Food is undoubtedly one of the most important things in my life. Aside from the fact that I am human and my survival depends on it, in some of my most profound memories I am surrounded by food ⎼ Thanksgiving dinners with both the traditional turkey and jollof rice; large, roundtable dim sum meals with college friends; or passionate family arguments over moussaka and horiatiki salad. Food is a powerful tool; it satisfies needs, cultivates experiences, and is most often shared with others.

I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon, the City of Roses and… food carts (not trademarked, yet true). By the time I was old enough to start “going out” with friends, the thing to do was find the new, up-and-coming food spot. We would go to the known “hip” areas, like the Alberta Arts District, Hawthorne Boulevard, or North Mississippi Avenue. There, we frivolously spent our few dollars, grabbed lunch followed by an afternoon snack, then hopped into a vintage shop or small boutique. Little did I know at the time that these blocks were products of drastic shifts that marginalized communities of color.

On one particular day in the spring quarter of my first year in college, I was sitting in my “Introduction to Sociology” professor described revitalization in urban neighborhoods that can lead to the displacement of those already there⎼most often poor, communities of color. Following her description, she introduced the word gentrification⎼the first time I honestly heard and understood the word. I realized this was the word for what I saw happening all over Portland. I became unshakably aware of the extreme transformations in my neighborhood and over my lifetime, realizing the difference between the Portland I knew versus the Portland my older brothers knew. With new eyes, I saw what happened and what was happening to Martin Luther King Boulevard, the street I grew up on. With new eyes, I recognized that my favorite go-to food spots were all in areas that underwent and are undergoing similar changes.

I remember coming home for winter break during my junior year of college and taking my father and stepmother to a French-inspired restaurant I had tended frequently in the past. As we were ordering our food, I watched my father inspect the building and the people dining alongside us, while repeatedly acknowledging his disbelief that a restaurant like this existed in this particular area, Alberta.

Food is a powerful tool; it satisfies needs, cultivates experiences, and is most often shared with others.
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Alberta, known now as the Alberta Arts District, was a predominantly Black neighborhood in the mid-1900s. It was a poor neighborhood with neglected residential areas. In the 1960s, crime rates, vandalism, and looting increased as a product of racial discrimination. By the late 1980s, gang activity increased exponentially. Grassroots organizations swooped in to save the neighborhood, providing low income housing for residents and inviting in new businesses and art spaces. The revitalization was pivotal for the community, in more ways than one— soon, longtime residents could not afford the rising housing prices, and several were approached to sell their homes. And, thus began the change of the Alberta district to how we see it today.

As I watched my dad nibble at the calamars fris and happily finish his chicken cordon bleu, I felt conflicted. On the one hand, I loved this restaurant, and it seemed that my father appreciated the food too, yet it may never have existed in the old Alberta. On the other, its existence represented the displacement of poor residents, and the centering of the desires of the typically white, yuppie transplants that had moved in. This restaurant likely didn’t have my family in mind when they thought about their clientele. But I went there all the same.

I’ve been having this experience all around the world. Recently, I visited Deptford, South East London, a district within the London Borough of Lewisham. Like Northeast Portland, this area is becoming a trendy arts and music hub. I was in the area for an Afrobeats-meets-Jazz show at a local vegan bar. Walking around, I saw vendors closing shop, families that looked like my own, and heard my mother tongue, Yoruba, spoken casually with myself not included in the conversation. These are extremely rare occasions in Portland and Seattle to say the least.

With much time to spare before the show, I found a restaurant that looked familiar. It had the trademark, millennial chic aesthetic — a small room accented with white marble and wood, small tables pushed close together for an intimate feel, and no chairs, but benches and chic barstools. I sat down at the windowsill for a dinner of gnocchi accompanied by a glass of trendy orange wine and, of course, complementary bread. I sat, ate, and observed.

