Cornerstone Theater Company

By Doreen

Growing up in the 50’s we never felt poor or needy though by today’s standards we probably were. My father was a mechanic and mom, worked occasionally as a school cafeteria helper. Breakfast for most of us in the community was rice and some kind of canned meat like vienna sausage or crispy fried aku…

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Janet Escobar

My favorite memory as a child was when my grandfather worked in the produce district on Alameda and 7th. He always brought home fruit and my grandmother loved peaches so he brought those for her. Watermelon and pineapple for the kids. He would cut the whole pineapple and put sugar on it and leave it…

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Donna Cassyd

At the end of the war, we moved from the Bronx to Los Angeles. My father got here first. He lied and told the army he was from Los Angeles, so he got a free trip. My mother and I came later, arriving with our suitcases at Union Station, me refusing to get off the…

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Breast Cancer Survivor

I am a former Cornerstone boardmember and a young breast cancer patient. As a cancer patient, I hear a lot about how your diet can impact your chances of contracting cancer or a recurrence of cancer. I was a pescetarian for almost 15 years and I haven’t eaten red meat or pork since 1990, but…

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Bianca Molina

Food for me means love. My grandmother “mama” is a woman of very few words, she hardly tells me that she loves me, but she cooks for me, ALL THE TIME. Her food expresses love more than any Shakespeare soliloquy or hallmark card. Whenever I’m sick, there she is with her sopa de pollo. On…

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David “Mas” Masumoto

I grow slow food and stories. Our farm is quiet and isolating; we nurture the silence of growing food for the hungry. Farmers are independent yet not alone. We hunger for recognition but not publicity. We speak through what we grow. Our foods carry value not always recognized. If you are what you eat then…

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By Nika

Herbs are always within reach. Last minute grabs in semi-darkness of parsley, sprigs of oregano, a handful of rosemary to pop inside a chicken – I dodge slugs, hop-scotch over rocks to get to the herb garden. I can hear guests- my dear friends – inside the house, their voices amplified by wine. Kneeling down…

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By Daniela

Humus. Not the kind that’s spelled with two m’s. Not the yuppie infused, sun-dried tomato injected Trader Joe’s kind. And not the chunky garlic, unsalted and un-lemoned food court kind. I hunger for true Middle Eastern humus, perfectly seasoned and celebrated via the properly fluffy and warm pita. The kind I grew up on when…

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By Amanda

My history with food was a sorted one from the start. My mother always hated cooking and passed that sentiment on to me. She was never taught how to cook and therefore growing up, neither was I. She still frequently forgets to eat when she is too busy and when eating alone will usually opt…

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By Kozetta

My earliest memory was about 3 years old. We lived on a large farm in Kansas and had a goat, well for drinking water, chickens for eggs and on Sunday we may get to eat one and only the food that we could grow. Which was usualy tomatoes, corn, both kinds of potatoes, rutabaga (and…

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