Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 12.

My good friend Natalia won a fancy-pants lawyer award this weekend.

I’ve been to a lot of galas, lemme tell ya, and this one was different. The table was filled with Natalia’s family, biological and chosen. We broke bread (specifically, some type of roll that brought my brain straight to pão de queijo), drank a lot of wine, laughed, and celebrated.

It felt more like a family meal than anything else.

I obsess about this stuff probably more than the average human, but think about the care that goes into creating moments like those! They can feel effortless from the outside. But someone has to actually make them happen.

With the holidays approaching, most of us will start thinking about the family food traditions and stories we cherish and want to hold on to. But wanting to remember something and figuring out how to capture it are two different things.

Today’s issue is taking a step back to reflect on a few of the ways, small and big, you all are doing just that.

I hope you find these gestures as inspiring as I have. And maybe you’ll even pick up an idea or two that you want to try out this holiday season 🧡.

Making a whole thing of it

It’s been really fun to uncover how many people are making entire creative projects out of exploring their family food histories. One of my recent faves is Afia Amoako, the author of No Plantains Left Behind, who managed to write and publish a cookbook while getting her PhD.

What I love about Afia’s work is how she connects the food on people’s tables to the political and economic forces shaping their lives. In one project, she spent a week exploring what it would have been like to eat in 1970s Ghana.

No Plantains Left Behind

Eating like a Ghanaian in 1970s Ghana

This week, I have been exploring what it was like to eat as a Ghanaian in the 1970s. The 70s have fascinated me because it was truly the decade when food defined the country's political agenda. Self-sufficiency, after a few years of tumultuous politics and a growing need for imports, was a necessity for a newly independent Ghana. It preceded the IMF-tie…

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7 months ago · 128 likes · 11 comments · Afia Amoako PhD

I’ve also been really enjoying the work of cocemomo, a Japanese writer and photographer who takes a completely different approach. She shares beautiful little snapshots of everyday life in Japan, from fermenting vegetables in rice bran to making homemade miso. Her work captures family tradition not as something frozen in the past, but as something she’s actively learning, experimenting with, and making her own. Even when it’s just a few sentences, her stories are packed with insight about family and carrying on tradition in her own way.

cocemomo | Japanese Rituals⁠

Two Flavors of Japanese Citrus Miso: Yuzu & Shekwasha

As the days grow cooler, I naturally find myself wanting to prepare gentle, warming foods in the kitchen. Autumn and winter in Japan bring an abundance of fragrant citrus fruits…

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9 days ago · 3 likes · cocemomo | Japanese Rituals⁠

Closer to home, Natalia decided 20 years ago to document her mother Lucy’s Puerto Rican recipes in a cookbook her family could keep forever. Tareah’s working on something similar, testing and documenting her mother’s Nigerian recipes one at a time. (Read more about both of their stories in Issue 3).

I love that these projects are as different as the people behind them. Some are deeply personal keepsakes. Others invite the whole world along for the ride. But they all reflect a deep love and willingness to invest in the stories and recipes that might otherwise go untold.

Not overthinking it

As someone who has not had the wherewithal to collect the details of her family recipes into a beautiful printed book, I’ve had to embrace that perfect simply cannot be the enemy.

That’s the whole motivation behind this newsletter: writing it down imperfectly is better than not writing it down at all.

Putting this into practice has meant pulling out my phone to record my grandmother reciting a recipe with absolutely no measurements, calling my mother to eke out the details of the dumplings she made when I was growing up, and jotting down random memories in my Notes app, even when I’m not quite sure what to do with them yet.

Voice memos: a gal’s best friend

When Yema Gbondo wanted to recreate her mother’s Sierra Leonean jollof rice, her sister-in-law had her covered. During a visit from across the pond, she’d photographed Yema’s mother cooking it and recorded a voice note for Yema to explain the recipe.

“Be careful with that white pepper,” she warns midway through.

My favorite part comes at the very end, when her toddler very adorably adds to their family story.

Sometimes, the most important thing is capturing the technique and figuring out the measurements later. Gunjan and her mother have been experimenting with a new version of her mom’s rajma, a North Indian kidney bean curry, adding soy protein to the dish Gunjan grew up eating (because gains). They’re figuring it out as they go, working from her mother’s instincts, filling in missing measurements, and even enlisting a little help from AI.

They’re continuing to evolve Gunjan’s childhood favorite into something of their own, together.

And then there are the people who sit down and write — not a cookbook or a meticulously researched family history, but a short, thoughtful reflection about one memory. The writing process itself can help us understand why a specific experience is so meaningful to us, or figure out the pieces we want to learn more about.

The thing is, we don’t have to know what the finished product will look like, or whether there will ever be a finished product at all.

Calling in reinforcements

Sometimes the best thing to do is invite someone else in to help 😉.

Truthfully, that’s how most of the stories in Never Precious have come to life. People have generously shared their memories, dug up old family photographs, and invited me into their homes and kitchens. They’ve trusted me to listen, ask a few more questions, and turn our conversations into something we can share with the world.

That’s exactly how I ended up publishing Debbie Bredbenner’s beautiful recollections of childhood crab feasts on the Chesapeake Bay. What began as a conversation about growing up in Maryland turned into such a relatable story about a specific childhood memory that has stayed with her for decades.

The more stories I hear, the more convinced I become that the most important part of this journey isn’t really about exactly what or how we document. It’s caring enough to try.

If you have a family food story you’ve been meaning to capture, but haven’t quite figured out how, consider inviting me over. I’ll bring the questions. And a fork.

Phone calls work too 🧡.

Never Precious is published by Tyeesha Dixon,
with production support from Deseree Chacha.

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 11.

This weekend, cultures around the world have been celebrating the harvest moon. In South Korea, where my maternal family is from, chuseok (추석) is a multi-day public holiday. Families gather to celebrate bountiful harvest, pay respect to their ancestors, and eat.

Westerners have compared chuseok to American Thanksgiving, and I suppose they’re right insofar as families are supposed to gather to show gratitude for something bigger than us all.

For chuseok, though, gathering extends beyond the living. Families traditionally hold a memorial rite called charye (차례), where food and drink are laid out for ancestors as offerings, which take days to prepare, before the living family partakes.

Like everywhere, it seems, traditional observance is waning. In a recent national survey in South Korea, only 30 percent of surveyed adults said they planned to observe charye this year.1 Not many more said they even considered ancestral rites necessary anymore.

So now what?

Tufurahi pamoja — let us rejoice together.

My close friend and colleague Melanie wrote a piece for Issue 2 about her mother’s mbuzi mkorogo, a Tanzanian sautéed goat dish passed down from her own late mother.

Recently, Melanie’s mother invited me to join a small gathering she was hosting at her home. She would be cooking mbuzi mkorogo.

I would not — could not — pass up the opportunity to try the mbuzi for myself.

I was hungry for more than just goat. Recently divorced and still figuring out my new normal, I was frequently longing for the kind of comfort that comes from a traditional home-cooked meal, and the fellowship that accompanies it.

When I opened the Paperless Post invitation, Melanie’s mom had entitled the event Tufurahi Pamoja. I learned that this phrase means let us rejoice together in Swahili.

It seems that no matter the cuisine or culture, the familiarity of a traditional meal being prepared conjures up feelings of home. I certainly felt it that day: the smell of herbs and meat stewing, large pans and serving dishes waiting to be filled, kisses, chatter, and delight! as new guests trickled in for hours.

Surprising no one, the mbuzi was bussin. The goat cooked tender in fresh ginger and rosemary was like nothing I’d ever eaten.

But have you ever been in a room full of aunties you’ve never met before and felt like you were being hugged, all day, when you needed it the absolute most?

Old traditions, new tables

Many people in the survey about chuseok didn’t consider observing ancestral rites necessary. But most of them — 81 percent — said that getting together with family around the holiday is.

Modern life can make it hard to follow tradition qua tradition. But I’ve learned that a lot of growing up is doing your best. And being present enough to recognize when our ancestors find other ways to reach us.

There’s a saying associated with chuseok that roughly translates to: may every day be like the day of the harvest.

Here’s to making this day more bountiful than the last.

SOMETHING ROOTED (NEVER PRECIOUS)

Something passed down — a recipe, a ritual, a way of doing things — sometimes in its original form, sometimes adapted for the lives we’re actually living.

The star of the chuseok table is songpyeon (송편) — bite-sized rice-dough cakes stuffed with sweet bean or sesame filling, steamed with pine needles, and coated lightly in sesame oil to keep them from sticking together.

Traditionally shaped like half-moons, songpyeon symbolize the waxing moon transitioning from new to full, holding the promise of growth and good fortune to come.

The magic seems to happen in the dough. You can’t use too much water because it’ll get soggy, but it also has to be wet enough to form the dough properly. It’s tricky with rice flour.

