*As winter approached during the writing of this article, some plants have already been harvested or have wilted due to the cold and thus have no photos. This spread is not a comprehensive list of all crops grown in the Garden.


Tucked in behind Gelb Science Center, the Abbot Learning Garden is a bright sanctuary marking Andover’s first steps into exploring organic and regenerative agriculture. The project is funded by the Abbot Academy Fund and led by the school’s sustainability coordinator, Ms. Allison Guerette. Working with students from across a range of programs and initiatives such as the Phillips Academy Sustainability Coalition (PASC) and the Science 420 course: Food, Agriculture, and the Future, they planted a myriad of crops across the Garden’s raised beds and in-ground. With that, enjoy our selection of the Garden’s produce, edition Fall 2022!

The Garden and its crops are welcome for all to visit and harvest - please be conscious of your own actions and remember to always leave some for the next person :)

The Hearty Hearth: Abbot Learning Garden Harvests

As a Korean-American, I grew up surrounded by the fragrances and tastes of a distant home. Since they first moved to America, my parents had kept the part of Korean culture they took with them overseas in their spice cabinet, tucked snugly between the traditional sauces and unique ingredients that their culinary creations helped me love. Out of all the traditional dishes that our family feasted on, one of my all-time favorites was and still is soy sauce Korean fried chicken. Even though my parents have roots in very different regions of Korea, they both share the national love for fried chicken. With an addictive crunch and a variety of flavors layered in each bite, no one can resist enjoying this quick, filling meal. However, after noticing the obvious lack of Korean fried chicken restaurants in America (KFC and Chick-Fil-A simply could not evoke the same quality of taste), my family decided to take matters into their own hands—they set out to create and perfect a recipe for authentic Korean soy sauce fried chicken.

What makes Korean soy sauce fried chicken unique is not just its cultural significance, but also the depth of its flavor; unlike Western-style fried chicken, it has a crispy yet thin layer of skin that makes its texture a perfect mixture of delicate and satisfying crunchiness that leads straight into the moist, tender chicken inside. The recipe also incorporates fruits in its sauce, whose sweetness combined with the tangy, salty soy sauce create a combination of contrasting yet complementing flavors. Further imbuing its taste with a refreshing touch, we include a side of chilled pickled radish to top off the perfect fried chicken. Our recipe is unique in its dimensionality—it explores and experiments with a complex array of flavors to create an unforgettable experience that I hold dear to my heart. For the fond feelings that this dish evokes, my go-to meal at home will always be my mother’s soy sauce fried chicken.

Add the soy sauce, sugar, and water and wait till it boils.

Mix in the cooking wine when the mixture comes to a boil.

Turn off the heat once it comes to a boil again.

Add the fruit slices and vegetables, close the lid and wait around a day to cool.

After the soy sauce is done cooling, use a strainer to strain the sauce into a container.

Season the chicken wings with pepper, onion powder, ginger powder, and garlic powder and marinate for at least 30 minutes.

Add starch powder and bread crumbs and fry for 6 minutes.

Put oil into a pan and saute the sliced garlic and dried pepper until it creates a pleasant aroma.

Add the sauce (1 ½ cup for 10 pounds of chicken).

When the sauce begins to boil, add 2 spoonfuls of vinegar (Tip: boil the sauce at first, then lower the heat and simply maintain a warm temperature).

Fry the wings a second time for 2 minutes.

Move the fried chicken into the saucepan and leave for 1-2 minutes until the sauce completely covers all of the chicken and enjoy!

Flavors of Family: My Mother’s Twist on Soy Sauce Korean Fried Chicken

From a young age, my parents had interwoven fragments of Chinese culture and cuisine into my daily life. My mother always prepared our meals with a hint of traditional tastes and spices, light reminders of my distant family and heritage that surprisingly always elicited a deep sense of nostalgia in my heart. It was strange: despite my infrequent contact with the mainland, there were moments where I, caught up in my mother’s sweet songs and the soothing aroma of soy sauce, felt that I had always been and belonged in China. As if while watching my mother make dumplings on a cold winter morning, the rest of my family was right there next to us. This semblance of nostalgia lingered on in the Chinese foods that my mother learned to master over the years, imbued in the cold dishes, desserts, and hotpots that our family frequently indulged in. Among those, one recipe of my mother’s that filled me with endless joy and comfort was her 糖醋排骨—sugar-vinegar ribs.

My mother’s recipe for this dish has been refined numerous times throughout my life. After I asked her for the recipe to write this article, she went back and made it all over again, recounting all her culinary expertise into an updated rendition of this dish that would be better than the last. As she explains, the trick to making a delicious 糖醋排骨 is the delicate balance of sugar, soy sauce, and vinegar. When you bite into the ribs, you should taste a colorful explosion of diverse flavors on your tongue: the sauce’s caramelized sugar laying a perfect backdrop for the blend of sour vinegar and nutty soy sauce. Every time she places a plate of her ribs before me, I am reminded of her tireless efforts in striving for perfection. If anything, it makes me love her signature dish more.

