother, and just a young girl, before the difficult circumstances that brought her to America. I create a story for her in which she isn’t still suffering, in which she doesn’t abandon her home and her family, in which she doesn’t create me. I have become very good at making up stories, dreaming up places for people to be in order to avoid the truth of what was, or was never there.
But there is one place that I cannot, that I will not, make up. And that is the place where we sat on the back porch, surrounded by purple and blue flowers that once made my Mẹ smile, when she still seemed happy, when we still lived in that beautiful, yellow house.
It is the place where I had yet to learn that the walls of our home were made of more than brick, that they were filled with so much sadness. That our home was not just a home, but a hospital, a life raft for two very broken people who naively thought that a baby might take the pain away.
It is the place where my tongue knew the taste of not only my mother’s sadness, but the sticky sweetness of durian fruit, the joy of lifting a lump from inside its spiky shell.
It took me a long time, Mẹ. It took me being as far away as possible from you, and yet, in the exact place where you were Created. And this may be the only thing I know for certain about our relationship, but I know that a mother
who cuts the stinky feet fruit is in fact a mother who loves her daughter.
There are many things I have forced myself to forget. But the one thing I will never forget is your toothless smile as you hold a durian-covered butcher’s knife in your hand, and your soft voice as you say to me, “Con ơi, ăn đi.”
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• 3 chopped tomatoes
• 1/2 teaspoon cumin seeds
• 1/2 piece ginger
• handful of chopped coriander leaves
• 2 cups water
• 1 pinch asofoetida & turmeric
• 1 teaspoon peppercorns
• 5 curry leaves
• 2 pinches of salt
• 2 pinches of sugar
• 2 tablespoons olive oil
• 1/2 teaspoon mustard seed
telangana charu: soul food N.A.
1. Wash and cut tomatoes into tiny cubes.
2. Take a grinder and grind asafoetida, cumin seeds, peppercorns, ginger, curry leaves, coriander leaves, salt, and sugar. Grind until it has a powder consistency.
3. Now, take a pot and add 2 cups of water in it. Heat the pan over medium flame. Add the ground powder, tomatoes, turmeric, curry leaves and bring to a boil. Stir it for 1-2 minutes.
4. On a separate pan, put oil and let the oil warm up for a minute or two. Add mustard seeds in the same pan and allow them to fry. After you hear the popping sounds, safely add the oil and mustard seeds to your pot!
5. Enjoy with a warm bowl of rice or drink like a soup! (Best on rainy days)
combini sandwiches Yuka S. Whether I enter drunkenly
prepared to spend
or capable of throwing a sober look at the newest dessert
my gut likely cannot handle,
the melody jingles past my forehead, loyal,
docile, almost
saccharine.
Does it sound the same as the days when
you told yourself you were too poor to
buy a sandwich
when you didn’t yet carry
the wrinkles in your hand, or
form the sand dunes of joy
around the crumbs of your mouth?
If they had changed the jingle to be the
one
now stamped in the fore of my memory
I don’t think I want to go back there.
I would rather your hands reach
sandwiches 25
than the collars of shirts.
My spine hasn’t zipped up
my sensitivities in so long that
it might be too slow
next time,
leaving my
fillings vulnerable,
scattered in the unforgiving
light.
May your smile lines
darken
and your brows
silver,
sparse,
until I can no longer
see when
they’re furrowed.
notes from my grandmother’s kitchen Kevin Chen
In my grandmother’s home, a kitchen became a world.
My cousin, my sister, and me: nine grandchildren in total. We were the first generation raised in America, far from Cholon quarter of Saigon that our parents first called home, far from the violence that characterized everyday life during the American War in Vietnam. In the wake of war, my family found itself in Gulfton, a 3.2 square-mile tract of multifamily apartment buildings in southwest Houston, home to so many other immigrants and refugees from El Salvador, Eritrea, Sudan, and other countries sundered by war and economic deprivation.
In this new and unfamiliar landscape, my family set about the task of rebuilding our world, an undertaking that necessitated a division of labor between home and the workplace. With our parents working nights as cooks, receptionists, waiters, grocery baggers, and small business operators, my grandmother took on the work of raising the grandchildren. Our parents, in turn, pooled their wages to 27
financially support my grandmother. This household economy was structured by practical need. But through her labor and love, my grandmother made room for imagining otherwise, beyond the constraints that we faced.
