Cinemorphosis

Tag: recipe

  • The French Toast Zone and Other Dangerous Places

    The French Toast Zone and Other Dangerous Places

    Recently, I watched the new King of the Hill, where the gang has aged into the gentle patina of later life. In one scene, Hank, Peggy, and Bobby are seated at the kitchen table, devouring what looked like French toast or chocolate chip pancakes—something golden, sweet, and unapologetically bad for you. It was an ordinary family breakfast, the kind you imagine smelling from three houses away. Watching it felt like slipping into a warm bath of contentment. These were normal people, enjoying themselves, at ease in the sacred space I call the French Toast Zone.

    The French Toast Zone is the place where life is easy, breakfast is decadent, and you’re at peace with your waistline, your arteries, and your eventual mortality. But step into the biomarker minefield—calories counted, protein ratios calibrated, insulin spikes plotted like military campaigns—and you’re in the Restriction Zone. The mood shifts. Every bite is an act of negotiation with your cholesterol, your bathroom scale, and the grim actuarial math of your lifespan.

    Real life, of course, is not an all-inclusive stay in either zone. Most of us shuttle back and forth—half saint, half sinner—forever bargaining between the delights of German chocolate cake and the promise of three extra years of foggy-eyed longevity. Too much denial, and you die having lived as a monk in a bakery you never entered. Too much indulgence, and you’re trapped on the hedonic treadmill, sprinting after pleasures that get smaller the closer you get.

    Some people manage this dance effortlessly. They live in homeostasis, exercising moderation as naturally as breathing. I have never been one of these blessed creatures. As a teenage bodybuilder who saw biceps as salvation from low self-esteem, I learned early that moderation was for other people. My internal wiring is a one-way circuit from obsession to burnout and back again. I am, in short, Extreme Man.

    Extreme Man has his own archetype—a tragic, sweaty figure charging at his chosen folly until he mutates into something grotesque. Then comes the epiphany, the Damascus jolt that scrambles his molecules and sends him hurtling into a new life mission. It could be religion, music, bodybuilding, stamp collecting—doesn’t matter. Once the lightning strikes, moderation becomes an obscenity. He must convert the world.

    When I was a teenage Olympic weightlifter, I preached squats with the fervor of a street-corner prophet, convinced proper form could change lives. My audience—bewildered, politely nodding—failed to share my revelation. Some Extremes get written off as harmless cranks. Others, gifted with charisma, build religions followed by millions.

    The homeostatic types are often immune to these evangelists. They are already content. But for those of us who never knew balance, the siren call of radical change is intoxicating. We cling to the hope that the right transformation will lift us out of our malaise.

    Neither camp is wholly admirable. The balanced can model moderation—or smug mediocrity. The Extremes can inspire reinvention—or display unhinged egotism. The truth is in the messy middle, where both tendencies collide, and if you’re lucky, you learn from both without being consumed by either.

  • Cultural Fusion or Culinary Fraud?

    Cultural Fusion or Culinary Fraud?

    My Critical Thinking students are grappling with the sacred and the sacrilegious—namely, tacos.

    Their final essay asks a deceptively simple question: When it comes to iconic dishes like the taco, should we cling to tradition as if it were holy writ, treating every variation as culinary heresy? Or is riffing on a recipe a legitimate act of evolution—or worse, an opportunistic theft dressed up in aioli?

    To dig into this, we turn to Netflix’s Ugly Delicious, where chef David Chang hosts an episode simply titled “Tacos.” The episode plays like a beautifully constructed argumentative essay by Gustavo Arellano, who dismantles the idea of “Mexican food” as a static monolith. Instead, he presents it as a glorious, shape-shifting culture of flavor—one that thrives because of its openness to the outside world.

    Arellano celebrates Mexico’s culinary curiosity: how Lebanese immigrants brought shawarma and inspired tacos al pastor, a perfect example of cultural fusion that became canon. He contrasts this with the United States’ suspicious, xenophobic posture—a country that historically snarls at outsiders until they open a food truck and sell $2 magic on a paper plate.

    Roy Choi, creator of the legendary Kogi taco trucks, takes this further. He speaks of cooking as a street-level negotiation for dignity: Korean-Mexican fusion forged in the heat of shared kitchens, shaped by the scorn of American culture, and perfected not out of trendiness but out of survival. These tacos aren’t just delicious; they’re resistance with a salsa verde finish.

