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Tag: PostMagazine

  • fall traditions [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    miami fall

    by Klara Davidson-Schmich

    For anyone who grew up outside of some key parts of the northern hemisphere with deciduous trees, fall is more of a concept than a reality. In Miami, the temperature will start to dip into the 70s, but the leaves stay resolutely green, and there are no pumpkins or apples to be picked. Still, the phenomenon of fall as leaf cut-outs of construction paper and gourds around the house is everywhere. There are pictures of my brother and I carving pumpkins by the side of our pool in short sleeves, palm trees in the background—though the environmental signifiers of autumn are missing, our adherence to tradition is strict. Pumpkins bought at Publix instead of picked from a pumpkin patch, Thanksgiving on the back porch in 80° weather. In some ways, it’s strange to have the specter of New England autumn defining your own subtropical one. You grow up buying into visions of changing leaves that you’ve never seen and hoping for snow you know will never fall. In another way though, when the days are all the same and little delineates  October from November, it’s nice to rely on another marker for the changing days. To wait not for the leaves to turn, but for the next excuse to celebrate. To have a fall based not on the slow descent into winter, but only on tradition.

    trick or treat

    by Tabitha Lynn

    In my family, Halloween is no small affair. October in elementary and middle school was a spectacle: a whirlwind of brainstorming, designing, and building all leading up to the 31st. The first sign of a crisp breeze in the air seemed to cue the beginning of my favorite holiday. When October rolled around in third grade, I was obsessed with Harry Potter. But for Halloween, I didn’t dream of dressing up as Cho Chang, Hermione, or even Dobby. I wanted to be the book. So we did just that: constructing a foam book and leaving just enough space for four little arms and legs to stick through the sides. Stroke by stroke, my dad recreated the Sorcerer’s Stone cover with acrylic paint. Tinges of gold for the title, specks of white to show the reflection in Harry’s glasses, a thin black line for his scar. 

    Harry Potter was only the beginning. Each Halloween until the end of middle school was the same: a month spent planning a costume I would wear for only one day. On Halloween night, I would shuffle around in a costume not meant for walking, the details of the art lit up by porch lights and flashlights from trick-or-treaters. Parents would open up their doors, greeted by a massive piece of foam or cardboard or tubing with a head peeking out the top. 

    This past weekend, I celebrated Halloween a little differently, donning last-minute costumes scavenged from my friends’ closets. Still, the spirit of the holiday remains: scouring the internet for the perfect costume, the biting chill on Halloween night, and making new traditions with the people I love. 

    we have fall at home

    by Kathy Gonzalez

     

    The scent of pumpkin cupcakes fills the room. Heavy clouds obscure the late afternoon sky and raindrops lash against my window in rhythmic patterns. I put on my fuzzy slippers and make myself a coffee. I make space for my cat in bed and face the most challenging decision of my day yet: Gilmore Girls or American Horror Story? I pride myself on my media selection, my knack for curating a cozy ambiance, and most importantly, my ability to overlook the fact that it’s 85º outside and leaves are only falling because it’s hurricane season.

    For most of my life, I have had a parasocial relationship with fall. Before coming to college, fall was a distant dream—a season I would see in movies, read about in books, and experience only on vacations to Boston or New York City. The only things Miami could offer me were endless humidity and sun-drenched heat that pressed against me, holding me too close, refusing to let me breathe. To reconcile this incompatibility, it became a tradition of mine to simulate fall at home. Flannel-scented hand sanitizer, pumpkin spice lattes, wool cardigans—I had it all. It felt as though every cinnamon-scented candle I lit, every scary movie I watched, and every maple leaf garland I hung up would bring me that much closer to the real thing. One day. Soon enough.

    As my fourth official fall gradually transforms into winter, I am happy to admit that I am just as, if not more, entranced by fall and its magic. Everything I longed for—the feeling of bundling up, of the crisp air nipping at my cheeks, of crunching leaves with every step—has materialized, and I can’t help but be overcome with wonder and gratitude. I hold my tradition of simulating fall near and dear to my heart, as it gives way to new traditions shaped by the experience of true autumn. With my dreams and reality as one, I wander around these cobblestone streets just a little slower, holding on just a little longer to the fleeting warmth of the season and a new sense of possibility. 

    the great maffa-cheng-mooncai bake-off

    by Joe Maffa

    Once the horror movies have stopped dropping, the tricks have burrowed themselves back into storage, and all of the children in the neighborhood have returned home with their plastic pumpkins full of treats, our family goes into overdrive: T-minus four weeks until bake-off.

    Every Thanksgiving, a day which, before this new tradition even started, I already treated as a competitive eating competition of sorts, my family runs a high-stakes bake-off. Our spin on your favorite British baking competition—sans the accents and cringe-worthy ironic hosts (though the comparison has definitely been made between my uncle and Noel Fielding)—is just the single showstopper round. Previous competitions have facilitated our foray into the deep cooking unknown: how to get the perfect “feet” on a macaron, finding the delicate balance between a crunchy and doughy bagel, the nebulous definition of what exactly constitutes ravioli. I would be lying if I said we kept it civil.

    My mother is the top dog—the one my aunts and uncles and cousins and, in recent years, my brother and myself, are always gunning for. She’s a perfectionist, putting weeks of testing and experimentation into that finished product she brings to the judging table, or, our Thanksgiving dinner table, complete with the turkey, candied yams, green beans, and all of the regular fixings. 

    But what goes unnoticed in the heat of the competition are the weeks of delicious taste-testing that I contribute to her eventual win. Believe me when I say, it is my pleasure to be a part of such a noble cause. 

    Halloween has passed, and to that I say: On your marks, get set, bake!

    rotten to the core

    by Elijah Puente

    Every year, the arrival of fall revives long-standing debates in my hometown: pumpkin or apple donuts, cherry or regular apple cider? People may never agree on these questions, but it’s universally accepted that County Line Orchard is the spot to be during fall in Northwest Indiana. My mouth waters, eagerly awaiting the opening day of this iconic apple orchard for all the goodies it offers and the memories it holds. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve seen their beehives on an elementary school field trip or left covered in the smell of smoke after a bonfire in their rentable pits. Everyone knows about this place. The donuts are always fresh, because of the constant line to get them. However, it seems they started using a cheaper dough as the hoards of people discovered this once-hidden gem. The fudge has started to taste fake. People are constantly mad that they turn the busy road into a one-way due to the severe traffic. What was once a strong source of joy has become a nuisance to the surrounding community. My family still fights the crowds to get our hands on pumpkin donuts and cherry cider (the correct answer to the debate), but our stamina is only enough for one scarce visit each season.

    Katheryne Gonzalez

    Katheryne Gonzalez is the Narrative managing editor for post- Magazine. She is a junior from Miami, FL studying Cell & Molecular Biology on the premed track. In her free time, she enjoys reading, crosswords, and making playlists.

    Tabitha Lynn

    Tabitha Lynn is the Lifestyle managing editor for post- Magazine. She is a junior from Maryland studying Computer Science and IAPA.

    Klara Davidson Schmich

    Klara Davidson-Schmich is the Feature managing editor for post- Magazine. She is a junior from Miami studying Economics and Urban Studies.

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  • trick or treat [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    A few months ago, I read The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the book, Green portrays the modern human experience through small anecdotes from his own life. Each chapter is centered around a seemingly mundane topic and conveys a specific message that connects unlikely subjects and themes. At the end of each chapter, he gives the topic a rating out of five. 

    In the spirit of fall and Halloween, I thought I would add a twist to this concept and write my own adaptation. Instead of a five-point scale, my ratings will be given out as a percentage of “trick” or “treat.” For example, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I would give the series 1 percent trick and 99 percent treat. The series is wonderfully orchestrated, save for an unforgiving and unexpected death in the fifth book. There aren’t many foods that I dislike, but I have a bone to pick with mayonnaise. I would almost never add it to a BLT of my own volition, but I suppose it’s more tolerable when combined with other ingredients—say, to make spicy mayo for sushi. I would give mayonnaise 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat. 

    In short, “trick” is a measure of how deceiving a topic might be and “treat” is an indicator of how much pleasure I take in the topic. Here is my attempt to review the Anthropocene in Fall 2024.

     

    Harvest Salad: Food is an expression of love. The meticulous preparation and presentation, the careful experimentation to perfect every flavor—it all tells a story. 

