The Cookbook

Page 1

the incognito press

the cookbook vol. 4


Samantha Ng, Oladejo Feranmi, Stephanie O., Amber Spalding


Esther Fisher


note from the editor-in-chief Volume four is all about food. That's it. With such an simple theme, we were awed by the creativity from our contributors. Our "Cookbook" is filled to the brim with "recipes" (submissions); in fact, the most we've ever received in our entire time operating as the Incognito Press! Thank you to all the contributors, editors, and readers; this wouldn't have existed without you.



6 9 12




18 20 22 24 25 29
















31 33 35 35 40 44 53 55 58 62 64

appetizers: just getting started.




) (pages

our regular zine feature, the crystals, and the astrology of July-August!

regular zine feature:

i n n e g p s o by Teri Anderson edited by guest editor Samantha Ng

I opened the clear Jar The foods had come from afar They started with oats That had been delivered by boats The next was sausage rolls Would calm empty souls The grin would reach to the eyes And the singing would fill the skies The campfire would burn My heart would yearn For what heart most desired That I would eventually be admired I sat soaking in the ambience And slowly fell in a trance.

biography: Teri Anderson creates work that looks into the idea of craft in art, textiles, installation and sculpture to create a linear or surreal environment which the audience have to inhabit. The work links to her heritage and how textiles were key in their family history including sample machinists and pattern cutters. Building on this Teri proposes an art practise which incorporates a craft based techniques into the art based discipline of installation. @tinyteri13 - instagram @teriandersonartist - Facebook

on t h

a cryst



f t he o s

july-august written by Stephanie O.


crystals! Featuring balancing crystals, those that work with cooling energies, especially good for the Sun in Cancer, and empowering crystals, those that work with warming energies, especially good for the Sun in Leo. Sunstone: as in the name, this stone is associated with the Sun, and is especially beneficial for Leos. Boosting confidence, creativity, and connecting with the self, it's a perfect crystal for Leo season! Sunstone also encourages originality. Carnelian: associated with the sign of Leo, which the Sun and Mercury will enter in July, carnelian has the ability to bring courage, boldness, sense of self, ego, and passion. It’s also red-orange, which is associated with the sun.

Emerald: the traditional birthstone for Cancer suns. Emeralds are associated with wisdom, authenticity, and health. For Cancer season, the calming influence of emeralds can relax

Opal: associated with the sign of Cancer, which the Sun will be in for most of July, opal has

your short-

the ability to bring

temperedness this

creativity connecting to


your Divine self, and emotional healing.

written by Stephanie O.



JULY 5TH We become determined, slowly pursuing our goals for long-term results. Like Mars in Aries, we work best when being defensive, but unlike Aries, we are more stubborn and less impulsive.


venus enters cancer We are nurturing

and emotional. Love is warm and protective under Cancer. You may feel an increased sensitivity and a bit cautious!

JULY 13TH As all full moons are the opposite sign of the sun, the full moon always tells us we need one thing: balance. If Cancer represents the home and attachments, Capricorn represents the responsibility and achievements. Express these feelings with caution; they've been building up for these past 2 weeks.

sun enters leo The sun moves into


fiery, outgoing sign of Leo! We become more individualistic and playful. Dramatics are a source of fun, not of pain.

n o s n o i n o red age __ p



m ain



entrees :

e m

sour oranges page __on a collection of "recipes", or submissions!

still life

a recipe from Illias Tsagas, edited by Samantha Ng a brief poem a lot of red foods. and other things that aren't foods. red, red, red.



2 tbsps of clever writing 4 cups of brief stanzas

one pinch of red

"directions" Refrigerated, plastic bagged pomegranates Are displayed on the shelves One aisle down from the meat. Red dots stain the fridge.

pasta sauce summer a recipe from Esther Fisher

is your stomach rumbling yet? well, it's going to roar even louder. photography lovers and visual learners beware.



3 dashes of mouth-watering goodness one pictoral pizza

4 1/2 cups of precise photography

hot chocolate mocha a recipe from Esther Fisher your stomach better be rumbling now. have a mocha to calm it down!



