Category Archives: diaries

Week 8: Bread

What follows is an installment of my Writer’s Diary, which for eighteen weeks I am sending every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

Hello, Gentle Readers, and may your Sunday be peaceful. This is the eighth letter in this food-themed season of Nighthawk’s Notes. (Is that the name of this newsletter/email diary? Still not sure.) Thank you for reading it.

When I started this season, I said that there would be either 12 or 18 issues. Finally this week I figured out the answer: there will be 18 issues! But they won’t all be in a row. After today’s newsletter, I’ll be taking a break for the next three months—I have a lot of stuff needing doing, all of which has been made more complicated by the pandemic. You might hear from me once or twice over the summer. Then on October 11th I’ll resume sending the newsletter weekly, and we’ll finish off the season around Thanksgiving. I can hardly wait to write about the food we eat when it’s not 100° outside.

Before we get to the heart of this email, a quick thanks to everyone who read and circulated Elias’s column. He and I were both gratified by the feedback, and it seems to have moved the needle a little bit in the renaming movement. Stay tuned for more guest columns in this space—including one about biscuits!

For now, though: bread. Beautiful bread. Crusty bread. Creamy bread. Sourdough bread.

I started baking bread in college, when I lived in a co-op with 31 other students. Our living situation was cooperative because we pooled our ‘board’ money and shared our labor to take care of cooking for each other and cleaning our two big houses. It was a good deal in some ways: we saved about $600 a semester, in comparison to what the other students living in college housing paid. But we made up for it in labor, each spending somewhere around 4-8 hours a week doing chores.

The chores were something you signed up for on a big online spreadsheet. Each had a different point value. Cleaning a small bathroom was worth 5pts, while tidying up the kitchen in the middle of the day was 4pts and cleaning our three regrigerators was 7pts. The two cooks every night each got 7pts for cooking dinner, while the person who did the dishes got 4pts and the one who washed the pots and pans got 9pts for the trouble. Chore point values were assigned roughly on the basis of demand: because many people wanted to cook dinner, it was worth fewer points than clean-up even though it often took hours longer. Everybody had to do 33pts of chores every fortnight. It was a socialist system that operated on principles of supply and demand.

One of the most in-demand chores was baking bread (7pts). There were some talented bakers at the co-op, including Abram, who had been the head baker at Deep Springs College when he studied there, and Ashley, who would go on to be a professional pastry chef. She was the one who showed me a good cookbook to start with (The Bread Baker’s Apprentice by Peter Reinhart) and how to do the ‘window pane test,’ where you test gluten development by stretching the dough thin and looking to see if it lets light through, like the webbing between our fingers does.

I was a senior when I baked my first loaves. When they came out of the oven, I was so proud. They were ugly, sure, but they were mine. They were worth so much more than seven points.

Today, it seems like half of all Americans have had the empowering experience of pulling loaves fresh from the oven—and the other half is sick of hearing about it! The pandemic has led to a much-publicized sourdough bread baking craze, including shortages of flour, dry active yeast, bannetons, popular bread cookbooks, and even instant-read thermometers. Americans love nothing more than to buy all the gadgets for a task.
    
The funny thing about learning a new skill is that it’s not enough to have the requisite materials. You also need to know where to start—and where to find guidance if everything doesn’t work out. A teacher or mentor is someone who does this work. But so too are books—cookbooks especially—and blogs, and forums, and even email newsletters.

I can’t teach you how to make delicious sourdough bread in this single email, but I can guide you to the resources I have found—and created—that make it possible for me to pull delicious, life-sustaining loaves out of my oven with consistency. Maybe you have a bunch of bread baking gear and have baked a half-dozen loaves so far, but you don’t know how to take things to the next level. Maybe you feel like the sourdough train left you behind, but you don’t know how to catch up. Perhaps you’re just curious what all the fuss is about. This email is for you.

When I graduated college in 2012, I knew that I wanted to get better at baking. But it wasn’t until I signed my first lease—on a tiny one-bedroom in soon-to-formerly-have-been-known-as Fort Bragg—that I got the materials and started baking bread again.

At Gallery Books, I found the first ingredient: a cookbook called Tartine Bread by Chad Robertson. I didn’t know at the time that it was an international bestseller that was revolutionizing home bread baking. Instead, I felt like I was the only person encountering Robertson’s long narrative about his apprenticeship in France, his search for a specific sort of loaf he knew from old paintings, how he built his wood-fired oven out in windswept Bolinas, and his eventual to glory in the form of a popular storefront in San Francisco’s Mission District. A story of rags to riches—but with bread!

Years later, I was reading Robin Sloan’s novel Sourdough when I found what could only be a gentle parody of Robertson (renamed Everett Broom) and his cookbook. Here’s an excerpt:

The book’s introduction ran for twenty-two pages. It was a baker’s bildungsroman, chronicling Broom’s youth in Sacramento, his visits to his grandfather’s bakery, his flameout as a professional skateboarder, his addiction to a home-cooked drug known as spaz rocks, and finally his retreat to a bread-baking shack on the beach and his reformation there. There were photos, all monochrome: a young man with a thick black beard below a face so clean and cherubic it made the beard appear glued on. In a photo spread across two pages, he leaned against a homemade brick oven, for which the adjective rustic was a favor; it looked like a pile of rubble. Scattered in the foreground were various signifiers of bohemian tranquility: a guitar, a surfboard, a book with VOLTAIRE on the spine.