However, 糖醋排骨 has a special place in my heart not just for its flavor; the dish holds personal significance because of what it represents and what it has helped me realize. Like me, 糖醋排骨 was always a unique presence in the United States. When I used to bring the ribs to school for lunch, my classmates always glanced at me in disgust—they had never encountered food that was so potent and aromatic. When I was eating 糖醋排骨, I was treated like an alien. I had thought that, pressured by embarrassment and fear, my love for the dish and my unique heritage would never be strong enough to overpower my classmates’ petty prejudices.

Yet I soon discovered that this deviation from the norm only made 糖醋排骨 even more indispensable to me in my elementary school years, despite what everyone at school would think. My mother’s special recipe, the union of the marinated ribs with the ginger and scallions, and the dish’s inherent taste of home—all these qualities made me recognize that I was unique, but never alone. They empowered me to be proud of and embody my Chinese identity. Most of all, the dish made me realize that the opinions of my classmates meant nothing. They were and will never be  any representation of the worth or quality of my mother’s cooking. Regardless of circumstance and against all odds, I will always crave my mother’s 糖醋排骨.

Clean the ribs and pat them dry with a paper towel. Marinate the ribs with 1 tablespoon of soy sauce and 1 tablespoon of Shaoxing wine overnight, if possible. If not, marinate for as long as possible.

Heat 1 tablespoon of oil in a pan over medium heat and brown the ribs on all sides. Set aside to rest.

Heat another tablespoon of oil in a wok over medium heat, and cook the ginger and scallions until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Take them out of the wok and set them aside to rest. Add another tablespoon of oil, and with the wok on low heat, add the brown and white sugar. Stir and let it melt. Add the ribs and coat them with melted sugar. Turn off the heat.

Add the second tablespoon of Shaoxing wine, soy sauce, vinegar, water, and the cooked ginger and scallion. Turn up the heat and bring everything to a boil. Then cover and simmer on low heat for 30 minutes, stirring often to prevent sticking or burning. Continue cooking until the sauce is thickened and reaches a sticky consistency.

Flavors of Family: Tasting Heritage Through 糖醋排骨

Cozily tucked away on a street corner of East Cambridge is SUMIAO Hunan Kitchen—a restaurant specializing in its blend of unique contemporary tastes and authentic Chinese cuisine. Drawing its inspiration from the Hunan province, home to the country’s most fragrant style of spice (“香辣”), SUMIAO’s menu demonstrates the restaurant’s masterful creativity and dedication to preserving authenticity.

As multicolored plates piled up in front of us, we grew aware of the blend of familiar fragrances that waft into the open air: the faintly sweet smell of osmanthus, the salty crisp of fried egg-yolk corn kernels, tingling scent of cabbage doused in rich lard, and more. But this dining experience was more than just a nostalgia-fest. The restaurant uses a magnificent blend of traditional and contemporary tastes to find the perfect intersection between two otherwise contrasting culinary spheres—all while maintaining a reasonable medium high ($11-30 per dish) price range.

The first dish served was the restaurant’s signature Sumiao Hot Dry Noodles. It arrived lying in a wide blue porcelain bowl, layers of flat noodles neatly stacked atop one another, smothered in a thick sesame sauce glistening with a splash of Chinese chili oil. To finish it off, bursts of chopped chili peppers, spring onions, and minced garlic brighten up the decadent dish. Rich and nutty yet tingling with spice, the classic, fiery dish skillfully manipulates its varying ingredients to conjure multiple sensations within one sauce.

Another notable dish was Sumiao’s osmanthus rice cake. On a pristine, oval bowl lay six round cakes, coated in a shimmering glaze of brown sugar sauce topped with specks of osmanthus. Soft and sticky, the mellow sweetness of the sauce melts alongside the glutinous rice in your mouth. This plate shines in its comfort, providing a sense of nostalgic warmth that one and all can resonate with.

The dish that took us most by surprise were Suimiao’s scallion pancakes. On the surface, they were simple: sliced, crispy sheets of dough encased with the fragrance of scallion oil. Hot to the touch and flaky to a fault, each piece was a unique mosaic of golden charred skin and soft ridges. All of this constitutes a delicious, but nonetheless standard pancake. What drew our attention was a secret ingredient—the dish’s complementary sauce. Scallion pancakes are typically enjoyed plain, and are even more rarely eaten with sriracha mayonnaise. While the combination may seem unusual, the mayo really did wonders for the mayo the flavors of the pancake: the refreshing tangy and bready blend of sauce and dough paved the way for the cascading aftertastes of the scallion oil, allowing each bite to finish with the taste of a satisfying finale.

