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“Recipe for Fried Tofu” and “Red Tomato Harvest” by Nadja Maril

Recipe for Fried Tofu

Buy extra firm and check the expiration date
Cut into one-inch cubes and set upon a plate
Dusted with baking soda, sprinkle more on top
Heat oil in a frying pan until you hear it pop.

I use sesame and olive oil, not too much
When adding the tofu cubes don’t let them touch
Wait until each side turns a crisp golden brown
Patiently, before flipping sideways and down.

Once complete, place on paper towels to drain
Diagonally slice vegetables to make this your main
Meal of the day, remember Chinese favorite dishes
Breaking open fortune cookies, reading wishes
Soy sauce, oyster sauce, hot mustard, all comfort food
Sweet and sour tang puts you in a better mood.

Add scallions, mushrooms, carrots, snow peas,
Whatever you find in the crisper drawer will please
But do not forget the garlic, plus ginger is good
Zucchini, string beans, asparagus, if a vegetable could
Sauté well, use it, then mix in your favorite sauce
To this, you’ll one by one, add fried tofu and gently toss.

Serve with noodles, lettuce, or rice
A side of sliced tomatoes or avocado is nice.
Crown with fresh herbs: cilantro, basil, parsley, mint
Compliments will follow. No need to hint.

Red Tomato Harvest

I search for shiny red amongst the chaos of green
Leaves and vines tangled within our once tidy garden
Miraculously produce fruit not seen last night.
As if by instantaneous regeneration,
Tomatoes: scarlet, orange, crimson
Beauteous red orbs, full and ripe, again fill my baskets.

Hidden when green, now visible when red.
A reverse game of red light, green light.
I kneel in the earth looking upwards.
Pluck and pull, tug and twist to the right
Gathering my bounty for a stew.

My hands stinging from their acid
I remove seeds and skins to reveal
Pink juices. Carmine flesh. Colors bright inside
My reward: white soup bowls filled with Gazpacho
Tomato soup, red sauce
Salsa, tomato pie.
Comfort food, the red joy of tomatoes
Resides in my belly and I am satisfied.

Want to read more of Nadja’s poetry? Keep an eye out for her chapbook, Recipes From My Garden, coming this October.

Nadja Maril’s poems, essays, short stories, and novel excerpts appear in publications that include The Lumiere Review, Lunch Ticket, Spry Literary Journal, Change Seven, Litro Magazine, Zin Daily, BarBar, and The Sunlight Press. Nadja earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the Stonecoast Program at the University of Southern Maine and is a Contributing Editor to Old Scratch Press. She lives in Annapolis, Maryland. Her chapbook, Recipes From My Garden; Herb and Memoir Short Prose and Poetry, is scheduled for publication release in October. You can read more of her work and follow her weekly postings at Nadjamaril.com.

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Poetry

“Inventory” and “A Friend Writes from Paris” Two Poems by Don Hogle

Inventory

Angostura bitters
Baby carrots
Crisco
Dolmas
Extra-Fancy Organic Fruit Spread
French butter
Gruyere cheese
Homemade hummus
Italian peppers
Jalapeño-Lime Hot Sauce
Ketchup
Leftover Chinese
Mayonnaise
Nine-grain bread
Onion
Pickle relish
Quiche muffins
Reddi Wip
Salmon
Teriyaki marinade
Uncooked pork chops
Veuve Clicquot Brut Rosé
Whole-wheat sandwich thins
Eggs
Yoghurt
Zero Sugar Coke

A Friend Writes from Paris

I’m in my room, which is secluded from the street, drenched
in the weak, watery light of Paris. Two boys smoking
on the staircase off the courtyard are the only life I’ve seen
today. I have nothing but dismal, depressing news to report.

This morning I had coffee and ate the last of Aunt Esther’s
fruitcake. You mustn’t get the idea I’m starving, however;
I have bread, cheese, jam, and eggs in the cupboard. But
I’m plagued by fugitive thoughts about the delusion of love.

Yesterday, I wandered the city, homesick. I pushed open
the door of a McDonald’s and ordered fries. The counter boy
cruised me and said, Hi, I’m glad to see you. He was cute.
Serge. He super-sized me for free. Were we falling in love?

Love makes me want to push against it, to both fight and
caress it. Serge wasn’t looking for love. He was a talent agent,
when he wasn’t serving French fries to homesick Americans.
He liked my voice, told me I had a pleasing baritone.

He knew a place where amateur singers launched careers.
People like you make millions, he said. You’ll be big; money
will fatten your pockets. You’ll experience the tantalizing
effect of enthusiastic applause. You’ll need a bodyguard.

I’d never needed a bodyguard before. I imagined it would
make me feel more professional, fancier––like when
my shoes make a satisfying click-clack on the ground.
We agreed to meet at the club. I showed up––no Serge.

At McDonald’s they said he’d quit. Deflated, I came home,
lay my head on my arms, and cried in a heap on the floor.
But don’t worry; I’ll have a cheese omelet with toast and jam.
That usually gets me through the interminable Paris twilight.

