Every time I pass a Walgreens or CVS, I 
remember how I used to pace down the candy 
aisle while my dad chose photos to print out of all 
our family pictures saved on a chunky, silver 2010 
digital camera.
It was a monthly occurrence because of the 
hundreds of photos that would pile up on his SD 
card. My dad always carried the camera with him, 
only letting go of it when he’d set it on the nightstand 
to sleep. In addition to birthdays, weddings and 
all the other holidays scattered throughout the 
year, he would pull out 
the camera without 
reason on any given 
day — whether to snap 
a picture of my sister 
and me on a random 
Tuesday before leaving 
for school or to take 
a picture of my mom 
eating at the dinner table. 
My fondest memory is 
of a photoshoot of my 
siblings and me in our 
unkempt living room, 
getting ready to run an errand at Costco. I was the 
most enthusiastic, cheesing in all the pictures and 
asking to hold my then three-month-old brother 
as if he were a prop, while my sister groaned to 
get out of the house sooner. We were not dressed 
up whatsoever, but I love those photos because 
they capture the personalities of my siblings and 
me. On weekends when my mom was working, 
my dad would take us to the supermarket during 
her shift to get pictures with her. He found art in 
what anyone else would call an ordinary moment, 
so you can only imagine how crazy my dad went 
about taking pictures during a vacation. All these 
photos still live on numerous SD cards, but he was 
very selective of which ones made it to the glossy 
black albums. The printed photos needed to be 
both crisp and flattering, and he wanted to see big, 
toothy smiles. But occasionally, he liked to print 
out the candids and raw moments of our lives. 
So accompanying birthday pictures in which my 
sister and I awkwardly stare at the camera while 
feeding each other cake, there’s also the picture of 
us arguing over how much cake she’d gobbed onto 
the spoon. My dad wanted the albums to be real 
windows into our lives, not just the picturesque 
moments. The end product of his artistry was a 
dozen or so photo albums filled with snapshots 
across the years. It became my favorite pastime to 
flip through the albums on rainy summer days and 
talk through the memory behind each photo with 
my little brother. He is eight years younger than me 
and knows nothing of the blaring camera flash and 
my dad directing us to smile. 
The camera is now tucked away at the bottom 
of the nightstand drawer where it has remained 
since 2012. There haven’t been any more trips 
to Walgreens or CVS either. After all, it is more 
efficient and cost-effective to leave everything up to 
the Cloud. 
Printing photos is a lost art — one that I had 
adored. The beauty of holding a physical photo is 
unmatched. I know I am not going to pull up my 
Instagram account when I eventually show my 
future kids old photos. So over the quiet Fall Break 
amid feelings of homesickness, I sifted through my 
camera roll with my own criteria. 
Unlike my dad, I printed the photos that 
brought up lengthy, funny stories without needing 
the marker of a perfect smile — ones that simply 
emanate pure bliss and happiness. Our eyes speak 
before our mouth does: It was an art lesson I didn’t 