Each dish is a reminder of home in a subtly different way; they taste similar to the spoonfuls of rice cakes and stir-fry vegetables that we grew up with, but they also, importantly, know to bring the highlight of dining to the present. As a restaurant re-interpreting traditional Chinese food with modern twists, SUMIAO brilliantly demonstrates how to make their dishes memorable as their own experience—this restaurant undoubtedly scores a 4.5/5.

SUMIAO Hunan Kitchen 素描湘: Simplicity and Spice in a Heartwarming Taste of Home

When my mom was younger, banana cake had been a staple in her childhood; now, almost forty-five years later, it has become a defining element of mine. Passed down from generation to generation, banana cake has been an important culinary tradition that is tied to the roots of our family. In Dominica, the main export used to be bananas, so the banana population had always been plentiful where my mother grew up. Because of this abundance and accessibility, a large portion of Dominicans used it in many of their dishes: banana pudding, banana bread, banana fritters, banana porridge, green banana and fish; the list goes on. Consequently, many of my mom’s fond memories of home were inherently tied to the fruit. I remember my mom reminiscing over how on certain days, she and her family would go down to the Hampstead Estate to learn how to cut and pack bananas; sometimes, nostalgia even brought her back to memories of climbing up trees to get fruits like bananas, guavas, mangos, and coconuts—one of her favorite childhood pastimes. But like a capsule to the past, the culmination of all her youthful happiness could be compacted within the single bite of one of my favorite family dishes: the banana cake.

The dessert is sweet and soft, delicate but firm—it balances the pliable essence of the fruit with the springy texture of the baked delicacy. The dish is further complemented by the refreshing flavor of guava jam slathered between layers of cake. My grandmother would always make it for my mother and her siblings when they were young, and like a matrilineal right, my mother eventually began making it for me and my siblings too. My mother aimed to refine this dish to create the perfect banana cake that would suit the tastes of the whole family. Sometimes it would be too sweet for me, but perfect for my sister and brother. But regardless of the amount of effort and time she would have to put in, my mom would always start from the drawing board in hopes of creating a flawless banana cake that everyone would enjoy. I would say that while growing up, this banana cake was a sibling for me, one who evolved alongside me as time passed. This recipe is the product of many rounds of trial and error, the product of my family and my mom’s family that came before me. It is a flavor that is layered with warm banana, guava jam, and family history. That’s what makes it so lovely.

Cream the butter and sugar in a mixer until fluffy

Add the three eggs to the mixture and cream until well incorporated.

Peel the three ripe bananas and crush with a fork. Add the banana to the mixture and incorporate with a fork.

Add the essence, cinnamon and lemon peel to the mixture. Then mix in the baking soda and baking powder.

Pour all the flour and using a fork, gently FOLD the flour into the mixture. Do not over mix.

Pour mixture into a greaseproof baking pan (9 in). Bake for 30-40 minutes.

Take it out of the oven with care, and be sure to enjoy the food!

Flavors of Family: Grandma Gitto’s Banana Cake

Durian (Genus Durio)—a fruit whose infamously pungent yet treasured flesh hides away beneath a spiky exterior—stands as possibly the paragon of Southeast Asia’s tropical produce. To the countless residents of Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, Indonesia, Vietnam, and the many nearby island regions of sticky heat and relentless sunshine, it is the long-standing king of fruits with a complicated reception. A pillar of Southeast Asian cuisine that is believed to have originated from either Borneo Island or Malaya, durian can be found (and smelled) in virtually any context. While large mounds of soft durian meat are sold daily in hawker stall plastic boxes for a simple, casual treat, the fruit also graces porcelain plates in the form of delicious filling for pricey pastries. With that said, durian proves itself worthy of its title through more than just being versatile; the fruit not only a foundational ingredient of local cuisines, but also an embodiment of the complex flavors and history that conjoins Southeast Asian cultures.

To honestly try and provide an streamlined

description of durian’s flavor is akin to asking a reader to offer up the “right” interpretation of any Shakespeare play—through the branching of countless breeds and the palettes of countless tasters, each person has their own understanding of the fruit’s unique profile. Despite this, there are still a few flavors that seem to compromise the universal durian-eating experience that people use as metrics to assess the taste of any given sample of the fruit; they usually consist of sweetness and bitterness, and occasionally, acidity.

Durian’s velvety custard—containing the fruit’s defining tang—melts easily on the tongue, embodying a surprisingly pliable texture for produce with such a formidable reputation. All of that golden treasure is enveloped by a thin membrane; in turn, this expanse of vaguely cocoon-shaped flesh also fits snugly into the compartments of its spiky shell. In total, the durian fruit can reach up to 30 centimeters (12 inches) tall and 15 centimeters (6 inches) in diameter. Depending on the variety, the color of durian meat may also vary, ranging anywhere from a pastel yellow to a vibrant vermillion. But for people pursuing high quality durians, the consensus is to usually aim for the fruits that exhibit a well-saturated flesh.

