Category Archives: Global Exchange

Food and Drink, Global Exchange, Summer 2026

Chocolatey Kichidi: An Adoptee’s Portal to the Past

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By Janaea Eads

If you are what you eat, I am dhal and rice and fried chicken with gravy. Adopted by the daughter of Punjabi immigrant parents and the born-and-raised-in-Kansas son of a World War II veteran, I developed a complex American identity with a love of Indian food and dancing to Bollywood songs, along with mucking out horse stalls and driving a pick-up truck. Because of the many transitions in my life, my memories of life preadoption are hazy. At three years old, I was abandoned at a train station in Pune, India, and brought to a nearby orphanage where I lived for two years. After meeting my adoptive parents in 1999, I moved from a flat in India to Maryland after an arduous five-month journey to complete the adoption process. Since moving to Maryland, I’ve gone to college on Long Island, moved to Kansas, taught high schoolers on a Pacific island, moved to Massachusetts, got married, and bought a house in Massachusetts, where I now live with my husband and dog. Every step of the way, I needed to reinvent myself, building on an unknown foundation. 

This picture was taken during my adoption ceremony with my parents. This picture is from the author’s collection of family photographs.
This is a picture taken after my adoption ceremony. This picture is from the author’s collection of family photographs.
This is a picture of my friends and I enjoying a healthy meal at the orphanage. I am in the bottom right corner. This picture is from the author’s collection of family photographs.

Although many people go through transitions, I found myself constantly renegotiating my identity as a transnational adoptee. Instead of belonging to all the places I have inhabited, I belonged to none of them. I found clarity reading ethnographer Sarah Pink’s theory of seeing physical places as unbounded, rather than fixed. Places from our past are fluid. Like a river, once you step into it, it changes and it changes you. It becomes a part of you. Before reading Pink’s theory, I had not recognized how accessible my past is, especially through food. Through the power of Maryland blue crabs (with Old Bay!), Kansas chicken fried chicken, Long Island bagels with cream cheese and lox, and Massachusetts bar pizza, I remain connected to all the places I have lived and can access my memories of where and who I have been.

While the orphanage in Pune, India, is harder to access due to the time and distance in between, one recipe anchors me to it: Sabudana Kichidi, a savory dish of tapioca pearls, a staple in Maharashtrian cuisine. At the orphanage, I called it “Chocolatey Kichidi” because of its brown color caused by crushed peanuts and spices. I loved Chocolatey Kichidi so much it became synonymous with my name; the two times I visited the orphanage while growing up, the cook would make the dish for me, feeding it to me as she did when I lived there.

To reconnect with my orphanage and my adoptee identity, I recreated Chocolatey Kichidi. To do this, I drew from Jennifer Brady’s ethnographical “Cooking as Inquiry” methodology, which centers food and the body as sites of knowledge that help in exploring identity. From the woman who makes masala peas to remember her mother, a father who is young-at-heart when he barbeques, to the elaborate, ritualistic dessert that one friend loves to make, food and the body while cooking can transport us to a place where we can sense who we are and how we got here. However, Brady’s methodology goes beyond just cooking, so I also talked to my parents about their memories of the orphanage and revisited a photo album the caretakers put together for me. The album has pictures of me with friends as well as notes from the caretakers themselves, wishing me a happy life with my new family. I also went through miscellaneous items my mom collected over the years: letters to camp, a favorite t-shirt, and so much more. Through the gathering of ingredients and memories, I entered the mindset I had as a child, filled with wonder, curiosity, and the fear of inevitable change. Chocolatey Kichidi became a portal that transported me to a place where I could connect my past senses, my evolving identity, and my current wisdom to embrace who I am today. 

Chocolatey Kichidi is a simple recipe but requires some preparation in advance. The necessary ingredients are tapioca pearls, potatoes, peanuts, ginger, green chilis, cumin, curry leaves, and garam masala. The night before cooking the kichidi, I soaked the tapioca pearls until they doubled in size and peeled and parboiled my potatoes. I also toasted and ground the peanuts, leaving some chunky for texture. When the peanuts are added to the tapioca, they coat each pearl and turn them “chocolatey.” The next day, in a skillet, I added cumin seeds, minced ginger, green chilies, and curry leaves. Once all the spices were aromatic, I added the parboiled potatoes and fried them, followed by the peanuts and garam masala. I toasted everything together and added the tapioca to cook until the pearls became translucent. 