3 tbsps of a cool-toned close-up a dash of sweetness

2 cups of talented photo-taking

eating an orange is not like sex

a recipe from Darrie Jaye, edited by Oladejo Feranmi


I can peel it off in one go. A long string of rind that now hides under my fingernails, A sickly sharp scent that will cling to me all day, Fresh, cool, and heady. You say You only like oranges when they’re sour, And hours later, with the taste of sweetness On my teeth, I’ll think of that, As you kiss away all of the sourness Left in me.

this isn't a poem about pancakes a recipe from Darrie Jaye, edited by Oladejo Feranmi




though this many not be a poem about pancakes, it sure is as good as one. however, waffles > pancakes (4 EVER)!

5 dashes of savory storytelling 3 1/2 tsps of delicious details

1 3/4 cups of poetic print

"directions" They’re called, Scallion pancakes, the video says Though we call them ‘spring onions’ in our English. Can't find the right words to present the crispy, flakey goodness Of this savory, and delicious dish. We make them ,,, once a week, I’d say, At least. Last week we made them twice! And when I lived without you, those long days, I must have made them a thousand times.

We cook together now, and I Can't quite believe my luck. Because I much prefer to chop and cook, Whereas you love washing up. And every time I feel alone, or miss you so, my love I wander to my kitchen, cook these, and feel you on my tongue.


a recipe from Maryam Zaki , edited by Oladejo Feranmi ah, the duality of sweetness: love and food. well, they're kinda the same thing. moving on.



2 cups of sweet stanzas 2 1/2 tsps of superb structure

3 dashes of skilled writing

"directions" Blonde You love like Lemonade on my wounds It hurts it hurts it hurts Like private numbers calling Blonde I spill milk and honey And gateau and glacé cherries Sugar and raspberries Strawberries Blonde

victoria a recipe from Maryam Zaki, edited by Oladejo Feranmi




is anyone else really feeling all the fruits and sweet foods mentioned so far? just me? well, get ready for more in this next poem!

3 1/2 cups of emotional expression

2 tbsps of vivid descriptions

"directions" Tease And don't tell the truth with ease I feel like vanilla I feel like floral I feel like white gardenias finally Pink peonies, cherries, and rhubarb Anjou Pear, sweet citrus, and cologne Wild berries and Sicilian Bergamot Goodbye

miss america a recipe from Maryam Zaki, edited by Oladejo Feranmi deep down, in some part of you, is a desire to be a miss america or to be WITH a miss america. prove me wrong.

"directions" You are Miss America With your honey eyes Sweet like Vanilla Skin like mocha And caramel baking in the sun And curls in a vintage bun Gloss hair you're the one Honey, you're the one

I DON'T WANT TO EAT a recipe from Chris Courtney Martin, edited by Samantha Ng


I don't want to eat Until I'm famous. I don't want to eat Until there is enough Money in my account For something delicious I won't have to think twice about Enjoying. I'd much rather sleep Because currency appears In my pockets, In dreams. I don't want to be Until there's something else. I don't want to exist For its own fucking sake.

I'd prefer to look forward to anything Other than reruns and Leftovers And anxiety And looking backwards on Everything. I wish that my body were mine. I wish that my needs were convenient. I wish that I could take my hands over again Without the consequence of placing myself In a body bag that My family can't afford to claim for A burial. I don't want to eat Until I am famous. The aftertaste is Perpetually of Shit.

The Great Spaghetti Monster in the Sky a recipe from Kat Clifford


a recipe from Eric Abalajon, edited by Stephanie




writers can be scary in the ways that they know. they know i had bagels every morning for the past year. and i'm terrified.