While the durian certainly has a…dynamic shape and taste, the same can be said for its nutritional value. As the king of the fruits, its contents don’t exactly disappoint in their consumption benefits. Rich in calories, fiber content, vitamins, and antitoxins, the durian fruit can and has been served as an entire meal. On the more technical side, these attributes of the durian can aid in reducing cholesterol levels and blood sugar, protecting the body from a myriad of common disorders.

Though perfect when served alone, durian’s distinctive taste is also used to enhance an assortment of dishes. Southeast Asia’s love for durian reaches far beyond conceivable boundaries; one trip around the region can introduce you to delicacies such as durian chocolate, durian mochi, durian ice cream—the list goes on. It’s not uncommon for people to experiment with novel flavors and ingredients from their environment. They pick up food habits, discover their value, and eventually bring that quirk or ingredient along as they migrate or allow it to pass through trade routes into new lands. Thus begins the process of culinary evolution—as such a staple of Southeast Asian tropical produce, it’s no wonder that the durian had enchanted the region’s ancestors even in the prehistoric times.

Yet this love is not shared by everyone. Globally, the durian may be well-known, but it is not always well-respected. One 19th century written record of the durian—penned by American historian Henry Adams—even reads as such: “The durian is, in my opinion, a fraud. I can see nothing to recommend it. Walnuts and very bad cheese, in a soft paste, with a horse-chestnut inside, would be as good.” Whether it be rooted in some kind of systemic distaste towards Southeast Asian culture or plainly rude dislike, the durian in modern times suffers from no less attack from people all around the world.

It is with hope that this article will encourage its readers to question and dismantle some of the prejudice they may have associated with durian, and be open to the fruit not only as an ingredient, but as a medium of cultural exploration. Perhaps you will never accommodate the taste of durian. But we ask you to at least appreciate the history behind the fruit and the value that others have instilled within it.


https://www.healthline.com/nutrition/durian-fruit#downsides

https://www.sciencedirect.com/topics/agricultural-and-biological-sciences/durio

https://saigoneer.com/saigon-food-culture/13379-a-tale-of-two-fruits-the-colonial-history-of-durian-and-mangosteen

Reflections on Durian: Exploring the Reign of The Fruit King

The “Golden Root” has taken on many different names over the course of its existence: “haldi,” “yellow root,” and “turmeric,” its most well-known moniker. Its varying nomenclature is a product of its historic travel from South India to Africa, China, Europe, and the Americas. During the Middle Ages, trade routes opened up between Asia, Europe, and the Middle East, allowing for an exchange of a multitude of commodities and cultural elements. Beginning in the early seventh century, turmeric was being transported eastward, to China and other civilizations in India. By the eighteenth century, the root began to move westward, being traded across the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea to Yemen and Africa (Sortun).

However, the spice trade was not the only movement responsible for the international presence of spice that we see today: namely, immigration also played its part. In the early nineteenth century, shortly after the Slavery Abolition Act was passed by the British Empire, an influx of Indian laborers were sent by the Indian government to replace the loss of free labor on the plantations of North America (Chowdhury). In the process, they also brought parts of their heritage and culinary culture with them. This immigration is also believed to be a leading cause in the spreading of turmeric to the part of the world that my parents call home: the Caribbean.

As a born and raised Dominican, my mother was never hesitant to share her love for the spice with me, its orange color and rich flavor present in every seasoning she makes. Turmeric is the primary ingredient in chicken and goat curry, two common dishes in the Caribbean islands of Guyana, Trinidad, and Jamaica (Chowdhury). Relocating to my mother’s homeland of Dominica, it is also often used as a way to season one’s rice. Paired with carrots and peppers, this turmeric rice is the perfect side dish to a larger meal. Alone, turmeric powder itself is quite bitter, but when paired with different meats, its flavor profile transforms into a warm taste that is neither sweet nor spicy, but earthy. Throughout my life, I’ve begun to notice that many do not share my family’s love; the spice’s prominent orange residue and pungent smell was — and still is — enough for others to call the people who eat it derogatory names, to shun the spice itself without a second thought.

However, beneath its strong scent and vibrant, finger-staining orange, is a spice that is also prevalent in the medicinal and culinary world of many minority communities. In various traditional medicine practices, turmeric is believed to “strengthen the overall energy of the body, improve digestion, and relieve arthritis.” It is also known for its antibacterial properties, more specifically used as “an antiseptic for cuts, burns, and bruises” (Prasad and Aggarwal). I can’t remember the last time my mother didn’t attempt to use turmeric to prevent me from getting sick when she saw me cough or if someone was caught sneezing in my general direction. As soon as she had the chance, she would boil onion skin, an orange peel, garlic, clove, and a spoonful of turmeric root and make me inhale the fumes from the boiling pot for at least ten minutes.

This will cure any sickness that comes your way,

 she would say. And I believed her — still do, to this day.