Note: This poem borrows some language and imagery from these sources:
* Marky Mark, Marky Mark and Lynne Goldsmith
*No Love: Remnants of a Modern Unconsoled, Dominic Johnson
* The Diary of a Young Girl, Anne Frank
* The Flâneur, Edmund White
* The Sonic Boom, Joel Beckerman with Tyler Gray

Don Hogle has published over a hundred poems in sixty journals in the U.S., U.K., and Ireland, including Atlanta Review, BANG!, Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Cider Press Review, and Penn Review. He won First Prize in the 2023 Open Poetry Competition of the National Association of Writers and Groups (U.K.) His debut full-length collection, “Huddled in the Night Sky,” is coming this fall (Poets Wear Prada.) A chapbook,”Madagascar,” was published in 2020 (Sevens Kitchens Press.) He lives happily in Manhattan. www.donhoglepoet.com

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Non-Fiction

“Reflections on Ramadan” by S.B.

It makes sense that Ramadan is so difficult to practice, in its purest form, in such a distracted and desensitized nation. 

Influenced by mystical Islam and other faiths, the Lebanese-American writer Kahlil Gibran wrote The Prophet based on a fictional prophet delivering lessons on life through a series of poetic fables. When asked to talk about about eating and drinking by an old man, he says, 

And when you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart, / “Your seeds shall live in my body, / And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart, / And your fragrance shall be my breath, / And together we shall rejoice through all the seasons.

One must acknowledge the sacrifice that a living, or nonliving, being made in order to provide sustenance for another, and all the ways we are connected to what we eat, he explains. 

Ramadan, the holy month where Muslims fast from food, water, and other desires, urges a similar level of mindfulness and appreciation around sustenance. But I never quite felt the spiritual weight of it when practicing it in my adolescence and young adulthood. The long-gone Ramadan of my childhood was long nights of prayer and tea and treats until sunrise. It was especially sweet when this month, which is based on the lunar calendar and is 10 days earlier each year, would land on my summer vacation. You could sleep until the late afternoon if you wanted.

Once I got to university, I would often break my fast in a rush, alone in my kitchen with leftover food. Having to dedicate a very specific time to eat was often a frustrating inconvenience more than anything; I had assignments to complete. I especially struggled with waking up before sunrise to start my fast, which left me with only a few hours before I had to get ready for work or school.  

I had come to practice a watered down version of Ramadan, I realized. This year, I vowed that things would be different. It was my first Ramadan after my move to New York, and I wanted to truly understand the spiritual realm of the month, not just count the hours until it was time to eat. It also became the first time I truly understood why the Prophet Muhammad, whose teachings Muslims follow around the world, said “he is not a believer whose stomach is filled while his neighbor goes hungry.” 

Throughout the month of Ramadan and for months before, Israel has waged a war of hunger in Gaza. At least 31 Palestinians have died of starvation, including 27 children, ahead of Israel’s plans to further escalate into Rafah, the southernmost part of Gaza where Israel has trapped over a million people. All 2.2 million people in Gaza are facing acute food scarcity, with half of the population on the brink of starvation. According to the Integrated Food Security Phase Classification (IPC), there has been a critically steep increase in malnutrition, and levels of acute food insecurity have already “far exceeded” the threshold for famine in northern Gaza. Israel is using starvation as a weapon of war, systematically blocking the entry of aid into the Gaza strip and killing those who attempt to deliver it. The rest of us watch helplessly.

Despite not knowing when their next meal will be, countless Muslims in Gaza still decided to fast this past Ramadan. At the same time, millions of Muslims in the United States and around the world were fasting alongside them, some blessed with large, extravagant dinner parties while others persisted despite similarly struggling with constant hunger. (In America, over 12 percent of households are food-insecure.)

Many Americans don’t think much about how their food ends up on their plate, and that includes myself. The average American eats their dinner in under 20 minutes, and 34 percent of Americans eat their dinner alone every day. In contrast, Ramadan requires you to eat with a sense of intentionality: you start your fast at sunrise and break your fast at sunset. That means when the sun dips below the horizon to mark the end of the day, and the imam makes the call to prayer, you pause for a moment to have a date or a sip of water at the very least. Those who have been blessed with more time, often have community iftars and congregational prayers. And those who are unable to fast for medical or other reasons, are instead required to feed someone for 30 days.

But Ramadan doesn’t just force you to slow down. It forces you to strip away any distractions—peel your eyes off whatever Excel sheet you’ve been crunching numbers into, whatever show you’re binging, whatever minor heartbreak you’ve been agonizing over—and pay attention. Pay attention to what is going on inside you, all the internal battles your ego faces. Pay attention to your neighbor, whose struggles you have yet to understand. 

When we can’t even make time to sit down and eat by ourselves—nevermind cook together and share a meal with our loved ones—who will we have time to remember?

This need for reflection goes beyond just food, and speaks to a general lack of awareness of the world at large. In a Gallup survey testing American adults’ knowledge on international issues, only six percent of respondents answered correctly for 80 percent or more of the questions. People are hungry to know more—80 percent agreed it is important to teach foreign policy in high school, yet only 30 percent said that they learned it when they were in school. There are consequences to this lack of foreign policy education. This is the education that leads people to support the bombing of Agrabah, a fictional country that sounds just foreign and middle-eastern enough for people to rally behind its destruction. 

