Fall 2019 Issue 5: FOOD

FEATURE

TUFTS OBSERVER 5. the FOOD issue Vol. CXXXIX

6 TUFTS OBSERVER OCTOBER 14, 2019

staff Lena Novins-Montague / Owen Cheung / Akbota Saudabayeva / Abigail Barton / Erica Levy / Sonya Bhatia / Anita Lam / Josie Wagner / Brittany Regas / Caroline Blanton / Myisha Majumder / Issay Matsumoto / Alice Hickson / Yumei Lin / Ruthie Block / Sara Barkouli / Siddhant Talwar / Paula Gil-OrdoĂąez Gomez / Juliana Vega del Castillo / Laura Wolfe / Joanna Kleszczewski / Ethan Lipson / Jamie Doo / Carrie Haynes / Arely Mancia / Nasrin Lin / Evelyn Abramowitz / Kate Bowers / Brigid Cawley / Janie Ingrassia / Richard Nakatsuka / Kelly Tan / Brenna Trollinger / Sofia Pretell / Mahika Khosla / Wyoma Chudasama / Mira Dwyer / Melanie Litwin / Evan Sciancalepore / Cana Tagawa / Amanda Westlake / Colin Kronholm / Madeleine Oh / Kelsey Trollinger / Esther Tzau / Julia Williams / Iris Wo

the food issue

put your apron on, sprinkle some salt, and pass the plate over. for an interactive dimension to the food issue, visit www.tuftsobserver.org/multimedia/recipes !

PHOTOS BY RUBY BELLE BOOTH

table of contents

page 2 - 8 am by gianna shin

photo by nora li page 3 - how to make artisanal sourdough bread in your dorm

kitchen by laura wolfe page 4 - on homemade lunches by libbing barrera-perez

photos by paula gil-ordoĂąez gomez page 6 - art by maxine bell page 8 - flower twists by nuha shaikh

photos by michelle li page 10 - heavyweight by anonymous

photo by ruby belle booth page 12 - year of return by glora revanche

art by laura wolfe page 14 - photos and art by michelle li, hannah kahn, aishu amarnath,

aidan sky, and martina tan page 18 - clementines and my uncle franz by jillian impastato

art by jessie mcisaac page 20 - our kitchen by myisha majumder

art by trina sanyal page 22 - how to make authentic yerba mate in college by aisha catena

art by laura wolfe and janie ingrassia page 24 - a taste of childhood by alice hickson

photo by hannah kahn page 25 - 6:14 p.m // cereal for dinner by alice hickson

photo by matilda biscaldi page 26 - fish sticks by isabelle chirls

photo by jady zhang page 27 - art by jady zhang page 28 - food to eat before sex by lena novins-montague

art by aishu amarnath

8:00 a.m. - gianna shin

did you saydid you hear? listen to that small sound the timid whisper of a knife gliding under the skin of a korean pear groggy sounds of early gatherings shall we go downstairs? roll your head off that little pillow empty blankets empty bellies

.....................

fish pancakes! they never cook all the way through and they always burn a little on the outside but we like them that way or we like the way the colors of the m&m’s bleed into the batter, all fluffy sticky crispy sinking our teeth, tails first amongst all the love we are

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PHOTOGRAPH BY NORA LI, DESIGN BY KATE BOWERS

S

HOW TO MAKE ARTISANAL SOURDOUGH BREAD IN YOUR DORM KITCHEN

by Laura Wolfe

1. Feed your starter with equal weights of flour and water.

2. Autolyse! The water and flour are warming up for the main event: the yeast!

3. Add starter and salt to the autolyse to get the party* started. *gluten formation and fermentation

4. Knead using a stretching motion until the dough passes the windowpane test or your arm gets tired.

5. Stretch. Fold. Wait.

Repeat until doubled in size.

