Smelling Blood

Get your gun, bag a squirrel, and don’t be afraid to dirty your lily-white hands.

The author in her tree stand Just two weeks before Thanksgiving, the scent of braising meat, like bread and old leaves, filled the kitchen. My squirrel was breaking down, slipping off its bones. One of my housemates walked in, where I leaned over the stovetop watching our dinner simmer. “Smells great,” Travis said. I nodded and sniffed again. Squirrel, I thought, smells like both rabbit and quail, but also nutty and a little gamey. Rodent might not be prime protein, but a hunter obeys her. . . Read more
Juliana Hanle
Gone Fishing

Miya’s chef Bun Lai tackles sustainability and sea life.

Sweet Mother’s Milk, $13.75 Bun Lai grinned like an excited teenager as a group of older women asked him about Sweet Mother’s Milk, an appetizer. Lai, the owner and celebrated head chef at Miya’s Sushi on Howe Street, was sitting across from me as I sipped from a bowl of earthy miso soup. On my right stood bottles of sake infusions and oils flavored with garlic gloves and chilis, which sent red and yellow hues dancing on the table below. “It’s actually really great,” Lai. . . Read more
Vlad Chituc
Inventory

Before Irene, taking stock of the contents of an off-campus fridge.

A friend once told me that she found there to be something “very restful” about a freezer full of meat. Though I am more or less vegetarian, I see what she means. There is comfort in knowing that, come exams, crummy boyfriends, lectures on parasitic arthropods, or Hurricane Irene, my roommates and I still have ample, if not healthful, provisions. If meat is restful, are other foods festive? I’ve been feeling a little down lately, so I thought it might cheer me up to make a. . . Read more
Laura Blake
A Trip to the Corner Store

A hard look at New Haven’s bodegas.

Nutrition in the urban desert. Illustration by Ali Abarca On our way over to the West River neighborhood, a former Italian enclave that is now predominantly black and Latino, Stacy Spell and I drive past a dilapidated storefront—its windows boarded up, its sidewalk dusty with the residue of melted street snow. “See,” Spell beams at me, “the potential is here.” Spell is the head of the West River Neighborhood Services Corporation, which has recently partnered with the Community Alliance for Research and Engagement (CARE) at. . . Read more
Jake Conway
Numbers Game

An investigation of eating disorders at Yale.

Alex knows how many calories are in an egg. She knows how many calories are in a yolk, and how many are in the white. “That’s something I will know for the rest of my life,” she said. “That’s a raw fact. That’s like three times three for me.” Every bite adds up. Heeseung Kim The number of calories is only one side of the equation, though. The number of pounds is the other, and for a while, Alex wasn’t the only one closely tracking. . . Read more
Max Ehrenfreund
One Man’s Trash

Yalies eat garbage, by choice?

...is another man's treasure. Aliyya Swaby As I hoisted myself into the dumpster, I could tell by the bulging garbage bags inside that we were in luck.  My guides for the night, two Yalies who live off-campus, were already tearing the bags apart in search of food to restock their refrigerator. At first, everything looked inedible, but when I began sorting through the bags, I quickly learned how to pick out the gems. Unbroken packaged items are usually safe. Meat is only good “in winter,. . . Read more
Aliyya Swaby
Country Kitchen

Chefs mimic the taste of the old world in the new.

Comfort food, the bites of Americana typically associated with home, wields tremendous nostalgic power; the desire to return to the figurative womb of one’s childhood kitchen is so potent, there are programs on the Food Network extolling the virtue of grits and chic New York eateries soliciting twenty-dollar meatloaf. But here in New Haven, a small but diverse community, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, apple pie, and burgers fail to represent the diversity of the population. While a native New Englander salivates at the memory. . . Read more
Mina Kimes