This is the vibe of Tartine Bread! It’s a weird cookbook, part heroic autobiography, part Pinterest mood board. But at its heart, it is a detailed guide to making ridiculously delicious bread. I studied this book.

At the urging of Robertson, I invested in a few other tools:

  • A digital scale to measure flour and water by weight
  • A dough scraper to scrape out kitchen bowls
  • A bench knife to help turn the loaves during shaping
  • Some razor blades to score the loaves before baking
  • A Dutch oven in which to bake the loaves

These, all told, cost me less than $100. And then I was off to the races: capturing a wild sourdough starter, mixing up leaven and then dough, letting it rise in the fridge, baking in the early morning. Some loaves came out fantastic; others were abject failures. Slowly I learned how to make bread.

You can do all of this without even buying Tartine Bread! There’s a fairly good ‘Cliff’s Notes’ version of Robertson’s method that you can find at this link. It won’t teach you everything, but it’s a fine place to start.

The main learning curves for making bread this way are getting over kneading (you develop the gluten instead by giving the bread ‘turns’), getting used to shaping and handling a wet dough, and figuring out the schedule. But the results are excellent, and the hands-on work only takes about 30-60 minutes total, once you know what you’re doing.

When I started baking this bread I found myself totally stymied by timing. When do you start? When do you bake? How long should each step take?

In my confusion, I did what anybody who enjoyed high school chemistry would do: I made a log in which I could keep track of all the variables.

It turns out it’s pretty useful to keep this kind of record. It gives me data to help sort out out what went wrong or right in any one bake. It lets me replicate more successful loaves. And I’ve even taken to stapling a polaroid of the finished loaves, as an aide de memoire. Also: the filled-out log looks pretty cool, right?

I’m posting the blank log as a PDF on my website, in case it might useful for you, too.

The current baking schedule I’m following—as a man stuck at home all day, every day—has me mixing up my leaven at about 10am, mixing the dough at about 3pm, shaping my loaves in the evening, letting them rise overnight in the fridge, and then baking when I get up in the morning. There’s a certain Christmas morning feeling to getting up, pre-heating the oven, and then waiting to see what sort of oven spring your loaves give you.

Here is a bread log following this schedule that I filled out for my mom—and that may be useful for you, too:

The other big piece of advice I have is to seek out many different voices, different suggestions, different techniques. I’ve found useful videos on bread Youtube (a silly, bearded place) and useful discussion threads on bread forums. Perhaps my favorite place to go for inspiration and fresh ideas is a blog called Girl Meets Rye. The author, Francis-Olive Hampton, started the blog as Tartine Bread Experiment, devoted to exploring the cookbook Tartine Bread. But her curiosity and culinary genius came to exceed the bounds of homage. I can read her posts all day long.

Here in Los Angeles, the hour grows late. The downstairs neighbors are smoking their Sunday spliff, the sweet herb wafting up and through my open window. I want to take a walk before the light fails. And then to make dinner, watch a movie. The small patterns of life that, together, are life itself.

It’s been a pleasure sharing these last eight Sundays with you. Thank you for joining me here, for sending me emails of support or gentle correction, for cooking some of these recipes along with me, and for joining me in the struggle to make our world a more just one. None of this has ended. Even though this newsletter is taking a break, we’re all still here, still hard at it. Let’s keep cookin’.

I’ll see you in a month or two. Till then, stay well and enjoy the sun!

Jasper
June 28, 2020

Week 7: Change the Name!

What follows is an installment of my Writer’s Diary, which for eighteen weeks I am sending every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food (although this installment does not). To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

Hello dear readers! And a happy Father’s Day to you! I hope that you each are well and—is it too much to ask?—enjoying moment of internal tranquility and reflection. That’s what I always want for myself, especially on a Sunday, especially in this unsettled year, 2020. I want it for you, too.

Sunday morning here in L.A. it is overcast and cool and quiet. It’s nice, especially in contrast to the heat of recent weeks. This weather reminds me of home, which is about 500 miles north-by-northwest of here. Up on the Mendocino Coast, summer or winter it’s often foggy. There’s so much fog that we taxonomize it. What we have here today is Grand Fog, high up in the sky. This is in contrast to Drizzly Fog, Split Pea Soup, and the deadly Tule Fog. The best fog, though, is Blowing-in-Your-Face Fog. You zip your jacket all the way up, pull your beanie down, and still the fog finds its way up your sleeves, under your collar, and into your very bones. I miss it.

I’ve been thinking about the Mendocino Coast this week because I’ve been designing an anthology of poems written by my poetry students in Fort Bragg. Their poems are so rooted to them and that place.

Coincidentally, this is also the week that a growing movement to change the very name of Fort Bragg has coalesced. This change is long overdue. The argument in favor of changing the name runs roughly like this: our namesake Braxton Bragg was a slave-owning Confederate general in the Civil War, and the military fort named after him was used as a staging ground for the systematic genocide of hundreds or thousands of Native Americans in our county.

These facts are not seriously disputed! Nonetheless, there is a lively debate under way about, as the great poet Shakespeare put it, “What’s in a name?”

Would Fort Bragg, by any other name, smell so sweet?

This week’s newsletter has three sections:

  1. Poetry and the power of words.
  2. A guest column titled “How Can I Help? Change the Town’s Name.” Its author is the brilliant Elias Henderson, who happens to be my brother. If you read nothing else here, read his powerful column.
  3. An analysis of certain arguments put forward by Fort Bragg Mayor Will Lee in a recent interview.

