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One spring day in 2020, Sarah Vasquez lifted the lid of a boiling pot of atole in her kitchen in Marfa, Texas. 鈥淭he familiar smell of the cinnamon sticks and milk hit me, and I started crying,鈥� she remembers.

Because of COVID-19, Vasquez was doing her best to isolate. As a freelance journalist and photographer, she lost some of her regular gigs and was reassessing her income for the rest of the year. She began making comforting, budget-friendly meals such as arroz con pollo and hamburger meat with corn. For the first time, she put together the ingredients for her grandmother鈥檚 atole鈥攁 hot corn- and masa-based drink. It brought her to tears, 鈥渂ecause I didn鈥檛 know when I鈥檇 see my family again,鈥� she says.

Vasquez vividly remembers the sweet taste of her grandmother鈥檚 atole from the days of her childhood in Austin, Texas. But it wasn鈥檛 until the COVID-19 pandemic that she tried making it herself.

鈥淚鈥檓 a terrible cook,鈥� says Vasquez. Growing up, she often spent time with her grandmother, Mary Luna Vasquez, at her yellow, one-story house in East Austin, .

That cozy kitchen was the family鈥檚 gathering spot. But Mary Luna didn鈥檛 follow recipes.

鈥淪he鈥檚 a very old-school Latina grandma,鈥� says Vasquez. 鈥淪he doesn鈥檛 use measurements at all. She uses a handful of this or that.鈥�

Engaging in traditions and practices of one’s cultural heritage can be a psychologically meaningful experience that can engender feelings of connection.

For the past seven years, Vasquez has lived in Marfa, a desert community that鈥檚 a six-hour drive from her hometown. Since the start of the pandemic, she hasn鈥檛 gone home because she doesn鈥檛 want to put her family at risk.

In Texas, Latinos make up almost 40% of the population but account for 53% of the state鈥檚 COVID-19-related deaths,

During a challenging pandemic, comfort food has helped many of us sustain ourselves, whether it鈥檚 nutritional or emotional support we seek. For the children and grandchildren of immigrants, reconnecting with ancestral practices have helped us survive and stay connected to family when we can鈥檛 be together physically.

鈥淓ngaging in traditions and practices of one’s cultural heritage can be a psychologically meaningful experience that can engender feelings of connection,鈥� says Sumie Okazaki, a professor of applied psychology at New York University.

At a time when feelings of isolation are particularly potent, Okazaki says, 鈥渟eeking out new ways or new rituals to feel connected can certainly promote well-being.鈥�

But it鈥檚 not just children of immigrants who are seeking ritual. Immigrant parents, too, are rediscovering traditions they haven鈥檛 experienced in years.

Kaori Tashiro, a social worker in Louisville, Kentucky, came to the U.S. 25 years ago. Her two children, now grown, visited their grandparents in Japan every summer of their lives鈥攗ntil now.

Tashiro especially misses riding on public transit in Tokyo. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a certain ringtone you hear in stations,鈥� she says. Last year, the family started listening to YouTube recordings of metro announcement because they couldn鈥檛 visit Japan.

Recently, Kaori bought a jar of Japanese pickled plums鈥攖he first time she鈥檇 sought them out in a store in years. 鈥淭he fact that you can’t go home makes you want to do things like this,鈥� Kaori says. 鈥淚 think it鈥檚 great. It鈥檚 hard for second-generation immigrants to hold on to both identities.鈥� Last summer, Tashiro鈥檚 28-year-old son, Kojin, picked up the habit of making umeboshi, pickled fruit, himself.

But not all immigrant families have been able to hunker down together like the Tashiros.

For Rochelle Kwan, a community organizer in New York City, living far from her San Francisco-based parents, who immigrated from Hong Kong in the late 鈥�70s and early 鈥�80s, the pandemic has been especially difficult.

When New York was surging with its first wave of COVID-19 cases, Kwan kept in touch with her family via Zoom and Google Hangouts.

鈥淚 got really burnt out from seeing people on the screen. But I still wanted to stay connected in some way,鈥� Kwan says.

So she started lighting incense and speaking to her ancestors. Before the pandemic, Kwan says she observed this ritual only when she felt like she needed guidance in an urgent situation. Now, she realizes, 鈥淭his isn鈥檛 just something that needs to be done in an emergency.鈥�

Kwan has made it a regular practice: light three sticks of incense, take three bows, and start chatting. 鈥淚 talk to my grandparents who have passed. At the beginning of the pandemic, when there was a lot of death around me, … it was overwhelming. Being in this tradition allowed me to talk with folks who have passed but have not left.鈥�

The incense ritual coincided with Kwan鈥檚 move from Brooklyn to Manhattan鈥檚 Chinatown in 2020.

When reports of the virus emerged early last year, NYC鈥檚 Chinatown was one of the first neighborhoods to lose customers, as racist fearmongering . 无码视频 recently, organizers in Chinatown have and

In her new apartment, 鈥攆rom Cantonese opera to traditional Chinese instrumental music to Mandopop鈥攁nd hosting listening parties on Zoom for community members in her neighborhood. Her family tuned in from across the country.

鈥淚 have this dream of a Chinatown block party where I鈥檒l be spinning all these records,鈥� Kwan says. She hopes to invite 鈥渢he old Chinatown folks who know these songs and artists.鈥�

Until it鈥檚 safe to host an in-person party, Kwan says, she鈥檒l keep spinning virtually.

Even before the coronavirus forced folks to quarantine, people from immigrant backgrounds were finding virtual ways to connect with their heritage.

鈥淚t is, indeed, possible to learn and connect to your ancestral culture from afar using foods and cultural celebrations,鈥� says Dr. Gail M. Ferguson, an associate professor at Institute of Child Development, University of Minnesota, who studies how people learn about their cultural heritage from a distance. 鈥淭hese efforts do have psychological and emotional benefits that could be especially helpful during this pandemic, when our usual sources of connection and support are diminished.鈥�

Sarah Naser left Palestine when she was just a baby. Growing up in Dearborn, Michigan, with a Palestinian father and White American mother, she knew a few phrases of Arabic. But life under lockdown has afforded her the time to pursue the language in more depth.

Naser, 24, invited two childhood friends鈥擜li Aoun and Amira Alshouli鈥攖o join her for a Friendsgiving in November. They cooked dishes like mashed potatoes alongside hashweh: an aromatic rice loaded with spices, raisins, and nuts.

She no longer lives in Dearborn, an Arab American enclave famous for its food, But Naser says that learning Arabic has helped her feel more connected to her roots and history.

鈥淕rowing up half-White, I always felt alienated from these traditions,鈥� Naser says. 鈥淏ut I feel like learning this stuff helps me feel connected and like I belong to the community.鈥�

So far, 2021 has brought us little respite from adversity. In the U.S., we continue to face the threat of White supremacist violence, and variants of the coronavirus are spreading rapidly across our communities. Connecting to ancestral roots may not seem like a direct response to those threats, but as Ferguson of the University of Minnesota says, these practices can help foster a sense of continuity by connecting us to the past and guiding us to a better future.