    My hyperfixation meal this fall has been a harvest salad. Well, maybe not a hyperfixation, because my meal prepping has fallen off since the start of the semester, but there was a week in mid-September when all I ate for lunch and dinner was my harvest salad. I drew inspiration from sweetgreen’s Autumn Harvest Bowl, which has blackened chicken, maple glazed brussel sprouts, roasted sweet potatoes, apples, goat cheese, roasted almonds, wild rice, shredded kale, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’ll credit sweetgreen for the idea, but their prices are beyond unjustifiable. Now, I’m not claiming to have recreated the exact recipe. I’m a college student with a meager pantry and limited time, so I made my own concoction, substituting some ingredients at my convenience—feta for goat cheese, quinoa for wild rice, and others that don’t necessarily have a direct correlation to the original. No almonds because I’m allergic. Chickpeas and corn, just because I felt like it. Each component plays a pivotal role in the salad, bringing a unique element of warmth, crunchiness, or acidity. Tossed together, they create a harmonious synergy. 

    Perhaps it’s the ingredients in the harvest salad that resemble the coziness of fall—kale, apples, sweet potatoes. Something in it reminds me of the comfort I feel at Brown. Everything and everyone feels familiar. When I read a text from my friends, I can hear it in their exact tone and voice. When I ask a spontaneous question, I know their answer before they get the chance to speak. There are memories in every corner of this campus, shared with the people that make this place so special to me. As the biting wind brushes across my cheeks and I hear the crunch underneath my feet, I recall tender moments of embrace, raucous bursts of laughter, peaceful notes of home. 

    I give a homemade harvest salad 5 percent trick and 95 percent treat. If it’s ordered from sweetgreen, then 95 percent trick and 5 percent treat. 

    Tunnel Construction: I live right next to the tunnel on Thayer Street. Probably six out of seven mornings, without fail, I am woken up by the drilling of jackhammers and the pounding of metallic equipment. I try to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise (it will force me to wake up early and be productive). Yet at 7 a.m., as I am rudely awoken by the cacophony of the construction, I am never as optimistic as I think I will be. 

    Sleep experts say that waking up naturally, with a faint and soothing alarm, or even with no alarm at all, has proven to be better for our health and well-being. We wake up feeling more positive, alert, and focused. I can attest to that theory. During the summer, the sun rose earlier. Illuminating the curtains and sheers of my bedroom, its warmth and soft brightness would wake me gently. Those were the days when I rarely relied on caffeine to keep me energized. However, I suppose the tunnel construction is not entirely to blame. I could go to bed earlier at night and still get sufficient sleep. Ideally, that’s what every college student should be doing, regardless of whether or not they hear screechy drilling in the morning. But realistically, we’re either too stressed doing work or letting time slip away with endless yapping and scrolling. If nothing else, I can be grateful that the construction at least gives me consistency. Jolted awake, I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, and make my daily coffee. 

    I give the tunnel construction 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat.

    Softball: For 10 years, from ages 8 to 18, I had a routine softball game every Saturday. When I had sleepovers on Friday nights, early the next morning I tip-toed around the sleeping bags of dormant girls on the floor and quickly changed into my uniform in the bathroom, texting my teammates: “Is it cold enough to wear the long sleeve Under Armour?” “Should I wear my heart guard over or under?” My mom would wait for me in the car outside with my bat bag prepared in the trunk. As she pulled out of the driveway, I would shoot my friends a text that they wouldn’t see until three hours later: “Just left for softball.”

    Softball is typically a spring sport. In the fall, it’s called fall ball. My parents had tried to convince me to venture into other sports during the off-season—soccer, basketball, swimming—but I insisted on only doing fall ball. In Little League, we played away games which were typically a 20-40 minute car ride. If we were ahead of schedule, my mom would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up munchkins for me and my teammates. From the second the box was placed down on the bench, little girls became indistinguishable from large felines, pouncing on the glazed and chocolate ones. After the stampede, the stragglers would indifferently select from the old fashioned and jelly left at the bottom. Dunkin’ Donuts, David sunflower seeds, and Big League Chew gum were the Holy Trinity. Having all three was always an indication of a good game. The scapegoat for a poor performance was always the sun, either directly in our line of vision when we were out on the field playing defense, or absent, leaving us shivering as we waited in the dugout to bat on offense.

    Now, my weekend mornings are spent groggily staggering around the kitchen, squinting without my glasses on as I unload the dishes from the night prior. If I wake up before 10 a.m., it’s either because I’ve made a commitment in advance, or I’m woken up by the tunnel construction. The smell of early fall mornings on the weekend will always teleport me back to my softball days: the morning dew on the grass, sometimes turned into frozen droplets in late October and November. The cheers and chants from the dugout. The echo of balls hitting the inside of gloves during between-innings warm-ups. From infield players to the first baseman, from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the pitcher again. The excitement of youth sports is a feeling I will always be fond of and long for. I reach for it with outstretched arms and sense it within millimeters of my fingertips. So close, but just far enough away. Maybe I’ll experience the spark again some day through my children’s eyes. 

    I give softball 15 percent trick and 85 percent treat.

    Northern Lights: A few weeks ago, the northern lights were visible in Rhode Island. I was eating dinner off-campus with a friend and missed the first wave at around 7:30 p.m. I had heard my phone ring multiple times during dinner, but intentionally ignored it out of courtesy. After we finished dinner, we got in the car and saw the news. OMG is it still happening??!! Put your phone to the sky, can you see it??? We were only seven minutes away from campus, so I unhesitantly yanked the gear to “D,” with tunnel vision towards home. The adrenaline, euphoria, and anticipation morphed into an emotion that’s indescribable, a state of genuine excitement that I had probably only felt on Christmas morning (before I found out that Santa isn’t real). By the time we arrived, the lights were fading, but we held out hope for a few more hours. At 10:00 p.m., magic struck as the next wave of light arrived. We raced from one destination to another, trying to find the darkest viewing spot. Governor Street, India Point Park, and eventually we meandered through the woods to Scituate Reservoir Causeway. At long last, our eyes were shimmering hues of pink, purple, and green.

    I had always imagined that seeing the northern lights was a distant dream, that would maybe someday become a reality if I went to Iceland, Norway, or another Scandinavian country. The beauty that we can see with our eyes, or rather our phone cameras, is remarkable. An occurrence like this is grounding. It reminds us how even the smallest moments, like seeing colorful lights in the sky, can fill us with joy and etch an everlasting impact in our souls. We never know how often, if at all, these experiences might occur, or if they will come back around. In these moments, no words have to be spoken, no thoughts have to be shared. The closeness of loved ones, the privilege to be occupying the same space in the same instance in time, is enough. Amidst the comfortable silence is a presence that speaks without words and understands without asking. It whispers, “I’m here for you, you are safe with me.”

    I give the northern lights 100 percent treat.

    Source link

  • trick or treat [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    A few months ago, I read The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the book, Green portrays the modern human experience through small anecdotes from his own life. Each chapter is centered around a seemingly mundane topic and conveys a specific message that connects unlikely subjects and themes. At the end of each chapter, he gives the topic a rating out of five. 

    In the spirit of fall and Halloween, I thought I would add a twist to this concept and write my own adaptation. Instead of a five-point scale, my ratings will be given out as a percentage of “trick” or “treat.” For example, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I would give the series 1 percent trick and 99 percent treat. The series is wonderfully orchestrated, save for an unforgiving and unexpected death in the fifth book. There aren’t many foods that I dislike, but I have a bone to pick with mayonnaise. I would almost never add it to a BLT of my own volition, but I suppose it’s more tolerable when combined with other ingredients—say, to make spicy mayo for sushi. I would give mayonnaise 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat. 

    In short, “trick” is a measure of how deceiving a topic might be and “treat” is an indicator of how much pleasure I take in the topic. Here is my attempt to review the Anthropocene in Fall 2024.

     

    Harvest Salad: Food is an expression of love. The meticulous preparation and presentation, the careful experimentation to perfect every flavor—it all tells a story. 

    My hyperfixation meal this fall has been a harvest salad. Well, maybe not a hyperfixation, because my meal prepping has fallen off since the start of the semester, but there was a week in mid-September when all I ate for lunch and dinner was my harvest salad. I drew inspiration from sweetgreen’s Autumn Harvest Bowl, which has blackened chicken, maple glazed brussel sprouts, roasted sweet potatoes, apples, goat cheese, roasted almonds, wild rice, shredded kale, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’ll credit sweetgreen for the idea, but their prices are beyond unjustifiable. Now, I’m not claiming to have recreated the exact recipe. I’m a college student with a meager pantry and limited time, so I made my own concoction, substituting some ingredients at my convenience—feta for goat cheese, quinoa for wild rice, and others that don’t necessarily have a direct correlation to the original. No almonds because I’m allergic. Chickpeas and corn, just because I felt like it. Each component plays a pivotal role in the salad, bringing a unique element of warmth, crunchiness, or acidity. Tossed together, they create a harmonious synergy. 