My own mother remembers her childhood in Korea, taking rice to the mill to get it ground to make songpyeon and then preparing the delicacies with her family, using natural ingredients to dye them different colors — pink, green, yellow.

“We only made them for chuseok, so it was very special.”

I’m not sure how many of us are making songpyeon from scratch these days, but if you’re feeling froggy, here’s a recipe to try from one of my go-to Korean home-cooking sites, Korean Bapsang. Her recipes haven’t failed me yet.

RECS N THANGS

Things to eat, read, watch, explore.

READ.

I Loved Chuseok. I Hated It Too. — Youngsik Youn

This is a deeply personal and affecting essay I came across during my research. The author grapples with complicated feelings about chuseok that I think many of us can relate to: traditions can hold joy, resentment, and longing all at once.

The question Youn poses at the end — If nothing requires us to gather anymore, what will bring all of us together again? — was an inspiration for my own chuseok reflection.

EAT. EXPLORE.

Siroo & Juk Story — Ellicott City, Maryland

I came across this cafe while looking for songpyeon last week. It was the name that drew me in. You don’t see a lot of restaurants in the States that center around juk (죽). It’s the Korean version of congee, a warm and comforting savory rice porridge.

It’s a hug in a bowl — and who doesn’t need one of those these days?

The cafe is casual, but they have lots of different juk varieties, a full menu of homestyle Korean dishes, and desserts to boot. Worth stopping in.

This issue is dedicated to my late grandfather.
더도 말고 덜도 말고 늘 한가위만 같아라.

Never Precious is published by Tyeesha Dixon,
with production support from Deseree Chacha
(whom I met at Tufurahi Pamoja).

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 10.

Whether you love or hate doing it, every Marylander knows how to pick crabs.

You see, crab picking is a thing someone has to teach you how to do. There’s a technique to it. Mastering it yourself is almost ceremonial.

I talked to Debbie Bredbenner about a lot of interesting family history. She started telling me, almost as an aside, about spending childhood summers at her uncle’s house down by the Chesapeake Bay. She remembers that at five years old, her family decided it was time for her to learn how to pick her own crabs.

Maybe it’s just the Maryland girl in me, but I found myself rooting for the five-year-old whose elders looked at her and decreed — she is ready!

No matter where you’re from, I think this story will bring you, too, back to a time and place of knowing exactly where you’re meant to be.

Wishing everyone a relaxing (and work-free) Labor Day. Enjoy 🌻.

Maryland Memories

A vignette from Debbie Bredbenner

This is Debbie’s story, as told to me orally. I edited and re-arranged lightly for readability and clarity.

My aunt and uncle lived off the Chesapeake Bay.

They lived in this little cottage. They saved up their money and bought land cheap in the 60s because no one wanted to live in Edgewater back then. That was the country. They slowly built their house right on the water with the little pier and everything.

My grandfather would pack up and get in the car and drive us there from the D.C. area. It felt like hours.

I was the only one allowed to sit in the front seat with my grandfather in the convertible.

Grandparents have ways of making us feel special, right?

My uncle would build a big fire next to the water, and he’d have a pot of chili going, hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill. We’d have fish for breakfast every morning. He’d go out and get a fish and fry it up in the pan with fresh green peppers and onions. And eggs. That’s what we ate every breakfast.

And he would have these crab feasts.

I would sit next to my grandfather, and we would eat crabs, and my grandfather would pick the crabs for me. That until I was about five, when someone said, “Debbie needs to learn.” So my aunt, she sat next to me and taught me how to pick Chesapeake Bay blue crabs.

And from then on, I learned. I could pick my own, and I’d sit for hours and pick.

We would be on picnic benches, under the trees, with the breeze from the bay, and it was just the most calming thing . . .

And it’s because all those times, just so wonderful, and these crab feasts that we had, I felt the calm and the normalcy. I felt like I belonged down there at the beach, and that house.

When I got down to my uncle’s and aunt’s, they took me up. They took me in.

My uncle was the best human being on this earth. He loved everyone and anyone. He never had a negative word to say, and he affirmed everybody. And he would always tell me he loved me.

It’s medicine.

Now, I have a crab feast once a year for myself, and when I sit and eat crabs — all-you-can-eat crabs — after the first couple, it’s almost like subconsciously, the most calming feeling comes over me. It brings it all back. It’s mental medicine.

You are the product of your upbringing from the beginning. You can choose to be one way or the other, or learn to be a different way from the influences in your life.

When I became a mommy, it just was automatic that my children were going to hear that I loved them every day.

Never Precious is curated and published by Tyeesha Dixon.

August 9, 2026

Dear family:

Welcome to Issue 9. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I started this publication, but I launched it anyway on faith that everyone has a story worth telling.

It’s been only (and already) three months. In that time, Never Precious has turned from an experiment into a part of my everyday life that brings joy and meaning. The stories have taken me into family kitchens, neighborhood markets, and conversations I never could have anticipated.

With each story, I learn more about the people I care about, meet new ones from all walks of life, and experience some incredible cuisine along the way.

Take Erin, whom you’ve already met through a couple of stories. I’ve known her since seventh grade and visited her mother’s house more times than I can count.

Yet this year was the first time I tasted her mother’s Filipino cooking — and, better yet, learned alongside Erin how to make one of her mom’s signature dishes.

That experience captures what has delighted me most about Never Precious: each story either deepens a relationship or creates a new one, often leading naturally to the next.

Researching Erin’s story introduced me to DJ, whose reflections on adobo opened another story I’m now reporting.

Erin’s story itself was written by Melissa, a colleague from the White House. Last week, I talked to Melissa’s mother about her family’s Maryland crab tradition. I learned that Melissa and I went to the same elementary school.

An old friendship opens into a new experience; one conversation leads to another; and someone else’s family story reveals an unexpected connection to the world around us.

Blink and summer’s halfway over.

Never Precious is just getting started. Thank you all for the feedback on what you want to read about and how you want to tell your stories. Please keep it coming; your participation is what keeps this alive.

As I plan for the next phase, I’ll be experimenting with ways to bring you closer to the people behind the stories, through other formats and more photographs, audio, and video — both here and on social media.

Something that’s rung true the past three months: the path often reveals itself if we’re willing to listen. I still don’t know which Never Precious will take us down.

But I can’t wait to find out.

With my love and gratitude,

Tye

What’s on your summer postcard?

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 8.

Since spending time in Portugal last summer, I find myself thinking about the food more than I expected. The preparations are simple. You can taste every ingredient.

But Portuguese food is hard to find in the States. Outside a few strongholds, it has never become as visible here as many other cuisines.

There’s a notable exception, though: southeastern New England.

Rhode Island, despite being the nation’s smallest state, has historically had the highest percentage of residents reporting Portuguese ancestry of any state in the country. Just across the state line, Fall River, Massachusetts, is home to the largest Portuguese-American population of any U.S. city.

Some of you know I lived in New England moons ago. So, I decided to return with a mission — learn about Portuguese cuisine and its influence on the region.

I tapped my friend Meredith as my exploration companion. Her maternal great-grandparents emigrated from Portugal to the U.S., and her family has lived in the Ocean State since.

We spent a day together browsing the cases of linguiça at Portugalia Marketplace and trying camarão à Moçambique together for the first time at a local go-to spot, Caravela Restaurant, in Fall River.

Our Fall River outing led to a deeper conversation about the family parties Merrie’s grandparents hosted when she was growing up and the vivid memories she has of the streamers her grandfather hung in his house for her birthday every October.

They drank wine out of the smallest cups you’ve ever seen. It was always red wine— never white. And it was always from the Carlo Rossi jug.

Merrie reminisced that two of her grandparents’ dishes appeared at every family party. The first the family has dubbed Portuguese Rice—so indispensable to their gatherings that Merrie and her cousins eventually had the recipe etched onto a plate for their parents.

The other was her grandparents’ croquetes — seasoned beef wrapped in mashed potatoes, shaped into bite-sized portions, and fried.

Merrie and I followed up for a proper interview about those croquettes, a snippet of which I’m sharing with you here.

So grab a tiny cup, and I hope you enjoy 🍷.

At every party, for all time

This interview has been edited and condensed for readability. Rest assured the sass and heart are all Merrie’s 😉.

Tell us a bit about your grandfather.

He was born Manuel Pereira. His schoolteachers told him that name was too ethnic, so it became Perry at some point.

My grandfather and his siblings grew up in Fox Point, which was the big Portuguese neighborhood in Providence. My grandmother was there too. They all grew up fairly poor.

One story that sticks in my head is he would always talk about how kids who were wealthier would heat pennies on the radiator and throw them out to the kids who had no money, knowing they would try to pick them up because they needed the money.

Did you get to spend a lot of time with them?

Me and my sister spent almost every weekend, at least one night, at my grandparents’ house growing up because, you know, it was the 90s.