6. Plop the dough onto a floured surface, shape it into a ball, and let it rest.

7. Line a bowl with a clean towel (or t-shirt you got for free during orientation), dust with flour, and add your dough.

8. Let it sit (proof) until the dough does not spring back when you poke it, then chill it overnight.

9. Score a deepish line into the dough ball, then place it in a dutch oven*. *tray with a bowl on top

10. Bake covered at 500ºF for 20 minutes, then uncovered at 450ºF until it’s done.

ART BY LAURA WOLFE, DESIGN BY KATE BOWERS

11. Enjoy with friends!

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 3

ON HOMEMADE LUNCHES

by Libbing Barrera-Perez When I was a little girl, my mother would always make my lunch for school.

I remember the bright pink lunchbox I carried with me every day. While everybody would line up to get their lunch, I would sit at the cafeteria table reading whatever fantasy book I’d managed to entrap myself in that day. I came from a Mexican household where you don’t eat until everyone has a full plate in front of them, so I’d wait until everybody got back to dig into the savory meal my mother had prepared for me.

I always loved tacos dorados; the way they’d crunch when you took a bite; the delicious mix of chicken, tortilla, sour cream, and shredded cheese. Of course, quesadillas were always something to look forward to. But I think my all-time favorite, something I highly enjoy to this day, were tortas de jamón o chorizo. Something about them instilled in me a sense of warmth and familiarity with a country that was otherwise foreign to me. My parents, being Mexican immigrants, tried to inculcate a love for my roots through two things—language and food. They were what I felt connected me to Mexico, and as a result I began to develop a strong relationship with both these things. I was the only Latina in my class, but I had the naïveté of a child, so I was oblivious to the fact that not everyone possessed this bond with a different culture.

The first time someone pointed at my food in revulsion, I was confused.

How could someone think that my food—so delicately prepared by my doting mother and so beautifully representative of a country I loved—was disgusting?

Was it really so foreign, so completely incomprehensible, that they had to react in such a negative way?

The second and third time someone pointed at my food in repugnance, I lost my appetite. My cheeks grew red and I laughed awkwardly while I put my food 4 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 25, 2019

PHOTOGRAPHY BY PAULA GIL-ORDOÑEZ GOMEZ

D

Z

back in my lunchbox. I did not know how else to react, but to feel ashamed—of my food, of my culture, and of myself.

After that, I stopped eating what my mother made me. There was one other girl who brought her own lunch, but the other kids would never make faces or comments at her food. Of course, her mother made her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or turkey wraps. I wondered, almost resentfully, why my mother couldn’t make me “normal” food like that.

And just like that, at such a tender age, I actively began the long and insular process of Americanization.

It took me a long time before I realized that the events that had transpired during elementary school lunches had not been my fault and even longer to unlearn the effects they had on me. I had internalized the idea that being Mexican was something I had to constantly apologize for, and worse, something I had to hide; I felt that in order to be accepted I had to completely detach myself from my roots and transform myself into someone that

DESIGN BY KATE BOWERS

appeared to be so unlike the immigrant parents I loved dearly. And these lessons of self-hate that were forced upon me silently ate me from the inside out for years—they took and took and took until the line between Mexican and American became so blurred that I could no longer tell where I was standing.

There’s a sardonic sense of irony in the way the US has commodified and profited off Mexican cuisine; it’s not a Super Bowl if there’s no commercial for avocados and a nice side of guacamole on the kitchen table—and where would white Americans be without their hardshell “tacos”? Mexican things—food and drinks and music—are okay, at times even encouraged. But people? Ordinary people looking for a better life in this country?

That’s where the line is drawn. Go back to your country, they say, but leave your food.

I wish I could say this was a case exclusive to Mexicans, but I’m afraid it’s not. The US has created an environment in which people of color are not allowed to express their culture without receiving some form

of backlash. We are taught, through negative reinforcement, to get rid of parts of ourselves in a vain attempt to assimilate, and then we are forced to see those same parts paraded, vitiated, and bastardized by White Americans on a national level. For children of immigrants, this process starts at a very young age but it follows us for the rest of our lives. We can unlearn it and try to recuperate the pieces of our culture we were obligated to let go of, but we’ll always remember the feeling of being an outsider.

