Dec 09, 2020
My Bicultural Comfort Food is the Spicy McChicken Sandwich
Both the sandwich and I were ‘made in China’ but with an undeniable Americanness.
Both the sandwich and I were ‘made in China’ but with an undeniable Americanness.
To these writers, saunf occurred in the world as a curiosity, but not as an inevitability.
Could I really not keep anything from the unbearable whiteness of being?
They were our new friends, and we wanted to treat them to food from that had become special to us.
We weren’t exactly rewriting our family traditions, but it felt good knowing that there was still a place for me in them.
I pray my baby will love their body, or at least accept it, and carry it around the world, just as I have carried them too, with pride and joy.
“The food scene in the Bay Area is dying because everything is so expensive; rent is expensive.”
I deliberately and obstinately use the word ‘limdi’ and not the term ‘curry leaf’ because the word ‘curry’ has always bothered me.
Eunjo Park, the executive chef at Momofuku’s Kawi, is cooking her way through it. Her food is a reminder that it’s okay not to be one-hundred percent anything.
A mastery of mushrooms and their uses could help me survive in a post-apocalyptic world—a world that didn’t feel all that far away.
How a small bakery in the Midwest gave me the Asian community I'd been searching for
I sought a cherished symbol from my own childhood, not a standardized emblem of all Indonesian culture, which I can’t and shouldn’t pretend is all mine to take.
Though my mother’s no longer here to meet my son, he’ll taste his grandmother’s cooking though our family’s Sunday gravy, the one I make every week to keep her spirit alive.
Miraci is being the one thing blackness has always been forced to be even when unwilling—political.
“I wanted to be present in Paris. I forgot to be present with my family.”
Your stomach hurts because all you’ve eaten this week is frozen yogurt—but it is a hurt you can bear more than hunger.
This Eid will not be Eid until I’ve spent time crying and laughing, describing the aromas of foods that are not here.
Holding on to our cultural foods and customs was a labor of love, but labor nevertheless. American Night provided a little respite.
“FOE!” he had yelled, when really, phở is more graceful than that.
Herring in Ukraine to fried whiting on my street. Melville to Jewish legend. How easily we eat fish caught from depths we don’t understand.