It is not barbaric to enjoy the full extent of what turmeric offers. It is not backward to dig in, eat curry with your hands, and let the turmeric bless your fingers with its color and your mouth with its flavor. It is a beautiful spice that has adapted with people and cultures, traversing across the globe and taking root in the heritage of many families, including mine. Truthfully, I am proud to call it the spice of my life.

Turmeric, the golden spice - herbal medicine - NCBI bookshelf

. Retrieved October 30, 2022, from https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK92752/

 ArcGIS StoryMaps. Retrieved October 30, 2022, from https://storymaps.arcgis.com/stories/75cbc654ed164b8ab3dfbe2fda5fbb3a

Sortun, Ana. Spice: Flavors of the Eastern Mediterranean. New York: Regan Books, 2006.

Turmeric: The Spice of my Heritage — The Caribbean

Coconut, pineapple, papaya, and cinnamon are the harmonious flavors of my household. Whether from a cousin’s Mason Jar or our own Vitamix blender, they are always a delight. But, beyond the flavors of the smoothie, I cherish more the person behind it.

Growing up five years apart from my older sister, it is not an understatement to say that we have had our fair share of disputes, and usually over trivial occurrences as well. However, those petty instances escalate so much that sometimes I wished I didn’t have a sister at all.

In spite of all that, when I hear the words, “Leilani, I just made my special fruit smoothie. Try it. I know you will love it,” it seems like all of our differences fade away. Regardless of whether I was in the mood for the heaviness of coconut cream or the tang of cinnamon, my sister took the time and effort to create something that she was proud of, just for me. Filling a glass, she would carefully wipe the rims as if she was serving her creation to an esteemed judge, and watch with a smile as I sipped her masterpiece. I will forever be in the mood for her creamy special fruit smoothie.

The coconut cream provides a distinctive nutty flavor akin to an almond alongside a candied touch of sweetness. Not only is this a flavor that can be used to brighten up savory dishes, but it can also be used in baked goods and smoothies such as this one. Coconut cream’s versatility is astounding, the way it never fails to deliver a new taste and texture with every use, leaving you forever craving more. My sister’s versatility is astounding, the way she is always open to my point of view, the way she always supports me no matter what she may be feeling that day. Yet, unlike the coconut cream, she never sugarcoats her advice to me just because I am younger. Instead, her words are more similar to the zesty, lip-puckering kick the pineapple juice gives to the smoothie. Crowning each sip of decadent coconut and vibrant pineapple is a hint of cinnamon and the rich buttery texture of papaya. The sweetness of the spice and the comfort of the fruit compliments the steps my sister took to create a smoothie filled with all of the ingredients of my family’s love.

To the cup she poured me, I didn’t need to say anything. I just kept drinking, savoring every sip as it touched my tongue and trickled down my esophagus until there was nothing left. 

You choose the quantities and the order! I leave it in your hands.

Fruit Smoothie ft. Cinnamon: Spices of Sisterly Love

Everytime my mom made this dish, all three children would come running to the dinner table, enticed by the fiery steaming vegetables smothered in bubbling marshmallows. With pumpkins being incredibly cheap and obtainable this time of year –– either by merit of having leftovers from our carving or them being on discount in stores post-Halloween –– making this dish was incredibly easy. Coming from a family who would often get home-cooked meals, when I now reflect upon the past, some part of me regrets taking my mom’s home-cooked meals for granted. After flipping through pages of menus, or visiting countless restaurants, I have realized that those years of eating a pumpkin and sweet potato casserole were truly precious.

Throughout the years, my mom had gained experience when making this dish. I remember the first few times she made the casserole the marshmallows were practically charcoaled. Now though, I notice my mom carefully watching the marshmallows while she cooks them. This way, the marshmallows have a crispy outside yet soft and sweet inside. This dish combines the perfect amount of crispiness and softness, as the marshmallows balance out the sweet potatoes and pumpkins well.

In addition to a great Halloween treat, the casserole is delicious when eaten with turkey at the Thanksgiving table. The sweet dish adds not only more color to your plate, but also more flavor.

*As the writer’s mother does not use one specific recipe and takes inspiration from those online, the instructions here is sourced from https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/13478/sweet-potato-casserole-ii/

5 sweet potatoes, peeled and sliced (this base can be replaced with either a 1:1 ratio of pumpkin to sweet potato or entirely pumpkin –– all in the same amounts)

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit (175 degrees Celsius).

Place the pumpkins and sweet potatoes in a saucepan with water that is enough to cover the potatoes. Bring to a boil and cook until tender (around 15 minutes). Remove from the heat, drain, and mash.

Place mashed mixture in a large bowl. Add brown sugar, margarine, orange juice, and cinnamon; mix with an electric mixer until blended.

