It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good appetite, must be in want of food. That’s what Jane Austen said, right? I, like most people, love food. I’m always down to try new restaurants, and if I go to one I’ve been before, I order something I haven’t tried to expand my horizons. There are countless dishes out in the world, but all of them can be broken down into the five basic tastes: bitter, salty, sour, sweet, and umami. In this piece, I’ll go through each of the tastes and share a brief overview of my thoughts on the respective taste, a dish that captures the essence of the taste best in my opinion, and an emotion related to each taste. Grab your forks and spoons, and let’s dig in! Bitter ~ I’m starting with my least favorite of the profiles. I despise anything bitter. Coffee, dark chocolate, kale—all of it. My friends in high school and college were baffled at how I started every morning without any caffeine. I’m convinced that people who enjoy bitter foods are masochists… But to each their own. When I think of a bitter dish, I immediately go to this lemon rind soup that my mom sometimes makes. It makes my whole body recoil in horror. I haven’t had it since high school, but the sharp tang of lemon rinds steeped in broth is enough to remind me why I don’t like it. When my mom makes it or if we’re given a container of it from an aunt, I’ll always comment, “I’m good, but that means more for you.” For the longest time, I resented the fact that I didn’t know how to cook Cambodian cuisine on my own. It was bad enough that I wasn’t fluent in Khmer, so this was one more area of my culture where I was deficient. I used to wonder if I was more adept at preparing the tastes of my heritage, would I like the lemon rind soup? Does it make me more American/less Cambodian that I wasn’t? Food is tied so deeply into the culture, which is woven into identity, so I felt like a bad Cambodian. But every journey needs a beginning, and this is mine. Salty ~ I’ve been simultaneously blessed and cursed with high salt tolerance. It is almost an addiction which feels good but I know is bad.The rest of my family is more sensitive to it, but I tend to eat way more than I should. It’s not my fault salty foods are so addicting. Growing up in America didn’t help because salt is in everything, but the first step towards recovery is acknowledging you have a problem, and salty food is mine. My mom is a pro at making dishes that don’t suck out all the water from our bodies. The older she and my dad get, the more conscious they become of what they eat. That being said, once in a while, my mom decides to treat herself—and by extension, us—and live a little. For me, the winner of the salty food category is catfish nuggets. It’s been a very long time since we’ve had them, but I can still remember how they were crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and salty all around. Serve them over rice with a spicy mango salad on the side, and I’m in my happy place. Salty has now become a colloquial term coined by Millennials. That, in turn, reminded me of the surge TikTok had during quarantine. I’m not on the app, but I do use Pinterest and Instagram Reels (and now, YouTube Shorts) for inspiration. There are so many content creators out there sharing their recipes, and they motivated me to learn more about food. The short videos are much more accessible than searching for a recipe that’s fluffed up with the author’s life story that I care nothing about. Using these recipes made me excited to keep going and see what else I could do with food. If I’m “salty” about anything, it’s all the time I spend going down a rabbit hole of recipe videos, and I have no one to blame but myself. No regrets, though. Sour ~ There aren’t enough sour foods in the world. Perhaps they are so enjoyable because they aren’t available to me that often.. There’s just something satisfying about the tang on your tongue and your lips puckering from the sensation. It’s almost tangible. My last roommate squeezed limes over her food whenever she could. After living with her for three years, I adopted the habit (though to a lesser degree), and I’m not mad about it. Just last week, I helped my mom make a Cambodian soup that’s perfect for the colder weather. There’s chicken, shrimp, pineapples, tomatoes, celery, green onion, and lotus roots. The roots cost more now thanks to inflation, so they’re a hot commodity, and my mom warned me to appreciate them. The real star of the show, however, that brings the sour profile into the dish, is the tamarind soup base. It’s a powder that’s normally added to the pot of water at the beginning of the recipe, but I always sprinkle more when I get a bowl for myself. She’ll ask me why I never try the soup first without it to see if it’s enough, but that’s the thing—it is never sour enough, and I will die on that hill. Despite helping my mom cook a lot, I am in no way a professional cook in the kitchen. While I’m not limited to just cereal and eggs, there’s still so much about the culinary world that I don’t know. That hasn’t stopped me from trying. Being a Type 1 on the Enneagram, I’m a major perfectionist, and that carries over to my culinary endeavors. This is where the sour comes in. If a recipe doesn’t come out the way it should the first time, I get annoyed and frustrated. One time, I made cream cheese cookies that came out with the density of scones. According to my friends, they tasted delicious, but I was peeved because I didn’t want scones. Because I’m so stubborn, I researched what could have gone wrong, made them again the next day, and they came out in their intended cookie forms (in case you’re curious, the solution was using a food scale to measure the flour instead of a measuring cup because the latter uses more flour and makes the cookies denser). Moments like those have happened more than once, and each time, I become marginally more okay that it’s not perfect. I’ve learned that mistakes in the kitchen are reminders of what not to do next time. There’s always room to better myself, and food is an excellent teacher of that. Sweet ~ My favorite of the flavor profiles. The fact that diabetes runs in my family has not stopped me from having the biggest sweet tooth out there. Dessert is my favorite meal of the day, and I have to force myself to resist an excess intake of sugar. However, being a strong advocate of self-care (as we all should), I try to save sweets as rewards for accomplishments because they taste even better that way. There are so many Cambodian desserts I love. Top of the list is mango over sticky rice and covered in coconut milk. I love a good sesame seed ball filled with mung beans. There’s also this honeycomb sponge cake that’s green from the Pandan extract used in it which gives it a unique look and flavor. I’m better at American baking than Khmer baking, but it is something I want to gain more experience in. For now, I’ll help myself to the dishes my aunties bring. Sweet foods fill me with happiness, and in terms of my journey, they have helped me lean more into Cambodian cooking. During the pandemic, I moved back in with my parents. On top of that, working from home gave me more time to help my mom cook like I used to when I was a kid (although, now I can do more than just stir). We’ve laughed and gossiped and deepened our relationship while marinating meat and chopping vegetables. Our only obstacle is the fact that my mom, like most Asian moms, doesn’t use measurements. She “eyeballs” them, which stresses me out, so I just stop when the spirits of my ancestors tell me to. I also took up baking during quarantine, which hasn’t helped my sugar cravings. My harshest critic is my dad who thinks everything is too sweet. When he tries my latest recipe and responds with, “It’s not too sweet,” that’s the highest compliment I could ever get. Umami ~ “Sweet or savory?” One of life’s hardest questions. Unless it’s dessert time, I’ll usually go with the latter. I love the explosion of flavors and texture of richness that comes from savory foods. When I was younger, it was easy to finish a burrito or bowl of pasta in one sitting. Now I only eat half of those foods and save the other half for the next day for some delayed gratification and the most bang for my buck. Cambodians have a dish that is practically the same as the Vietnamese bánh xèo. It’s even said almost similarly. Think of it as a savory yellow crepe. It can be filled to your preferences, but the most common way my family does it is with chicken and/or shrimp, sauteed onions, and bean sprouts (which is the only part I don’t ask for because bean sprouts are just crunchy water to me). Then you pour some sweet and sour sauce over it and enjoy! I’ve yet to make this dish for myself, but having watched my mom make it over the years, I know there’s a lot of precision and patience involved. You have to pour the right amount of batter—too little, and it will rip; too much, and it will be too thick. You have to monitor the pan, so your batter doesn’t burn. And once you’ve put in your desired fillings, you have to be able to fold it in half and plate it. Given how good it tastes, I would say the ends justify the means. Is it any wonder why I saved umami for last? Being in the kitchen is infinitely better when you’re with people you love. I savor those moments because we’re all bonding over a universal pleasure. We’re making food and making memories. My mom has helped me bridge the gap between my identity and my culture using food. My friends have shared their tips and tricks with me to make my learning more tolerable. My journey is still a long way from being done. Until the time comes when I arrive at the last course, bon appétit. Editors: Hailey Hua,

