Tag Archives: Immigration

Food and Drink, Summer 2026

Between Kitchens: My Yiayia’s Finikia and the Culture We Inherit 

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By Stephanie Sorosiak

A few weeks ago I sat with my mom amongst a pile of oil-stained pieces of paper. They were from my grandmother’s recipe box, and to our dismay, mostly written illegibly. My yiayia referred to these when making her most popular dishes, but to us it was a jumbled mix of misspelled and slang words. As we struggled to decipher one thing from another, I realized that my yiayia didn’t document these recipes for anyone else. This cooking space was entirely hers. 

My grandmother’s recipe.

Since her passing I have taken on the task of translating, interpreting, and recreating my yiayia’s recipes. This is partly because I love food history and recipe research, but it’s also to better understand their place in my life. The recipes our elders leave behind impose a significant influence on our cultural ties. 

Fredrik Barth, a social anthropologist known for his text Ethnic Groups and Boundaries, argued that ethnic groups are more relatively defined by the boundaries they create rather than the contents within each group.1 It’s the boundaries separating one group from another that maintain and strengthen a group’s ethnic identity. As our world continues to globalize and adapt, these conversations about ethnicity grow more complex. These complexities make me wonder if my Greek heritage can maintain its cultural boundaries as we shift through social, economic, political, and geographical changes. My family, like millions of others, shares the same sentiments and emotional attachments to our homelands. But what of our traditions, and ultimately our cultural identities? Can they remain relevant now that we’ve settled elsewhere?

Society’s ethnic boundary lines are inevitably softening as more cultures co-mingle, but I view family recipes as a defining glue that keeps these boundaries intact. Through the grief of my yiayia’s passing I feel an increased desire to master what she left behind. What started as a simple project of reading through recipe cards unearthed a lot more. As her granddaughter, and  a lover of food and the importance it carries, I feel it is my duty to honor her in the best way I know how. Ultimately I want to know how her cooking choices, both from the ingredients she used and how they were executed, created one of my favorite cookies called finikia. 

So what are finikia? Well to start, most of Greece calls them melomakarona. The name ‘finikia’ is used in regions closer to Turkey, a relationship my elders denied but is constantly referenced in our family’s recipe names. Finikia are a buttery cookie soaked in a spiced syrup typically served around the holidays, but there is not a time of year when I don’t remember eating these. At large gatherings when there were several plates of the same cookie, I could always pick out which ones were my yiayia’s. Her finikia were tender on the outside with a slight crumble in the middle. They were soaked in the right amount of orange and cinnamon syrup and were topped with just enough crushed walnuts. My yiayia’s finikia were simply the best, but it was only after I read and recreated her recipe that I understood her special techniques. 

Here are some of my yiayia’s adaptations which I believe make her finikia, hers: 

  1. Using a cheese grater to perforate the dough balls. Most recipes will instruct you to prick the dough with a fork, but my yiayia rolled them against the coarse side of a grater to create the most uniform perforation. This allows for adequate soaking after they bake. 
  2. A longer bake time. My yiayia was known to overcook everything – vegetables, poultry, and these cookies. Most recipes average a 15 minute bake time, but her finikia need around 30-35 minutes at 350ºF to achieve the signature golden color. 
  3. A longer long soak time. This probably has to do with how dry the cookies become from doubling the bake time, but allowing the cookies to soak in that delicious spiced honey syrup a tad longer (30-45 seconds), gets them even more fragrant and soft.
  4. Pastel cupcake liners. My yiayia never swayed from serving finikia in pink and yellow baking cups. While I’ve used other colors, they don’t provide the same nostalgia. 
My grandmother’s kitchen.
My version of finikia (without the pastel cupcake liners)

My grandmother came from Rhodes, Greece, to the United States in the 1950s, a period that also saw the standardization of electric appliances, prepackaged products, and fast-food chains. These heavily influenced the American eating experience, but to a newly emigrated Greek? Well, it’s hard to say. My grandparents made do with what they had while constantly navigating a language barrier, economic and social differences, and a palette for foods from a distant land. But what’s most interesting is how in the decades that followed, my yiaiya’s cooking became synonymous with what it means for us to be Greek. Even through the mass-produced conveniences that shaped her cooking choices, my family views her recipes as an authentic connection to our heritage. The choices my yiayia made in the kitchen may have seemed insignificant to her, but this is what shaped my cultural boundary. 

Embarking on this project got me thinking about the recent rise in diasporic food media – authors eager to share the stories of their family’s recipes but admitting to the unconventional swaps that their elders used once they arrived in the States. These cookbooks represent the immigrant movement, an ability to welcome adaptations while maintaining a strong relationship with specific cultural boundaries. My yiayia’s recipes are rooted in traditional Greek cuisine but with American swaps like using Mazola oil instead of olive. This is what it means to be a Greek-American. It’s something my yiayia naturally adapted to, one batch of finikia at a time. 

My grandmother, Sevasti Lambros 
  1. Barth, F. (Ed.). (1969). Ethnic groups and boundaries: The social organization of culture difference. Universitetsforlaget / Little, Brown. ↩︎

Stephanie is a New England native and a recent graduate with her Master’s in Gastronomy from Boston University. She focuses on the intersection of personal customs, cultural history, and food writing. She’s been in the hospitality industry for over a decade and through her education now studies group’s foodways and their food choices to enhance restaurant business. Stephanie hopes to publish more of her work including a cookbook in the future. She currently lives in Massachusetts. 