Author’s picture of recreation of Chocolatey Kichidi. 

My recreation of Chocolatey Kichidi was delicious; however, the process of cooking was the most enlightening. I imagined the cook crushing peanuts and washing the tapioca pearls like I did, mincing the green chili and ginger while I used my microplane grater. She must have heard the sizzle of the cumin and ginger. And had she also coughed as the green chilis sputtered in the pan? Repeating these actions brought me back to the kitchen of the orphanage. Through mimicking the actions the cook might have taken, I stepped into her body, seeing the dish and myself from her perspective. She put so much effort into feeding us every single day; it truly was a labor of love. It is heartbreaking I do not remember her name. While my intention with recreating Chocolatey Kichidi was to revisit a time and place from my past, I did not anticipate revisiting the people I once knew. With the love and support of the cook and caretakers at the orphanage, I found my adoptive parents. Through them, and Chocolatey Kichidi, I found myself. We are not only what we eat. We are also the places we have been to and the people we meet along the way. 

Works Cited

Brady, Jennifer. 2011. “Cooking as Inquiry: A Method to Stir up Prevailing Ways of Knowing 

Food, Body, and Identity.” International Journal of Qualitative Methods 10 (4): 321–34. https://doi.org/10.1177/160940691101000402.

Pink, Sarah. 2015. “Principles for Sensory Ethnography : Perception, Place, Knowing, Memory 

and Imagination.” Doing Sensory Ethnography, 25–50. https://doi.org/10.4135/9781473917057.n2.

      Janaea Eads is a master’s candidate in Boston University’s Gastronomy program. Her research interests include the intersections between adoption, food, and identity. She is also represented by Starling Literary + Media Agency and is currently working on young adult books that center adoptee narratives. When she isn’t writing, cooking, or thinking about food, she is being outsmarted by her pit-mix rescue.

 

Culinary History, Global Exchange, Summer 2026

Rice with Soda

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By Chong Ntxoo Moua

Servings: Home
Total Time: Displaced
Ingredients
  • Fresh cooked Jasmine rice
  • Soda
  • Bowl
  • Spoon
  • Memories
Recipe Notes

When I was growing up, every now and then, there would be a bowl of red tinged rice in the refrigerator. These were the leftovers of my father’s rice with red soda or punch. He was the only family member I recall who ate rice with soda. 

Rice is an integral part of Hmong life–from birth to being an ancestor in the spiritual realm. One of the first solid foods Hmong mothers introduce to their babies is rice. The soft, puffy pillows of cooked rice and its gentle aroma teach babies that rice is love and rice is home. For families like mine, who practice Hmong animist beliefs, rice is often offered in ritual ceremonies to ancestors. 

Hmong people say that as long as you have rice, you will never go hungry. In the aftermath of the U.S.’s secret war in Laos (1962-1975), when Hmong people had to escape Laos due to persecution from the communist government, rice and a cooking pot were essential among the few items they carried with them. As many made their way to refuge in Thailand, mostly on foot, they tried to make the rice last as long as possible on the long journey. When rice ran out, they dug for roots and tubers in the jungles. Even then, many still died along the way from starvation. 

This belief in the sustenance power of rice is why Hmong elders, during the coronavirus pandemic, rushed to the stores to buy as much rice as they could. Award-winning Hmong American writer Kao Kalia Yang framed this by asking “How do you brace for a coming pandemic? You buy rice…When there is nothing else, if you have rice, your children will not starve.” Hmong people know that rice is life.