I realized that there was a lively Nigerian fast-food restaurant busy with customers across the street. The restaurant was like a phenomenon to me, having never seen an establishment of the sort in Portland and Seattle. The restaurant I was dining in soon began to fill, leaving me and the woman across from me as the only people of color there. Passing commuters would glance at the restaurant, look at me inquisitively, and then look up to check the name of the space. A particular man, I suppose intrigued by me, paused and began to act out eating motions, pointing at my food and giving me a suggestive thumbs up.

Still stunned by this non-verbal conversation and attempting to fully grasp what he was saying, the man took this as an opportunity to come into the restaurant and speak to me. I listened as carefully as I could through his thick Caribbean accent, as he chatted with me about his inexperience with Italian food. At the corner of my eye, I saw the waitress make a beeline towards him, anticipating escorting the man out. Still expressing, and almost hitting her in the face with his hand motions, he said goodbye, leaving me with the phrase, “Rasta, Pasta.” After this, I knew I had to leave. It wasn’t the man that troubled me, or the waitress rattled by his presence. It was my familiarity with every moving part.

This restaurant likely didn’t have my family in mind when they thought about their clientele. But I went there all the same.
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As cities continue to grow rapidly, re-develop their identity, and invest in the “revitalization” of supposedly dismissible areas, gentrification feels more and more inevitable. Though, gentrification does not have to mean colonization. In an article with The Root, restaurant owner Preeti Mistry in Oakland, California, admits she is a part of the gentrification, but is not the colonizer. She ensures that she does not disregard the people in the community present before her. The colonizer strips identity, creates boundaries, disregards ancestry, and separates themselves from the people who they took from. So, are my favorite restaurants colonizers or gentrifiers?

As I ponder this question myself, I am stumped with deciphering what the appropriate actions are for me and my fellow foodies. In Deptford, I recognized the disconnect between the restaurant and its environment. They were across the street from each other, but existed worlds away. I do believe that it is important to be actively conscious in the businesses we invest in, aware of the owner, the work they do beyond the menu or services provided, and their impact in the community. Yet, the businesses doing great work can still be a part of the impending gentrification or even the colonization of the area.

I think it is imperative that while our palates thrive, we remain aware of the impact of the dish, beyond what we taste, and hold restaurants accountable to their position in the community. An awareness in food is also understanding how it is being used as a tool—a tool either to destroy or to cultivate from what has already been built, maintaining tradition and preserving culture. New restaurants can still work to serve the whole community, not just yuppie white transplants. I want to be sure the integrity of the community is preserved when I enjoy my next glass of orange wine.

In New York, I imagine it’s Christmastime. My uncle hunched over the counter making homemade pasta noodles for lasagna, my aunt stealing a few slices of salami of her freshly made antipasto, and the smell of penne alla vodka permeating throughout the air. I was nostalgic for my aunt’s famous rainbow cookies, and not just because they were better than any bakery, but because I had learned how to make them with her, side by side with my little cousin.

I am not Italian. But my family is.

In Honduras, I wake up slowly to lazy roosters singing their morning anthem. I spend a good part of the day cleaning and then I go across the street to have lunch. Suyapa is in her beachfront restaurant listening to the news on her radio. Her two girls are sharing a hammock. One is reading, the other is vigorously texting. I greet everyone and then I order my usual: pescado frito con tajadas. I sit at my favorite table where the sand meets the sea and wait for my order to be ready.

I am Honduran; they are not my family. But they look like they could be.

My earliest memory of food is eating oatmeal and drinking agua de sandía (watermelon water). With legs sprawled out on the hotel couch and curious eyes, I anxiously awaited each morning for room service to bring my breakfast. I ate a variation of this meal for the next 40 days. My mom and I were in Tegucigalpa waiting in a hotel across the park from where our lawyer was finalizing the adoption papers. At two and a half years old I didn’t know that my life was about to dramatically change, but I knew that this woman was taking care of me and I felt loved.

My second earliest memory of food is hiding it. When I got to my new home in the United States, I still hadn’t kicked the habit I’d picked up in the orphanage of hiding leftovers to make sure I had enough to eat. It didn’t take long to see that this behavior wasn’t necessary. I wasn’t afraid my mom wasn’t going to feed me.