Dear Asian Youth, “Just like Daddy,” six-year-old me wanted to be an electrical engineer. My dad has been working with computers for most of his life, similar to my mom, who is also an engineer. My cousin, three years elder to me, wanted to be a road engineer - his parents work in engineering too. Many of my family members and family friends were engineers. And if it was not engineering, it was medicine. As a little kid, I only saw two avenues in my future: engineer or doctor. My parents never pushed me toward either path, but I still held myself to the expectation that I would pursue one. Watching shows like Phineas and Ferb and Jessie, I found nothing weird about the awkward, nerdy stereotype that Baljeet and Ravi perpetuated. That’s how it’s supposed to be, I thought to myself. In fact, I had no idea how heavily my environment and the media I consumed influenced my perspective until I read Paul Kalanithi's When Breath Becomes Air, in which Dr. Kalanithi is an author as well as a doctor. The book was not even about South Asian culture. Instead, it was Dr. Kalanithi’s pursuit of an English degree that flipped a switch inside my head. At that time, the only Indian-born authors and poets I knew were all from the 19th and 20th centuries, and all their works were translated into English. Dr. Kalanithi’s book- in which he is the main character- portrayed his Indian-American experience in a way that I could relate with my own childhood. It was then that I realized I wanted to be something “unusual.” It took fourteen years for me to question my beliefs about what my future “should” look like to understand that my ethnicity or background should not dictate my career choices. This is the reason why I am writing this letter- to tell you that representation matters. Maybe if I grew up with Devi, the main character in Never Have I Ever, on Netflix, instead of Baljeet and Ravi, I would have wanted to be an actress. Maybe if twelve-year-old me saw Rishi Sunak elected to the British premiership, I would have known that politics was an option for me too. The truth is, I am not bitter about being unable to experience these milestones at a younger age, rather, I am excited. I am proud of the era of change we are currently living in and I am ecstatic that my twelve-year-old cousin can watch Simone Ashley and Charithra Chandran on Netflix’s Bridgerton and feel the confidence Kate and Edwina exude on the show. It is important that we diversify our workforce, not just to bring new cultural perspectives into different industries, but to inspire our future generations to make choices based on their personal interests, rather than the interests of others. Seeing people who look like me succeed in diverse roles in the media opened my eyes and made me realize that Asians exist and belong in all kinds of industries, and that no field is “unusual” for us. Sincerely, Prerna Kulkarni Editors: Marie Hong, Lang Duong, Hailey Hua

Dear Rejection Letter, I regret to inform you that it wasn’t worth it. The hours spent on contriving intriguing narratives of myself to appeal to your brutal standards of qualification. Were my witty remarks not quick enough? Were my unique interests too niche? I have shed too many tears and pulled out too many hairs over my computer keyboard to not see “Congratulations!” at the top of my screen. All of us did. Even the ones who did get in. My father was shocked, and my friends rushed to convince me that everything would be okay. “I know, I know,” I assured them. It didn’t feel like a big deal at the time. In a deeper sense, it felt as if I were watching a burning building but experiencing no emotion. I was watching floods blast through the windows, but found myself in a blank stillness; disappointment, confusion, and apathy to dull it all away. Without a convincing face to show the people around me that I was truly “okay”, I just wanted to go to bed. Everything I had was emptied in pursuit of what now looked like a dead-end journey. Secretly, everything depended on that admissions letter. No matter how many times I told myself that any school would do, I only had one ultimate goal. All the scenarios I played in my head of walking through the halls, sitting in class, and even the view I would see, were all attached to one place. When applicants click the “view status update” button, we surrender that reality to a faceless institution covered in mystique. Are these images ours to keep or yours to add to the shrinking acceptance ratios on U.S. News? If they are yours, take them, please take them. I worked just as hard for you, rejection letter, as I did for your alternative. Off of the backs of unpaid bills of my parents, I gave all I had for you. What now, when the thousands of words have left my fingertips and the sleepless nights have passed? I still have myself. My accomplishments. My drive to succeed not by my own measures, nor the ones of institutions who don’t know me. The only lesson your school will ever teach me is that even if games are made to be lost, they ought to be played. I will write the essays and share my story as it evolves. Achievement or brutal loss, each step forges my path. Never waiting for a happenstance, but wacking the weeds towards the person I should be. Each change in direction builds momentum to a success that can’t be granted by a single letter. I wish myself the best on my educational journey, EG Editors: Nadine R., Cydney V., Charlotte C., Leandra S.

Listen, dear readers, there once was a story, Filled with magic and marvels and whimsy and wonder, One of trials and hardships, of success and glory. A boy with a dream that crackled like thunder And filled him with energy that helped him thrive, But he had to hide it, lest it be torn asunder. His parents, Khmer immigrants, restarted their lives. They learned a new tongue in a foreign land And worked to their bones just to survive. Between family and work, they met the grueling demand To raise two children and see them take flight, In the hopes they were ready for what the universe had planned. That boy has grown up, so here I write. I followed the rules and sat in society’s mold, And along the way, I learned of my plight: Being brown is a battle and a tale untold, A blessing and a curse that comes with no guide. To stray from those confines, I could never be so bold. East vs west, straddling the divide. Feeling the pressure and the waves of blues, Struggling each day to pick a side. Am I Asian? American? How could I choose? I wanted someone to give me provision. It felt like whichever I picked, I would always lose. So three years ago, I made a decision To unearth my dream from memory’s mire, Knowing all too well of the inevitable collision Between their expectations and my desires. But the urge was too strong, the pull too great— I wanted to write and unleash that fire To destroy the shackles thrown on by fate. My pen and paper became my sword and shield, As I finally realized my gift to create. Through my writing, the rift in me healed. I’m two sides of a coin that gleams in the light. I just needed to watch as the layers were peeled. Armed with my words, I’m ready to fight. As I embrace who I am and follow my heart, The boy’s dream returns, its flames burning bright. The cracks I bear could tear me apart, But wrought with gold, I’ll speak the unspoken. Under the light, I’ll become my own piece of art. I am not a stereotype, and I’m more than a token. It’s not in spite of my flaws that you’ll hear me roar— I know I’m beautiful because I’m broken. A new chapter awaits with adventures galore. My story continues, so watch me soar. Author's Note: The first draft of this was for a work retreat last year. The activity is commonly known as a “Where I’m From” poem. It’s typically free verse, but I wanted to challenge myself and use a terza rima rhyme scheme. Creating this reminded me why I love to write and how that influences and is influenced by me being Asian American. The theme of the poem, along with the title, is inspired by kintsugi, the Japanese art of using gold lacquer to repair broken pottery pieces. Kintsugi also encourages us to embrace our flaws instead of hide them, which is an ongoing process for me. Editors: Nikki J. , Sam L. , Zoe L.