Dana Gray Elementary School sits on the east end of Fort Bragg, up against the high school and, beyond that, the deep and silent redwood forest that still blankets our hills. I attended the school as a youngster, when there was a small baby boom (known colloquially as ‘the Millenials’) that forced the school to add a half-dozen portable classrooms between the basketball courts and the soccer field. Today those portables are largely abandoned. But the rest of the school is newly remodeled, with solar panels powering the place.

Dana Gray teaches students between between 3rd and 5th grade, about 380 of them. More than half of the students are Latinx, with the rest made up of a mix of Asian, Black, Native American, and white students. Three quarters of the kids qualify for free or reduced lunches. The school reflects our town’s increasingly vibrant diversity and at the same time its persistently deep inequalities. Test scores consistently lag behind statewide averages, and Dana Gray’s teachers and administrators struggle to balance its small budget with the profound needs of its students. And yet! Its students are delightful, funny, wise, and oh so creative. The school does an unusually good job of fostering these virtues, due to the devoted work of its teachers but also to its vibrant culture of parent and community participation.

One part of this culture is Dana Gray’s poetry program. For decades, local poets have sustained a tradition of visiting classrooms at the school and in each one leading a series of one-hour poetry lessons. The students read poetry, talk about language, and write their own poems. At the end of the series of lessons, each student poet has a sheaf of 4-10 poems to take home. After three years of poetry at Dana Gray, students often head off to middle school with well-developed identities as poets and mastery over many of the techniques of poetic self-expression.

For the poet-teachers, the work doesn’t pay well but it does pay, which is more than most poetry work can say. And it brings the usually private life of the writer into contact with their community. It’s a way to be useful. Over the years the program has grown due to support and funding from many sources: the county and state Arts Councils, the Mendocino County Office of Education, the Dana Gray Parents’ Club, and even the local chapter of Rotary.

I know about all this because six years ago my friend and mentor Karen Lewis invited me to lead some poetry lessons in the fifth grade. I took her up on it, and I loved the work. I took over leading the program, and every year since I’ve spent a month or two giving poetry lessons at the school. (Karen and another local poet, Hunter Gagnon, have shared the teaching load.) It is important work, sweet work, often hard work. It’s taught me so much. It’s taught me how to be a better teacher. It’s taught me how to work with students who have behavioral issues, with students who don’t speak any English at all, and with students who don’t get steady meals or parental love at home. These are sometimes the students who connect most with poetry, which gives them a language and an opportunity to speak what’s on their mind. I am regularly amazed by my students’ brilliance.

Every year at the end of teaching, I put together an anthology of these student’s poems. Getting signed parental releases is a nightmare, and typing up hundreds of chicken scratch poems can be tiring. But it’s all worth it to see the joy of students when they receive a professionally printed book full of their and their peers’ poems. We print about 450 copies—enough so that every student in the school gets a copy, regardless of whether their poem is featured. For some students, these are among the first books that they have ever owned.

And they are so full of joy, beauty, laughter, wisdom, sorrow! Here are the poem excerpts I included on the back cover of the 2018 anthology:

Who could fail to be charmed by these kids and their sweet poems? For me, they provide a lot of hope for the future of our town and planet.

And yet I fear they are swimming upstream. Our society has deep fault lines and fissures. These mostly trace back to the U.S.A.’s foundation on the genocide of Native Americans and the enslavement of Black people. We have yet to have a full societal reckoning. And nothing has made this more clear than the protests after the murder of George Floyd by our state security forces.

For these sweet kiddos growing up in a not-so-sweet society, the pervasive failure to take the past seriously is visible even in the name of the town in which they study.

Maybe, just maybe, we can do something about that.

How Can I Help? Change the Town’s Name

by Elias Henderson


With protests sweeping the country in the wake of the shocking murder of George Floyd, many concerned citizens have found themselves asking, “How can I help?” Luckily, if you live in Fort Bragg, the answer is simple. Change the town’s name.

In 2015, eight members of the California Legislative Black Caucus sent an eloquent, impassioned plea to our town’s leadership: “We are hopeful that you will engage your community in a serious reexamination of the historical implications of your city’s name and come to the conclusion that now is the time to end your ties to such a disgraced and treasonous figure in our nation’s history.” Then-mayor Lindy Peters responded, “You cannot change history.” Well, let’s talk about the “history” that is represented by the name Fort Bragg.

Braxton Bragg, our town’s namesake, was born in 1817. After graduating from West Point, he rose through the ranks to become a colonel in the United States Army. He won distinction for his role in the Mexican-American War, where he served under future president Zachary Taylor. A severe disciplinarian, he was so hated by many of his men that they twice attempted to assassinate him, once by detonating an artillery shell beneath his cot. Miraculously unscathed, he went on to retire from the US Army in 1856 and soon after purchased a sugar plantation and 105 enslaved African Americans.

Five years later, the Civil War broke out and again Bragg signed up to fight, this time as a general in the Confederate Army. After a string of ignominious defeats caused by strategic blunders, his resignation was accepted by Jefferson Davis in 1864. About the only good thing that can be said of Bragg is that his disastrous incompetence contributed to the military defeat of the Confederacy.