    Perhaps it’s the ingredients in the harvest salad that resemble the coziness of fall—kale, apples, sweet potatoes. Something in it reminds me of the comfort I feel at Brown. Everything and everyone feels familiar. When I read a text from my friends, I can hear it in their exact tone and voice. When I ask a spontaneous question, I know their answer before they get the chance to speak. There are memories in every corner of this campus, shared with the people that make this place so special to me. As the biting wind brushes across my cheeks and I hear the crunch underneath my feet, I recall tender moments of embrace, raucous bursts of laughter, peaceful notes of home. 

    I give a homemade harvest salad 5 percent trick and 95 percent treat. If it’s ordered from sweetgreen, then 95 percent trick and 5 percent treat. 

    Tunnel Construction: I live right next to the tunnel on Thayer Street. Probably six out of seven mornings, without fail, I am woken up by the drilling of jackhammers and the pounding of metallic equipment. I try to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise (it will force me to wake up early and be productive). Yet at 7 a.m., as I am rudely awoken by the cacophony of the construction, I am never as optimistic as I think I will be. 

    Sleep experts say that waking up naturally, with a faint and soothing alarm, or even with no alarm at all, has proven to be better for our health and well-being. We wake up feeling more positive, alert, and focused. I can attest to that theory. During the summer, the sun rose earlier. Illuminating the curtains and sheers of my bedroom, its warmth and soft brightness would wake me gently. Those were the days when I rarely relied on caffeine to keep me energized. However, I suppose the tunnel construction is not entirely to blame. I could go to bed earlier at night and still get sufficient sleep. Ideally, that’s what every college student should be doing, regardless of whether or not they hear screechy drilling in the morning. But realistically, we’re either too stressed doing work or letting time slip away with endless yapping and scrolling. If nothing else, I can be grateful that the construction at least gives me consistency. Jolted awake, I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, and make my daily coffee. 

    I give the tunnel construction 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat.

    Softball: For 10 years, from ages 8 to 18, I had a routine softball game every Saturday. When I had sleepovers on Friday nights, early the next morning I tip-toed around the sleeping bags of dormant girls on the floor and quickly changed into my uniform in the bathroom, texting my teammates: “Is it cold enough to wear the long sleeve Under Armour?” “Should I wear my heart guard over or under?” My mom would wait for me in the car outside with my bat bag prepared in the trunk. As she pulled out of the driveway, I would shoot my friends a text that they wouldn’t see until three hours later: “Just left for softball.”

    Softball is typically a spring sport. In the fall, it’s called fall ball. My parents had tried to convince me to venture into other sports during the off-season—soccer, basketball, swimming—but I insisted on only doing fall ball. In Little League, we played away games which were typically a 20-40 minute car ride. If we were ahead of schedule, my mom would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up munchkins for me and my teammates. From the second the box was placed down on the bench, little girls became indistinguishable from large felines, pouncing on the glazed and chocolate ones. After the stampede, the stragglers would indifferently select from the old fashioned and jelly left at the bottom. Dunkin’ Donuts, David sunflower seeds, and Big League Chew gum were the Holy Trinity. Having all three was always an indication of a good game. The scapegoat for a poor performance was always the sun, either directly in our line of vision when we were out on the field playing defense, or absent, leaving us shivering as we waited in the dugout to bat on offense.

    Now, my weekend mornings are spent groggily staggering around the kitchen, squinting without my glasses on as I unload the dishes from the night prior. If I wake up before 10 a.m., it’s either because I’ve made a commitment in advance, or I’m woken up by the tunnel construction. The smell of early fall mornings on the weekend will always teleport me back to my softball days: the morning dew on the grass, sometimes turned into frozen droplets in late October and November. The cheers and chants from the dugout. The echo of balls hitting the inside of gloves during between-innings warm-ups. From infield players to the first baseman, from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the pitcher again. The excitement of youth sports is a feeling I will always be fond of and long for. I reach for it with outstretched arms and sense it within millimeters of my fingertips. So close, but just far enough away. Maybe I’ll experience the spark again some day through my children’s eyes. 

    I give softball 15 percent trick and 85 percent treat.

    Northern Lights: A few weeks ago, the northern lights were visible in Rhode Island. I was eating dinner off-campus with a friend and missed the first wave at around 7:30 p.m. I had heard my phone ring multiple times during dinner, but intentionally ignored it out of courtesy. After we finished dinner, we got in the car and saw the news. OMG is it still happening??!! Put your phone to the sky, can you see it??? We were only seven minutes away from campus, so I unhesitantly yanked the gear to “D,” with tunnel vision towards home. The adrenaline, euphoria, and anticipation morphed into an emotion that’s indescribable, a state of genuine excitement that I had probably only felt on Christmas morning (before I found out that Santa isn’t real). By the time we arrived, the lights were fading, but we held out hope for a few more hours. At 10:00 p.m., magic struck as the next wave of light arrived. We raced from one destination to another, trying to find the darkest viewing spot. Governor Street, India Point Park, and eventually we meandered through the woods to Scituate Reservoir Causeway. At long last, our eyes were shimmering hues of pink, purple, and green.

    I had always imagined that seeing the northern lights was a distant dream, that would maybe someday become a reality if I went to Iceland, Norway, or another Scandinavian country. The beauty that we can see with our eyes, or rather our phone cameras, is remarkable. An occurrence like this is grounding. It reminds us how even the smallest moments, like seeing colorful lights in the sky, can fill us with joy and etch an everlasting impact in our souls. We never know how often, if at all, these experiences might occur, or if they will come back around. In these moments, no words have to be spoken, no thoughts have to be shared. The closeness of loved ones, the privilege to be occupying the same space in the same instance in time, is enough. Amidst the comfortable silence is a presence that speaks without words and understands without asking. It whispers, “I’m here for you, you are safe with me.”

    I give the northern lights 100 percent treat.

    Source link

  • trick or treat [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    A few months ago, I read The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the book, Green portrays the modern human experience through small anecdotes from his own life. Each chapter is centered around a seemingly mundane topic and conveys a specific message that connects unlikely subjects and themes. At the end of each chapter, he gives the topic a rating out of five. 

    In the spirit of fall and Halloween, I thought I would add a twist to this concept and write my own adaptation. Instead of a five-point scale, my ratings will be given out as a percentage of “trick” or “treat.” For example, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I would give the series 1 percent trick and 99 percent treat. The series is wonderfully orchestrated, save for an unforgiving and unexpected death in the fifth book. There aren’t many foods that I dislike, but I have a bone to pick with mayonnaise. I would almost never add it to a BLT of my own volition, but I suppose it’s more tolerable when combined with other ingredients—say, to make spicy mayo for sushi. I would give mayonnaise 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat. 

    In short, “trick” is a measure of how deceiving a topic might be and “treat” is an indicator of how much pleasure I take in the topic. Here is my attempt to review the Anthropocene in Fall 2024.

     

    Harvest Salad: Food is an expression of love. The meticulous preparation and presentation, the careful experimentation to perfect every flavor—it all tells a story. 

    My hyperfixation meal this fall has been a harvest salad. Well, maybe not a hyperfixation, because my meal prepping has fallen off since the start of the semester, but there was a week in mid-September when all I ate for lunch and dinner was my harvest salad. I drew inspiration from sweetgreen’s Autumn Harvest Bowl, which has blackened chicken, maple glazed brussel sprouts, roasted sweet potatoes, apples, goat cheese, roasted almonds, wild rice, shredded kale, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’ll credit sweetgreen for the idea, but their prices are beyond unjustifiable. Now, I’m not claiming to have recreated the exact recipe. I’m a college student with a meager pantry and limited time, so I made my own concoction, substituting some ingredients at my convenience—feta for goat cheese, quinoa for wild rice, and others that don’t necessarily have a direct correlation to the original. No almonds because I’m allergic. Chickpeas and corn, just because I felt like it. Each component plays a pivotal role in the salad, bringing a unique element of warmth, crunchiness, or acidity. Tossed together, they create a harmonious synergy. 