When it was just us, my grandmother would make shepherd’s pie. There’s different versions in a lot of different places, but for us, it was a linguiça and hamburger mixture with spices in the middle and peas, mashed potatoes coating it, and then a mashed potato crust that she would put butter on. And then I think she probably just broiled the top. That’s what we would have every weekend.

I loved being there. They were so thoughtful in what they did. They were really good people and that I’m lucky to have had them as grandparents, as are my cousins.

Give us a flavor of what your grandparents’ family gatherings were like.

My grandparents did a huge New Year’s Eve party every year, and they did a lot of summer parties. That’s when they would do the croquettes, which is a variation of shepherd’s pie because it’s meat rolled in mashed potatoes, rolled in breading and egg wash, and then fried. So it’s a shepherd’s pie variation, but it’s handheld.

We would always do that, the rice that had no flavor, and a can of corn. The appetizer was always this section dish with black olives, green olives, and pickles.

That was the menu, every party, for all time, no matter the time of year. Sometimes fried linguiça too.

When is the last time you remember eating that meal together?

Right before my grandparents went into the nursing home, and my grandfather died very shortly thereafter, my cousins and I went for an adult sleepover at their house. We were full-grown adults.

We had the shepherd’s pie. My sister and I liked ours with peas, while my cousins liked theirs with corn, so my grandparents made two different shepherd’s pies—one with peas and one with corn.

That is the last time I remember eating there in that house with them before they went into the nursing home.

I hadn’t thought about how they always made different shepherd’s pies for the different cousins. One set of cousins liked corn, and the other liked peas, so they made both. I’m sure they were so happy we were there.

When the family makes the croquettes now—do they taste the same?

No, absolutely not. Like, not even close.

Everyone’s done their best. It’s just not the same because my grandparents had this dirty-ass electric frying pan. You know, those ones that you plug in. And so it was a special piece of machinery that I don’t think anyone has. I’m sure it got thrown out when they died.

They would do it in batches. The two of them would stand there, and there’d be a dredging station—the egg station, the breadcrumb station. And then they’d put it all in this frying pan. You can’t really recreate that.

It happens very rarely that these are made; now it’s a special thing.

You don’t eat meat anymore. Don’t you miss the croquettes?

The last party we had them at, my aunt made me vegetarian croquettes so I could experience them again. It had never been done before; my grandparents were huge meat eaters. They were actually really good. I think she used mushrooms.

When I say it out loud, I’m realizing my family is really nice.

Merrie told me that like clockwork, every time her grandfather’s rice was served at a family gathering, someone commented that it needed more salt.

No one would dare change the recipe.

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 7.

One of my first published stories as a budding newspaper reporter was about the business of the Baltimore snowball stand. I was 21, driving around the city asking small business owners about the economics of selling shaved ice seasonally.

Of course, what I ended up learning was much more interesting and human. It’s a business sure, but behind the snowball is craft, passion, a lot of history, and communities that care deeply about the tradition.

Today, it’s exactly 20 summers later. Since that story ran in 2006, I’ve seen lots of shaved ice, in lots of places, and learned that many have their own versions with equally devoted followings. So, as I return to writing and start a publication of my own, it’s only fitting that I give shaved ice the reverence it deserves—this time through the eyes of a few people who love it, in all its many forms.

Hope you enjoy 🍧.

It’s July 4, 2026. I’m in Philadelphia. It’s 100 degrees and humid. Between Paraguay v. France and the Birthplace of America celebrating the nation’s 250th anniversary, everyone is outside.

I’m sure this will shock no one here: I go on a quest to find Philadelphia’s version of flavored ice in a cup.

Driving around Philly got me thinking about all the shaved ice traditions around the world. They’re all a little different, and people are particular about their ice!

Presenting:

Snowball | Baltimore, United States

The Baltimore snowball is pretty famous at this point. Every summer across the region, snowball stands big and small crop up to sell the fluffy, finely shaved ice confection, soaked in flavored sugar syrup and topped with marshmallow cream.

My friend Jessica moved to Baltimore moons ago, but she remembers her first snowball like it was yesterday. In Kansas, where she was born, you got snowcones at the circus, and the flavor was, well . . . rainbow.

So when she ordered her first Maryland snowball, that’s what she asked for: rainbow. She was not prepared for the flavor cacophony in store.

See, every snowball syrup—egg custard (yellow), tutti frutti (red), skylight (blue)—has a distinct flavor. Mixing them all together is not something you see often (or ever) and apparently not something you repeat.

Makes it pretty hard to forget your first snowball, though.

Piragua | Puerto Rico

We move south into the Caribbean for piragua, the Puerto Rican shaved ice shaped by piragüeros into a pyramid and flavored with tropical fruit syrups like parcha (passion fruit).

Natalia, on her childhood summers in Puerto Rico:

Did you even have one if your mouth and lips weren’t semi-permanently dyed the electric color of the flavor?

Raspados | Mexico

Raspados can be simple: ice scraped by hand and soaked with syrup made from fresh fruit. They can also be wildly elaborate—piles of pineapple, mango, strawberries, condensed milk, chamoy, Tajín, and all manner of sweet, spicy, and sour additions.

Bianca remembers eating raspados as a child in Chicago, bought from the elotero who walked the neighborhood with his cart each summer.

She usually ordered hers simply: “Just scraped ice and your choice of syrup.”

Shave Ice | Hawai‘i

Next stop: Hawaiʻi shave ice. Its roots trace to kakigōri, brought to Hawaiʻi by Japanese immigrants during the plantation era. Today, finely shaved ice is layered with local flavors and toppings like azuki beans, ice cream, or a drizzle of condensed milk.

I got lost in this essay about eating a soursop and lilikoi shave ice in Hilo, topped with haupia cream and sitting on a scoop of poi. The essay’s also a fascinating deep dive into the history of ice in Hawai‘i.

“My first bite is so life-changing that I am tempted to not share my treat with my sister.”

Halúhalò | The Philippines

When I interviewed Erin for Issue 4, she let me look through all her photos from her trip to the Philippines earlier this year. I stumbled on a photo of halúhalò (halo-halo).

There was purple ube ice cream, a slab of flan, bright red jellies, crunchy cereal, and other things I couldn’t immediately identify, all piled into one cup over shaved ice.

Halúhalò means “mix-mix,” which is also the eating instruction. You’re not supposed to politely work your way through the layers. You take a long spoon, dig all the way to the bottom, and churn the ice, milk, fruit, beans, jellies, flan, and whatever else is in there together until every bite has a little bit of everything.

Water Ice | Philadelphia, United States

We end our voyage back in Philly on the 4th of July. I’d asked around to figure out where to go and what to order. I heard that some places use real fruit; the traditional is cherry ice topped with vanilla soft serve; and the strawberries are so good right now (even better than they were last week), so I had to try that one too.

I landed at South Philly Ice in Passyunk Square. Water ice grew out of the Sicilian granita-making traditions Italian immigrants brought to Philadelphia. The ones I tried had enormous chunks of fresh fruit mixed in—black cherries, mango, strawberries (yeah, I had all three).

I was knee-deep in a cup of strawberry lemonade ice when Robert, the manager, showed me the entire box of Champagne mangos they peel and cut up every day to make a batch of the mango ice. It was the perfect way to end my water ice search.

Apparently driving around asking people about ice never gets old 🤷‍♀️.

What’s the ice in a cup you grew up eating?

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 6.

I met Gunjan Sud when we worked together doing police reform for the City of Chicago. Years later, we still talk frequently and support each other through the highs and lows of founder life.

As I was bouncing ideas off her one day, she shared in passing that her husband once made a gulab jamun cheesecake for her late father.

My ears perked. The idea of gulab jamun in a cheesecake intrigued me, but what struck me most was the fondness with which Gunjan recounted the memory. I reached out to Gunjan’s husband, Ram, to learn more. I’m sharing his account with you today in a short vignette.

For me, Ram’s story is a sweet reminder that effort is its own love language — and sometimes the one that matters most.

Happy Father’s Day to all the dads and caretakers. Hope you enjoy.

Ram Narayan set out to peel a pile of pistachios.

See, Ram wanted to make a pistachio cake for his mother-in-law, and he’d read somewhere that if you peel the pistachios first, the cake will turn green.

So imagine peeling, one by one, the thin, papery testa off cups-full of soaked pistachios for some six hours! while your mother-in-law watches — all with the intention of baking for her, from scratch, the perfect saffron pistachio cake.

Ram explained that Gunjan’s family loves dessert.

“My family wasn’t really a sweet family growing up,” he told me. “But for her family, the sweets are like, the end-all, be-all. They can’t end a meal without a proper dessert.”

This was particularly true for Gunjan’s late father. His favorite was gulab jamun, the small fried dough balls popular across South Asia. They’re made from a base of milk solids and soaked in sugar syrup, sometimes scented with rose water, cardamom, or other fragrant aromatics.

