As you may know, Fig and Vine has recently undergone a major transfer in power, effective immediately. Newly named dictator-in-chief, Maya Kaye, is looking ahead to big changes in how things run at Fig and Vine magazine. Kaye’s position as editor was previously held by Lily Karofsky, of the article Who is Behind Fig and Vine. It is well known that Kaye is quite the outdoor adventurer. First on the list of executive orders Kaye plans to enact is more field trips. Look out for a Fig and vine field trip to Herzog winery in the Chabad van, which will be the pregame for wildcat, which is a pregame for the real party at dictator editor Kaye and Morgan Guttman’s house (known for its signature Maya-tinis and Borg-an). The Herzog field trip will serve as a perfect research opportunity for Kaye’s bigger plans - Fig and Vine’s own line of fig wine! She’s already been sterilizing her bathtub in preparation. Also in the works is a secret menu for Fig and Vine’s most dedicated fans, accessible only through an email prompting you to verify your bank account information. Kaye has generously shared a sneak peek of the first secret menu recipe – Grandma’s homemade wood chip kugel (with real wood chips). While she misses co-authoring adventure chronicles with former staff writer Allen Schultz, Kaye still has plenty of adventures to write about, and perhaps we will even see a guest writer or two in the coming year. This leads us to the question I’m sure we were all wondering – whether or not the former president of Hillel (the ginger one) had anything to do with this Fig and Vine overhaul of leadership. “No comment” Oh wait… hold on. This interview has just been interrupted by a call from said ginger. “Oh my gawd. Really? Oh my GAWD! Oh my g-d, woah.” “Holy fuck thats really… fucked” They must be talking about how Lily Karofsky got totally screwed by that one staff writer who has been plotting this takeover of Fig and Vine for like, ever. I hear she bribed the Comms Academic advisors so that Lily would just graduate already. Well as far as leadership, it seems Kaye will be taking a slightly different approach for the future of Fig and Vine magazine. When asked about her leadership in an interview, former editor Lily Karofsky states “I just want people to love what they are doing.” In response, Kaye states “BFFR, no one should love this, it’s writing.” When it comes to writing, Maya Kaye feels most at home expressing herself through poetry. “Its actually really, really hard for me to write. I feel like I can only write something that I care deeply about.” One thing Maya cares deeply about is the Jewish community here in Santa Barbara. One month into Maya’s freshman year was Simchat Torah, and the one year anniversary of October 7th. Coming to Santa Barbara was a daunting change after a gap year in Israel interrupted so early on by the attacks of October 7th. But on this night of reclaimed joy, strangers became her community and support system. “I basked in the fact that everyone came from different places, but knew all the same songs that we sang from Picasso to DP.” Singing and dancing throughout Isla Vista encapsulates the pride that the Jewish Gauchos have for their community. We sing for each other's successes and losses, we dance in celebration and in commemoration. Maya, Lily, and the Fig and Vine staff are honored to be here singing, dancing, and telling stories through it all with the Jewish Gauchos. Keep following along for all that Maya has to share with the community and beyond!

On May 12th, 2026, I sat down with Fig & Vine’s creator and co-editor-in chief, Lily Karofsky, in Hillel’s student lounge. Together, we reflected on the past two years of growth of the magazine, and the positive impact of having a platform for Jewish journalism and creativity. Fig & Vine has been such a fundamental part of my Jewish experience at UCSB, so interviewing Lily was very bittersweet. We touched on the immense joys that we’ve felt over the years, but also the difficulty of the constant turnover of the people we love entering and leaving this college town. As always, we reminisced on so many iconic moments, and shared lots of laughs. Without further ado, this is Lily, on the record, for the last time as editor-in-chief of Fig & Vine. What inspired you to create Fig & Vine? Lily: Fig & Vine was created in the antisemitic aftermath of October 7th. I realized very quickly that people were talking about Jewish students and people were talking for Jewish students. But not a lot of people were actually talking to Jewish students and letting us have a platform to speak for ourselves. I came up with the idea for Fig & Vine because the night of the Girvetz police raid and the encampment being taken down at UCSB two years ago, a reporter asked me to give a statement. I mentioned in it that I was Jewish and they seemed genuinely surprised by it. I don’t really know why but he was like, ‘oh, are you scared being here?’ And I said, ‘well, it’s as off-putting as it would be for anyone.’ Then I realized, we should really be having our own space to be sharing our own thoughts and feelings. Then I also realized that a lot of the fun in writing was lost for me because I was writing about depressing shit constantly. Although these things are important to talk about, writing should also bring people together and be fun. So, I thought Fig & Vine should be a place for art, poetry, and satire. Just a place for Jewish students who love writing to be able to express themselves in a way that feels good, and whether that’s addressing the sad and scary stuff, or if it’s just being funny on the page. And thus: Fig & Vine! Maya: Yeah, I can relate. I had a journalism internship in Tel Aviv during my gap year and it was very heavy. I had to constantly write about hostage updates and terror attacks in Israel. It’s a lot. Lily: Exactly. We need a place for that, but we also need a place where Jewish joy can just exist without guilt. Maya: I’ve felt so much joy through Fig & Vine. Lily: Yeah, I’m gonna miss it. I also love how Fig & Vine is so encompassing of the Jewish community because, as a community, we have to hold both. We can’t let our entire world collapse every time something bad happens, or we’d never feel any joy. But we also can’t turn our backs on the ongoing antisemitism in the world and I think that being able to hold both is the epitome of being Jewish right now. I hope that Fig & Vine has represented that. What’s one of your favorite memories of this Jewish community? Lily: I had so much fun at the Shabbat crawl! I thought it was such a good idea, and I talked to more people than I usually do because everyone was moving around. I also had a good time at prom and I’m glad we were able to pull it off before I graduated. Overall, my favorite thing is walking into Shabbat and seeing so many people I know either super well or maybe just within Shabbat. Everyone is happy to be there, and I think it represents such a safe space for our community. I just love that even college students feel an attachment to that tradition, that you can slow down for a couple hours and go have Shabbat with your friends and reconnect for a little bit. Maya: Do you plan to celebrate Shabbat in the future? Lily: I’m hoping to be involved with CBB after graduation. I still want to be rooted in my Jewish life. That’s so much easier in college because there’s always Hillel and Chabad, and things like Sinai Scholars and Hillel art classes. I'm just constantly involved in Jewish things without having to put much effort in. I’m curious to see how that changes after graduation. I’m realizing I might have to put more effort into having Judaism in my life, and that is so important to me. So whether it’s coming back here to visit every once in a while or having Shabbat at CBB, I definitely want to keep up with this tradition. What’s something you’re going to miss about IV? Lily: I just love living so close to my friends. I think the realization finally hit me the other day. This is probably the last time I’m going to live within walking distance of all of my best friends. And that’s just crazy. I love that I can just text people and we can hang out in just a few minutes. Yeah I’m gonna miss that. Maya: What is the first thing you’re doing after you graduate? Lily: Moving the fuck out of IV. Maya: Do you have any side quests planned for the summer? Lily: Hopefully going back to Boston for a week. My east coast friends are getting a house on the cape for a week so I’m hoping I could go spend a few days with them. And, um, trying not to obtain another cat. I think three is my limit but… who knows. The nights get lonely. What are you most excited for, post college? Lily: Well, I’m excited to move out of IV and move somewhere new. While it’s been a ride, this town is starting to feel a bit small, and I’m excited for some more growing room. I’m also excited to never take a comm class again, that feels great. Maya: That’s so exciting. Lily: Yeah, but I’m in that weird phase where I’ve felt so excited to be done for years. But as soon as you take your senior photos, the graduation goggles get stuck on your face. I don’t understand how there’s four weeks left in the quarter. That makes me want to throw up a little bit. There’s so much I’m excited for after, but right now, all I can think about is everything that I’m going to miss. It’s a little brutal. Maya: Yeah, I can’t think of a tougher transition. (Another one of our graduating writers, Simone Elliot, then enters the room.) Lily: It’s crazy. I’m looking at these people and wondering what it’s going to be like not living right by them anymore. Also, so many of my friends are graduating but also so many aren’t, so I’m wondering what that’s going to be like. It’s going to be a transition for sure. Maya: It’s so bittersweet watching all my senior friends graduate too. Yeah, brutal. Lily: You know what else is brutal? Being terrorized by this fly. It keeps buzzing in my ear. What a little bitch. Where’d he go? He keeps landing on my shoe. Simone: Dude, I was sitting in here, but it keeps landing on me. I wasn’t going to let it bother me but it keeps on buzzing in my ear! I’m leaving. Would you rather be attacked by 1,000 