5 pinches of elegance a dash of excellence

3 1/2 cups of accuracy


My mornings are not very different; I start by cooking rice. I take out my chosen sud-an for the week, sausages or bacon, and put them in the oven on low heat. I know, I know. At least here, I don’t fry them in oil. I still drink

the same 3-in-1 coffee my body got used to in college. I’ve been eating bagels for a few months now, much more filling than the white loaf popular there. I toast two every day, one for breakfast, and the second for my first break. I currently enjoy the jalapeno cream cheese spread. This is as ‘abroad’ as I can get, whatever that means. I let the rice cool on my round Tupperware while I wash my face; very few dare to take showers in winter mornings, then get dressed after. T-shirt and sweatpants, loose and disposable. Something you wear to sleep.

I get on the 6:20 bus, and it gives me a five-minute window to clock in at seven. Just enough for me to wear my protective gear. The three-day, 12-hour shifts are brutal, but I get paid for 40 hours per week. Staying in bed the entire day after is not a bad deal if you recall my previous jobs, where I was scraping for hours. The enemy worse than the cold here is boredom. Just yesterday I heard continuous loud laughter in the other room. I thought my father lost it this time; turns out he just discovered full-length Dolphy movies on Youtube. I asked to him join me in this warehouse, the cough tea are selling like hotcake these months. They need people. But he’d rather not learn the ropes of a temp agency at the moment. I brought home some packets of the product for him to try. Says it’s not for him. Nothing beats sabaw as a remedy for the seasonal congestion. I haven’t seen the sun in a while;

bus rides home are pitch dark. Days of nights though, are admittedly peaceful. This year has been kind. No snow days or extreme warnings so far. You once asked me what flurries are like, they’re basically drizzling rain without the sound; eerie since you can’t hear when they start or end. I hope you will be still awake during my breaks later. Have dinner right away, after your long commute home.

Trip to Bloor Street for Gamjatang a recipe from Eric Abalajon, edited by Stephanie

buckle up readers, you're in for a treat. i'm filipino myself, and not gonna lie, i teared up. but, enough from me, just read before i run out of tissues.


How is your first winter so far? he said as we got down into King Station. Have you tasted Korean pork bone soup before? You should try it, it’s my winter comfort food. Are you hungry already? Don’t worry the place is near the subway, it’s called Thumbs Up. I’ll have to buy coffee from Honest Ed’s too, my former prof continued. I actually could get it somewhere closer but since you’re here for the day, a trip to Bloor Street is in order; I’d do it alone either way. I think we became friends because I never interrupt his ramblings.

We didn’t bother sitting on the train. I don’t know anyone in Burlington, he went on, but you should try your best to relocate to Toronto. It’s a city for young people. When I first moved here there were much fewer homeless. Cops didn’t have guns. I was wearing a tie, going from building to building downtown; the internet wasn’t there for your job search. You’d have to dress the part.

My first job was counting buttons and putting them into sachets. I hated it. My eyes hurt. But later I found part-time work on the weekends, replenishing towels in a hotel along Front Street. It made things more bearable for a while.

We got off Bathurst Station, and immediately saw the facade of Honest Ed’s made brighter by the afternoon’s gloom. Come in and get lost, he reads. He chuckles. We’ll eat first. It’s like a bargain department store with groceries. Employs a lot of Filipinos too, being chatty and fluent in English are good for sales.

The modest restaurant is at the corner of Palmerston and Bloor. Korean news playing on the TV, the lunchtime rush almost done, and heavy coats hanging on seats.

He asked me if I wanted anything, but I was too embarrassed, letting go of the laminated bilingual menu. Two pork bone soups, please. Winter’s best-seller, he added when the server left.

I know it’s hard for your family now and I did go home after a while, he went on. After two years, I think. I even taught in a college in Manila. Then Martial Law was declared. I was on a jeepney on the way to class and I still remember the silence as Marcos’ announcement, the night before, was being replayed on the radio. Soon I had friends starting lucrative careers in public service while some disappeared.

Canada didn’t look so bad anymore. The two large bowls arrived with a fleet of side dishes. The soup had a strong kick; I loved it. Using chopsticks to tear off pieces of meat was a nightmare.

Maybe you need a similar moment, he said between sips, to finally get you settled.