take too seriously besides noting that I had to sketch 
eyes before anything else in a portrait. Yet, the 
saying stuck as I flipped back and forth through 
photos trying to find the best ones to print. 
I chose pictures of my friends and me posing 
against a glimmering New York City skyline on the 
40th floor of my friend’s building. Other pictures 
were shaky from my friend laughing too hard 
behind the camera at our sleepovers and snapshots 
of my friends and me smiling at one another, deep 
in our conversations and often unaware of the 
camera’s presence. I picked photos that my sister 
would never allow me to post anywhere but are 
easily some of our funniest moments. I printed 
photos of my friend curled up, sleeping, during our 
two-day drive down 
to Florida this July. My 
favorite picture — and 
one that my dad would 
probably 
dislike 
the 
most — is one of me in 
a mask. All you can see 
are my eyes, but that’s all 
you need to see to know 
how insanely happy I 
was in that moment. 
I didn’t even wait 30 
seconds before tearing 
open the Walgreens 
envelope of photos in the middle of Halloween 
candy specials and various shaving gels. My dad 
always gave me the honor of opening the pictures 
on the car ride home, but I had long forgotten 
what that childhood excitement felt like until now. 
From the smell of freshly printed photos (almost 
woodlike) to the saturated vibrance of each color, I 
welcomed this love for printed photos once again. 
Every picture was already special to me, but now 
they seemed alive as I felt the warm, satiny paper 
against my cold fingers. 
On the walk home, I questioned why my dad 
ever stopped printing photos. For just about $10, the 
feeling was beyond magical. Such special moments 
were now eternalized onto a glossy four-by-six 
card. No massive digital folder of JPEGs could 
replace that. But now, instead of wondering why 
we ever stopped, I’m glad to adopt his dedication to 
both capturing the beautiful moments and making 
many trips to Walgreens. I already put in another 
order to print copies of my favorite photos, adding 
envelopes and post stamps to my cart as well. 
On the back of each photo, I wrote a little 
inscription of the dates and places that they were 
taken, inside jokes and a signature. I am sending 
them to friends as a tangible piece of our summer, 
hoping the physical photo brings them some 
warmth as the months get colder. Even though we 
are miles apart in different states and cities right 
now, these photos remind me of a movie scene. 
We would not have known it then, but every detail 
seemed to be placed perfectly from the glint of 
light in our eyes to the loose flyaways in our hair. 
The pictures show us naively enjoying each other’s 
presence without knowing the next time we’ll be 
together, young and free like this. And we remain 
like that, inked on paper.
This 
temporary 
cure 
for 
homesickness 
resurfaced an old love because now I stop in the 
middle of the Diag to capture the fall foliage even 
when I am late for class, slow down to snap a picture 
of friends walking ahead of me on a cold October 
night and take loads of close-up selfies with only 
our eyes in the frame. I capture a shot of my brother 
being hand-fed by mom, realizing I have become 
the classic, South-Asian wedding photographer who 
takes shots of guests eating, way too close, even mid-
bite. And the next shot consists of his hand stretched 
out, seconds before smacking the camera. 

Family drives were an integral part of 
my childhood. On the weekends after my 
dad came home from work, my siblings 
would all pack into his old Toyota 1996 Land 
Cruiser and he would drive us down the 
highway, always insistent 
on 
taking 
the 
scenic 
route. 
The 
seemingly 
endless Lake Michigan 
would 
glisten 
under 
the sunset sky. Golden 
rays from the sun would 
peek through the cluster 
of 
towering 
buildings, 
casting a majestic glow 
on the Chicago skyline. 
As my family’s car flew 
down Lake Shore Drive, I 
would stick my hand out 
of the backseat window 
to cut through the brisk 
gusts of the Windy City. I remember my 
dad inserting his old reggae cassettes into 
the car’s console, playing songs from the 
likes of Bob Marley and Jimmy Cliff. From 
a young age, I fell in love with the groovy 
rhythms and deep basslines that I could 
feel in my chest through the car speakers. 
My older siblings and I would jubilantly 
accompany our dad in singing the songs 
that he grew up listening to back in Nigeria. 
By a certain point, I had most of Jimmy 
Cliff’s discography stored in my permanent 
memory. I never knew where we were 
heading on these drives but I always enjoyed 
the ride.

I held these rides close to my heart 
because it was precious quality time with 
my family. It was also a time for passing 
down culture. My dad often used these 
lengthy drives as a time to tell stories 
from his youth. Whether it be the thrilling 
adventures he had with his schoolmates 
in boarding school or grim tales of living 
through the Biafra War, I knew I could 

always count on a captivating recounting 
of his childhood whenever we were in the 
car. In his boisterous tone, he intertwined 
the beauty of his home country and the 
struggles he had to endure with vivid 
imagery, suspense and the occasional 
humorous hyperbolic statement. Hearing 
these stories always made me feel closer to 
my culture that I sometimes felt estranged 
from as a first-generation American. They 
were narratives that I listened to eagerly, in 
hopes to pass them down myself someday. 
Now, my siblings are sprawled across the 
country, building their careers and pursuing 
their passions. We don’t get to be together 

anymore as often as I would like. We really 
only have the opportunity to spend time 
together over the holidays which always 
feel far too short. Over this past summer, the 
four of us got the chance to drive to the city 
together for a night out. I plugged my phone 
into the aux cord of the car and hit play on 
one of my Spotify playlists, comprised of 
the reggae music that was now part of our 
childhood as well. Still 
not grown out of my past 
ways, my arm was stuck 
out of the window, slicing 
through the breeze. While 
on the ride, we reminisced 
about these drives that we 
had, cracking jokes about 
our dad’s wild stories. I was 
pleased to discover that 
they had cherished those 
moments just as much as 
I had. We were reminded 
of the importance of those 
drives, and furthermore, 
the necessity of holding on 
to any time that we have together because 
such moments are becoming far and few 
between as we all get older.
Whenever I play songs like “Vietnam” 
by Jimmy Cliff, I’m taken back to these 
drives through the city. Suddenly, I’m 10 
years old again and life is much more simple. 
I took these moments for granted, never 
thinking that they could possibly end. Still, 
I’m grateful that I can look back on these 
car rides with a great sense of fondness. 
While these times may be far behind in my 
rearview mirror, the stories, the music and 
the memories of my family’s car drives are 
forever with me. 