little flies, or one big fly? Simone: Honestly, one really big fly. Bye! Lily: How fast is he? Can I outrun him? Maya: Yes… but barely. Lily: Hmm… I don’t know because with the 1,000 I can go crazy with the electric swatter insert flailing motion until I kill them all. But one big one… Maya: Maybe it can be a David and Goliath situation? Lily: But I feel like they’re so gross, like, imagine a big fly looking at you… Maya and Lily: EWWWW. Lily: Yeah, I’ll take the little ones. Assuming I have a swatter. Maya: And do you think you’re skilled enough to get them all? Lily: Who’s to say? But the thought of one massive one is so much more terrifying. How did he get so big? Where did he come from? Are there more of him? Who created him and why? I feel like that’s more of an issue. Maya: Well, this fly that’s been terrorizing us in the lounge will be remembered forever through Fig & Vine. Lily: Amen. Maya: Amen. Maya: So Lily… What’s the craziest thing you’ve done in IV past 2:00 am? Lily: Willingly still spend time at the AEPi house. That was a choice that I made. Ohhh also probably driving to LA at 2 am. Like, starting the drive at 2 am. I probably just should have gone to bed. Like that one quote in How I Met Your Mother… Maya and Lily: NOTHING GOOD HAPPENS AFTER 3 AM. What’s the worst class you’ve taken at UCSB? Lily: There’s this class that counts as a writing credit or a French credit but it’s technically under the French department. It’s called ‘Fantasy and Fantastic’ and I thought it was going to be the coolest thing ever because of the title but the professor is this little old woman and her instructions were so unclear. We’d have these interesting conversations about these short stories but then her quizzes would be like ‘what day was this published’ and ‘what day was this author born.’ Nobody fucking knows that shit. So I very quickly started failing it and then I dropped the class. I think half the class dropped. Maya: Wow, that’s not fun and fantastic at all. Lily: Yeah the class sounded like it would be whimsical as fuck and… it wasn’t. What’s your go-to Hillel snack? Lily: Oh, those little chocolate panda cookie things. The Hello Panda. I also love Cheez-its. Fuck, Marry, Kill… Hillel, Chabad, and AEPi? Lily: I’m fucking AEPi. Because one and done and it’s a fun night and then you don’t make eye contact at the next Shabbat. Everyone’s been there. But marry and kill is hard because I do love them both… I think I have to marry Hillel because they literally publish this magazine. Maya: So you kill Chabad? Lily: Ugh I can’t! But I can’t fuck Chabad because they’re orthodox! Maybe I do wanna marry Chabad… but then do I have to be orthodox? Maya: Probably yes. Lily: No comment. What’s been your silliest antic in the Hillel building? Lily: No comment. Do you have a favorite article that’s been published in the past two years? Lily: Some of my favorites of mine were the mini-series I did with Geroge Rusznak, a Holocaust survivor. I learned so much from him. Even though they were very short and sweet, it felt good to put some of his wisdom out there. ‘Jewish or Journalist,’ the piece I wrote when the encampment was going on, I still personally love because of how much hate it got, haha. When I think of Fig & Vine classics, I always think of your duo articles with Allen. I was laughing so hard when I was editing those. This was also during the rise of your relationship so I felt what I imagine what a director might feel when two of their actors fall in love on set. And omg, Allen’s piece about the Cabo trip was one of my favorite things ever! That was so good. And Charlotte’s astrology pieces! Those were so good too! Also, I do have a soft spot for the recipe section. I know we don’t do that much anymore, but it was always fun to hear what peoples’ favorite family recipes were, but, those were some of my favorites. Maya: Awee! Yeah, those were all so fun. Were you involved with any other orgs in college? Lily: Lowkey, not really. I feel like my world here has been so defined by the Jewish community. I’ve been involved in Hillel, Chabad, Achayot, and then running Fig & Vine was my main thing. Maya: Yeah, I’ve never felt this much love from any other community. Lily: Yeah, not really! I look back and wonder if I should have done more. But no, I did what made me happy! I also spent so much time with my friends and so much time with my family! I feel like I had a very good school/work life balance, and that’s more important to me. Also… I don’t like a lot of people. Maya: That’s not true. Lily: You’re right, that’s not true at all! I just don’t like organized activity, I like my downtime. Maya: And what do you like to do with your downtime? Lily: I love to be with my cats. Those little gremlins take up a fair amount of time. I also read a lot. One of the reasons I wanted to live alone was because I wanted my own little space. I’m at my apartment a lot, but I love it. It’s so cozy, and I sit outside and I read. I’m content and happy. My brother and his wife live downtown and I spend a lot of time with them. They got married last November, so lots of time went into that. Also spending time with my friends! Yeah, most of my activities are pretty chill, but they make me happy. Maya: That’s so nice. Sitting down in the sun and reading with your cats sounds perfect. Lily: Oh it’s so lovely. Maya: Do you have a book rec for us? Lily: One of my favorite books is The Five People We Meet in Heaven. I’ve read it multiple times throughout college because I learn something new every time. It’s based on the author’s uncle’s philosophy about what happens after you die. I’ve always found that very interesting because in Judaism, there’s so many theories about what happens after you die. In this theory, heaven is getting to understand how and why your life played out the way it did. So the theory is that in heaven, you meet five people that somehow altered your life with or without you knowing. Maya: That sounds like an amazing book. I’ll let you know if I get a chance to read it! Do you have any regrets from college? Lily: Yes but I don’t name names. Okay but really, I think regrets are a waste of time. You should think about what you should do with your life moving forward. We don’t have much control over everything but we do have some control over what we do next, and I think that’s most important. Someone should put that on a fortune cookie. Any closing remarks as you get ready to graduate and bequeath Fig & Vine? Lily: On a personal note, through the ups and downs of personal stuff and community-wide antisemitism, Fig & Vine has given me something to feel proud of. Nothing feels better than when someone tells me that an article made an impact, or it’s so sweet to see something like that. I get to take pride in something I got to create and the community it has become. When I see two people in our meetings working on something together, just knowing that all of that is happening because of an idea I had one night to fill a hole that I was feeling… that’s such a good feeling. Fig & Vine was almost selfish in its nature of its creation. It was filling a hole that I felt. I didn’t know if anyone else was feeling what I was feeling, but it turned out that a lot of people were! I think that also brought a lot of community into my life, that a lot of people were feeling the emptiness that I was feeling, and the need to have more self-expression. So I think Fig & Vine kept me grounded in the past few years, in that I always had something that I cared about. So even if school was rough, or, social life or personal life was rough, I feel like I had something that was bigger than me that I cared about, and it kept me going. I love it and I’ll miss it. I’m really proud of you for taking it over, and I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with it. It’s weird, it’s like a baby bird leaving the nest. I don’t know if I’m the bird or Fig & Vine is the bird in this metaphor. Maybe we’re both the bird? Maya: Hmm… maybe we need a better metaphor? Lily: It almost feels like Fig & Vine is the nest I built and I’m leaving the nest. Bye nest! Maya: So you had your children and you… left them in the nest? Lily: Maybe? We need a better metaphor. I don’t know who’s the bird and who’s the egg and who’s the nest. But either way, I love all of them. But you’re gonna kill it. I’m really excited to see where it goes, and to keep reading it! I’m really proud of what we’ve built together. Maya: Awee, thank you! Thank you for bringing me into this community at the start of my freshman year. I’ve had Fig & Vine for my entire college career and that’s meant a lot. Lily: Yeah that’s crazy. I’m so glad that you had that experience. And my experience was needing it and making it, and for others, it’s been there. That’s how important things get started. It’s a lesson that when you see an empty space, don’t be afraid to fill it. There’s a chance someone else sees it too. Thank you Lily for filling that space, and creating a magazine that will continue to live on with us. You will be so missed, as well as Simone Elliot, Junior Bases, and Jacob Rosen, our other graduating staff writers. Thank you for sharing your voices, and congrats on everything you’ve accomplished. With love, Maya and the rest of the Fig & Vine team