A few years ago, Ram decided to learn how to bake. To make Gunjan’s dad a cheesecake. An eggless, gulab jamun cheesecake, with a cookie crust made from crushed-up Parle-G.

“I’d never made a cheesecake before.”

The magic was in the details.

The cake had to be egg-free, so Ram played around with other binders, like cornstarch, until he found what worked. His pressure cooker wasn’t big enough for a cheesecake pan, so he baked the cake in a water bath. He halved the gulab jamun to line, artfully, the edges of each slice. He made the crust from Parle-G, the “quintessential Indian cookie,” which Ram also described unsentimentally as the “worser form of Biscoff.”

“I cut it open and showed him the slice and told him what it was,” Ram recalled about the moment of truth — when he presented his creation to Gunjan’s dad on Father’s Day about five years ago. Ram explained:

You could tell he couldn’t even fathom that was like a thing that existed. So he was super excited. Then he started smashing it.

I mean, if you gave it to somebody who actually knew cheesecakes, it probably wouldn’t be that great. But her family not only is into sweets, but they’re just super nice about everything. So he loved it, and was raving about it, and I think they ate it within a week or something.

Gunjan’s father passed away not long after. The family continues to honor his memory — and sweet tooth — through other Indian-inspired cheesecake experiments, like Ram’s saffron pistachio cheesecake.

It didn’t turn green, in case you were still wondering :)

Never Precious is curated and published by Tyeesha Dixon.

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 5.

Most of you know I love traveling. But I’ve really enjoyed being back in Maryland the past few months, focused on writing and building deeper connections with people I care about.

This summer, I’m planning to explore the cultural treasures of the place that raised me — the state of Maryland — and sharing what I find with you. By the end, I hope you’ll feel the same fuzzies for the Old Line State that I do — or at least crave a crab cake enough to ask your uncle for his recipe.

My family laid my great aunt Ingrid to rest a couple months ago. After the service, we did what families do: we ate.

In Black American communities, the repass (or repast, as the dictionary calls it) is one of the oldest and most enduring traditions surrounding death. That is, after the funeral comes the gathering where family, friends, neighbors, and community members come together around a table heavy with food and memory.

The tradition carries traces of many histories at once: West African customs of communal mourning, generations of mutual aid forged during slavery and segregation, and the Black church’s longstanding practice of caring for families in moments of joy and loss.

My trigger was pretty unexpected.

A repass always stirs up something. That’s part of the point, really.

Aunt Ingrid’s repass was one for a queen. The meal had more dishes than I could try. Green beans cooked down soft, fried fish, macaroni and cheese. In Baltimore, there is always shrimp salad. Stewed cabbage, ham, at least four different chicken preparations, potato salad, banana pudding. Don’t get me started on the cakes! So many cakes.

Everyone seems to have a different preparation of spice cake, but the general idea is a moist and buoyant cake flavored with cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and other warming spices. It has a deep, hard-to-describe flavor from ingredients like molasses, brown sugar, and applesauce; apparently some people use dried fruit. I like mine with chewy edges, like a brownie.

My brother’s fiancée is not from Baltimore, and in the middle of the meal she asked an innocent question that sent me into a spiral: what kind of cake is this?

I told her it was spice cake. But then panic set in.

It’s the best thing in this place, but I don’t know how to make it. I don’t even know who made this spice cake. I’ve never bothered to ask anyone how to make it. Which aunt would I start with? Why don’t I spend more time with my extended family?

Why am I starting a project to write down other people’s family recipes when I don’t even know my own?

The guilt, though, quickly turned to a feeling of. . . . warmness. Dare I call it joy, even? I felt complete relief that I was getting to share this perfect cake, that’s kind of like bread when it wants to be, with the people I love, to celebrate a woman who cared for us fiercely, no matter how little we got to see each other in her final years.

How else do you describe instant and overwhelming connection to a place, a time, a people — that happens through a square slice of nutmeg cake?

Sometimes growing happens while sitting still.

I spent most of last year traveling the world, looking for entry points of connection with the people and places and things that grow from the earth. The feeling I got at Aunt Ingrid’s repass reminded me that much of what I yearn for is within arm’s reach.

Maryland is the place where I was born and have spent more than half my life. I’ve moved back three times. I learn something more about myself and this place every time.

This return feels different — maybe because of the times we are in.

Maryland sits right on the Mason-Dixon line. It was a slave state that stayed in the Union. Our storied American history rears its head here and there, like when the Confederate-loving state song was finally repealed in 2021.

Southernness shows in Maryland’s food. So does multiculturalness.

It’s a place that has never been just one thing, raising a kid who knew that she, too, would never be just one thing either.

Whatever the reason, the winds are calling me here, to discover Maryland, the place that’s been under my nose the whole time. Apparently to learn how to make some good cake.

It’s going to be a rad summer 😎.

SOMETHING ROOTED (NEVER PRECIOUS)

Every issue, I share something passed down — a recipe, a ritual, a way of doing things — sometimes in its original form, sometimes adapted for the lives we’re actually living.

After Aunt Ingrid’s memorial service, I decided to practice what I preach. I pulled out my phone and asked my grandmother to tell me on camera how she makes her mac and cheese. She recited it from memory the way she always does, with some context from my grandfather and uncle added in the mix. Her trick is using six types of cheese; any will do except pepper jack.

I have the feeling this “recipe” will sound warmly familiar for many of you :)

RECS N THANGS

Things to eat, read, watch, explore.

READ.

It’s also linked in the essay above, but I recommend this read from Robin Caldwell, Understanding Black Southern Funeral Food Tradition. This passage really stuck with me:

As the last visitor is sent off, there is some solace to be found in savoring a bite of your aunt’s banana pudding or your cousin’s cornbread dressing with a side of potato salad. You do not have to like the occasion to admit loving the food and the gift of it.

EAT.

The thing I crave most when I leave this area is a proper bowl of grits — savory and simple, sprinkled with Old Bay, topped with scrambled eggs and Louisiana-style hot sauce.

Nikki Miller-Ka’s recipe uses the method I like most. White grits cooked low and slow in water and maybe some milk, salted water, and lots of butter.

Nom nom.

BEFORE I FORGET…

Here’s something people outside Maryland rarely know: by the Census Bureau’s count, this is the most diverse state on the East Coast — more so than New York, New Jersey, even D.C. About one in six of us was born in another country; about one in five speaks a language other than English at home. You taste it everywhere, which is part of what I want to show you this summer.

The first unofficial stop on my Maryland Lovefest 2026 was the Howard County AAPI festival, held toward the end of May, AAPI Heritage Month. I wanted to check it out because Howard County has the highest concentration of residents of Asian descent of any county in Maryland. The festival did a nice job of honoring that.

My favorite bite of the day: chicken momos from the Himalayan Soul Foods truck, and especially the spicy sauce that came with it. Fire.

Know of any upcoming cultural events in Maryland this summer? Been to any already that give you good memories? I’d love to write about them, so please share.

YOUR STORY

Every issue, I close with an assist to help you preserve your own stories.

If you think about it long enough, everyone has a food that brings home into focus. Mine is embarrassingly simple grits and eggs.

I’m curious:

What’s the one food you miss most when you leave home?

Tell me about the dish, who makes it, and what it means to you. I'd love to hear the story behind it. Reply to this email or share your story using the link below.

Contribute your story

Never Precious is curated and published by Tyeesha Dixon.

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Hello, family, and welcome to Issue 4.

Today’s feature grew out of conversations with Erin Tiamson about family, food, and her recent trip to the Philippines after her father’s passing. Melissa Bredbenner — lawyer by day, talented writer by (mid)night — took a set of chaotic interview recordings and field notes and developed them into a captivating essay exploring how Filipino cooking traditions have adapted when key ingredients become difficult to access. Enjoy reading this one as much as I did.

For those in the U.S. reading this on Memorial Day, I hope there’s good food, a little rest, and space to remember, reconnect, and spend time with people you love.

BUT BEFORE I FORGET…

The East Coast pollen this year has been unforgiving, and pounding Zyrtec doesn’t seem to be working. I’m giving in and trying a natural remedy my mother swears by — local bee pollen she buys from a nearby bodega. The theory is that it exposes your body to small amounts of the same pollens that trigger your allergy symptoms, allowing your immune system to build tolerance over time (like allergy shots). Fingers crossed.

It’s not my favorite thing to eat, so if you’ve tried bee pollen and know how to make it taste better, please share. If you have other remedies for seasonal allergies, share those too. The allergy sufferers of the DMV appreciate you.

Leave a comment

NOW, ON TO THE GOOD STUFF.

The Politics of Ingredients

How restrictions on Filipino ingredients reflect the challenges of preserving culture abroad — and the resilience of the communities that sustain it.

By Melissa Bredbenner

When Erin Tiamson spoke about her recent trip to the Philippines, she kept returning to food.