This disconnect is what allowed us to sleep peacefully while Israel created the conditions for famine. Gaza has been under a permanent blockade since 2007, and has experienced restrictions on travel to and from the strip for decades, restricting access to medical care, economic opportunities, and basic sustenance for the Palestinains that live there. Before October 7, almost 80% of Gaza’s population already relied on humanitarian assistance for survival. This forced dependence gives Israel the power to give or withhold food and other necessities at their will. 

It’s been hard for me to think about anything else lately. People say that the war is not about religion. In many ways, I would agree, but it’s difficult to ignore the Palestinians praying amidst the rubble of the mosques Israel bombed, or families breaking their fast with the scraps of food they were able to get amid a suffocating siege. This Ramadan, Muslim worshippers were attacked by Israeli police at Al-Aqsa mosque (thwarting access with force to the holy site is a scene that has been seen in Jerusalem many times before). Israel mockingly dropped leaflets on people in Gaza, the same way they have announced impending air strikes, to commemorate the beginning of Ramadan. 

Palestinians’ faith is what connects them to each other and to their land. In order to defeat them, Israel attempts to sever their spiritual bonds. Muslims understand what it is like to have their sacred connections to food, the earth, and to each other slip through their fingers, or worse, have it be forcibly ripped away from their grasp. I won’t take these things for granted ever again. 

I haven’t quite mastered all my desires yet. Most days, I managed to eat exactly what I was craving, without waiting too long past sunset.  I still struggled to wake up before sunrise, because I had to get up for work on time. But this Ramadan has made me painfully aware of the ways inequality seeps into every aspect of our existence: from how much we get to eat, to how much time for reflection and self-determination we can afford. The only way the oppressive systems of our world function as they are, and will continue to function, is through isolation of the average man from the devastation their country is causing elsewhere. 

The larger community has been similarly reenergized by Ramadan. Every community iftar or prayer I attended included a word or prayer for the people of Palestine. In late March, an iftar hosted by New York Mayor Eric Adams was boycotted by members of the Muslim community, who gathered  for a “people’s iftar” outside with food, prayer and protest, as others also disrupted the event inside. Many refused an invitation to an iftar hosted by President Biden this year, forcing the White House to have a smaller, more modest event with people within his administration. Both Adams and Biden have refused to call for a lasting ceasefire in Gaza. The people refuse to break bread with leaders that do not stand against the starving of their kin. 

I cried the first time I heard the adhan, or call to prayer, in New York, from the speakers of a mosque on Fulton Street. I was heading home from work, late to break my fast, and a food truck was handing out meals to those waiting in line. It was a peaceful, poetic call that signaled for everyone to pause and feed themselves and their neighbor. It stood in such contrast to the lights and sounds of a dwindling rush hour. That we had an entire month dedicated to discipline, reflection, and mutual aid, is a miracle in itself. 

S.B. is a writer based in New York.

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Poetry

“Pineapple Upside Down Cake” and “Blue-Cheese Burgers” two poems by Katherine Cottle

Pineapple Upside Down Cake
For my father, Harvey Eugene Cottle (February 28, 1948-December 5, 2023)

It was the only choice for a man
who did not like traditional cake or routes,
a man opposed to any recipe which tasted typical,
or predictable, any taste which left him thirsty.

He told us stories when we were children,
stories full of boxes full of pineapples,
loaded onto the dock of his grocery store,
shipped from a place he had never seen,
somewhere distant on the dusty world globe
resting on the left side of the wood desk in his office.
He always described the way their skins peeled,
weeping from the weight of their journey.

I learned quickly why it was his favorite fruit,
why my father picked the stringy yellow meat—
a complement to his milkshakes, his potatoes,
his cottage cheese, his late winter birthday.

It was the most unapologetic fruit in his store,
the fruit with the toughest skin,
protecting a core so sweet it almost burned
from its own natural juice,
the fruit that took an extra sharp knife to cut,
bound tight in its armor like a seasoned knight.

At first, I didn’t understand its name–
nor its purpose: upside-down cake,
when my mother served it every February 28,
a few hours shy of leap day,
its preparation clothed in the corners of her kitchen.

It just looked like a worn-out cake,
the rusty and spongey yellow rings sunken in,
while still shining like aging artifacts.
It could have been any set of used flanges;
hollowed tree rings; a series of sore, tired eyes.

Yet, it could also have been bands of hidden gold—
waiting for discovery under a light dusting of exhaustion,
the metal lurking almost close enough for capture,
just about in reach of my father’s uncharted instincts,
which faithfully followed the scent of surprise.

Blue-Cheese Burgers

Katherine Cottle is the author of The Hidden Heart of Charm City (nonfiction), I Remain Yours (creative nonfiction), Halfway (memoir), and My Father’s Speech (poetry), all published by AH/Loyola University Maryland. Cottle teaches writing at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland and for the Goucher Prison Education Partnership. You can find out more about her work at www.katherinecottle.com.