I finally dragged Abaynesh out of her home studio and onto a hike with me. After spending a lot of time applying sunscreen, packing snacks, and tugging on our boots, we finally made it out to our hiking spot. I picked a spot I had explored before, keeping Abaynesh’s lack of athleticism into account. It was a gorgeous hike, with thick foliage marking the path to a small valley with a creek to swim in and a gorgeous waterfall. Abaynesh didn’t complain too much about the hike; it was easy, a meandering path that would take us to a gorgeous destination. We talked about the farm, our lives over the past year, and all of a sudden, Abaynesh paused. “I know we’ve always talked about kids, and we both want kids. But how do you feel about soon?” I turned to look at her, “Of course. I love you so much, and I know we’ve always wanted to expand our family.” We continued walking, and questions began to surface. Who would carry the baby? We decided. Abaynesh wanted to, but she wasn’t sure she would ever be ready, especially after her mother described how difficult all of her pregnancies were. Who would we want to get a donation from? Family? Friend? Abaynesh suggested we should ask her older brother. By the end of our conversation, we were at the creek, practically buzzing with excitement and possibility. The idea came up accidentally. Or at least that was what Beth would insist later. One minute, they were helping clear dishes after Shabbat dinner at Abaynesh’s parents’ apartment in Oakland, the next, they were standing shoulder to shoulder at the sink while Abaynesh’s younger brother, Yonatan, dried plates with theatrical incompetence. “You’re making them wetter,” Abaynesh observed. “I’m giving them emotional support,” Yonatan replied. Beth laughed despite herself, stacking bowls beside him. The apartment still hummed with post-dinner warmth—voices drifting from the living room, someone arguing affectionately in Hebrew over tea, music low in the background. It should have felt easy. Instead, Beth could feel the conversation sitting between her and Abaynesh like an unopened letter. They had talked about it privately for weeks and circled it carefully. Turned it over from every angle. Known donor. Anonymous donor. Genetics. Family resemblance. Boundaries. And now here they were. Abaynesh dried her hands slowly on a towel. “Yoni,” she said. Something in her tone made him glance up immediately. “Oh no,” he said. “That’s your serious voice.” Beth looked down at the counter, suddenly fascinated by a water ring near the sink. “We wanted to ask you something,” Abaynesh continued. Yonatan leaned against the counter. “Okay…” Beth could feel her own pulse in her throat. Abaynesh looked at her briefly—checking in, silently asking if she wanted to continue. Beth gave the smallest nod. Abaynesh inhaled once. “We’ve been talking about IVF.” Yonatan’s face brightened instantly. “Wait, really?” Beth laughed softly at his immediate excitement. “Really.” “That’s amazing.” He looked between them. “Why do you both look like someone died?” “Because there’s another part,” Beth said. “Ah.” The room suddenly seemed quieter, though the living room was still noisy. Abaynesh folded the dish towel carefully, buying herself another second. “We were wondering…” She paused. “How would you feel about being our donor?” Silence. Not hostile silence. Not shocked, exactly. Just stillness. Yonatan blinked once. Then twice. Beth’s stomach tightened immediately. “You absolutely do not have to say yes,” she rushed to add. “And if this makes things weird or uncomfortable, please forget we asked—” “Beth,” Abaynesh murmured gently. “No, because we talked about how this could be a huge thing to put on someone, and maybe we shouldn’t even have asked during dishwashing—” “Beth.” She stopped. Yonatan was staring at both of them now, a dish towel hanging limp from one hand. Then, unexpectedly, he laughed once under his breath. “You really rehearsed this conversation, huh?” Abaynesh groaned softly. “For days.” “It shows.” Beth covered her face briefly with one hand. “This is going terribly.” “No,” Yonatan said immediately, his expression softening. “No, it’s not.” He set the plate down carefully. “I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I need a second.” “Of course,” Abaynesh said quickly. “Take all the time you need,” Beth added. “You’re both talking very fast.” “Sorry.” Yonatan leaned back against the sink, thinking. The sounds from the living room drifted in and out—his mother laughing loudly at something, a chair scraping across the floor. Finally, he looked at Abaynesh first. “You’d want the baby to have a biological connection to your side?” Abaynesh nodded slowly. “If possible.” “And you’d both be the parents.” “Obviously,” Beth said before she could stop herself. Yonatan smiled faintly. “Right. Obviously.” Beth felt heat rise into her face. “Sorry. That sounded intense.” “It was a little intense.” “She’s been anxious all day,” Abaynesh translated. “I can tell.” Beth crossed her arms. “In my defense, this is a very vulnerable conversation.” “It is,” Yonatan agreed quietly. That settled over them for a moment. Then he looked down at the dish towel in his hands. “I think…” He paused. “I think I’d want to understand what boundaries would look like.” Relief flickered through Beth so quickly it almost made her dizzy. Not a no. Not immediately impossible. Abaynesh nodded. “Yeah. Us too.” “I wouldn’t want the kid confused.” “They wouldn’t be,” Beth said softly. “You’d be family. But not…” She searched for the right word. “Not the parent,” Abaynesh finished. Yonatan studied both of them carefully. “You’ve really thought about this.” “We’ve thought about almost nothing else,” Beth admitted. That made him smile again, shorter this time. “And you’d actually trust me with this?” he asked Abaynesh. Her answer came immediately. “Yes.” Something shifted in his expression at that—something touched and slightly overwhelmed all at once. Beth suddenly realized this conversation wasn’t only about them wanting something from him. It was also about what they were offering: trust, permanence, a place in a future they were trying to build. Yonatan exhaled slowly. “I can’t answer tonight,” he said. “Of course not,” Beth said quickly. “But…” He glanced between them again. “I’m not saying no.” Abaynesh’s shoulders loosened visibly for the first time all evening. Neither she nor Beth spoke for a second. Then Yonatan pointed the dish towel at them both. “Also, for the record?” “What?” Beth asked. “This is the most married conversation I’ve ever witnessed.” Abaynesh laughed immediately. Beth groaned. “What does that even mean?” “You came in here with emotional preparation, bullet points, visible panic—” “I did not have bullet points.” “You absolutely had bullet points in your soul.” Even Beth laughed at that. From the living room, Abaynesh’s mother called out, “Why has dishwashing become a committee meeting?” Yonatan grinned toward the doorway. Then he looked back at Beth and Abaynesh, his expression gentler now. “I’ll think about it seriously,” he said. And for the first time since the conversation began, Beth let herself believe that maybe this strange, complicated, deeply loving thing they were building might actually be possible. The clipboard is heavier than it should be. Beth shifts it from one hand to the other as they sit side by side in the waiting room, the hum of the air conditioner filling the space between muted conversations. The forms are clipped in neat, official stacks—white paper, black ink, clean lines. Orderly. Reassuring, almost. Until she actually reads them. “Patient Name,” she murmurs under her breath, scanning. That’s fine. Address, insurance, medical history—she moves quickly, grateful for the familiar rhythm of boxes and blanks. Then she reaches the next section. Mother’s Name:Father’s Name: Her pen hovers. For a second, she thinks maybe there’s another version of the form. Maybe she grabbed the wrong packet. She flips a page, then another. The same language repeats, slightly rearranged but unmistakable. Across from her, a couple leans toward each other, whispering, the man pointing at something on their own clipboard. The woman laughs softly, nodding, and writes something down without hesitation. Beth looks back at her paper. “Mother’s Name,” she repeats, quieter now. Abaynesh leans closer, her shoulder brushing Beth’s. “What is it?” Beth tilts the clipboard so she can see. “It’s just… this.” Abaynesh reads it, her expression shifting—not surprised, exactly—more like… unsurprised. “Ah,” she says. “Ah?” Beth echoes. “That’s your reaction?” Abaynesh smiles faintly. “What did you expect? A beautifully designed form that understands nuance?” Beth exhales through her nose. “I expected… I don’t know. Something that at least pretends to.” Her pen taps once against the paper. The box is still empty. “Okay,” she says, more to herself than to Abaynesh. “So what do we do? Do I put my name here?” She points to “Mother.” “And you here?” She points to “Father,” then immediately winces. “That feels—wrong.” “Yeah,” Abaynesh says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone’s father.” Beth lets out a small, involuntary laugh, then sobers. “But we have to put something. They need… information.” “Then give them information,” Abaynesh says simply. Beth looks at her. “That’s not helpful.” “It is,” Abaynesh insists, nudging the clipboard back toward her. “You’re very good at systems. Adjust the system.” Beth stares at the form again. The lines don’t change. The boxes don’t widen. She presses her lips together, then draws a single, decisive line through Father’s Name. The pen scratches louder than she expects. Next to it, in careful, deliberate handwriting, she writes: Parent She hesitates, then adds a small “2.” She glances at Abaynesh. “Is that… ridiculous?” Abaynesh tilts her head, considering. “A little.” Beth groans softly. “But also accurate,” Abaynesh adds, her eyes warm. “Which one am I?” Beth looks back at the page, at the two spaces now—imperfect, slightly crowded, undeniably theirs. She writes her own name under Mother. Then, more slowly, she writes Abaynesh’s under the new label. Parent 2. She leans back, studying it. It doesn’t match the rest of the form. It’s not aligned. The spacing is off. “It looks messy,” she says. Abaynesh shrugs. “So does everything important.” Beth huffs a quiet laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. Around them, pens continue moving. Boxes continue being filled. Beth flips to the next page. More questions. More blanks. She adjusts the clipboard on her lap, steadies her pen, and keeps going. The box had been sitting on the kitchen table for three hours. Beth had moved it twice—first away from the fruit bowl, then farther from the edge of the table, as if positioning it correctly might somehow make its contents less real. Now it sat between them under the warm glow of the pendant light, untouched. Abaynesh poured tea into two mugs and slid one across the table. “You’re staring at it like it insulted your family.” Beth folded her arms. “It’s holding a needle.” “A very small needle.” “That’s