    Perhaps it’s the ingredients in the harvest salad that resemble the coziness of fall—kale, apples, sweet potatoes. Something in it reminds me of the comfort I feel at Brown. Everything and everyone feels familiar. When I read a text from my friends, I can hear it in their exact tone and voice. When I ask a spontaneous question, I know their answer before they get the chance to speak. There are memories in every corner of this campus, shared with the people that make this place so special to me. As the biting wind brushes across my cheeks and I hear the crunch underneath my feet, I recall tender moments of embrace, raucous bursts of laughter, peaceful notes of home. 

    I give a homemade harvest salad 5 percent trick and 95 percent treat. If it’s ordered from sweetgreen, then 95 percent trick and 5 percent treat. 

    Tunnel Construction: I live right next to the tunnel on Thayer Street. Probably six out of seven mornings, without fail, I am woken up by the drilling of jackhammers and the pounding of metallic equipment. I try to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise (it will force me to wake up early and be productive). Yet at 7 a.m., as I am rudely awoken by the cacophony of the construction, I am never as optimistic as I think I will be. 

    Sleep experts say that waking up naturally, with a faint and soothing alarm, or even with no alarm at all, has proven to be better for our health and well-being. We wake up feeling more positive, alert, and focused. I can attest to that theory. During the summer, the sun rose earlier. Illuminating the curtains and sheers of my bedroom, its warmth and soft brightness would wake me gently. Those were the days when I rarely relied on caffeine to keep me energized. However, I suppose the tunnel construction is not entirely to blame. I could go to bed earlier at night and still get sufficient sleep. Ideally, that’s what every college student should be doing, regardless of whether or not they hear screechy drilling in the morning. But realistically, we’re either too stressed doing work or letting time slip away with endless yapping and scrolling. If nothing else, I can be grateful that the construction at least gives me consistency. Jolted awake, I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, and make my daily coffee. 

    I give the tunnel construction 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat.

    Softball: For 10 years, from ages 8 to 18, I had a routine softball game every Saturday. When I had sleepovers on Friday nights, early the next morning I tip-toed around the sleeping bags of dormant girls on the floor and quickly changed into my uniform in the bathroom, texting my teammates: “Is it cold enough to wear the long sleeve Under Armour?” “Should I wear my heart guard over or under?” My mom would wait for me in the car outside with my bat bag prepared in the trunk. As she pulled out of the driveway, I would shoot my friends a text that they wouldn’t see until three hours later: “Just left for softball.”

    Softball is typically a spring sport. In the fall, it’s called fall ball. My parents had tried to convince me to venture into other sports during the off-season—soccer, basketball, swimming—but I insisted on only doing fall ball. In Little League, we played away games which were typically a 20-40 minute car ride. If we were ahead of schedule, my mom would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up munchkins for me and my teammates. From the second the box was placed down on the bench, little girls became indistinguishable from large felines, pouncing on the glazed and chocolate ones. After the stampede, the stragglers would indifferently select from the old fashioned and jelly left at the bottom. Dunkin’ Donuts, David sunflower seeds, and Big League Chew gum were the Holy Trinity. Having all three was always an indication of a good game. The scapegoat for a poor performance was always the sun, either directly in our line of vision when we were out on the field playing defense, or absent, leaving us shivering as we waited in the dugout to bat on offense.

    Now, my weekend mornings are spent groggily staggering around the kitchen, squinting without my glasses on as I unload the dishes from the night prior. If I wake up before 10 a.m., it’s either because I’ve made a commitment in advance, or I’m woken up by the tunnel construction. The smell of early fall mornings on the weekend will always teleport me back to my softball days: the morning dew on the grass, sometimes turned into frozen droplets in late October and November. The cheers and chants from the dugout. The echo of balls hitting the inside of gloves during between-innings warm-ups. From infield players to the first baseman, from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the pitcher again. The excitement of youth sports is a feeling I will always be fond of and long for. I reach for it with outstretched arms and sense it within millimeters of my fingertips. So close, but just far enough away. Maybe I’ll experience the spark again some day through my children’s eyes. 

    I give softball 15 percent trick and 85 percent treat.

    Northern Lights: A few weeks ago, the northern lights were visible in Rhode Island. I was eating dinner off-campus with a friend and missed the first wave at around 7:30 p.m. I had heard my phone ring multiple times during dinner, but intentionally ignored it out of courtesy. After we finished dinner, we got in the car and saw the news. OMG is it still happening??!! Put your phone to the sky, can you see it??? We were only seven minutes away from campus, so I unhesitantly yanked the gear to “D,” with tunnel vision towards home. The adrenaline, euphoria, and anticipation morphed into an emotion that’s indescribable, a state of genuine excitement that I had probably only felt on Christmas morning (before I found out that Santa isn’t real). By the time we arrived, the lights were fading, but we held out hope for a few more hours. At 10:00 p.m., magic struck as the next wave of light arrived. We raced from one destination to another, trying to find the darkest viewing spot. Governor Street, India Point Park, and eventually we meandered through the woods to Scituate Reservoir Causeway. At long last, our eyes were shimmering hues of pink, purple, and green.

    I had always imagined that seeing the northern lights was a distant dream, that would maybe someday become a reality if I went to Iceland, Norway, or another Scandinavian country. The beauty that we can see with our eyes, or rather our phone cameras, is remarkable. An occurrence like this is grounding. It reminds us how even the smallest moments, like seeing colorful lights in the sky, can fill us with joy and etch an everlasting impact in our souls. We never know how often, if at all, these experiences might occur, or if they will come back around. In these moments, no words have to be spoken, no thoughts have to be shared. The closeness of loved ones, the privilege to be occupying the same space in the same instance in time, is enough. Amidst the comfortable silence is a presence that speaks without words and understands without asking. It whispers, “I’m here for you, you are safe with me.”

    I give the northern lights 100 percent treat.

    Source link

  • trick or treat [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    A few months ago, I read The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the book, Green portrays the modern human experience through small anecdotes from his own life. Each chapter is centered around a seemingly mundane topic and conveys a specific message that connects unlikely subjects and themes. At the end of each chapter, he gives the topic a rating out of five. 

    In the spirit of fall and Halloween, I thought I would add a twist to this concept and write my own adaptation. Instead of a five-point scale, my ratings will be given out as a percentage of “trick” or “treat.” For example, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I would give the series 1 percent trick and 99 percent treat. The series is wonderfully orchestrated, save for an unforgiving and unexpected death in the fifth book. There aren’t many foods that I dislike, but I have a bone to pick with mayonnaise. I would almost never add it to a BLT of my own volition, but I suppose it’s more tolerable when combined with other ingredients—say, to make spicy mayo for sushi. I would give mayonnaise 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat. 

    In short, “trick” is a measure of how deceiving a topic might be and “treat” is an indicator of how much pleasure I take in the topic. Here is my attempt to review the Anthropocene in Fall 2024.

     

    Harvest Salad: Food is an expression of love. The meticulous preparation and presentation, the careful experimentation to perfect every flavor—it all tells a story. 

    My hyperfixation meal this fall has been a harvest salad. Well, maybe not a hyperfixation, because my meal prepping has fallen off since the start of the semester, but there was a week in mid-September when all I ate for lunch and dinner was my harvest salad. I drew inspiration from sweetgreen’s Autumn Harvest Bowl, which has blackened chicken, maple glazed brussel sprouts, roasted sweet potatoes, apples, goat cheese, roasted almonds, wild rice, shredded kale, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’ll credit sweetgreen for the idea, but their prices are beyond unjustifiable. Now, I’m not claiming to have recreated the exact recipe. I’m a college student with a meager pantry and limited time, so I made my own concoction, substituting some ingredients at my convenience—feta for goat cheese, quinoa for wild rice, and others that don’t necessarily have a direct correlation to the original. No almonds because I’m allergic. Chickpeas and corn, just because I felt like it. Each component plays a pivotal role in the salad, bringing a unique element of warmth, crunchiness, or acidity. Tossed together, they create a harmonious synergy. 

    Perhaps it’s the ingredients in the harvest salad that resemble the coziness of fall—kale, apples, sweet potatoes. Something in it reminds me of the comfort I feel at Brown. Everything and everyone feels familiar. When I read a text from my friends, I can hear it in their exact tone and voice. When I ask a spontaneous question, I know their answer before they get the chance to speak. There are memories in every corner of this campus, shared with the people that make this place so special to me. As the biting wind brushes across my cheeks and I hear the crunch underneath my feet, I recall tender moments of embrace, raucous bursts of laughter, peaceful notes of home. 