    But this isn’t just a story of open minds and flavor-blending utopias. There’s also the hard truth of survival and adaptation. Take Lucia Rodriguez, who immigrated from Jalisco and had to recreate her recipes using whatever ingredients she could find in San Bernardino. Her efforts became the foundation of Mitla Cafe, a restaurant still thriving since 1937. It also became the blueprint for Glen Bell—yes, that Glen Bell—who reverse-engineered her food to create Taco Bell, which is to Mexican cuisine what boxed wine is to Bordeaux.

    Still, not all spin-offs are sins. Rosio Sanchez, a Michelin-level chef, began her journey by mastering traditional Mexican food. Only then did she begin to improvise, like a jazz virtuoso honoring the standards before going off-script. Her reinvention is rooted in love, not opportunism. It’s a tribute, not a theft.

    And therein lies the moral fault line: intent, respect, and—let’s not forget—execution. As one student noted with appropriate outrage, white TikTok influencers once rebranded agua fresca as “spa water,” a cultural mugging wrapped in Pinterest aesthetics. And let’s not ignore the corporate vultures who buy beloved local chains only to gut their soul with frozen ingredients and bottom-line mediocrity.

    The lesson? Not all innovation is appropriation. But if your food disrespects its roots, dilutes its meaning, or simply tastes like disappointment, it’s not fusion—it’s a felony.

    The rule is simple: Make great food that honors its lineage and blows people away. Otherwise, what you’re serving is not cuisine. It’s edible disrespect.

  • How Fake Food Mirrors AI Writing

    How Fake Food Mirrors AI Writing

    Like most people, I have an unbreakable bond with food—a bond so primal that when the food industry dares to present me with a counterfeit, I might taste it out of politeness or morbid curiosity, but love it? Never. Inferior substitutes, especially those concoctions posing as “creative alternatives,” are my culinary kryptonite. My first encounter with such deceit came in 1970, courtesy of my stint in the YMCA’s Indian Guides (now rebranded as Adventure Guides). We were part of “tribes,” each made up of eight father-son pairs, with one dad dubbed “Chief” and the rest relegated to “Assistant Chiefs.” The real highlight, of course, was the weekly rotation to a different family’s home, where the moms—our unsung heroes—served dessert.

    But one evening, dessert took a turn for the worst. Our host mother, a vision of 70s flair with her blonde spun-sugar hair and white go-go boots, had stumbled upon what she must have thought was the recipe of the century. There it was, in plain sight on her kitchen counter: an open Ladies’ Home Journal or some equally menacing tome of domestic innovation. She cheerfully announced her culinary coup—a dessert she was calling “ice cream” but with no actual ice cream in it. Instead, the concoction was an unholy alliance of canned frosting and Cool Whip.

    She served it in cones with an enthusiasm that could have powered the disco lights at Studio 54. But when I took a bite, the illusion shattered. It wasn’t ice cream; it was a crime scene. The texture was gritty, like someone had blended sand with modeling clay. It was lukewarm—room temperature, for God’s sake—and tasted like the sugary sludge dentists use to polish your teeth before hitting you with the guilt trip about flossing. I glanced around and saw my fellow boys and their dads wearing identical expressions of barely-contained horror—the same grimace detectives on TV crime procedurals make when they have to pull out a hanky to block the stench of a decomposing corpse. One by one, we all quietly set our cones down as though handling evidence at a murder trial.

    The poor woman, sensing the full weight of her failure, blushed beet-red and stammered out a series of apologies, swearing on everything holy that she would never again darken a dessert table with this abomination. We forgave her, of course—some crimes are too absurd to punish. But to this day, whenever I see Cool Whip, I feel a pang of existential dread and hear the faint echo of tribal laughter masked by suppressed gagging.

    My second traumatic encounter with fake food came years later, sometime in the early 90s. I was living alone in the barren expanse of the California desert, surrounded by nothing but dust, lizards, and my questionable life choices. Thanksgiving rolled around, and rather than go full Norman Rockwell with a solo turkey feast, I decided to spare myself the hassle and opted for something “easy.” Enter the boxed abomination known as tofurkey—a vegetarian horror show complete with a pouch of dubious “gravy.”