Bake in the preheated oven until casserole is heated through and marshmallows are puffed and golden brown (25-30 minutes)

A Sweet Halloween – Experiencing Nostalgia Through Pumpkin and Sweet Potato Casserole 

I find it quite remarkable that the most mundane things can somehow stimulate the most treasured memories. It could be the honk of your grandfather’s 2005 Honda Element, the stars sparkling after a seemingly eternal fog clears, or in my case, the amplification of senses brought forth by my Mamaw's baked goods. Even living 18 hours away from where our shared love of food first flourished, I can still hear the beep of her oven and smell the buttery aromas. To me, this recipe embodies a part of that kitchen and my home –– whether it’d be the way my childish hands would grow sticky after ignoring to use the proper utensils, or the humble, yet delicious presentation that makes me taste love baked into every step.

Though circumstances have not allowed her to witness my journey at Andover, I am sure my Mamaw would have loved to read this tribute. After all, she always found her own joy upon the happiness of others. People may leave us, but their impact has a permanent stain, shaping the stories we tell and the ones we live. My Mamaw's highly acclaimed spice cake with caramel frosting is a story of my family’s fall. And just as how the falling of individual leaves is a sign that brings about my personal favorite season, what may appear as a mere collection of ingredients, ratios, and directions within this recipe instead captures a snapshot of generational connections.

Duncan Hines Spice Cake Mix (my Mamaw would argue with absolutely anyone that box cake mix was just as good, if not better, than combining the dry mix yourself). She often didn’t have the means to purchase each organic ingredient separately, so box mix was the ultimate alternative. Her secret, however, is to substitute water with milk to garner the moist, rich consistency desired.

Bake cake as instructed by the package label and let cool while making frosting.

Add brown sugar and boil over low heat for 2 minutes stirring continuously.

Let cool enough to work easily with sugar.

Stir milk into the mixture and heat until boiling. Remove from heat.

Add confectioners' sugar in small amounts, beating well after each addition. Add sugar until the desired consistency is reached.

(NOTE: The frosting is difficult to work with and sets quickly. We find that pouring the frosting directly over the cake works best. Spread it evenly immediately.)

The Spice of Life: Generational Connections + Spice Cake with Caramel Frosting 

Lined up next to the multitude of shops and cafés that form the two bustling sides of Newbury Street, Levain Bakery isn’t exactly hidden. Whether you recognize it by the distinctive smell of its signature bake or the crowd of people waiting outside for a taste, it’s the kind of store that immediately catches your eye.

Known for its origins in New York City, Levain Bakery’s cookies are famous for their uniquely larger portions and irresistibly chewy texture. It’s no surprise, then, that the branch of the famous delicacy shop in downtown Boston lives up to the reputation that precedes it. The cozy store located on Newbury Street captures a warmth and crispness in its cookies and aesthetic that is almost too fitting for the Fall Season. In its doughy charm and cozy appeal, Levain is a must-visit for all cookie lovers.

Levain’s selection offers a wide range of tastes — some available year-round, some specific to the season — but as a first-time visitor, I gravitated to the classics. I specifically chose the Dark Chocolate Chip Cookie, priced at a little under six dollars, for my love of the bittersweet fragrance of cocoa.

It wouldn’t be an understatement to say that Levain is all about perfection, even in the details — their choice of delicate, clean packaging left a first impression of professionalism and thoughtfulness. The cookie came in a neat paper bag with a cute sticker attached to it, and the staff had also taken care to wrap my chosen baked good with baking paper for eating convenience. Right away, I also noticed that the cookie itself was as large as advertised, reaching almost about the size of a fist — and the first bite was simply phenomenal. The satisfying crunch of an exterior baked to perfection quickly gave way to the soft crumble and pooling chocolate of the cookie’s interior. Truly the best of both worlds. Frankly, the cookie's richness might have done better paired with a good drink, but I didn’t have the foresight to purchase one alongside it at the time. (A future revisit might prove this hypothesis, though.)

But Levain’s highlights didn’t stop with the food itself — the store’s decor is also not to be overlooked. Upon a first glance at the shop interior, customers are first greeted with a beautifully simplistic mural of downtown Boston, colored by vibrant blue (the store’s signature color) and a complementary beige. Directly to the right is a view of the kitchen, where visitors gaze at the racks of cookies and other delicacies ready for baking. Despite the abundance of blue streaking across the walls, the store is surprisingly warm — you feel it in the smell of fresh pastries, the friendliness of the staff, and in your first bite of whatever good you choose to buy.

To me, Levain is also, more than anything, a seasonal recommendation. While cookies are the kind of snack to be enjoyed regardless of the time of year, Levain’s delicacies specifically embody the spirit of fall: a crunch and crisp like that of browning leaves and chilly autumn winds, and a soft warmth that feels like cozy knitwear or sunshine on a cold, overcast day. The specificity of the season is really just for establishing the proper atmosphere — sometimes, these small details really help make the holistic experience that much better.

Though Levain might range on the more expensive side for a cookie, their delicacies are definitely worth every cent and calorie. Combined with the bakery’s comfortably cohesive aesthetic and the store’s fulfillment of my desire to romanticize the autumn, Levain easily scores 5/5 stars. Take it from a harsh-ish critic — this bakery is as good as it gets.

