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To say “food is a love language” has become a one–liner spoken ad nauseam, but it cannot be denied that some foods truly do create feelings of warmth, comfort, and love. Filmmakers clearly understand food’s connection to love, specifically the correlation between eating noodles and falling in love. Captured countless times in some of cinema’s great love stories, these scenes showcase that the power of pasta and the power of love are not mutually exclusive phenomena.
The first video on your feed is of Pete Davidson. How predictable.
Amid the urban jungle of broken concrete and faded brick, street artist Kala Hagopian is an eco–conscious mother of naturalistic murals. With a passion that has blossomed since childhood, Hagopian is committed to repainting West Philadelphia's perspective on environmental conservation.
Few things define Brazilian cuisine as distinctly as a love for steakhouses. But for me, a born–and–raised Brazilian, a “churrasco” is much more than a meal—it’s a culinary spectacle. In it, an array of meats is expertly skewered or placed on a spit, resembling a delicious rosary of flavors charbroiled to perfection. It's an art form unto itself. Over the years, I've enjoyed numerous churrasco meals with loved ones, whether indoors or outdoors, and it has always been a joyful celebration.
Let’s take a trip down memory lane, back to 2014: The ALS Ice Bucket Challenge had everyone pouring ice–cold water on themselves, Kim and Kanye had just tied the knot, “Let It Go” was stuck in our heads, and The Fault in Our Stars was making us all tear up. And if you were the I’m–not–like–the–other–girls kind of girl (like me), Tumblr was the pinnacle of your 2014.
If you were to search for Emily Whitehead (C '27) on the Internet, you'd undoubtedly come across descriptions like “cancer survivor,” “first pediatric patient to receive CAR T cell therapy,” and “living miracle.” However, if you asked Emily Whitehead herself, she would tell you that those labels are just a fragment of her identity: “There's so much more to me than cancer.” Ten years ago, Emily received groundbreaking treatment at the University of Pennsylvania that garnered worldwide attention. Now, having come full circle, she returns to Penn as a freshman, prepared to embark on a new adventure.
It’s a feeling every young person is familiar with. You just need to print that one resume copy before dashing out the door, or maybe get the crumbs off of your floor before your parents visit, or even just steam your shirt before logging onto a Zoom interview. Then you remember: You never splurged on a printer, forgot to ask that guy down the hall for a vacuum, or didn’t get that steamer your mom insisted you would need for college. And even if you had purchased these items, your cramped apartment barely has room for them.
What is contained in the stroke of a brush? Or the interplay of shapes on a canvas? Could it be the same as what is intimated in the echoes of a church choir or the patterns of a quilt? For the late Philadelphian Moe Brooker, who died last January, the answer is emphatically yes: structures that underlie art are transferable across mediums and cultures. If Brooker’s extraordinary artistic vision wasn’t enough, he also imbued philosophy into his work. Every piece is a foray into human joy and the divine. Brooker's journey is the story of an artist navigating Philadelphia, its exclusive—and exclusionary—art scene, and finding a unique voice through his paintings. But it is also a universal story, the search for joy and meaning in life.
When Sarah Girgis (C ‘24) was a freshman, her room in the Quad wasn’t exactly a state–of–the–art kitchen. Yet, armed with a hand mixer and an extra desk, she made cookie dough in her dorm, earning her the hall title of resident baker.
In the basement bar of a theater in SoHo, Manhattan, on the third Saturday this September, sits an audience of 20. Or just about that many. In the dim purple glow of kitschy wall sconces and dying track lights, they sip vodka tonics and beer.
It's another day. The same day you've lived countless times over. You wake up at the same time, eat the same breakfast, talk to the same people, and finally collapse in the same bed to start the cycle all over again. The next day is, well, the same. It almost feels like you're living life in third person, a voyeur to the "real world," one of adventure, excitement, and newness. It's a world you're not sure even exists and you're definitely not sure where to find. But amidst the isolation and mundanity of our corporatized twenty–first century lives, you'd give anything just to see something truly brand new.
Drunk cigs don’t count, but what about smoking a dart on Locust at 1:45 p.m. on a Wednesday?
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then celebrity impersonation is a lifelong devotional. Career impersonators—from Elvis officiants for elopers in Vegas to washed up cover bands performing to senile audiences—are often disparaged as the runts of the entertainment industry.
Immediately, three beats of the song’s percussion draw you in. Friendly strings lead up into piano notes that hop back down before jumping into a funky beat. Sweet female vocals begin to sing of love and disco. From this description, “Plastic Love,” which was released in 1984, seems like your typical ’80s hit—perhaps an exemplary karaoke song, but nothing particularly groundbreaking.
Picture this: You're having a nice meal with your friends, squeezing in your morning caffeine kick, or connecting with the world around you on a nice stroll. The group of people behind you, deep in conversation, is speaking just loud enough for your gossipy little spidey senses to pick up a word or two. Riveted, you continue to listen, maybe raising your eyebrows at your companion across the table so they fall silent and you can get the real 411 on the deepest and darkest secrets of unassuming Becky sitting behind you.
What does it mean to be kosher? How can our family recipes enter mainstream culinary canon? How much is a yahrzeit glass? Heck, what does it mean to be a Jew today?
The desire to stay relevant in our dynamic society is at the forefront of almost everyone’s mind, both personally and professionally. We are constantly re–inventing ourselves, looking to bring in “fresh blood” to stay current. In the art market, artists emerge rapidly. There’s always something new and interesting to be seen. So, how can it be that Gagosian, the largest and most well–regarded art gallery, is exhibiting deceased artist’s work at five of their 19 gallery spaces? Why does it keep trying to sell us something we’ve already seen before?
Whether they’re making a pit stop at Saxby’s in between classes or catching up with friends over lattes, Penn students have made coffee a vital component of their daily routines. From pumpkin spice lattes to toasted croissants, local coffee shops in Philadelphia define cultural trends and influence individuals' daily habits.
The term “cult classic” can very easily be understood by breaking it up into its two constituent words: Cult and classic. Cult means that a given piece of culture only appeals to a certain group, and that these devotees rarely make up more than a small subset of the overall population. But classic means that for these dedicated few, the piece of culture occupies a very special place.
It only took Disney ten years to kill Star Wars—Star Wars, one of the most legendary franchises of all time. Imagine telling your eight–year–old self that one day, a new Star Wars TV show would be released every couple of months, and not only would no one care, but the shows would be mocked and reviled. This summer’s release of Ahsoka, the latest Star Wars TV show, demonstrates just how far the once–great franchise has fallen.