    I give a homemade harvest salad 5 percent trick and 95 percent treat. If it’s ordered from sweetgreen, then 95 percent trick and 5 percent treat. 

    Tunnel Construction: I live right next to the tunnel on Thayer Street. Probably six out of seven mornings, without fail, I am woken up by the drilling of jackhammers and the pounding of metallic equipment. I try to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise (it will force me to wake up early and be productive). Yet at 7 a.m., as I am rudely awoken by the cacophony of the construction, I am never as optimistic as I think I will be. 

    Sleep experts say that waking up naturally, with a faint and soothing alarm, or even with no alarm at all, has proven to be better for our health and well-being. We wake up feeling more positive, alert, and focused. I can attest to that theory. During the summer, the sun rose earlier. Illuminating the curtains and sheers of my bedroom, its warmth and soft brightness would wake me gently. Those were the days when I rarely relied on caffeine to keep me energized. However, I suppose the tunnel construction is not entirely to blame. I could go to bed earlier at night and still get sufficient sleep. Ideally, that’s what every college student should be doing, regardless of whether or not they hear screechy drilling in the morning. But realistically, we’re either too stressed doing work or letting time slip away with endless yapping and scrolling. If nothing else, I can be grateful that the construction at least gives me consistency. Jolted awake, I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, and make my daily coffee. 

    I give the tunnel construction 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat.

    Softball: For 10 years, from ages 8 to 18, I had a routine softball game every Saturday. When I had sleepovers on Friday nights, early the next morning I tip-toed around the sleeping bags of dormant girls on the floor and quickly changed into my uniform in the bathroom, texting my teammates: “Is it cold enough to wear the long sleeve Under Armour?” “Should I wear my heart guard over or under?” My mom would wait for me in the car outside with my bat bag prepared in the trunk. As she pulled out of the driveway, I would shoot my friends a text that they wouldn’t see until three hours later: “Just left for softball.”

    Softball is typically a spring sport. In the fall, it’s called fall ball. My parents had tried to convince me to venture into other sports during the off-season—soccer, basketball, swimming—but I insisted on only doing fall ball. In Little League, we played away games which were typically a 20-40 minute car ride. If we were ahead of schedule, my mom would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up munchkins for me and my teammates. From the second the box was placed down on the bench, little girls became indistinguishable from large felines, pouncing on the glazed and chocolate ones. After the stampede, the stragglers would indifferently select from the old fashioned and jelly left at the bottom. Dunkin’ Donuts, David sunflower seeds, and Big League Chew gum were the Holy Trinity. Having all three was always an indication of a good game. The scapegoat for a poor performance was always the sun, either directly in our line of vision when we were out on the field playing defense, or absent, leaving us shivering as we waited in the dugout to bat on offense.

    Now, my weekend mornings are spent groggily staggering around the kitchen, squinting without my glasses on as I unload the dishes from the night prior. If I wake up before 10 a.m., it’s either because I’ve made a commitment in advance, or I’m woken up by the tunnel construction. The smell of early fall mornings on the weekend will always teleport me back to my softball days: the morning dew on the grass, sometimes turned into frozen droplets in late October and November. The cheers and chants from the dugout. The echo of balls hitting the inside of gloves during between-innings warm-ups. From infield players to the first baseman, from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the pitcher again. The excitement of youth sports is a feeling I will always be fond of and long for. I reach for it with outstretched arms and sense it within millimeters of my fingertips. So close, but just far enough away. Maybe I’ll experience the spark again some day through my children’s eyes. 

    I give softball 15 percent trick and 85 percent treat.

    Northern Lights: A few weeks ago, the northern lights were visible in Rhode Island. I was eating dinner off-campus with a friend and missed the first wave at around 7:30 p.m. I had heard my phone ring multiple times during dinner, but intentionally ignored it out of courtesy. After we finished dinner, we got in the car and saw the news. OMG is it still happening??!! Put your phone to the sky, can you see it??? We were only seven minutes away from campus, so I unhesitantly yanked the gear to “D,” with tunnel vision towards home. The adrenaline, euphoria, and anticipation morphed into an emotion that’s indescribable, a state of genuine excitement that I had probably only felt on Christmas morning (before I found out that Santa isn’t real). By the time we arrived, the lights were fading, but we held out hope for a few more hours. At 10:00 p.m., magic struck as the next wave of light arrived. We raced from one destination to another, trying to find the darkest viewing spot. Governor Street, India Point Park, and eventually we meandered through the woods to Scituate Reservoir Causeway. At long last, our eyes were shimmering hues of pink, purple, and green.

    I had always imagined that seeing the northern lights was a distant dream, that would maybe someday become a reality if I went to Iceland, Norway, or another Scandinavian country. The beauty that we can see with our eyes, or rather our phone cameras, is remarkable. An occurrence like this is grounding. It reminds us how even the smallest moments, like seeing colorful lights in the sky, can fill us with joy and etch an everlasting impact in our souls. We never know how often, if at all, these experiences might occur, or if they will come back around. In these moments, no words have to be spoken, no thoughts have to be shared. The closeness of loved ones, the privilege to be occupying the same space in the same instance in time, is enough. Amidst the comfortable silence is a presence that speaks without words and understands without asking. It whispers, “I’m here for you, you are safe with me.”

    I give the northern lights 100 percent treat.

    Source link

  • trick or treat [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    A few months ago, I read The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the book, Green portrays the modern human experience through small anecdotes from his own life. Each chapter is centered around a seemingly mundane topic and conveys a specific message that connects unlikely subjects and themes. At the end of each chapter, he gives the topic a rating out of five. 

    In the spirit of fall and Halloween, I thought I would add a twist to this concept and write my own adaptation. Instead of a five-point scale, my ratings will be given out as a percentage of “trick” or “treat.” For example, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I would give the series 1 percent trick and 99 percent treat. The series is wonderfully orchestrated, save for an unforgiving and unexpected death in the fifth book. There aren’t many foods that I dislike, but I have a bone to pick with mayonnaise. I would almost never add it to a BLT of my own volition, but I suppose it’s more tolerable when combined with other ingredients—say, to make spicy mayo for sushi. I would give mayonnaise 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat. 

    In short, “trick” is a measure of how deceiving a topic might be and “treat” is an indicator of how much pleasure I take in the topic. Here is my attempt to review the Anthropocene in Fall 2024.

     

    Harvest Salad: Food is an expression of love. The meticulous preparation and presentation, the careful experimentation to perfect every flavor—it all tells a story. 

    My hyperfixation meal this fall has been a harvest salad. Well, maybe not a hyperfixation, because my meal prepping has fallen off since the start of the semester, but there was a week in mid-September when all I ate for lunch and dinner was my harvest salad. I drew inspiration from sweetgreen’s Autumn Harvest Bowl, which has blackened chicken, maple glazed brussel sprouts, roasted sweet potatoes, apples, goat cheese, roasted almonds, wild rice, shredded kale, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’ll credit sweetgreen for the idea, but their prices are beyond unjustifiable. Now, I’m not claiming to have recreated the exact recipe. I’m a college student with a meager pantry and limited time, so I made my own concoction, substituting some ingredients at my convenience—feta for goat cheese, quinoa for wild rice, and others that don’t necessarily have a direct correlation to the original. No almonds because I’m allergic. Chickpeas and corn, just because I felt like it. Each component plays a pivotal role in the salad, bringing a unique element of warmth, crunchiness, or acidity. Tossed together, they create a harmonious synergy. 

    Perhaps it’s the ingredients in the harvest salad that resemble the coziness of fall—kale, apples, sweet potatoes. Something in it reminds me of the comfort I feel at Brown. Everything and everyone feels familiar. When I read a text from my friends, I can hear it in their exact tone and voice. When I ask a spontaneous question, I know their answer before they get the chance to speak. There are memories in every corner of this campus, shared with the people that make this place so special to me. As the biting wind brushes across my cheeks and I hear the crunch underneath my feet, I recall tender moments of embrace, raucous bursts of laughter, peaceful notes of home. 

    I give a homemade harvest salad 5 percent trick and 95 percent treat. If it’s ordered from sweetgreen, then 95 percent trick and 5 percent treat. 