Diaspora poetry has underscored the greater portion of my own writings on Asian identity, and specifically, the art I create from it. There’s a formula: imagine a mango, or a lychee, or any fruit from the produce section of Ranch 99, because fruits have become the language of our diaspora. Like you, it is an import - a foreign, not local, pawned-off luxury in an unknown land. Pulled at the root and transferred elsewhere. List off the various mainstays of your culture, things people know and maybe things only you know. Describe how your grandmother’s hands are painted with inscriptions of a life you are not privy to. This is the core of a diaspora poem. For me, it is a eulogy. Grief in every word. Mourning the motherland. It feels almost like a rite of passage at this point - having a diaspora poem. There is a part of me that feels guilty because there’s an oddly self-flagellating tone to so many diaspora poems. There is revelry in sorrow, not that our grief is invalid, but I personally find that those who do not share our plight find it more impressive. I submitted a diaspora poem in a local poetry competition and earned first place. I wasn’t a refined writer by any means, and I still think I was coming into my own. There are perhaps better examples of writers who earn accolades from diaspora writing - Rupi Kaur is a hot topic for those absolutely enraged at the blandness and drudgery of diaspora poetry. People love reading tragedy, especially when it’s put through that artistic suffering filter of flowery language and metaphor. And it’s especially clear when the trauma of diaspora is the only experience being written about among immigrant writers. Kaur is among this type of writer. Her website states, “Our trauma escapes the confines of our own times. we’re not just healing from what’s been inflicted onto us as children. My experiences have happened to my mother and her mother and her mother before that. it is generations of pain embedded into our souls.” Kaur only tells one narrative. A strictly Desi, strictly diasporic narrative. There is nothing wrong with this on principle - Kaur writes what she knows, and that is what makes her writing more intimate and appealing. It is the fault of our media ecosystem. Immigrants and children of immigrants are often conditioned to find representation exclusively in tales about their suffering. And when those demographics become artists and creators themselves, one of the easiest ways to market yourself is to exploit your own suffering. It’s easy to assert that a diaspora poem, in its metaphors about fruit or your mother’s cooking or airports, is surface-level and exploitative of this trauma suffered by immigrants. They flatten the narrative and remove any cultural context and history. And I understand the rage - my own diaspora poems prove just how out of touch I am with my own homeland because in them, I am unable to recognize the internal injustices that occur, opting instead to victimize myself. What I mean by this is, there’s a silent frustration aimed at my own ancestors for “betraying” or “losing” my culture. This ignores the complexity of the situations that immigrants go through - that in the Philippines, democracy and equality are threatened, that colorism affects so many facets of everyday life, that classism runs rampant. I will never forget that I am where I am because my parents sought a better life, but I will never forget the one they left behind. Diaspora poetry erases this kind of nuance, and it should be subject to criticism as much as any piece of literature is. Conversely, I know why young people write diaspora poetry. I know why we share it. It is comforting, to be seen and understood by words, and that is what these kinds of poems do. I write diaspora poetry, especially when I feel particularly sad. This is not a call to arms to abolish all instances of mango metaphors and gratuitous anguish. Diaspora poetry is formative to my identity as a writer. Maybe we do need to re-examine what a good diaspora poem should be, but we don’t start out knowing everything. Maybe sometimes we don’t need to. A poem need not be loaded with complexity and nuance to be meaningful. Sometimes it just needs to be seen, and in turn, see you. Editors: Rachel C., Lang D., Erika Y., Claudia S. Photo Credits: Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash

Dear the coffee that represents me, I don’t remember the first time I tasted you, but your flavor was something I had incredibly warmed up to, despite your iced addition. I didn’t know a lot — I was nine, yet I had found the connection I’ve yearned for all throughout my life. You’re special. It takes a resourceful workaholic to create your concoction, not just the Keurig on my kitchen countertop. I take pride in being able to consume you, and even learn how to make you in the most perfect way possible. I have never tasted anything else so mighty — so sweet, so pungent, so strong, both in flavor and in impact. The push you give me drives me to be the best I can be, and not in the way that you make me feel my heartbeat. You empower me to be my own person: a person who is driven, industrious, savvy, and grateful, all for her people. You remind me of a better version of myself. The way you drip from the pot is mesmerizing. I love the way you flow down to a bead, and let go softly, rippling the surface of the honest drink. You feel better than the rain falling from the sky and the waves of the ocean running across my skin in the summer. You’re patient, just as I am, and you’re consistent, like who I work to be. There’s a reason you power the coffee industry — you’re remarkable and unforgettable. Your existence changed the people who savored you. You acclimated to the West, representing home to your audience. I can be miles away from my ancestors, but you remain my connection to them. You remind me of what feels like home — the polluted air and the roundabouts into seven different streets. Wherever I’ll go, from the sprawls of suburbia to the compacted traffic in the capital of California, you bring me back to where I came from. You are a time capsule and a machine all in a drink. You are home. You are Vietnamese. I give you all of my love on your trip around the world. Sincerely, Jenny Vu Editors: Nicole O., Leandra S., Joyce S.

Yellow is the color of faded images Colors sipped away by the sun Pink is the color of faded memories Soft glowing haze obscuring the past Crackling stereo of faded recordings Records that played a time long ago Dear memory, How I try to hold on— Indentations in my mind. How you left prints on my soul Your touch, your smell Still haunt me in the night Sitting under a blanket Of solitude, your memory Wrapped up with me. Can I hold you? For how long? Before you Slip, into the abyss They say that experiences Last a lifetime, and My memory of you Outlasted you Outlasted us Remnants, of what remains In aftermath, In shock, I fear the honesty of letting go I hold onto the lie As yellow paints itself on the images And pink burns itself into my memories Sipping away color Vacuuming vibrance Colors become pastels, Fading away to white. Editors: Joyce S., Cydney V., Nicole O.

Dear Baa, When I think back to the first time I met you, I remember how your cheekbones stood high and prominent on your face, the light reflecting off them; like the sun kissing the peak of a mountain. My father has the same cheekbones and so do I. I think of the creases of age sprawled across your forehead and the permanent crinkling at the corners of your eyes, each wrinkle separated by a small valley. My eyes crinkle at the corners only when I smile, but I hope my life is filled with enough emotion to make those lines permanent like yours. Each night of our visit, we would enter your bedroom and say goodnight to you. We would kneel to touch your feet, and you would give us a hug and kiss on the head. It was a fleeting ritual, but I hope it conveyed more love and respect than we could attempt to verbalize. You knew little English, and I knew little Nepali or Nepalbhasa. I had countless questions I wanted to ask about your life and my father’s but I felt timid, shy, and inadequate in the face of an impassable barrier separating us. What was it like to lose the mother of your children so young? What was it like to watch your first-born, your son, start a new life in a different country? It pains me to know that I will never have the chance to ask you those questions. I wish I knew that our first visit would be our last. It’s difficult to describe the pain of loss in a manner that does not feel clichéd, especially since I was ashamed to grieve so deeply for a person I hardly knew. In processing your passing, I realized that although I had lost you, I could find a way to answer all of the questions I never had a chance to ask. I could choose to focus on what I took from that pain– a desire to learn more about my heritage. I realized that life is fleeting, and I cannot waste time forsaking any part of myself. To this day, I still keep a small photo of you in my room. Dad took it. I was sitting with you, Emily, and Prakriti on your bed. Us granddaughters smiled into the camera while you looked deep into the lens, your face stoic and illuminated by the light that poured in from the window behind us–angelic. That is how I will remember you. And while I can’t ask you any questions, those photos remind me that I am made of the same blood, sweat, and tears. I am reminded that one day the crinkle at my eyes will become permanent like yours. Edited by: Danielle C., Rachel C., Cathay L., Claudia S., Erika Y.

Dear Mother Earth, This year has not been kind to you, I realize. You’ve cried: rushing, roaring rapids that consume entire countries, states, and along with them, livelihoods and lives themselves. “Record Breaking Floods in Bangladesh.” “Torrential Rain in Bengaluru, India.” “In Pakistan, Villages Become Islands.” Thousands of villages drowned, parts of countries submerged. Your suffering beckoned the suffering of thousands–millions–of people, and to that, I began to feel a hopeless dread, that maybe you are past consolable. Sometimes you’ve fevered with anger: reaching reeling temperatures that burn away crops and the people they sustain. Excessive heat waves plague countries from South Asia to Europe to North America, reigning heavily on our vulnerable children and elders, our poor folk and farmers. Running water and A/C may soothe the effects of your temper, but do nothing to prepare for your next lashing. Your anger, it seems, is universal in its destruction, and to that, I began to seek any way out of your firestorm. However, all of my soul-searching and solution-seeking has never led me astray in loving you. Perhaps, against my better judgment, my peers and I beg for politicians, corporations, and their greedy CEOs to stop. To look around the world and see the evidence of your dying. To raise their gavels and their heavy-stoned hands and call for an emergency. Because an emergency it is. When entire species are dwindling and our most vulnerable populations suffer from heat and floods, why do we still refuse to call climate change what it is? Why do we pretend action is being taken, when in fact nothing is being done? Why do people not panic in the immense danger and hardship we have faced, are facing, and will face? I disagree with Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s quote: “The time for action is now. It’s never too late to do something.” On the issue of climate change, we grow later every day. Signed, The youth who must spend the rest of their days on a dying Earth, the people affected by record-high temperatures and severe flooding, and just anyone who gives a damn. Editors: Nicole O., Leandra S., Joyce S., Chris F.