In my family, rice with soda is a Hmong American thing. Prior to resettling in the U.S. as refugees, it was not something we ate. Rice with soda is also not just Hmong American. Acclaimed Filipino American chef Dale Talde shared a recipe of Pepsi Rice, from his grandmother that represented “the intersection of fast food with home cooking.” Before rice with soda, there was rice with water–a meal well-known in all Hmong homes. Of rice and water, Hmong American writer Kou B. Thao writes, “Every Hmong child grew up eating mov ntse dlej (rice mixed with water), whether they were raised in Chiang Mai, Thailand, or Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”1 Hmong elders like to eat rice with water with slices of ginger on the side. Or a side of fresh chili peppers dipped in salt. If they crave something sweet, they will have a small side dish of sugar. A bowl of fresh cooked rice swimming like a school of fish in an ocean of cold drinking water is a favorite meal of mine. The perfect spoonful is equal parts rice and equal parts water. At the end, when only the water is left, resembling a lighter version of horchata, I pick up the bowl and drink the rice-flavored liquid. It never fails to quench my nostalgia for home. Hmong people know that when there is nothing else, rice with water is all you need.

My father is the only one in my family that eats rice with soda. I did not care for rice with soda because I did not like soda. I was not a fan of the texture of the bubbly carbonation in my mouth–the airy, slightly salty effervescence felt strange. My father, on the other hand, has always loved sweet drinks. There is not a soda, punch, juice, or sweet tea he meets that he does not like. Growing up, we did not often have soda or punch or juice at home. As a refugee family of 11 (my parents had nine children) and living on government welfare, there was not a lot of money for luxuries like candy, junk food, or soda. The rare occasions when we did have soda, it was not the individual cans or bottles in a tidy six-pack or 12-pack, but rather the big, clunky 2-liter bottles because they were cheaper for more quantity. And we rarely bought name brand Coke or Pepsi products. Instead, on the front of our 2-liter bottles, written in generic font were store brand names like Dr. Thunder, Signature SELECT Cola Soda, or Great Value Twist Up. 

The other occasions where we had soda was when we had parties or attended parties. These were often family gatherings to celebrate birthdays, the new year, babies, graduations, or weddings. There was always plenty of soda leftover, and we would bring a few home. I don’t remember my father being picky about a particular type of soda or juice he preferred with rice. What stands out in my memory are the times when he had rice with red or orange soda and would leave the uneaten portions on the kitchen table or in the fridge. My father is much older now and age has started to make his mind hazy. He still has a sweet tooth for soda, but I haven’t seen him eat it with rice for many years. I wonder if he still remembers rice with soda. 

In my memories, rice with water is home.

And rice with soda will always be my father. 

Chong Ntxoo Moua (PhD) is a refugee daughter of Yaj Mim Hawj and Npuag Looj Muas. Her expertise in Hmong history and community-based research has contributed to numerous arts- and community-based exhibits, public history, and public humanities projects. She has a co-authored piece on HMoob/HMong Indigeneity and Peoplehood. She is also part of a community-based exhibit and digital archive called HMoob Stories Project.



  1. What We Hunger For: Refugee and Immigrant Stories about Food and Family, 2021, 107 ↩︎
Food and Drink, Global Exchange, Summer 2026

I Love Kewpie ♥️ Some Reflections on Mayonnaise in Postwar Japan

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By Motoko Lezec and Kana Jenkins

Tatsuta Maru, Nippon Yusen Kaisha (NYK) Line. Credit: Björn Larsson Collection

At the University of Maryland’s Gordon W. Prange Collection, we are lucky enough to hold a set of souvenir dining menus served aboard trans-Pacific liners before World War II. These came to us as part of recently acquired additional materials from the Japan-America Student Conference (JASC), a non-profit educational and cultural exchange program for college students from the United States and Japan. With the beautifully designed menus as a starting point we will introduce several culinary publications from Japan’s Occupation era (1945-1952) focusing on one unlikely condiment: mayonnaise. 

First class dinner menu on the Tatsuta Maru, July 21, 1936. Credit: Japan-America Student Conference (JASC) archive,Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Maryland Libraries.

Let’s take a close look at a menu (image) from July 21, 1936. The high speed luxury liner, owned by Nippon Yusen Kaisha (NYK), is the Tatsuta Maru, which departed from San Francisco for Yokohama. Perusing this menu, as well as over a dozen others in the archive, what caught my attention was the salad course, always served right before the dessert course following Continental practice. 