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Columns

Cozy Questions: Claudia Langella

Welcome to the first edition of Cozy Questions, a new column in which TIE Nonfiction Editor, Christine Ro, interviews her best foodie friends! The only requirement? They each bring a dish that makes them feel cozy. This week, Christine brought a cheese Danish.

Claudia Langella and I met when we were both Literary Studies majors at The New School’s Lang College. I started sharing Trader Joe’s cookies with the class because why not? Claudia then started sharing her homemade cookies because she’s an angel.

At time of publication, Claudia is completing her Culinary Arts Associate Degree at Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island. Over the summer, she will be interning at Newport Vineyards & Restaurant in Newport, Rhode Island.

Could you please introduce your cozy dish, and why you brought it?

It’s kind of boring. It’s just bread and butter, and I’ve been snacking on it all day. I was actually telling my boyfriend last night how I feel like my favorite foods are plain and boring. We were eating Carr’s Water Crackers, and I was like, “These taste so good!” But there’s no flavor to them, so I don’t know. I like a comforting, plain, boring meal sometimes.

My parents would always take me and my sister on an Easter break vacation when we were younger, so we would go to a different city, and I remember everything that I ate on those trips. Sourdough bread in San Francisco is one memory that I have. Muffuletta sandwiches in New Orleans is another.

From there, it kind of followed me into middle school and high school, when I started baking a lot on the weekends. I’d bake every Friday night, and we’d all eat it for breakfast the next morning because it was usually some form of banana bread or scone or muffin. That’s kind of where food and cooking and baking made its way into my life. I enjoy cooking and doing something with my hands and seeing something from start to finish like a carrot become a soup.

That was a very plain example.

Oh my God, no, that was beautiful!

The last class that we had together was our undergrad capstone. Now, two years later, we’re both back in school. I know that in my classes, the ages range from 23 to 73, but I’m curious to know what your classes are like in culinary school. Is there a wide range of ages?

There’s not a huge age range. I think it’s maybe from like 18 to 26. Every now and then, you’ll see someone who’s a lot older, like maybe in their forties or fifties, who is going back to school, but the majority of the student population is people that just graduated high school because Johnson & Wales is the place to go if you want a normal college experience.

I will say that it’s cool to meet people who feel the same way about food that I do, and also are that young. A lot of the people who I’ve befriended did culinary programs at their high school. Not everyone that does that chooses to stay in culinary, so the kids that do really love it and know that it’s what they want to do for the rest of their lives.

Their passion inspires you.

Definitely.

What kind of things do you learn in culinary school? Is it possible to go in as a beginner, or do they expect you to have some basic knowledge?

I think most people do have basic knowledge of cooking because it’s such a niche thing that you choose to do. I have one friend who just graduated high school last year, and he just thought that culinary school sounded fun. He had never worked in a kitchen. He would sometimes cook for his parents at home, but he kind of went in blind because he just didn’t know a lot. He’s doing well. He likes it. I think either way, everyone needs to have an open mind.

There are things that you learn in your first semester that you might know already like the basic knife skills. Maybe you know how to make soup. The first semester is definitely a lot of recipe-following and learning different herbs and the mother sauces, which are like five classic French sauces that turn into different things, so you have to know the basic ratios for those. Once you move into your second semester, you start doing baking and more international cuisine like the basics of French cuisine, which is what culinary schools around the globe are kind of based off of.

This past semester, I did baking, and I like baking, but I feel like in the way that The New School is divided between Parsons and Lang, culinary school is divided by culinary kids and baking kids. The cooking classes that I’m in every day are six hours long, so I’m with the same people for 24 hours of the week, and I’m not really seeing the baking kids. Another class that you do in your second semester is your front-of-house, so we’d have a uniform and serve people and learn etiquette, which I really liked because my restaurant experience is front-of-house. Other stuff that we learned includes breaking down different animal parts. We have to break down a chicken for one of our finals.

By the end of my program, I’ll have to know how to create a menu. Once you move along in the program, you can take fine dining classes, casual concepts. You basically create an entire restaurant, and they have all these different dining rooms that those classes kind of transform. I won’t be doing that because I’m only in the associate’s program. The biggest goal of the associate’s program is to be able to create a menu, and also to be able to identify different international cuisines and their dishes and flavor profiles that go with them.

That covers the big stuff.

Your comparison of culinary and baking to Parsons and Lang is so funny. Which one would you say is Parsons?

I’m at the Parsons of this university. The things that I see, you can definitely tell all the money is poured into culinary because it’s the biggest program. There are the most kids, they have their own campus. I don’t know, it’s funny because I’m like, “This is what the Parsons building looks like in the classroom. Compared to tiny little Lang.”

This is probably a question that you get a lot, but I have to ask. Why did you decide to go to culinary school after undergrad? Who or what inspired you?

When I graduated from Lang, I knew that I wanted food to be in my life, and I ended up working for ten months at a catering company as an administrative assistant. I helped plan all the menus and catering rentals and stuff like that. It was cool to see ideas come to life like seeing a couple’s wedding inspiration turn into a full-blown, in-person event. I also got a few chances to work in the catering kitchen, and I really enjoyed the days that I was there. 

