If I were to conduct a survey of what holidays had the most tenuous grip on actual significance (excluding, of course, 20th-century creations like Mother’s Day) I’m pretty sure that Halloween would be at the top of the list. However, this is not to say that the age-old traditions of dressing in costume, carving pumpkins (and eating the seeds afterwards) and binge eating are without merit.

It’s about having fun, after all, and what better way to do that than with festive food?

My older brother spent one summer working as a horticulturist’s assistant at the PPG Aquarium in Pittsburgh, and though the job drew a lot of complaints, I gleaned some very important information from his labors. Several trees that arched beautifully over the piranha tank had to be kept pruned, of course, and their tropical look and pretty white flowers made them an important part of the Amazonian landscape.

When my brother’s boss admitted to him that these trees in fact produced clusters of her favorite fruit of all time, I was immediately intrigued. After all, fruit is my muse, and the prospect of trying something that came so highly recommended had me salivating.

There is a tradition in my co-op that, on a house member’s birthday, a birthday cake must be produced from scratch in celebration. Creativity in the actual execution of the baked good is encouraged — chocolate is a perennial favorite, and the occasional rainbow cake garners oohs and aahs.

But since about half of the house, including me, was born sometime during the summer months, I was a bit concerned that this crowd of twins, crabs and lions was getting the shaft. So, at the end of the spring semester, my friend Katherine and I put our heads together and hatched a brilliant, summer birthday-worthy plan. Not only would we make a cake, we would make a LEMON SANDCASTLE CAKE: a torte of triumph, a gateau of greatness, a confection for the ages.

The first thing that caught my eye when I walked into the newly-opened Five Guys Burgers and Fries franchise off of Route 13, aside from the line that extended from the counter to the door even on a Wednesday afternoon, was the potatoes. Heaps of potatoes. Mounds. In fact, I would even go so far as to call the wall of 50-pound bags stacked four-high a formidable barricade. A crowd lines up outside of Five Guys

I got my double cheeseburger (ironically just listed as a “cheeseburger” on the menu — singles are “little cheeseburgers”), which overflowed its bun with meat, lettuce, tomato, cheese, onions and pickles.

It has been suggested that I love apples. Well, duh. Who doesn’t? There’s just something about the apple’s crispy, juicy sweetness that strikes a chord in the human brain that Jelly Belly will ever be able to mimic.

Apples are, for many, the taste of autumn and of childhood: From a steaming mug of mulled cider or a bright Yellow Delicious tucked lovingly into a lunchbox, apples have wormed their way into our social consciousness and our cultural identity in the form of folk tales about Johnny Appleseed’s random propagation or Isaac Newton’s painful inspiration. And what, aside from obesity, representative democracy and Tila Tequila, could be more American than apple pie?

My mother, like mothers everywhere, is a very sneaky woman.

One day I sat down to dinner and found in front of me a perennial, all-Italian- American favorite: spaghetti and meatballs. Since it was the summer and, most importantly, time to eat, I could not help but sniff eagerly at the wafting aromas of basil and Parmesan while waiting impatiently for dinner to start. So far, so good. As I scarfed down my first plate of spaghetti, I had only a vaguely disquieting sense that my mother had an unusual glint in her eye. Only after I had finished reluctantly pushing my spinach around my plate and finally eaten it did I realize what had just happened. My mom had used me as a lab rat.

Hello everybody, and welcome to a new season of Ithaca Bites, the Red Letter Daze food column. Every week, I’ll discuss a different dish or ingredient, from the humdrum to the exotic, with a little bit of science thrown in for flavoring.

As the fall semester roars into gear and leaves things like relaxation and sunshine in the dust, the average Cornell student’s diet becomes much less dependent upon picnic staples like watermelon and hamburgers as beer consumption returns to its nine-month plateau.

Still, each swig of Keystone and Pabst Blue Ribbon has a key ingredient in common with those fluffy hamburger buns, and that is a nifty little creature called a yeast.

There is an oft-neglected ingredient, which cannot be purchased, that makes bread edible and changes liquids into amorphous pseudosolids: air. Some dishes, like mousse and whipped cream, would be impossible if it weren’t for the remarkable property of fats and proteins that makes bubbles of air into a stable foam matrix.

Of course, the easiest way to get a consistent, tasty result is to hit Wegmans for a can of Reddi-Whip, but a far more luxurious whipped cream is made with cream, sugar and a whisk. It’s a little bit of work, but wow, so worth it.

Green CafeThe Green Café feels like a tiny piece of Manhattan — specifically, a Midtown deli — has floated up to Collegetown. Immediately upon entering, one is struck by the restaurant’s cleanliness and spotless surroundings. There are panini sandwiches precisely spread out as if arranged by a Vegas card dealer; the pastries glisten under twinkling glass as if they were part of an iconic Wayne Thiebaud painting. The large glass walls let in a generous amount of sunlight (even when that resource is in short supply in Ithaca), and it permeates the dining area. The swank, sparkling modernity of the décor whets your appetite.

April. Spring. Warm weather. Flowers. Bees. Honey!

Thus was my thought process last week on a trip to Wegmans. More than store layout or attractive displays, if there’s one thing that ensures the profitability of grocery stores, it is the propensity of shoppers to pick up on random food-related lines of thought and impulsively buy items that they don’t really need. I pushed my cart to aisle 15A and my hand hovered briefly over a particularly delicious-looking jar of wildflower honey. Fortunately, with a glance at the $7 price tag, my cerebellum released the clutch and my cerebrum ground back into gear. Stop! You already have a five-pound bottle at home. I couldn’t help but stop and think, though — how many flowers had a part in that jar?