Similarly, U1 Political Science student Charlotte Gillogley, who joined the team at the start of the winter semester, credits that same collaborative spirit in K-RAVE along with her interest in K-pop as to why she joined the club’s Communications Team. “I had a friend who was an exec, and it seemed like a really good community,” she said. “I heard lots of funny stories about the different execs and how they were all super nice.”

On March 22, K-RAVE, McGill’s K-pop and Korean entertainment club, hosted their 6th annual showcase, Haute Kouture, at Le National. The event featured songs by artists like BTS, aespa, TWICE,
and Enhypen, and it was the product of a year-long effort by both dancers and executives. Dancers can additionally hold responsibilities as Performance Executives, who organize practice schedules, book studios, and send out song suggestion forms, or as Dance Leaders, who lead performances, distribute parts equally among dancers, and provide feedback.

According to U3 Science and Pharmacology student Emilie Jarman, whose roles include VP Performance and dance leader, responsibilities for dancers ramp up over the course of the school year. In fall, dancers are expected to work on one cover posted to YouTube and practice roughly 2-4 hours a week, while in winter, showcase preparation can require up to 10 hours. Jarman performed in songs “Shhh!” by Viviz, “Dangerous” by BOYNEXTDOOR, “Strategy” by TWICE, and a BTS Medley, and was a dance leader for the latter two. She led the “Strategy” team by herself due to her expertise in performing girl-group styles of dance, and co-led the Medley with Annie Nguyen, Christine Wu, and
Sien Pei. Preparation for the medley began well before the school year started, with a four-hour-long call to decide which songs to include.

K-Pop incorporates a variety of genres into its production, and thus, the setlist for the showcase featured a range of dance styles. Alongside dancing in the Street Woman Fighter Medley and “Igloo” by Kiss of Life, Lock was especially excited to perform the Throwback Girl Group Medley under the leadership of her friend Frida Hou, and challenged herself by learning to dance in heels. “For the Girl Group Medley, every time they put the suggestion sheet out since I joined the club, I had put it in there,” she said. “The challenge came in when we started thinking about unified performance and when we all threw a pair of heels on […] Heels completely change the way you dance, but we all managed that really well.”

While leading her team, Jarman strived to establish a feeling of community as much as she emphasized practice, in order to help dancers feel welcome to voice their thoughts. Although she had not practiced with many of the dancers before the semester, she ultimately led them to success in creating a strong team dynamic. “Each week, each group gets closer and closer. Everyone gets more comfortable talking to each other or sharing corrections,” she said. “[Knowing] how people think or communicate is what gets the group to have good chemistry so that you can have a good performance.”

Although dancers perform in different songs and some may never be in an act together, it does not stop them from fostering a sense of community with one another. On the day of the showcase, Lock recalled how Tini Liu made the effort to talk to all of the other dancers and snap a memory with each of them with a digital camera. “During the showcase, she was going around with this digital camera, asking everyone to take a picture with her, and I thought that was so sweet,” she said. “Before, I hadn’t gotten the opportunity to meet her cause I wasn’t practising at the same time as her, and I thought it was a great way to talk to people and get those memories.” The cooperative effort extends from the dance practice rooms at the Fieldhouse to Leacock, where executives attend weekly meetings on Wednesdays. Although executives are divided into teams to carry out different tasks, they often collaborate with one another. The Communications team, for example, worked with Production to create content for the showcase’s sponsors and collaborated with Graphics for Social Media promotion. On the day of the showcase, while dancers practiced on stage, Gillogley and the rest of the Communications team ran around backstage to create a plethora of content to advertise the showcase on TikTok and Instagram. “It was a very fun bonding moment, especially as a new exec,” she said. “No one would judge someone for their idea. It was a very supportive environment, and I think we had a lot of fun making videos together.”

According to Lock, K-RAVE became her family when she was new to university. Over the years, she noticed that the audition pool has increased since she applied to become a dancer, and is overjoyed that more people are interested in joining the club. “K-RAVE is a great opportunity to have a built-in community when you’re coming to a new place,” she said. “I have this really great group of people that I get to hang out with every Saturday when we go to practice, and maybe grab a coffee after.” Jarman, who graduates at the end of the semester, said she will look back at her three years in K-RAVE with fond memories, thankful for the friendships formed, the confidence she developed, and the passion for dance it fostered. “K-RAVE has made my university experience […] Participating in K-RAVE has given me a lot of opportunities to be able to go out of my comfort zone and talk to new people and express how I feel,” she said. “I just hope the club continues to grow and that it continues to be a space for people to come together and destress from school or life while doing what makes them happy.”

The post K-RAVE’s K-pop Kraze appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Within the broad scheme of history, women have only recently liberated themselves from the demands of virtue, subservience, and piety. Women have carved out their place in the working world; the factory workers of the Industrial Revolution, the nurses of the World Wars, the typists and secretaries of the 1950s, and the blazoned and blazer-ed businesswomen of the 1980s have opened the horizon for women to work in any field of their choice — theoretically.

In the domestic cult, the kitchen is societally prescribed as the “women’s domain.” However, the restaurant industry has traditionally been a heavily masculinized, male-dominated sphere, à la Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential. Take, for example, the alpha-male figure of Head Chef-cum-bully embodied by Gordon Ramsay or the toxic testosterone-laced pressure of commercial kitchens seen in FX’s The Bear. While women make up 52% of the overall restaurant workforce, they only occupy 30% of executive roles. In 2022, out of the 2,286 Michelin-starred restaurants, only 6% were female-led. 

There has always been a tension of theory in women making a career off the “domestic” arts — turning something that has historically limited women into a means of profit and, for some, fame. A revived wave of discourse surrounding the idea of a “career homemaker” has risen following the release of Ina Garten’s memoir, Martha Stewart’s documentary, and, most recently, Meghan Sussex’s Netflix series. Sussex’s show was met with reviews divided between praising her pure appeal to making moments of joy and rolling their eyes at her out-of-touch, inauthentic demonstrations of “useless information” (harvesting honey, arranging flowers, or making jam) in an $8 million home. Whether her series and affiliated brand As Ever are indeed a “Montecito ego trip” intended purely to line the ex-royal coffers, the show’s essential nature as a capitalist venture profiting off the work many women do unacknowledged remains.

The discourse has reversed: progressive feminism has slated women working in the kitchen — particularly when their toils benefit their family — as categorically regressive. Social media has had a heyday with the idea of “tradwives,” (“traditional wives” that ascribe to the heteronormative cult of domesticity, often linked to conservative politics and anti-feminist rhetoric) so much so that it feels like being a woman interested in cooking and baking (especially doing so for others) is almost taboo. Female content creators like Nara Smith and Hannah Neeleman, who made their names off making food from scratch for their small army of children, continually dodge accusations of tradwifery. Others — notably, those without children, like Meredith Hayden — are praised for their culinary genius and business savvy. Male content creators who make food for their families, however, are praised as “empowering” for defying gender norms. Regardless of whether Smith’s and Neeleman’s videos actually contain subliminal messages of conservative politics, the accusation hinges on the idea of women demonstrating a domestic lifestyle of tranquillity and family, wiped clean of any sign of distress or toil.

A pattern thus emerges: women are reclaiming cooking as a form of joy and a source of self-affirming power. The media then attempts to skew it as either a play for profit or political propaganda. We arrive at an impasse. How can women stand in the kitchen without standing for a cause? It hinges on the motivating force behind her work: is she cooking for passion? As a display of love and care? Or as a career? 

Ultimately, women shouldn’t need to defend their motivations or explicate their politics for the gratification of the media. Cooking is unique in its ability to act as a form of power, joy, respite, and resistance, depending on who wields the knife. As long as she steps into the kitchen voluntarily, cooking can mean anything she chooses.

The post Let Her Cook: The Paradox of Women in the Kitchen appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Claire Saffitz is a true modern paragon in the culinary industry. While she is known internationally as the former senior food editor of Bon Appétit, creator of the fan-favourite Gourmet Makes YouTube videos, and author of myriad superb recipes, Saffitz’s roots trace back through to our very own Montreal. Saffitz earned her undergraduate degree at Harvard University before venturing north to McGill, where she studied early modern French culinary history, earning her master’s in history in 2013. Saffitz made her name working in Bon Appétit’s test kitchen during its golden years in the mid-2010s. After departing Condé Nast in 2020, Saffitz proved her strength as a fundamental tastemaker in the food world, moving on to create viral content for New York Times Cooking, launching her own YouTube Channel, and writing two New York Times-bestselling cookbooks, Dessert Person and What’s For Dessert. Given that Saffitz is my personal culinary hero, I had the incredible honour of interviewing her, garnering insight into her remarkable career thus far and the state of the food industry.