    The first bite was a betrayal of taste and texture. My jaw slowed in protest, grinding against the dense, rubbery mass like I was chewing on a tire patch. The spongy gluten monstrosity refused to yield, as if daring my teeth to break first. The flavor? Imagine licking a salted yoga mat that’s been marinated in vague artificial regret. I eyed another slice, its pallid, lifeless complexion daring me to continue. With the enthusiasm of a condemned man, I stabbed the fork into it, hoping for some hidden culinary salvation. Nope. The taste was as bland and soul-crushing as the first bite—less “holiday cheer,” more “processed despair.”

    Finally, I’d had enough. With a sigh that could’ve put out a candle, I carried my plate to the trash and scraped the entire crime scene into the garbage, where it belonged. Dignity had to be reclaimed. I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, sliced a banana over the top, and drizzled on some honey. As I savored each crunchy, sweet spoonful, I felt a small but vital spark of culinary joy return. It wasn’t just a meal—it was a rescue mission for my self-respect. And let me tell you, a bowl of cereal has never tasted so victorious.

    The self-abasement and insult to others from eating and serving fake food was captured brilliantly in the early 1980s when comedian Bob Sarlatte took aim at the pièce de résistance of culinary chicanery: the Ritz Crackers recipe for Mock Apple Pie. Sarlatte was on a mission to uncover the absurdity behind Ritz’s audacious claim of making apple pie with, wait for it, crackers instead of apples. He was incredulous, practically frothing at the mouth as he dissected this travesty. “Why on earth,” he demanded, “would Ritz, in all their cracker-clad glory, boast about a recipe that doesn’t even remotely involve apples?” According to Sarlatte, this so-called “apple pie” was like calling a desert a beach because it had sand—except the sand was made of crushed Ritz crackers, and the beach was a figment of your imagination. The comedian was in no mood for Ritz’s grandstanding. To him, this wasn’t a culinary innovation; it was a culinary catastrophe. He took Ritz to task for attempting to pass off a cracker conglomeration as apple pie, as if the lack of fruit was a feature, not a flaw. “Who,” Sarlatte railed, “are you going to serve this Mock Apple Pie to? Your mock friends? People who enjoy mockery served with a side of disappointment?” Sarlatte’s razor-sharp wit wasn’t just about lampooning a recipe—it was about exposing a greater travesty: the shameless elevation of a subpar substitute as a triumph of creativity. This wasn’t a clever culinary trick; it was an insult wrapped in a cracker crust. Bob Sarlatte laid bare the staggering lack of self-awareness and the brazen audacity required to serve such an ersatz “apple” pie with a smug smile. It was a masterclass in how to serve up an insult with a cherry on top, minus the apple, of course.

    Sarlatte’s takedown resonates because food is sacred territory. Our connection to it is primal. Unlike AI-generated text, fake food assaults the senses in ways you can’t ignore. And while AI hasn’t (yet) encroached on the culinary world with soulless meal simulations, the market’s rejection of fake meat shows just how little tolerance we have for edible counterfeits. Sales of plant-based protein substitutes have tanked, a clear signal that consumers aren’t ready to trade their ribeye for a rubbery simulacrum. Simply put, there’s only so much culinary mockery we’re willing to stomach—literally.

    Fake foods fail 90% of the time with 90% of the people, but in the realm of writing, AI-generated prose seems to enjoy the opposite fate: it’s “good enough” 90% of the time for 90% of situations. So perhaps fake food isn’t the right comparison. When it comes to our slow surrender to mediocrity in writing, convenience food may be a more apt metaphor. Sure, a Hot Pocket isn’t a Russian piroshki, but its ham and cheese filling is technically real. The danger isn’t the outright fakery of fake food—it’s the insidious appeal of convenience that gradually numbs our taste for anything better. The same flattening effect occurs in writing, where AI churns out serviceable but soulless content, lowering our appetite for higher-level craftsmanship.

    Let’s be real: when you bite into a Big Mac, you’re not searching for the subtle interplay of flavors or the delicate dance of textures. You’re there for the holy trinity of fat, protein, and salt—instant gratification, hold the sophistication. Likewise, when you fire up ChatGPT, you’re not chasing literary immortality. You’re after a fast, serviceable product so you can free up time to hit the drive-thru. Convenience becomes king, and both your palate and prose pay the price. Before you know it, you’ve traded filet mignon for fast food and Shakespeare for shallow clickbait. Standards? Those eroded long ago, somewhere between the special sauce and the soulless syntax.