I didn’t stay in catered events because it’s not, for lack of a better way of saying it, as romantic as being in a restaurant. Someone spent $50,000 for us to do all this work and set up a fake kitchen for something that was only going to last two hours. I learned a lot in that role, but it just wasn’t inspiring having to go into an office the next day and be on a computer most of the time.

I decided on culinary school because I didn’t want to have to spend so long in a restaurant, and I kind of wanted to just bite the bullet to learn everything in a shorter amount of time. Also, if I do decide to go work in a food magazine or another events company later on, I have this in my pocket that I can show as experience in this industry.

I guess the short answer is that I didn’t want to have to limit myself by just working in a restaurant, and I’m still in the process of figuring out if I want to do that.

When I try to imagine what it must be like to work in a restaurant, I just see Gordon Ramsay making the idiot sandwich. I trust that none of your professors are doing that?

Yeah, no. It’s interesting because I thought that it was going to be that way, too. I think it used to be that way, but once culinary schools became more traditional in the college sense, it became less strict. Also, the industry is changing. Chefs like that aren’t really admired as much as they used to be in the 2000’s because that wasn’t a safe workplace, and you definitely don’t want to be in a learning environment or working environment where someone is treating you like that.

It’s definitely not as scary as people make it seem or as people think it is.

That’s a relief!

Obviously, cooking is a big part of culinary school, especially cooking with other people. I’m curious to know if you cook a lot outside of class, and if you cook a lot with other people outside of class?

I cook dinner every night. Sometimes, it’s boring, and I don’t want to do it, and sometimes, I feel really inspired. I definitely make an effort to make something every day, and I feel like that’s something I would even do at Lang, even if it was making an omelet or something, just because I know that one. It’s how I express myself, and I feel like I express myself well.

I cook a lot alone, and even though I enjoy cooking with other people, it’s a whole different type of cooking when I’m cooking at home versus cooking in school. Sometimes, it’s fun to just make one really intricate meal for me and my boyfriend. Last night for dinner, I made these little tiny raviolis. It was a big job for one person to do for two people, but at school, having to do 100 little tiny raviolis in half an hour with only one other person and my professor helping me just a little bit is different. Not as much pressure when you’re cooking alone, and so I like that part.

I feel like I had this issue at the end of Lang where I wanted to enjoy the process of writing, but I didn’t want to make it my entire existence, and I used to tell myself that about cooking as well because I didn’t want it to become too much of a thing in my life. Now, I have a better balance of that. I have two different ways of cooking. I can come home and relax and make a certain dish, then go to school and do the hour-and-a-half prep and hour-and-a-half service portion of it.

When you’re inspired, do you get inspired by something that you made earlier that day at school, or at random?

I think definitely another thing that I’ve learned is that you have to inspire yourself. Some weekends, I’ll come home and cook something I made in class, and other weeks, I want nothing to do with that, so I’m going to find inspiration elsewhere in a cookbook or a cooking show or Instagram. There’s only so much fun you can have in all these basic classes, and I feel like once you reach the second half of your class, then you start getting into the portion of the class where you create something instead of your chef telling you, “Okay, this is what you guys are going to make today. It has to be just like this, no substitution, no creative stuff.”

There was one class where all we did was braised chicken, or fried chicken, and everyone was sick of chicken. In my breakfast and lunch cafe class, there was one week where all we did was eggs, and we all had to make these different fried eggs, scrambled eggs, omelets. In the beginning of the week, we were all like, “Great! We don’t have to eat breakfast because we can just sit off to the side and eat whatever egg we made!” By the end of the week, everyone was like, “We hate eggs. We cannot eat any more eggs. We cannot make any more eggs.”

It’s the repetition that can get uninspiring.

I can’t imagine eating eggs everyday for a week. Or chicken.

I know! It sucks! I have to eat fried chicken everyday! Oh no!

American chef Thomas Keller said, “Food should be fun.” What would you say is the most fun part about food?

Oh my God. Okay. I think I have two answers.

The first answer, the most fun part about culinary school is getting to have access to all these ingredients and all this equipment that I’ve never had access to before because I’ve never worked in a kitchen. Huge industrial kitchen aids. Pasta machines. A full range of stoves and ovens and stuff like that. Just getting to flex those muscles everyday has been really fun in school, and it’s nice to have access to weird ingredients that I’ve heard of before but never seen or worked with, like different peppers and stuff, learning about how many different peppers there are and how many different ways to use them, and stuff like that.

Part two, the most fun part about food, I think connecting with people over food is always important. Even like this, food is how we’re connecting right now. I know that I want to keep working in a community of some sort, or build a community around food. I imagine a supper club or something would be fun to be a part of, and I just love learning or teaching someone else about a different ingredient or dish that they’ve never heard of before.

I guess this is a whole different question now, but I feel like there’s so much you can say about going out to eat or even just cooking for others, but at the end of the day, it is what inspires so many relationships. Whether you have the $2 taco or the four-course tasting menu, you still have a similar thing going on if you’re enjoying it with another person. That is what drives me. I’m thinking a lot about what my mission is as a cook once I graduate, and I definitely want people to be in the center.

That’s amazing!

Okay, so my last question is actually five questions.

Okay. I’m ready. Hit me.