still technically a needle.” Abaynesh bit back a smile and sat down across from her. Outside, the last of the evening light faded over the hills beyond their windows, turning the dry grass blue-gray. For a while, neither of them spoke. Beth wrapped both hands around the mug. “I know this is irrational.” “You don’t like injections,” Abaynesh said. “I hate injections.” “You survived all the bloodwork.” “Barely.” Abaynesh leaned forward slightly. “Do you want me to do it?” Beth looked at the box immediately, then away from it just as fast. “I don’t know.” That was the problem, really. She didn’t know how to do any of this yet. There were instructions folded inside the package, diagrams online, and calendar reminders on her phone. But none of it had prepared her for the strange intimacy of willingly bringing a needle into their home. Into their life. Abaynesh reached for the box at last and opened it carefully. Beth’s stomach tightened. Everything inside looked aggressively medical—alcohol swabs, capped syringes, printed labels in sterile fonts. It all felt out of place on their worn wooden table, beside a half-finished loaf of bread and a vase of drying wildflowers Beth had picked on a hike three days earlier. “It’s strange,” Beth admitted quietly. Abaynesh looked up. “What is?” “That something so clinical is supposed to help create a family.” The words settled between them. Then Abaynesh nodded once. “Yeah,” she said softly. “It is.” She unfolded the instructions while Beth watched with increasing dread. “You’re reading those way too calmly.” “I like instructions.” Beth narrowed her eyes. “No, you don’t.” “I like instructions when you’re panicking enough for both of us.” Despite herself, Beth laughed. It loosened something in her chest. Abaynesh prepared everything slowly, narrating as she went—not clinical, not overly cheerful, just steady. “Okay. Alcohol wipe.”Pause.“Then injection.”Another pause.“Then we’re done.” “You make it sound very simple.” “I think the goal is for it to be simple.” Beth looked down at her hands. “And if I pass out?” “You won’t.” “And if I do?” “Then I’ll make fun of you a little, but lovingly.” Beth groaned. “Terrible bedside manner.” “The worst.” Abaynesh moved her chair closer until their knees touched. “Hey,” she said gently. Beth looked up. “We don’t have to be good at this tonight.” Something in Beth’s expression softened immediately. The pressure she’d been carrying all day—the need to do this correctly, bravely, gracefully—eased just enough for her to breathe. Abaynesh handed her the alcohol wipe. “You want to try?” Beth stared at it for a moment before taking it. Her hands trembled slightly as she swabbed her skin. “There,” Abaynesh said quietly. “Perfect.” “It absolutely was not perfect.” “It was completely acceptable.” Beth gave her a look. “You’re lowering standards for me.” “I’m adapting expectations realistically.” Beth inhaled sharply as Abaynesh uncapped the needle. “Oh, I hate that part,” Beth whispered immediately. “I know.” “I really hate that part.” Abaynesh reached for her free hand. “Look at me.” Beth did. “You’re okay,” Abaynesh said. “You’re safe. We’re just doing one step.” Beth nodded once, though her eyes had already started watering from nerves alone. “This is deeply undignified,” she muttered. Abaynesh smiled softly. “A lot of meaningful things are.” Beth laughed again—a shaky, unwilling laugh, but real. “Ready?” Abaynesh asked. “No.” “That’s fine too.” Beth squeezed her hand harder. “Just do it before I develop a speech about why we should adopt twelve-year-olds instead.” Abaynesh snorted. Then, gently, carefully, she gave the injection. Beth flinched immediately. “Ow—” “It’s done.” Beth blinked. “What?” “It’s done.” “That was it?” “That was it.” Beth looked down in disbelief. The needle was already gone. “You’re kidding.” “I would never joke during a medical procedure.” “You absolutely would.” “Fair.” Relief arrived so suddenly that Beth almost felt embarrassed by it. Her whole body loosened at once, adrenaline draining away in a rush. Abaynesh pressed a small bandage against her skin. “There,” she said softly. Beth looked at her for a long moment. Then she laughed—full this time, exhausted and incredulous. “I spent all day terrified of that.” “I know.” “It took five seconds.” “Mmhm.” Beth shook her head, leaning back in her chair. “I feel ridiculous.” Abaynesh stood, carrying the used supplies toward the trash. “You’re going to have to stop saying that every time something is hard.” Beth watched her move through the kitchen—the familiar ease of her, the quiet steadiness. When Abaynesh returned, Beth automatically reached for her hand again. “Thank you,” she said. Abaynesh brushed her thumb across Beth’s knuckles. “For stabbing you?” “For staying calm enough for both of us.” A small smile tugged at Abaynesh’s mouth. “Well,” she said, glancing toward the darkened windows and then back at Beth, “that’s marriage, isn’t it?” It was still dark outside. Not fully night anymore, but the thin, colorless hour before dawn when the house felt suspended outside of time. The hills beyond the windows were only outlines, the kitchen still carrying the faint smell of last night’s tea. Beth sat on the closed toilet lid holding the pregnancy test in both hands like it might break. Three minutes, the instructions had said. Three minutes suddenly felt cruelly long. Abaynesh sat cross-legged on the bath mat in front of her, hair still tangled from sleep, wrapped in one of Beth’s oversized sweatshirts. Neither of them had spoken much since the timer started. Beth stared so hard at the small testing window her eyes hurt. “Maybe it’s too early,” she said quietly. Abaynesh glanced up at her. “Maybe.” “Or maybe this one didn’t work either.” The words came out flatter than she intended. Months ago, she would have cried immediately after saying something like that. Now the disappointment lived in her body differently—quieter, heavier, sediment settling layer by layer. Abaynesh rested her chin against Beth’s knee. “We don’t know yet.” Beth nodded once. The timer on the counter ticked forward in tiny, unbearable movements. She hated how much hope had become tied to objects. Needles. Calendars. Appointment reminders. Bloodwork numbers. Tiny plastic tests are sitting on bathroom counters before sunrise. She looked down at the test again, then looked away immediately. “I can’t do it,” she whispered. Abaynesh’s brow furrowed softly. “Can’t do what?” “Look first.” For a second, neither moved. Then Abaynesh held out her hand silently. Beth gave her the test almost instantly, relief and terror arriving together. Abaynesh looked down. Beth watched her face instead. Nothing happened at first. No immediate smile. No sharp inhale. Just stillness. Beth’s stomach dropped. “It’s negative.” Abaynesh didn’t answer. Instead, her eyes lifted slowly to Beth’s. And Beth saw it before she heard it—that fragile disbelief, the kind that enters a room so quietly you’re afraid to disturb it. “Oh,” Abaynesh said softly. Beth blinked. “What?” Another pause. Then Abaynesh laughed once—small, breathless, almost startled. “Beth.” The room tilted. “No,” Beth said immediately, already shaking her head. “No, don’t do that unless—” “It’s positive.” Everything inside Beth went completely still. “What?” Abaynesh turned the test toward her with trembling fingers. Two lines. Clear enough that there was no searching for them, no squinting, no bargaining with shadows. Two lines. Beth stared at them so long that they almost stopped looking like lines at all. The air in the room changed. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just enough. “Oh my God,” Beth whispered. Her voice cracked on the last word. Abaynesh was laughing now in that disbelieving way people laugh when reality arrives too suddenly to process properly. “Oh my God,” Beth said again, quieter this time. She pressed one hand against her mouth. Months of appointments flashed through her all at once—the clinic waiting rooms, the injections at the kitchen table, the failed cycle neither of them knew how to grieve correctly, the cautious rebuilding of hope afterward. All of it leading here. Abaynesh reached for her free hand. Beth grabbed it immediately, hard enough to hurt. “We’re okay,” Abaynesh murmured instinctively, though Beth hadn’t realized until then that she was crying. “I know,” Beth managed. But tears kept slipping down anyway. Abaynesh climbed awkwardly to her feet, still holding the test carefully between two fingers like something sacred and absurd at the same time. Beth laughed through her tears. “I can’t believe it.” “I know.” “We made a person.” “Well,” Abaynesh said, her voice trembling now too, “statistically speaking, we made the beginning of one.” Beth let out a watery laugh. Then suddenly she was standing too, and they collided in the tiny bathroom, half-hugging, half-holding each other upright. The pregnancy test got trapped awkwardly between them. “Careful,” Abaynesh said immediately. Beth pulled back just enough to stare at her. “You’re already protective.” “Obviously.” Beth laughed again, pressing her forehead against Abaynesh’s shoulder. For a long moment, they stayed like that in the dim bathroom light, breathing each other in. Outside, dawn had begun quietly spreading over the hills. The world was becoming visible again. Eventually, Beth pulled back enough to look at the test one more time. Two lines. Still there. Still real. A strange sound escaped her then—half laugh, half sob. “What?” Abaynesh asked softly. Beth shook her head slowly, overwhelmed beyond language. Then finally: “Our kid is going to hear this story someday.” Abaynesh smiled immediately. “The story where you were too scared to look at the test yourself?” “I was emotionally delegating.” “You handed me a stick of urine and outsourced the trauma.” Beth covered her face, laughing helplessly now. “That cannot be how we tell it.” “It is absolutely how I’m telling it.” Beth looked at her wife—sleep-rumpled, crying a little herself now, still holding the positive test in shaking hands. And suddenly the future no longer felt abstract. It was here already, small and invisible and impossible to fully understand. Not perfect. Still theirs.