    We’ve already seen this erosion over the last fifteen years. Smartphones have replaced thoughtful correspondence with texts full of abbreviations and emojis. My students now submit essays littered with “LOL” and lowercase “i” like punctuation’s gone on permanent strike. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe this linguistic infantilization is the new standard, and business communication will one day be indistinguishable from TikTok captions. Still, I don’t entirely despair. Higher-level writing—like Joan Didion’s piercing cultural reportage—exists in a category of its own and doesn’t compete with the memos and press releases AI is destined to take over.

    What worries me more is that fewer people will seek out writers like Didion, Zadie Smith, or Hunter S. Thompson. Without readers, the appetite for great writing—and with it, deep thinking—shrinks. The flattening of taste becomes a flattening of consciousness, a slow bleed of our shared humanity. Look at our growing dependence on technology: GLP-1 drugs manage our weight, AI shapes our communication, streaming algorithms filter our music, and nutrition powders substitute for food. The result is a bland middle ground, a life devoid of both high peaks and deep valleys. We stop noticing the dehumanization because we’ve acclimated to it.

    But not all hope is lost. I remember hearing an interview on Fresh Air with Tiffany Haddish. Early in her career, Haddish struggled to find her comedic voice—until Eddie Murphy gave her a piece of advice that changed everything. He told her to have fun on stage, to genuinely enjoy herself. If she was having fun, the audience would feel it and respond. That human moment of mentorship transformed her career.

    This story reassured me for two reasons. First, Tiffany Haddish wasn’t mentored by ChatGPT—she was guided by Eddie Murphy, a living legend. Second, comedy itself is proof that people will always crave voices that cut through the emotional numbness of modern life. Great comedians, like great writers, are the axes that Kafka said could break the frozen sea within us. They shatter our tech-induced monotony and return us to the raw, messy experience of being human. As long as there are voices like Haddish and Murphy to remind us of that, there’s still hope that humanity won’t flatline into a dull, digital abyss.

    We may live in a world where powdered meal replacements pose as dinner and AI-generated text poses as thought, but the human appetite—whether for flavor or for meaning—can’t be faked for long. Just as we spit out Cool Whip cones and tofurkey slabs with a shudder, our souls eventually revolt against the flattening effects of machine-made language. We remember what real texture feels like, in food and in prose. We remember what it means to laugh at a story that stings because it’s true. And even if convenience wins most days, there will always be those who crave the messy, glorious excess of a banana split or the searing honesty of a well-told tale. As long as people continue to gag on mediocrity—be it edible or literary—there’s hope that the hunger for something real, soulful, and defiantly human will keep coming back.

  • The Shame of Being Crock Blocked

    The Shame of Being Crock Blocked

    I learned the invaluable lesson of staying in my lane in 1989, a year that will forever be etched in my memory as the year I brought industrial sludge to an English Department potluck picnic. I was a freshly minted lecturer at a university in the California desert, and it was my inaugural potluck. Naturally, I was determined to impress my colleagues with a culinary masterpiece. I had a slow cooker, a gift from my mother, which I imagined to be my ticket to gastronomic glory. So, I decided to tackle curried lentils—a dish so ambitious it could have been named “Lentil Apocalypse.” I poured lentils into the slow cooker until it was practically bursting at the seams. Next, I added what could only be described as an entire bottle of curry, along with a mountain of chopped onions and celery. Unsure of how long these lentils needed to avoid the dreaded “raw green beetle” look, I left them cooking all day. By the time I made my way to the picnic, the contents had morphed into what resembled a toxic waste spill, a sludge so thick it could be used to pave roads. With all the bravado of a culinary adventurer, I placed my slow cooker among the other dishes. As hours ticked by, my creation remained untouched. The English Chair, Solomon, seemed to take pity on me. He ladled a small portion onto his plate in a gesture of charity, but his reaction was nothing short of tragic. His face contorted in a way that suggested he’d just tasted a toxic waste dump, and he looked as if he might need a hazmat suit and a team of medics. From that day on, I was never again entrusted with bringing food. Instead, my muscles were put to better use hauling giant bags of ice, crates of wine glasses, and cartons of boxed wine to future events. Eventually, I learned my lesson and found my true calling—one that involved heavy lifting and zero culinary experiments. And so, I stayed in my lane, with a clear understanding that my talents were best suited for anything other than poisoning my colleagues with curried lentils.