If there was a way to turn back time, I would give my younger self a hug and beg her to eat her lunch without feeling shame. Because there’s nothing wrong with being Mexican. Because you should never let anyone make you feel embarrassed of your culture. Because there will come a day when your mother is no longer there to make you home-cooked meals.

Because, as a person of color in the US, self-acceptance is an act of defiance. And with the current political climate, defiance is exactly what this country needs.

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 5

ARTIST’S N O T E

by Maxine Bell

By documenting memories, traditions, and personal comfort, I make the intimate public. Food sparks miracles of connection as a diasporic treasure that can keep us warm and afloat in between borders. I draw myself with food during times of cravings, homesickness, separation from intentional communities, and pride.

By iconifying my diet, I also reclaim it from when I told my mother to stop packing me onigiri at age eleven. I share what I find important to me, what comforts me, what is less emotionally burdening for me to create, and what I want to celebrate. The more I paint my internal archive, like these moments with food, I believe I’ll be able to craft other silenced memories into the tangible form.

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ART BY MAXINE BELL, DESIGN BY EVELYN ABRAMOWITZ

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 7

flower t w i s t s

so fresh, they taste sweet, like water

By Nuha Shaikh

It isn’t often, but when she can remember, my mama pulls out the scuffed white plastic bowl, and I know I can be the daughter I used to be Handfuls of flour, a few splashes of water, careful with the yeast, mix the dough until your fingers aren’t sticky, enough; that’s done.

Leave the ball covered, little sister, come back when your feet don’t hurt, to find a winter’s pillow in its place, from when you were seven, remember? Just like a full moon, we gently coax it from the well, promise it the light.

Stretch it out as big as you can, don’t be stingy; what will they say? Pour the oil in the middle of the blanket and use the corners to spread the shine until it glistens, almost done! Shake a pinch or two of salt evenly, use patience.

Roll the whole memory up and cut soft coins to stack two by two, pair big with small. Now watch me, twist the layers until a flower emerges, look!

Steam the bread until the underneath keeps the bubbles, that’s the best part to eat, taste it first, this was a good Saturday, let’s split one to share

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PHOTOS BY MICHELLE LI, DESIGN BY EVELYN ABRAMOWITZ

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 9

FEATURE

Heavyweight

Anonymous

I don’t know you but your sister is in the hospital paper-skinned and porcelain-boned. You are fifteen and you are worried. Machines sing, plastic bracelet sliding down her forearm. Now my blistered knuckles and gurgling stomach worry you. Don’t talk about it unless you’re going to Do Something, you say, glaring at me and my salad excuse for a meal

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DESIGN BY KELLY TAN

FEATURE

ART BY RUBY BELLE BOOTH

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 11

Year Of

RETURN

By Gloria Revanche

Content warning: Mentions of violence Marjorie had buried memories of her father deep in the part of her brain that chose not to remember. Stranded at school, teachers asked her if she could call him to pick her up. She would firmly pout and shake her head. She saw that they were reasoning why a seventh grader did not have their father’s number. She saw every Tyler Perry film play in their heads. As one of the few black kids at an affluent school in the suburbs, she learned it was best to let white people believe what they wanted.

Their eyes filled with some kind of sympathy, but they never pressed.

No, the man never molested her, but she never wanted to need him. Sometimes, when she thought of her childhood, she let out one hard laugh. Her dad, Marc, grew up one of 36 kids in Haiti. Different mothers, same dad. He never had a room to himself in his own house. He was always the stepkid, never the son. Back then, most Haitian women didn’t work, they brought in whatever money they could selling food or their bodies in the market. If you were tied to a man, you depended on him to take care of you and your children. So, children learn fast that men disgrace women for money, and women make themselves small pour l’argent. He watched his mother and sisters cook decadent meals, poule du, diri colé, or legume, with diri blanc, avec sòs pwa. His father always took the largest share even if

12

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER

that meant he and his many siblings went hungry. He watched his mother clean the house spotless for whenever he was home, cook food with whatever money she could gather, and spread her legs after he got his bellyfull. This was the price for food and school fees for her children. Soon mothers tire of begging and leave that to the children themselves, so Marc also begged for school fees while watching his father support other households.