6 — Wednesday, November 3, 2021
Michigan in Color

Looking back on the ride
Smiling with my eyes

UDOKA NWANSI
MiC Columnist

ZAFIRAH RAHMAN
MiC Columnist

To experience culture is a beautiful thing. 
For me, it has been a way to connect with my 
roots and engage in a number of different 
traditions made by and for people who look 
like me. If someone were to have asked me a 
couple of years ago what my favorite aspect of 
my culture was, I would have said music. I have 
always had a deep admiration for the way my 
people can use rhythms, harmonies and lyrics 
to evoke emotion in an audience. However, as 
I am approaching post-grad adulthood, my 
outlook has started to shift. Since I will soon 
have the responsibility of preparing all of my 
meals, the idea of cooking has been weighing 
more heavily on my mind. Because of this, 
when I reflect on my experiences with my 
culture, I am more likely to do it through the 
lens of food and cooking. This has caused me 
to realize the role that food has played in my 
interactions with my culture.
I come from a family that likes to eat, so by 
extension, we have always valued the ability 
to cook. Some of my favorite family memories 
involve helping to prepare food: whether 
it be baking the sweet potato pie, helping 
to season the chicken before it gets fried or 
slow cooking the collard greens. And, as one 
can imagine, eating was just as enjoyable. In 
these cases, eating this food is an embrace of 
the time I spent, and my family spent, to craft 
it, and it is a means through which I bond 
with my community. From random Sunday 
dinners with my parents and siblings to a 
Thanksgiving celebration with my extended 
family, I have gained a greater sense of 
appreciation for the ways in which food has 
served as a pinnacle of culture and connection 
in the Black community.
My upbringing cultivated a love in me for my 
culture, as well as a curiosity for other cultures, 
which I brought with me to college. Being at the 

University of Michigan, I have been exposed 
to more cultures and more opportunities to 
learn about them than ever. The University 
of Michigan provides different ways for me to 
develop this knowledge, whether it be through 
classes or student organizations. However, 
given the self-proclaimed “foodie” status I 
earned throughout my upbringing, with a 
photo album in my camera dedicated to food 
pictures as proof, my first instinct was to get 
a taste of these different cultures. I decided to 
explore the restaurants on and near campus 
that are inspired by different places around 
the world. I have since made a tradition out of 
going out to experience food from these places 
when I am looking for exposure to different 
cultures. In honor of this tradition of mine, and 
the joy it brings me, I want to share some of my 
favorite places so far. 
Frita Batidos: This campus favorite is 
located near Ann Arbor’s Kerrytown district. 
Michigan native Eve Aronoff Fernandez 
opened this Cuban street food eatery as a 
love letter to the Cuban culture that she 
was immersed in when she would visit her 
grandmother in Miami as a child. She became 
a chef for dinners with family and friends first, 
which led to restaurant jobs before opening a 
place of her own. As someone who has been to 
Frita’s countless times, I can say that the decor 
greatly reflects the family-style atmospheres 
that inspired the creation of this restaurant. 
The fairy lights and white picnic tables create 
the perfect ambiance for a “family dinner” 
amongst friends. Nonetheless, the restaurant 
still possesses an air of sophistication. The 
same things can be said about the food. As 
the name, “Fritas” (burgers) and “Batidos” 
(tropical milkshakes) are the main attraction 
here. The casual nature of this food makes it 
clear why it is called street food. Yet, one bite 
of the warm and savory Frita and one sip of the 
rich and sweet Batido makes it obvious why 
this place is not only my favorite restaurant 
near campus but the favorite of so many others. 