    My ordeal points is an example of being Crock Blocked–the uniquely mortifying shame experienced when your potluck contribution—usually involving a Crock-Pot, misplaced ambition, and a suspiciously gelatinous texture—is avoided by everyone, like it’s radioactive. Crock Blocked is when your dish becomes a pariah on the buffet table, gathering flies instead of praise, while nearby casseroles are ravaged like it’s the last supper. You watch helplessly as guests whisper about “that lentil thing,” your dreams of impressing the crowd slowly congealing into a turmeric-scented failure. You leave with your dignity dented, your Crock-Pot still full, and your social standing demoted to Ice Guy.

  • Crustodianism

    Crustodianism

    Many moons ago, my wife and I watched the 2006 HBO documentary Thin, which chronicles the tragic existence of girls in a Florida rehab clinic for eating disorders. These poor souls were ensnared in a vicious cycle of depression, self-loathing, and lies, their recovery rates abysmally low and fatality rates tragically high. After this emotional gut-punch, we desperately needed a palate cleanser, so we turned to a pie-baking contest featuring Midwestern women in Christmas sweaters, lovingly toiling over pie crusts. These wholesome warriors of the kitchen were a stark contrast to the aforementioned sufferers. It dawned on me that pie baking is the antithesis of anorexia—a condition of solipsism where one disappears into the self, whereas pie baking is a testament to community, love, and selfless devotion to butter and flour.

    Imagine, if you will, a world where the kitchen isn’t just a hub of culinary creation but a sacred temple of love, where pie-baking is the highest form of devotion. In this sanctified realm, every Midwestern woman in a Christmas sweater is a culinary high priestess, her rolling pin a scepter of affection, her pie crust a canvas for heartfelt artistry. The Pie Baking Contest is an epic battleground where these valiant women gather, their aprons fluttering like superhero capes, ready to channel pure, unadulterated love into their pies. The stakes are absurdly high, the competition fierce, but the atmosphere? Pure camaraderie and joy.

    Here, pie baking is not just a quaint pastime; it’s an epic saga of love, community, and unyielding devotion. These heroines approach their craft with the precision of neurosurgeons and the passion of Renaissance artists. Flour fills the air like enchanted snow, butter is blended into dough with the deftness of a master illusionist, and apples are peeled and sliced with the ferocity of a seasoned samurai. Each pie is a labor of love, a tangible expression of their deepest affections. As they sweat and toil over their creations, the kitchen morphs into a bustling hub of warmth and connection.

    Baking pies, slinging spaghetti and garlic bread, or whipping up a dish of hot and sour Tom Yum Goong soup demands a healthy soul, one that’s plugged into the matrix of family and community. We therefore don’t journey solo but soar with a merry band of culinary adventurers, armed with spatulas and mixing bowls, ready to conquer the next great feast. So, skip the guilt and embrace the butter—life’s too short for bland food and empty kitchens.

    Baking pies points us to the valuable custom of Crustodianism–the sacred, soul-healing act of cooking not merely for sustenance, but as a devotional rite—an expression of love, fellowship, and culinary redemption. Born at the crossroads of Midwest Christmas sweater sincerity and battle-hardened pie crust tenacity, Crustodianism elevates the domestic act of baking into a communal liturgy. The Crustodian is no mere cook; she (or he, apron optional) is a caretaker of tradition, a therapist armed with a rolling pin, a high priest of carbs performing ritual alchemy with butter, flour, and tears of joy.

    In contrast to the solipsistic void of disordered eating, where nourishment is seen as the enemy, the Crustodian sees food as communion. A warm casserole becomes a life raft. A triple-layer coconut cream pie becomes a bridge to the lonely. A pot of stew bubbles with the echoes of ancestral affection. Cooking, in this frame, is the antidote to isolation—the proof that one has not given up on the world but doubled down on its delicious potential.

    Crustodianism isn’t just about the food. It’s about saying, “I made this for you,” and meaning it with your whole buttery soul. It’s about reclaiming joy, reclaiming appetite, and yes, reclaiming your place at the table—preferably next to someone you love, with a second helping on the way.