Luxe Palmer for The McGill Daily (MD): You’ve done so much in your career, from studying culinary arts in Paris and early modern cookbooks at McGill, to becoming an internet personality with Bon Appétit, New York Times Cooking, and Dessert Person, to writing two outstanding cookbooks, and now to homesteading in Hudson Valley and producing your own YouTube channel. Are there any highlights of your journey thus far, and/ or anything that stands out about this particular moment in your career?

Claire Saffitz (CS): There have been many wonderful highlights, including winning the IACP Julia Child First Cookbook Award for Dessert Person, as well as filming a croissant recipe video for New York Times Cooking that has become their most viewed video ever. Another milestone was gaining one million subscribers to my YouTube channel. At this moment, I am a new mom and trying to figure out how to balance work with my family and time with my baby. This definitely feels like a new chapter.

MD: In interviews, you have said that you love structure, routine, and details (we get along famously in that respect). How have you balanced that work ethic with the instability and unpredictability of freelance work?

CS: I have been pretty much nonstop writing a cookbook in some form or another since 2018, and running my YouTube since 2020. I therefore have lots of control over my own schedule and can plan how I want to divide my time. It can be hard to impose a structure on myself, and I do not think [that] I have it perfectly figured out yet. At the same time, the freedom and flexibility is a huge gift.

MD: You have cited Julia Child as one of your top culinary inspirations (rightly so); do you have any other women muses or icons pertaining to cooking and/or life in general?

CS: I am a big admirer of Ruth Reichl and Martha Stewart and the career paths they carved.

MD: There is a tension within the culinary industry often faced by women in the field. In the historical concept of the domestic realm, the kitchen was societally prescribed as the “women’s sphere.” However, the restaurant industry has traditionally been a heavily masculinized, male-dominated sphere, à la Kitchen Confidential. As a highly renowned luminary in today’s food world, how have you navigated these gender dichotomies in the industry?

CS: I bristle against the ways that the restaurant industry has traditionally tolerated — and even celebrated — male chefs (and some female ones) who lead their kitchens through anger and intimation. I knew I never wanted to be a part of that culture, so I didn’t pursue a career in restaurant kitchens (there were other reasons as well). Food media is actually pretty female-dominated, so I had a lot of women who I felt I could look to for guidance.

MD: One of my particular passions is how food acts as a love language, connecting people across time, place, cultures, and generations. How does your childhood, family history and/or ancestry play into your food and tastes?

CS: Big question! Too big for this space, but I grew up in a household with parents who loved to cook and loved to eat, and who valued food. I grew up understanding that eating is a source of pleasure, which pointed me in the direction of my current career path.

MD: Speaking to your status as a McGill alumnus and your Master’s in culinary history, what are your thoughts on navigating the boundaries between respecting and breaking tradition? Do considerations of culinary tradition, from the strict rules of Parisian pastry technique to the deeper histories behind classic recipes and methods, factor into your personal recipe development practices?

CS: I am respectful of tradition, and generally believe in the idea that the classics are classic for a reason. I don’t try to reinvent the wheel. I like to work with familiar and tried-and-true flavour combinations. Technique is important to me, and I don’t do a lot of “hacks.” I like to try to make things as they’re supposed to be made, but ideally in a streamlined way.

MD: Do you have any advice for college students cooking? Is there a recipe you think everyone should have in their toolbelt – a go-to crowd-pleaser or a technique that will set up a home cook for success?

CS: My best cooking advice is to make a recipe multiple times – it’s easy to always try a new recipe once and then move on, but there is so much understanding to be gained from making one over and over again. That’s how to learn what happens when, for example, you change an ingredient (or even a brand of the same ingredient), or use a different piece of cookware, etc. It’s how you learn the cause-and-effects and nuances of cooking. I think learning to cook pasta, an omelet, a basic vinaigrette, and maybe roasting a chicken are all great starting points.

MD: What’s for Dessert has a distinct retro visual aesthetic, alongside recipes that hark back to mid-century cooking, like icebox cakes, cherries jubilee, Eton mess, and multiple soufflé iterations. I’ve definitely noticed a recent trend toward vintage food and flavours (i.e. The Corner Store in NYC, a resurgence in Americana diners, and the nostalgia of shrimp cocktails or Girl Scout cookies). What attracts you to that era of cuisine? What other culinary trends or themes do you have your eye on?

CS: Nostalgia is a powerful thing, especially when it comes to food. I could spend my time trying to invent a brand new dish, but I’d rather riff on familiar dishes and flavour combinations because they can be so fun and transporting to both make and eat. It’s fun discovering old dishes and making them feel new again. I don’t see it so much as a trend for me personally, though mid-century food has seemed to be big since the pandemic. People definitely seek out the familiar as a form of comfort.

MD: From my own perspective, the culinary industry is a bit unusual in its different methods of entry and criteria for experience: you can work your way up a restaurant brigade, or start as a beat reporter (not even necessarily for a food publication), or attempt the terrifyingly unreliable medium of freelance work. Social media has recently opened a new door to the food world, with content creators like Justine Doiron and Meredith Hayden making substantial careers from their Internet success. How has the process of entering the culinary work field changed since you first began? What advice might you give to someone looking to join its ranks?

CS: There are so many entry points to the industry, and I entered in a more traditional way through food media. I am glad that there is less gate-keeping now with social media, and I encourage people to start in whatever way is most practical for them. But in any context, it’s important to develop the core skill set first – so that means developing a voice and writing skills if you want to be a food writer, and cooking skills and experience if you want to be a recipe developer or cook.

MD: Lastly, and more generally, what excites you right now? What are you looking forward to?

CS: I am very excited about my next book project, which includes lots of savoury cooking. It’s so much fun to develop these recipes and cook for myself and my family at the same time. There’s more of a sense of instant gratification and authenticity, since I am developing recipes I love and actually cook often.

The post The (Gourmet) Making of Claire Saffitz appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Lensky is a classically trained musician finding his sound and his footing in Montreal’s indie music scene. He has released two singles, “Tomatoes” and “Valentine’s Day,” and is looking forward to more live performances in Montreal, Ottawa, and Toronto. I sat down with Lensky to discuss his inspirations, his goals, and his advice for emerging artists.

Catey Fifield for The McGill Daily (MD): Tell me about yourself.

Lensky (L): My name is Lensky and I’m a Montreal-based musician — I’m a singer and songwriter, and I also play the piano. I studied classical music at the Royal Conservatory in Toronto, and I recently moved to Montreal, where I’ve released my first two singles and started gigging. 

MD: And what about your day job?

L: I work for an AI consultancy that advises executive leadership teams on how to implement and embrace AI in their organizations. And then I have another side job where I work as an editorial writer for a dance radio station in Chicago — I write for them and do interviews for them and some festival coverage as well.

MD: How would you describe the music you’re making, and what is your motivation in making it?

L: I think my music falls into the adult contemporary genre, which is such a huge umbrella term. But I struggle with defining it because the contemporary pop landscape is very specific, and I don’t think my music necessarily falls into that – there are folk elements and jazz elements and blues elements, too.

As for my motivation, I like to joke that the purest motivation to make music is to get laid. And that’s definitely true, though I think “getting laid” can mean a lot more than just the obvious. Maybe it’s validation you seek. Maybe it’s about engaging with the self in order to express your emotions and ideas. I also think, to be frank, that I write music so that I can do more shows. That’s my bread and butter, that’s when I feel like I’m in my element.

MD: How does your classical training inform your understanding of music and the way you produce it?

L: The name “Lensky” comes from Tchaikovsky’s opera Eugene Ongein, which is based on a Pushkin novel. So there’s that immediate association to the classical space. I chose that name because I really don’t want to lose sight of classical music and its influence on my artistry. It was really important to me, for example, to play live as much as possible when we recorded “Valentine’s Day.” You can make music in this very insular way where everyone goes into the studio and records separately, but that feels restrictive to me. I love the idea that you can capture a “live energy,” almost like gospel music, when everyone plays together.

MD: Can you tell me a bit more about your songwriting process? What inspired the singles “Tomatoes” and “Valentine’s Day”?