Why does our town bear the name of a disgraced Confederate general who never set foot here? The military post was established in 1857 in response to a petition from 51 settlers, all white men, who threatened an “Indian War” if the government did not protect “their property.” The lieutenant who founded the outpost named it for his former commanding officer, the soon-to-be confederate Braxton Bragg. For the next eight years, troops stationed in Fort Bragg subjugated the indigenous population, participating in violent campaigns against Native Americans as far north as Shelter Cove. After many of the remaining Native Americans were forcibly marched to Round Valley in 1865, the military post was abandoned. Thus ended the brief military history of Fort Bragg.

In his 2015 response to the Black Caucus, Peters went on to say, “We are a tight-knit community who do not favor changing our name, especially when pushed to do so by politicos who have never even visited our town and know nothing of our long and rich local history.” But one has to ask, which part of our “long and rich local history” is represented by the name Fort Bragg? Is it our non-existent connection to a slave-owning general who committed treason against his country? Or is it civic pride in the brief moment a century and a half ago that our town was used to perpetrate genocide against Native Americans, a handful of whom still live here?

There are numerous alternatives that bear actual, meaningful, and positive connections to our town’s history. I’m partial to Noyo, the name of a historical Pomo village near Virgin Creek and of the river to which our town owes much of its prosperity. Whatever name our community decides upon, we could hardly do worse.

Recently, the bastion of progressivism that is the United States Army announced its willingness to reconsider the name of its largest military base: Fort Bragg, NC. It is past time for our community to do the same. Join me in calling for the Fort Bragg City Council to place a referendum to this effect on the November ballot. Place the decision in the hands of our community. The time for cowering behind the threadbare excuse of “history” is over. The time for change is here.

(If you’d like to thank Elias for this column, email me and I’ll pass it along.)

Although it would have required only a few hundred signatures for a referendum to be placed on the November ballot—a number that could now be collected in an afternoon—the deadline for submitting such signatures was in mid-May. For obvious reasons, no one was out in front of Harvest Market trying to get signatures in April and May: the shelter-in-place orders were in effect, and the murder of George Floyd had not yet shocked the conscience of a nation.

Yet a measure can still be placed on the ballot, if three members of the Fort Bragg City Council vote for such a plebiscite. I hope that they will do so.

Unfortunately, it seems likely that the council will take the path of passive resistance, refusing to place the question before the voters until the present moment of urgency and enthusiasm has long since passed. Why do I fear this? Because friend-of-the-newsletter George Steeley passed along this recent segment of Forum in which Michael Krasny interviews the current Mayor of Fort Bragg, Will Lee. Lee is just one vote among five on the council, but while he says he has not yet made his mind up about the name change, he sounds quite confident that he already knows what the people of Fort Bragg want: no name change and no vote on a name change.

Here are five quotations from Mayor Lee’s interview, which reveal popular arguments for keeping the name unchanged. (Full disclosure, Will Lee was part of the council that fired my mom after she served twelve years as Fort Bragg’s City Manager.) I have followed each of Lee’s statements with some commentary.

‘I can say that the majority of the people of Fort Bragg—and we’re a city of 8,000 people—the majority reject the proposal to change the name of Fort Bragg, as this has come up to us several times in the past. Just as recently as 2015 we were dealing with this same issue, and the people were overwhelmingly rejecting the name change. However this time around seems different.’ – Will Lee

Lee is certainly right to hedge this very strong statement about what ‘the majority of the people of Fort Bragg’ want by acknowledging that ‘this time around seems different.’ But it is ridiculous to claim to know what the majority of people want while refusing to actually ask them in a timely manner.

‘If the people of Fort Bragg decide that they want to put this on the ballot then there’s a citizen’s initiative to gather signatures, put it on the ballot, pay for it, and then vote on it. It would not be the five city council members recommending a ballot measure, at least not on Monday night’s meeting … I believe that it is up to the people of Fort Bragg and not just five people to decide this contentious issue.’– Will Lee

This self-contradicting statement reveals the shoddy logic of keeping this off the ballot. The people should make this decision. We, their elected representatives, can’t make it for them. But we can’t presume to put it on the ballot and ask them to make the decision. If only Lee realized how ridiculous this sounds.

‘Certainly we are well aware of systemic racism in our country, hatred and bigotry. I will point out that the City of Fort Bragg, California was named after Braxton Bragg before the Civil War. The City of Fort Bragg itself has no ties whatsoever to the Confederacy. And so Braxton Bragg retired from the U.S. Army, and then when the Civil War started he fought for the Confederacy because he had property in Louisiana, a sugar plantation. And so we recognize the long, dark history of slavery in our country, but the people of Fort Bragg do not feel that that in any way defines our culture and our society here. So we certainly understand that.’ – Mayor Will Lee

This is what’s known in rhetoric as the ‘shit sandwich.’ You say something nice and conciliatory, then you say the mean thing that you really want to say, and then you conclude with something nice and conciliatory. In this case, Lee is trying to conceal two flimsy excuses for keeping the name. The first is that Fort Bragg has no ties to the Confederacy. This is contradicted by the fact that soldiers at the original fort abandoned their posts to go fight for the side of slavery—and also by the fact that Confederate flags bumper stickers are to this very day regular features on the city’s streets. The second excuse, that the fort was named after Braxton Bragg when he was just a slave-owning soldier and before he joined the Confederacy, is equally flimsy. When Civil War broke out a few years later—and in the century-and-a-half since—people have continued making the active choice to keep the fort and then city named after him. What Lee is making here are excuses, not arguments. The worst part is that, despite it forming the bulk of Krasny’s question, Lee entirely neglects to mention the genocide of Native Americans that was carried out from the fort itself.