As I grew up, my mom made sure I maintained a relationship to the food of my birth country. She learned how to make arroz con pollo, enchiladas, and other different kinds of Latin American food. I didn’t know that she wouldn’t always use the exact ingredients and would improvise. Later, when I traveled in Honduras, I could taste the difference from my mom’s arroz con pollo. But at the time, I didn’t remember what food from my country tasted like.

I grew up with homemade meals, meticulously customized birthday cakes (as per my request), and I learned how to cook early. I felt at home in the kitchen. Each recipe either came from the Joy of Cooking or my mom’s treasured wooden box of family recipes. Each night I would roll up my sleeves and stand side by side with my mom, making lasagna, stuffed mushrooms, and minestrone soup and meatballs (my mom put raisins in hers and marked them with X’s with a knife so I didn’t accidentally eat any. Raisins weren’t my favorite.) This was my food.

I didn’t remember what food from my country tasted like.
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It wasn’t until I was told I was different from classmates (in less than nice words) that I felt different. How could I tell my mom that kids at school told me that she wasn’t my real mom and my family wasn’t my real family and my real family didn’t want me?

Instead, I spent the majority of my childhood feeling bad and embarrassed for being adopted.

Each time I looked at a family picture, I could see I looked different than everyone else. I hid them all. I even shoved the screen printed pillow cover of my three cousins and I in the back of my closet. I loved that pillowcase; I loved my cousins; we had gotten it done when we went to Storyland one summer. I only kept my yearbook photos and one of me and my mom hung up on the wall above my piano. At least when I was in a picture with just my mom, I could have a reason as to why I looked different. It would be a lot easier than explaining why all of my family members were white and I wasn’t.

Our family tradition was to go to New York for Christmas. I was always so excited to go to New York because I grew up in Maine and never had experienced seeing so many people of color. In grocery stores, I’d trail behind Spanish speaking families and wish they knew me somehow. I’d peer into their carts, searching for Latin American food, in hopes that would give me a clue as to who I was and where I came from.

In high school I asked my mom if we could eat food from Central America. I wasn’t expecting to find Honduran food where I grew up, but to our amazement we found an authentic El Salvadorian restaurant in downtown Portland, Maine. They welcomed me with warm eyes, but when they caught a glimpse of my mom trailing behind me they treated me less warmly and didn’t give my mom the time of day. I didn’t ask to go again.

Finally, I graduated high school early and left to study abroad. Despite my mom’s attempt to cook Latin American foods, and my attempts to find Latin American culture in my hometown, I had lost my birth culture’s identity. I wanted to reclaim it.

I did not travel to Honduras at first. I wasn’t ready. I spent time in Costa Rica through an exchange program but I wanted to experience more. My mom’s best friend hosted a Peruvian woman and asked if I could stay with her family once she returned to Peru. I didn’t end up staying with that host family, but instead found a girl in my class whose family hosted students regularly. They had two daughters around my age and a son who was a few years younger. Our connection was instantaneous. We enjoyed the same music, laughed at the same things and found joy in each other’s company. I grew up as an only child and I found something I had always wanted: Siblings and a family that looked like me. Well, kinda. And food that I would have eaten if I grew up in my own country. Well, kinda.

I learned how to cook la comida de la selva side by side with my Mamita, a woman I met through a girl I went to school with, whose family would become my family. I remember one morning waking up to the smell of juane de arroz. The kitchen was joyfully flooded with rows and rows of hojas de bijao (banana leaves), waiting to be filled with rice and tied with string. I tied for hours with my brothers and sisters. I had never been so happy to do such a monotonous task.

I am not Peruvian. But they are more than my host family. They are my family.