  • Sundae Grailism

    Sundae Grailism

    When I was a kid growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1970s, there was an ice creamery called Farrell’s. In a child’s imagination, Farrell’s was the equivalent of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. You didn’t go to Farrell’s often, maybe once every two years or so. Entering Farrell’s, you were greeted by the cacophony of laughter and the clinking of spoons against glass. Servers in candy-striped uniforms dashed around with the energy of marathon runners, bearing trays laden with gargantuan sundaes. You sat down, your eyes wide with awe, and the menu was presented to you like a sacred scroll. You don’t need to read it, though. Your quest was clear: the legendary banana split. When the dessert finally arrived, it was nothing short of a spectacle. The banana split was monumental, an ice cream behemoth. I was as if the dessert gods themselves had conspired to create this masterpiece. Three scoops of ice cream, draped in velvety hot fudge and caramel, crowned with mountains of whipped cream and adorned with maraschino cherries, all nestled between perfectly ripe bananas. Sprinkles and nuts cascaded down the sides like the treasures of a sugar-coated El Dorado. As you took your first bite, you embarked on a journey as grand and transformative as any hero’s quest. The flavors exploded in your mouth, each spoonful a step deeper into the enchanted forest of dessert ecstasy. You were not just eating ice cream; you were battling dragons of indulgence and conquering kingdoms of sweetness. The sheer magnitude of the banana split demanded your full attention and stamina. Your small arms wielded the spoon like a warrior’s sword, and with each bite, you felt a mixture of triumph and fatigue. By the time you reached the bottom of the bowl, you were exhausted. Your muscles ached as if you’ve climbed a mountain, and you were certain that you’d expanded your stomach capacity to Herculean proportions. You briefly considered the possibility of needing an appendectomy. But oh, the glory of it all! Your Farrell’s sojourn was worth every ache and groan. You entered the ice creamery as an ordinary child and emerged as a hero. In this fairy-tale-like journey, you had undergone a metamorphosis. You were no longer just a kid from the Bay Area; you were now a Jedi of the dessert world, having mastered the art of indulgence and delight. As you returned home, the experience of Farrell’s left a lasting imprint on your soul. You regaled your friends with tales of your conquest, the banana split becoming a legendary feast in the annals of your childhood adventures. In your heart, you knew that this epic journey to Farrell’s, this magical pilgrimage, had elevated you to the ranks of dessert royalty, a memory that would forever glitter like a golden crown in the kingdom of your mind.

    These indulgences point to Sundae Grailism–the childhood phenomenon in which a dessert outing—particularly involving elaborate confections like banana splits—takes on the structure, stakes, and emotional intensity of an Arthurian quest. Sundae Grailism transforms a simple trip to an ice cream parlor into a mythic pilgrimage where sprinkles are sacred relics, whipped cream is a divine cloud cover, and the spoon is Excalibur.

    Children afflicted with Sundae Grailism don’t just want dessert—they are summoned to it. They enter Farrell’s or any suitably over-the-top ice creamery with the gravity of knights entering Camelot, guided by visions of the elusive Banana Split of Destiny. The menu is not read—it is interpreted like scripture. Every bite of caramel-drizzled glory is a chapter in the epic. By the end of the journey, they’re bloated but victorious, stained with fudge and swagger, ready to regale the kingdom (a.k.a. the school lunch table) with tales of conquest and near-digestive ruin.

    Sundae Grailism is not just about sugar—it’s about transcendence, myth-making, and the belief that, under the right fluorescent lighting and with enough maraschino cherries, a kid can become legend.

  • CAR T-Cell Therapy Helped My Brother Beat a Rare Cancer

    CAR T-Cell Therapy Helped My Brother Beat a Rare Cancer

    In 2021, my younger brother faced a grim diagnosis: Burkitt lymphoma, a rare and aggressive cancer that left him with a mere three months to live. As if that wasn’t enough, he was recently divorced, his finances were in tatters following the collapse of his tech start-up, and the weight of stage-4 cancer was crushing him. The doctor, in a rare moment of compassion, suggested he create a bucket list. But fate had one last twist in store: my brother was accepted as the final participant in a groundbreaking UCSF experimental treatment known as CAR T-cell therapy.

    For three weeks, he underwent this miracle treatment, and as his recovery began, he was supposed to stay at the nearby Koz Hospitality House, a sanctuary for cancer patients. But he needed more than just a place to stay—he needed someone to help him navigate this harrowing chapter. Enter me. My college courses had all shifted online due to the pandemic, so I was able to handle my remote office hours from the Koz House. I moved in with my brother for two weeks, and though it was a challenge, it felt like a moral imperative to be by his side.