When we got out, became sharper

the scent of flurries

to my cleared nose; the cold now felt refreshing. I was a bit surprised by Honest Ed’s wooden floors but he was excitedly narrating again.

Because of the prices, this place attracts a lot of immigrants, along with artists, musicians, ballerinas trying to make it in the big city. Shopping while broke back then felt a bit cheerful beside other people fleeing dictatorships of some form. He got his coffee, talking mostly about

and we went around for a while, the massive theater posters, community papers.

and several ethnic There used to be a Filipino paper there too, he pointed to the racks, but I guess they ended their publication. There are rumors that Ed’s kids want to sell the place.

It’s not hard to believe, condos are really taking over. Toronto if ever, will be very different for you. Are you tired? Let’s walk to the next station instead. There’s a park there; you can visit it in the summer. I continued doing odd jobs for fifteen years, Finally landing a government job in sales enough for a decent pension. Thank God, I wasn’t too sloppy at that point, but I do miss the classroom. Conversations were a big help to keep me going. After retiring, and as we pass more storefronts in Koreatown, he explains, I go back every December to stay for a few months, for a chance to teach again. Except this year, my doctor won’t allow it after the operation last month.

No long flights. It’s my first winter again, in a sense.

We arrived at Christie Pits Park but the snow was too thick to see it in full. Look at those dead branches with snow, we both stared, isn’t that beautiful? he said teasingly. I haven’t seen them in a long while. I agreed, a smile on my numb face. I need to be polite, he did pay for lunch. The sight also gave him so much comfort.

after the honeymoon a recipe from Eric Abalajon, edited by Stephanie


It starts after the month you arrive; you begin creating rituals, like learning the street names yourself. Weeks usually beginning or ending in shopping malls. Fresh fruit feels like a wasted investment, ridiculously cheap chocolate loses its novelty. What can be found here and not there become naive exercises especially if done aloud. On bus rides, quick eye-contact and sometimes a smile gives you a moment’s strength, or apprehension. You are not alone, somehow. Dinner with company becomes irregular, apologies start to outnumber promises.

sylvan dusk a recipe from David Clémenceau, edited by Oladejo Feranmi i, too, wish i was in a forest at dusk. preferrably at a picnic. (SPOILER ALERT: we will not be at a picnic in this story, what a bummer).



3 1/2 tbsps of bone-chilling balladry (yes, that is a real word)

2 cups of masterful supsense

"directions" The air was fragrant with damp earth, fallen leaves, and belladonna. Suddenly the chatter of the forest was interrupted. Naria turned around to search where the new sound had come from. All around, there were only trees, bushes, and ferns. A blackbird was singing the last remnants of daylight. There. A small hooded figure hunched over with its back to her, next to old ash. She would have missed it with the purple coat in the fading light if it wasn't for the way it behaved. The hood moved with quick, irregular thrusts. Something sharp and determined crunched and tore at something soft with little resistance.

The girl trod as lightly as she could over the soft mossy ground as she approached, mindful not to disturb the apparition. She came up close enough to peek past the hood. A rankness stung her olfactory glands, subjugating the scent of earth and moss in her nose.

The creature was clenching its victim with small clawed hands and crunched down savagely on little bones. It grunted eagerly while with razor-sharp pointed fangs it labored through skin and sinews and pulled at red fleshy shreds, undisturbed by the child behind it. It must have been some small sylvan critter, Naria thought, when she noticed torn bits of the garment on the blood-soaked moss. The rat creature turned and glared at her out of unfeeling, bloodred eyes. She saw herself in them.

easter lure a recipe from David Clémenceau, edited by Oladejo Feranmi you ever been so hungry that you could eat a horse? what about a person?