The idea behind the salad greens, dressed simply with oil, vinegar and salt, was to aid digestion. Here, though, the chefs perhaps missed the mark in terms of providing a palate cleanser. Offerings include “California Heart of Lettuce” with ketchup and mayonnaise-based “Thousand Island Dressing” or a commemorative “Liberty” salad served on the Fourth of July . The  “Sayonara” menu, served on September 20, 1940 aboard the Kamakura Maru returning to the U.S.,  features a “Mimosa” salad served with mayonnaise dressing (mayo is also served with a cold course of split lobster).  I had to look up “My Lady” salad, which apparently belongs to a family of mayonnaise-based salads of East European origin, such as “Russian” salad involving boiled potato and carrot, onion, cucumber and cold meats.

These salads got me thinking about mayonnaise, classified by Escoffier as the French mother sauce of cold sauces. Its Japanese incarnation, Kewpie mayonnaise, created in 1925, is today a beloved condiment with near cult status. During the Pacific War however, production of Kewpie mayonnaise was halted due to supply shortages, and did not resume until 1948, three years into Japan’s Occupation.The Tatsuta Maru was requisitioned by the military and served as a transport vessel for troops until she was torpedoed by a U.S. submarine and sunk.  Kewpie’s comeback, on the other hand, can be seen in a newspaper ad that appeared in Nishinippon Shimbun on August 16, 1949. 

“Have some fresh salad”, newspaper advertisement for Kewpie in Nishinippon Shimbun in August 16,1949. Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Maryland Libraries.

A number of publications in the Prange Collection provide a snapshot of the state of affairs around mayonnaise during this period.. The first, Akabori’s Cookery Book (1948) is by Akahori Senkichi, a pioneer in the popularization of Western cuisine in Japan. Before the war, Akabori was attached as chef to foreign embassies. Reflecting his fluency in English, the book is bilingual. In the author’s preface Akabori writes that after the war, despite his advanced age, he entered the employ of the family of a U.S. military commander in the Occupying Forces. In the forward, the Commander’s wife Delphine R. Suarez commends the recipes for being “proven and adaptable” and writes they will “prove most helpful in furthering the interest of worldwide cookery.”   

Akabori’s Cookery Book (1948) by Akabori Senkichi. Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Maryland Libraries.

Akabori’s recipe for Mayonnaise Dressing is fairly classic; egg yolk, oil, salt, a touch of mustard, and a splash of vinegar. A pair of chopsticks is used to create the emulsion. He also included novelty versions such as Green Mayonnaise (with spinach) and Red Mayonnaise (with beet) for color variation when presenting hors d’oeuvres, speaking to the fact that a large part of his function was to create visually striking party menus for entertainment. What, then, was served for everyday meals?  What is Served in an American Family – Cooking Guide for Japanese Homemakers (1948) by Matsumoto Keiko offers this perspective. Matsumoto, known as the Japanese translator of Little Women and mysteries by Agatha Christie, writes in the bilingual preface that the recipes were collected while visiting the home of an American Occupation family and represent basic recipes for a family of four, substitutions encouraged. As such, a “slow” (slaw) dressing recommended for raw cabbage involves simply cooking together flour with milk and a beaten egg as a creamy vehicle for seasonings. 

How to eat imported food supplies (1947, author’s translated title).  Gordon W. Prange Collection, University of Maryland Libraries.

Both of these cookbooks were published in 1948, when Japan was in its third year of reconstruction after the devastations of war.   Food shortages were severe and despite thriving (though illegal) black markets, the spectre of starvation was real for much of the population. While the aforementioned cookery books have brightly colored, modern designs, other publications that came out just one or two years prior are printed on drab-colored paper of poor quality. How to eat imported food supplies (1947, author’s translated title), for example, published by the Hiroshima Prefecture Association for Funshoku, is a malnourished-looking pamphlet printed on yellowish brown paper. 

“Funshoku” refers to a diet based on processed grains as opposed to Japan’s traditional diet of whole grain rice. Included are suggestions and advice for how to get the most out of emergency relief supplies such as cornmeal, milo meal, soybean meal. Interestingly, in the “salad” section, a substitute mayonnaise recipe is given: cooking soybean meal in hot water to achieve a creamy consistency, before letting it cool and adding flavorings of salt & pepper, mustard powder and vinegar. This was to be mixed with whatever plants that could be found, including wild weeds. Delicious ways to eat wild grass, 1946, author’s translated title) gives a recipe for dandelion salad with aster leaves, dressed with oil, salt and a boiled egg.