Kare-kare simmered by her Tita Agnes. Garlic fried rice eaten by hand around the table. Sinigang with its sharp, sour broth. But even as she described the meals she shared there, the conversation circled back to the United States, where some of the ingredients central to those dishes have become increasingly difficult to find.

Erin traveled to the Philippines with her family earlier this year after her father’s passing. The trip brought them back to Pampanga — her parents’ home province northwest of Manila — to reconnect with relatives and settle family affairs. There, celebratory meals stretched across tables lined with banana leaves, and eating with one’s hands was an expression of comfort and familiarity.

When she was young, the province still felt largely rural, marked by rice fields and sugar plantations. In the decades since, however, Pampanga has urbanized rapidly with its economy expanding alongside a growing influx of residents and tourists. Despite that transformation, the province remains deeply tied to Filipino cultural tradition and is still regarded as one of the country’s culinary hubs.

Communal Tables

Erin described the food she ate during her trip as rich and full of stews, sauces, pork, and community. Erin joined a boodle fight, a term describing a Filipino meal where food is spread directly across banana leaves covering a communal table. Fried fish, pork, chicken, rice, and skewered meats pile next to one another, and everyone eats with their hands. The tradition traces to its military roots, where meals were designed to encourage camaraderie and equality among soldiers.

After several days of eating out, her family asked Tita Agnes — whom her sister boldly declared a better cook than their mother — to make a home-cooked meal. Tita prepared sinigang and kare-kare with tender oxtail in peanut stew, along with fried fish and garlic fried rice. Beyond enjoying the meal together, her family also spent the time recounting family history and creating fresh memories.

Lost in Customs

But as Erin compared the dishes she ate in Pampanga to the versions she grew up with in the United States, she began focusing less on similarity than difference.

Part of the difference, she explained, may stem from historic government regulation of food ingredients.

In the 1980s, bagoong — fermented shrimp or anchovy paste central to many Filipino dishes — faced heightened FDA scrutiny tied to manufacturing and import standards. Other Filipino food products over the years, such as certain meats, have similarly run into strict import requirements in the United States. Such restrictions can diminish availability.

Filipino foods are not unique to these regulatory barriers. Mexican, Chinese, and other diasporic cuisines have similarly been shaped by import restrictions and U.S. government standards. And while food regulations are often framed as neutral matters of safety and compliance, for immigrant communities, those policies can carry consequences that shape what traditions remain accessible across generations.

Most recently, the FDA issued import restrictions on potassium iodate, an additive commonly used in iodized salt throughout the Philippines to ensure its stability in hot, humid climates. Since iodized salt is used in many Filipino food products, the effects rippled.

Banana ketchup — the sweet, savory condiment ubiquitous in Filipino cooking — became one of the most visible examples, resulting in empty shelves in Filipino grocery stores, rising prices, and frustration across social media.

As Erin described it, ingredients like banana ketchup and bagoong are “the bases of most of our foods.” When shortages and restrictions disrupted access to those products, she remembered wondering: how are we going to cook Filipino food? For many immigrants and second-generation Filipino Americans, these products are cultural links rather than specialty items.

The Ketchup Survives.

But communities adapted. Long before import restrictions complicated access in the United States, Filipino cuisine had already been shaped by such adaptation. Banana ketchup itself reflects that history. The condiment became widespread during World War II, when tomato shortages pushed Filipino communities to create alternatives using bananas, sugar, and vinegar.

And what was done before can be done again. Filipino communities in the United States came up with their own solutions. Companies like Manila Mart in the DMV, and Fila Manila, founded in New Jersey, created their own versions and saw surges in demand as a result.

The replacements, Erin admitted, “don’t taste exactly the same.” Still, they are “close enough” to keep traditions alive.

And in the end, isn’t that what matters most?

Does your family have a recipe, food tradition, memory, or kitchen ritual you want to preserve? Tell us about it here.

SOMETHING ROOTED (NEVER PRECIOUS)

Sharing something passed down — a recipe, a ritual, a way of doing things — sometimes in its original form, sometimes adapted for the lives we’re actually living.

One thing that came up in Erin’s interview was the Filipino practice of eating with fork and spoon instead of fork and knife — a tradition I didn’t encounter until visiting Thailand last year, and one I recently got to experience firsthand when Erin’s mom invited me to her home to learn how to make sinigang. (More on that meal soon.)

The concept is simple: the spoon does most of the work. The dominant hand holds the spoon, while the fork helps guide and steady food when cutting is needed. The edge of the spoon works well in place of a knife. It’s an elegant and practical tradition that keeps the focus on the meal rather than the mechanics of eating it.

No more trying to figure out how to eat rice and stew with a fork, folks!

RECS N THANGS

Things to eat, read, watch, explore.

EAT. EXPLORE.

Despite living in Maryland for more than half my life and getting my driver’s license a half-mile away, I’d never heard of Manila Mart until Erin mentioned it in her interview.

I visited for lunch with a friend on a rainy afternoon last week. The cafe was alive, with families crowded around tables, trays of food moving quickly from kitchen to counter. Something about the mix of steam, garlic, rain, and conversation brought me back to eating plate lunch on the side of the road when I visited Hawaii.

Beyond the cafe was the market itself, stocked with the building blocks of Filipino home cooking: frozen fish, fresh produce, shelves of sauces and seasonings, and more varieties of Spam than I knew existed (teriyaki Spam, y’all!).

The visit was a reminder that new worlds doesn’t always require traveling to find. Sometimes they’re down the road from where you grew up.

READ.

Sharing a couple pieces I came across while researching for this issue and really enjoyed:

• An essay from For the Love of Adobo unpacking that Filipino food is often misunderstood through overly simplistic ideas about “spice,” when in reality its flavors are shaped by regional traditions, condiments, colonial history, and deeply personal approaches to taste.

• A piece from meryenda exploring how fermentation connects Filipino food traditions to memory, migration, sustainability, and community.

YOUR STORY

It’s your turn. Family stories rarely survive because someone captured them perfectly. They survive because someone took the time to get them down.

A lot of family recipes survive migration through substitution. Sometimes the version we inherit has already changed, shaped as much by availability and survival as by memory.

What’s an ingredient your family has swapped, substituted, or improvised to keep a recipe alive?

Contribute your story

Tyeesha Dixon has spent her career at the intersection of equity policy and culture, from daily newspaper reporting to civil rights lawyering at Chicago City Hall and the White House. She writes about food, memory, migration, and cultural tradition, and is almost certainly at this moment thinking about her next meal.

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Hello, Never Precious family, and welcome to this Mother’s Day edition.

Today, we’re celebrating moms, the people who take care of us like they’re moms, and everything they do to make sure we eat right. Mostly without a measuring cup in sight.

For Issue 3, I asked Never Precious readers to send food stories and recipes, in whatever format they wanted, to honor their moms and the mom-like figures in their lives.

What came back was funny, moving, chaotic, tender, and deeply familiar. Some contributors sent fully formed stories. Others sent text messages or voice notes recorded between errands.

Rather than smooth out those variations, I wanted to honor them. Each vignette showcases the raw material you submitted, with my notes, research, and light editing sprinkled in.

Never Precious is a space where memories can live together — thoughtfully, beautifully, and in conversation with one another — no matter how they arrive. Amid the mashup of voices, perspectives, and formats, you’ll see a little of yourself and your family in each of these moments.

Thank you to everyone who has trusted me with their stories. Enjoy 🌸.

IN THIS ISSUE

Vignettes featuring stories, recipes, voice notes, photographs, and family memories shared by Never Precious readers to honor moms and caregivers.

Mbuzi Mkorogo, with Melanie Mpanju. A reflection on Tanzanian goat stew, migration, inheritance, and what it means as a daughter.

Hopia, with Erin Tiamson. Memories of making flaky Filipino mung bean pastries with mom at Christmastime.

Ellen’s “Chicken Parm”, with Adam Flynn. A warm and hilarious tribute celebrating a BFF’s failed attempt at the classic Italian-American dish.

Sofrito, with Natalia Delgado. Lucy’s Puerto Rican sofrito recipe and a glimpse of the book that carries it forward.

Grandma Guzzie’s Kitchen, with Erin Kuller. A legacy survived through latkes, soup, and the grandmother you meet over and over again through both.

Puff Puff, with Tareah Ikharo. A beloved West African fried dough recipe shared while documenting family recipes with her mother.

Rajma, with Gunjan Sud. A North Indian kidney bean comfort food adapted with care, instinct, and soy protein.

Flan de Leche, with Camilla Krauss. A caramel custard recipe tying motherhood, memory, and condensed milk.

Jollof Rice, with Yema Gbondo. A Sierra Leonean family recipe preserved through voice notes across an ocean.

Mandu, with Esther Asadi. Korean dumplings, Lunar New Year, and three generations cooking together.