4 pinches of twists and turns 2 1/2 tsps of skill


When the gold-robed figure appeared in the candle-lit gloom, the busy murmur which had animated the cold flagstones died down instantly. The throng parted in deferent silence to allow the golden figure through. As it advanced purposefully, in an authoritative onetwo hobble, it eyed all present from beneath its golden hood. Some attendees were naked in spite of the cold. Their bare, smooth skin glistened darkly in the shine of hundreds of candles. Others were also clad in gold. All wore a red collar with a little golden jingle-bell around their necks. The gold hood moved towards the circle of disciples gathered around an erect, silent object at the center of the room. It halted inside the circle and glared at the object. When the speaker began, it spoke in a solemn grating moan.

“I am going to take this life,” it said, “to take its soul and its spirit; to take its dreams and aspirations and make them a part of my own. I am going to take its strength so it will make me stronger. I will peel off the skin from the top, eat its ears, its face, and its head; then, its neck and its shoulders; then its abdomen and its legs and its feet, last. I will do this to brace myself for what lies ahead of us. I will do this in all humility, for I carry no grudge or hatred for this life. For taking it, I ask for its forgiveness.” The speaker under the golden hood paused, and for a few heartbeats the entire room was as quiet as a tomb. Then, the speaker took a long deep breath and continued. “We are not united here this day to dispense judgment, or to avenge our brothers and sisters who have gone beyond. The reason why we are here is to celebrate our creator. It is the greatest honor many of us will ever know.”

Straining, muffled grunts came from the towering object at the center of the circle. They grew more frantic, more urgent. The crowd began to snarl, baring greedy, razor-sharp incisors, while the candlelight glistened on their breathless dark and gold shapes. As if on cue, the chaotic clamor grew louder. Their excited cries and movements began to synchronize until they were in unison. Half crouching, half hoping, the chocolate rabbits chanted, “Kill the human! Kill the human!”


a recipe from Pam Avoledo, edited by Oladejo Feranmi sometimes, someone just needs a cupcake to carry on. and i am that someone; enjoy some writing while i try not to choke on icing and sprinkles in my kitchen.


Age: 23 Part-time student Andria lives in her father’s home in Berkshire, although she doesn’t know for how long. She thinks for maybe another year. While her father snores on the couch, she bakes her favorite dessert: red velvet cupcakes, sometimes staying up all night making batch after batch. She remembers at 8 years old, her mother handing her the family cookbook of handwritten recipes and turning the pages, begging her to learn how to make each one. Her mother promised her she’d teach her on weekends. On page 1, she and her mother powdered the dough and flattened it into star shapes. Her mother’s hands shook as she held the ladle on page 15 while she preheated the oven. By page 20, she had her take over the mixer as her mother said she had to sit. On page 45, her mother told her as they laid out the ingredients for the red velvet cupcakes and said “honey, I’m tired. You go on.” Andria leaves the bookmark on page 45 and starts over again.

cutting onions a recipe from Cory Helffrich, edited by Samantha Ng


I was cutting onions (red, and yes, they made me cry) for a portion of Backyard Baked Beans even though it was just me eating them—I’d gotten into the habit of cooking for the week— when the knife, from the block your mother gifted me for Christmas, 2020, bit through so clean it cut off more than onion. I rushed my ring finger to the paper towels, wrapping it so tightly I could feel my pulse from that central organ, the heart, which pumps blood through the body, except, it seemed, when I lifted my hand above my head and slowed the flow, and I didn’t understand how I could direct the blood in my body but not that which was causing it to run.

the neuros and their food a recipe from Atlas Booth, edited by Oladejo Feranmi


The funny thing about being a neurodivergent kid who grows up to be a neurodivergent adult is that food-wise, things can go several ways. 1) You keep the exact TYPE of food choices the same. There will come weeks, months where you will refuse to eat anything but that one dish, and suddenly, bang. No more of that dish for the next two years. And the cycle continues, but the TEXTURE type stays the same. For example, I only ate a very soft kind of sunnyside-up eggs for over a year. Barely cooked. The whites were just not liquid anymore. And then I moved on to maizena - a very soft, smooth porridge. Couldn't eat a single egg for 2 years after. 2) You cannot for the life of you eat the same thing twice in a row and leftovers are a personal slap in the face from Satan himself.