After graduating from college I traveled to Asia. I learned how to order food in each country I lived in. I devoured the sizzling street food of Bangkok. I eagerly awaited to have Pad Thai in On Nut Market and finished my meal with mango sticky rice. In Seoul, I shared Korean BBQ with coworkers and filled up on pork buns at least three times a week. On visa runs I would go to Vietnam and eat fresh Bánh mì in a trance and have the same expression on my face when I had my daily serving of Bai Sach Chrouk in Cambodia.

I didn’t grow up with any of these foods. I am not Thai. I am not Korean. I am not Vietnamese or Cambodian, but I saw how food brought people together. I felt how I was welcomed into their culture, and into their homes. I was gracefully cocooned within a culture of food and with people who shared the love of food and people.

Despite my mom’s attempt to cook Latin American foods, and my attempts to find Latin American culture in my hometown, I had lost my birth culture’s identity. I wanted to reclaim it.
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Eventually I made it back to Honduras. I wanted to remember the food of my motherland. I wanted to smell baleadas from blocks away and instinctively know that that was the food of my homeland; that it was mine. That I belonged to Honduras and Honduras belonged to me. I had seen first hand how food seamlessly brought a culture together—I wanted to be woven back into my own culture.

But unfortunately, I didn’t have a magical moment. I didn’t taste something that flooded my brain with memories of my birth family and culture.

Nothing tasted familiar.

My taste buds didn’t invite me to dance or throw a homecoming party for me.

I didn’t even like baleadas.

That was until I saw on the menu that they served agua de sandia and arroz con pollo.

In that moment I was not Honduran or Italian. In that moment I was me. A collection of my lived experiences.

My feeling of home comes from the people I surround myself with and the food that unites us. Home is not a place on a map, where I grew up, or even where I was born. Home is a feeling.

And food, was another language of love.

CW: Mention of rape

A few years ago, a friend told me to start “living up to all the feminist shit” that I write about. We were drinking vodka martinis in a hotel bar in downtown Chicago—bracing for a chilly night out—when she started begging me to dump my then-boyfriend. She didn’t even know that he enjoyed hurting me during sex or that I couldn’t even brush my teeth before running errands without arousing suspicions of infidelity. She just knew I wasn’t happy and that she didn’t like the guy. Two months later, after saving up thousands of dollars and asking my folks if I could crash with them for a while, I broke up with him.  

Much to the chagrin of my physically and emotionally abusive ex, I’ve always been outspoken when it comes to the rights of women and girls. Even when I didn’t feel like I could stand up for myself, I advocated for other women and non-binary people through my writing, my social media platforms, and my conversations with friends and family. But since leaving my ex, I’ve made up for lost time when it comes to “living up to all the feminist shit.” I quit my job and pursued writing full time, writing about things like college sexual assault and how Western feminists can help non-Western feminists without fetishizing them. I marched to protect Planned Parenthood. I drove across the country by myself—twice. I helped my sister deliver her youngest daughter, and I moved to Los Angeles with less than $400 to my name. Hell, just last week I even yelled back at a street harasser.

But of all the “feminist shit” I’ve done in the past three years, going vegan takes the cruelty-free cake. Nothing else has empowered me to set healthy boundaries and call out sexist bullshit like extending my circle of compassion to farmed animals.

Hear me out.

I know that a white woman making this kind of statement, perhaps especially in Trump’s America, might be upsetting—and I get that. Historically, the feminism of white women has been far from intersectional. Many white women voted for Trump, and reportedly less than half of white women voters in the U.S. believe Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations of sexual assault against Brett Kavanaugh. It’s also true that, although I started switching to veganism while living in a remote pocket of southeast Missouri, I now live in southern California, where affordable vegan food is widely accessible. But I think it’s a valid point that needs to be made, and women of color have been expressing similar sentiments for decades. In fact, vegan feminists like Angela Davis and Audre Lorde inspired me to stop eating meat back in 2016.

