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