Edition #177: A Few Great Blessings
You'll find them if you remember to look. Also, a Martha Stewart cocktail party, crows can hold a grudge, and a spot-on SNL sketch.
A Note From the Editor
The tears came on my journey’s first pit stop. Nairobi, the Pride Lounge by Kenyan Airways. Giant backpack slung over my reddening shoulders, such a dumb idea, so heavy. Feeling my own presence as if from outside my body, observing myself. Look how uncomfortable she is, silly American girl, and all alone. Look how she circles, so awkward, trying to be quiet, trying to fit in.
I ate a plate of curry vegetables and rice at one table, then moved to another table to eat my flavorless flatbread, this one further out of the eye line of the other patrons. I positioned myself by the window, let the tears flow. When they started they really started. I got into character, melancholy girl traveling solo, that lonely soul, and soon I was stifling sobs, little gasps for air, emotion blooming red on my chest.
I kept crying on the second leg of the journey, another five hours in the air. I cried the next day when the dust of nearly 48 hours of travel settled. I cried when I realized how much more sprawling Cape Town was than I expected—it reminded me, at first glimpse, of LA. I cried when I learned the ocean was icy and unwelcoming, when I realized I would need to Uber everywhere, when I left my Airbnb for the first time and felt paralyzed by fear of the unknown, pressing on me from all sides and swirling through my head, my veins.
From the other side of the world, a voice note from a dear friend. “Cacao beans have a nine-month gestation period. Nine months! You’ll get used to it. These things take time.” The things in question: accepting your choice to spend several months alone, halfway around the world, for no good reason. Swallowing the ambivalence around your next steps, your blurred life path, accepting the fact that nothing but your choices led you here, that even if that here feels inexplicably unbearable—makes no sense, it’s beautiful, the people are nice, you should be happy!—you’re here nonetheless.
From the other side of the world, my sister, over the line, reminding me to give myself grace—that impossible, elusive thing—listening to me wring out my anxieties and fears, assuring me of their normalcy. My father and brother-in-law puffing up in the family group text when I discovered I would be more alone than I had planned; there would be no visitors to break the spell of solitude. These two grown men, neither of whom have ever coddled me, saying maybe I should come home. I knew I wouldn’t, but their protectiveness felt like a warm towel, fresh from the dryer.
My sweet friend, slugging through a grueling grad school program, calling to check in the day after a really bad one. Another friend sending me a podcast episode that she thought might cheer me up, a photo of her human-eyed dog. Exsisting alongside the pain, sheer amazement at the ways I was being cared for over such great distances, across vast oceans. During a period of time that proved to be supremely isolating and full of lessons I wasn’t ready to learn, great blessings rained upon me.
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And what about that time, during COVID, when we decided to ride horses out in the Vermont wilderness? To be mounted on a gentle giant, that original piece of machinery, all sinew and grace. Following behind the cowboy—a stranger in such close proximity, the delight!—listening to his stories. A rodeo guy, he told me, even competed in the big leagues. Biggest rodeo east of the Mississippi, down in Florida. Kissimmee, if I'd ever heard of it. And I traveled back in time, told the cowboy stories of Rodeo Day's past, that coveted Friday in February we had off of school, how we’d all eat funnel cake and ride The Gravitron with our crushes, our young bodies weighted down by centrifugal force. Behind me, my two sweet friends, more like sisters, more like soulmates, each rode their own horse. Behind them, the setting sun. All hooves on gravel, babbling brook and fall foliage and I thought, if I were to die right now, it would be OK.
Then there was that night after Thanksgiving when we all sat on the couch glued to our laptops, ordering things we didn’t need to assuage the anxieties of discussing our aging parents. It wasn’t even 6pm and no one was in the mood for karoke, but the kids wanted to sing before bed. We could muster the energy for a song or two. Then one song turned into two, three. The kids went to bed. One Negroni turned into two, three, Negronis turned into wine and we forgot to eat dinner despite the copious leftovers stacked in the fridge, the good turkey and mashed potatoes and congealed green bean casserole.
We hogged the microphones, inhibitions evaporating, song after song. The affectionate tendencies that define our bloodline drawing a head to a shoulder, a hand to a knee, a leg outstretched to a lap. As I sang I overheard my dad say he was amazed by how I did it, how I went out into the world all alone, and I’d never heard him say such a thing. Even my mom sang along, the first time we ever got her to join in, and I sat wedged between them, these two people who raised me and hurt me and loved me, and I felt my heart might burst out of my chest for all its fullness. Then all of us sang in unison, an obscure, sad song by The Highwaymen, the one my dad used to play on cassette in the pickup truck all those decades ago. I was dreadfully hungover the next day but it didn’t matter.
It can happen alone sometimes, too, floating on a surfboard in a bathwater ocean. Maybe it was a good session or maybe it was shit, it doesn’t matter. What matters is you recognize the faces around you at this point because you’ve been out for a while and you’ve gone for the same waves, assessed each other’s skill level, accepted each others shared existence. It looks like there might not be much of a sunset tonight but at the last minute the sky is set ablaze, putting on a proper show, and there you all are, strangers, floating together in the front row. In your head you call is a Devil Sunset, not sure why except that you have to give it a name, you have to put words to something so fantastic.
And those ordinary mornings when you open your eyes and, for one blissful moment, you forget yesterday's troubles, forget where you are, what day it is. There is only a clean slate, a fresh opportunity to try to live the way you want to. The way endorphins pump through your bloodstream after a run and you don’t even like running. The coy excitement that comes with handing off a good gift, time suspended just before they tear through the wrapping paper, not a gift bag in sight. Those precious moments when they make the reservation, book the Airbnb, navigate on the GPS, and you get to take a backseat, blissfully unencumbered. The daze that comes with stumbling out of a movie theatre, no sense of time or place, hearing the girls in the bathroom say that it was better than they expected, or worse. And the shared smile, soft, barley there, that blossoms as you catch the eye of a parent after ogling their baby, their dog. Great blessings are all over, if we remember to look.