If you’re checking out this eatery for the first 
time or looking for something new, I suggest 
the chicken or fish Frita with a passionfruit 
Batido — my classic order.
Jamaican Jerk Pit: Jamaican native Robert 
Campbell runs Jamaican Jerk Pit, which is 
conveniently located on South Thayer Street. 
If the name doesn’t give you enough clues, the 
decor makes it undeniable what Campbell and 
his eatery are serving up: authentic Jamaican 
plates. When I walked inside for the first time, 
a sea of bright colors caught my eye: greens, 
yellows and reds to be exact, and a multitude 
of different countries’ flags — most notably 
Jamaica’s. However, Jamaican Jerk Pit serves 
more than just Jamaican food. They prepare 
dishes from all the Caribbean islands. Despite 
having a menu with several quality options, 
including oxtails, I am guilty of getting the same 
thing every time I come: the Jerk Chicken Pasta. 
With that being said, I have been to events that 
served Jamaican Jerk Pit’s plantains, and it’s 
safe to say that my love for the dish grew from 
there. The restaurant as a whole honestly never 
disappoints. 
Jerusalem Garden: This restaurant has a 
heartwarming story to complement its delicious 
food. Ribhi Ramlawi was born in a village near 
Jerusalem in 1934 and founded Ann Arbor’s 
Jerusalem Garden in 1987 using severance pay 
from his former job. Fast forward 44 years and 
his family-run restaurant is beloved by many 
in the Ann Arbor area, making it clear that his 
investment was worth it. This place sticks out 
in my mind — and my taste buds — because it 
is where I tried falafel for the first time. Up until 
being introduced to Jerusalem Garden, falafel 
was a dish that I had constantly heard about 
but never had the opportunity to try for myself. 
This restaurant is also one that I will never 
forget because Middle Eastern food was not a 
type of food that I would have ever thought to 
put on my list to try, just due to the fact that I 
had never been properly introduced to it, but I 
am extremely glad that I did.

Cuppy’s Best Soul Food: This restaurant 
has a special place in my heart. The only time 
I have traditional Black American cuisine on 
campus is when an event is catered by Cuppy’s. 
Eating their food always makes me feel like I am 
at home, and when I looked into the restaurant’s 
origins, it made sense why I feel that way. The 
founders of the establishment, Andrea “Cuppy” 
White and Joseph Jones, started this restaurant 
from their homes, where they would offer 
catering services to small events in the area. 
They would also cook meals for people 
on the weekends. When their homemade 
cuisine gained traction, they were able to buy 
a building and turn their passion into a full-
scale business. Unlike the other spots that I 
recommend, which are located in Ann Arbor, 
this restaurant is located in Ypsilanti, but 
the opportunity to have a plate full of fried 
chicken, candied yams and collard greens 
makes the drive worth it.
Tea Ninja: I think one of the biggest (life-
changing!) discoveries that I have made since 
coming to college is how good bubble tea, the 
traditionally Taiwanese drink, is. I may have 
tried it once before when I was younger, but 
having access to multiple places on campus 
expanded my love for the drink tremendously. 
When Bubble Island was still around, I would 
make it a point to get a Mooberry Tea with 
tapioca pearls and a Mango Mochi ice cream 
whenever it was warm outside (and sometimes 
even when it was cold). With Bubble Island 
unfortunately closing during the pandemic, I 
have used this year to experiment with new 
campus boba spots and new bubble tea orders. 
I have been consistently going to Tea Ninja 
because it was recommended by many boba 
tea lovers like myself. Like most boba places, 
it is a reliable place to go for a Classic Milk 
Tea or a Mooberry Tea (strawberry milk tea). 
As far as experimenting, Tea Ninja offers a 
load of creative flavors, including the “Brown 
Sugar Creme Brûlée with Milk” tea which 
is absolutely phenomenal. When it comes to 

sweetness levels, many bubble tea places give 
customers the option to adjust how sweet the 
drink is to fit their personal preferences. Given 
my insatiable sweet tooth, I usually get one of 
the highest sweetness levels they offer, but it 
all depends on the drink. I am on a mission to 
find the perfect sweetness level for each drink 
I get.
As I take on my last year of college, I have 
embraced my affinity for trying different 
cultural foods. I have let my adventurous 
eating inspire parts of my senior year bucket 
list. At the top of my list is trying Blue Nile, 
an Ethiopian restaurant on East Liberty St. 
With its plethora of vegetarian options, and 
the experience of eating with your hands that 
is not found often in Ann Arbor, it is a place I 
have been yearning to try, as I’ve heard endless 
positive reviews from family. Another place on 
my list is Slurping Turtle, which is brought up, 
without fail, anytime I tell someone that I like 
to eat Japanese food. 
My food-tasting tradition stems from 
more than just my foodie nature and my 
desire to get a break from the dining hall. For 
me, trying foods from different parts of the 
world has served as one way to appreciate 
various cultures in a way that is respectful and 
engaging. It has also inspired me to learn more 
about these cultures outside of their culinary 
traditions. For example, while working toward 
my fluency in Spanish, learning about the 
Cuban origins of Frita Batidos has inspired 
me to take Spanish classes that not only teach 
the language, but also focus on the culture of 
Spanish-speaking countries. Also, given that 
Jamaica is a prominent part of the African 
diaspora, I have recently developed an interest 
in understanding the similarities between 
Jamaican cultural history and African 
American cultural history. All in all, using 
food as a form of cultural exploration has been 
satisfying to my stomach as well as my soul, 
and I plan to keep the tradition alive wherever 
I find myself after graduation. 