If you could open a restaurant anywhere in the world, where would it be?

I guess the broad answer is somewhere that has access to a lot of farms. Good farms, and makers and artisans that we could source from, and also somewhere that is anchored by its community, if that makes sense. Something that could be more than just a restaurant, like maybe an event space or a community gathering area, or something like that. Somewhere that needs a place like that.

What would the seating be like?

There’s a place in Brooklyn called Dinner Party, and they’re basically a restaurant and a supper club. They have one menu that you pay one price for, and you just take a seat wherever, and you don’t need to come with people, which I think is really cool. I think it would be cool to have a place like that where you encourage people to sit with people that they don’t know and build a connection with over food.

There’s also the part of me that likes the traditional, strict four different sections, and there’s a captain in each section, so maybe there would be a mix of both. You can have the option to sit with strangers, and not just at a bar, but sit at a table and face a stranger, and then also smaller tables for smaller parties.

What would the best-selling food be?

When I’m out to eat, and I see something on the menu where I’m like, “Oh, I have to order that,” I always like to order a chicken dish, and my boyfriend loves chicken, so sometimes, we’ll get half a chicken if that’s on the menu, and we’ll split that.

My comfort food is chicken, rice, vegetables, and a sauce. That’s my comfort go-to dinner. Maybe I should have made that if we were having a dinner conversation.

I love that. Very simple but filling.

What would the best-selling drink be?

I love lemonade. A really good lemonade always hits the spot. If I’m in the mood for a lemonade, I will order it if I see it on the menu.

And that goes so well with the chicken and rice. It’s refreshing.

Yes!

Last but not least… What would the restaurant’s name be?

I don’t know. I think about this, and it’s kind of like how I’m sure people think about what their firstborn child is going to be named.

I thought you were going to say, “First book title.” Firstborn child, though? That is huge! That is generational!

You know what I mean? It’s similar to an author thinking about the title of their book, like what if that becomes the thing that you’re known for, you know? It needs to be a good name, and it also depends on what you’re serving, and where you are.

I don’t have one. I think about it, but I don’t have one because it’s like what’s the point, I don’t even know what I’m going to be doing, you know? That’s a big question.

Claudia Langella graduated from Lang’s Literary Studies program in 2022. A lifelong eater, her experience in New York’s hospitality industry is what made her pursue food full-time. She currently attends Johnson & Wales University in Providence, Rhode Island. Her writing is almost always about food. Find her work at www.claudialangella.substack.com.

Christine Ro is a first-year Nonfiction student in the Creative Writing program at The New School and the nonfiction editor at The Inquisitive Eater. She loves to write humor essays, watch foreign films, and try anything but coffee at coffee shops. Some of her work can be found at The New School Free Press and The Inquisitive Eater.

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Fiction

“Candy” by Kellene O’Hara

Fridays, they were thinking and thinking of eating, and not thinking of eating loaves of bread, but thinking of eating candy. They wanted candy. They wanted the sticky sweet. They needed it. A desire like hunger gnawed in their stomachs and stretched across the vast systems of their body. It was in their blood, a pulsating signal. 

It must be had. 

They tried not thinking of thinking of eating and not thinking of eating the candy. But the candy is what they wanted and they wanted the candy. They could not not think about thinking about eating candy. It was what they wanted to think about. They wanted to think about wanting to think about wanting to eat and wanting to eat candy. It was the candy they wanted. 

The sickly sugar would melt in their mouths. It would dissolve into the purest chemical form. It would be absorbed. It would be burned. Oh, how they wanted it to burn. Not burning, but blazing. Not blazing, but obliteration. Burn it down. Down, down, down. 

They did not have candy. They wanted it, but did not have it. Where to get it? The candy. They wanted it and did not have it. They needed to obtain it, to own it until it could become a part of them. Until they consumed it and before it consumed them. They wanted to find the candy so they could eat the candy so they could stop thinking about wanting to think about eating the candy. 

They found the candy. It was theirs. They were its. Open the mouth, let the tongue feel it. Suck on it. This was the candy that they wanted. This was the candy that they wanted to think about eating. This was the candy that they wanted to eat. Their wish was fulfilled. 

For a moment. Then the candy was gone, the sugar gone from the system. To fill the void, desire returned. It returned with a single thought. A thought about candy. They wanted the candy, but it was gone. So they thought about the candy. They were thinking about eating the candy. They were craving candy. Their intent towards candy returned. It was stronger than before. 

They needed to find the candy, but the candy was gone. The candy could not be found. They could not find the candy. Who had seen the candy last? They didn’t see the candy. It was gone. 

Their veins were burning. Not from the candy which beautifully burned. This burning burned. It tore them down. It gutted them, inside to outside. From here to there, only the skeletons remained, charred. They were charred skeletons. They, charred skeletons, wanted candy. They did not have tongues to eat the candy. A mouth for the candy to rest. A stomach to digest. 

They wanted candy. Their bones rattled in rage. Candy. Candy. Candy. They did not have a brain to think about the candy. It was not a thought. Nothing in their bodies could produce such want. They wanted more than bodies want. 

They wanted the candy, the candy that consumes. 