In this extremely bitter sweet season of life, one of my post dreaded tasks was finding the words to say goodbye to this beautiful magazine that I created only two years ago. Fig & Vine wasn't simply an extra circular to me, but an extension of myself and an escape from a world that didn't want my voice to be heard. Fig & Vine came to fruition during a time when we as a community were being pushed out, harassed, abused, and silenced. Although our fight is far from over, that's what makes us so incredible. Jews have this amazing ability to hold so much pain and sadness in one hand, and all this joy and love in another. We know how to dance through our grief and honor our fallen with love and light. We as a people are more resilient than ever given credit for, and nothing inspires me more. I’ve learned more from all of you than from any class I attended over the past four years. Whether it's unmitigated kindness, unwavering bravery in the face of hatred, a sense of family that outlasts any kind of antisemitism we face, or how to make a 6-strand challah. This community has not only made me a more educated and involved Jew, but a better person. Despite the bitterness of this goodbye, I couldn't be prouder of Maya and how she's grown as a writer into an incredible editor and leader. I met Maya when she was a quiet freshman and watched her grow into a confident, silly, amazing woman. Leaving Fig & Vine in her hands is the easy part; saying goodbye is not. But, I would like to formally bequeath Fig & Vine to Maya and wish her luck for this next stage of our beloved magazine. I want to take this moment to remind our lovely readers and family of the meaning behind the name “Fig & Vine”: the biblical quote from Micah 4:4- “They shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid.” I hope Fig & Vine did just that: give people a space to write and feel and express without being afraid. This beautiful Jewish community at UCSB has given me that in spades. More than anything, I hope Fig & Vine gave just a slice of that back. I will always remember Fig & Vine, not only because of the Fig branch tattooed on my arm in honor of the magazine, but because it showed me that everyone has a story to tell. I owe so much of my happiness over the past few years to this amazing publication and watching it grow and change is something I am most excited for. I love you all forever. Officially teary-eyed and logging out of Wix, Lily G. Karofsky Creator and former editor-in-chief of Fig & Vine Magazine

At most colleges in the US (UCSB included), most students graduate in about 4 years; however, the range oftentimes varies in the amount of time taken to complete college. Myself and many others in the Jewish community here at UCSB ended up graduating in only three years. The decision to have an early graduation has many advantages, disadvantages, and emotions attached, so I made the decision to both share my experience and to interview several members of the Jewish community to provide people’s reasoning for graduating early, their hopes, fears, and advice for students wanting to graduate in three years. Graduating from college and moving on to greater things is an emotionally loaded topic for practically everybody, but this is especially true for those who have one fewer year to experience at college. For me, personally, it is very bittersweet, as I’m excited to move into the real world and happy with all the money I saved, but would have liked another year worth of college memories and another year to spend with my friends. Jewish community member Daniela informed me that she shared this sentiment, as while she is excited to move back to her hometown of San Diego, she ultimately feels saddened that she is going to be leaving some of her best friends and will no longer be living next door to them. She also reminisced about UCSB Chabad, and how she feels sad that she won’t be able to spend time with Miri and the kids anymore. Another pillar of the Jewish community, Leah, shared that although she felt sad leaving, since she had grad school, she isn’t quite moving on to the “real world” just yet, and she’s sure that ultimately this is the correct move for her. Another member of the community and Chabad campus liaison Jake shared that while he is excited to move on to greater things, he feels weird about not graduating with (most of) the same people he started school with.An important facet of graduating early is that it has many strategic advantages, such as getting into the workforce earlier, and saving money. Personally, I wanted to save money, and have hated academics my entire life, so graduating a year early fulfilled my dreams that I’ve had for the last decade plus of skipping a grade (I asked my parents so many times as a kid and they told me I wasn’t allowed). Daniela told me that she decided to graduate early during fall quarter because she was going to have finished all of her classes, and therefore did not have any sensible reason to stay in Isla Vista afterwards, and she gets an extra year head start in the workforce by graduating early. Both Jake and Chabad events board member Keren had similar stories, that they both had the idea when they realized that they were on track to graduate in three instead of four years, and it made more financial sense to graduate early than to experience college for four whole years. Graduating early has its advantages and disadvantages, but one thing for certain is that it is pretty difficult to do so. I was able to do so because I came in with slightly less than a year’s worth of credits, and put in a tiny extra effort to graduate a bit earlier and get decent grades, and I decided to ask everybody for their advice for anybody who is planning on an early graduation. Keren suggested that you should always be on top of things, and that taking summer classes is a huge help and it is worth it to be in IV over the summer. Daniela also mentioned to not sacrifice internships and networking opportunities for extra classes, as ultimately those will be what get you into your profession in the future. Jake recommended that whenever you are taking GE classes, always take those that fulfill multiple requirements, and Leah discussed the importance of talking to your advisor, as they can help you create an in depth plan for graduation. Ending college a year early means that you enter the “real world” a year earlier too, so it is important to make sure that one has their plans ready before graduating. Personally, I am going to get a Masters of Science in Data Science from UT Austin’s online masters program so that hopefully I can concurrently have a job, and I wanted to see what my fellow 3rd year graduates had in store. Leah told me that she is going to be working remotely for a law firm and then applying to law school, which sounds very exciting. Keeping up with the law theme, Jake is going to be going up to Nor Cal, attending law at UCSF. As previously mentioned, Daniela is going to be moving home to San Diego, and looking for Marketing and Sales jobs both there and in OC. Keren is choosing to spend next year traveling and backpacking, hoping to get a “hopefully-relevant-to-[her]-major job” and apply to grad school. With many reasons for graduating, and many plans for the future, it will be both exciting to see what is in store for our soon-to-be graduates and is sad to wave them goodbye. Having been alongside all of these students from the start to now, I can truly see how valuable each and every one was to the Jewish community, how much they will be missed, and how much their presence will be appreciated wherever life takes them in the future. Good luck to all the graduates, third year and beyond!

As this school year comes to a close, it’s clear that antisemitic incidents across University of California campuses are not following suit, but escalating. From protests against former hostages, to promoting suicide bombers, and targeting Jewish students online, antisemitism is alive and well, as it has been for years. Regardless of the different faces antisemitism wears, these are not isolated incidents. They point to a larger, more uncomfortable truth that antisemitism is not a relic of the past, but rather it’s adapting to the present. Actions that are often framed as “anti-Zionism” on college campuses across America are increasingly showing up as a socially acceptable mask for antisemitism. These incidents are seeping into Jewish spaces and targeting Jewish students and identities in ways that are becoming concerningly normalized and dismissible. Just last month, Omar Shem Tov, an Israeli hostage who survived 505 days of torture in Gaza, came to speak at UCLA and was greeted with a host of antisemetic protesters. He faced the hostility of crowds, treated as if he himself were a terrorist, not a victim of them. The UCLA Undergraduate Student Association council claimed that hosting a survivor of Hamas captivity was “obscuring the broader reality of ongoing state violence.” As if to say that offering students a chance to develop some empathy toward the suffering of Israelis caught in the middle of the war is somehow an attempt to spread prejudice against Palestinians. Ironically, their stance suggests that the exact opposite has already taken root. Despite this reaction, Omar still pulled in his message that even after experiencing the unimaginable, his message promotes empathy and humanity. You can’t fight darkness with darkness, you have to bring in the light”. Although the negative reaction to UCLA was widely publicized, other campuses greeted him with compassion and understanding. In stark contrast with UCLA students’ problematic reaction, UC Berkeley thought it would be appropriate to host a failed Palestinian suicide bomber to deliver a speech to students for a “Palestinian Political Prisoners Day” event during the same week. It’s worth noting that she wasn’t some freedom fighter targeting a military site; the woman was arrested after attempting to ignite a car bomb near a civilian neighborhood and was heard shouting the Islamic Supremacist call to violence against infidels, “Allahu Akbar.” The mass murder attempt severely disfigured herself and the Israeli police officer who confronted her. This clearly crosses from political discourse into moral distortion, and it raises questions like: Why is violence against Israelis, and by extension Jews, being normalized? Why are we praising martyrs? And how have we come to live in a world where suicide bombers are praised, and former hostages are shamed? Meanwhile, throughout April, at UCSB, Hillel was busy promoting their most exciting event of the year, a Jewish prom. Despite promoting an event that was only meant to bring joy and fun to the community, Hillel was met with a host of online antisemitism. Comments like “Will there be a bomb dropping simulation?” It seems that the Jewish community can barely do anything without some anti-Zionist taking issue. The event went on as planned, albeit with additional security and emotional distress placed on the student planning committee that was unprecedented. If anti-Zionism is not bigotry against Jews, what exactly does targeting a social for Jewish students have to do with Gaza? As most people are able to agree about bigotry, Antisemitism does not need to be physical violence to produce real harm. Universities are supposed to protect political free speech, but antisemitism stops being protected political expression when Jewish students are targeted, threatened, harassed, and blamed for the actions of the state of Israel. This line matters because free speech should encourage debate and protest, not cross the line into normalizing intimidation or hatred toward an entire group of people. Whether it’s protesting against former hostages, justifying or celebrating violence, or online harassment and intimidation, antisemitism continues to embed itself into the culture of college campuses. The AMCHA Initiative has a database of over 11,900 incidents of antisemitism on over 700 campuses. This issue is much larger than three California campuses; it exists across the nation in every place that Jews do. Despite this, it’s more important now than ever for Jewish students to remember Omer Shem Tov’s message: we need to bring in the light. We cannot afford to flinch as we face the abyss. Continue to host events, choose visibility over fear of bullying, and help build your community so that the next 1st year wearing a Magen David or an Israeli Flag Yamaka has a community to run to when chased across campus by “activists.” Jewish joy has become our strongest form of resilience and is itself an act of resistance. Jewish students belong on college campuses as much as anyone, and we aren’t going anywhere.