But better times lay ahead. By 1948, Kewpie was back in business and magazines for housewives were full of cheery, child-pleasing recipes such as edamame suspended in gelatin, served with sliced cucumber and apple, store-bought mayo on the side. Nothing screams mid-century quite like a jello mold. Spreading to other parts of Asia and crossing back to America, we’re seeing a “boom” of Japanese-style “sando” – egg salad, potato salad, macaroni salad and the like, all slathered with Kewpie mayo, a non-negotiable ingredient, and sandwiched between slices of shokupan milk bread. The iconic cherub logo has certainly come a long way.

As curator of the Gordon W. Prange Collection at the University of Maryland Libraries, Kana Jenkins assists with research and course-integrated instruction focusing on the Allied Occupation of Japan. Kana is eager to showcase the newly acquired items in the Prange Collection.  

Motoko Lezec works as Collection Coordinator in the Gordon W. Prange Collection. She holds a BA degree in Political Science from International Christian University in Tokyo, and an MA in History of Art & Architecture from Harvard University. She has held curatorial positions at the USC Pacific Asia Museum in Pasadena, CA and the Smithsonian National Museum of Asian Art in Washington DC. While her research centers on modern and contemporary Japanese prints, she is an avid consumer of writings about food – history, memoirs, poetry– as well as its representations in art and film. Her food-related posts on the Prange blog include topics on bread and pastries. 

 

Culinary History, Food and Drink, Global Exchange, Summer 2026

Flavors in Exile: The Cuban and the Frita

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By Christopher Fink and Elizabeth Nix

Two strangers approach on the streets of Hialeah, Florida and nod in recognition of a shared and complex past. Their birth story differs, but each represents a shifting culture, culinary traditions, and resilience during exile. One has grown very popular and their fame is so pervasive that, although not originating there, they are recognized in La Patria, the fatherland. The other, born on the streets of Havana, is less well-known and no longer recognized in La Patria, but has won the hearts of locals across south Florida. 

The story above is not about two people, but rather two foods – the Cuban Sandwich and the Frita. These foods illustrate the complex migratory patterns and relationship between the United States (U.S.) and Cuba, which is expertly described by Dr. Ada Ferrer in the book Cuba: An American History, a highly recommended book that highlights the forces that have shaped the story of these two foods.

Pre-revolutionary Cuba was a place of immigration, and Fernando Ortiz, Cuban anthropologist, lawyer, and essayist notably described Cuban culture, or Cubanidad, as an Ajiaco – a Cuban stew dating back to pre-colonial times that typically contains ingredients indigenous to the region such as malanga and yuca, but also foods influenced especially by Spanish and African migratory flows. Spanish pigs (which did their own form of colonization) forever made pork a part of Cuban cuisine, as evidenced by the lechón, a slow-roasted pork dish imbued with mojo flavor.  

The 19th century saw the first large-scale emigration flows, and Key West and Tampa, Florida became hubs for Cuban migration and cigar manufacturers who relocated to the U.S. because of tariff policies on Cuban goods. In the early 1900s, after the Cuban War of Independence, U.S. business and plantation owners (and the U.S. mafia) filled Havana, while more Cubans migrated to Florida for work. This time was also marked by changes in working life and food technology, which led to the rise in popularity of handheld meals, and the sandwich made its way to Cuba where the mixto, pan con lechon, and the medianoche, began to appear.

On a recent trip with our students, our Cuban tour guide Alex said “you will not find the Cuban sandwich here.” As it turns out, it does show up on a few tourist-friendly menus in Havana, but Alex’s sentiment largely holds. Though sandwiches such as the mixto were a likely precursor to the modern Cuban, the birthplace of its current form seems to be in Tampa, Florida. 

Making Cuban sandwiches in Ybor City – Tampa, Florida. 1966. Florida Memory Program (Public Domain).

The preparation of the sandwich has morphed over time and for a more thorough history, see The Cuban Sandwich: A History in Layers by Huse, Cruz & Houk. The classic includes slow roasted lechon, which brings Cuban flavor, as well as ham [salami/bologna], swiss cheese, pickles, and mustard, which demonstrate American food culture and the inventiveness of Cuban Americans in exile. While the Cuban was in its infancy in the U.S., another sandwich found its way into the hearts of Cubans: the frita. 