Kellene O’Hara has been published in The Fourth River, Marathon Literary Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Her writing has been nominated for the Best of the Net and the Best Small Fictions. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School. She teaches writing at the University of Mississippi. Find her on Twitter @KelleneOHara, Instagram @KelleneWrites, and online at kelleneohara.com.

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Poetry

“Marie”

by Victoria Suds

You acquiesce gorgeously
laugh-sigh, rub of marinade
I know what to do with garlic
you there, pass the tongs

I was like Mother Rusch
beating the grime out of tripe and lung
Wine punt foggy
spoon bent but don’t remember how
(I know it was you)

During your “German” phase you sent me to work
2 x 8 oz frozen tilapia
Salt, grass, leaves
a bag of saffron a mother gives you for holiday
– thaw in package for safety
– make yellow with fire in pan
*best garnished with cold cabbage and sometimes found with bread

We fell in love to the cook’s kisses back when our faucets had no handles
you were OPITZ, scene right
and I AGNES, scene left
a kitchen between us

OPITZ: Just grab the wrench and use it and then it’s done, it’s not a big deal.

AGNES: Morning is a sedative and I am a debtor to your liquor.

Marie left us quietly and until we found the bottle under our mattress we were convinced she had
taken it with her and that made us laugh.
Imagine a wily Brooklyn teenager with a dent in her paw ready to fight.

I would have found her for you,
and I would have fixed our faucet
but we packed our things,
dishes still warm on the counter
your sunken loaf atop our desk
you insisted we turn the car around to find it and I said no
Marie said no, too, and if there’s anything I regret
more than bread it’s that I never did apologize

I imagine her,
writhing atop a marble counter:
There are things I saved in these cabinets. Where are they?

Victoria Suds is a poet and sweet tooth living in New York. Her work has appeared in 12th St, QED: A Journal in GLBTQ Worldmaking and Maggi Peyton Gallery. She studies poetry at The New School.

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Fiction

“A Burrito of the Past” by Olivia Brochu

On a Tuesday afternoon, Alice Clark takes a bite of a burrito. She sits at a weatherworn table in her backyard. Her daughter jumps on the trampoline. 

Her burrito is loaded with both guacamole and nostalgia. Alice hasn’t eaten at Mad Max’s since she worked there in high school, but when a new location popped up down the street, she found herself pulling into the parking lot on opening day. 

Her first bite goes down easy. But the second requires thorough chewing, an exercise that seems like it may never end. She looks down at the tortilla shell wrapped in shiny foil, strands of her own saliva stretching from one end to the other as if bridging some cavernous danger — crushed avocadoes, pulverized tomatoes, the flesh of a dead animal. 

She remembers that flesh cooking in a smoker outside the back of the restaurant, ten years ago. That smoker was the prized possession of the chef who helped start the place. 

She can still picture his sheepish smile. Back then, she thought it radiated purity. Really, it hid missing teeth. 

The teeth left a gap she could feel when they kissed. When her tongue reticently searched inside of his mouth. She was so unsure, then, of everything, but especially of how to be with a man. She was 17, inexperienced, blushing. He was 28, insistent, adult. 

It started with lingering glances. She had an age-appropriate boyfriend, but outside of him, boys and men had never paid her much attention before. The chef’s inviting stares in the blisteringly hot kitchen warmed her deeper than the sun ever could. She started to return them, and add a daring smile — learning for the first time to flex a muscle she would turn to again and again in the years to come, until settled safely in a marriage.

The flirtations culminated, finally, in a frenzied drive to his house. Her parents were out of town. His girlfriend was working late. She lied to her boyfriend on the way there, telling him she was headed home. Instead, with the top down on the used convertible her parents bought for her, she sped along streets she had never driven before, her hair blowing wildly in the air. Her skin smelled like salt and frying oil. His did too, when he took off his shirt, baring his chest in his bedroom. She felt his erection inside his pants, hot and just for her, somehow different from any she had come across before. More carnal. Animal flesh.

Alice swallows her lingering bite, and with it pushes down this memory. 

When it happened, she felt silly, like a child dressing up in her mother’s dresses and high heels, only to look in the mirror and see that they don’t fit at all. She was so sure, feeling desired by an older man, that she was an adult. But it was a girl that ran from his house that night before anything more could happen.

And she knows much more could have happened. Instead, it ended with Alice speeding away in the dark night, towards the safety of her parents’ empty house. She quit her job the next day. He left town soon after. His recipes are all that is left of him now. 

It’s her daughter’s cries for help from the trampoline that breaks her train of thought, jolting her back to reality. She gets up from the table, narrowly avoiding a splinter primed for her palm. She helps her daughter down the small ladder onto the soft grass, smelling the girl’s nutty, sun-toasted hair.

When Alice returns to her lunch, she finds that the crushed avocadoes appear soft and sweet. The pulverized tomatoes now look, simply, like the innocuous salsa that they are. They no longer have the power to scare or intimidate her. 

For the first time in a long time, she feels happy to be older. Age has brought crow’s feet and stretch marks and tired bones. But it has also brought security, self-confidence, and just enough distance from the near missteps of her past. 

Alice’s appetite returns, and with it comes a silent smile. Her third bite goes down easy. 

