Grace Holleman
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The epigraph to E.M. Forster’s Howards End reads, famously, “Only connect.” The book is concerned with the question of communion: Can language, music, or paint meaningfully bring two people closer together? I don’t know. Recently, I’ve learned a lot more about distance than I have about intimacy. Sara and I became friends two-and-a-half years ago. In the time since, we’ve shared walks in Riverside Park, trips to gardening stores, late-night subway rides, even later night conversations on dorm room floors, and many an excursion to Jin Ramen. Those experiences are impossible to replicate virtually; some kinds of interpersonal connection are only possible in a Cathedral Gardens double or over a warm bowl of noodles. I am certain, however, that words can still connect. I’ve seen it happen, one answer sliding against another in a grid, letters marching into place like chess pieces.
Over the past week or so, with a stomach full of warm dread and a numb mind, I’ve looked several times at a photo on my phone from the night of November 8, 2016: Three friends and I pose, smiling (it was early in the night) somewhere in the middle of a Westin in downtown Denver, the site of several Democratic watch parties.
The Zoom call—an excuse to drink and laugh and talk after a day stuffed with online seminars—ends for me at 9 p.m. My friends have work tomorrow, or school, and it’s two hours later for them. I have school too, but nine feels early. I wander downstairs, break squares from one of the chocolate bars my mom keeps in the back of a kitchen cupboard, and take a short walk through my dark neighborhood, searching for signs of stars behind a curtain of haze.
Welcome to The Eye’s quarantine cookbook! In this collection of recipes, memories, and stories, staff members of The Eye have contributed dishes that they have been enjoying during the quarantine. These recipes not only result in tasty meals and treats, but also hold special meaning to each staffer. We hope these recipes below will speak to you and bring you comfort during these uncertain times.
Like light on the Hudson River, John Jay Dining Hall changes throughout the day. Subtle shifts create distinct moods. There’s the 9 a.m. tranquility of a weekday morning, the buzz of lunchtime activity, the strange experience of a 4 p.m. post-class snack break, and the heart-pounding anxiety of navigating crowds for dinner during a theme night. Over the course of its 11 and a half hours of operation, John Jay oscillates between extremities of peace and chaos.
Sometimes, jostled by the 1 train, I miss driving. Colorado is a wide and open land; jagged, regal mountains spill into yellow plains under the expansive sky. Interstate 70 scrapes the side of Denver and curves westward to become a heavily trafficked, occasionally perilous mountain corridor. Its long tunnels, steep grades, and packs of long-haul trucks make me break out in hives, particularly in rain or snow.
As final papers and exams inch closer and closer, we hope this letter finds you well. We’ve prepared our last full-fledged issue of the semester, so if you find some time between cramming and more cramming, give it a read.
Welcome back to The Ear, The Eye’s podcast dedicated to documenting, detailing, and excavating Columbia’s history!
Happy belated Valentine’s Day! As the weather shifts from cold to warm to cold again, we hope you’re enjoying it with the ones you love. This week, we’re taking a trip inward and backward, our words spanning both distance and time, and touching, occasionally, on love.