My parents used to get so angry because I refused to touch leftovers unless it was Spaghetti and Meatballs or Lasagna. 3) A very VERY interesting mix between the two that might shift from month to month or it might not. And depending on which brand and level of neurodivergency you are, that food might be allowed to touch or not. Take, for instance, spring rolls. The ingredients inside are touching, but it makes a whole new food type that is encased in its dough and therefore 'not touching'. Stews, on the other hand, are not encased in anything, and therefore every ingredient 'touches' each other.

This also includes food on a plate. Veggies cannot touch the meat or the rice or the other veggies. A lot of neurodivergent people either buy or want to buy the kiddie plates that have dividers built into them. One thing is for sure though, meal times take way too much effort.

Delicacies & Generational Intricacies

a recipe from Faye Allego, edited by Amber Spalding


A quarter cup of sugar down the bowl Reminiscing the time my Father’s baking made me whole Passed down through generations Every ingredient, measured through love and ambition Delicacies and generational intricacies brought together Families covering tragedies, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves Twisted as tight as wicker. We sit together forging laughter as mother Serves lemon water with grandfather’s pitcher When everything falls apart A bite of grandma’s cooking Rewinds the rhythm of our heartstrings

When my sister added more than just a dash of salt Our gifted taste buds passed down through our ancestors Sought a new flavour, never-ending or coming to a halt I taste magic that one cannot find in a sacred vault or In a two-door refrigerator or even a prestigious culinary educator I taste magic only crafted through the box hidden behind the lazy susan That carries my grandmother’s recipes written in ink and on paper. Those with the silver spoon expect it to taste like bitterness, Us with healed cries of rue taste the ocean’s sweetness My sister knows when to use the perfect amount of salt When everything falls apart A sour stewed dish served with rice Makes the kitchen smell as if it were garnished with spice That’s when you know everything will be alright.

still has

a recipe from Tanvi Jeph, edited by Stephanie




we're finishing up our "entrees" section with just about three more submissions to go! this next collection of writing is comprised of emotionally powerful pieces (all written by the same writer), so you'll see a little less banter (and maybe more tear-stained pages).

infinite amounts of affection

3 1/2 cups of gracefulness

"directions" Home is not the same without you, but I still can’t call it a house Because, the walls are still scented with you The stairs are painted with the mark of your footsteps The glass is stained with your Bindi gum marks The cupboards smell the same way your sarees did The room is filled with the echo of your laughter The bedroom still has the smell of your medicines The kitchen still has the aroma of your achaar Nothing of yours left us, but you did grandma


a recipe from Tanvi Jeph, edited by Stephanie though there's no actual mention of food, grief, like hunger, consumes you whole. love is a form of nourishment just as much as food is.


---------------------------1 1/2 tsps of strong, visual narrative

3 1/2 cups of nostalgia


He looked at her again and again Filled with tears and despair Yet his eyes glimmered with love

He was scared that a tear might fall He looked down, holding them back Caressing her through the picture A crinkled, dry photo in his hands It was black and white Still, it seemed colourful It was a photo of two people Looking at each other Holding books in their hands

They seemed young but were lovers Wearing sunglasses Smiling at each other The lady whom he secretly admired And a man she truly loved They were real lovebirds Spent fifty-two years together But one bird flew away, to heaven, While other still sits alone, waiting.

Nani a recipe from Tanvi Jeph, edited by Stephanie


She had dyed black hair mixed with some white hair A red bindi on her forehead, placed symmetrically She used to drape a sari with a lot of patterns on it She was my nani, my grandmother, my friend My nani used to make the best achaar that I ever had My palate still has that tangy flavour of her achaar After all, it was mixed with her love and selflessness I have bittersweet memories of her, but mostly sweet We both used to dance to old retro Hindi songs She was always ready to do an impromptu dance for me Nani used to tell me ghost stories of her village Some of them sounded fake but she said they weren’t Nani left me sooner than anticipated She might be in heaven, taking care of the angels But she had left a lot of memories for me to cherish Her bindi, achaar, saari and her laughter.