Nothing else has empowered me to set healthy boundaries and call out sexist bullshit like extending my circle of compassion to farmed animals.
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As a lesbian woman of color, author, poet, womanist, and vegan, Audre Lorde knew better than perhaps anyone that intersectional feminism extends beyond the scope of human female rights. In her own words, “There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle, because we do not live single-issue lives.” And while liberation icon Angela Davis hasn’t always spoken out on her vegan lifestyle, that’s changing more and more these days. As Davis reportedly said a few years ago during the 27th Annual Empowering Women of Color Conference, “I think it’s the right time to talk about it because it is a part of a revolutionary perspective—how can we not only discover more compassionate relations with human beings, but how can we develop compassionate relations with the other creatures with whom we share this planet.”

While going vegetarian, and for nearly a year afterwards, I thought being vegetarian was enough. But after learning about the many ways female farmed animals are brutalized just so humans can eat cheese pizza and omelets, I ditched dairy and eggs too. As someone who was raped quietly by their partner in a bed—who was pushed, pinned, and choked but never punched, kicked, or cut—I realized I could no longer participate in a system that enables consumers to absolve their guilt by minimizing someone else’s suffering. Pain is pain, and there is no acceptable way to hurt, forcibly dominate, or exploit someone.  

The idea that exploiting some animals for their milk, meat, and eggs is acceptable, while other animals are meant to be pets or to live in the wild, is the same sort of logic that sexism, misogyny, classism, homophobia, biphobia, transphobia, xenophobia, islamophobia, racism, ableism, and every other form of discrimination are based on. “Dominance functions best in a culture of disconnections and fragmentations,” as Carol Adams put it in The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Vegetarian Feminist Critical Theory. “Feminism recognizes connections.” Factory farming is not just harming animals; it is destroying the planet, exploiting the poor and communities of color, creating a public health crisis through the negative effects of animal-based foods, and quite literally feeding a worldwide culture of toxic masculinity.

Around the world, societies feminize compassion and masculinize eating meat. As Adams explained in The Sexual Politics of Meat, “Meat becomes a symbol for what is not seen but is always there—patriarchal control of animals and of language.” Indeed, during the 2016 election cycle, Donald Trump was criticized in headline after headline for treating women “like pieces of meat.” But well-intentioned or not, this sort of language only further promotes the idea that some bodies deserve to experience violence while others don’t. As Adams told Bustle back in 2016, “By challenging oppression on both sides of the species line, by saying that animals matter, too, and so we won’t eat them, we are also saying anyone who is compared to an animal matters and is due equal treatment.”

There’s also an undeniable link between animal abuse and violence against women. A survey of women in domestic violence shelters found that 71 percent had partners who had abused or threatened to abuse companion animals, and recent studies show that slaughterhouse work can lead to domestic violence, social withdrawal, anxiety, drug and alcohol abuse, and PTSD. A 2009 study by criminologist Amy Fitzgerald found that, in comparison with other industries, slaughterhouse employment increased total arrest rates, including arrests for rape and other violent crimes. According to PTSD Journal, “These employees are hired to kill animals, such as pigs and cows, that are largely gentle creatures. Carrying out this action requires workers to disconnect from what they are doing and from the creature standing before them.” That desensitization makes it easier for them to be desensitized to other forms of violence, such as domestic abuse.

Like every group of humans that has ever been labeled “other” or “less than,” farmed animals are used, bullied, and killed simply because society has deemed them undeserving of our love or concern, their bodily autonomy and desire for a happy life somehow “different.” It’s exactly why I feel like feminists have a special responsibility to stand up for all animals—we should be able to empathize with victims of violence our society silences.

Around the world, societies feminize compassion and masculinize eating meat.
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The meat, dairy, and egg industries profit off female reproductive systems, and billions of baby animals are separated from their mothers each year so we can drink their mothers’ milk instead. Starting at around 12 months of age, cows living at dairy factory farms are forcibly impregnated through artificial insemination, over and over again until the cows are too exhausted to go on, at which point they’re sent to slaughter. And when cows living at dairy factory farms give birth to male calves, those babies are taken from their mothers–who visibly grieve–and sold for veal.