Food stood at the center of life in my grandmother’s apartment. Through the daily ritual of cooking, feeding, sharing, and eating, she transformed food from a bodily necessity to a relation of care that bound us to one another in an uncertain and unstable world.
In many ways, food was a way of recreating familiar tastes from her past. For special occasions, my grandmother would spend an entire day preparing curry duck, simmering garlic, ginger, lemongrass, fish sauce, and stock over low heat until it all melded into a luscious broth. When it was finally ready to be served, we would cover the living room floor with newspaper and sit, cross-legged and sleeves rolled up, around the steaming pot. We’d dip chunks of baguette into the sweet curry, our lips glistening with oil and duck fat.
Just as importantly, food was also a way of reaching into the future. Most meals that my grandmother cooked were simple and unceremonious, built from whatever we had on hand. Once a week, she made a pot of congee from leftover rice that we couldn’t afford to let go to waste. We flavored it with dried shredded pork and a dash of pepper, adding just
Annie Zhang
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enough seasoning to make a plain bowl of porridge feel luxurious. In these and countless other meals, my grandmother’s cooking was nothing less than a total act of transfiguration: stretching what we had into something more, redefining the horizon of what kind of life was possible. For my grandmother, love and care could be measured in bowls of congee that nourished us, sustained us. Eating well was a method for extending ourselves into what might become a more secure life, one free from the violence of war and displacement and their ongoing reverberations.
In my grandmother’s hands, a kitchen became a world. Cooking, eating, and sharing meals were quotidian but necessary practices of hoping and imagining another world different than the one we lived in. Through her care, my grandmother taught me about food as an art of collective living and flourishing, with and alongside others.
ghar ka khaana Nandini Singh
Cling, clang, cling, clang
Where's the tava?
Cling, clang, cling, clang
Hmm... where are you...
Cling, clang, cling, clang
There!
Slowly but surely, I ease the blackened, charred iron disk out of its hiding place. Dusting off dried crumbs of chapatis from dinners past, I twirl the pan in my hand, watching as the drizzled sunflower oil stretches to the far ends of the plate.
Click, click, click
While the pan heats, and the steam slinks its way around the base of the plate, I grab the packet of Deep’s Aloo Parathas from the freezer.
“Deep’s: Indian Gourmet”. Never thought we’d find a “fancy” piece of the motherland for $3.99…
I couldn’t tear myself away from “Gourmet”.
Gourmet never used to be mass-produced, frost-bitten bread for the diaspora. Gourmet anything (according to Nanima)
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had to be two things: hot and fresh.
Gourmet was kneading atta with your bear hands. Just like my mother taught me; just like her mother taught her. Curling your fingers into your palms, making soft fists that would melt into the cushiony dough. Adding fennel, fenugreek, and shreds of potatoes into the malleable vat, you’d tear off chunks of dough to roll out into flat circles. But, no matter how many times you glided the rolling pin back and forth across each mound, it would take every other shape. Triangles. Squares. Never circles.
Gourmet was hearing the faint sizzle of the paratha turning golden on the pan, fusing with the oil to produce crisp edges and a supple center. It was watching the cold slab of butter liquefy instantly upon contact with the bread, encasing it with warmth. Gourmet was always synonymous with delayed gratification—waiting a little bit longer to savor something that much richer.
Gourmet didn’t just taste like garam parathas.
I remember when gourmet tasted like mustard fish at 6 Ballygunge Place in Kolkata. Actually, that’s what home tasted like. Not mine—Dad’s. In a way, the flavor of his home, tastes almost identical to mine. Just as simplistic and quiet, with dashes of nostalgia.
In Calcutta, time stands still. Everything is untouched,
almost to a fault. Walking through his old neighborhood, Dad sets the scene: he runs home from school, dumps his book bag in his room, and sits outside with his tea and biscuits before he hops over the fence to play with his friends. The glow of the city has slowly been buried under the grime of industrialization. But, Cal’s beauty, like a first edition book, only gets better the more its original covering frays on its own accord.
Home also tastes like Delhi. Unlike Cal, it leaves a bitter aftertaste. The initial sweetness comes from the family gatherings, wedding festivities, stories of trips past, shared cups of chai, walks through Khan Market, and rounds of cards played late into the night. The lasting bitterness, however, is harder to place. Does it come from the underhanded sexist comments from family? Or when they make unsolicited comments about my body? Or is it when I’m told that I’m being “sensitive” when I vocalize my opinions? None of those ingredients are too potent, but they certainly create a thin film across the top of each experience that can be difficult to permeate.