: s t r e s s e d ething sweet!



d e r u t a e the f r u o f o s r creato S series! T H G I L T SPO

our SPOTLIGHTS series: The "Spotlights" series is meant to provide the audience an inner look into the lives of creators that are unapologetically sharing their stories and diversifying the narrative. All those who submit to us are considered for our "Spotlights" series, in which a panel of staff select talented creators for an exclusive interview and additional promotion on our social media platforms.

Chris Courtney Martin writer, they/them


their book! can be found on

Their proudest accomplishment to date is seeing three original feature film scripts move toward production (get optioned and/or gain attachments) in the span of a few years. Music is also a huge part of their life and will be a destination on their path as an artist, as well.

1. Who are you? How does your identity/perception of yourself affect your work?

t is rt a ry a n li ip c is id lt u m a I'm y tl c n ti is d l ra e v e s t a s e v who li disenfranchised identities , ry a in b n o n r/ e e u q t, fa , k (Blac poor, rn o b t, n e rg e iv d ro u e n , B A AF e th s s e s s o p o ls a I d n a etc.) t, o h s g n li s a e k li t, a th s s awarene ost m e th h it w k c a b ld e h e s tho e th h it w rd a rw fo p a n s force osed. lo e c n o m tu n e m o m t s te a gre e th n e e b s y a lw a s a h g n ti Crea thing that cuts me loose.

2. Tell us something that most people don't know. s s o r c a , k r o w y m f o A lot n i d e l e n n a h c s i , s m mediu s s e n s u o i c s n o c f o m a strea o t e m o c it f o s e c e i form. P nd a n i o j I n e h t , w a r me d e e n I w o h m e h t e refin to.

3. A note from us! as w n o i s s i . l m a b n u io s t u o s o ' y n m i t E e r r . a e w h M a w R s ' y . r l a o a t w a re r a r e a n i W n . e n h e h s t t i t u i o r g t t n n W e a d l e a d t t n a l a t a re " n h t o t i h t g k i a l o r t o e l o p s " desp 't over a g n n d i l t u t o ! u c p m e h ot t n n o by

reach them at: @DaRealChrisCo on Twitter @chriscourtneymartin on Instagram

Kat Clifford artist, they/she/him

INGREDIENTS: Their hobbies are dominated by her love to travel, illustration, making art, writing and making films. He loves snowboarding, surfing and doing anything that involves the ocean. With their wife, she also runs a podcast on anything strange and out of the mainstream, Strange Stuff Sideshow, where often times they are inspired artistically. They are a tour guide and run ghost tours around her city, which is always good fun and a chance to learn more and educate others about the paranormal.


r u o y s e o d w o H f ? l u e s o r y u e o r y a f o o h n o i t 1. W p e c r e p / y t i t n e d i ? k r o w r u o y affect ny e e t a n u r I ! d r o f f i l o N d e l l a I’m Kat C y c n a p m o c n o i t a r g t i s b u l l y i l l a y c n i i s t a b m ’ I . w ho s e d i S e en e b s Sham y a w l a e v a h d n , d d o , weirdo a e g ran t s g n i h t ny a o t ve a n h w I . dra e v i nat r e t l a r o k r a a d l , e e g n n n a fri h o c t e k i l I d n i f o t y e m o t com n i ss e n d r i e w s he t f o lot of thi s t e pp i n s e m o ec b e y d e i h s t n i ; k s r i o t w a h t s e i t i dd o f o d n i whirlw my head.

2. Tell us something that most people don't know. I once ended u p playing a zomb ie DJ in a film after an swering a random ad a t midnight the n ight before.