L: The songwriting process is ever evolving. “Tomatoes” and “Valentine’s Day” were some of the first songs I ever wrote, and both were inspired by a relationship I was in that I wasn’t getting the most out of. It was a challenging time for me because it was one of my first interactions with love, and an interaction that left me feeling deeply wounded – whatever beautiful things came out of it.

It’s been a few years since I wrote both songs, and it’s funny because as they’ve developed a life of their own, the association to heartbreak has lessened. I actually moved to Serbia for a year and a half after writing them, and almost forgot about them. It wasn’t until I got back to Canada that one of my friends in Toronto, Zoe Kertes, encouraged me to get serious about recording music and produced “Tomatoes.” And then “Valentine’s Day” was produced here in Montreal, at McGill’s MMR (Music Multimedia Room), with Chris Kengard. That was such a blessing – the McGill studios and equipment are really nice, and Chris is just so talented.

MD: How did you find your bandmates, and how did you know that they were a good fit?

L: It’s such a classic story. I met our guitarist, Thomas Harries, through a friend of a friend of a neighbour of a friend, and then he brought in the rest of the band. My bandmates are all super talented, they all study jazz at Concordia, and they’re equally happy to do a Kate Bush cover or learn one of my originals. 

MD: Why is Montreal a good place for new artists to find their footing? What challenges do emerging artists face here?

L: When I got back from Europe, I wanted to settle in Montreal because I knew that, as a Canadian artist, this was the place to be. When you’re in the developmental stage, it’s really convenient that there are so many venues — I live in the Mile End and there are probably twenty venues around me. And the community is just great — very welcoming, very diverse.

I think that, for emerging artists, the biggest challenges are figuring out what to do and having the audacity to do it. You ask yourself, Where do I go? How do I find people to play with? The first official gig I played in Montreal was actually for a friend’s museum fundraiser in Saint-Henri, and I’ve learned that you just have to be okay with experiences that might be uncomfortable or untraditional. But, really, I can’t think of a city that’s more accessible for music in Canada.

MD: What are your goals for the next year? The next five years?

L: I basically have an album written. I’d like to get back in the studio and keep recording — I just want to have more available for people to find online. Really, though, my goal is just to play live. I believe in artists cutting their teeth, and I think one of the detracting features of the current music business is that you can achieve a certain level of success without ever having set foot on a stage.

In five years, I don’t know. I just want to be really good — that’s so important to me. I’m learning guitar, I’m taking vocal lessons again, and I’m trying to solidify my skillset. Hopefully there’s an album out by 2030 — maybe there’ll even be two. Who knows?

The post Experiments in Classical and Contemporary Sound appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The event was hosted by Marlyne, who is also the founder of Sweet Like Honey—an organisation specifically created for QTBIPOC in Montreal who relate to the lesbian or sapphic experience. As a performer herself, Marlyne wanted to create a safe space for other sapphic performers to dance freely. Through Sweet Like Honey, she hosts various lesbian and sapphic strip club nights for these dancers. Marlyne helped to recruit many of the performers for this Burlesque Night, relying on her network of dancers (whom she affectionately refers to as her “Honeybees”).

Each and every one of the performers put on a show to remember. Salty Margarita, the founder of Latino Burlesque, kicked things off with a fabulously flamboyant dance to upbeat Latin music. Drag king Alastair S!N kept energy high throughout his performance, dancing to powerful beats and engaging the audience effortlessly. He was followed by Queen Macondo, who put on one of the campiest and most entertaining shows of the night involving an elaborate tea-pouring ritual. 

There wasn’t a single moment throughout the night when the audience wasn’t cheering on the dancers. A short break followed the first round of performances, during which I was able to ask the event organisers to speak about the importance of planning events like these.

“Working at QM, we’re able to provide a platform for queer people, especially for those within the community who are often excluded or attacked in other spaces,” said Valeria Munoz, who also serves as Events Coordinator for Queer McGill. “We’re always trying to reaffirm our commitment to creating safe spaces for all the intersections that exist within queer identities […] especially trying to create and preserve queer joy whenever we can.”

The emphasis on queer joy was deeply felt in every part of the event. As the performances continued, “galactic goddess” Cosmic Creme took to the stage in a white wedding dress complete with a bouquet of flowers which were tossed into the crowd. Queef Latina went next, taking things up a notch with another campy show to get the audience excited. Award-winning drag queen Genesis Loren did some more crowdwork, walking through the rows of audience members, finishing off with a classy dance number onstage. 

For the final surprise, Marlyne herself took to the stage under her persona Carmen Mayhem — truly ending things off with a bang! 

The night was filled with applause, laughter, raucous cheering, and unabashed queer joy. It was more than just another burlesque show; it was a celebration of queer artistry and performance, dedicated to highlighting the voices that are often sidelined. 

“Sex workers and burlesque artists have always been at the frontlines of LGBTQ+ activism,” said Marlyne, during her final speech of the night. “Too many times they get pushed to the perimeters […] but for us they’re at the forefront.”

The post Celebrating QTBIPOC Burlesque Performers appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Now in its third season, The White Lotus has taken viewers from the pristine beaches of Hawaii (Season 1) to the dramatic Sicilian coastline (Season 2), and now to the lush landscapes of Thailand (Season 3). The latest season began airing on February 16, 2025, with new episodes releasing every Sunday at 9 PM (ET/PT) on HBO. Currently, the series is at Episode 5, with the next installment set to drop on March 23. This season will run for a total of eight episodes, continuing its tradition of intrigue, satire, and biting social commentary.

At first glance, The White Lotus is structured like a classic whodunit. Each season opens with a body, then rewinds to the events leading up to the inevitable demise. But where traditional murder mysteries focus on the crime itself, creator Mike White uses the structure as a backdrop for something far more sinister: the slow, inevitable unraveling of the ultra-privileged.

The show lays bare the absurdity of extreme wealth: not just in its excess, but in how its characters navigate the world. Their entitlement, transactional relationships, and petty betrayals are on full display, wrapped in a glossy vacation package. Unlike Succession, which invites audiences to revel in the messiness of the rich, The White Lotus asks us to laugh at them, cringe with them, and recognize the emptiness behind their curated lifestyles.

Part of what makes The White Lotus so watchable is its visual appeal. The sprawling resorts, the infinity pools, the effortless linen ensembles. It’s aspirational, even as it satirizes the very people who can afford it. Shows that explore wealth with a critical eye (Triangle of Sadness, The Menu, and others) have been gaining traction, and The White Lotus fits neatly into this cultural moment, where audiences are both fascinated by and repulsed by extreme privilege.

Yet, the show isn’t just about money. It’s also about power. And in The White Lotus, power is a closed loop. The wealthy stumble, they scheme, they self-destruct, but they rarely suffer any real consequences. The resort staff, the locals, the ones who exist outside the bubble of privilege? They’re the ones left picking up the pieces. It’s a brutal, but effective, reminder that no matter how much drama unfolds, the system remains intact.

Tourism serves as the show’s most biting critique. Season 1 explores tensions between wealthy tourists and Hawaiian locals. Season 2 layers in European colonial history, using Sicily’s grand architecture as a backdrop for modern exploitation. Now, with Season 3 set in Thailand, the show delves into Western tourism’s impact on local cultures, highlighting the unseen costs of luxury travel.

It challenges viewers to think: What are these vacations really about? Escape? Reinvention? Or just another indulgence that leaves locals to deal with the aftermath?

A major factor in The White Lotus’s success is its ability to blend established talent with breakout stars. Season 3 has drawn special attention with the acting debut of Lisa from BLACKPINK, a landmark moment for K-pop fans. The Thai-set season has also introduced new A-list talent, reinforcing the show’s ability to generate buzz both in Hollywood and internationally.

Meanwhile, Season 2, set in Italy, remains a fan favorite, with many considering it the best season so far. A significant reason? Theo James. His performance as the effortlessly charming, yet deeply toxic, Cameron had audiences both fascinated and (let’s be honest) thirsting for more. His role, along with the season’s layered exploration of relationships and power dynamics, solidified its reputation as The White Lotus at its peak.

Beyond wealth, The White Lotus masterfully unpacks relationships — romantic, familial, and otherwise. Whether it’s a Gen Z heiress debating social justice with her parents in Season 1, or a betrayed wife plotting revenge in Season 2, the show revels in exposing manipulation, delusion, and shifting power dynamics.