    What followed was nothing short of miraculous. Not only did my brother defy the odds and beat the cancer—the enormous tumor in his chest vanished—but the absence of chemotherapy meant he was full of energy. We walked several miles a day in the warm embrace of the Golden Gate Park sunshine, and dined out at local restaurants, with our absolute favorite being the Bibimbap from a charming Korean café within walking distance of the Koz House.

    Imagine, if you will, a plate that could make the gods weep with joy: the luxurious Bibimbap. At its core is a steaming mound of jasmine rice, each grain perfectly cooked and slightly caramelized around the edges, promising a delightful crunch. This foundation is adorned with a vibrant array of vegetables that seem to dance in a riot of color. There are tenderly crisp shredded carrots, their bright orange sweetness a contrast to the emerald-green spinach, delicately sautéed to perfection. Thin strips of julienned shiitake mushrooms lend an earthy umami, while sautéed zucchini adds a touch of sweetness, and crunchy bean sprouts offer a refreshing snap.

    Amid this colorful tableau, slices of seasoned beef—tender and juicy, marinated in a rich blend of soy sauce, garlic, and sesame oil—rest in harmonious balance with the vegetables. Atop this culinary masterpiece is a perfectly fried egg, its golden yolk a glossy orb of creamy richness, its edges crisply caramelized for a delightful textural contrast. A bold dollop of gochujang, a spicy-sweet fermented chili paste, sits at the center, its fiery kick slicing through the richness with vibrant heat.

    A sprinkling of sesame seeds, their nutty aroma mingling with the dish’s complex flavors, completes the ensemble. Thinly sliced scallions add a touch of freshness, and a drizzle of toasted sesame oil imparts a deep, nutty undertone. Every bite of this artful creation is a testament to the balance of textures and flavors—a celebration of umami, sweetness, and spice that transforms each meal into a joyous feast.

    Watching my brother relish every bite of this extraordinary Bibimbap was more than just a culinary delight—it felt like witnessing a healing miracle. It was as though this renowned Korean dish held within it a secret power, a savory balm that not only nourished his body but also rejuvenated his spirit, making him heal before my very eyes.

  • The Day I Failed the Ishihara Color Blindness Test

    The Day I Failed the Ishihara Color Blindness Test

    For years, I harbored a vague but nagging suspicion that peanut butter was green. Why? No clue—until 1971, when the grim truth revealed itself under the fluorescent doom of Independent Elementary’s nurse’s office.

    It was the day of the Ishihara Color Blindness Test, a supposedly routine exercise in humiliation where each fifth grader took turns peering into an illuminated contraption to identify numbers and shapes hidden in a field of colored dots. My classmates breezed through it like game show contestants, rattling off answers with the breezy confidence of children who’d never questioned their own eyesight.

    Then it was my turn.

    I stared into the glowing abyss. Saw nothing. Blinked. Still nothing.

    The nurse grew impatient. “Well? Can’t you see anything?”

    I could not.

    The room erupted in laughter. Congratulations—I was officially hopelessly color-blind, a medical outcast, a social leper. For the remainder of the morning, my classmates regarded me like a rare museum specimen. This boy thinks peanut butter is green. Proceed with caution.

    But fate, as it turns out, is not without a sense of humor.

    During lunch recess, the hierarchy of fifth-grade cruelty shifted. Kickball—a sport where raw physical dominance could overwrite even the most damning personal defect—offered me an unexpected shot at redemption. As the ball rolled toward me, I summoned the might of my tree-trunk leg, swung with the force of a caffeinated mule, and launched that red rubber sphere over everyone’s heads. It sailed past the outfield, past the schoolyard, and over the fence—finally splashing down into the backyard swimming pool of a bewildered suburbanite several blocks away.

    For a brief, glorious moment, I was no longer the kid who saw peanut butter in the wrong spectrum. I was a legend. The freakishly strong fifth grader with the foot of an Olympian and the trajectory of a human cannon.

    Lesson learned: You may be ridiculed for believing peanut butter is green, but if you channel your inner Herman Munster and kick a ball into another ZIP code, nobody gives a damn about your defective eyeballs. Heroism comes in many shades—even if you can’t see them.