MBUZI MKOROGO

Sautéed goat slow-cooked with secret spices passed down from Kilimanjaro

An essay by Melanie Mpanju

Mbuzi mkorogo — otherwise known as sautéed goat — is more than just a dish in my family. It is a beloved Tanzanian meal that my mother often cooks not from recipes, but simply from instinct passed down from her own late mother. Somehow, every time, it turns out exactly as I remember it: deeply marinated, tender from slow cooking, and filled with an aroma of spices that linger in our family home before and after the meal is done.

My mother always begins the same way. The foundation of the dish includes onions, garlic, ginger, spices (that shall remain a secret), and fresh herbs. The goat meat, bought from a local Indian food mart and marinated overnight, is added to a large pot, where it is sautéed, seared, and stirred carefully.

Nothing is rushed, and everything is intentional. Each step builds on the last. The result is a richly spiced goat meat in a savory broth sauce that feels so comforting. My mother often serves it with pilau, kachumbari, and other side dishes. It’s no wonder this is the most requested dish whenever my aunts, uncles, and cousins visit. It has won first place in several potluck competitions.

This Mother’s Day, I find myself reflecting on what this dish has meant to me over the years. It reminds me of my late grandfather’s farm in Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, and the goats we would buy every Christmas in preparation for our family feasts. Now, it welcomes me home in a different way. After a long drive from my apartment in Washington, D.C. to Loudoun County, Virginia, the aroma of my mother’s goat meat excites me. I am left wondering which family members might already be inside the house, or who is coming later that day.

Growing up in Virginia, in a place where I often felt uneasy about sharing my culture, mbuzi mkorogo also became a bridge. It brought my multicultural group of friends — from Vietnam, El Salvador, Ethiopia, and the U.S. — into my home and allowed them to understand my identity before I even had the words to articulate it.

This dish has carried memory, identity, and connection for me throughout my upbringing. And I owe this entirely to my mother. She has always expressed her love through words, but most importantly through the way she cooks and gathers people. Mbuzi mkorogo is more than just a dish on the table: it is the expression of love and community passed down from my late grandmother to my mom, and now to me.

HOPIA

Filipino mung bean pastries, made from scratch and hand-delivered to family

When I asked readers to share food memories of their mothers and caretakers, Erin Tiamson texted me about making hopia, the flaky Filipino stuffed pastry, with her mother at Christmastime.

“I remember my mom spending the night before stirring and mixing the yellow mongo beans in a large pot on the stove,” Erin wrote. “The longer it cooked, the beans would pop like hot lava.”

The next day, Erin’s family made the dough together using flour, oil, and water. They rolled it out, chilled it, and beat it flat with a fist before filling each piece with the cooled beans and placing them on a sheet to bake.

“I remember tasting the flaky pastry and the yellow beans warm from the oven and then allowing them to cool on wire racks,” she said. “We would pack them into small containers and make deliveries to nearby family.”

ELLEN'S “CHICKEN PARM”

On nearly poisoning twelve people, and why that's exactly what makes her a great mother

An essay by Adam Flynn

If you ask anyone who knows her, they’ll tell you the same thing: she cannot cook. Truly and impressively.

Yet she tries. Not because she enjoys it, or even has a desire to learn, but because she loves her family and is willing to step out of her comfort zone to show it.

The best example is the infamous chicken parm dinner. Twelve of us gathered, full of optimism and with empty stomachs, and she gave it everything she had. What came out of the kitchen looked somewhat promising, but it was not ready for human consumption. We all caught the undercooked chicken just in time to prevent a family-wide case of salmonella poisoning. It is a story we all still talk and laugh about years later.

We’ve all heard that some people are “roots,” some are “stems,” and some are “leaves.” But if I had to describe Ellen — she’s evergreen. She is steady and enduring and brings life, color, and support no matter the season of life. She is truly my best friend.

These memories matter because they capture something essential about who she is. Cooking doesn’t come naturally to her. I watched her make a meatloaf once, and I was traumatized.

But she still tries because it is one more way for her to show care for the ones she loves. That willingness to step into discomfort, to risk failure, to laugh at herself, all in the name of love and care is what makes her such a wonderful mother and person. The food may not always (or ever) turn out right, but the intention behind it and the laughs along the way never miss.

SOFRITO

The aromatic, Puerto Rican base of garlic, peppers, and herbs that starts almost every dish

Natalia Delgado began documenting her mother Lucy’s recipes some 20 years ago and has been cooking them herself since. The intro to the book Natalia created says it all.

For today’s issue, Natalia contributed one of her mother’s classics: sofrito, described by Lucy as “the base for almost all my recipes.” I’ve had Lucy’s cooking, and her pernil, with its perfectly crispy cuero, takes you right to the island. It feels particularly special to share the recipe that forms the foundation of her cooking here.

Natalia also offered one important warning about aji dulce, a sweet pepper:

GRANDMA GUZZIE'S KITCHEN

Latkes, soup, and the person you meet over and over again through the people she fed

An essay by Erin Kuller

My husband’s Grandma Guzzie passed away in 2012, years before Charlie and I married. I only met her a handful of times before her death, but because of her legacy around food and family, I feel like I knew her.

There’s the story about latkes, when cousin Judd arrived a little late to Hanukkah and the latkes were all gone. So I’m told, she made them fresh with a shoestring-style crispiness. Get to the party early — there was no chance anybody was saving you any.

There’s the story about the vats of vegetable soup she’d make for Charlie to keep in the freezer to eat after ski races in high school. Decades later, he still talks about it on cold days. We have yet to replicate it.

There are the seemingly endless stories from cousin Jamie, the younger generation’s cook of the family. She remembers Guzzie’s bright blue floor like it was yesterday. She remembers what it felt like to be in the kitchen with her, snacking on fresh berries and tweaking each recipe with every trial. Each time, delicious.

Most of all, Jamie talks about her connection with her grandma through food that keeps them hitched across generations and time.

I’m not Jewish, but even so, her traditions feel like mine because through family connection, they are.

She might be gone, but through her grandchildren’s food and stories, I’ve met Guzzie over and over again.

What a mitzvah.

PUFF PUFF

The West African fried dough snack that disappears almost as quickly as it’s made

Tareah Ikharo has been working with her mother to test and document her mother’s Nigerian recipes. (More on that project in a future issue of Never Precious.). For this issue, Tareah shared one of her favorites: puff puff, the beloved West African fried dough snack found at parties, street stalls, and celebrations across the diaspora. Tareah’s mom writes:

“It’s easy to make, budget friendly and highly addictive . . . Puff puff are similar to the Louisiana beignet but unique in taste, texture and preparation. I’ve made puff puff for American colleagues and they always ask, ‘are these beignets or fried balls?’ My response has always been that puff puff are in a class of their own.”

“Puff puff are uncomplicated treats,” she continues. “In their simplest form, you need only kitchen staples: flour, sugar, baking powder or yeast, salt, water and frying oil.”

However you choose to make them, there’s an easy barometer for knowing whether you made them right.

“If made correctly, you’ll find yourself reaching for one after another until they are all gone.”

RAJMA

A North Indian kidney bean comfort food adapted with care, instinct, and soy protein

Gunjan Sud and her mother Ritu recently started experimenting with adding soy protein to one of Gunjan’s go-to comfort foods — her mom’s rajma, a North Indian kidney bean curry slow-cooked with onions, tomatoes, garlic, ginger, and warming spices. There’s something beautiful about continuing to revisit the foods that comfort us, and about mothers who are willing to adapt those recipes alongside us as our needs change.

After testing the recipe adaptation with her mom, Gunjan reports that the result looks and tastes different from the version she grew up eating. Somehow, though, the remix feels even more representative of the kind of care many mothers show through food.

Because what says I love you more than a willingness to change something that’s already perfect?

Together, mother and daughter are still figuring the recipe out in real time, amid instinct, incomplete measurements, and our good old robot friends to help fill in the gaps.

And they’re having some fun together doing it ☺️.

FLAN DE LECHE

A creamy caramel custard and falling in love with condensed milk

Camilla Krauss shared her mother’s flan de leche recipe because, as she put it, “this is the first recipe that made me think of my mom.” It was also, she added, “my introduction to condensed milk 🤤.”

JOLLOF RICE

A Sierra Leonean family recipe carried from the kitchen to voice notes across an ocean

“Be careful with that white pepper.”

This warning arrives midway through a voice note Yema Gbondo’s sister-in-law recorded while helping Yema recall her mother’s jollof rice recipe.

Her sister-in-law, you see, preserved the recipe on a visit to the States by taking photos while Yema’s mother cooked the rice; she sent Yema an explanatory voice note to supplement.

(The last three seconds of this clip are my absolute favorite part of this story, and probably will be yours too.)