It also skewers gender and sexual politics. The men — ranging from rich boomers to insecure finance bros — wield power in both overt and insidious ways. Meanwhile, the women — some cunning, some naive, some desperately trying to outmaneuver the game — struggle within cycles of expectation. The White Lotus offers no easy answers, but it does make one thing clear: even in paradise, power imbalances remain, and no one escapes unscathed.

In the end, The White Lotus is more than just a beautifully shot, impeccably acted prestige drama. It’s a conversation starter. It forces audiences to confront uncomfortable truths about class, privilege, and the fantasies we buy into about happiness and morality. And yet, somehow, it remains wildly entertaining.As Season 3 continues, one thing is certain: We’ll keep watching, analyzing, and debating every twist, character arc, and ridiculously lavish hotel suite. Because in The White Lotus, the only thing more intoxicating than wealth is the mess it leaves behind.

The post The White Lotus and the Spectacle of Privilege appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Over the course of the acting season, both Moore and Madison had taken home neck-and-neck victories for their work: the former secured the Golden Globe, Critics’ Choice Award, and Screen Actors’ Guild Award for Best Actress, while the latter won at the BAFTAs and the Independent Choice Awards. Still, when Madison edged out Moore for Best Actress at the Oscars, many took to social media to voice their opinions on Madison’s unprecedented win, with The Substance supporters vehemently claiming that Moore had been “robbed” or “snubbed.”

The Substance was undoubtedly one of the most unique films in this year’s Oscars line-up, featuring
substantial shares of body horror, female rage, and a mysterious substance known as — you guessed it! — The Substance. Coralie Fargeat’s second feature film sees Demi Moore as Elisabeth Sparkle, a television personality who resorts to sinister measures to regain her previous relevance upon being dropped from her long-held television host role. Demi Moore delivers a visceral performance teeming with the deep-seated jealousy of watching the “younger, more beautiful, more perfect” version of herself, Sue (played by Margaret Qualley), flourish where she once did. The intensity of her anguish mounts as the movie builds towards its unforgettable climax, featuring 36,000 gallons of fake blood and a grotesque, inhuman amalgamation of both Elisabeth and Sue’s characters, that was met with audible gasps when I watched it in theatres. Moore reportedly endured four to five hour stints in hair and makeup donning prosthetics for various scenes in the film, which secured the Oscar for Best Makeup & Hairstyling.

In comparison, Anora’s plot seems far less complicated, though no less layered. Mikey Madison plays the eponymous Anora (or Ani), a sex worker who finds herself in a fairytale-turned-disaster when her husband’s Russian oligarch family catches wind of their elopement. Madison spent six months learning to pole dance for her role (which is much harder than it looks). She recalls being “covered head to toe in bruises” to the point that they incorporated a line about it into the script. Moreover, she had to learn Russian for the film, as well as work with a dialect coach and move to Brighton Bay before filming to match her accent to those of its inhabitants.

The main argument posited by The Substance diehards is that Moore’s performance in The Substance was more outwardly complex and impressive than Madison’s in Anora. Admittedly, the physicality of Anora is less pronounced than that of The Substance, which required intense physical acting to solidify its genre-typical body horror elements. That being said, this stance diminishes the physical efforts Madison did invest into her role. In fact, the fact that she underwent so much training for small nuances in her role exemplifies her meticulous characterisation and performance. It also speaks volumes about the often unsung physical labour required of exotic dancers.

Beyond the quality of their performances, a rampant sentiment regarding Madison’s victory was that it “proved the point of The Substance,” which was that older women would always lose to fresher faces on the scene. Additionally, some expressed that Moore deserved the award “because Madison would have more opportunities to win it in future,” while Moore was less likely to because of her age.

Firstly, this sentiment is categorically untrue, considering the fact that the average age of the last 20 Best Actress winners is 43 years old, and the Academy has historically favoured older actresses. Secondly, such a viewpoint is reductive of both Moore and Madison’s impressive performances. It inherently shoehorns Moore into the box of the “old” woman, discrediting her performance, all the while belittling Madison’s win into one she took home simply because she is a younger actress. There is nothing wrong with thinking that Moore gave a better performance. However, the idea that Madison’s win reinforces The Substance’s message swings so far left that it goes right in terms of its anti-ageism stance. To say that Moore was more deserving of the title of Best Actress because of her age is more patronising than empowering.

All interpretations of art hold value. Engaging in film discourse is all well and good and in fact encouraged — however, it still has to be done critically. Much of the hate directed to Moore and Madison focused on comparing them in terms of their age and looks (misogynistic precepts of a woman’s worth, by the way, what a coincidence) rather than their actual acting ability, which needlessly pit them against one another despite both actresses’ mutual recognitions of each other’s work. It only makes for a shallow and cheap argument to degrade one party and diminish their efforts in support of another, whether or not you agree with the outcome.

There needs to be a reframing in our perception of these awards. The Academy Awards are not the Olympics, where there is a clear definition of “winner” and “loser,” or first and second place. The Best Actress title was not a competition between Moore and Madison alone — there were other equally deserving candidates. Fernanda Torres also delivered an emotionally rich and phenomenal performance in I’m Still Here (2024); in fact, she was slated by the New York Times to win Best Actress. Thus, one’s attainment of an Oscar, unlike, say, the 100-metre sprint, is not determined by any clear metric other than a majority vote. Moore and Torres, and every other nominee in the Best Actress category, didn’t “lose” in the sense that their performances were definitely worse than Madison’s; Madison just happened to win the Academy’s majority vote.

Personally, I would have been happy with any result, though I had my official bets placed on Madison (after oscillating back and forth between options, might I add). In the end, the Academy works in mysterious ways. They’ve made good decisions, bad decisions, and everything in between — ultimately, they are beyond our control as mere viewers. What we all can do is sit back and enjoy the movies that come out year after year for what they are, rather than what they win. And no matter what people say, you don’t have to agree with the Oscars. Create a Letterboxd account or something. Leave your own review.

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The World of Severance 

Created by Dan Erickson and directed by Ben Stiller, Severance introduces viewers to Lumon Industries, an unsettling and cryptic corporation offering employees a radical solution to work-life balance. Through a procedure known as “severance,” workers undergo a surgical intervention that creates two distinct versions of themselves: an “Innie,” who exists only in the office, and an “Outie,” who knows nothing about their work life. This concept struck a nerve in an era where remote work has blurred the boundaries between personal and professional spheres, especially resonating in post-lockdown culture.

Severance thrives on its stellar cast. Adam Scott’s haunted Mark seeks solace on Lumon’s severed floor, while Patricia Arquette’s eerie Cobel, John Turturro’s tragic Irving, and Christopher Walken’s poignant Burt add multiple layers of emotional depth. With valuable performances from Britt Lower and Zach Cherry, the ensemble makes you root for their characters as they navigate Lumon’s uncanny workplace.

Subliminal Visual Storytelling 

Stiller’s direction heightens the series’ tension through precise framing, sterile design, and disorienting angles, reinforcing Lumon’s claustrophobic, dreamlike feel. The show’s striking visual identity — on par with its cast — brands Lumon as a villain through its distinct colour palette. The typography, logo, and corporate design subtly convey meaning through subliminal visuals rather than explicit dialogue. Division and duality permeate every shot, mirroring both the literal severance and Mark’s internal conflict.

The sterile white hallways, minimalist office decor, and retro-inspired technology create an aesthetic that feels suspended in time — both futuristic and deeply nostalgic. Beyond visual symbols, production set designer Jeremy Hindle likens the mysterious, secluded office to a playground, carrying forward the idea that the severed employees are being raised like “little children.” Hindle worked closely with set decorator Andrew Baseman to grasp the threatening atmosphere of Lumon’s aesthetic. As he explains, “the managers are raising them in this work environment,” one that is evocative of mid-century American office designs by Dieter Rams, Marc Newson, or Ricardo Fasanello, with accessories that seem to outlive their time. Each element is thought through to spark the audience’s recognition of the object while twisting it enough to render it unfamiliar. Hindle notes, “We made a computer that, if it ever came out in the real world, no one would believe them. We recognize some aspects of it, and some not at all.” With both a touchscreen and a trackball, the computer’s contradictions are meant to baffle and amuse, for it to eventually “look like a toy,” Baseman adds. It creates the alluring “nostalgic novelty” of the series, weaving past familiarity into an uncanny future.

