Our Food Stories

The vibrant piraguero carts complement the rainbow streets of Viejo San Juan. I chase my cousins down the cobbled stone streets, unprepared for the impossible task of choosing a flavor. My mom insists that I avoid staining my clothes with coconut. Regardless, I’ll risk it with parcha.

Every time I sip a Swensons root beer milkshake, I understand the concept of nostaliga. The overwhelming sweet taste of the root beer takes me back to my grandma's house in the summer, where we would make soda floats with every dinner and watch 60s movies until late in the night.

On my second day of school in a new country, I sat alone, drowning in unfamiliar sounds. My teacher walked me to the corner store and the cool blast of freezer air smothered my face. I reached for a bright red Angry Birds popsicle. “Glida,” she said, pointing. The sticky red juices taste like home.

My best meal was after 36 hours of traveling to Italy. After two planes, a bus, and a short hike up a mountain, we reached a table laden with hardy bread, soft cheeses, prosciutto, and fresh fruit under warm lamplight. After almost two days of fast food, the dinner was like cold water in the desert.

The warm smell of dough, cheese, and meat fill the kitchen on Christmas morning. Every year my family comes together and creates raviolis from scratch. I've always been the dough thinner, running it through the machine watching it expand. They give me responsibility, connecting me with my family.

Me and family have hosted lunch multiple times at the Shivavishnu Mandir, our local temple. Working in the kitchen across ages and backgrounds, with laughter and dancing in the background, I feel more connected to my Indian heritage, going back generations.

For my dad's birthday, my family & I always make a pineapple upside-down cake. We decorate it by adding cherries to each pineapple ring. The cake layer represents our family, the foundation that keeps it all together, and the fruits symbolize my dad's accomplishments, which we are forever proud of.

On a school trip to Spain, the group shared bread at every meal. We dipped it in olive oil, spread tomatoes on it, and always asked for more. Now, this bread represents community and acceptance. It truly serves as a stand in for my happiest moments. It is like a soft pillow of comfort to fall into.

My favorite meal took place in the dining hall at a Pennsylvania summer camp. The meal included tortillas that were so large they hung over the edges of our plates, cilantro lime rice, and toppings like black beans and salsa. Now, burritos remind me of childhood summers among the pines and lakes.