Downtown Boston’s Levain Bakery: Autumn’s Crisp Crunch and Tender Warmth In Every Bite 

Scramble eggs and mix in the flour and water; make sure the flour is fully dissolved and the final batter should be fairly watery

Mix in chopped scallions, salt, sugar and Shanghainese rice wine

Add ½ teaspoon of oil to frying pan and heat up over medium heat

When the oil is hot, add 2-3 tablespoons of batter to the frying pan while twirling the pan; the batter should be thinly spread across the cooking surface in a layer about 1-2 millimeters thick

Carefully flip over after about 1 minute (or when the pancake solidifies, and the cooked side is crispy and golden yellow)

If the pancake is burning too quickly, then slightly turn down the heat

Repeat steps #1-9 to cook another pancake

Twice a year, I would travel to Denver to see my grandparents on my father's side, both of whom were originally from China. Every time I saw them, my grandpa would make 蔥蛋翠軟薄餅 (egg scallion pancakes) for the whole family, making sure everyone got at least three pancakes before they left the table. Since this dish comes from my ancestors in Ningbo –– a small city in China –– despite never going there, every time I eat 蔥蛋翠軟薄餅, I feel connected to my ancestry and culture.

While the dish may at first look like a typical scrambled egg, the taste and texture of it are completely different. While a scrambled egg is soft, 蔥蛋翠軟薄餅 is crunchy on the outsides and soft on the inside. The scallions give the dish a sharp aromatic flavor of onions but are slightly milder. This is what made Sunday mornings with my grandparents so special — being able to smell the warm fragrance of a 蔥蛋翠軟薄餅 currently cooking. Additionally, the few drops of rice wine give the dish a mixed aroma and taste. Having a slightly vinegary and complex flavor, rice wine is a very common ingredient in Chinese cooking.

When I asked my grandpa for the recipe, he was ecstatic that I was interested in the dish and wanted to share it with others.

Even now, my grandpa still makes this dish for us, and he has passed it down through generations. What was once the recipe of my grandpa, was bestowed upon my father, and is now entrusted to my siblings and me. Although we may not be able to perfect it the same way our grandpa does, my siblings and I always carefully observe how he makes his pancakes, so that one day, we can make them for our children too. 蔥蛋翠軟薄餅 has become a dish for everyone in the family to make for one another on special days.

A Dish Passed Down by Generations - Egg Scallion Pancake （蔥蛋翠軟薄餅） 

I’m sure the following scenario sounds familiar to you: it’s 9:30 p.m. on a weekday and you’re getting ready for a study session that will last into the wee hours of the night. After half an hour of work (20 minutes of which were spent on TikTok), an earthshaking growl erupts from your stomach. Despite eating dinner three hours ago, you feel a uniquely ravenous hunger that prompts you to find the closest source of nutrition.

“I deserve a break anyway,” you tell yourself — you really don’t.

Scavenging your room for food, you come up with nothing but an empty box of Shin ramen.

“Fine,” you sigh. “I’ll see what UberEats has to offer me.”

Yet, woe is you — the deadly combination of an exorbitant delivery fee and a one-hour wait time slashes your dietary dreams once again! You shed a single tear as you are left hopeless, heartbroken, and hungry. Dejectedly picking up your pen, you are once again resigned to a night of all work, no reward.

But what if I told you it didn’t have to be this way? What if I told you there was a way to ensure you were never without good food? That, you too, could take the red pill and ascend? What if, instead of looking to outside sources for food, you took matters into your own hands?

“Haha, good one,” the skeptical reader might scoff. “We poor boarding students don’t have access to any conventional cooking appliances except for microwaves. How would we make our own meals, much less make them taste good?”

Many of your peers have been grappling with the same intense questions, and a few of them have cheap dishes to share with you that, despite being cooked in a microwave, are worthy of (at least a few) Michelin stars. This term, we invited Bertha Bailey’s Jonathan Jin ’24 to share his special signature: Microwave Spam Sushi.

“I like it because of its simplicity. It’s super easy to make…[and] it’s a bit on the fattier side, but I think the heavy flavors only enhance the flavor experience. It’s also a bit reminiscent of hotpot since I always eat hotpot with rice and spam. Overall, both the creation and the dish and its rich flavors make it one of my favorite microwave meals,” said Jin.

Without further ado, happy eating, everyone — we’ll see you next term.

Cut a block of spam into pieces based on how large you want your sushi.

Microwave spam on a plate (with cooking oil for extra crispiness)

Make your instant rice (with varying amounts of water based on how sticky you want it: the more water, the stickier)

Cut squares out of the instant rice that are the same size as your spam pieces.

There you have it — some deliciously cheap sushi.

Put butter and marshmallows in a microwave-safe container.

Microwave the container until melted, but remove the container every 30 seconds to stir.

Add cereal to your sticky marshmallow cream and mix until well combined.

