Category: Anthropology

Every time I visited my grandmother, my Popo, her kitchen felt like stepping into another world. The air was always warm, thick with the smell of garlic and soy sauce, and filled with stories. Popo had a story for every dish she made, and as a kid, I never thought much of it. I just thought she liked talking while she cooked.

One of my favorite dishes was this simple steamed egg she’d make by whisking leftover egg whites with water. It looked humble, but it was unbelievably comforting, soft, savory, and warm. I once asked her where she learned to make it, and she told me that her own mother created it during a time when their family didn’t have much. Food was scarce, so they learned to stretch every ingredient to feed everyone. It wasn’t just a recipe; it was survival turned into tradition.

That moment stayed with me. I realized that what we eat tells a story about who we are, where we come from, and what our families have endured. Every meal is a piece of history, an edible memory.

And when I started paying attention, I realized this truth isn’t unique to my family. It’s everywhere. Around the world, food carries identity, culture, and emotion.

The more I learned about different cuisines, the more I saw how each one holds the same thread of memory, resourcefulness, and pride.

Take sushi, for example. Today, it’s a global phenomenon, a symbol of Japanese precision and artistry, but its roots stretch far beyond Tokyo’s high-end sushi bars. I remember learning in AP World that the earliest version of sushi actually began in Southeast Asia, where people preserved fish in fermented rice to keep it fresh longer. When the method reached Japan centuries ago, it evolved into narezushi, and eventually into nigiri, the fast, fresh version we know today. What started as a method of survival turned into an art form, reflecting Japan’s deep respect for simplicity and balance.

Or think about tacos. Long before they became the handheld comfort food loved around the world, they were a daily staple for Indigenous peoples in Mesoamerica. The word “taco” likely comes from the Nahuatl word tlahco, meaning “in the middle,” referring to how fillings were placed inside tortillas. Later, miners in 18th-century Mexico wrapped explosives in paper “tacos” to break apart rock, eventually lending their nickname to the food. Tacos tell a story of adaptation, blending Indigenous, colonial, and working-class roots into something proudly Mexican.

Then there’s pasta, a dish that feels distinctly Italian, but its story stretches across continents. While many people credit Marco Polo with bringing pasta from China, the truth is more complicated. Ancient Etruscans in Italy were already making pasta-like foods thousands of years ago, and Arab traders later brought dried noodles to Sicily. Over time, pasta became Italy’s great equalizer, affordable, adaptable, and endlessly creative. Every region gave it a different shape and sauce, and together those variations became the language of Italian identity.

Behind every beloved dish is the same story told in different ways: resourcefulness, migration, and connection.

I still remember the exact day everything changed. It was a Friday afternoon, and my mom got a phone call from the school. She hung up, turned to me, and said, “You’re not going to school for the next two weeks.”

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I had heard about this virus that was spreading in other countries, but I assumed it was something small, something that would blow over quickly. Two weeks off school sounded like a vacation. I imagined sleeping in, watching movies, and catching up on homework that I probably wouldn’t actually do.

But then two weeks turned into a month, and that month stretched into two years.

Suddenly, life as we knew it came to a halt. And with that, so did many of the cultural traditions we took for granted.

Looking back, it’s incredible how much the pandemic reshaped how we connect and celebrate. Holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas moved from crowded dining rooms to glitchy Zoom calls. Birthdays were celebrated through car parades, with friends honking from their driveways. Even graduations turned into virtual ceremonies, where instead of walking across a stage, students waved to webcams in their living rooms.

But it wasn’t just the big events that changed; it was the small rituals too. Family dinners became sacred again. People started baking bread, cooking traditional recipes, and gardening as ways to feel grounded. Communities found creative ways to stay connected, from drive-in movie nights to socially distanced outdoor gatherings. Somehow, even in isolation, we found ways to hold onto what made us human.

Anthropologists often talk about how pandemics throughout history reshape culture. During the Black Plague in the 14th century, for example, people reexamined faith and mortality, leading to shifts in art, religion, and medicine. During the 1918 flu pandemic, traditions like handshakes disappeared for years, and public health became a collective value.

COVID-19 will be remembered the same way, not just for the science behind it, but for how it transformed everyday life.

What fascinates me is how quickly new traditions replaced old ones. We learned to celebrate virtually, to express affection through screens, and to mourn without being physically present. And even though it was hard, it showed how adaptable people are. Our rituals didn’t disappear; they evolved.

When I finally returned to school two years later, everything felt different. People had changed, but so had the way we valued community. Simple things, like sitting with friends at lunch or seeing someone’s full smile without a mask, felt meaningful again.

Pandemics have a strange way of reminding us what matters. They strip away the excess and force us to rebuild our traditions around connection, empathy, and resilience.

So while that phone call from my mom marked the beginning of something scary and uncertain, it also marked the start of a new kind of cultural awakening, one that taught us how to hold on to each other, even when we had to stay apart.