Marc wanted to be a Big Man like his father. His daughters, Marjorie and Angelie, came up the same way he did. Marc is blueblack. He married a woman who is light. He was a social climber determined never to beg again. Watching this light-skin woman cook his meals and birth his children made him a little bit bigger. Marjorie thought her father hated her because she took some of his color but looked exactly like her mother. But even her sister, born light, and who looked exactly like him, was fed scraps of love.

Marjorie did not like to remember her father, but she was reminded of him in a West African police station.

She was dressed to party, wearing a tight dress and her best heels. The joint was handed to her, and she took it carelessly.

This was not the last time weed would be handed to her. She placed it in her bag, thinking she’d smoke it before bed, after a long night of shaking her body and collecting as many numbers as possible. Anyway, it was rare for the police to make any stops.

Tonight was the night she had carried a joint with her, and she was facing paying the police a bribe and being theirs for the night. Apparently, the police knew that foolish foreigners were coming into town to party. Easy money. In moments, her bag was searched.

“Officer, please, maybe we can sort this out,” she said in her most syrupy voice.

The officer’s mouth was in a tight line, and he avoided her gaze.

“Madame, it’s time to go.” He grabbed her firmly by the hand and took her back to her taxi.

“Where are you taking me?”

“The station,” he commanded the taxi driver. The driver looked back apprehensively, but he started the engine.

They wanted her to sign a statement.

Being raised on crime TV in America, Marjorie didn’t want her name on anything. But this was not a show; she would not have her Miranda rights read to her. It was late at night. All the officials who cared about things like bribes had gone home.

There would be no records. This would not cause problems for her, as some officers egged on. This was a simple game: pay and you go.

“Madame, so you want to cause a scene?”

She was taken by the arm to where they kept the other detainees. She sat with four unlucky partiers. The bench was a half-place between freedom and hell. She could peer to her right and see through

the bar cells. The people on the bench were there because they, or someone they knew, could pay the bribes. The people behind bars were there because they could not.

Marjorie was sitting next to a small woman, pretty like an elf with orange cornrows.

The elf-woman looked down at Marjorie’s phone. Although her heart was fighting its way out of her chest, Marjorie handed her the phone. She called four times before anyone answered. In a low voice she said, “Yes. I am here… the station. Bring money.”

A man walked into the station. His knowing smirk was wiped from his face, and Marjorie did not want to find out why.

They had met before at some club, and he’d asked for her number. She gave him her Instagram as a way of saying yes but really saying no. Now, she just wanted him to get her out of this situation.

“Be calm. They are letting you out.” He looked her dead in the eyes but could not relay any more information.

She got up to talk to him. She whispered, “How much will they ask for?” A small gate, similar to the ones used for keeping small children from escaping play pens, separated them. Of course the guard had overheard her. The gate was was connected to the main desk.

“Sit down. If you get up, I will lock you up.”

“Sir please, can I just speak to my brother?”

He yelled, more forcefully this time, “Sit down. Sit.” She looked at him in shock.

No man had ever spoken to her like that.

ART BY LAURA WOLFE

But she was reminded of the times her father beat her. Once he wanted her to greet a guest, but she was tired and wanted to go straight into her room.

“Go greet him.”

“No.” This repeated for some time in the living room where everyone in the house could hear. Her father delivered so many slaps after every “no” that her arm turned red. Marjorie spent her whole life avoiding controlling men. But here she was at the mercy of men who wanted her to pay.

Everyone in the jail cell looked as if they were reenacting scenes from the Cape Coast castles. There were no beds. People were lying on layers of human shit. She watched a man slip his hand through the bars to sneak a sachet of water. She did not doubt that the pack of water was kept just out of the prisoners’ reach. Why are we like this, she thought. She was a foreigner. She came back to Africa in the Year of Return, but she kept staring at the past.

