It’s my understanding that the best makers of and writers about food tell you a story—my grandmother who was trapped in a mine for fifteen years used to make me this soup; my husband turned into a mermaid and left me for a grad student who made a mean sourdough; learning how to make ramen at my apartment is self-care, praxis, body positivity, a radical political act, and pottery class. Food is a connector to one’s culture in the same way language can be—something that can launch you back onto a ratty couch during a commercial break where someone’s offering you either drugs or a Barbie doll
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