Reza was only 18 years old when he left Iran. He didn’t know any English, he had no extended family outside of Iran, and his future was teeming with uncertainty. All he carried with him was a belief that pursuing education might lead to a chance at a better life. At such a young age, Reza has had to persevere through political terror, religious turmoil, and cultural alienation. “We were facing a situation that I would have never imagined I would face in my entire life,” he explains, “and I was faced with this at age 19.” Today he is 23 years old, living part time with an Israeli family in the Bay Area and studying computer science at BYU Idaho, sharing his story with anyone who is willing to hear it. _________________________________________________ “Born and raised in Iran,” Reza came from a family that had been forged by adversity and resilience. At only 16 years old, his father’s life was turned on its head when both of his parents died in a car accident. Suddenly, Reza’s father had become responsible for raising his four younger siblings. Among them was a child only two-year-olds. Reza’s father never had a chance at an ordinary childhood. “He had to start working full-time to support the siblings, doing night school at the same time to get a diploma to be able to work in the daytime,” recalled Reza. Reza’s father married young, having met his mother around the age of 17. She played a crucial role in assisting him to raise his siblings, and they worked tirelessly to pave opportunities for their children. Reza is one of three siblings, having both an older and twin sister. In his home, the value of education was critical. “That's the way that you can always kind of have a better life, is just to have education, right?” Though education would prove central to Reza’s journey, the obstacle of religion was the first he had to overcome. _________________________________________________ Reza’s Religion Reza was raised Muslim. In post-revolution Iran, there is no other choice. Your cultural identity, community involvement, and national standing were all inextricable from religion. “There is no other option in Iran, since the Islamic Revolution in 1978. So, whoever is born and raised in Iran, they have to practice Islam and be part of it as well.” Reza describes how lucky he felt that his family were not fundamentalist, and family values always came before religion. At around age 16, his worldview began to change as he was exposed to social media for the first time, leading him to begin questioning the corruption he saw. This provided him with a perspective that was until then, unavailable to him. “I had first-time access to social media, including Instagram and YouTube, so I could actually see the world outside of Iran. At that time we have open access to all these platforms, but since I left the country in 2021, they've changed some rules that have filtered all this social media.” Reza began to question the Islamic faith together with the politics of his country. “And I think that was the time that I started questioning about Islam, and just, like, questioning everything about the faith. And, after doing a lot of research, I totally lost my faith to the Islamic belief, and I don't exactly remember the details of the timing, like, how long it took me to kind of, like, lose the faith. But I kind of lost the faith and the hope at some point too, like believing in God. So I kind of became, like, atheist at around age 16. But of course, I was never open about it, telling anybody, since there is no religious freedom back in Iran. But, like, this was my religious story until the age 18.” _________________________________________________ Reza Leaves Iran Reza was 17 years old when he first began researching ways to leave Iran, pursuing work and opportunities to study abroad. He had known some people who had done the same, and believed that this path was right for him. He began researching high schools in Eastern Europe, as he believed they had the right balance between a good education system and affordability. But as no one from his family has ever left Iran to study abroad in this manner before, convincing his parents was not easy. “I had an issue because my parents were not satisfied and happy with it, and they didn't want me to do that since I was like, 17 when I thought about doing this. And so they were a little bit concerned about all that, and not sure if it's good. But I kept going, and I still tried to research, and I talked to a lot of different people to be able to convince my parents that studying abroad is a good thing, that it's not a bad thing, necessarily. And it was a little bit of a hard decision for my parents because before I immigrated, there's been nobody who has gone… Everybody's just stayed back home, close to family, So, what I was doing was, like, a very new thing to their eyes.” After ultimately convincing them, Reza was accepted into a school in Slovakia. However, there was a 9-month delay for his visa due to the COVID situation in 2021, and he would not leave until August of that year. He left with a friend that was also going there for school without knowing any English; any language other than Farsi. “Without knowing any English or any other language than Farsi, I had to go just study in the senior year of high school. So it was pretty challenging, and I just didn't know the language, I didn't know a bunch of different things, I didn't know how to cook food on my own, I didn't know how to use the laundry, I just didn't know how. I was pretty much from scratch, and I was only 18 that time.” Reza emphasized the difficulty of living in a new country, not knowing the language and being unable to communicate. “I had to learn a lot of things on my own, specifically the language. It was pretty difficult to kind of learn from scratch, because people were constantly communicating with me, but I could not respond, because I didn't have that ability to understand what they were exactly telling me. And so I had to study both English and Slovak, because I ended up getting a job. I worked in McDonald's, and then I worked in a clothes shop, so I had to learn Slovak to also have an ability to serve as a customer service in those job positions as well. So I had to learn all those languages, and it was pretty challenging, but I'm happy that it worked out.” Reza had to be resourceful, working wherever he could while simultaneously learning both English and Slovak. The pressure was intense, and the feelings of isolation were growing. He had finally made it as a high school student in Slovakia. There, he was fortunate enough to have made a friend whose father worked in the U.S. Embassy. After being accepted to a Christian University in Nashville, Tennessee, he began attending church meetings with this friend. The more he attended these Church meetings, the greater his interest in the faith grew. After about 5 or 6 months, he no longer considered himself Atheist. “Everything was going pretty smooth. I was in a new faith, I was having a new hope in life. Things are different than I was expecting, you know? I was optimistic at that moment, and I was able to get the U.S. visa and go to Nashville for college.” When Reza had finally found himself in the United States, things had escalated back home. After the death of Mahsa Amini in 2022, protests for women’s rights spread like wildfire across the nation. Thanks to a 6 month delay on his visa, he elected not to visit home at the time. This decision would prove critical, as Reza would later find out that conversion from Islam to any other religion in Iran is considered Apostasy, and can be punishable by death. “I was only 19 when I found out about this. So I was pretty, like, I feel like I got hit by a bomb.” After deliberating with church leadership, he realized how serious of a danger going back home was. He discovered the U.S. had humanitarian programs of asylum that are designed to help people who would otherwise face serious persecutions back home. He found a lawyer based in Idaho that would help him. BYU Idaho happened to be affiliated with his church, and seeing as his lawyer was based in this state as well, Reza ultimately decided to begin the process of transferring schools. _________________________________________________ Reza Goes to California After staying for a while with a friend and studying at BYU Idaho, Reza began making plans for a trip to California scheduled for January 2024. “Everybody talks about the California Dreaming, right? Which is a new world, and everything is different in California. So I traveled to California in January of 2024 for the first time, and I went down in Los Angeles and I was pretty happy seeing, like, the beautiful palm trees and Santa Monica, all the beautiful beaches and everything. Pretty exciting, and I found some friends, met some people, I actually even accidentally found the synagogue as well. And I went there to see what it was like. I think it was Sinai Temple, probably one of the biggest synagogues that I know in SoCal. So I went there, and that's when things were a little bit more, uh, I guess a little bit more sensitive, because it was right after October 7. And so there were guards with the, like, guns, machine guns, and everything, so I was a little bit scared, like, okay, is this a military place? Maybe I shouldn't go.” And after visiting Wiltshire Boulevard, Reza described his fascination at meeting so many people from Iran. For the first time since leaving home, he found himself among a great number of people speaking Farsi once again. “I started talking to some, and I found that they were Persian Jews. That they immigrated to the United States after the Islamic Revolution, because they wouldn't have the safety anymore of staying in Iran. Since religious freedom didn't exist anymore after the revolution.” Reza found a sense of warmth and familiarity with these Persian Jews, something he never would have dreamed of since leaving his family in Iran. In time, his life experiences sparked a decision to change majors from Political Science to Computer Science, and he decided a trip to the Bay Area would prove illuminating. “And I was just sleeping in the car at that time, because I mean, I didn't have any place to stay, and Silicon Valley is not a cheap place to live, so I was sleeping in my car, and I had, like, a box of canned foods I brought all the way from Idaho. And, uh, was basically just traveling and just sleeping in my car, and seeing different places” It was at this time that Reza would make an Israeli friend who would invite him to stay with his family. “I felt like because I'm from Iran, Israelis are gonna be, like, you know, have a very distinct kind of, like, a perspective towards me, because I'm from Iran, and because of political issues. Which was not the case. I was actually a lot more, uh, I guess, welcomed because of the fact that I was from Iran, which was very surprising for me at that time.” “And I remember he was wearing the t-shirt of ‘Bring Them Back Home’ for, I guess it was for the hostages, if I'm not mistaken. And they offered me and my friend to stay with them without knowing us, which is an absolutely crazy move, like having somebody from Iran. That's probably, like, the biggest risk someone can take in their life. And, um, and we just stayed there, and we were there for, like, probably a week or two. And we just made a great relationship that time, and it was an amazing time.” After returning to school, Reza would continue to visit and stay with this family in the Bay Area. One of their children even attended BYU with him, becoming his roommate. Reza considers them his second family, and suffice it to say, has finally found a true second home outside Iran. _________________________________________________ At the Intersection of Cultures and Religions Reza has been a Muslim, an atheist, a Christian, an Iranian, an immigrant, and a student. The question of identity will always be one that is core to his journey. He has experienced the plights of propaganda living in an extremist theocracy, and has emerged from it with values that are truly inspirational. “I think each religion can have some good things and have some bad things. I think what is the most important thing is to keep the open-mindedness, and question things, and not blindly believe in anything just because you're being told.” In 2026, Reza continues to maintain a close bond with his family. His twin sister has since also left Iran, now studying dentistry in China. Reza continues to build a new life in the United States, studying computer science and telling his story while preaching his hard-earned truth of open-mindedness and the pursuit of freedom. Reza’s story has truly inspired me personally, and at only 23 years old, I believe he has lived a lot more life than most people out there. “We have the same goals. And we all want to go in the same direction. We want the freedom for ourselves, and we want to live in peace, in freedom, and be happy.”

