Student Summer Symposium: Ruthie Collins
From recipe testing, to ethnography, to archives, to even appetizers, our 2026 Student Summer Symposium showcases the many ways our students think, create, and write about food.
Feminine Fire: Stirring the Pot, Shaping the World
By Ruthie Collins
Once upon a time, someone, somewhere, decided a woman’s place was in the kitchen. Said it like a curse . . . as if the worst thing a woman could be was barefoot while basting a turkey. But what if we reclaimed that phrase? What if, in 2026, a woman’s place is wherever she chooses to be, including the kitchen, not out of obligation, but from passion? What if we revisit women’s lib again and place ourselves in the kitchen because of our desire to immerse ourselves in the process of cooking and need for a creative outlet, and not because of a stereotype? When I cook, I am not performing a chore, I’m designing. The kitchen is where I go to remember who I am. It’s where I feel rooted and radiant. It’s where I can pour intuition, tenderness, and power into something tangible. And I actually like it there. There was a time when we fought so hard to get out of the kitchen, and now we’re finding ourselves ready to waltz back in with our heads held high, our knives sharp, and our playlists loud because we want to claim it as ours.
For me, the kitchen is my studio. My sanctuary. My rebel garden is where I toss in a little chaos and a lot of herbs and see what blooms. I feel like the most authentic version of myself when I’m elbow-deep in lemon zest and olive oil. No performance and no pressure. Just me, a flame, and something good coming together in a pan. Women have been trailblazers and doing bold things, building legacies, and changing the world for decades. And while I love a power suit and a corner office as much as the next gal, I’d like to raise a wooden spoon to another kind of leader: the woman who leads from the kitchen. You know the type. Maybe you were raised by one. I was. My mother didn’t just cook, she orchestrated. She didn’t measure spices, she felt them. She didn’t follow recipes, but she remembered them. She sang to her sauce, whispered sweet nothings to her roast, and somehow always had enough to feed one more soul who stopped by hungry. Her cooking was about connection. She nourished others while keeping her hands busy and letting her heart lead the way. My mother was a quiet kind of artist, but her magic wasn’t in using a plate as a canvas. She found joy in its cadence: slicing, stirring, tasting. She’d hum along to Pink Floyd playing in the background on our record player while peeling potatoes, sometimes whispering to the herbs like they were old friends.
She would submerge herself in the scents that emanated from her efforts. For her,cooking wasn’t a task. It was a kind of ritual . . . a way to keep the family connected and the past alive. And the women before her? Legends. Mythmakers. My ancestors were such gossip queens. They’d gather around the kitchen table with a bushel of onions and turn that tear-jerking chore into a full-blown storytelling session. Stuffed onions were their specialty, filled with rice, seasoned beef, Mexican spices, and family secrets. The peeling, scooping, and filling were all done with a rhythm passed down like folklore. They didn’t need measuring cups. They had instinct, memory, and just the right-sized palms. And while their hands worked, their mouths worked harder. They laughed, they cried, and they lived in that kitchen. Through inherited energy passed on through time, they taught me that food is never just food. It’s love, memory, and a little magic rolled into one.
So, here I am now, decades later, in my own kitchen. I am barefoot sometimes, not pregnant (I’ve done my time), but always the boss. Not because I’m expected to be here, but because I choose to. Because this is where I come alive. Because this is where I get to be both soft and strong, nurturer and artist. I carry my ancestors with me every time I step into my kitchen. Each time I cook, they’re there in the scent of caramelized onion, in the hiss of butter hitting a hot skillet, and in the instinct to add “just a little more” even when the recipe says otherwise. Their presence reminds me that the kitchen has always been a place of feminine power, steady and enduring.
And to honor that and honor them, I want to share an ancestral meal that tastes like feminine fire: bold, floral, sweet, and unexpected. Mexican-stuffed onions that say, “Yes, I made this. And yes, I am that woman.”
Mexican-Stuffed Onions
These onions are like tiny edible love letters, each filled with savory rice, toasted pepitas, and a smoky-spicy flavor that makes your heart ache in the best way. Perfect as a side dish or main, and even better reheated the next day (because we love leftovers like we love our female ancestors – warm, flavorful, and full of stories).
Serves: 6 as a side, 3 as a main
Ingredients:
6 medium red onions, peeled
1 tbsp olive oil
For Filling:
2 lbs ground beef (I use 93% lean)
2 garlic cloves, minced
1 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp smoked paprika
1 chipotle pepper in adobo, finely chopped (or to taste)
1 ½ cups cooked rice (white or brown)
½ cup black beans, drained and rinsed
¼ cup toasted pepitas (pumpkin seeds)
¼ cup queso fresco or cotija, crumbled (optional)
2 tbsp chopped fresh cilantro
Salt and pepper to taste
A squeeze of lime
Instructions:
Prep the onions:
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Slice the tops off the onions and carefully core them with a spoon or melon baller, leaving 2-3 outer layers intact to make little onion “cups.” (Reserve the scooped-out centers. Just trust me.) Boil the hollowed onions for 5–7 minutes until tender but not falling apart. Drain and let cool.
Make the filling:
Chop the reserved onion centers and sauté in olive oil with the ground beef and garlic until soft. Stir in cumin, paprika, chipotle, and a pinch of salt. Add rice, beans, and pepitas. Warm through. Remove from heat and fold in cilantro, lime juice, and queso if using. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Stuff the onions:
Spoon the filling into each onion shell. Nestle them in a baking dish, drizzle with olive oil, and bake at 375°F for 15–20 minutes until everything is heated and the tops are golden.
To serve:
Top with extra queso, cilantro, or a drizzle of crema. Serve with warm tortillas or alongside a big green salad.