‘Now, we get to the point of paying for it… With the COVID shutdown the City of Fort Bragg has had to cut $1.5M from our budget. That may not sound like a lot of money to the Bay Area, but to a small, rural town like us that’s several jobs at City Hall, we furloughed, laid off, closed City Hall, cut services. Thank God we didn’t have to affect our public safety, police, and fire, or public works. But there are people laid off. So the whole cost of this matter is another major consideration. Who’s going to pay for it?’– Will Lee

The economic pain caused by this pandemic is real, but can that in good conscience be an excuse not to right a historic wrong? The council declined the chance to change the name in 2015, when the economy was doing just fine. The truth is there will never be a perfect time to get rid of this racist relic of our past. But there can be a right time. That time is now.

‘We don’t even have a cost [estimate] for what that would entail. So we don’t know. So [Advocate News] editor Robin [Epley] suggested, I’ve also heard it, we could sell the name. We could have a Survivor Island Fort Bragg, and whoever wins gets to name the city, and then the $50M dollar jackpot would pay for changing all of the names. We would all need new driver’s licenses, passports, the deeds to our house. And it just goes on and on and on. And so, who’s going to pay for that?’– Will Lee

To take this serious proposal that our town change its name in light of its connection to slavery, Civil War, and genocide—and then to joke about ‘selling’ it or making it into reality TV? It’s rude. That number, $50M, is an attempt to scare people away from having an actual conversation. And the idea that a name change would instantly invalidate all official documents? That’s not only wrong, it showcases Lee’s refusal to take this seriously. The town of Greenwood, 30 miles south, changed its name to Elk just so it could have a post office! And this man throws around $50M as if he knows what he’s talking about.

I hope that the rest of the City Council treats this more seriously. I hope they choose to stand on the side of history, justice, and the belief that words have meaning.

Now it’s afternoon. The fog has burned off. The police choppers are out, circling over a demonstration that looks like it might be headed down La Cienega. It’s time to bring this edition of my email diary to a close and send it off to you, dear reader.

I’ll close with a story that I ran across in a military history of Fort Bragg. One of the stories it tells is about how, after establishing a fort just north of the little town of Noyo and naming it after Braxton Bragg, the soldiers decided to comission a painter to record their handiwork.

‘Lieutenant Gibson had two paintings of the post made by Alexander Edouart, an artist of San Francisco. One was retained by Gibson who later stated, “One I sent to Genl. Bragg, then not in the Army, but Mrs. Bragg years afterward told me that it was burnt when the Genl’s mansion and plantation were burnt or destroyed by the Union troops in 1864.”’

Burning the plantation—a machine for turning enslaved people’s labor into money—was in keeping with both the strategic and moral interests of the Union Army. It was part of the same strategy that led the U.S. to turn Robert E. Lee’s estate on the Potomac into a tribute to the hundreds of thousands who died fighting to preserve the nation: Arlington National Cemetery.

I can only imagine the feelings—joy? relief?—of the over one hundred people who had been enslaved by Braxton Bragg, watching his plantation burn to the ground. And I love thinking about how as those flames burned, the painting that commemorated how our town was named after him also turned to ash.

It’s past time we finished the job. Change the name!

Jasper
June 21, 2020

Week 6: A Post-Protest Popsicle

What follows is an installment of my Writer’s Diary, which for sixteen weeks I am sending every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

Hello! This is the sixth installment of this email diary, and I vowed in the first one that this season would run for either 12 or 18 installments. I’m still not sure which one! Either way, thank you for being with me on this journey. We’re either half-way or one-third done.

A brief email diary today. Sometimes I want to say so much (I see you nodding), but other times it feels more right to sit with silence. To be receptive. To follow.

Today is one of those days.

A collection of protest signs: black lives matter, no lives matter until black lives matter, abolish racist police, etc.

In lieu of writing a long essay, I want to share with you some of these signs from this morning’s march against police violence. I think these signs, partly due to their roughness, capture something of the the sorrow and anger of these protests—and also some of the humor.

Another collection of signs from the rallies: Justice 4 George Floyd, Justice 4 Our FUTURE!!, we are not fighting alone, my students deserve better, silence kills

The protest began up on Hollywood Boulevard in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theater, and then it headed west, cutting down onto Sunset and then onto Santa Monica. There were maybe 30,000 people filling miles of street, with nary a policeman in sight. (Except, of course, the ever-present helicopters.)

The mood was oddly quiet, less fiery than last week. There was still plenty of chanting, plenty of fellow-feeling. It was just a little less intense. The rage and stark sorrow of the early days has shifted into a steely resolve.

Maybe we all feel a little tired, seeing so many reminders that this fight won’t be won in a day. I know I can feel this weariness. But then I gird my loins and vow to aid in this struggle as long as it takes to deliver justice.

Yet more signs from the protests: we're tired of this shit enough is enough, say their names, silence=violence, united we stand, all black lives matter, defend black trans lives, etc.

When we returned to our apartment, we were tired and hot and ready to sit. We needed something to cool us down and pick up our spirits. We needed popsicles!

So I opened the freezer and took out the mango popsicles I had set up to freeze in the morning. They were just the thing. A true refreshment.