    Tunnel Construction: I live right next to the tunnel on Thayer Street. Probably six out of seven mornings, without fail, I am woken up by the drilling of jackhammers and the pounding of metallic equipment. I try to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise (it will force me to wake up early and be productive). Yet at 7 a.m., as I am rudely awoken by the cacophony of the construction, I am never as optimistic as I think I will be. 

    Sleep experts say that waking up naturally, with a faint and soothing alarm, or even with no alarm at all, has proven to be better for our health and well-being. We wake up feeling more positive, alert, and focused. I can attest to that theory. During the summer, the sun rose earlier. Illuminating the curtains and sheers of my bedroom, its warmth and soft brightness would wake me gently. Those were the days when I rarely relied on caffeine to keep me energized. However, I suppose the tunnel construction is not entirely to blame. I could go to bed earlier at night and still get sufficient sleep. Ideally, that’s what every college student should be doing, regardless of whether or not they hear screechy drilling in the morning. But realistically, we’re either too stressed doing work or letting time slip away with endless yapping and scrolling. If nothing else, I can be grateful that the construction at least gives me consistency. Jolted awake, I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, and make my daily coffee. 

    I give the tunnel construction 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat.

    Softball: For 10 years, from ages 8 to 18, I had a routine softball game every Saturday. When I had sleepovers on Friday nights, early the next morning I tip-toed around the sleeping bags of dormant girls on the floor and quickly changed into my uniform in the bathroom, texting my teammates: “Is it cold enough to wear the long sleeve Under Armour?” “Should I wear my heart guard over or under?” My mom would wait for me in the car outside with my bat bag prepared in the trunk. As she pulled out of the driveway, I would shoot my friends a text that they wouldn’t see until three hours later: “Just left for softball.”

    Softball is typically a spring sport. In the fall, it’s called fall ball. My parents had tried to convince me to venture into other sports during the off-season—soccer, basketball, swimming—but I insisted on only doing fall ball. In Little League, we played away games which were typically a 20-40 minute car ride. If we were ahead of schedule, my mom would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up munchkins for me and my teammates. From the second the box was placed down on the bench, little girls became indistinguishable from large felines, pouncing on the glazed and chocolate ones. After the stampede, the stragglers would indifferently select from the old fashioned and jelly left at the bottom. Dunkin’ Donuts, David sunflower seeds, and Big League Chew gum were the Holy Trinity. Having all three was always an indication of a good game. The scapegoat for a poor performance was always the sun, either directly in our line of vision when we were out on the field playing defense, or absent, leaving us shivering as we waited in the dugout to bat on offense.

    Now, my weekend mornings are spent groggily staggering around the kitchen, squinting without my glasses on as I unload the dishes from the night prior. If I wake up before 10 a.m., it’s either because I’ve made a commitment in advance, or I’m woken up by the tunnel construction. The smell of early fall mornings on the weekend will always teleport me back to my softball days: the morning dew on the grass, sometimes turned into frozen droplets in late October and November. The cheers and chants from the dugout. The echo of balls hitting the inside of gloves during between-innings warm-ups. From infield players to the first baseman, from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the pitcher again. The excitement of youth sports is a feeling I will always be fond of and long for. I reach for it with outstretched arms and sense it within millimeters of my fingertips. So close, but just far enough away. Maybe I’ll experience the spark again some day through my children’s eyes. 

    I give softball 15 percent trick and 85 percent treat.

    Northern Lights: A few weeks ago, the northern lights were visible in Rhode Island. I was eating dinner off-campus with a friend and missed the first wave at around 7:30 p.m. I had heard my phone ring multiple times during dinner, but intentionally ignored it out of courtesy. After we finished dinner, we got in the car and saw the news. OMG is it still happening??!! Put your phone to the sky, can you see it??? We were only seven minutes away from campus, so I unhesitantly yanked the gear to “D,” with tunnel vision towards home. The adrenaline, euphoria, and anticipation morphed into an emotion that’s indescribable, a state of genuine excitement that I had probably only felt on Christmas morning (before I found out that Santa isn’t real). By the time we arrived, the lights were fading, but we held out hope for a few more hours. At 10:00 p.m., magic struck as the next wave of light arrived. We raced from one destination to another, trying to find the darkest viewing spot. Governor Street, India Point Park, and eventually we meandered through the woods to Scituate Reservoir Causeway. At long last, our eyes were shimmering hues of pink, purple, and green.

    I had always imagined that seeing the northern lights was a distant dream, that would maybe someday become a reality if I went to Iceland, Norway, or another Scandinavian country. The beauty that we can see with our eyes, or rather our phone cameras, is remarkable. An occurrence like this is grounding. It reminds us how even the smallest moments, like seeing colorful lights in the sky, can fill us with joy and etch an everlasting impact in our souls. We never know how often, if at all, these experiences might occur, or if they will come back around. In these moments, no words have to be spoken, no thoughts have to be shared. The closeness of loved ones, the privilege to be occupying the same space in the same instance in time, is enough. Amidst the comfortable silence is a presence that speaks without words and understands without asking. It whispers, “I’m here for you, you are safe with me.”

    I give the northern lights 100 percent treat.

    Source link

  • trick or treat [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    A few months ago, I read The Anthropocene Reviewed by John Green. In the book, Green portrays the modern human experience through small anecdotes from his own life. Each chapter is centered around a seemingly mundane topic and conveys a specific message that connects unlikely subjects and themes. At the end of each chapter, he gives the topic a rating out of five. 

    In the spirit of fall and Halloween, I thought I would add a twist to this concept and write my own adaptation. Instead of a five-point scale, my ratings will be given out as a percentage of “trick” or “treat.” For example, as an avid Harry Potter fan, I would give the series 1 percent trick and 99 percent treat. The series is wonderfully orchestrated, save for an unforgiving and unexpected death in the fifth book. There aren’t many foods that I dislike, but I have a bone to pick with mayonnaise. I would almost never add it to a BLT of my own volition, but I suppose it’s more tolerable when combined with other ingredients—say, to make spicy mayo for sushi. I would give mayonnaise 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat. 

    In short, “trick” is a measure of how deceiving a topic might be and “treat” is an indicator of how much pleasure I take in the topic. Here is my attempt to review the Anthropocene in Fall 2024.

     

    Harvest Salad: Food is an expression of love. The meticulous preparation and presentation, the careful experimentation to perfect every flavor—it all tells a story. 

    My hyperfixation meal this fall has been a harvest salad. Well, maybe not a hyperfixation, because my meal prepping has fallen off since the start of the semester, but there was a week in mid-September when all I ate for lunch and dinner was my harvest salad. I drew inspiration from sweetgreen’s Autumn Harvest Bowl, which has blackened chicken, maple glazed brussel sprouts, roasted sweet potatoes, apples, goat cheese, roasted almonds, wild rice, shredded kale, and balsamic vinaigrette. I’ll credit sweetgreen for the idea, but their prices are beyond unjustifiable. Now, I’m not claiming to have recreated the exact recipe. I’m a college student with a meager pantry and limited time, so I made my own concoction, substituting some ingredients at my convenience—feta for goat cheese, quinoa for wild rice, and others that don’t necessarily have a direct correlation to the original. No almonds because I’m allergic. Chickpeas and corn, just because I felt like it. Each component plays a pivotal role in the salad, bringing a unique element of warmth, crunchiness, or acidity. Tossed together, they create a harmonious synergy. 

    Perhaps it’s the ingredients in the harvest salad that resemble the coziness of fall—kale, apples, sweet potatoes. Something in it reminds me of the comfort I feel at Brown. Everything and everyone feels familiar. When I read a text from my friends, I can hear it in their exact tone and voice. When I ask a spontaneous question, I know their answer before they get the chance to speak. There are memories in every corner of this campus, shared with the people that make this place so special to me. As the biting wind brushes across my cheeks and I hear the crunch underneath my feet, I recall tender moments of embrace, raucous bursts of laughter, peaceful notes of home. 

    I give a homemade harvest salad 5 percent trick and 95 percent treat. If it’s ordered from sweetgreen, then 95 percent trick and 5 percent treat. 

    Tunnel Construction: I live right next to the tunnel on Thayer Street. Probably six out of seven mornings, without fail, I am woken up by the drilling of jackhammers and the pounding of metallic equipment. I try to convince myself that this is a blessing in disguise (it will force me to wake up early and be productive). Yet at 7 a.m., as I am rudely awoken by the cacophony of the construction, I am never as optimistic as I think I will be. 

