By Elizabeth Chivers

When I was just about ten, still in grade school and still not quite conscious of my own personhood, my family got meat bunnies. My mom had told my dad it would be the final straw, and she was, classically, correct. By then, we already had a cat, Emily Dickenson, that I’d begged for for years, a beautiful, gentle lab named Millie, a small run of chickens, a pen of white turkeys, and, significantly, two little pet bunnies. Not meat bunnies.

By Grace Davis

People are under a lot of stress. They’re sleeping during the daytime. They’re awake during the nighttime. They’re drinking three cups of coffee after 4:00 in the afternoon. (I myself am guilty of this vice). They can’t function in their early morning meetings or classes without at least two shots of espresso. How did we get here?

By Lachlan Sutton

I grew up watching Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away, Totoro, Ponyo, and Howl’s Moving Castle, falling in love with the plotlines and the incredible detail within these animated films. Throughout these movies, Miyazaki presents Japanese cuisine in all its beauty, expertly showcasing its stunning presentation and making my mouth water at every abundant feast or delectable snack. Spirited Away especially captures the allure of these extravagant meals and simple delicacies unique to Japanese cuisine, cultivating my deep desire to visit Japan and experience this type of food firsthand.

By Wendy Zhang

The first time I had a real strawberry was four years ago at Massaro Farms, a small New England organic farm in my hometown. Unlike bananas, peaches, and apples, a strawberry’s growth is stunted the moment it is picked. Most strawberries are ripped from their beds before maturity, so that their delicate flesh can withstand long journeys. Even if their skin is fully red, their cores are marred with streaky white scars. I used to think this was normal.

By Jack He

Back in New Haven, I once joked to a friend that the café was my monastery. Every afternoon, like a studious monk abiding by a strict schedule, I approached Chapel Street as two coffee shops enter my field of vision

By Elizabeth Chivers

The smell precedes it; wafting up the stairs at ten in the morning. Like a zombie, you rise from bed, still not quite awake. You know it before you see it. Pancakes. 

By Phaedra Letrou

This past summer, I worked at a bakery in London. In the bakery, the day started long before sunrise. As soon as I arrived, I’d dive into the rhythm of the work – turning on the ovens, tipping out brioche dough to shape cardamom buns, meticulously garnishing pastries with carefully sliced fresh fruit.

By Jack He

I boarded the train from Heathrow in a slouched, disheveled, and jet-lagged state. Looking out the window, sunlight kissed broad patches of shimmering grass, brightened parents’ faces, and quickened the skips of frolicking children. In that moment, London seemed too good to be true.

By Mao Shiotsu

About the time when Maud tried Dominique Ansel’s renowned creation.

By Mao Shiotsu

A love poem to carbonara.

By Sophie Henry

Sophie reflects back on her life eats.

By Mao Shiotsu

The pastry chef who stole all of our hearts.