And so I ask: why does our society relegate the popsicle to childhood? Why do so many of us willingly forget its charms just so soon as we hit our teens?

a picture of a home-made grape popsicle, glistening with cold and frost.

When we moved to L.A. in January, I finally bought a good set of reuseable popsicle forms off the internet, for about $20. They came the next week. I fill them with juice, give them a few hours in the freezer. In the afternoon, especially if it’s a hot day, all I have to do is grab one, run it under warm water until the plastic mold slides off, and ta-da: I am eating a delicious popsicle.

May I recommend mango popsicles, made using Russian mango juice purchased at the corner deli? That’s my current go-to.

In the picture above, you’ll see my sister’s favorite: concord grape juice. It does make an excellent popsicle. (Cassie got back into popsicles the way many people do: by having a kid.) The grape juice is a vibrant dye, however, so be careful you don’t drip on your white clothes.

My all-time favorite popsicle must the apple juice popsicle. I know, I know, the freezing forces much of the apple essence to the surface, leaving behind only vaguely apple juice-y ice crystals. It is not a ‘flavor-bomb for your mouth.’ Quite the opposite; this may be the quietest of the popsicles.

In lieu of instense flavor, the apple juice popsicle is redolent of hot summer afternoons when I was four. Feeling the breeze on my skin, wondering what life would be. Standing outside because I wasn’t allowed to eat popsicles inside. Looking at my sand box, my tricycle, the Pacific Ocean. Enjoying the way an hour passed, how much it held, how long a day was. How filled with wonders.

Those endless popsicle days constituted an era of my life. Only this year have I discovered how to time travel back to them.

a picture of light running in through redwood trees and reflecting against a trunk.

I hope today has had some wonder in it for you, dear reader. Perhaps the wonder of seeing your fellow citizens rise up in the name of justice. But if you’d like a little more wonder, a few sweet minutes of it, consider the humble popsicle!

Be well. I’ll see you next week.

Jasper
June 14, 2020

Week 5: Recipe for a Protest Movement

What follows is an installment of my Writer’s Diary, which for twelve weeks I am sending every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

Hello! It’s nice to see you again. Thank you for opening this email, this erstwhile cheese sandwich blog that has been pressed into duty as a chronicle of protest. Since last Sunday, it feels as though years have passed. Time is so plastic, stretching to fit the weight of events. And 2020 has insisted: stretch, stretch, stretch. It’s been a year for the books, and we’re not even halfway through it.

Last week I heard from a handful of you who were surprised and/or delighted to learn about the efforts of protesters to clean up the morning after an evening of sometimes violent protest and property damage. It ran against some of the images being presented on our screens, which are algorithmically optimized to showcase violence, fire, and blood. Truly here we are, beyond the reach of F*$%book, out where we can talk about the important stuff.

Since you last heard from me, I have actively joined the protests. On Wednesday and again yesterday I marched on the streets of Los Angeles. Each event filled me with so much hope. Partly this must just be a result of finding myself in a crowd of thousands after three months cooped up in my apartment. But I think it’s also because in these protests I see America talking to itself. Asking itself to do better. And so many are showing up to say, ‘Yes, we will do everything we can to do better.’

Today I want to talk more about the tactics and the tactile feel of these protests. Hopefully you will hear something you haven’t heard yet—and understand what’s happening a little bit better.

But first—a video! This comes courtesy of my friend Johanna Case, a gifted filmmaker who graduated just this spring from the New School. (You can view more of her work at her website.)

Yesterday, Lisa and I met up with Johanna and her partner Ben. We walked to Pan Pacific Park where we joined several thousand other protesters. There was a teach-in at the park and then a march through West Hollywood, towards Beverly Hills. Johanna took video of everything. And when I asked if she would share her footage with you, she speedily put together this video for the newsletter. It’s hot off the presses—please enjoy!

Recipe for a Protest Movement

Many have tried to explain why some protests grow and change the world while others fizzle without making a mark. In one of my favorite books, the great Why Civil Resistance Works, the authors collect data about every major social uprising of the last century, see that violent uprisings tend to be less effective than nonviolent ones, and try to answer why. One of their conclusions is that violence seems to keep a movement from growing to include grandmothers, pregnant women, children, and others whose lives are precarious. It makes sense, and the authors bring receipts.

But no two movements are the same. The current protests differ in major ways from the 2014 protests that followed the police killings of Michael Brown and Eric Garner. And their tactics differ even more profoundly from the 2011 Occupy movement, the ongoing Gun Violence protests, and the Anti-Iraq War Protests of 2002-11. So what are the tactics of the current protests? How do they feel? And why do they seem to be having such a big effect?

The following “recipe” comes from my observations as a protester—and as a reader of news, the internet, and emails from readers of this newsletter. By its very nature this is an early draft. But I hope you will find it informative and useful. (And let me know if you have any further insights!)

There Is A Large Support Apparatus

It is striking the degree to which protesters are taking care of each other. In both the marches I participated in I encountered dozens of people circulating and handing out bottles of water, squirts of hand sanitizer, free face masks, snack bags. The support aparatus—this weight of generosity—makes everyone feel safer and more comfortable. Restaurants along the route of the march sometimes hand out glasses of water or, memorably, slices of pizza. Meanwhile a few support cars drive in the middle of the protests, handing out water, carrying protesters who feel faint, and even distributing single cut flowers for protests to hold.