My college experience has been full of numbers. I’ve been at UCSB for 4 years, which means 12 quarters. I’ve taken/slept through countless 8 AMs, received every grade value between 0 and 100%, watched the outside temp remain between 70° and 80° year-round, and calculated why it's financially irresponsible for me to get another 6 pack (the rack of 24 is just better value). Despite all these numbers, it's looking as though I’ll be grabbing my diploma alongside my buddies in 2 weeks time. So to put a gloss on 4 years of fun, learning, and hooliganism, here are some 5-7-5s, some bye-kus, if you will. ~~ 101 Santa Barbara, Goleta, Isla Vista, Los Angeles… home. Time 2021, Now it’s 2026, And I’m still a kid Friday Night Protein, Starch, Veggies. Laughter, Square tables and chairs. Shabbat at Hillel Water I oft ask myself: Do I drink enough water? The answer is no. The Beach I live on the beach; Don’t know when I will again… But I’ll be ready. The Beach Pt. 2 I have a roommate And we live in a garage; I live on the beach. Roommates I’m grateful for the Two roommates I’ve had this year. I hope I’ve been nice. Friends I met some friends first, I met others after that. All at the right time. Best Friends My best friends are cool; They make movies and music… And great role models Next I don’t know what’s next, If I’m eager or nervous, But it’ll be good Shema Shema Yisrael, Adonai Eloheinu Adonai Echad

Erosion Drip Drip Drip Drip Drip One two three four five I was formed like clay Every relationship a drop of water Drip Drip Drip Drip Carving deep grooves Drip Drip Drip Every conversation a trail of sediment Drip Drip I look back on the valleys and curves And I see who formed them I look back on the past five years Drip And I see the canyon I’ve become The End? Why is it Why is it that must now know be fully formed What is it to grapple with the ties Between childhood and adulthood I am in a limbo Just weeks before I am to be expelled into the world To be sure of who I am When I am just starting Forming I am just beginning to Feel comfortable in these warm bones I am just learning what it is to make mistakes And to protect the child inside To say it is alright to be scared It is alright to not know For the sun is setting on my journey And the sun is rising on a new day Who Am I? Recently I’ve been wrestling with the concept of identity Who am I, what do I identify as, is there a place for me? (tw: war and violence) A little history: The furthest my family can be traced back to is Poland. I have no ties there but as far as my grandmother knows, that’s where we lived before Romania. Now in modern day Ukraine, my recorded family lived in a shtetl in Chernivtsi before World War II. I learned about the Holocaust at a very young age, as long as I have memories I have known. Two hundred, take in that number, two hundred members of my extended family were murdered in the Holocaust. I’d grown up hearing stories about family members shot and killed in front of their other family members, one story in particular about a family member taking off her earrings and begging the murderer to deliver them to her family and inform them about what happened before she was shot and thrown in a river. Some of my family escaped. Most of whom I am intimately familiar with managed to snag visas to Bolivia. My great maternal grandparents took a boat to that country where they didn’t know the language, and decided to take a risk and move away from the only home they’d ever known. They were forced to leave their parents and siblings behind in Romania in 1938, their family who refused to leave their home and believed that the rise of Hitler would not affect them. My grandmother, who is my best friend, was born in La Paz Bolivia and raised in Cochabamba. She grew up among the Aztec, Incan, and Quechuan cultures of South America and ate sopa de maní (peanut soup) and salteñas (basically South American dumpling) for lunch and dinner. Beatriz Dombrower moved to America when she was 18 with what she claimed to be not more than 50 cents in her pocket. She worked in factories to get by, and met her husband in America. She needed to get pregnant to avoid her husband Mario from getting drafted into the Vietnam war. My mom was born in the San Fernando Valley and I was born in Camarillo California. My mom and I have had the immense privilege of only ever knowing life in the U.S. I grew up living at my grandma’s on weekends, and eating sopa de maní and salteñas for lunch and dinner. I grew up with Spanish as my first and a half language, speaking it mainly when I was with my grandma. I have tried not to lose Spanish, and the culture my grandmother grew up and struggled in. I have tried to reclaim the Romanian culture my great grandparents grew up with and escaped from. I associate with the American culture I was cultivated and harvested in but none of these have fit just right.I struggled with my sexuality for years, flip flopping between whether the crushes I had on girls were in fact real and not a facet of heterosexuality. I learned that the internalized homophobia I was born and raised into prevented me from learning who I was and accepting myself fully. I’ve erased myself for years, I’m learning to rebuild myself. Not quite European, not quite Latina, not quite straight, simply an American fusion of all the cultures that came before me and the discoveries I’ve made along the way. The beauty of life, I have learned, isn’t that we are meant to be one way or the other, but that we simply exist out of an act of resistance. We are meant to keep the memories alive of those who came before us, of those whose voices are lost to history, and look ahead to those who we will stand in the footsteps of tomorrow.

As April comes to a close, the Jewish Gauchos are reflecting on many a Passover memory of this month, and Pesachs of years past. And as for the future, L’chaim to next year in Jerusalem! We asked and you answered! Here are the results of our passover preferences poll… Matzah Brei should be.... Do you eat matzah outside of Pesach? How long is your seder before the meal comes out? I prefer to finish my seder off with a few rounds of rage cage Pesach is one of the more accessible Jewish holidays for introducing non-Jews to our tradition. They get to join us in the seder, where we explain every drop of wine we consume and tell the story that will take them on the path of most guilt as they dip parsley in the symbolic tears of our ancestors. Yes, a little crazy for an intro to Judaism, but accessible nonetheless! For the first time during college, I was able to go home for a seder with my family and friends. This year, as my brother and I’s friends now fall into the adult category, the Breier siblings have begun a new tradition of leaving wine glasses at the table, trading them for red solo cups on the patio, and finding our afikomen in liquid form. My parents have long been maintaining the tradition of welcoming our non-Jewish friends to our seders, perhaps because we could all use a tiny break from the big family gathering chaos. But it’s also because our friends have enjoyed learning about our traditions through seder participation so much that they ask to come again each year. Since graduating college and being farther from many of his close friends, my brother has had to get creative and intentional with his social time and welcoming friends to our house to hang out (or pregame). It only takes a few red solo cups, that my mom then washes for him to reuse, to transform our backyard table and bring a taste of college to home. With a family friend about to graduate college, and her younger brother about to go off to college, we banded together after the seder to give young Elliot a little college orientation. His big sis even took down a bitch cup for him. The child too young to ask has now gained wisdom to spread to the socially dead of UCSD in the fall. My family’s deep value for sharing our home and our traditions has carried on throughout my life, and I carry it with me here at UCSB, inviting all friends to join me in my celebrations of community at Chabad and Hillel. Creating new traditions may A Pandemic Passover, contributed by Nadiv Meltzer In 2020, the world shut down right before Pesach. Amongst heart breaking losses such as not getting my driver’s license and missing the dissection unit in Chemistry, it also meant that my family could not get together for the first night Seder, a tradition I have looked forward to every single year I can remember. Now, I’m “lucky” enough to be from a big family, so my grandma, parents, three sisters, and I all gathered around the table. Because my father is a Rabbi, he utilized Zoom and streamed the seder to our entire congregation. The local newspaper decided to run a story about it, which meant we had a socially-distanced photographer stand in our side yard and take a picture of us, sitting around the Seder table, with the laptop Zoom-ing to the whole congregation. I wore basketball shorts with my button-up shirt, as was the Zoom fashion. Nowadays, although Pesach is one of my absolute favorite holidays because the whole family gets together in person, our 2020 Zoom Seder is a fond memory and perhaps even a microcosm of the perseverance and resilience of spirit that is so embodied by the story of the Israelite’s Exodus from Egypt. Maya’s Matzah Meals Pesach is always a time to get creative, from the classics like matzah pizza, to more elaborate and honestly unnecessary innovations like Matzah sushi. When you’re camping on Pesach, it might take putting yourself back into the sandals of the Israelites walking through the desert to piece together some meals with your matzah. Fig and Vine editor and resident adventurer Maya Kaye is no stranger to getting scrappy and making do with what you’ve got in the name of an excursion. When her camping trip with the excursion club overlapped with Pesach, she knew that at least no bears or fellow campers would be fighting for her stash of matzah. First on the menu for the excursion was chili, vegetarian for Maya. Cornbread or biscuits were replaced with the delightful dip of cardboard! I mean, matzah. Maya’s dipper was the talk of the group, getting those excursioners to adventure with their food. Up next was sandwiches to fuel the day of hiking. The fuel came in the form of turkey and bread, but no Kosher meat meant that cheese and lettuce had to take the spotlight in Maya’s sandwich. Matzah is not great for many things, but it makes a great mess of crumbs. Nothing like a dry pile of matzah, lettuce, and cheese to make you appreciate the outdoors. Maya’s cheese, lettuce, and matzah sandwich… well, sand.

This risograph zine is a reflection on my grandparents, their home in Israel, and the memories held within it. I was born in Israel and moved to the United States with my family when I was six years old. Immigrating here, we left behind our family, friends, language, and sense of place. As months turned into years, California eventually became my home. Although I've spent the majority of my life in the U.S., my Israeli identity is just as important, as my family has maintained our culture, language, and values within our home. Whenever I return to Israel, I stay with my grandparents in their apartment, a space that holds years of personal and collective memory. Their home is deeply tied to my sense of family and belonging. The building itself is old, and they are now, after more than 50 years, mandated to move out permanently so it can be renovated. They must say goodbye to the place they have long called home. This past year, my family has experienced significant loss and grief. Alongside the loss of loved ones, the displacement from this home has further deepened that sense of rupture. This book is an attempt to hold onto what remains, to reflect on memory, family, and the complicated process of loss.