Sadly, the egg industry isn’t any better, even if you stick with “free-range” eggs. “Free-range” hens are still debeaked, crammed into sheds, and pushed to lay up to 500 eggs annually. Just like caged hens, “free-range” chickens will never see their mothers or play in a pasture.

I never anticipated that “living up to all the feminist shit” would include going vegan, but eschewing animal products is one of the most feminist things I’ve ever done. It doesn’t undo all the times that family members, co-workers, “friends,” or boyfriends did things to my body that I didn’t want them to do. And it doesn’t change the fact that I spent years in an abusive relationship. But it is incredibly empowering to know that I’m not contributing to an industry that profits from abusing innocent bodies and exploiting the female reproductive system. No matter what kind of day I’m having, I know that I’m making a difference.

Being vegan has been easier than I expected. I’ve found that it’s completely possible to eat vegan for a week with only $20, and all my favorite recipes can be veganized. Plus, vegan options are common at most restaurants these days, and I still get to frequent some of my favorite fast-food chains, like Taco Bell, Subway, and White Castle. And most food banks offer a variety of plant-based staples, like rice, beans, soy milk, pasta, and canned veggies. But simply cutting back on animal products also helps animals, the environment, and human health.

Perhaps most importantly, going vegan has taught me a vital lesson about self-love: When you extend your circle of compassion to every single sentient being on Earth, it becomes easier and easier to stand up for yourself. It’s impossible to foster the belief that farmed animals deserve to live happy lives, free of deprivation, abuse, and harassment, without also acknowledging that you deserve the same. Rejecting the concept that some animals deserve peace, while others deserve pain, pushes you to value and protect your own well-being—whether that means leaving an unhealthy relationship, prioritizing self-care, or telling a street harasser to piss off.

The first time I saw my child and held him, and touched his perfect little baby hands — that pales in comparison to this pie.

People say that the birth of your child is extraordinary, and that you’ll never know love like the kind you experience after you’ve had a child of your own. This is true. But it’s nothing compared to this pie I just made.

I know what you’re thinking: Is it a sweet or savory pie? The answer may surprise you — the pie I’m waxing rhapsodic about is actually a savory pie. It is that good.

The crust — oh, the crust is glorious. It’s filled with butter — SO much butter — and it rolled out perfectly. It’s browned on top exactly the right amount. It looks just like the picture in the recipe. How often does that actually happen?

I mean, the first time I saw my child and held him, and touched his perfect little baby hands — that pales in comparison to this pie. Seeing my son learn to crawl and take his first steps was the most amazing experience of my life — until I put a bite of this pie into my mouth and it just melted.

The filling in this pie is magnificent. It is just the right melange of ingredients and flavors in perfect harmony. It is the yin and yang of pie fillings. It has chard in it. You might be thinking, “I hate chard.” But in this pie, you’ll love it, I swear. There’s ginger in it, and coriander. The onions are subtle, and are neither undercooked nor too caramelized.

The ingredients have been sourced at my local farmers’ market at the peak of their freshness. The chard is from a farmer I personally know; his name is Pete. Did I mention everything is organic?

I know already that the future accomplishments of my brilliant child will pale in comparison to the deliciousness of this pie. My child was accepted into Baby MENSA and was the first to be elected president of his kindergarten class (they don’t usually even have class presidents in kindergarten), and I know he’s going straight to Princeton before he hits double-digits, like Doogie Howser. But this pie . . . I’m telling you.

I cannot wait to serve you this pie, my friends. You are going to be so impressed. You will take a bite and say: “This is the absolute best pie I have ever had in my entire life.” It’s going to pair beautifully with a cold white wine. Forget hearing my child speak his first words or teaching him to ride a bike — this pie is the best thing I’ve ever done. Once you try it, you’ll agree, even though it will make you question what you’ve done with YOUR life.

Also, the pie only took a few hours to make, as opposed to 41 weeks, and I did not have to get an epidural to produce it. Plus, there was no risk of pooping on the table. Perfection.

Editor’s Note: Yes, this piece is based on a real pie.