Then there are the organizers working around the protests: the clean-up crews coming in the day after, the people running bail funds to help get protesters out of jail, the legal observers recording what happens, and the lawyers working pro bono on behalf of protesters targeted by police.

People spontaneously pouring into the streets can be powerful, but to keep those people in the movement requires support. Today this support is arriving on a scale I have never before seen.

The Tactics Emphasize Education

It may look on TV like protesters are spending their time yelling at cops, getting beaten by them, and demanding various changes. In fact, one of the central activities of the protests is education: first-time protesters are learning about the prevalence of police violence against black people, learning about the system’s refusal to change, and learning about the strength of collective action.

Yesterday at Pan-Pacific park, several thousand protesters sat in the grass, totally silent, listening as a woman with a bullhorn gave a history lesson about systemic racism. She talked about Tanya Lynn Blanding, a four-year-old girl who was killed by police or the National Guard during riots in Detroit in 1967. The speaker brought her up to show how police violence against black bodies isn’t something new. ‘My grandfather marched fifty years ago for the same things that I’m marching for today,’ she said. ‘And probably my grandchild will have to protest fifty years from now.’

After this teaching, everyone stood up and began marching. With the march came chants. ‘Black lives they matter here!’ ‘No Justice / NO PEACE! / No racist police!’ ‘I Can’t Breathe!’ These were also educational in a way, especially the core chant of these protests—’Say his name / GEORGE FLOYD’—which inevitably shifts to ‘Say her name / BREONNA TAYLOR,’ reminding people of this other recent victim of police violence.

When I first heard this chant, I didn’t know who Breonna Taylor was. Breonna Taylor was a 26-year-old ER tech in Louisville, Kentucky. Around midnight on March 13th she was asleep in her apartment when police broke down her door with a battering ram, swarmed into her house, and promptly shot her eight times. She died right there. The police had never even knocked or said they were police or announced why they were there. (It turned out they were investigating two people totally unconnected to Taylor, who were in fact already in police custody.) How did this happen? Because of a “no-knock warrant,” a legal authorization to burst fully armed into a private home without any warning. No-knock warrants are legal in 48 states—but these protests are aiming to change that.

If you participate in these protests, you learn more. You get angrier. You become more committed.

There Are Policy Goals—And Wins Are Being Notched

Most protests aim to change the way their government acts. But some are more coherent in their demands than others. These protests, which come after almost a decade of activism by the various organizations around Black Lives Matter, have some very specific demands. A central demand is to defund and demilitarize the police—and to reinvest the saved money in programs that benefit black communities.

Here in L.A., the protests have already gone some way towards achieving that goal: the mayor is proposing to cut $150M from LAPD’s $3B budget, and he is also vowing to steer $250M to programs benefiting black communities in the city. This isn’t a panacea, but it is a tangible win for the movement, showing that with good politicians and broad public support change can actually happen. In Minneapolis, where a policeman murdered George Floyd while three others watched, the protests have had an even bigger effect: its city council is now vowing to dismantle its police department and create a new system of public safety. Wins like these keep wind in the movement’s sails.

Black People Are Leading

A key organizational tactic of these protests is for them to be led by black people. This is smart because it nurtures black leaders, it means that the movement’s actions follow its values—and also because white people often have serious blind spots.

Here in West Hollywood there was a small dust-up when the organizers of the annual Pride march, which had been cancelled after covid-19 fears, decided to un-cancel it and re-imagine it as a march in support of black lives. This was a great idea, especially because black trans women like Marsha P. Johnson were at the very front lines of the gay liberation movement. But the lead organizer of the march, a white man, promptly asked the police for demonstration permits. The activists leading the current protest movement questioned this decision to ask police permission for a march against police violence; part of the motivation for these protests is a questioning of the idea that we should need police permission to protest. To the credit of L.A. Pride, they quickly stepped back from organizing the event and rescinded their permit applications. I am confident that the march will still happen—I intend to join it—but now it will be led by black people.

The good news is that white people seem to getting better at following, at supporting, at being allies. You can see it on the streets: white people standing alongside black people, giving support without hogging the mic.

The Protesters Are Profoundly Diverse

You see every type of person on the streets. The signs tell it well: “Latinos for Black Lives,” “Armenians Against Police Violence,” “Black Trans Lives Matter,” “Yellow Peril Supports Black Lives.” (This last one is a reference to a classic sign—“Yellow Peril Supports Black Power”—from the 1967 campaign to free Huey P. Newton, co-founder of the Black Panthers.) The diversity of this protest movement is a sign of its strength and durability. It also reflects the interconnectedness of the many struggles for justice today. As one sign reads, “All Lives Can’t Matter Until Black Lives Matter.”

The Protesters Are Overwhelmingly Young

This is striking here in Los Angeles, where protesters under the age of 18 seem to easily outnumber those older than 40. This is not to say that there are no older protesters. It is to say that there multitudes of young protesters. It reminds me a lot of the Hong Kong protesters—a group of people who have never yet had the chance to grow complacent—and who worry that if they are silent, they might never have a chance.

Our country’s political system is strongly tilted to favor older folks, who dominate the ranks of active voters and elected politicians. My eyes suggest that, should that balance change, the direction of this country will change dramatically, too.