The Return of Weekly Episode Releases

Severance’s impact has been amplified by its weekly episode release schedule. At a time when binge-watching dominates the streaming landscape, Severance‘s deliberate slow-burn storytelling has reminded audiences of the unique power of anticipation. Like iconic series such as Lost (2004) or Breaking Bad (2008), Severance thrives on weekly discussions, theories, and social media buzz, allowing viewers to digest each twist and revelation without quickly moving forward.

This return to weekly scheduling has fostered a communal experience reminiscent of appointment television in the late ‘90s and early 2000s. Viewers gather online to analyze plot points, dissect clues, and debate the show’s layered mysteries. The result is a heightened sense of engagement that binge-watching often bypasses. By ‘forcing’ viewers to wait, Severance leverages suspense as a powerful storytelling tool, extending its cultural impact far beyond the confines of each episode.

The Cultural Impact of Severance 

Beyond its visual attraction and release strategies, Severance speaks to broader social anxieties, depicting corporate control, identity fragmentation, and emotional detachment. Its mirroring of contemporary struggles such as burnout, workplace surveillance, and the desire for escapism is evocative of the audience’s routine. As viewers grapple with these themes in their own lives, Severance offers a chilling yet oddly cathartic reflection on the costs of separating our professional and personal selves.

Thus, by blending sharp commentary with captivating storytelling, Severance has secured its place not just as a critical darling but as a cultural touchstone. As Apple TV+ continues to expand its presence, Severance stands as a powerful reminder that great television thrives on patience, intrigue, and the conversations that happen in between.

Apple TV+’s Growing Influence 

Severance’s success is emblematic of Apple TV+’s strategic rise in the competitive streaming landscape. Since its launch in 2019, Apple TV+ has carved out a niche by focusing on prestige and story-driven content rather than sheer quantity. While Netflix and Amazon Prime continue to dominate in terms of volume, Apple TV+ has steadily built a reputation for high-quality originals that resonate with critics and audiences alike.

Shows like The Morning Show, Ted Lasso, Shrinking, and Slow Horses have all earned critical acclaim, solidifying Apple TV+ as a serious contender. The platform’s emphasis on storytelling over content saturation has allowed it to cultivate a curated library of standout series. Recently, Apple TV+’s growing presence has been further cemented by major award nominations such as the BAFTAs or the Critics Choice Awards, even recording 72 Emmy Award nominations in 2024, becoming the best-ever Emmy showing in history. To date, Apple Original films, documentaries, and series have earned 515 wins and 2,308 award nominations.

With Severance, Apple TV+ has tapped into a cultural zeitgeist, proving that meticulous storytelling can still thrive in an era defined by instant gratification. The show’s success highlights the platform’s ability to produce thought-provoking content that lingers long after the credits roll.

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Cappuccino ($4.00): For a student café, Gerts offers a surprisingly mature and thoughtful cappuccino. The espresso used is the Kittel Signature Blend, a crowd-pleasing medium roast that still retains its intrigue and complexity. The tasting notes identify “milk chocolate, peanut butter, [and] red fruit,” all of which are in attendance. Many basic, one-note espresso blends cite these three notes as a catch-all, parading around as something more interesting than actuality. Kittel does the profile justice, with each note clearly picked out and presented harmoniously. The espresso’s bright start gives way to a powdery chocolate, rooted in a roasty but not burnt or bitter note (you won’t find any “Charbucks” here). There is a slight floral note that appears as a whisper at the end of the sip, evocative of the “red fruit” noted in the blend description. You can distinctly pick up the woody peanut butter as it cools, landing in the middle of the palette. As far as the actual crafting of the cappuccino goes, I tip my hat to the baristas. The classic (and deceptively tricky) latte art was the cherry (literally) on top of a beautifully creamy and well-executed microfoam.

Lavender London Fog ($5.75): Recommended by Hamoda, the lavender London fog puts a springtime twist on the warming drink. The eponymous lavender syrup brings out the distinctive floral notes in the Earl Grey tea without being too cloying or sweet. I have encountered lavender-flavoured items that taste like biting into a Lush bath bomb; this is not the case. The black tea perfectly balances the lavender, while the milk cuts out any bitterness.

Walnut Brownie ($4.00): Gerts doesn’t try to reinvent the wheel; their rendition of the brownie is humble, executed with care and attention to detail. The large slice is generously encrusted with walnuts, both on top and embedded within — you truly get your money’s worth. That being said, if you don’t definitively enjoy walnuts, you may be displeased at how prominent the flavour is. The brownie isn’t overly rich or sweet, which allows the flavour of the chocolate and walnuts to shine. The slice is perfectly moist, striking a balance between a more structured, cakelike crumb and a fudgy, denser brownie. It pairs wonderfully with the coffee, to no one’s surprise.

Gerts Café holds no pretensions of being a postmodern fourth-wave indie coffee house, nor does it fall to the wayside of cheap drip coffee and baked-from-frozen pastries. Their menu has succeeded in catering to a wide array of palettes and taste preferences without losing intrigue and complexity of flavours. Gerts has pulled an impressive feat in curating a cozy, picture-perfect atmosphere and providing high-quality goods at a startlingly affordable price point.

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However, the last few years have been witness to the emergence of sustainable fashion weeks, extolling eco-friendly practices, promoting sustainability in the sector, and attempting to be more sustainable themselves. For example, the London Fashion Week, in collaboration with the Copenhagen Fashion Week (CPHFW), developed a sustainability requirements framework for participating brands. For Cecilie Thorsmark, CEO of the CPHFW, Fashion Week may “drive positive change within the industry.” Indeed, fashion weeks have long surpassed their role as simple commercial venues. As the major communication events for the whole fashion sector, they have become “highly symbolic public spectacles” reaching a large audience, and thus a platform for activism and political expression. In light of this, Vivienne Westwood advocated for environmental causes through their Homo Loquax runway show at the London Fashion Week of 2019.

On the other hand, these “sustainable” fashion shows seem awfully similar to everything done before. They remain first and foremost a business and an investment that brands make. The New York Fashion Week, rising in attendance in the past few years, saw the cost of running a fashion show explode, with numbers going from the $300,000 spent by Willy Chavarria to $400,000 by Collina Strada.

This brings to mind the danger of greenwashing, a term first coined by Jay Westerveld in 1986 that describes when brands make exaggerated or misleading claims about how environmentally friendly their products or services are. In fact, some think the efforts brands make are, at best, superficial. These accusations may be well-informed: only a few weeks ago, the Danish Consumer Council and Tanja Gotthardsen, an anti-greenwashing expert, filed a complaint against the Copenhagen Fashion Week concerning their sustainability framework. They describe the standards set as abysmally low and not always respected, violating Danish sustainability laws on many points. To this point, Tanja Gotthardsen says, “It made me question whether the requirements were being enforced at all!” Despite the sustainability leadership role the CPHFW seemed to aspire to, sustainability requirements have been used more as a promotional asset for years than as a genuine endeavour.

Sustainable fashion itself also leads to many controversies. With a project to put vintage and upcycling back to the front of the stage, Gabriela Hearst, an ethical fashion designer from Uruguay, put up on this year’s Paris Fashion Week runway a mink coat made from repurposed pythons skins and schappe (leftover fiber from silk cocoons processing). This fuelled the eternal debate between the use of real fur – deemed unethical and cruel – as opposed to the use of synthetic fur, which is highly polluting and impossible to recycle.

Despite this rather grim portrait, there are glimmers of hope within the fashion industry. Some brands, like Stella McCartney, have adopted eco-friendly practices at every stage of production and seem to understand sustainability more and more as a conviction instead of a marketing opportunity. The brand, created in 2001, always incorporated a sustainable and ethical policy.

If traditional fashion weeks have been accused of greenwashing, the emergence of numerous new fashion weeks is not so alarming. These new fashion weeks appear far from western fashion centers, bringing to light not only much-needed ideals but also alternate visions of the fashion industry as a whole. In August 2024, the Costa Rica Fashion Week highlighted eco-friendly fashion through the designer Mauricio Alpizar and his clothes made from acacia fibers. In November 2024, the Sao Paulo Fashion Week revolved around the idea of “slow fashion.” In Nigeria, the Lagos Fashion Week focused on designers from underserved areas and sustainability, with 20 per cent of all products of the fashion shows being recycled or locally sourced.