  • Never Insult Your Guests with Mock Apple Pie

    Never Insult Your Guests with Mock Apple Pie

    One fateful evening in 1982, as I was nestled on the couch like a potato after a long day, I tuned into a San Francisco KQED comedy special. Enter Bob Sarlatte, a comedian with a chin so bold it could be used as a paperweight and a grin so snide it seemed to have its own agenda. He took aim at the pièce de résistance of culinary chicanery: the Ritz Crackers recipe for Mock Apple Pie. Sarlatte was on a mission to uncover the absurdity behind Ritz’s audacious claim of making apple pie with, wait for it, crackers instead of apples. He was incredulous, practically frothing at the mouth as he dissected this travesty. “Why on earth,” he demanded, “would Ritz, in all their cracker-clad glory, boast about a recipe that doesn’t even remotely involve apples?” According to Sarlatte, this so-called “apple pie” was like calling a desert a beach because it had sand—except the sand was made of crushed Ritz crackers, and the beach was a figment of your imagination. The comedian was in no mood for Ritz’s grandstanding. To him, this wasn’t a culinary innovation; it was a culinary catastrophe. He took Ritz to task for attempting to pass off a cracker conglomeration as apple pie, as if the lack of fruit was a feature, not a flaw. “Who,” Sarlatte railed, “are you going to serve this Mock Apple Pie to? Your mock friends? People who enjoy mockery served with a side of disappointment?” Sarlatte’s razor-sharp wit wasn’t just about lampooning a recipe—it was about exposing a greater travesty: the shameless elevation of a subpar substitute as a triumph of creativity. This wasn’t a clever culinary trick; it was an insult wrapped in a cracker crust. Bob Sarlatte laid bare the staggering lack of self-awareness and the brazen audacity required to serve such an ersatz “apple” pie with a smug smile. It was a masterclass in how to serve up an insult with a cherry on top, minus the apple, of course.

  • WHEN WATCHING PIE BAKING CONTESTS ELEVATES THE SOUL

    WHEN WATCHING PIE BAKING CONTESTS ELEVATES THE SOUL

    Many moons ago, my wife and I watched the 2006 HBO documentary Thin, which chronicles the tragic existence of girls in a Florida rehab clinic for eating disorders. These poor souls were ensnared in a vicious cycle of depression, self-loathing, and lies, their recovery rates abysmally low and fatality rates tragically high. After this emotional gut-punch, we desperately needed a palate cleanser, so we turned to a pie-baking contest featuring Midwestern women in Christmas sweaters, lovingly toiling over pie crusts. These wholesome warriors of the kitchen were a stark contrast to the aforementioned sufferers. It dawned on me that pie baking is the antithesis of anorexia—a condition of solipsism where one disappears into the self, whereas pie baking is a testament to community, love, and selfless devotion to butter and flour.

    Imagine, if you will, a world where the kitchen isn’t just a hub of culinary creation but a sacred temple of love, where pie-baking is the highest form of devotion. In this sanctified realm, every Midwestern woman in a Christmas sweater is a culinary high priestess, her rolling pin a scepter of affection, her pie crust a canvas for heartfelt artistry. The Pie Baking Contest is an epic battleground where these valiant women gather, their aprons fluttering like superhero capes, ready to channel pure, unadulterated love into their pies. The stakes are absurdly high, the competition fierce, but the atmosphere? Pure camaraderie and joy.

    Here, pie baking is not just a quaint pastime; it’s an epic saga of love, community, and unyielding devotion. These heroines approach their craft with the precision of neurosurgeons and the passion of Renaissance artists. Flour fills the air like enchanted snow, butter is blended into dough with the deftness of a master illusionist, and apples are peeled and sliced with the ferocity of a seasoned samurai. Each pie is a labor of love, a tangible expression of their deepest affections. As they sweat and toil over their creations, the kitchen morphs into a bustling hub of warmth and connection.

    Baking pies, slinging spaghetti and garlic bread, or whipping up a dish of hot and sour Tom Yum Goong soup demands a healthy soul, one that’s plugged into the matrix of family and community. We therefore don’t journey solo but soar with a merry band of culinary adventurers, armed with spatulas and mixing bowls, ready to conquer the next great feast. So, skip the guilt and embrace the butter—life’s too short for bland food and empty kitchens.