The Heart I grew up savoring vegetables because of Ema. As a vegetarian, she insisted that her veggie dishes never sit politely as a side, but eloquently speak for themselves. Beet salad with an arugula base, eggplant topped with honey and goat cheese, and zucchini layered lasagna were all household delicacies. However, there was nothing I loved more than my mother’s artichoke. Perhaps what made it special was its simple preparation: a single glide of the knife to remove the vegetable’s thorny crown, followed by a 45 minute boil. She would then make two dipping sauces, one being the juice of a freshly squeezed lemon, the other a blend of seeded dijon mustard and mayo. Artichoke would appear on the table for every little occasion, such as straight A’s, birthdays, and Shabbat dinners. With an artichoke placed upon it, my plate became a swirling volute, generating and propelling my life. My parents were born and raised in Rockland County, New York. They were high school sweethearts, on and off through college. Eventually the couple moved to Israel, where my father served as a paratrooper and my mother worked for the Jerusalem Post. After six years (and a wedding facing the Jerusalem skyline), circumstances drew my parents back to the US, one of which being my father’s desire to receive a master’s degree in viticulture and enology. He began studying at Fresno State in 2002, and in May 2005, had his first and only daughter. Meanwhile, my mother worked as a graphic designer, though she enjoyed tangible mediums as well. Just as I completed kindergarten, we upgraded from our dreary rental and purchased a sunny, yellow home. Ema was immediately putting paintbrush to canvas, conjuring abstractions of her favorite places to hang perpendicularly to our new front door. Both my parents loved to keep their hands busy. When Aba wasn’t at the winery or on his desktop, he was in the kitchen. My father absorbed his culinary skillset from undergraduate courses in hospitality. He never shied away from an extra sprinkle of paprika or splash of olive oil to enhance flavor. He also insisted that time is an essential ingredient of every dish. Whenever Aba made challah, the dough would sit out for hours to rise both before and after being shaped. I love challah as an intersection of food and art. I was taught how to braid challah before I knew how to braid my own hair. The under-over motions ebb through me, and so does the spiral pull-apart of an artichoke. I do not remember the first time my parents and I sat around our kitchen table, each undertaking the globe, rapidly contributing to the pile of discarded bracts. Artichoke is a vegetable that takes effort. It requires the labor of both hands and the lower jaw to even graze at its quiddity. A special intimacy exists in conversation interwoven with unfastening, scraping, and relinquishing every layer of artichoke, until all impedimenta is placed in the center of the table, and a soft heart is pulsing on each plate. The Stem A facet of my childhood was accompanying Aba on vineyard visits across California. I became thoroughly familiar with the highways leaving the Central Valley, and with the varieties of crops grown beside the road. Aba would quiz me constantly. Are these pistachios or almonds? Clementines or lemons? Lettuce or kale? On our way to a plot in Salinas, we passed endless fields dabbed with purple and brushstroked with green. “Look Maya, these are where your artichokes come from.” However, Central Coast farm to Central Valley table only sits at the end of the story. Artichokes originate from western Mediterranean and North African domains. They were incipiently enjoyed for their spiny leaves, rather than the bud of the immature flower that we cherish today. In ancient Rome, the archaic artichoke was an adoration of the noble and wealthy. Artichokes lost popularity after the fall of the Roman empire, but continued to be cultivated by Arabs, who eventually brought them to Spain. Artichokes reappeared in Italy during the Renaissance period, having now developed its modern, spherical flower head. It wasn’t long until the thistle gained traction in France as well. Around the same time, Spanish settlers began introducing artichokes to the California coast, as the mild, foggy climate allowed for the cultivation of a taste of home. However, the California artichoke only became a thriving industry decades after the arrival of Italian immigrants in the late 1800s. By 1910, artichokes were shipped to Italian communities on the East Coast, and by 1920, the town of Castroville was supplying the United States with two thirds of its artichokes. Today, California grows nearly 100% of the artichokes that appear in supermarkets across the nation. The Outer Bracts On drives home, I would slump in the backseat while my father played Hebrew CDs. He sang along with ease while I choked on velar fricatives. Fresno has a Jewish population of 0.4%, so a large portion of my Jewish and Israeli identity felt insulated in our home. However, my parents did a phenomenal job of nurturing Jewish joy, rather than buckling into our otherness. We had Shabbat dinner each Friday night, and we committed ourselves to the spirit of every holiday. Judaism just so happens to demand food-centric tradition, although my parents have added their own flair. Apple turnip soup on Rosh HaShanah, roasted root vegetables on Passover, and homemade cheesecake on Shavuot represents Jewish prosperity through a story of flavors. From slavery in Egypt to the Holocaust, a pride in our peoplehood has always existed, despite all odds. Judaism is a dichotomy of the most vanquishing sorrows and uproarious jubilations. We take this in stride. To summarize the lion’s share of Jewish holidays, there’s a saying that goes, “they tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat!” “We need to eat to survive,” voiced Roman Jews. In 1555, Pope Paulus IV issued Cum Nimis Absurdum, walling Jews into a seven acre (0.01 square mile) ghetto. Over 300 years, the ghetto’s population rose to 8,000 as Jews continued to lose more of their rights, such as the attainability of many ingredients in their living quarters. However, Sephardic Jews exiled from the Iberian Peninsula had just reintroduced artichokes to Italy. Non-Jewish Italians were intimidated by the prickly thistle, and therefore artichokes were allocated for the Jews. They had to be creative in how they prepared these vegetables, minding kashrut while making the most of their limited ingredients. Taking inspiration from Roman fried food, Carciofi alla Giudia (which translates to Jewish-style artichokes) became a staple in the ghetto. Carciofi alla Giudia requires few components as a double-deep-fried artichoke, sometimes garnished with lemon and salt. The dish immediately became a sensation across all of Rome. The ghetto was liberated in 1888 and today, Carciofi alla Giudia is a representation of Jewish tenacity at a dire time. The Inner Bracts Half a century later, Jews across Europe were faced with the horrors of the Holocaust. A multitude of miracles allowed for all of my great grandparents to enter the United States by the 1930s. My dad’s side came from Germany and Poland, and my mom’s side from Russia, Czechoslovakia, and Romania. Their beginnings in the US weren't easy, and my parents were the first generation to not grow up at poverty’s whim. Despite the hardships of relocating and entering new livelihoods, my great grandparents valued the continuation of our Jewish tradition. A way they brought this to forethought was through their diet. I come from a lineage of kosher kitchens, though with various levels of rigidity. In the sun-flooded kitchen where I grew up, my family only ate certified kosher meats, never mixed meat and dairy, and had separate dishes for meat and dairy meals. Since moving out, I’ve made a home in other kitchens, but have opted to observe kashrut just the same. I choose to keep kosher for its nod to my identity, its religious implications, and its guidelines to consume healthily and ethically. The Leaves Although my parents observed kashrut, their childhood menus looked much different than mine. Aba recalls a plentitude of carbs paired with soggy, overcooked vegetables – typical American home cuisine during the 70s-80s. His parents didn’t invest in a microwave until later, so his meals were prepared in the oven or on the stovetop. He grew up with broccoli, carrots, potatoes, celery, green peppers, and robust American cucumbers. He reports never seeing an avocado, eggplant, or mushroom at home, never mind an artichoke. In young adulthood, Aba worked in restaurants and participated in the Food and Beverage program at Rockland Community College. “I started bringing home these ‘strange’ vegetables to my parents house. They started to use them but it was problematic because my parents had an aversion to onions and garlic and all these vegetables are complemented by them. My parents, being very Ashkenazi, cooked everything in either corn oil or margarine, and there were very few herbs and spices,” he humorously recounts. Ema delineates a similar familiarity of produce in her childhood kitchen. She describes steamed frozen vegetables, string beans, and potatoes. She emphasizes the waxiness of the American cucumber, as well as her nostalgia for spitting out black watermelon seeds. Ema also mentions her parents’ love for making traditional Ashkenazi dishes. Matzah ball soup and cinnamon egg-noodle kugel were childhood staples, but she especially enjoyed my Pop-Pop’s matzah brie during Passover. At age 13, my mother made the choice to be vegetarian. For protein, she leaned on beans, especially chickpeas. “It starts with chickpeas and ends in bliss,” she proclaims. The Choke My parents broke out culinarily when they lived together in Jerusalem. They frequented Shuk Machane Yehuda, Jerusalem’s renowned outdoor market, purchasing uncharted produce and spices to experiment with at home. Persimmons, figs, and avocados added fresh new flavors, while cumin and za’atar enhanced the dishes they already loved. My parents shared their first artichoke at a friend’s apartment in 1997. They took more interest in the fibrous thistle after noticing the vibrant purple blooms of wild varieties among the countryside during a shmita year (Sabbatical year in which the land lies fallow). The Bible notes that when Adam and Eve were exiled from the Garden of Eden, God vowed to make the real world much more toilsome than their verdant paradise. Instead of fertile soil, Adam and Eve found themselves tending rocky, unyielding ground. According to Genesis 2:18, God told Adam that the ground would only spout kotz v’dardar (thorns and thistles), making food not impossible, but effortful to grow. It is only fitting that Jewish tradition recalls this tough flora as artichokes, a plant that has remained persistent since the creation of woman and man. The Talmud describes an abundance of artichokes throughout the Land of Israel in ancient times. They grew wild in the Galilee, but a cultivated alteration called kinras were commonly gathered as a food source. Today, the native wild species are still found across the country, as well as Globe and Violetto artichokes as modern cultivated varieties. It is mentioned in the Talmud that several rabbinic sages enjoyed kinras at their dinner tables. However, the labor that went into the harvest and preparation of the vegetable is emphasized. Artichokes are a complex gyre representing Jewish tradition and history. While the thistle challenges those who harvest, cook, and consume its contents, it has provided the Jewish people with nourishment for centuries. As the Romans forced Jews out of Israel upon destroying the Second Temple in 70 CE, then later the Bar Kokhba Revolt by 135 CE, the artichoke became a symbol of resilience in the diaspora. Tough outer bracts conceal the sharp pain of struggle and loss. However, the protective choke is thin compared to the heart – pride, tradition, song, peoplehood, and togetherness. The artichoke originated in the Mediterranean, and eventually spread westward to California. It paralleled the path of my ancestral and generational lineage. Finally, my parents returned to Israel, relishing in the sweet and nutty notes of the native vegetable, embracing the flavor of home, and later, infusing it into my Golden State upbringing. Bless you Adonai, ruler of the universe, who creates the fruits of the ground. ברוך אתה אדוני אלוהינו מלך העולם בורא פרי האדמה. Cynarine My tiny fingers dance around the artichoke. I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, but I am face-to-face with a vegetable that protects it at all costs. I take a swig of water, and it is sweet. Little do I know about cynarine, a compound that exists within the premature blossom that inhibits the sweet flavor receptors on my tongue. Whatever next greets the backside of my teeth reawakens my taste buds, as if steeped in sucrose or coated in honey. This is the secret of the artichoke; it shares its magic with everything else. Sunlight streaming into our yellow kitchen illuminates cherished memories of learning to cook and bake. Since then, I have exchanged recipes, including the simple boiled artichoke, with all the people I’ve come to love. How wonderful it was to grow up nestled between the artichoke leaves, deriving sweetness from every word exchanged over steamy bites. How miraculous it was to grow up nestled between the artichoke leaves, sanctioned to live softly, to divulge every fiber of my heart.