Move your Rice Krispie mixture to a different container and wait for it to cool.

Microwave Michelin: Spam Sushi

Dumpling-making — to me, it is a family tradition, a labor of love, and a symbol of communion. Every Chinese New Year, my family carves out at least half a day to cook dumplings from scratch together. I still remember the days of my 爷爷 [yé yé, meaning grandpa] teaching me to wrap a dumpling, his papery fingers folding over my flour-stained hands in gentle instruction. It is a careful, thorough practice that, for any attempt at perfection, requires attention to detail in making every ingredient and step.

In my family, dumplings — otherwise known as 水餃 [shui jiao]— are always boiled, but there is immense diversity within the dumpling realm; in this article, I aim to share those tips and tricks for dumpling-making that I was taught, that my family learned from experience.

Although store-bought dumpling dough is wonderfully convenient, the best dumpling wrappers are handmade. The premade ones tend to lack elasticity, which in turn causes the cooked dumpling to lose its supple and springy exterior. Starting from scratch gives you the most control over the ingredients in the dough while allowing you to achieve the best texture — or “

There are two key components to making good wrappings for dumplings: preparing and properly shaping the dough.

Mix cold water and flour, then use the palm of your hand to apply pressure to the dough, kneading repeatedly. This will help create bounciness and elasticity in your dough. Cover the dough with a damp cloth to prevent moisture loss and hardening, and let it rest for around half an hour.

Roll the dough into a torus (essentially, a donut or loop) of about 2-3 centimeters in diameter, then break the shape into a cylinder and cut it into pieces that are around 2-3 cm in width. For large batches, divide the dough into multiple parts as needed, but remember to keep the dough covered while not in use.

Shape each piece of dough into a ball and flatten it slightly with your hand. Once all of your individual wrappers have achieved this “mini-pancake” state, begin to roll out each piece with a rolling pin, running it over the edges of the dough. Beware of flattening the center of the wrapper too much; ideally, they should be thicker in the middle and grow thinner towards the rim to prevent breakage during the wrapping and cooking process. With each push of the rolling pin, rotate the dough slightly in one direction. The wrapper will naturally assume a round shape and become thinner along the outside. Your ideal wrapping should be around 0.25 cm in thickness at the edges.

Dumplings are typically stuffed with a combination of meat and one or more types of vegetables, though tofu is one vegetarian variation. My personal favorite filling is pork with Chinese chives (韭菜).

The meat should be both fatty and lean for the filling to be juicy and soft. My family usually uses pork belly. For that perfect, tender deliciousness, it is best to mince the meat by hand. Machine mixing will often break the connective tissues in the meat, resulting in a gloppy texture.

The filling must be fresh, but not too watery — too much moisture can rupture the dough and cause leakage. Before adding your chopped vegetables, keep in mind that vegetables have higher water content. Wrap them in a paper towel and try to squeeze as much moisture out as possible. Mix the filling well so the vegetables are distributed evenly throughout.

Usual suspects are soy sauce, salt, and some type of oil. This step varies with personal taste; as a staunch believer that sesame oil makes everything better, I always add it for a kick of flavor.

The way I have been taught to wrap dumplings does not involve intricate folds or braids — though those could be added afterward — it does the job of sealing the dumpling. First, cup your hand slightly and place the wrapper in the center of your hand. (Be careful not to crush the center.) Horizontally fold and gently squeeze together the two ends of the wrapper that are directly facing each other with the sides of your fingers, the center cupped between your palms. This tightens the wrapper around and centralizes the filling. Make sure that all the edges of the dumpling are sealed. Wrapping tightly leaves no space for water to creep in, retaining the taste and fragrance of the filling while elevating texture. Pretty patterns would definitely enhance visual representation and grant you bragging rights, but it is much more important to make sure the dumplings will stay shut when being boiled. Once wrapped, place the dumplings onto a floured tray, spacing them apart to avoid sticking.

To boil dumplings, fill a large pot with water and wait for it to reach a boil before adding the dumplings. They typically take 12-15 minutes to cook. Throughout this time, add cold water 3-4 times so that the water boils repeatedly.

Stir the pot intermittently, ideally with chopsticks — their length and blunt ends help jostle around the dumplings enough that they do not stick together. Make sure your utensil is touching the bottom of the pot at all times when stirring, otherwise you could accidentally poke a hole in a dumpling. If dumplings break while boiling, much of the taste will be lost as water dilutes the flavor, so it is vital that your dumplings stay intact.

Once finished, load the dumplings onto a plate and serve with vinegar. Make sure to eat while hot; I’ve burned my tongue too many times from eating dumplings fresh out of the pot, and I can’t say I regretted any of them.

In the whirlwind of our daily lives, it may be tempting to turn to takeout; after all, it is only one click away. But if you ever find yourself with time on your hands and a group of people whose companionship you enjoy, dumpling-making would serve as a fun and delicious pastime.

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