DESIGN BY KELLY TAN

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 13

MICHELLE LI

14 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 25, 2019

HANNAH KAHN

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 15

AISHU AMARNATH AIDAN CHANG

16 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 25, 2019

MARTINA TAN

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 17

FEATURE

clementines and my uncle franz

by Jillian Impastato thinking about my uncle franz and the queer icon he probably was perfectly folding his ny times on the l train teaching my uncle mark how to do it just the same holding my mother’s hand, entering the guggenheim introducing her to all the museums ny had to offer i hope he would smile seeing my hands now dragging my mother back into these same museums wondering what he would have told me a few years ago stinging eyes on a cool pillow at 2 am whispering the word “queer” to myself i wonder if he, too, found catharsis in peeling clementines eating sliver after sliver of clementine while dreaming of a future where he could be with him wondering what he would tell me now if i told him that no one could ever tell me that the way she kissed my forehead meant nothing maybe he would tell me stories of boys who kissed his forehead just the same and then returned to their wives now i am eating sliver after sliver of clementine dreaming of a girl, sun-filled rooms, oversized t-shirts and nothing else but clementine juice dripping down our chins i want nothing more than to be on the l train with my uncle franz switching between talking about the cute girl in my anthro class and the latest exhibition at MoMA eating clementines

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ART BY JESSIE MCISAAC, DESIGN BY BRIGID CAWLEY

FEATURE

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 19

our kitchen

by Myisha Majumder

20 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 25, 2019

ART BY TRINA SANYAL, DESIGN BY BRIGID CAWLEY

Mamoni didn’t learn to cook until after she married and moved to the United States. When Bapi was laboring over engineering textbooks, Mamoni began laboring over a cramped kitchen in the graduate student living accommodations. Mamoni had grown sick of Bapi’s one or two dishes he could cook—perhaps more so—as her feet started to sink into the American soil, she needed her heart to stay in Bangladesh.

By the time I was born, Mamoni’s cooking was well-known. She used to perch me on her left hip— then switch to her right—after a long day as a working woman, stirring a whole chicken (or two) in order to serve me, my sister, my father, my father’s father, my father’s mother, and my mother’s mother.

Every time I go back to school after going home, Mamoni always sends a few containers packed tightly with her chicken. When I had my late-bloomer growth spurt in high school, she used to make fun of my ability to go through a whole chicken on my own in a few days.

I crack open the containers of chicken, lathered in her special blend of garam masala, and wash my hands as it heats up. I eat with my hands—I’ve always eaten with my hands—but the shame only went away as I grew older.

Summer of 2019, Mamoni gave me my first batch of garam masala, packed tightly into an old prescription bottle. When she handed it to me, she warned—more than once—that “a little goes a long way.” I dab a bit on my tongue before I pour some into the shrimp I’m making—finally, I understand what Mamoni means by flavor versus taste.

Whenever I experience intense emotion, my mind resorts to Bengali—whenever I taste delicious food, my mind resorts to Bengali—teetha, jhol, moja, jhaal. These words filled our kitchen, our table at 7:00 p.m. every weekday for family dinners, along with the sounds of spoons clinging against the Tupperware and rice cooker, as people dug in for seconds and thirds. Dinners aren’t meant to be fifteen minutes and one bowl—they’re meant to be communal and multiple hours, full of conversation and wearing down meat till not even the bones are left.

Our kitchens are the heart of the home. Where we use the biggest pot to make dozens of servings of biryani, where I came home everyday for two weeks in elementary school to a fresh batch of cookies as my dad sought out the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe, where we carve out the turkey on Thanksgiving.

Our kitchens are where we take care of one another.

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 21

HOW TO MAKE AUTHENTIC YERBA MATE IN COLLEGE

By Aisha Catena

22 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 25, 2019

With the rising popularity of the Guayakí’s Yerba Mate energy drink, I feel the need to clarify—for the sake of myself and for my other South American buddies—that those drinks are not yerba mate. Yerba mate is a shrub that grows oval-shaped leaves, which contain caffeine, and mate is the drink made from those leaves.