This testifies to a larger embrace of sustainability in Africa, with Fashion Weeks in Accra, South Africa, or Kenya with the Tribal Chic Nairobi. The African fashion industry does not only follow trends coming from the fashion capitals of London, Paris, or New York, but also creates new trends, giving hope for the rise of new visions of fashion that better respect the environment. This not only improves sustainability in fashion in general, but also reinstates cultural diversity in Fashion and the creative power of Africa, Asia and South America as on par with Europe and North America.

From São Paulo to Lagos, these fashion weeks are enhancing diversity in the fashion world and setting the example for the necessary revolution that the rest of the industry needs to undergo.

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One look at the Wikipedia page for animated Oscars nominees makes it abundantly clear that the Academy doesn’t respect animation. Animated films rarely get nominated for any awards outside their designated categories of Best Animated Feature and Best Animated Short Film (the two exceptions being Best Score and Best Original Song). While I would like to see more animations nominated for awards like Best Adapted Screenplay and Best Director, it’s understandable that the medium is too unique to go head-to-head with live-action films in these categories. What bugs me, though, is the complete lack of foreign animated nominations in any category. Only about 20 foreign films have been nominated in the 24-year history of the Best Animated Feature category, a clear sign of the Oscars’ Americentricism. Worse yet, only three foreign animations have ever been nominated for a non-animation category — Flee (2021) for Best International Feature and Best Documentary Feature, Flow (2024) for Best International Feature, and The Triplets of Belleville (2003) for Best Original Song.

This leads us to the Academy’s next major issue with animation: the Disney bias. Disney produces the vast majority of animated nominees for any award. 15 of the 24 Best Animated Feature winners were made by Disney. I understand that animation would not exist as it does today without Disney’s influence. However, the field has grown significantly since the days of Steamboat Willie (1928). Current animation is a diverse medium with incredible depth in its storytelling. It feels unfair that one studio, no matter how significant, should have an effectively guaranteed nomination any year they put out a film. This goes for non-Disney American animations as well. Are you really telling me that the Academy, with all its wisdom and resources, could not find a more deserving movie than Shark Tale to take a spot in the 2004 race? I understand there are far fewer animations than live-action features produced yearly, but this just feels lazy.

2017 saw the single most egregious example of Americentricism costing a foreign movie its due recognition. 2017’s Best Animated Feature nominees included the prestigious ranks of such movies as Ferdinand and, better yet, The Boss Baby. For those not in “the know” when it comes to high art, The Boss Baby is about a baby who wears a business suit and speaks with the voice of a grown man — a novel concept, to be sure — possibly even Oscar-worthy. But at the risk of falling into pretension, let me tell you about another animated film that might just surpass The Boss Baby in its cultural relevance and artistic merit.

A Silent Voice is a 2016 Japanese coming-of-age film directed by visionary filmmaker Naoko Yamada and animated by Kyoto Animation. It follows Shouya, a teenage boy who relentlessly bullied his deaf classmate, Shouko, in elementary school. Years later, Shouya himself became a victim of bullying and fell into depression as a result. In an effort to repent, he reconnects with Shouko. A Silent Voice delicately tackles topics like bullying, anxiety, and children with disabilities. It confronts harsh realities; it’s biting, yet soft. Its animation is jaw-droppingly gorgeous. And, according to the Academy, it is less deserving of an award than The Boss Baby. My movie of 2024, Look Back, is another similar case (although 2024 thankfully didn’t have a Boss Baby analog in the running). Notably, only one non-Studio Ghibli Japanese animation has ever been nominated for Best Animated Feature: Mirai in 2018 — odd for a country with such a prolific animation scene.

Don’t get me wrong — I (mostly) don’t hate The Boss Baby. It’s a wonderful kids’ movie. I enjoyed it when I watched it as an 11-year-old. But therein lies the problem. In the Academy’s eyes, “animation” equals “for kids.” See anonymous 2015 Academy Voter #5’s comment:

“I only watch the ones that my kid wants to see, so I didn’t see [The] Boxtrolls… The biggest snub for me was Chris Miller and Phil Lord not getting in for [The] Lego [Movie]. When a movie is that successful and culturally hits all the right chords and does that kind of box-office — for that movie not to be in over these two obscure freakin’ Chinese fuckin’ things that nobody ever freakin’ saw? That is my biggest bitch.”

Also look to Voter #7, who put it more succinctly:

“Frankly, I didn’t see any of them.”

So, some Academy members don’t even watch every animated nomination. Some just don’t believe that foreign animations are worth seeing. This kind of attitude is why movies like A Silent Voice get snubbed, and movies like The Boss Baby are praised. This is troubling, not just because of the blatant racism, but also because The Oscars are supposed to be an authority on the best films of any given year. How can viewers put any stock in this institution when it blatantly ignores works of art that undeniably merit discourse?

There is hope, though. 2024 saw Flow, an independent Latvian film, win Best Animated Feature. It even beat out titans like Pixar and Dreamworks on the way to its award. This is a step in the right direction. Maybe one day, the Academy will wake up and give animation the respect it deserves — before another Boss Baby sneaks its way in.

The post The Oscars Don’t Take Animation Seriously appeared first on The McGill Daily.

If there is an oats expert in this world, I can confidently identify as such. However, I am aware that my passion for porridge is not widely shared; this is simply because you have not had correct oatmeal. There is a method. Take notes.

Firstly: all oatmeal is porridge, but not all porridge is oatmeal. Porridge is any grain or starch cooked down in liquid until macerated. Oatmeal specifically uses oats. The type of oat used is the most crucial decision in the oat-making process: 

• Groats: Oats’ original form, kernel, shell, and all. They’re less common, as they take a long time to break down and have a much hardier flavour and chew.
• Old-Fashioned Rolled: Think of oatmeal, and you’re probably thinking of old-fashioned rolled oats. These are made by taking groats, steaming them, then rolling them into iconic flat petal-like flakes. The end result can, depending on the cooking method, either result in the stereotypical mush or a pleasantly soft, but still well-structured oat.
• Steel-cut: These are the oats of my childhood. Steel-cut oats are groats that are cut, as the name implies, with a steel blade into thinner pieces. They retain their grist, leading to a less mushy and more structured bite. They’re nuttier and more flavourful than rolled.
• Scottish: The Scots take groats and mill them, resulting in a finer grain that ends up a not unpleasant, yet undeniably gluey and creamy texture when cooked. To cook a true bowl of Scottish porridge (which I have learned through in situ experience), you must stir the oats clockwise with a spurtle, a wooden dowel-like utensil that somehow imparts the wisdom of the ancient Hebridean Scots to your oats.
• Quick/Instant Oats: These oats have been both sliced and rolled into the smallest granules (before you breach into oat flour territory), thus allowing them to cook the fastest. You’ll either end up with a bowl of soft, creamy, comforting porridge, or a bowl of pasty gruel. Either way, teeth are not required.

The methodology of oatmeal-making is as variable as the oats themselves. After you have decided upon your oat of choice, the cooking liquid is next. Typically, recipes call for water, milk, or both. All-milk will give you a luxurious bowl of the creamiest, silkiest oats. All-water allows the oats to shine, highlighting their texture and flavour – it’s also the most budget-friendly. To spice up your oats, using coffee or tea as your liquid of choice instantly adds flavour while combining your breakfast and morning caffeine into one handy bowl. Typically (though depending on the type of oat), a 2:1 ratio of liquid to oats is advised. This is negotiable: if you like a soupier oatmeal, add more liquid. If you prefer your oats more toothy, use less. Steel-cut oats, however, benefit best from a 3:1 ratio.

Oats are best cooked low and slow on the stove; however, time may not permit that. If you’re in a dash, add oats and liquid to a LARGE bowl to prevent overflow and keep your eye on it – they tend to explode. Microwave on high in 30-60-second increments, stirring in between, until you reach your desired texture. Note: oats will continue to absorb liquid as they cool; stop cooking just before your desired viscosity.

If you have extra time in the morning, consider toasting your oats on a dry skillet for about five minutes, until golden and aromatic. If you have zero time, consider making overnight oats: add equal parts oats and liquid, plus all desired flavourings, to a jar. Simply refrigerate overnight for a grab-and-go oat. 

Still not a fan of traditional oatmeal texture? Try blending your oats. You can either blend overnight oats into a batter-like consistency or blend the raw ingredients and bake them. (You can also bake oatmeal without blending.)