    Sleep experts say that waking up naturally, with a faint and soothing alarm, or even with no alarm at all, has proven to be better for our health and well-being. We wake up feeling more positive, alert, and focused. I can attest to that theory. During the summer, the sun rose earlier. Illuminating the curtains and sheers of my bedroom, its warmth and soft brightness would wake me gently. Those were the days when I rarely relied on caffeine to keep me energized. However, I suppose the tunnel construction is not entirely to blame. I could go to bed earlier at night and still get sufficient sleep. Ideally, that’s what every college student should be doing, regardless of whether or not they hear screechy drilling in the morning. But realistically, we’re either too stressed doing work or letting time slip away with endless yapping and scrolling. If nothing else, I can be grateful that the construction at least gives me consistency. Jolted awake, I brush my teeth, eat breakfast, and make my daily coffee. 

    I give the tunnel construction 80 percent trick and 20 percent treat.

    Softball: For 10 years, from ages 8 to 18, I had a routine softball game every Saturday. When I had sleepovers on Friday nights, early the next morning I tip-toed around the sleeping bags of dormant girls on the floor and quickly changed into my uniform in the bathroom, texting my teammates: “Is it cold enough to wear the long sleeve Under Armour?” “Should I wear my heart guard over or under?” My mom would wait for me in the car outside with my bat bag prepared in the trunk. As she pulled out of the driveway, I would shoot my friends a text that they wouldn’t see until three hours later: “Just left for softball.”

    Softball is typically a spring sport. In the fall, it’s called fall ball. My parents had tried to convince me to venture into other sports during the off-season—soccer, basketball, swimming—but I insisted on only doing fall ball. In Little League, we played away games which were typically a 20-40 minute car ride. If we were ahead of schedule, my mom would stop by Dunkin’ Donuts to pick up munchkins for me and my teammates. From the second the box was placed down on the bench, little girls became indistinguishable from large felines, pouncing on the glazed and chocolate ones. After the stampede, the stragglers would indifferently select from the old fashioned and jelly left at the bottom. Dunkin’ Donuts, David sunflower seeds, and Big League Chew gum were the Holy Trinity. Having all three was always an indication of a good game. The scapegoat for a poor performance was always the sun, either directly in our line of vision when we were out on the field playing defense, or absent, leaving us shivering as we waited in the dugout to bat on offense.

    Now, my weekend mornings are spent groggily staggering around the kitchen, squinting without my glasses on as I unload the dishes from the night prior. If I wake up before 10 a.m., it’s either because I’ve made a commitment in advance, or I’m woken up by the tunnel construction. The smell of early fall mornings on the weekend will always teleport me back to my softball days: the morning dew on the grass, sometimes turned into frozen droplets in late October and November. The cheers and chants from the dugout. The echo of balls hitting the inside of gloves during between-innings warm-ups. From infield players to the first baseman, from the pitcher to the catcher and back to the pitcher again. The excitement of youth sports is a feeling I will always be fond of and long for. I reach for it with outstretched arms and sense it within millimeters of my fingertips. So close, but just far enough away. Maybe I’ll experience the spark again some day through my children’s eyes. 

    I give softball 15 percent trick and 85 percent treat.

    Northern Lights: A few weeks ago, the northern lights were visible in Rhode Island. I was eating dinner off-campus with a friend and missed the first wave at around 7:30 p.m. I had heard my phone ring multiple times during dinner, but intentionally ignored it out of courtesy. After we finished dinner, we got in the car and saw the news. OMG is it still happening??!! Put your phone to the sky, can you see it??? We were only seven minutes away from campus, so I unhesitantly yanked the gear to “D,” with tunnel vision towards home. The adrenaline, euphoria, and anticipation morphed into an emotion that’s indescribable, a state of genuine excitement that I had probably only felt on Christmas morning (before I found out that Santa isn’t real). By the time we arrived, the lights were fading, but we held out hope for a few more hours. At 10:00 p.m., magic struck as the next wave of light arrived. We raced from one destination to another, trying to find the darkest viewing spot. Governor Street, India Point Park, and eventually we meandered through the woods to Scituate Reservoir Causeway. At long last, our eyes were shimmering hues of pink, purple, and green.

    I had always imagined that seeing the northern lights was a distant dream, that would maybe someday become a reality if I went to Iceland, Norway, or another Scandinavian country. The beauty that we can see with our eyes, or rather our phone cameras, is remarkable. An occurrence like this is grounding. It reminds us how even the smallest moments, like seeing colorful lights in the sky, can fill us with joy and etch an everlasting impact in our souls. We never know how often, if at all, these experiences might occur, or if they will come back around. In these moments, no words have to be spoken, no thoughts have to be shared. The closeness of loved ones, the privilege to be occupying the same space in the same instance in time, is enough. Amidst the comfortable silence is a presence that speaks without words and understands without asking. It whispers, “I’m here for you, you are safe with me.”

    I give the northern lights 100 percent treat.

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  • across the distance [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    When I left California for Rhode Island, I said a permanent goodbye to a world where the people I held dear were amassed in one place. My relationships to them began to be rooted more in memory than in the present. Meanwhile, my love found new footholds with a sparkling web of college friends, whom I learned to crave with the same daily regularity that, before, I had craved my hometown clan with. A break in a semester or between school years now swaps my two worlds—college friends, sprinkled across the country, even the globe, dissipate into a world temporarily beyond access, and, for a spell, the people at home become my world again.

    Between whichever cast of people distance wedges itself, we try to bridge the gulf. We send sporadic texts, we call, and it all feels like a flattened facsimile of the relationships we know to be so much more.

    But we forget that correspondence can be more—it can be a thrill and a treasure.

    In the last days of August, I wrote a longhand letter for the very first time. Of course, I’d handwritten personal messages before. I scrawled a dramatic, tear-stained goodbye to my college-bound sister six years ago. I’ve written sentimental birthday cards, pressed carefully creased notes of affection and well-wishes into the hands of camp friends and graduating classmates, left inscriptions in books I’ve gifted, and so forth. But the intention behind them was not to elicit a response, nor probe into a new corner of the relationship, nor reveal new truths—only to offer up old affections in new prose, like a period at the end of a long, trailing sentence.

    This letter was not that. I left home in California to spend the last week of summer with relatives in the lush foliage of the northeast. There, the full weight of my distance from those I care for in my home state settled on my chest and made my every move heavy. It hurt to miss people so deeply, and, even more, to anticipate the stunted online echoes they would soon morph into.

    Made meditative by wooded seclusion and backed by the chatter of wind-rustled leaves and wood thrushes’ soprano exchanges, I bent over a blank sheet of paper and wrote my first real letter. I wrote driven by the necessity of converting care, nostalgia, and gratitude into something tangible and permanent—for myself, yes, but more urgently and more essentially, for its recipient. I wrote a letter with a cramping, ink-smudged hand, because no other medium could accommodate the honesty, directness, and openness that felt so vital to convey.

    The process started haltingly. My prose came out clunky and overwrought, and I worried about inconsequentialities like the consistency of my handwriting and the quantity of scribbled-out, misspelled words. The page seemed fit to burst with superfluous adverbs and filler sentences. The trash can swallowed my first, second, third attempts. 

    But then I realized that I was writing neither an essay, nor the epilogue to a friendship consummated by life changes like a graduation or a big move. I wasn’t composing a writing sample to prove my prosaic worth to some rigid professor. I was doing nothing more—and nothing less—than having a conversation with someone dear. The only difference between normal conversation and this was that writing delivered my thoughts through a slower, more refined channel than the usual hurried spillage of spoken dialogue—a chance to cut out the “ums” and replace them with words that nailed a feeling or idea on the head.

    The words flowed. I wrote about moments from the summer, spent with the letter’s recipient, that I’d been thinking about with particular fondness. I relayed anecdotes from the time since I’d landed on the East Coast. My musings and sentiments gathered momentum and rolled straight out onto the page. 

    When I slipped the sealed envelope into the mailbox, I felt a similar kind of catharsis to that of when I close my freshly inscribed journal and lower my head onto the pillow each night. All those pent-up kernels of thoughts had found their way into words. And now, those words would find their way into the hands of the person for whom they’d urged their way into coherence.