I don’t know how she does it. My mom is a superhero: the Wonder Woman of our family. I’ve always respected her. I mean, how could I not? Along with her siblings and parents, she left Cambodia as a refugee to escape the Khmer Rouge. She acclimated to Western society and found a new life for herself and her family. Everything she went through required strength and bravery, and her life in the present day is no exception. Her parents are still alive, and she is the primary caretaker for both of them. My grandparents planted their roots in new soil, so their family tree could flourish. My grandpa is 94 years old and doing well. His voice is deep and rich like shifting earth. His eyes sparkle when he’s surrounded by his grandchildren. And he has a habit of trying to give money to them for no reason other than being a grandpa. My grandma changed the status quo for all of us. She’s 88 and has Alzheimer’s and dementia. The two diseases make up the Cheetah to my mom’s Wonder Woman, with my grandma being an innocent bystander. My memories of her before are faint, wisps of light in a thick fog. When we were children, my mom used to make my sister and me to visit. I would see my grandma washing a bowl of rice at the kitchen sink. She would wrap her thin arms around us in a hug. The first question she would usually ask us was if we had eaten. Those days are long gone. The diseases have ravaged my grandma’s mind. Her memory has fractured into splinters. Before her stroke, my mom would offer to shower her, but my grandma would insist she had already taken one (if there’s one trait that runs through our bloodline, it’s stubbornness). If my grandma didn’t want to shower, there was nothing you could do. As a result, the typical pattern was her agreeing to a shower once every three months when she was in the right mood to do so. My mom half-joked that when my grandma wanted a shower, she would drop everything because there was only a small window of time to get it done before my grandma changed her mind. She may have been a victim, but in some ways, she was the one who called the shots. There were times when my grandma's memories became a prison. She would regress into the mind of being a child in Cambodia, asking for her sister who had died in the Khmer Rouge. My mom would gently explain that her sister had passed away, but my grandma would keep calling for her. I never witnessed those moments, only heard about them from my mom. To lose your sense of time and space and reality itself—I still get goosebumps when I think about it. Other times, it wasn’t my grandma’s memory that was the issue, but her personality. Dementia and Alzheimer’s would cause this other “person” to manifest. She was dark and vicious, the complete opposite of the grandma who told me I was too skinny. We’ve suspected this personality is most likely linked to my grandma’s religious upbringing. It would claim to be a spirit taking over my grandma’s body, that she was gone forever. As someone who believes in ghosts and spirits, these exclamations sent shivers down my spine. It was something you might find in a supernatural horror movie. My mom never cowered in front of this “evil spirit,” mainly because she was more rooted in reality than fantasy. She would roll her eyes, ignore the spirit’s ramblings, and tell it that it was time to take its medicine. Then the stroke happened a few months ago. It was small, but there’s nothing minor about brain damage caused by improper blood flow. The damage was done. She became bedridden, and since then, she has needed a wheelchair to move around. She can’t feed herself, and whatever she does eat has to be blended to the consistency of baby food. She doesn’t have full motion of her arms and legs, and her joints are locked up. She became a child, and my mom became her mother. My mom’s work schedule consists of two days on, two days off, and three days on, which alternates each week. On her last days of work, she goes to my aunt’s house where my grandparents live. She sleeps over there instead of coming home; that way, she can start the day taking care of them. For my grandma, that entails feeding her, changing her diaper, moving her into her wheelchair, giving her medicine, massaging her joints, and taking her to doctor’s appointments. In some ways, it’s better than before. My grandma takes a shower once a week instead of every three months. She still has her bad days, but they’re not from an evil spirit. (They mostly consist of my grandma trying to hit my mom and swearing at her in Cambodian.) My mom stays all day and comes back in the evening, exhausted from essentially another day of work. That only leaves one day off for herself before she has to repeat it all over again. One of my mom’s superpowers is resilience, but even she needs time to rest and replenish. My grandma’s declining health has had ripple effects in our immediate and extended family. When my mom is working, two of her sisters will step in to cover, performing the same duties on their days off. My dad and uncle have built gadgets to help my grandma, like outfitting her wheelchair with a headrest and seat cushion to make it more comfortable. I’ll stop by to bring lunch for my mom when she wants something other than traditional Khmer food. I’ll help move my grandma or feed her and give my mom a quick reprieve to catch her breath. I’ve spent more time staying at my parents’ house than at my apartment. With my mom either too busy or too tired, I try to alleviate some of her typical responsibilities: making dinner, washing the dishes, doing the laundry—whatever I can do so that she can have more time to herself. I’m grateful that this is all happening when my sister and I are adults. Our mom taught us how to look after ourselves. Because of that, she doesn’t have to be a parent in two different households. I wonder if my mom knew this would happen, that she would have to give up so much of her time and life to take care of her mom. She went from child to adult to wife to mother to caretaker—so many roles in half a century. She has two full-time jobs but only gets paid for one of them. It takes its toll on her. If my grandma is being particularly difficult or if a medical appointment gets canceled at the last minute, my mom will come home and vent to us about it. My dad, sister, and I never interrupt. We don’t accuse her of complaining. We all know how much she does for her parents; if what she needs from us is to listen to her recount the stressors of her day, that’s what we do. A few of my American friends have asked me over the years, “Why doesn’t your mom just put your grandma in a nursing home? It would probably be easier for both of them.” They said these words casually, as if they were asking if I’ve seen the latest superhero movie. If only it were that simple. Logistically, a nursing home would cause more harm than good. My grandma didn’t pick up English as my grandpa did. I would be surprised if there were employees who spoke fluent Cambodian. My grandma wouldn’t be able to communicate. She would be trapped in more than just her mind and body. Culturally, a nursing home is completely out of the question. Like many Asian countries, Cambodia has a collectivist culture that emphasizes the importance of community. Combine that with a duty to family and filial piety, and the answer is pretty straightforward. Putting my grandma in a home would go against my family's values. Our parents took care of us, so we’re expected to take care of them when the time comes. We tend to the trees that provide us fruit for nourishment, shade for comfort, and roots for remembering where we came from. With my grandma, it’s a matter of when, not if. Each day she’s still with us is a day cherished (yes, even the cranky temperaments). When I visit her, she doesn’t remember who I am. But when I tell her I’m one of her grandchildren, her eyes will light up, and a small smile will break across her face. She’ll comment on how tall I am and how curly my hair is (I personally think it’s more wavy than curly, but I let it slide for her). It’s the little victories that matter most. And just as I am writing this, my mom sent me a video of my grandma. She was eating orange slices and feeding herself! It was the first time she could do either of those since the stroke, so it was a huge moment. When my grandma eventually passes, I wonder how it will affect my mom beyond the loss and grief. Superhero or not, she’s still human, and with that comes a host of complicated emotions. As terrible as this sounds, I hope a part of her will feel relieved. She can come home straight from work. She can go back to what her life was like before. Then again, taking care of her mom is ingrained into her identity. Will she feel lost? Will she be able to get back into a different routine? Those are questions we’ll have to deal with when the time comes. Wonder Woman is powerful but not invincible. A hero isn’t immune to the burdens they carry. I am in awe of my mom every day. I wish I could do more to help her and show my love and respect for her. But for now, my mom will continue to take care of her mom. This is the role she carries now, and the best the rest of us can do is support her. That’s what family is for, after all. Editors: Nikki J., Anoushka K., Nadine R. Sam L., Emily X., Zoe L., Joyce S.