Olivia Brochu‘s work has been featured by Five Minute Lit, Motherly, and more. Her piece “Under Pressure” was a finalist in a Women on Writing essay contest. She lives in Allentown, PA with her husband and three sons.

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Non-Fiction

“Whispers of a Dying Pomegranate”

by Karoline Lopez

A fragile seed encased within a jelly-like surface. The moment I bite in, I’m met with a savory and slightly bittersweet crimson juice. 

I feel betrayed.

The shell – now split in the center – sprawls out in a clear Tupperware container. The seeds – now eager to escape the spongy chamber they once worked together to fill – overflow onto my kitchen floor.

Should I feel betrayed?

The physician takes an echocardiogram, her hands guiding the wand as she spreads the warm jelly across my bare chest. As my heartbeat echoes through the room, I stare at the fruit and vegetable stickers spread across the ceiling and attempt to assort them by color. I only manage the red.

Apple… strawberry… raspberry… tomato… pepper… chili…

“All done! Let’s wipe you down and take you back into my office.”

A slice of watermelon… an opened pomegranate… beetroot… red onion…

“In the first few minutes, your heart rate was over 120. It could have been due to nerves or discomfort. The initial diagnosis was your young age, a usual hyperactive heart. Normal. The following minutes, I noticed some activity on your lower left side. There was a sign of leakage from your lower valve…”

Just like my dad.

“Just like her dad,” my mom echoes.

“Correct. Many times, heart diseases can be inherited. Based on her family medical history, this could be a possible cause.”

“Will she be alright?”

“I want her to get a few more tests done, to help in giving her a proper diagnosis…”

Test. Test. You’re young. You’re fine. You’re young and fine until you’re not.

“… now, the symptoms that Karoline’s described to me are tachycardia: the shortness of breath, light-headedness, the strain in her chest, the cramping a.k.a. palpitations. By the end of her exam, her heart rate didn’t drop lower than 110. This is what was worrying for me…”

She’s looking at me.

“… today, I’ll be sending you guys home with a referral to get a Holter monitor. This is a device that will track your heart’s activity for approximately 24 hours. Once I get the results, we’ll schedule our next appointment. I know this is a lot of information to process…”

You think?

“… do you have any questions for me?”

Why me? How much more will it hurt? How long…

“Mom?”

“Is there anything I can do for her, to alleviate or…?”

“I would recommend we keep her eating healthy and balanced meals. She’s quite young, but you should be aware the older she gets; she might have more complications depending on the severity of her future diagnosis. As of now, she might have her usual episodes of discomfort in the chest, when this happens have her lay down, have her take deep breaths in and out…”

I’m quite young. I’m quite young. I’m quite young.

As of now, my hyperactive heart will continue to pump out its red seeds. Occasionally, a few will make their escape, and the spongy chamber of my chest cavity will cause a minor crack in my shell. The crimson juices will cause a bittersweet sensation as it seeps through what it should remain within.

I continue to reimagine my heart as a pomegranate. The surface of the outer layer is beautifully shiny, masking a rot, that sooner or later will dominate. The moment someone splits it open, what will the surprise be: draught, the right amount, or an abundance? Would a customer desire a refund if they received my heart? Would they regret it if they knew they’ll have an abundant supply of seeds after the fruit’s external layer rots away?

I guide a handful of seeds into the roof of my mouth. Numerous bursts; the bittersweet taste battling the taste buds on my tongue. I scrunch my nose as my jaw tenses. Goosebumps and shivers embrace me. I enjoy the taste, but my body pushes back.

Peace and sadness on a balance scale, playing the game of seesaw, as I swallow another pomegranate seed in a daze. I feel a phantom pain making its presence known.

The next performance will prevail over the last. Budump. Budump.

Karoline Lopez is a writer and full-time student, currently pursuing a B.A. in Psychology and a Minor in Creative Writing at Montclair State University. She was born and raised in Paterson, New Jersey. She can be found spending her time with the pen communicating the wonders and images of the mind.

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Poetry

“Langallo”

by Holly Payne-Strange

I learned to make pizza while we were in Budapest. 

Well, I learned to make Hungarian pizza, 

A wildly, wonderfully different beast 

With paprika and yogurt 

And dough so heavy 

It might be a 

Dream.

Our host lived in a hulking building, beautiful in its slight decay,

Cobwebs and marble, an elevator that barely worked. 

Beside me, my muse laughed and chatted 

Politely refusing homemade palinka, 

Heady with the scent of apricot. 

When I envision him, 

It’s often in that 

Moment.

The fantastically familiar colliding with the sparkling, 

The wonderfully, breathlessly beautiful. 

Everything I think I know 

Turned on its head. 

The mundane 

Becoming 

Wildly

New.

Holly Payne-Strange is a novelist, poet and podcast creator. Her writing has been lauded by USA Today, LA weekly and The New York Times. Additionally, she’s given talks on podcast creation at Fordham University and The Player’s Club.  Her  poetry has been published by various groups  including  RedDoor, Door Is A Jar magazine, Call me [Brackets], and Quail Bell Magazine. She would like to thank her wife for all her support. 

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