I believe I never acquired a distaste for oatmeal because my mother has perfected her recipe: steel-cut oats, a generous pad of butter, brown sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla extract. If you’ve never liked oatmeal, it’s because you’ve never added butter.

A tried-and-true formula follows as such: Fat (peanut/almond butter, tahini, butter, olive/coconut oil) + Sweetener (maple syrup, brown/white sugar, honey, agave, molasses, jam) + Flavour Profile (expanded below) + Texture (chopped nuts, fruit, raisins, coconut flakes, seeds, milk/cream, sliced dates, chocolate chips, granola) + Nutritive Bonus (hemp hearts, chia seeds, ground flax seeds, protein powder, shredded beetroot/zucchini/carrot, maca powder, yogurt/cottage cheese).

For a classically sweet oatmeal, think add-ins like cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, cloves, ginger, cardamom, cocoa powder, turmeric, matcha, orange/lemon zest, pumpkin purée, or vanilla/almond/coconut extract. Combinations range from a haldi doodh (“golden milk”)-inspired blend of turmeric, ginger, cardamom, and cinnamon, to a gingerbread-esque porridge with molasses, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, and allspice. Cook oats with grated apple for a call-back to Quaker’s Apple Cinnamon instant oats. Adorn your oats with dates, olive oil, and flaky sea salt for a sophisticated bowl.

If sweet isn’t your style, try savoury: garam masala, curry powder, cumin, green chiles, miso, tomatoes, pesto, yolky egg, nutritional yeast, soy sauce, hot sauce, avocado, mushrooms, onion, garlic, chives, shallots, chopped meat, cheese, spinach – the list goes on. While savoury oats may sound strange, I highly recommend you give them a chance. Try miso, kale, and soft-boiled eggs or dashi and radishes for Japanese-style bowls. Add a French twist with mushrooms and thyme.

Whatever profile you choose, ALWAYS ADD SALT. Salt awakens the nutty complexity of the oats, elevating them from simple grain to heavenly gold.

If you want to up your protein, stir a raw egg in your oats right after taking them off the stove. The residual heat will cook the egg into a delicious cake-batter-esque custard. You can also add Greek yogurt, cottage cheese, protein powder (…if you must, though the resulting texture may not outweigh the better macros), or hemp hearts.

If I’ve tempted you down the rabbit hole of oatmeal, you may find yourself experimenting with different porridge grains (buckwheat, quinoa, barley, amaranth) and methods (congee, Crock Pot, steamed, fermented). I believe the next step in the evolution of my porridge mania is growing my own oats.

The post Goldilocks Had It Good: An Oatmeal Deep-Dive appeared first on The McGill Daily.

The Red River Métis people are a community with historic ties to the Red River settlement. We are a people with unique language, art, hunting practices and a distinct culture. At the genesis of the Red River Métis people, European settler men came to what would one day become Canada and intermarried with the First Nations women there. These voyageur men had come to the land in search of beaver pelts for the ever-growing fur trade throughout the 17th century. They had children and formed a community with their combined cultures, these children becoming the first generation of the Red River Métis. The fur trade was an important part for the growth of our Nation for the coming centuries. In the 19th century, battles where the Métis flag was first flown appear in the historic records, like in the Bataille de la Grenouillère. In 1870, Louis Riel had established the first provisional government and brought Manitoba into the constitution of Canada, under the promise of a land allotment to future generations of Métis. Soon after, Canada placed a bounty on Louis Riel for his resistance against colonization and ultimately hung him for treason. The land promise was never fulfilled and Louis Riel was wrongly convicted, which explains Canada’s current attempts at reconciliation with the Red River Métis.

The genesis of the Red River Métis has led to a common misconception: that we are simply a combination of white and First Nations blood, when in fact being Métis has nothing to do with blood quantum. That is to say, citizenship in our Nation is not about how much First Nations genes one inherited. It is about what came after those first children, the community that emerged. Essentially, it is based on who your ancestors were and if your family was a part of the distinct Red River Métis culture.

Our floral beadwork, the Michif language, the buffalo hunt. Our fiddle songs and Red River Jig. These are just a few distinct aspects of the Red River Métis Nation that make us who we are. Our floral beadwork uses techniques from our First Nations mothers and takes inspiration from the flowers in the plains. Our language, Michif, which is a unique combination of French and Plains Cree. The buffalo hunt is no longer widely practiced, but historically, the Red River Métis were skilled hunters and followed strict rules of the hunt. Beyond that, our shared values are what makes the uniqueness of our people obvious. Our generous spirit and tendency to help anyone in need, that I have felt many times in my community. Our sense of humour, our love of the outdoors, the warmness I feel from my people is what makes us who we are.

Our community has no blood percentage. It’s for this very reason that during the peak of residential schools, the Métis were sometimes, but not always, white-passing enough to claim their heritage as French-Canadian rather than Indigenous. This was a popular and necessary method of survival at the time that has yet to be undone. It had a generational impact which had led many Red River Métis people today to not really understand what it means to be Métis. Many Métis think their Indigeneity is not valid enough to be “really” Indigenous.

However, the most powerful form of reconciliation those individuals can do is to reclaim their Indigeneity, despite attempts of colonization and erasure. That is what my mother and I have done. My great-grandmother used to insist to my mother that she was French-Canadian, and the topic of Indigeneity was only spoken of in hushed tones. The idea of my mother being Métis was taboo to say the least. We realised much later that it was very likely that my great-grandmother spoke Michif but was forced to forget the language and her culture to protect our family from residential schools and judgement. The reason she so vehemently denied Indigeneity was out of fear it could hurt her family, a fear that was passed on to her from her family, who faced harassment during the reign of terror against the Métis.

So, my mother grew up with the notion that she may be Red River Métis, but didn’t understand what it meant, and therefore raised me the same. It was not until my mother and I became involved with the community again that we started to truly understand and reclaim our Indigeneity. Since then, I have been eternally grateful for every moment I’ve been able to spend with my community.
Every interaction I have with another Red River Métis person solidifies my identity and understanding of my community. It is in no way just a fact about myself — it is an explanation of all my life thus far. It’s much more than realising there is different blood in my family tree than I once thought.

Understanding one’s Indigeneity is like looking at an assortment of puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit your whole life, and when you finally collect all the pieces, it clicks. Suddenly, instead of a unique collection of family quirks, traditions, and norms, you’re looking at a Red River Métis family. You realize that the people closest to you in your life are also Métis and you’ve been a part of the community this whole time — you just never truly understood it.

That is why reclaiming my Red River Métis heritage is so important. It’s important to do right by my family who had to hide. It’s important to understand myself and the people close to me. It’s important because I love being Red River Métis. Despite what colonizers have tried to enforce for centuries, I will not be quiet about it.

The post Being Red River Métis appeared first on The McGill Daily.

“How’s everyone doing tonight?” one of two hosts leaned into the mic, and the crowd cheered. Someone let out a loud “Woo!” masking the groans of those who exchanged deprecated chuckles about their mutual dislike of Valentine’s Day.

The hosts continued to explain the premise of the event. Jam for Justice, a non-profit organization run by McGill University students, supports local charities through music events. For its Piano and Punk event, Jam for Justice collaborated with Montreal’s Heart of the City Piano Program, which provides tuition-free piano lessons to at-risk students in inner-city elementary schools. The night was divided into two halves, intended to represent the duality of love: Heart of the City piano teachers performed gentle piano pieces for the first part of the evening, before Montreal-based punk rock bands — As Usual, Ruby Slipper, and Art Grey — took over for the second half.

In a written statement to the Daily, Holly Kohler, Vice President of Communications at Jam for Justice, explained the intention behind the evening’s theme. “We wanted to make sure we could make this often tiresome day something that everyone could enjoy, regardless of whether or not they are in a relationship. So with that in mind, we landed on Piano and Punk, which we felt would adequately capture the dichotomy of the Valentine’s Day experience.”
“However you’re feeling about Valentine’s Day today, we hope you enjoy the event!” the host continued, despite Valentine’s Day skeptics in the audience. A ripple of laughter moved through the room as students clapped.

As students continued to stream into the dimly lit bar, mellow piano music danced into the air. McGill student Sophia Ahern described the atmosphere as “homey” and the piano music as “chill.”
“The vibes are good!” she told the Daily.