The flavor of mate is shaped by how one prepares it; it can taste strong and leafy but may slowly turn bitter and watery. The real beauty of mate is the way in which it acts as a cultural ritual, as a drink that unites people on any occasion with the purpose of relaxing, talking, smoking a cig, and enjoying each other’s company.

Many Latin Americans also drink tereré, the cold version of mate, to stay cool during the hot summers, and this is what you could compare Guayakí’s energy drinks to. I’m not gonna lie—I love the mint-flavored, mass-produced one and probably drink it more often than I drink traditional mate. But I do have a good laugh when I hear one of my friends talk about how they love “yerbas” and are trying to become college sponsors for Guayakí. Much like how the UCSB mascot is a racially cartooned version of the Argentine gaucho, I feel like this new Guayakí Yerba Mate is misinforming Americans once again about another Latin American cultural practice. But considering that the drink is still pretty good, and costs around $3.25 in the Campus Center, here is a short “how-to” on how to make your own tereré:

Ingredients

• Yerba Mate. Most brands will work, but I recommend Playadito, which you can get on Amazon. Do not get Taragüí; it tastes like powder.

• Ice cubes • Water • One sliced lime • A few mint leaves (optional) • Sugar (optional)

Equipment • A wide cup made out of glass, metal, or heat-resistant plastic—traditionally, a mate is made from a dried-up pumpkin, but I don’t expect any of you to order that from Amazon.

• A thermos, preferably one that has a small opening to drink out of.

• A bombilla—this is basically a metal straw that has a grating at the bottom to filter out the loose mate leaves.

DESIGN BY JANIE INGRASSIA

1. Place the ice, mint, sugar, lime, and water into the thermos and shake it around for a couple of seconds. Then place it in the fridge and let the flavors infuse the water while you prepare the yerba.

2. Fill half of your cup with the yerba.

3. Cover the top of your cup with your hand and shake it for a few seconds. This will separate the powder from the leaves.

4. As you finish shaking the cup, hold it in a diagonal position so that the yerba is mostly on one side of the cup, creating a small pocket.

5. Pour some of the water from the thermos into the pocket, allowing the water to settle the yerba.

6. Slide the bombilla under the yerba, without disrupting the yerba too much.

7. Add water, taking care to not allow your pocket to overflow.

8. Your tereré is now ready to drink! Sit with a group of friends and take turns filling your mate up with the prepared water. Each person will take their turn drinking (you will know it is time to refill when you hear the slurp of the bombilla), and then pass it to whoever’s turn is next. You may be thinking, ew, that’s a whole lot of germs. Yes, some saliva will be shared, which is why this is a cultural ritual to be done with those you love and trust.

ART BY LAURA WOLFE AND JANIE INGRASSIA

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 23

a taste of childhood

By Alice Hickson green paint on the kitchen chairs chips away, revealing its true brown nature. we

dip sliced buttered rye toast into homemade egg cups,

when the velvety yolk spills out, we are alive once more.

sunshine leaks into our brains, plane trails carve the eggshell sky. i

am almost certain this is just another day we will forget, but it’s far too soon to tell.

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ART BY HANNAH KAHN / DESIGN BY BRENNA TROLLINGER

6:14 pm // cereal for dinner

By Alice Hickson

early evening September light falls, soundlessly in horizontal bars, across the tattered floral sofa where you sleep. i feel the texture of the earth unfold around me as i eat cereal and watch my rusted spoon turn to gold.

6:14 p.m // cereal for dinner early evening September light falls, soundlessly in horizontal bars, across the tattered floral sofa where you sleep. i feel the texture of the earth unfold around me as i eat cereal and watch my rusted spoon turn to gold.

ART BY MATILDA BISCALDI / DESIGN BY BRENNA TROLLINGER

NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 25

FEATURE

My two pet goldfish died on the same day. It was last winter, and we had fish for dinner that night. We chewed small bites of salmon in silence.