An excerpt from ‘Indian Dancers’ by Sarojini Naidu In 1905, against the backdrop of a renewed nationalist fervour, political and civil rights activist Sarojini Naidu published her first book of poetry: The Golden Threshold. Among the several poems in this collection was the one titled ‘Indian Dancers’, extolling the ornamented dancing women and their tender movements. The early 20th century was a time when the cultural identity of India as a ‘nation’ was being actively constructed in the public sphere. While the attempt was stated as one to ‘revive’ the lost glory of ‘Indian civilisation’ in the wake of imperial erasure, what was ultimately revived was not ‘Indian culture and civilisation’ but the culture of the upper-caste, affluent Indians, who represented and still represent a minority in the country. The dancers Naidu talks about are mere ornamental figures of speech, geared towards this so-called revivalist project. Naidu doesn’t tell us what they have to say. She doesn’t tell us who they are and where they belong. She doesn’t tell us if they dreamt of the same India as her. The Indian Ministry of Culture recognises, prominently eight classical dance forms – Bharatnatyam, Kathak, Kathakali, Kuchipudi, Odissi, Sattriya, Manipuri and Mohiniyattam, which are considered a prominent cultural asset of the country. Most other dance forms in the country fall under the banner of ‘folk dances’. Classical dances are mostly identified through their regional associations. Bharatnatyam is associated with the state of Tamil Nadu, Kathak with Uttar Pradesh, Kathakali and Mohiniattam with Kerala, Kuchipudi with Andhra Pradesh, Odissi with Odisha, Sattriya with Assam, Manipuri with Manipur, and so on. While most classical dances bear regional associations, their history of caste-based appropriation and continuing tradition of caste-exclusiveness is nationwide. Prior to the consolidation of a regional-identity of classical dances, the Indian dance scene was dominated by ‘nautch girls’ or devadasis and courtesans or tawaifs. Devadasis were mostly trained by men and were temple dancers who occasionally received royal patronage. Tawaifs, at the same time, performed in predominantly North Indian courts, while the Devadasi culture was more dominant in South Indian temple networks. These women mostly belonged to the lower-caste communities1. However, with the commencement of the anti-nautch movement in the 1890s, jointly led by the British and the Indian upper-caste, affluent social reformers, devadasis and tawaifs came to be labelled as ‘prostitutes’ and the expression of their art-form severely curtailed. By the 1920s, the anti-nautch movement had taken up a communal character, with a strong bid to expunge temple-dancing as a way of reforming brahmanical hinduism. The movement was endorsed by eminent Indian reformers like Keshaub Chandra Sen and R. Venkataratnam Naidu, who was the first elected Indian vice chancellor of the Madras University, and claimed: “Her [meaning the dancing girl's] blandishments are India's ruin. Alas her smile is India's death.” The construction of devadasis as prostitutes mostly happened in the courts, specifically in the Madras High Court, where devadasis were painted as a separate ‘dancing girl caste’ of ‘professional prostitutes’. The Indian Contagious Diseases Acts of 1864 and 1868 further painted these women deemed as prostitutes as carriers of venereal diseases, further marginalising them from the public sphere. Expunged of dancing girls and courtesans, the dominant Indian dance scene now came to be dominated by the proponents of ‘Classical Indian Dance’. But how was this dance form different from the one of temple-dancers and courtesans? It was different in the sense that it looked back at ancient upper-caste brahmanical texts like Natyashastra, for legitimacy. The regional dance styles were traced back to the 'Natyashastra tradition', thus establishing a historical continuity. Pallabi Chakravorty, in her article, ‘Hegemony, Dance and Nation: The Construction of Classical Dance in India’ argues that, “The revival of classical dance in India marked the historic moment when it was appropriated by the bourgeois elite from its original practitioners, was textualised and canonised in the guise of authoritative knowledge, and elevated to the classical status.” She calls this a deliberate act of erasure, led by the likes of Rukmini Devi Arundale, who founded Kalakshetra (a prestigious national institution of dance in south India). Arundale played a key role in constructing Bharatnatyam as a male Brahmanical tradition, by selectively employing male upper-caste dance teachers in Kalakshetra. In the north, institutions like Bhartiya Kala Kendra popped up, aimed at establishing the male brahmanical legacy of Kathak. These male teachers were upper-caste, western-educated Brahmans, some of whom, like Krishna Iyer, were also nationalist leaders in the Congress. This appropriation was not merely in terms of ‘appropriation of space’ but also of costumes, movements and customs. A number of composition genres within Bharatnatyam, for example, padam or varnam as well as costumes, bells, etc., allude to those worn by Dalit courtesans and devadasis. A number of skits also involve Brahmin dancers dressing up as devadasis, while the actual Dalit dancers are marginalised. These dance forms were further textualised and canonised by nationalist art historians like Coomaraswamy and Raghavan as well as by poets like Rabindranath Tagore. Tagore’s Shantiniketan soon became a hub of classical dancers and those who wished to promote them as worthy professions among the upper-middle class circles in Bengal. This canonisation movement finally culminated in the establishment of national ‘Akademies’ from 1953. The Sangeet Natak Akademi for music, theatre, and dance; Lalit Kala Akademi for art; and Sahitya Akademi for literature are few such initiatives, which are presently under the aegis of the central government – their official patron. With the establishment of the brahmanical legacy of dance, the ‘gharana’ or the ‘gurukul’ system or the system of hereditary lineage strengthened, and patriarchal families claiming to be true practitioners of ‘classical Indian dance’ emerged. But all the while, what happened to the dances that didn’t receive the title of ‘classical’? This can be well explained through the example of Lavani, which underwent a similar process of repression. Lavani can be understood as a folk performative art involving theatre, dance, and music – each strand having its own social implications and historical trajectory. Overtime, Lavani became associated with catchy beats, energetic dance moves, and erotic undertones. The erotic form of lavani, called the shringarik lavani, particularly gained prominence during the Peshwa rule in the 18th century Maharashtra, and was mainly performed by women slaves employed in natakshalas or dance houses. With the Peshwa’s surrender to the British, lavani came to be relegated to mostly rural areas; coupled with the rise of a middle class and more sanitised form of marathi theatre; the tamasha theatre or the folk theatre involving lavani was thus marginalised. There also occurred a rift in the tamasha tradition and the form of tamasha associated with lavani developed into the sangeet baree tradition over time. Sangeet baree tradition was mostly dominated by women from the Kolahati caste who embodied a distinct matriarchal culture. With the growth in Marathi talkies around the 1930s, the performance of lavani in theatre was further marginalised, with many lavani performers opting to perform in films instead. In the 1940s, with the Bombay state’s imposition of a ban on the performance of tamasha, citing the ‘lewd’ and ‘obscene’ nature of lavani, a number of sangeet baree performers sanskritised and sanitised their tradition and renamed themselves as ‘soubhagyavati sangeet barees’ or sangeet barees meant for pious wives. In the 1960s, with the further expansion in the Marathi cinema, lavani performers were often left with no option other than performing in films, where the directors encouraged them to perform in an overtly sexual manner. Many double entendres of sexual nature also came to objectify lavani performers. Over time, with the growth in Bollywood, elements of lavani tradition were adopted into Hindi cinema, particularly in item numbers. However, most of these item numbers were now performed by upper caste and at times even white women, while lavani performers were relegated to local performance spaces. Presently, around 15,000 artists including singers, dancers, composers, and technicians presently depend on lavani for their livelihood. According to a recent report, the pandemic and the subsequent restrictions on public performances have severely threatened their modes of income. Many of them have been forced to borrow money from private moneylenders at exorbitant interest rates in order to stay afloat. Eyewitness accounts suggest that banks and government officials show a persistent hesitancy in granting them interest-free loans and grants. While classical dance performers have been able to generate income from online dance tutorials and classes, a similar concept does not exist in the field of folk dance like lavani which is mostly performance-based and lacks an audience willing to learn, given the stigma and stereotypes attached to it. At the same time, existing casteist biases, make it difficult for dancers from the Dalit community to train in classical dances. In 2020, a Dalit practitioner of Mohiniattam committed suicide, for the Kerala Sangeetha Nataka Akademi did not allow them to perform for belonging to the Dalit community. In another instance, a Bharatnatyam dancer belonging to the Dalit community was labelled a ‘bad dancer’, solely because they belonged to a lower caste. In today’s globalised world, the mention of an Indian form of dance only brings up images of item songs, bhangra and at most – Kathak. These are the images of a culture embodied by upper-caste, middle and upper class Indian immigrants, particularly in the West. The exploitative history of this culture, however, struggles to be even acknowledged in the discourse within the country itself, let alone in the west. The overt glorification of Indian culture overlooks the many ways in which it represents a particular category of India, while marginalising the others. Thus, I believe that instead of seeing Asian cultures as sacrosanct monoliths, it is essential to look for hierarchies of oppression within them. Note 1 Caste-system is a system of social division based on hereditary-occupation, it stems from the traditional varna order, where Brahmans or the priestly class occupy the highest rank in the social order, followed by Kshatriyas or the warrior class and further the trading or merchant class of Vaishyas. Shudras occupy the lowest rungs of the social hierarchy. Each Varna subsumes multiple castes and sub-castes with their internal hierarchies. The lower-castes or the Shudras/Untouchables (referred to as Dalits in the modern discourse) have been subject to discrimination and ostracisation for centuries coupled with restrictions on their access to certain public spaces. Editors:

Introducktion Some may say that a defining part of the British supermarket experience is the unique way of determining one's socioeconomic status based on the store they choose to shop at (Hawley). Some may also say that we can find any opportunity to queue in a supermarket, including the final hour before closing when a member of staff is discounting items with sell-by dates. For me, a quintessential part of perusing through the brightly lit aisles is stopping by the shelves that are almost always closest to the entrance to immediately entice my appetite—the meal deals. If you are unfamiliar, supermarket meal deals are often a combination of a drink, a snack, and a sandwich/wrap/pasta pot, for a total of approximately £3.00 depending on where you shop. They are a staple for people that want to purchase a quick meal within a budget that still prioritizes flexibility, choice, and customization. When I used to do all-nighters at the University library, I was powered purely on the might of multiple meal deals. These meal deals were often a large-size cold cappuccino (because it was the most expensive drink to get discounted), a 'sharing portion' packet of Big Hula Hoops (no chance I was sharing), and a hoisin duck wrap. Even before I went to university, my family and I gravitated towards meal deals for sustenance on the go, and I would seek out hoisin duck wraps over any other sandwich option because it sounded more interesting than having chicken mayo, chicken and bacon, chicken caesar salad, or chicken and sweetcorn. 'Hoisin duck' was shorthand for pieces of duck with hoisin sauce, lettuce, and cucumber (if the supermarket was feeling bold and generous) all bound together in a flour wrapper cut into two halves. No matter the drink or snack, I found familiarity and sanctuary in a hoisin duck wrap. I would sail through the entrance, the overhead heating blowing through my messy bun, and my eyes would lock onto the line of hoisin duck wraps with laser focus—as if I was a beagle during hunting season. It felt like it didn't matter which supermarket I went to, they would almost always have hoisin duck as an option on their meal deal shelves. So I decided to put that theory to the test: can I find hoisin duck wraps in almost every supermarket? How do they differ depending on where you shop? Why is hoisin duck as a sandwich option almost as common as chicken and bacon, or tuna and mayonnaise, in the UK? Moreover, I wanted to learn the history behind duck and hoisin sauce as a food combination, its history and role in British cuisine, and most importantly - why do British supermarkets choose to profit from food combinations commonly associated with Asian cuisines? I have tried (almost) every supermarket's hoisin duck wrap to review and analyze so you don't have to. Is it a flavour combination savoured by the nation, or a potential abomination to the legacy of cooked birds with fruity sauces? Let’s discuss this further. What is hoisin duck? Well…‘hoisin duck’ as a term technically is not a dish. Grab a snack and let me explain. No surprise, tortillas are not authentic to Chinese cuisine, nor any East-Asian cuisine. This soft and flexible flatbread derives from Mexico. According to Britannica, maize would have been traditionally boiled with unslaked lime to soften the corn kernels; “this lime was the principle source of calcium in the Mexican diet”. Tortillas can accompany most Mexican dishes either in their soft discus form or transformed into tacos, enchiladas, burritos, or tostadas. A metamorphic carbohydrate! Britannica adds that tortillas “stale quickly and are usually bought fresh daily or even for each meal”, which makes it all the more impressive that mass manufactured meal deal wraps often have tortillas with soggy bottoms. I can see why tortillas are used as the ideal candidate for wraps considering their versatility, but it is important to point out how much of a cultural quagmire it is for shops to produce hoisin duck wraps from bread to bird. Moving onto the wrap’s primary condiment, Britannica also describes hoisin sauce as: "A commercially prepared, thick reddish-brown sauce used in Chinese cuisine both as an ingredient in cooking and as a table condiment. Made from soybeans, flour, sugar, water, spices, garlic, and chili, it is sweet and spicy. It is used in cooking shellfish and fatty meats such as pork and duck. As a condiment, hoisin sauce is eaten with shrimp, pork, and poultry and is invariably served with Peking duck." (Britannica Hoisin Duck). When searching for the history of 'hoisin duck' in search engines, I was more likely to find results about Peking duck than hoisin duck. Peking duck is a type of roasted duck originating from Beijing. Published on National Geographic, Fuchsia Dunlop provides a timeline of Peking ducks and describes a complex history; when cooked perfectly, the duck is "plump and glossy, its skin is an enticing caramel and entirely smooth", almost like a decadent piece of polished wood furniture (Dunlop). For the traditional and ritualistic experience, a long, thin and rectangular blade (pianya dao) is specifically used for carving. Pancakes are then “laid with slices of duck and shards of leek and cucumber”, and finally rolled for eating. It is a striking yet complimentary combination of rich gamey meat marinated in a sticky decadent sauce with a splash of mild and refreshing vegetables. Sound familiar? It should if you at any point have experienced a hoisin duck wrap, whether it be eating as many as there are pigeons in a city, or passing by the improper rhombus shapes these wraps are packaged in like strangers that keep spotting each other at the same Tesco. Dunlop continues to explain that Peking duck “originated from Hangzhou in the 13th century” as roasted ducks were “served door-to-door by street vendors, and it became a speciality of nearby Nanjing” (Dunlop). It is said that the dish was originally known as ‘Jinling roast duck’ because Jinling was the previous name for Nanjing during this period. Furthermore, the traditional method for Peking duck is laborious yet has a great amount of care. To paraphrase, the process involved fattening white ducks that are reared outside the city, butchering and plucking, a pump to make the duck plump before roasting, removing innards, tightening the skin with hot water, wind drying, painting “with maltose syrup to help colour it a rich mahogany”, pouring boiling water over the bird, and oven-roasting. It is almost as if the detailed execution of Peking duck is the culinary equivalent of proudly showcasing a prize duck—a succulent combination of technique, skill, and theatre (Dunlop). Moreover, the recipe for Peking duck provided by the National Geographic article lists hoisin sauce to serve with the final dish, further emphasising that hoisin sauce is for Peking duck. Based on the definition provided by Britannica, it makes sense why Peking duck is more likely to appear in search results. Therefore, we can conclude that 'hoisin duck' is a short-handed, commercialised way of describing Peking duck with hoisin sauce. The history behind Peking duck and the authentic methods of cooking highlight two important points: 1) Food manufacturers for British supermarkets are unlikely to follow these traditional cooking methods in favour of machine equipment, time, and efficiency to deliver a product that will simply 'do the job'. Therefore, 2) The expectations to have for hoisin duck wraps are set high when you compare it to its origins and the initial ways it was cooked, presented, and consumed in a restaurant setting. With a better understanding of 'hoisin duck' labels being more likely referring to a variation of Peking duck (and its iconic hoisin sauce), I am presented with another question for this review: to what extent can the expectations of eating Peking duck be compared to the experience of eating hoisin duck wraps? I think we already have somewhat of an idea that the history of Peking duck combined with Chinese cuisine in British history somewhat clash - the origins and history versus modern mass consumption. Arguably, a clash is presented because the survival of Chinese flavours in Britain most likely depended on British consumers and their non-Chinese palette. Britain and Chinese cuisine: Bite-Sized Although Britain’s history with China and its culinary cultural heritage can be dated as far back as the 17th century, I would argue that one of the key examples to illustrate how Chinese flavours are commonly consumed in modern Britain is the emergence of Chinese takeaways in the latter part of the 20th century. If some of you may remember or have read my love letters to noodles, where I cite from the British Library that: "During the 1950s and 60s Britain saw an increase in its Chinese community due to the influx of Hong Kong Chinese. Many of these newcomers went into the restaurant business, setting up takeaways across the UK, with much of their hard-earned money going back to Hong Kong to support family there. Several Chinese takeaways cleverly adapted to their British customers’ tastes in food by offering buttered bread, pies and chips alongside Chinese dishes. The prosperous 1960s, however, also saw a rise in eating out and a more adventurous approach to sampling different cuisines. Today, Chinese food is very much part of the British diet, widely available in the ready-meal form, eaten in restaurants and bought from takeaways, while upmarket Chinese restaurants are now