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 ↩︎
Culinary History, Global Exchange, Summer 2026

Curry, Casseroles and Cultural Exchange in Cold War Panama Canal Zone

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By Ana Ramírez Luhrs

What do asopao de gallina (chicken stew), Johnny Mazetti, carimañolas, beef stroganoff, and Indian curry have in common?  Collectively, these dishes reveal a cultural exchange between Panamanian and American women in Cold War–era Panama. These recipes are included in the bilingual cookbook, Hands Across the Cooking Pot, published in Panama in 1952. More than a collection of recipes, the cookbook provides a unique look into cultural exchange through food between middle- class Panamanian and American women in the Canal Zone during the Cold War. 

Hands Across the Cooking Pot was compiled by the Club Interamericano de Mujueres, a benevolent and philanthropic society established to advance understanding, exchange, and friendship between Panamanians and Americans.  It was one of many Panamanian women’s organizations influenced by the presence of American women in the Canal Zone since the early 20th century. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the Canal Zone – a ten mile stretch of land controlled by the United States – was home to over 52,000 U.S. military personnel, their families, civilian canal employees, and Panamanian and West Indian laborers. 

Image Credit: Skillman Library, Lafayette College

Although no direct evidence has been found, Hands Across the Cooking Pot was likely produced as a fundraiser for the philanthropic work of the Club Interamericano de Mujeres. An eBay search for copies of this paperback cookbook reveals that subsequent editions were published in 1956, 1958, and 1969. There are nearly two hundred bilingual recipes found in the cookbook, including a number of casserole-style dishes, gelatin mold salads, (such as tomato aspic), plantain dishes, egg-based dishes, and lots of desserts. Several recipes in the cookbook reflect part of the immigrant histories of Panama, United States, and the Panama Canal Zone.

For example, the recipe for Indian curry was contributed by former Club Interamericano de Mujeres President Helen Shaw (1949-1950). Unlike the format of most recipes in the cookbook, the Spanish version of the recipe is written as a single paragraph and without a separate list of ingredients. However, the English version follows the standard format of an ingredient list, with measurements followed by instructions. While Indian curry may not initially seem Panamanian or American, the inclusion of this recipe hints at the presence of the largest group of people working in the Canal Zone: West Indian immigrants. This recipe calls for curry powder, rice, butter, onions and lean veal, lamb, or chicken.  Further instruction indicates that the dish must “always” be served with chutney and at least four of the following ingredients in small dishes: chopped fried onions or onion rings, chopped crisp bacon, ground peanuts, toasted coconut, currants, chopped hard-boiled egg or fried batter balls. Overall, West Indian cuisine is a combination of African, Spanish, South Asian and Chinese influences. The presence of this  recipe in the cookbook is a reminder of the West Indian influence on Panamanian culinary identity.

Image Credit: Skillman Library, Lafayette College

The cookbook also includes Johnny Marzetti, a Midwestern casserole consisting of pasta, tomato sauce, beef, and cheese, reflecting the Italian influence on American food history. While the origin story of Johnny Marzetti has been contested, it has been established that the dish has Italian roots, first appeared in Columbus, Ohio, and quickly grew in popularity across the state by the 1920’s. The dish became a staple in mess halls during World War II because it was easy to prepare in large quantities. With a popularity amongst American military families, the dish would inevitably find a home in the Canal Zone. The Johnny Marzetti recipe in Hands Across the Cooking Pot differs from the original Midwestern version through the addition of “Arturo sauce” (a tomato based canned sauce with vegetables and spice), chopped olives, and celery, making this version a uniquely Zonian dish. The name of the recipe also changes in the Canal Zone, as the “r” in Marzzetti is dropped. Like any good casserole, this recipe is meant to serve a big crowd– twenty five people, in fact. Another notable aspect of the recipe is the number of tomato and canned ingredients that it calls for. The canned tomatoes, tomato paste, tomato soup, Arturo sauce, and pimentos make for a distinct, hybrid, and local dish.

Image Credit: Skillman Library, Lafayette College

Ultimately, Hands Across the Cooking Pot is more than a simple collection of recipes; it is a window into the culinary and social landscape of the Panama Canal Zone during the Cold War. Not only does the cookbook demonstrate the cultural exchange between Panamanian and American women, it also reveals the immigrant roots of Panamanian and American cuisines and how, through adaptation, a new hybrid cuisine in the Panama Canal Zone was created.

References

Gil, Elizabeth. El Club Interamericano de Mujeres de Panamá, 1946-2006: Una Expresión de Unidad Femenina y Acción Benéfica, Panama: Universidad de Panamá, 2006.

Gonzalez, Juan. Harvest of Empire: A History of Latinos in America, New York: Penguin Books, 2011.

Ana Ramírez Luhrs is co-director of Lafayette College Special Collections and College Archives. Prior to this position, she was a research and instruction librarian.  Ana is an avid cookbook collector who enjoys studying and teaching with cookbooks as historical documents.  Her favorite dish is her mom’s Colombian stew.