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Cheers, my dears, and as always, thanks for reading. It’s been raining nonstop where I am, so I’m letting the weather dictate the weekend's plans. I think I'll go to an ecstatic dance, rewatch my favorite movie, and maintain my new Saturday tradition of pilates and brunch with a few girlfriends, but let's see how it goes. Have a wonderful weekend! Make a long, slow Bolognese, call your best friend, take an after dinner walk.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
Martha Stewart’s ‘Entertaining’ Let Me Party Like It Was 1982. if there’s one thing you must read from today’s edition, it’s this. The author replicates a “cocktail party for 25” from Martha Stewart’s first book, a hybrid cookbook/entertaining guide. Just reading about the proposed menu for said cocktail party makes this worth the read—Roquefort grapes, a white wine bar, etc. I now want to buy this cookbook and try throwing one of Stewart’s parties myself. Free idea: someone should throw every party in the book and turn it into a YouTube channel/TikTok page. Would be fun to watch!
If You Think You Can Hold a Grudge, Consider the Crow. This is absolutely bonkers. I love the way nature—the weather, angry crows, etc—exercises its innate intelligence to keep us in check. You’re a powerful executive and board member? The hurricane doesn’t give a damn. You’ve lived in this house for a decade? The crow, mistaking you for another blonde who pissed them off last week, is going to terrorize you until you literally have to move out. Wild stuff!
Know Your Creative Cycle. I got a lot out of this piece by
, a longtime anthropologist of the creative process. It is so easy to get stuck in the “I’m never going to make anything again” mindset. Inaction, for me, is like quicksand. I start sinking, then my mind conjures a lightning storm in the middle of the quicksand fiasco and suddenly it’s been a year and I haven’t dedicated any significant amount of time to a specific creative endeavor. Reading this made me realize I’m not alone in the getting stuck phase; it’s simply part of the process. I sketched out my flowchart of the creative process, which I’m going to put up near my workspace to remind me the phases are just phases. All the creative needs to do is move through, resisting the urge to sit in one phase for too long.
Perhaps You Should…Try Recreating Your Favorite Dish
I am deep in my nesting phase right now, which means I’m back to cooking 90% of my meals at home. When I'm this inspired in the kitchen, I make it a point to try to recreate some of my favorite dishes at home. The first time I tried this was two years ago when I learned to make Pad Thai. It was so delicious and easy. I couldn't believe I'd been spending $40 for greasy Pad Thai takeout in New York.
This week, I bought a huge hunk of fresh tuna from a local fisherman and decided to make a poke bowl. I got sushi rice, pickled ginger, wasabi, edamame, avocado, mango, the whole nine yards. And, WOW, I have never been so blown away by something I made before. Definitely going the build-your-own poke bowl route for my next dinner party. Next up, I’m going to try making Pad See Ew.
**Bonus Content** (Political Commentary + Some Fun)
SNL has been bringing their A-game for the 50th season. If at any point this week you’ve wondered where the Democrats went wrong this election—I’ve read about a thousand headlines for think pieces pondering the question, and I listened to one underwhelming podcast episode on the topic—look no further than this sketch. Truly says it all.
Over dinner the other night with a very wise activist friend, we discussed the election at length. I had been mostly numbing myself to the reality of it and hadn’t had a full-on post-election discourse until that dinner. We drank a bottle of wine and talked too loudly, branding ourselves as Americans in a country that isn’t our own. She shared a theory I’ve been thinking a lot about ever since: the Democrats did this to themselves, and it started back in 2016 with the refusal to let Bernie run on the Dem ticket.
The people wanted populism—not the cheaply disguised, billionaire circle jerk pseudo-populism we’re about to see, but a true, people-first populism. Instead of Bernie, a lifelong populist, the Dems ran Hillary. Then came the 2020 primary, so full of promising candidates and energized campaigns. I was four feet in on the primary races that year. I made campaign calls for Warren, attended rallies, and watched the polls like a hawk. When Joe Biden wriggled his way onto the ticket—despite a lackluster performance in Iowa, despite the utter lack of enthusiasm around his campaign—I was dumbfounded.
Fast forward to 2024 and there was no Democratic primary at all. The voters didn’t have a hand in choosing the candidate, even if they (we) rallied around her in the end. When you look back over the years from this vantage point, it doesn’t feel like the voters had much of a heavy hand in choosing the last several Democratic presidential candidates. My activist friend also showed me a photo I somehow missed amidst the chaos of living in New York in 2020. I suppose the writing was always on the Kente-cloth-covered wall.
I haven’t invested energy into the "broken Democratic party” narrative because it has never felt useful. I am a registered Democrat and a pragmatist; nothing is perfect. But then, the people have spoken. The party as it currently operates isn’t working and something’s got to give. In the meantime, the American experiment continues. Godspeed.
ANYWHO, if you’re feeling ready to jump ship on the good ol’ US of A, there are a few decent incentives that can make it possible. Might treat myself to a cute, unnecessary accessory to soften the blow. This song is the perfect anthem for American democracy in its current iteration, and this one makes me feel empowered during trying times. Adding this to my family’s Thanksgiving menu this year and bringing back molasses from the states so I can bake these.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“He stood for a moment on the melting snow, distracted, and then began to run down the hill, feeling himself fly as the descent became more rapid, and thinking: I can climb back up. If it’s wrong, I can always climb back up.”
-Go Tell It on the Mountain by James Baldwin