Meat without killing is the central promise of what’s come to be known as cultivated meat.

At the heart of the vision is a high-tech factory housing steel tanks as tall as apartment buildings and conveyor belts rolling out fully formed steaks, millions of pounds a day — enough, astonishingly, to feed an entire nation.

The presumption is, if you build a store, people are going to come,"

The jury's still out on whether these conversions of corner stores are actually changing people's diets and health.

for the type ofevening when I come home, set my bags down on the oor, and my apartment feelslike a kingdom devoted to my desires.

A personal pizza can be Solitude Food too. I buy a personal pizza when I’manticipating a glorious night entirely to myself: feet up on the coffee table, sparklingwater I drink straight from the bottle, some totally uncool wine

I remember the first person I met, another new student, named Zack, who walked to the welcome picnic with me. I had planned to eat with my parents—my mother had brought a coolerful of food even that first day—but I learned of the cookout and told her that I should probably go.

I was an insistent child, and, being my mother’s firstborn, much too prized. My mother could say no to me, and did often enough, but anyone who knew us—particularly my father and sister—could tell how much the denying pained her

In the Personal Essay unit, we read two to three essays a week, often in class together. We can’t talk about everything in every essay, but each class models some essential part: a compelling beginning; the use of an outside text to complicate the writer’s thinking; a powerful personal scene; an intriguing end that offers something new to the argument.

One student last semester, following a prompt to recall a family tradition, wrote about his grandmother who began to burn the traditional family rice every night at dinner. When I asked him why he thought the story had stayed all these years in his mind, he said that he had been the only one in the house who noticed that something was very wrong with her.

The attack coincided with Eid, and as I watched on my screen in Clarksville, Maryland horrific images of air raids and grief-stricken mothers, I suddenly felt the urge to make a pot of sumagiyya. Serving it to my family and friends that night, despite the unfolding tragedy, was unexpectedly liberating and affirming.

Ask any Palestinian how they learned to flip a pot of maqlooba, and they’ll likely tell you it was through an elder’s patient instruction, not a cookbook or YouTube video. Israel’s checkpoints, separation walls, and roadblocks may have physically separated our families, but they could not eradicate our culture. To quote Jerusalem-born Palestinian chef Sami Tamimi, “Recipes transcend mere culinary instructions; they encapsulate narratives, memories and serve as a testament to the resilience of those who have entrusted them across generations.”

Today, those who can afford this treat often approach it with ritualistic reverence, scooping out the inky orbs with mother-of-pearl spoons, so no hint of metal will intrude upon the delicacy of the flavor.

But it was precisely this distance, in space, time and above all class (even in a supposedly classless society), that made the food — once the barest minimum, eaten and endured only in order to survive — suddenly palatable.