What emerged, then, was not a formal recipe card, but something organic: a living record of one Sierra Leonean family cooking together, documenting the dish as knowledge moved between generations.

From Laurel to London, the Gbondo jollof lives on.

MANDU

Three generations making Korean dumplings together for the New Year

I asked Esther Asadi to tell me about a food memory connected to her mother, and she almost immediately thought of mandu, the Korean dumplings her family sometimes prepares for Lunar New Year.

For anyone who’s ever made homemade dumplings, you know they are a labor of love. It’s one well worth it: “I’ve gotten to the point where I no longer enjoy eating dumplings elsewhere unless they’re homemade,” Esther laughed. “Because I got spoiled.”

The dumplings themselves, though, almost become secondary to the feeling of everyone gathered around the table making them together.

Esther recounted fondly that a few years ago, the family — mom, older sister, niece and nephew — gathered to make mandu.

“I think that’s something that I miss and appreciate,” she told me as she reflected on three generations of her family together making dumplings. “That’s very nostalgic for me.”

This year also happens to be Esther’s first Mother’s Day after recently welcoming a daughter of her own. That detail struck me as a fitting ending to this issue: it’s a reminder that the traditions we inherit eventually become the ones we carry forward.

Here’s a clip of my (endearing) chat with Esther on making homemade mandu with multiple generations of her family — and trying to figure out whether her mother uses beef or pork in the filling.

YOUR STORY

I close every issue of the newsletter with an assist to help you preserve your own stories.

Today’s: if you’re spending time or chatting today with your mom, grandmother, auntie, or another person whose food has nourished you, voice record them answering this question:

What’s one dish you make from memory?

If you want to dig deeper, here are a few follow-ups you can ask:

• Which ingredient would surprise most people?

• Who taught you how to make this in the first place?

• How do you know when the dish is ready to be eaten?

  ---

If you’re ready to share what you learn, I’d love to read about it and help you preserve it.

Contribute your story

Never Precious is curated and published by Tyeesha Dixon.

For those who are new or reading from the web version, welcome to Never Precious. I’m Tyeesha Dixon — lawyer, writer, food obsessed — here chronicling food traditions, cultures, and recipes worth preserving before they’re gone. To get our stories emailed to you every other week:

Subscribe now

I’m not a great photographer, but for Issue 2, I tried a more image-forward format to mix things up a bit — let me know what you think. The essay takes you on my month-long adventure in Porto, Portugal, and how a craving for fish sauce helped me connect with the city in unexpected ways.

BUT BEFORE I FORGET…

You early subscribers are some real ones! Your feedback has been so thoughtful and engaging, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for trusting me to share your families’ food stories ❤️.

As a special MUAH to you earliest supporters, I’m running a Mother’s Day tribute next week honoring your moms and caretakers. If you haven’t sent me your story but would like to, it’s not too late — submit it here.

Any submissions received by May 5 will be included in the Mother’s Day issue. Any submitted after May 5 will be included in a future Never Precious publication.

If you’re not sure whether you’re ready to submit, or don’t know where to start, reach out to chat by replying to this post or sending a note to tye@neverprecious.com.

NOW, THE STORY.

Last summer, I spent a month in Portugal, based in Porto. I’d just moved out of my D.C. apartment. I had no plan, really, but the universe was calling me to this place I’d yearned to experience for many years.

The first night, I set out to find an easy late-night dinner. Generally, when I’m hungry and don’t know what I’m looking for, I let my nose choose for me.

I ended up eating exactly what I was supposed to that night.

It was the classic Porto meal: grilled sea bream charred hard at the edges, unexpectedly flavorful boiled potatoes, a basket of bread, and a (whole) carafe of vinho. A simple veg, to boot.

That dang soup.

Needless to say, I had arrived in Portugal. But it was not long before I was looking for pho.

Nine days, to be exact.

That the craving had followed me across an ocean was not shocking; I’ve learned over the years that it holds no geographic bounds.

What I didn’t expect was everything that came next.

I suspect I’m not the only person here who does their deepest thinking over bowls of soup. The circle is the oldest symbol of continuity, wholeness, return. Every culture has a version of it: the ouroboros (snake eating its tail); the Buddhist enso; the Celtic knotwork; the Indigenous medicine wheel; the Islamic geometric patterns that tile infinitely; the sun…

The core meanings show up across traditions: eternity, cycles, completion, protection, unity.

As I sat in a modest Vietnamese eatery in Central Porto lusting over my steamy bowl of soup, I decided right then and there I would set out to learn why the universe sent me to Porto. Why I needed pho nine days in.

And how on earth the pho in Porto was so damn good?!

Perhaps at this point in the story, you’re thinking — duh, Tyeesha, the connection is in the fish! — but no such epiphany struck as I traipsed the enchanting streets of Porto and adjacent countryside. (As it turns out, the Vietnamese food scene in Portugal is a whole other essay for a whole other day.). Suffice it to say for our purposes here today, I got lost in the easy mornings, pasteis, and breathtaking landscapes over the Douro River.

The answer was under my nose the whole time, though, literally. Roman garum (fish sauce) factories once ran near Setúbal, which is the same coastline from whence Portuguese colonialists launched their sails centuries later, using a tradition similar to that used on the nước mắm presses on Phú Quốc island. Whether the technique traveled, or simply occurred to two different civilizations independently, historians haven’t settled. What we do know is: salt, fish, time, and the liquid that results, goes on everything.

Portugal’s taste for preserved fish has lived on in bacalhau, the salt-dried cod central to Portuguese identity.

Aha! The fish.

A love note to Porto

One of the last places I (re)visited before leaving Porto was the Mercado do Bolhão, Porto’s iconic market hall, recently restored after years of renovation. Vendors sell it all — fresh fish, produce, cheese, traditional prepared foods, artisan crafts, flowers — across two open-air arcade levels.

Everything about the market excited me, from the high ceilings to the teeming stalls of cheese, bread, pickles. The bacalhau was stacked in towers.

For a place so bustling and alive, the market still somehow felt cozy and welcoming. It’s the kind of place where you get lost, but it still makes you feel like you belong. That memory of my last time in the mercado is how I will remember my month in Porto.

Oh. And the fish sauce 🙂.

SOMETHING ROOTED (NEVER PRECIOUS)

Every issue, we share something passed down—a recipe, a ritual, a way of doing things—sometimes in its original form, sometimes adapted for the lives we’re actually living.

One thing I appreciated most in Porto was that nothing ever felt rushed. Especially lunch. Neighborhood restaurants fill for the lunch hour(s), and wine comes out in carafes. A typical casual midday meal in Porto is multi-course: bread, soup, main, wine, sweet.

One of the signals that lunchtime is to be savored is couvert. It’s a Portuguese custom for meals to start with a little something: usually olives, sometimes bread, cured meat, or cheese.

(No, it’s not free, and no, you’re not getting taken when you see the extra €1.50 on your tab.).

While I don’t start most of my meals with olives, and I’m certainly not taking two-hour lunches most days, I am much more intentional these days about honoring the tradition of enjoying my midday meal. There’s no more wolfing it down in front of a computer, reading the news on my phone, or thinking about how quickly it’ll be over. I try to take the time to be grateful for the food and all the hands that went into its preparation, savor the flavors and smells and sounds, and chew slowly.

It’s a small ritual that’s brought delight to my life, and I hope it can for you too.

RECS N THANGS

Things to eat, read, watch, explore.

READ.

Two for you:

• Jodi Ettenberg’s deep dive on fish sauce origins

• Rafael Tonon’s Atlas Obscura piece on the archaeologists bringing Roman garum back to life in Portugal.

EXPLORE.

I highly recommend visiting Porto if you want to experience urban living without madness. If you do, rent a car for at least a day. So many cool and interesting places to explore are within a few hours’ drive. (Feel free to hit me up for my full Wanderlog itinerary from the month.).

For example, I spent a day and a half in Marvão, a medieval hilltop village in the Alentejo region of Portugal, 3.5 hours outside of Porto and near the Spanish border.

The Castelo de Marvão was steps outside my hotel. The sunrise view alone is worth the trip.

YOUR STORY

It’s your turn. We run on the philosophy that writing it down imperfectly is better than not writing it down at all. Respond in the comments, reply to this post, or just jot your thoughts down somewhere.

Enjoying a dinner of bacalhau à lagareiro (flaky white fish topped with sautéed onions and peppers) at a B&B tucked next to a 9th-century castle, my mind wandered to my mother’s kitchen. Different continent, different cuisine, but the food carried the same logic: simple flavors, fresh ingredients, made with soul.

Is there a dish your mother or grandmother made that connects to something bigger — a place, a culture, a history you’re only now starting to understand?

Leave a comment

Tyeesha Dixon is a lawyer, strategist, and founder—first of the consultancy Dixon Park Group, and now of Never Precious. She’s spent her career at the intersection of equity policy and culture, from daily newspaper reporting to civil rights lawyering at Chicago City Hall and the White House. She roams the globe unearthing cultural treasures and is almost certainly at this moment thinking about her next meal.