A list for the cultural foodie

KAYLA THOMAS
MiC Columnist 

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com

Courtesy of Zafirah Rahman

Design by Janice Lin

 Read more at MichiganDaily.com

My favorite part about the cold is seeking 
out warmth. I love being able to put on a 
sweater in the morning and bundle up in my 
blankets, letting the cloth form a protective 
cocoon around me. The warmth derived 
from the cold is different from the heat of 
summer — it comforts me without being 
restrictive, and its elusiveness in the chill of 
the fall makes me appreciate it more. 
It isn’t enough to just warm the outside 
of my body with a jacket, though. The cold 
also makes me crave the comfort of the 
simplest food on Earth: soup. Drinking a 
hot bowl of soup while it’s raining outside 
feels like the greatest luxury in the world. 
My anxiety melts away as the soup goes 
down my throat, warming me from within 
and convincing me that this bowl of soup is 
really all that I need to survive. 
I’ve done ridiculous things for soup. I 
once waited outside in near-freezing rain 
for a cup of lamb and vegetable soup, and the 
satisfaction of drinking it in my apartment 
made me forget about the half-hour wait 
and my thawing fingertips. The soup was 
worth it, as all soup usually is, because it is 
hard to boil vegetables and meat in water 
incorrectly.
That soup felt like a gift. The chili in 
it made my nose run. Eating it made me 

feel like my world was 
composed solely of my 
mouth, my hand and the 
spoonful of soup that it 
was holding. It reminded 
me of the soup I ate as a 
kid when the weather got cold, the potful of 
soup that was lovingly and carefully tended 
to by my whole family. 
I love all kinds of soup, but my favorite is 
my mother’s Nahari. It’s a meat-based soup 
that she usually makes with lamb trotters 
or chicken, mixed with onions, garlic and 
spices. The recipe is in a little notebook that 
is brown from age and falling apart, written 
in my mother’s unintelligible handwriting. 
I’ve never been able to figure out exactly 
how she makes it, but I watch carefully as 
she fries the onions and then adds the meat 
and the masala. The aroma is amazing 
and the hours that it takes to cook seem to 
pass excruciatingly slowly. Once every 20 
minutes, I would stir the mixture around, 
happy to contribute anything to the meal. 
The meat of the Nahari is so tender that 
some of it has pulled away from the bone 
and floats around in the pot full of the 
light brown broth. Some of the bones have 
marrow in them, which we’ll blow out to 
enjoy with the rest of the soup. 
My parents used to eat Nahari year-
round when they lived in Hyderabad, India. 
The restaurants there would usually serve 
a spicier version, but my mom has always 

cut down on some of the spice to suit our 
American palettes. It still tastes good in its 
mild form, though — the flavors are actually 
more enjoyable when your eyes aren’t 
tearing up from the heat. 
I’ve never eaten the Hyderabadi Nahari 
that my parents grew up on, but I feel like 
I’m experiencing it every time my mother 
makes it. They reminisce about their 
childhood over their steaming bowls of 
soup and I’ve always felt grateful for her 
taking the time to recreate it for us. 
We eat Nahari with chewy bread that 
soaks up the soup until it’s soft. The bread 
is torn up into little pieces and added to the 
bowl, forming a perfect mouthful of broth, 
meat and carbs. I always end up eating a 
little too much when the Nahari is freshly 
made, and the combination of the hot soup 
and bread always makes my eyes heavy, 
convincing me to push the tasks of today to 
tomorrow even though it is supposed to be a 
breakfast food. 
As the weather gets colder and the days 
get shorter, I look forward to the satisfaction 
of drinking soup for warmth again — 
wrapped in a warm blanket, enjoying the 
simplest but most healing food on earth. 

Nahari

SAFURA SYED
MiC Columnist

Design by Madison Grosvenor