The true sharpness stems from the inability to be seen as fully Indian. No one vocalizes their disappointment explicitly. But, notes of it can be found when I open my mouth to reveal an American accent; admit I don’t speak Hindi, know how to tie my saree, or make daal, let alone, boil a pot of rice. You can see that sense of mutuality that was building between us slowly vanish from their eyes. 33
Both of us stiffen, and now I have assumed the role of the ‘other’. Delhi, in that way, has always been difficult to swallow.
In a way, home has always tasted a little off. It’s always been in need of something. DC, for years, felt like that missing ingredient. Actually, the house in Burleith did. The sweet, earthy scent that would waft in through the paint-chipped windows when we heard thunderstorms rolling in; or even the countless hours spent listening to Mom singing sa-re-ga-ma in the basement, while I curled up with a book in the alcove where images of Guru Nanak and Ganeshji were nestled. The Burleith house was my oasis. My safe, picturesque haven that embraced me at the end of each day, even when I couldn’t cultivate unconditional care for myself. However, as sweet as Burleith tasted, those bursts of brilliance were short-lived. After moving, I was adamant to find that sugar rush in a new place, school being the first place. But, I didn’t know how to express fear about being seen as unworthy. Unworthy of taking up space. So, I fell silent and couldn’t muster the energy to ask for help.
What, then, does home taste like?
I know now that home has never tasted like a location. It doesn’t taste like Calcutta, Delhi, or DC. It has elements of all three. If anything, that richness of home comes from connection; from community; from presence; from autonomy—each of which build upon each other.
Home is not flavored with expectations about how I or others should be. The recipe for belonging is comprised of the identities I feel I have been denied, the identities I feel I have ownership over, and the identities that meet at those intersections.
As I tear off a section of aloo paratha, and place the steaming, buttery piece in my mouth, the flavor dances across my tongue. The supposed artificiality of the bread is irrelevant. It tastes decadent and I feel full. In that moment, I am reminded that home, very simply, is the place that seeks more of me; better yet, home is the place that releases more of me.
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Susan Tharp
tangyuan from tina a recipe assembled by Anshu Gaur
in collaboration with Tina Liang
Tangyuan is meant to be eaten on special occasions like New Years and the winter solstice. Tangyuan has another name: Fuyuan. “fu” is the character for good fortunes. Eating the round shape signifies everything will be accomodating and satisfactory.
Ingredients
For the dough Glutinous rice flour
Warm water
Cold water
Add warm water to mix the rice flour. When the consistency is barely sticking together, add cold water to combine and hopefully keep the dough from sticking too much to your fingers.
For the sesame filling Black sesame
White sesame (optional)
Honey
I like using honey but anything sweet and sticky (butter + sugar) works. Toast black and white sesame until white sesame looks toasted. If not using white sesame, toast until there’s a nice aroma (harder to tell).
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Grind sesame until it’s fine and mix with honey. You should be able to form small balls that keep shape. For the peanut filling Peanuts
Honey
To make the peanut filling, use peanuts and repeat the same steps you used to make the sesame filling. Putting it all together This is best done when the tangyuan mix is still warm, as it starts to fall apart once it gets colder.
Make pancakes with balls of tangyuan mix and put a sesame/peanut filling in the middle.
Seal the ball in the middle like making a bun.
Cook in pot of boiling water, they are ready when they float.
Serve with water + brown sugar mix for an extra pop!
dim sum Karl Jiang
I visit my Grandma twice a year
No burgers or fries I am struck with fear
Guangzhou is boring with nothing fun
But then one day I discovered dim sum
Shrimp shumai takes me to a new plane
After trying xia jiao it’ll never be the same
Chang fen reminds me of a time that once was
Stuffing myself with turnip cakes just because
With dim sum I have achieved a state of mind
Where a world without bean curds is a severe crime
Armed with taste buds with a historic past
My time at the table just seems so fast
Failed job interviews for the tenth time
Roll up some weed, now I’m feeling so fine
Got the munchies so it’s time to eat
Dim sum palace better have a seat!
(P.S. my next favorite dish is Beijing duck)
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Annie Zhang