The golden one had gone first. Little white bumps had been cropping up on his smooth scales like snowdrifts for a while. A few hours later, the orange one went as well, and one little fish body turned into two, floating together in fish heaven at the top of the tank. Fish heaven was only a few inches away from fish life. I wasn’t sure where fish hell was.

After the golden one died, I left him in the tank so the orange one could say his goodbyes and his prayers, if he wanted. I wondered if he missed him. They must have known each other well. He didn’t go near the golden fish floating up top, though. He lingered alone at the bottom of the tank instead.

I didn’t want to flush them. Their deaths had been slow and gentle, and the toilet would move them too fast, faster than they’d ever moved in life. They’d be fish out of water, rushing through the pipes, and end up in a sewer somewhere. Little fish in a big pond—a pond bigger than their tank, at least.

The orange one would deliver the eulogy for the golden one, I figured, but I’d have to deliver the eulogy for the orange one. Cause of death: drowning, I might say. Would that go in a eulogy or an obituary? He lived a long, happy life before dying peacefully in his tank. He watched his friend die, but there are other fish in the sea. Or not in the sea, because some never make it there.

Maybe real fish heaven was the ocean. Before the orange one died, I tried to bring the ocean to both of them. I stood on my tiptoes with my face over the tank and opened my eyes wide, waiting for them to water. I wondered if the orange fish had cried. If a fish could cry, would it cry dry tears? Mine weren’t. My tears landed on my lips instead of the water, and I tasted the sea.

I sprinkled a teaspoon of salt into the water instead. Do-it-yourself fish heaven. The crystals fluttered down like little snowflakes. The orange fish swam up to one of the grains of salt. Food, he must have thought. He opened his mouth wide and recoiled, and he swam back down to the bottom of the tank. The golden one floated on, though, and eventually, the orange one joined him.

After dinner, we took them from the water in a net and brought them outside to the backyard. The snow was wet and heavy. We dug a hole in the icy ground for the two of them and marked it with a wooden board. One fish, two fish, dead fish, through fish. We buried them in the snow side by side. Frozen fish sticks.

The birds would eat them by spring.

By Isabelle Chirls

FISH STICKS 26 TUFTSOBSERVER OBSERVERNOVEMBER OCTOBER 26 TUFTS 25,14, 20192019

DESIGN BY SOFIA PRETELL, ART BY JADY ZHANG

ART BY JADY ZHANG

FEATURE

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FEATURE

food to eat before sex

By Lena Novins-Montague

28 TUFTS OBSERVER NOVEMBER 25, 2019

FEATURE

Cardboard box picnic basket: gluten-free and gluten-full penne, dessert Reeses.

Your butter skin.

Kiwi strawberry Snapple purchasing at K-Mart, and you’re my neck, say the night needs a superlative.

Place Kit Kats on my pillow.

For breakfast, you bubble eggs in red sauce until the yolks grow yellowed chalk.

Push forward three years and you wear a new body to the bus station, a stiffened touch.

For dinner, I bounce my knees from the counter, you burn rice with the lights on.

So days later, track down a full mirror, press my hand into my middle, crane over my shoulder, repeat to my image how wrong you are.

Breakfast is pillow pita knifed with hummus and ice when I reach for you.

Vacation turns to men-hopping.

This one slides his hand down my sex lines, contributes, you snore.

His breakfast is pita, wet eggs, tomato treasures, cucumber shreds.

We eat over charged marble, ask for tomorrow.

In the coming days, I’ll have an appetite for any sweet breakfast: chocolate chip pancakes and a cash register receipt.

Dinner becomes ground beef, tahini, army tub hummus.

I bring U.S. sweetness: almond-studded Snickers, Kind bars from the terminal.

We don’t eat dessert for three days.

In bed, you’re where my hips begin, and I ask what you think of my new body.

Too skinny.

You are still butter skin.

ART BY AISHU AMARNATH, DESIGN BY SOFIA PRETELL

OCTOBER 14, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 29 NOVEMBER 25, 2019 TUFTS OBSERVER 29

abso-fruitly!