winning Michelin stars and glowing reviews." (British Library Chinese restaurants). This emphasises how many Briton's experiences with Asian cuisine may come from Chinese takeaways, which have adapted to Britain's increasing interest in convenience and ready-made food *as well as* adapting to a national palette that is generally unfamiliar with Chinese produce and spice combinations. This is a diplomatic way of saying that the 'B' in Britain stands for bland, so Chinese takeaways are going to differ from authentic Chinese cuisine because of that. Why do I care about duck wraps? This is a very valid question to ask. Trying and reviewing every type of a specific food item from various businesses is not a new venture on the internet, but it becomes my conquest in the sandwich-adjacent arena when apparently certain Meal Deal prices are going to increase during Britain’s economic calamity (Race). Swinging about the phrase ‘cost of living’ in daily British conversation is almost like seeing a taxidermy squirrel shoot out of a rocket. It’s morbid and baffling, but acceptance and laughter are the only stages of grief you can grasp in this situation. Like many, I eat to cope. And the idea that a Clubcard may not be enough to give me salvation in sweet, sweet savings was a first-world problem I disdain to find on my 2022 bingo card. However, I think the key reason why I care is that I know they could be better. I know deep in the broth that runs through my veins that hoisin duck wraps are not, and never will be, the epitome of Chinese food in Britain—but I am heavily invested in curiosity. If I were to sample (almost) all hoisin duck varieties in supermarkets, which one is the top bird? What are supermarkets inspired by and possibly aiming for? In other words, I wanted to know how low the bar has been set. Based on historic tradition in contrast to modern practice, how far has the bar sunken - modestly or devastatingly? This history of hoisin duck as Peking duck alongside the history of Chinese food in modern Britain can inform us why Chinese flavours are often less potent, aromatic, or rich in depth when produced for mass consumption, low cost, or convenience in Britain. Therefore, it may be a little-to-no surprise that the flavours in hoisin duck wraps are more likely to be one-note rather than rich in complexity. It may be the reason why I get more spritely energy from a bite of crunchy cucumber than I do with any supermarket’s version of shredded duck mixed with plum adjacent sauce. Alternatively, I was just very hungry. That being said, let’s see how five supermarket versions of hoisin duck wraps have satisfied my hunger during a very extended lunch break. The Wrap Wreview Based on what we currently know, that being ‘hoisin duck’ is an adjacent variant to Peking duck with hoisin sauce, we could (or should) expect the following when eating a hoisin duck wrap from a British supermarket: The duck is to be prepared as slices Fresh vegetables, such as cucumber A thick, savoury sauce containing garlic, soybeans, and spices, with some sweetness The pancake (or tortilla, in this case) to perfectly hold all the elements There are a few factors to consider before reading my reviews: I do not have the most sophisticated palette, so I may not be able to pick out any specific nuances or differences in comparison to those that are more critical of their food. I just enjoy food a lot and thought this would be a fun experiment. I have not included the total prices of these wraps when discounted in a meal deal, the prices shown are what you would pay if you were to buy the wrap alone without a snack or drink. Due to budgetary constraints, I am not able to purchase multiple duck wraps from the same supermarket names (in the same or different locations) to assess the consistency of tastes and textures. This means that my reviews will be based on *one* wrap from each supermarket rather than a sample of multiple. The integrity of the wraps may be impacted by factors such as moisture or handling after purchase before eating as these were all collected the same day. This means that I will not be judging the wrap too harshly on appearance or the wrapper's ability to withstand travel unless it is a contributing factor to the overall taste experience I have. Based on these factors, this is not a conclusive review and can be subject to change if I were to purchase and taste them again on another day. With that being said, these are my reviews in convenient table form! Aldi Eat & Go Hoisin Duck Wrap: “Cooked Duck With Hoisin Sauce, Cucumber, Spinach And Spring Onion In A Roti Wrap” Wrapper: No visible sauce leaks from the bottom of the wrap thick but soft to chew through. In the middle of the wrap is a thick portion of tightly wound wrapper with no filling which makes the wrap halves appear underfilled. Tastes like white bread. Duck: Two visible chunks of duck per half, bottom piece looks like shredded duck at first but is whole if you peek into the wrap after the first bite. Medium amount of bite, not super tender and a little dry since it's separate from the sauce, but not tough or hard to chew through either. Sauce: A thick, deep and clear brown color. Not mixed with the shredded duck, no distinct flavour profile. Doesn’t leak out of the wrap and no presence of plum. Vegetables: Plenty of soft and unbruised spinach proportional to the sauce, and only two rings of spring onion per wrap. The spinach appears and tastes fresh which is nice but because it is quite a soft leaf in comparison to something like lettuce, it doesn’t provide enough contrast or variety in texture. Bill: £2.19 Boots Hoisin Duck: “Cooked shredded duck with hoisin plum sauce, lettuce, cucumber and spring onion in a wheat wrap” Wrapper: Contains E-numbers in the ingredients list. The wrapper loosely holds its shape when taken out of the container but is not tightly wrapped around the filling. Be careful when wearing any clothes that might stain because I wasn’t; when I took a bite of the bottom of the wrap, the sauce leaked out of the bottom, this might be user-error but because there is so much sauce at the bottom, it is hard to avoid this problem without the wrapper being more resilient. You may need to take the entire bottom of the wrap in one bite to avoid this, and eating a mouthful of only wrapper and sauce may only be appealing to a few—especially with the vinegary aftertaste of the sauce. Duck: Duck stock contains E-numbers in the ingredients list. The only texture experience I had was soft and mushy. You would not be able to tell this was a duck if you have not had this before. Sauce: A little cloudy in color. Plum juice concentrate is the fourth highest ingredient in the sauce after water, sugar, and fermented bean paste. Definitely can taste plum more than anything else but is not sweet, in fact it has a subtle sharp aftertaste which you may associate with vinegar, as included in the ingredients list. Approximately half of the sauce was mixed into the shredded duck and the other half settled into the bottom of the wrap, which means the final bites of the wraps are slightly unpleasant if you are not a fan of solely eating a pool of sauce with wrapper and a few pieces of leftover lettuce. Not an even distribution of each component. Vegetables: Ingredients do not specify what type of lettuce, but based on appearance I can only assume gem lettuce which makes sense as it is crunchy but has a mild flavour. A definite and audible crunch from the lettuce, and the only thing to provide a refreshing contrast to balance the duck and sauce. Bill: £3.15 M&S Always Delicious No Mayo Hoisin Duck Wrap: “Shredded roast British duck with hoisin sauce, cucumber, spinach and spring onions in a wheat flour tortilla” Wrapper: The ‘outer layer’ of the wrapper peels off at the bottom edges of the wrap from where there are the more defined folds. This may lead to sauce leaking out at the bottom if you have a firm grip on the base or middle part of the wrap. Little to no taste—white bread adjacent. Duck: Some of the duck that was shredded was a soft mush but some of it was a whole piece and there was some visible rosiness in the centre of the whole piece—which is the first time I’ve seen this rosiness so far in comparison to a uniform brown-grey colour from well-done cooking. Shows some amount of thought into how the duck is best cooked but when it’s in wrap form it doesn’t make much of a difference with taste, even though this may be why I got the most duck flavour from this part of the wrap in comparison to other wraps. Sauce: A very appealing, deep and rich colour that is reminiscent of a medium soy sauce reduction. The final ingredient of soy sauce (separate from the Hoisin sauce which is higher in the ingredients list) contains E-numbers. I taste some sweetness, and it has a subtle acidity or tang that I can only describe as subdued ginger or garlic—a little bit of sharpness in the initial bite that immediately disappears and doesn’t leave an aftertaste. A small pool of sauce at the bottom of the wrapper. Vegetables: Minimal amount of spring onion, but is sharp and clean so provides a little bit of variety in taste and texture. Spinach is packed into folded layers within the wrapper so slightly wrinkled but not bruised or wilted. One long wedge of cucumber per wrap. The triangular shape is a bit smushed and blunt, but it still has a satisfactory crunch. Although there is only one piece of cucumber per half, there is more cucumber than spring onion. The cucumber is the most refreshing part but because there wasn’t much of it, so the fresh contrast to offset the duck and sauce isn’t evenly balanced. This wrap so far has the most variety in texture. Bill: £3.75 Sainsbury’s On the go Duck & Hoisin with cucumber and spring onion: “Marinated British duck in hoisin sauce with lettuce, cucumber, spring onion and coriander in a tortilla wrap” Wrapper: Structurally sound at the bottom and decently wraps the filling without being loose or tight, although most of the filling is concentrated in the middle of the wrapper so the outer layers are left bare unless some of the sauce spills over from the top. I will give it points for an even distribution of duck and sauce from top to bottom of the wrapper. You don’t get any vegetables in the final bits but finding duck at the bottom of the wrap was a pleasant