The piano styles ranged in genre, from pop covers to Debussy. One pianist even performed an improv piece, alternating seamlessly between jazz and classical music. During a pop duet of John Legend’s “All of Me,” phone flashlights waved in unison as students waved their hands side to side. “What’s going on in that beautiful mind? I’m on your magical mystery ride…” the performers serenaded.
Despite the romantically branded music, performers insistently proclaimed that Valentine’s Day was for everyone, whether you are in a relationship or not. One singer dedicated her performance to her “besties” before launching into a heartfelt ballad.

For Helene Saleska, another McGill student, Jam for Justice’s event was a chance to spend quality time with her friends: “I think it’s really fun to celebrate love. I’m in a long-distance relationship, so for me, [Valentine’s Day] has become much more of a friend holiday than a romantic holiday.”
Fellow student Lia Graham agreed. “I’m here with my best friends, and I’m so glad to be here. I’d much rather be here on a day when we can all spend it together than if people had their [partners] here,” she told the Daily.

When the last notes of a Debussy piano piece faded out, tables were turned over and chairs set aside to make room for the dance floor. As attendees stood up from their seats, an energetic buzz reverberated through the room in anticipation of the punk performances to come.
“Gerts! How’s everyone doing?” Dylan Jacques, lead singer and bassist of the band As Usual, crooned into the mic. He was met with an excited roar, and as a wave of students filled the dance floor, the evening took a distinctive turn, changing tunes to suit the higher-energy punk music.
Jacques, a U3 student at McGill, reflected on his performance in an interview with the Daily. “Looking out during some of the songs and seeing people dancing and having fun and smiling — it’s very cool to be part of that experience.”

Vishwa Srinivasan, As Usual’s lead guitarist and U3 student at McGill, echoed his bandmate’s sentiments. “My favourite part of performing live is just how interactive it is, both between us as musicians and with the audience,” Srinivasan said to the Daily. “When you’re on stage, it’s a collective experience that everyone’s having.”

Although As Usual is not strictly a punk band — Srinivasan described them as “not bound by a genre” — they leaned into several angsty punk songs to fit the evening’s theme.

Audience member Joshua Farmer commented on the contrast between the piano and punk music, viewing it as a metaphor for the duality of love: “[It] shows that couples sometimes appear calm and mellow on the surface, but behind closed doors, it can be loud, chaotic, and messy,” he told the Daily. “It shows that relationships are real and raw.”

When asked about the duality of love, Axel Morton, an undergraduate student at Concordia University, paused. “I mean, that’s pretty deep,” he told the Daily with a chuckle. “I may or may not be in love right now. I’m still trying to figure that out.”

Morton told the Daily that love is often “taboo, but at the same time, everyone talks about love. Almost every song ever written was about love.” He added, “I think it’s important that we have this day to celebrate love.”

It is thus fitting that Jam for Justice’s Valentine’s Day event celebrated love through piano and punk — two genres that appear contradictory at first, but when paired together, embody the duality of love.

The post Love is Piano — Love is Punk appeared first on The McGill Daily.

Picture your hardest midterm. Now picture waking up one morning and realizing that said midterm, which you thought was a week away and thus hadn’t really studied for, was actually that morning – an hour before you woke up. You sprint to the exam hall and slide into your seat, panting, somehow freezing cold and burning hot at the same time. Your senses are in overdrive. Then, you look down and realize your midterm is written entirely in the Wingdings font, which seems to be legible to everybody except you. Oh, and you’re still in your pyjamas. And there’s only 30 minutes left to complete the exam.

From there, you’ve got a pretty good idea of how the events in One Of Them Days (2025) feel.

Hitting cinemas in mid-January with a bang, the Issa Rae-produced film injects nightmare-fuel scenarios like the one above with dazzling humour and charm. One Of Them Days features two best friends, Dreux (Keke Palmer) and Alyssa (Solána Rowe), and the obstacles they face in a race against the clock to avoid eviction after Alyssa’s boyfriend spends their rent money on a foregone T-shirt business. Solána Rowe, better known as SZA, makes her acting debut (though you’d never guess it) alongside the multi-talented veteran Keke Palmer. A ray of sunlight in the general malaise of winter, the duo’s impeccable comedic timing and hilarious dynamic make it easy to root for them as they stomp and stumble through their day.

Set in the heart of Los Angeles, Black culture is highlighted and celebrated in every facet of the film. Dreux and Alyssa live in Baldwin Village, a majority-Black working-class neighbourhood affectionately nicknamed “The Jungles.” Behind the film is an all-Black core team of directors, producers, and writers, guaranteeing an “authenticity” that underpins the film’s comedy and protects its cultural integrity. Ergo, One Of Them Days does more than just represent Black people – it ensures that Black people are not the butts of jokes but the ones making them, as well as the ones receiving credit for the laughter they elicit.

Up until recently, Black actresses in comedy played roles that made punchlines at the expense of their Blackness – perhaps the token best friend or the disempowered worker. Even as more and more Black women found prominence in the acting world, there remained a stark gap in comedies that spotlighted Black women and culture. One Of Them Days seeks to remedy this. The last buddy-comedy with two Black female protagonists was B*A*P*S (1997), which director Lawrence Lamont cites as one of the sources of his primary motivation: the pride he feels in seeing Black women in leading roles. As the first of its kind in close to 30 years, the box-office success of One Of Them Days sparks hope for widened avenues for Black actresses to showcase their comedic chops in cinema.

In a way, One Of Them Days is a gender-swapped version of Friday (1995), a cornerstone film in Black cinema that underlines not just the strife faced by Black communities but the joys shared amongst them, too. One Of Them Days pays tribute to its predecessor in many ways. The opening shot of a pair of sneakers hanging by their laces from a phone line in Friday becomes a central plot point in One Of Them Days, and both films feature the shenanigans of a pair of best friends (played by Ice Cube and Chris Tucker in Friday) over the course of a day-long mad dash against time.

Most importantly, like Friday, One Of Them Days is more than just a comedy. Beyond giving Black women the screen time they deserve, the film illuminates the harsh circumstances of Black neighbourhoods and communities in California. There, displacement is at a record high. The proliferation of development projects in Los Angeles has denied residents access to and gentrified various public spaces, infringing on already historically disenfranchised Black communities who have lived in the region since the 1940s. Moreover, skyrocketing real estate prices have forced many from their long-time homes, either into the growing urban sprawl on the outskirts of Los Angeles or onto the streets. Los Angeles had a homeless population of at least 75,000 in 2024, with this figure rising in tandem with the recent wildfires. Dreux and Alyssa’s fight to keep their apartment, while portrayed in a series of messy yet amusing events, is a sobering indictment of the very real issue of homelessness in California – and the desperation to avoid it.

In the same vein, One Of Them Days reawakens another classic comedy genre: the working-class comedy. Like Friday, One Of Them Days pokes fun at the struggles of the working class while simultaneously elevating them into public awareness. Amidst her and Alyssa’s haphazard attempts to make rent, Dreux contends with the anxiety of a make-or-break job interview; as well as a disastrously low credit score, which a clerk laughs uncontrollably and unabashedly at. While tonally humourous, these scenes engage the working-class majority in their relatability. More people can relate to self-doubt and instability than they can to the far-fetched plots that populate the comedy scene.

This, on top of its talented cast and stellar script, is perhaps what makes One Of Them Days so good. Its humour resonates with and reflects the realities of a demographic widely underrepresented in the glamour of Hollywood, reassuring them that they are not alone in their frustrations and upset. This solidarity extends beyond the screen: in an Instagram post, Lamont wished for One Of Them Days to “provide a moment of escape and joy when the time is right” for those affected by the destructive Los Angeles wildfires.

To those puzzled about how such a thematically serious film can be considered a comedy: fret not. While underscored by consequential Black issues, One Of Them Days highlights Black sisterhood and community through universal laugh-out-loud moments. The family-like bonds between the characters in The Jungles ameliorate seemingly insurmountable challenges, as seen in how the whole neighbourhood comes together to set up Alyssa’s last-minute art exhibition in the heart of the estate itself. While some of these portrayed solutions can feel contrived at times, the immense heart put into them is nevertheless unmistakable.

Back to the midterm at the start of the article. Let’s be real: you bomb it. Oh well. Anyway, there’s nothing you can do besides pick yourself up and tell yourself you’ll do better next time. Maybe grab a beer, or a Hot Cheeto Martini, the way Dreux and Alyssa do – whatever works to take the edge off. After all, it’s just one of them days.

The post Black Comedy for Dark Days appeared first on The McGill Daily.