“A Cuban Sandwich,” 2012, by jeffreyw licensed under CC by 2.0.

Considerable debate exists about the frita’s early timeline, but the term can be found in Fernando Ortiz’s 1923 dictionary of “Cubanisms,” and Miami’s Nuevo Herald has documented its popularity in Cuba (particularly in Havana) in the 1920s. The basic components of the frita are a meat patty, topped with julienned fried potatoes, and served on a bun similar to Cuban bread. Originally, the frita patty was made from lower-quality ground beef and spices such as oregano, cumin, salt, pepper, and most importantly, Spanish paprika. The patty was then smashed onto the griddle and fried. Some friteros reportedly fried their julienned potatoes in the leftover packing fat from Spanish chorizo sold to them by local restaurants, which gave the potatoes an extra hit of flavor. Cuban bread or buns were used to hold it together, and it was all topped with mojo or ketchup, depending on the fritero. It’s unclear whether the originator(s) of the frita had the classic American hamburger in mind, or whether it emerged as a street-friendly version of Cuban picadillo. 

Frita from El Rey de las Fritas, 2026. Image credit: Christopher Fink.

Cuban illustrator and humorist Alfredo Pong describes the frita experience of his childhood in Cuba on his blog, explaining that fritaswere typically sold at a puesta, or street food stand, and were cooked on a griddle/fryer using charcoal and later gas. Puestas contained all of the ingredients for the frita, and could be found in Havana and throughout Cuba, with Friteros julienning potatoes, preparing ingredients, and cooking fritas and other foods, such as tortillas (omelets), bollitos de carita (black-eyed pea fritters), and more. 

Illustration of a common pre-revolutionary puesto. Image source: Alfredo Pong, “Puesto de Fritas (1958),” 2008. Used with permission. 

The popularity of the frita continued into the 1950s, but was slowed following restrictions and shortages after the Cuban revolution in 1959. The March 1968 Revolutionary Offensive eliminated privately owned enterprises like the puestas, and the frita disappeared from Cuban life. Fortunately, the frita had begun to take hold in Miami, in both food carts and shops such as Fritas Domino in 1962, started by Ramon Estevill and his sons. Others followed, including two famous rivals – El Rey de las Fritas (the King of the Fritas) and El Mago de las Fritas (the Wizard of the Fritas). For more, see All About the Burger: A History of America’s Favorite Sandwich, by Cuban-American writer Sef Gonzalez. 

Inside signage from El Rey de las Fritas, 2026. Image credit: Christopher Fink.

The two stories of these sandwiches weave in and out of the migratory patterns of Cubans and the influence of both U.S. and Cuban food histories. Though the frita is no longer recognized on the streets of Havana, its memory and ancestors live on in the streets of Miami and reflects an idealized, pre-revolutionary past that no longer exists on the island. 

The Cuban sandwich evolved from existing Cuban recipes, though its evolution to the current form was influenced and reinforced by its pervasiveness as a staple food for Tampa cigar workers. Outside of Cuba it has become synonymous with Cuban food culture, so much that this influence is finding its way back to the island as a reflection and projection of what tourists expect as “authentic” Cuban food identity. 

Christopher Fink is a professor in the Department of Health & Human Kinetics at Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, Ohio, USA, where he also serves as the co-director of the Public Health program. His teaching focuses broadly on food studies, public health, community health education, and qualitative inquiry. Recently, his scholarly work has focused on the community and heritagization aspects of food festivals in Cuba, Italy, and the U.S., Cuban foodways, and oral histories of food and migration, and program development around community food insecurity. 

Elizabeth (Liz) Nix is a registered dietitian nutritionist and assistant professor of Nutrition in the Department of Health and Human Kinetics at Ohio Wesleyan University, where she has co-developed a nutrition and public health program. She teaches an introductory nutrition course, food transformation course, food systems and an advanced human nutrition and metabolism course. Her research interests include health behavior changes and the social and systemic influences of health,  particularly nutrition. Her interest in the food system and the role it plays in human health has led her to study systemic factors of diet across the world including Italy, Spain and, most recently, Cuba. She has recently led teaching and research projects related to her work with the Cuban community and the Cuban diaspora.