Remembrance of Meals Past

~By Christine Sarkis Everyone has at least one superpower. I have been blessed with two: the knack of identifying a song by its first three bars, and the ability to remember everything I have ever eaten. It’s a silly trick, but one that is at the heart of my lifelong devotion to the anticipation, taste,…

What a Wiener

~By Katie Blais When I was twelve, I decided to become a vegetarian.  At the time my brother, who is six years older than me, was dating Kate, a tall, willowy gal, who not only shared my namesake but always let me tag along with her and my brother—much to his chagrin of course.  I…

Seeking Out My Inner Tortoise

~By Sarah Pascarella I am now in my thirties, and trying to learn to change my eating habits. Not the actual meals on my plate or the food choices I make, mind you, those I think serve me just fine. No, I’m trying to change the actual way I eat, which one could describe as…

Maple Syrup, $50; A Sunday Tradition, Priceless

~By Sarah Pascarella It’s funny how people determine what’s worth a good splurge, especially when it comes to food. In my house, most groceries were strictly no-nonsense. Nutritious, natural, nothing too fancy–these were the staples of our pantry. We clipped coupons and took advantage of weekly sales to make sure our grocery dollars went far….

In the summertime…

~By Katie Blais A bulk of my childhood summers were spent at the Swedish Social Club … a men’s club that my grandfather and dad belonged to … it was this huge old building on a lake that turned into a playground for my brother and my cousins and me on those hot summer days. …

The Healing Powers of Soup

~By Kate H. Knapp If I could go back in time and impart one piece of wisdom to my younger self, it would be to appreciate the soup. Granted, I’ve learned plenty that could benefit the immature me, plus things that would redefine many of the mistakes I have made since those days of youth….

Here’s To You, Mr. Martinson

~By Sarah Pascarella I’ve been drinking coffee since the ripe old age of eight. My first taste was purely an accident. One Saturday morning, my mother had gotten up from eating breakfast to refill her cup. She returned to the table, coffee pot in hand, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. Before adding to…