    Of course, receiving a letter in return delivered a fresh tide of gratification and gratitude. How special it was to see that handwriting! Those loops and smudges are, I’m convinced, the next most alive, physical form of access to another person after touchable, visible, and audible presence. They’re a distillation of personality into a precious visual pattern: no letter is the same as the next, but each one’s variability is familiar—like the cadence of a voice. And it made me smile so wide to hear that voice in my head—no less full of honesty and personality than if we were talking side-by-side over the hum of a car engine, or in the quiet of a bookstore backroom, or in whatever other setting our adventures have landed us—but inflected, here, by the same attention to linguistic accuracy I’d poured into my own letter.

    In that attention lies a wonderful truth about letter-writing: the letter itself is a form of care. Whether or not the writing contains explicit professions of care, its existence is evidence enough: effort and intent and purpose live in each scratch on the page.

    I view electronic communication modes as inherently generic. I’ve never felt inclined to print out a text message, even if it says something as explicit as “I love you.” Any sentimentality is circumscribed by pixelated, formatted impersonality. I could receive two “I love you” texts years apart and in entirely unrelated contexts, but seen together, they’d look and read exactly the same.

    But a letter, I’ll save in a heartbeat. Its preciousness lies in the minute choices: the positioning of a word on the page, or the smushed revision of an added word over a carrot—proof of continued consideration. And in the physicality—the blot of ink where a hand smudged a word before it dried, the crease where a thumb and forefinger pinched the paper into a neat fold. The evolution of the script from print to quasi-cursive where the writer had relaxed into flowing dialogue—the same way that, as comfort seeps into face-to-face conversation, we shed stiffness and stop fidgeting and grow loose, at ease. A handwritten “I love you” note, even if undated and unsigned, is unreplicable. A precious instant of the scribe’s life is preserved in all those leaning letters.

    I’m revealing nothing new. I’ll surprise nobody by saying that letter-writing is a rich, age-old tradition. But I think it’s a valuable—essential—reminder, particularly to our generation so saturated with screens, that such personal, treasurable communication is possible. It’s as available to us as any of our other modes. I don’t argue staunchly against the value of texting or sending voice notes or even posting on your Instagram story. Those modes of communication are so ubiquitous that it would be ridiculous to recommend replacing them with my new favored anachronism. But their ephemerality diminishes their strength, no matter how carefully crafted they may be. A text gets buried under the next messages within days, even hours. That emoji I tack onto the end of my “See you soon!” is a feeble attempt at distinguishing my message from the sea of its potential duplicates. 

    The letter from which I brushed pollen deposited by the breeze, where I scratched out a word in exchange for one whose musicality I thought the recipient would enjoy more, into which I poured a long stream of effort and honesty…That letter is a more legitimate version of me than I’ve ever put into a text or even a call. And I know the same is true of the letter I was so lucky to receive. 

    Letter-writing is a slow mode, and a quiet one, too. We trade the exhilarating pace of spoken dialogue for a pensive kind of care—the head rush of anger for an exhalation of forgiveness, the comfort of physical presence for the warm, smoldering embers of nostalgia.

    Our relationships can grow in that empty space between us. And holding a letter, the feel of paper dented by a pen’s excitement, the little heft of it folded inside its envelope, we remember that the space between us really isn’t empty at all.

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  • thinking of home [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    The word “homesick” implies an illness—the disease of a constant longing to go home. However, this creeping feeling is more reminiscent of a sore muscle. Only when I am especially tired do I feel the tenderness and aches of trying to cling to my life back home. 

    Last week, I heard my hometown best friend’s name called across the dining hall. 

    As irrational as it may be, my heart skipped a beat. I whipped my head around, stabilizing myself with the back of my chair. Of course, my eyes were met with an unfamiliar face looking beyond me at their friend who beckoned them. A little embarrassed at my foolishness, I went back to enjoying my Andrews sandwich. 

    When I first fell victim to the freshman flu, I wished for the comfort of my bed back home. There, I knew I would be supported by my entourage of childhood stuffed animals, my mom heating up beef broth in the next room. 

    Walking on Thayer, I heard my hometown friend group’s song of the summer blaring out of a motorcyclist’s speakers. I was brought back to night drives with my friends, windows down, music blasting. 

    My friend group’s made-up lingo falls on oblivious ears here in Providence, and I find myself internally giggling at something that reminds me of a joke from back home. Even if I try my best to explain, I always conclude with a dismissive “you had to be there.”

    On FaceTime, I crash-course my friends on recent life updates. I answer, “Wait, is he the tall one or the med school one?” and “So is that your class at night-time?” in the short 20 minutes of free time we have overlapping. Knowing basic facts about each other’s lives and routines isn’t as easy as it once was. 

    Coming to Providence, I flew over with bags of my favorite Japanese gummies, knowing they would provide me comfort at the end of a long day. The second week of school, I finished the last one, reminding me of how long I had been away already. 

    This past weekend, I threw the last of my clothes that still smelled like my home closet in the school washer. The foreign detergent I bought at Target right before move-in now dominates the familiar lavender scent.

    These little aches remind me of how much my life has changed in the past month. 

    At the same time, I don’t wish to go back. 

    The heaviness of missing my friends and family is relieved by the excitement of making new friends. Late night drives are replaced by late night gossip sessions in library study rooms, and new inside jokes bring me to doubled-over-gasping-for-breath laughter. I’ve found myself slowly falling into a new routine here, shaped around spending time with new friends while staying connected to loved ones. 

    How grateful I am to have so much to miss from back home. How grateful I am to let so much more love and joy into my heart here at my second home for the next four years. 

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  • ghouls that haunt [lifestyle] – Post-Magazine

    Nobody likes to be blissfully enjoying a weekend Ratty lunch only to be met with the sight of someone with whom they have less than pleasant memories. More times than I’m willing to admit, I’ve cursed this school for being too small and side-eyed my friend when we passed a few select people. The emotions I experience vary for different opps—ranging from slight embarrassment and awkwardness to lingering anger and resentment.

    My friends and I have started calling these people ghouls—a fitting name for people of the past that continue to pop up in our lives, much to our displeasure. “It’s a ghoul of the past,” we murmur, elbowing each other and giggling quietly. It was always a funny image to me, imagining our opps as ghouls that disturbed the peace of our daily lives in petty ways—pushing vases off of desks, making lights flicker.

    On a cool, cloudy morning while walking to class, I was struck with a realization: I am, also, my opps’ opp. It was obvious in hindsight; why wouldn’t a mutual, unresolved conflict between two people result in bitter and awkward feelings from both parties? At the end of the day, I’m as much of an unpleasant, brief intersection in their lives as they are in mine.

    At first, I wondered how many times I had been pointed out at a dining hall, whispered about in a group. But, as I thought about the actual drama that happened and tried to discern what kind of things they would say about me, the memories of what we even did to each other were fuzzy at best. Hold on, what did they say that annoyed me? What did they do that made me sigh and roll my eyes when one of my friends told me about it? Do they even remember enough about me to be talking behind my back, still? At the time, the drama had seemingly consumed my whole life, but now I could hardly remember the nitty gritty details. In two, ten, fifty years time, I won’t even remember that one of these “ghouls” made a petty comment, and I’ll only have a vague idea of what that big fight was about.

    Even though I’m only a sophomore, freshman year feels like it was a lifetime ago, and the memories of why I fell out with one of my old friends are already hazy. I still feel awkward when I inevitably pass them on Thayer, at the Campus Center, or any of the unavoidable spots at Brown, but it’s not nearly as bad as when the conflict between us was fresh—when I would purposely take the longest paths to class and my clubs to avoid them.

    We always focus on the fear of forgetting, on the pleasant memories slipping past us before we even realize they’re gone. But forgetting also allows us to move on from unresolved conflicts, to let go of that (sometimes petty, sometimes justified) anger toward someone and pass by them unbothered. A ghoul never haunts one place forever; it has to move on one way or another.

    I barely have any recollection of the drama between my elementary school friends—or even my early high school ones, for that matter—and I certainly don’t hold the same ill will I did all those years ago. With time, eventually that sense of peaceful forgetfulness will extend to the seemingly world-shattering drama that happened last year and even the drama happening to me now.

    One day, all my opps and I will be looking through the Brown yearbook—maybe across the world from each other, maybe across the street—and all we’ll think is “Oh wow, I forgot about them. Isn’t that crazy?”

    Maybe someday soon I’ll see one of my opps and I won’t feel embarrassment or awkwardness or anger—just simple apathy, as if I was passing anyone else on the street. 

    And just as ghouls eventually fade from the living world, moving onto the afterlife, these people and I will move on from each other, no longer occupying each other’s space physically or emotionally.

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