3. A note from us!

't n s e o d s , s t e r r a P l o a t t i i g n i g d o c f s ' n o t I i t , lo o e d The a h e t e w v d i e e n t c e c h re le w e n i s t u d e b e W r u ! t c a i e t f s r i a e e t b h n t o fa d t y n b t a s s y e i t i r arti v e i s t a s e i r . c th n o g i n t i i d s o n p a t m s o t c ou r o col

reach them at:

@strangestuffsideshow on Instagram

Cory Hellfrich he/him, writer

INGREDIENTS: Aside from being a poet, Cory is an assistant prosecuting attorney dedicated to prosecuting arson offenses of all types. Given the mental health issues inherent in arson cases, he is passionate about helping others— victims and, especially, defendants —find their stabilization in life. Poetry helps him find his.

1. Who ar e you? How identity/p d o e s y o u r e r c e p tion of you affect you rself r work?

t l u c i f f i d e a v a h I . n atio s g r e n i v g n n o e c l l s a i ch s i t i Poetry ; e f i y l m g ed n i k s s s a u c n s e i h d w n e time v e , f l e ys m t u e o m b a s p k l l e a h t to nly o t o n y r et t i o P t u . y b l t , c y e a s dir o t t n a w t I a h w ay s d n o a t t s r m e u d i ed un m d n a e ac o p t s r e o v m a e s d en allow I n e h w So . l re l o a m t a r e g v n o i isc d I anyth — y r t poe e y, t l i l r u f w e a p k o a h e, l i h w speak— , e m ti h c a e f l e ght i s y m m o h t u w o ab ne o e m o s h it w g on. i n i t g a a s r g e v en n co e l t t i l a m o r f t i f e n be

2. Tell us something that most people don't know.

I was a compet itive figure skater. I pursue d that passion for ove r ten years, having successf ully competed at the regional and national levels. The ded ication to that craft has propelled me into my other e ndeavors, including writin g.

3. A note from us! s i n io s s i m e b s u o s r p s ' n h s e c i t a r t f i l l f r e w w Hel y l s r a e n i v t e s l d c e ju b i s r w sc o l e f s d u t e a e h v th a d g o t o a g l h n b t i d e g n h n e t i l e e e h f T a . g t t n i u ro p t s o t a d h a . c h t i t su n s o u j " t h we g i l t o p "s

reach him at:

@CoryHelffrich on Twitter

Esther Fisher photographer, she/her



Esther Fisher is a graduate of York University with a BA in English and Creative Writing. In her spare time, she writes poetry when she’s not trying to plot a novel. She has been published in a few zines and magazines over the past year. Currently, her WIP is a novel about Anastasia Romanov, the lost Grand Duchess. She is editing her novel about the Titanic. Esther lives in Toronto.

1. Who are you? How does your identity/perception of yourself affect your work?

t in s lo t o g t a h t d il h c e h t s a I w e v e li e b I l. o o h c s in s k c the cra ch u m o s d e s u c o f e v I' y h w this is s g in h t n o y h p ra g o t o h p e on th ly ri a s s e c e n 't n ld u o w u o y t tha . I f o s re u t ic p g in k a t f o k in th e b o t s e rv e s e d g in h t ry e believe ev h g u ro h t ll a f t o n d n a d e t apprecia . n e t t o rg o f e b r o s k c ra c the

2. Tell us something that most people don't know.

I d n a t s i n o i t c e rf e p n o a s m u a c o I f I y h w s ' t a s h y t a w k l n a i e th v ' I . h c u m o s e l t s l t i i l a t e h de t d n a ls i a t e e d h t t a liked h t e v e i l e b I he . t g n e i k a th m y l l a e r s g n i s h ' t t I e l . t e t f i i l l n i s g in h t d r n e a g s t big n e m o m e l t t i l g n . r e g taki g i b m e h t making

3. A note from us! t u o b a g n t i a h h t t e y m h p so a , r s y ' l g e e o r t t e a o i h h d T p e e r s m u ' t r m c e i i h p s n e Fi w h s i o t u n k h w t i o e r t w d d y l a l h y a l i e t c v s e lo ju esp e e h W t . t w u o o ! l r b e a be h e p r a o r g m o t o ph


reach him at:

@e.f.fisher on Instagram

Issuu converts static files into: digital portfolios, online yearbooks, online catalogs, digital photo albums and more. Sign up and create your flipbook.