BUT BEFORE I FORGET…

With winter (finally) loosening, I’ve been on the hunt for an easy pick-me-up to remind my body what spring feels like. I hit the jackpot rediscovering hot lemon water, so I’m spreading the news.

It’s a simple elixir—literally just hot water and a slice of lemon, squeezed then dropped. It makes my morning feel like a hug. The trick is to have it first thing (yes, before coffee). After a week, you’ll feel like a new person. Trust me on this one.

NOW ON TO THE GOOD STUFF

Tteokguk (떡국): the deceptively simple Korean beef broth soup that graced my family’s table (and most Korean families’ tables) every New Year’s day. Its signature ingredient is tteok (떡), the oblong, coin-looking, chewy white rice cakes that cook like gnocchi (they’re ready when they float). Guk (국) in case you’re wondering, means soup.

In Korea, eating tteokguk on Lunar New Year is almost a requirement. As the chef and cooking authority Maangchi puts it, the process of turning a year older isn’t “totally complete until you had a bowl.”

Growing up, the gukmul (국물) seemed so plain. Bland, even. The broth was too clean. The ingredients were too simple. With just lean meat (usually a fatless brisket), garlic, onion, and black pepper as the soup base, surely this could not be the thing that would guarantee happiness and prosperity for an entire people for a whole 365?? Sure, we’ll garnish it with scallions, egg omelette, and ghim (김), or dried nori. And yeah, we’ll devour it with a side of homemade cabbage kimchi. But is this really the thing all Koreans eat to start every new year?

(Never said any of this aloud. Duh.).

To learn more about the history of tteokguk, and why it’s such an important part of Korean culture, check out this take from BBC correspondent Erin Craig, who visited the Institute of Traditional Korean Food in Seoul to learn all about it.

But as things tend to happen when we age, I came to appreciate cleanliness and simplicity, particularly as my taxed, stress-laden body started rejecting complexity, flavor, and, most notably, rich animal fats. As I moved around the country post-undergrad, nose-in-book chasing my all-encompassing career pursuits, tteokguk became a part of my personal New Year’s day tradition.

At first, I would find it at restaurants. When the quality of the Korean food around me stopped matching what I was used to in the DMV, I learned to prepare the soup myself at home.

To start, it was just on New Year’s. Eventually, I made it throughout the year for comfort.

It was the first Korean dish I learned to make, and, for many years, it was the only Korean dish I knew how to make. For a long time, it was the only dish that always made me feel better.

That is, until I met pho.

Oh, pho. I doubt I need to describe pho for most of you because its popularity has skyrocketed in the U.S.

Just in case, though, pho is a simple, gorgeous, Vietnamese soup comprising long-simmered bone broth (cooked anywhere from 6 to 18 hours) steeped in star anise, charred ginger, and clove. The broth is poured scalding over vermicelli-style rice noodles topped with thin-sliced rare beef or other proteins. The garnishes arrive on a separate plate—usually a heap of fresh bean sprouts, Thai basil, thin-sliced chili, and wedges of lime. Depending on where you are in the world, other goodies might await, like hoisin (plum sauce, thick and sweet), sriracha, thin-sliced pickled garlic, or chili oil.

I tried pho for the first time in 2007. I wasn’t terribly impressed; Koreans famously aren’t huge fans of cilantro. Turns out, my first pho just wasn’t that great. I forgot about it for a while.

But at some point, I was reintroduced. To the real kind. The good kind.

Like tteokguk, pho is:

• Hot

• Clear

• Beef-based

• Gluten free

• Topped with fresh garnish.

The only thing it’s missing was the kimchi (김치) ❌. I quickly learned you can eat pho with a side of sliced white onions soaked in white vinegar (hành dầm). Bam!

My mouth is watering right now writing about it 🤤.

Despite the similarities to my beloved tteokguk, pho was different—dare I say better—because it was complex. That broth had layers.

It was also affordable, quick, and everywhere.

It eventually replaced tteokguk as my go-to comfort soup. Life got too busy to boil stockpots of soup at home.

And then…the guilt.

As my obsession with pho grew greater, though, I started to feel like a traitor. My youngest brother and I spent a lot of time together when I was in law school (he was going to the undergrad of the same school), and pho was the thing we always wanted to eat together. It felt wrong to find such deep comfort, and to nurture our sibling bond, over a food we did not grow up eating with our family, a food not cooked by the hands of our mother and grandparents and aunts.

These thoughts of betrayal culminated into straight up guilt when my cousins and I took my grandfather to eat pho for a family meal a year or so before he died.

As the bowls of fragrant goodness were delivered to our tables within just a few minutes of ordering, I saw the looks of glee and anticipation on my cousins’ faces as they bent their noses down to smell the broth, steam washing over their delighted faces. We were all a bit hungover, and I don’t care what anyone says, pho is the perfect food the morning after a night of drinking. We all gingerly reached for the heap of toppings; my aunt admonished us sharply, “You don’t know how to eat pho.”

(She was right. Turns out it’s much better if you use all the toppings, generously.).

I remember wondering whether we had made a selfish choice taking my grandfather to pho for one of our growingly rare multi-gen family meals. Like in many cultures, food is a core connective tissue in Korean culture. Eating together as a family meant honoring our culture. I remember thinking, how could we do this to him? He probably hates cilantro. We should’ve gone to a Korean restaurant.

When I looked over at halabeoji (할아버지) he seemed content, stoic, as he slurped up his noodles. So I went about slurping mine up, too. That guilt simmered for years, though, especially as I grieved my grandfather’s COVID-era death.

But he just wanted us to eat. Together.

Now, in my chapter of perimenopausal wiseness, and as I reflect on my grandfather’s extraordinary life, I know that was ridiculous. He valued togetherness above all. He taught us to show gratitude for the near-instant access we had to nourishing and abundant food sources—a luxury he did not have in his own childhood. Growing up, my cousins and I were periodically reminded to be grateful for what we had: Halabeoji had to eat tree bark as a kid! He had to walk to school in the snow without shoes!

My grandfather beamed whenever we ate well, and, most importantly, when we ate together. That is what I should have taken from that moment when three generations of our family were gathered together eating (some very delicious) pho—not fretting about cilantro.

Today, both tteokguk and pho hold a special place in my heart, and on my table. Thanks to my grandfather’s healthy appetite, openness to trying new things, and boundless love for us, I enjoy both, guilt free.

As the universe would have it, one of my cousins ended up marrying someone whose mother is from Vietnam. Though my grandfather was already gone when they married, the rest of our family of course welcomed our new relatives, and their culinary traditions, with open arms, just like halabeoji taught us. I’m excited to one day learn how to make pho from my new family members. And most importantly, to do so while carrying forward the gratitude and togetherness my grandfather spent his life teaching us to live by.

Pho with tteok would probably be delicious, huh? 🤔.

SOMETHING ROOTED (NEVER PRECIOUS)

Every issue, we share something passed down—a recipe, a ritual, a way of doing things—sometimes in its original form, sometimes adapted for the lives we’re actually living.

My cousin, Jen, became pescatarian at age 7 or so after a visit to a chicken plant. She makes her tteokguk using a light, easy anchovy broth.

I gave it a shot, and you should too. Kimchimari’s tteokguk recipe is a great place to start.

RECS N THANGS

Things to eat, read, watch, explore.

READ.

To learn more about Korean food culture and technique, check out the narrative cookbook My Korea: Traditional Flavors, Modern Recipes, by Chef Hooni Kim. If nothing else, read the intro, where he reflects on visiting his relatives in South Korea as a small child.

EXPLORE.

If you’re in NYC and feeling froggy, try to get a res at Meju, Chef Kim’s Michelin-starred restaurant tucked behind his Little Banchan Shop (worth a visit on its own) in Long Island City. Chef Kim seats only eight diners a night, and every course features Korean fermentation (a topic we’ll explore more in a future issue because, well, I’m obsessed). Worth the effort and every penny.

YOUR STORY

It’s your turn. We run on the philosophy that writing it down imperfectly is better than not writing it down at all. Respond in the comments, reply to this post, or just jot your thoughts down somewhere.

The guilt I carried for years was never really about pho. It was about identity and the fear that integrating new perspectives and experiences meant I was leaving something behind. I suspect I’m not alone in that.

Is there something you’ve ever felt like a traitor for loving, food or otherwise?

Leave a comment

Tyeesha Dixon is a lawyer, strategist, and founder—first of the consultancy Dixon Park Group, and now of Never Precious. She’s spent her career at the intersection of equity policy and culture, from daily newspaper reporting to civil rights lawyering at Chicago City Hall and the White House. She roams the globe unearthing cultural treasures and is almost certainly at this moment thinking about her next meal.