and welcome surprise after previously experiencing puddles of liquidy sauce that could ruin (another) one of my hoodies. Duck: Barely any texture other than springy mush, like a monolithic mass of cotton threads soaked in cold water. Sauce: More liquid than viscous and sticky. Slightly mixed in with the duck and not much of a distinct flavour to even tell what kind of sauce this is other than barely savoury with a quiet suggestion of sweetness. Vegetables: Lettuce appears the most wrinkled and wilted, there is a feeble amount of equally feeble slices of cucumber that you can barely notice. Spring onion is mild and does little to help to provide any tang or texture. Bill: £2.75 Tesco Tesco Hoisin Duck Wrap: “Marinated duck, hoisin sauce, lettuce, cucumber and spring onion in a wheat flour tortilla. [...] Tortilla filled with shredded duck, hoisin sauce, cucumber and lettuce CAREFULLY HAND PACKED EVERY DAY” Wrapper: Tortilla loosely holds onto the filling, but it feels like you need to wind it up a little tighter to avoid the filling falling out whilst eating. The Top ‘layer’ flakes a little near the bottom folds of the wrapper base. Duck: A super slight rosiness in parts of the duck, but you can barely tell with the sauce and shredded mush. There was a large chunk of unshredded duck at the very bottom of the wrap, so it’s nice that the duck was evenly distributed but because there was no sauce left by the time I got to the bottom, it was just dry and almost pasty. At this point of the eating experience, you realise the sauce did the heavy lifting to not alert you to the duck’s uneven and overcooked texture. Sauce: Not much to talk about in taste and in volume. The top of the wrap was saturated in the sauce then it gradually got dryer as you continued to eat the wrap, which was the opposite of what I experienced with some of the other wraps but isn’t necessarily better. It’s just a difference between extremely wet leftovers and extremely dry leftovers. Vegetables: Cucumber chopped into small triangular cubes (i don’t know how else to describe it). Feeble amount of unspecified lettuce. Despite that, there is a really solid crunch and bite from the cucumber and because there are multiple pieces, each bite is more evenly distributed with soft duck, sauce and crunchy vegetables. The unspecified lettuce gives off a subtle pepperiness that leans more earthy than bitter (something that you might find in a more potent rocket). This taste is unexpected in a hoisin duck wrap (based on research), but isn’t unwelcome. If you’re not into a watery and flavourless salad like a gem or iceberg lettuce, this is a good alternative - even if it doesn’t provide that refreshing contrast you may initially hope for. The cucumber helps balance the fresh crunch that is not as prominent in the lettuce. I see nor taste any spring onion. If it wasn’t for the copy or ingredients list, I would not have noticed if there was spring onion because it is not strong enough for me to tell. Bill: £2.75 Overall Wreview I was whelmed. Not overwhelmed, not underwhelmed. Just simply…whelmed. This whelming sense of whelmness very much correlates to the experience of tasting and comparing multiple varieties of hoisin duck wraps that British supermarkets offer to the general public. The most visual appeal and texture variety came from M&S, the most expensive option, but the use of E-numbers deter me from purchasing it regularly as I am allergic to artificial colourings, flavourings, and preservatives (eating and reviewing wraps for the people, but at what cost!). Furthermore, the differences in taste and texture are so minute that you are only going to pick up on the ‘nuances’ in this type of review setting—not when you are sitting on a bench trying to decompress from the turmoils of daily living with a snack, drink, and sandwich from the closest shop. I very much enjoy hoisin duck over the numerous chicken varieties, but I can tell that options provided by supermarkets will never be able to match the powerhouse flavours and textures you would find if you actually bought Peking duck instead of these wraps. All of them did the job as a filling sandwich for a meal deal, but leave you wanting more from it, especially if you know what duck and hoisin could be at their peak culinary potential. Will I still have them at my convenience? Absolutely, as established I enjoy eating. Aside from that, you are not going to get the peak of Chinese cuisine in Britain from wrappers loosely cuddling lunch ingredients. In terms of recommending which one to pick: I would say choose the Tesco option IF you want the best meal deal discounts and options BUT choose the cheapest wrap accessible to you if you only want to buy the wrap without the drink or snack. To be quite frank, no-wrap particularly stood out. The best way to pick an individual wrap based on my reviews is 1) figuring out what you don’t want then narrowing it down by process of elimination, and 2) cost and convenience. I’m sorry if you were looking for a more conclusive answer about the best hoisin duck wrap Britain has to offer but what I’ve learnt from reviewing these wraps is that it doesn’t matter because the bar is set low with all of them. I wasn't expecting anything extraordinary or close to authentic Chinese cuisine, but after eating so many I now realize how one-note each component is once I took the time to analyse and critique what I was eating. But this brings up another question: Should we expect supermarkets to handle non-British food combinations gracefully and elegantly, or should we be more critical about the way non-British flavours are handled in British supermarkets in general—especially when a spectrum of Asian dishes and businesses are not visible necessarily on shelves? I’m not quite sure yet if the solution should be better quality flavours or better sourcing of non-supermarket brands, or if both can be achieved at all! What can we learn from this? Arguably a greater takeaway (no pun intended) from this is that the British public is not going to be able to rely on corporate supermarkets for a thorough, diverse and high standard of Asian food options. If anything, the unsung heroes of Asian corner shops and supermarkets are going to supply that gap in the market. In 2020, Sana Noor Haq writes for gal-dem that, “Over the lockdown period corner shops and independent grocers have reported a 63% upsurge in trade. The three months leading to 17 May saw sales made by independently-owned retailers increase by more than two times that of the fastest-growing supermarket chain Co-op, according to the data, insights and consulting company Kantar. [...] Withstanding waves of socio-political change such as Powellism, Brexit and Covid-19, corner shops continue to act as sites of congregation for Britain’s migrant communities.” (Haq). Although this specifically discusses and reports on the South-Asian experience, it highlights how smaller businesses run by Asians largely for Asians can be impacted both negatively and positively by (more than one) economic crisis in modern Britain. However, there’s another problem with concluding you should replace your grocery shopping with Asian stores—regional locations. According to data from a census published on the UK Government website, London had the smallest (proportionally) White British demographic with 44% and the largest Asian demographic with 18.5%. If you were to broaden that to the general South-East population, it was 85.2% White British and 5.2% Asian meanwhile the South-West population was 91.8% White British and 2.0% Asian, the second largest White British population behind Wales with 93.2%. The South West demographically is the antithesis of the South East (specifically London) population (Gov.uk Ethnicity facts and figures). I bring this up because another clash arrives when it comes to where in Britain you can source your Asian food options. If the density and diversity of the food market can be signified in regional demographics - this suggests that anyone living or from the Westcountry would have had an astonishingly low chance of a multicultural food experience that wasn’t sanitised of its flavour or depth. We have a clash between supporting Asian stores and businesses because British supermarkets are lacking, and the inaccessibility of multiple Asian stores and businesses depending on your location. An unfortunate reality is that because British supermarkets are almost everywhere, they are going to be the most accessible way for people to experience food diversity. Circling back to the whelmingness of the meal deal hoisin duck wrap, you can imagine how bleak I must feel about this reality. Wrapping Up This seems like a strange way to conclude a review about sandwiches. It is easy for me to say British supermarkets should do better with their Asian food options and reflect the same standard and diversity of Asian food stores, but the nuances of living and eating in Britain don’t exclusively revolve around a poor interpretation of a Chinese duck dish… Unfortunately. What could happen if British supermarkets more drastically increased their supply of Asian food options? On one hand, these options may become more accessible regionally, nationally, and financially since Britain is under the brute fist of the higher cost of living. On another hand, could that economically impact the demand for smaller Asian businesses if the community is not enough to appeal? Modern British cuisine is built upon a history with non-British communities, but that history continues to build as we live. I hope the history we are writing about Britain’s modern food market improves upon shredded duck, hoisin sauce, mild vegetables and flour wrappers conveniently wrapped and packaged in two halves. And I tried them so you didn’t have to. Editors: Rachel C., Cathay L., Leila W. Image Credits: Tesco via The Grocer Bibliography: "10 Things to Know about British Supermarkets: Anglophenia: BBC America." 10 Things to Know About British Supermarkets | Anglophenia | BBC America. Web. 23 Oct. 2022. . "Approved Additives and E Numbers." Food Standards Agency. 15 Feb. 2022. Web. 23 Oct. 2022. . "British Chinese Food Timeline." British Chinese Heritage Centre. Web. 23 Oct. 2022. . "Chinese Restaurants." The British Library - The British Library. 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