The Protests Are Now Peaceful—Except the Police

As the raw rage of the early days after George Floyd’s murder has given way to a giant protest movement, the incidence of violence against property and provocation of police seems to have dissolved. This is certainly the case here in Los Angeles, where giant crowds have marched peacefully with almost no police supervision (beyond the omnipresent helicopters). It turns out that when not provoked by police, this movement is deeply committed to the tactics of nonviolent resistance. Which is no surprise, given the groundwork laid through years of nonviolent Black Lives Matter activism. But it is notable.

At the same time, police have committed many of the signal violent acts of the last week-and-a-half. Perhaps nowhere has this been clearer than when military police gassed and assaulting peaceful protesters in D.C.’s Lafayette Square so that our president could have his picture taken holding up a Bible like 12-pound salmon. But here in Los Angeles we have also had incidents of police intentionally ramming protesters with their cars, clubbing peaceful protesters, and even smashing out windows to drag people out of their cars for the crime of driving after curfew.

There’s a word for this: a police riot. I only learned the term this week, but I really believe that once you have a word for something it’s a lot easier to see it. According to Wikipedia, a police riot is “a riot carried out by the police; a riot that the police are responsible for instigating, escalating or sustaining as a violent confrontation; an event characterized by widespread police brutality; a mass police action that is violently undertaken against civilians for the purpose of political repression.” Now that you know what it means, keep your eyes open for one. And if you see one, say something.

8:46 is a Long Time

The police officer Eric Chauvin killed George Floyd by kneeling on his neck for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. That is a very long time. I know that it is because this length of time has become a tool of the protests. On Wednesday, a little after noon, I joined a silent mass of protesters in trying to kneel for that long. Others in the protest were staging a die-in for this time, laying on their stomachs against the hot pavement, hands mock-cuffed behind their backs. Minutes passed. My knees hurt. But well before eight minutes passed the people laying face-down had to give up. They were in too much pain. Just the hot asphalt, plus 8:46, was too much. It proves a point.

That night, a call went around social media for people to go outside at 9:00pm and shine flashlights into the sky for, again, eight minutes and forty-six seconds. It would be a tribute to George Floyd, a devoted man of Christian faith, dispatched to heaven much too soon. Lisa and I went down to the street, where we found that there were others on our block answering the same call. We all pointed our flashlights to the sky and waited. Minutes passed. Then more minutes. It took long enough that the mind wandered, was called back, and wandered again. It was hard to think of anyone being killed like that. Finally the alarm on the phone went off. We said ‘Good night’ to our neighbors and went back upstairs to eat dinner.

Consider the Smaller Marches

The major newspapers are covering this story by focussing on a few major cities that have had massive marches: Minneapolis, New York, D.C., Philly, Los Angeles. But I think that equally hopeful are the thousands of protests in small towns across the country. Even in L.A. there are easily a dozen protests every day, and giant groups have come together in more conservative Newport Beach and Huntington Beach. The same is true in rural places. Dozens protested in Unalakleet, Alaska—population 697. And from Mendocino County Vincent Poturica writes to say there have been protests not just in Ukiah, Willits, and Fort Bragg, but also in Laytonville and Gualala. (See this invaluable—but only partial—worldwide map of George Floyd protests.) They may not get the glory of appearing on national TV, but isn’t it beautiful and heartbreaking to imagine this country as consisting of a thousand main streets, each holding a crowd bearing signs that affirm, “Black Lives Matter”?

That’s all for this week. I hope you’re well, and I send you my very best. As always, feel free to forward this to a friend, or to send me an email of dissent or affirmation. See you next week.

Jasper
June 7, 2020

Week 4: Beyond the Kitchen Window

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What follows is an installment of my Writer’s Diary, which for twelve weeks I am sending every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your email inbox, subscribe here.

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Hello! And thank you for spending a moment
in this moment—with my words.

The first thing to say is that I hope that you and your people are safe.

This morning in L.A. was the first since 1992 that the National Guard has walked these streets. The last time before that was in 1968. Each time it has been for the same reason: to suppress widespread, violent protests that began after policemen brutally attacked a black man.

I don’t have the answer. But I know that today I can’t write about a cheese board, which had been my plan. It’s not that food isn’t important, but there’s a man named George Floyd who will never eat another meal. My heart hurts.
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There are thousands and thousands of protestors
across the country who have had rubber bullets, tear gas, and pepper spray fired at them, harming their bodies and particularly their lungs.
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Right now, in the middle of a respiratory pandemic, a pandemic that is disproportionately harming black communities.
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As they protested the death of yet another black man whose last words were, ‘I can’t breathe.’
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Yesterday, when I meant to work on this newsletter,
I instead compulsively watched live TV of the protests here in Los Angeles. It consisted mostly of aerial shots of the crowds. Helicopter’s-eye-view: the native medium of L.A. television.

From so far up in the sky, you couldn’t make out people’s faces, their humanity. You just saw a mass of people roiling in front of the police lines. An SUV was burning and others had been covered in graffiti. You could see police aiming their big guns at the ground. At the bottom of the screen a chyron read, “POLICE VEHICLES BURN.” Above this, in tiny type, it said, “George Floyd Death Protests.”

The main Saturday protest was not far from where we live, and I thought about joining. But I found out about it late, and I’m scared of violence and don’t want to march with people who are breaking things. Excuses were made. Instead, I made a sign saying “Black Lives Matter” and put it in my office window. It felt like a half-measure, but at least it gave me something to do.
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Around six o’clock, my phone honked
with a Public Safety Alert: the mayor was imposing an 8pm curfew. Lisa and I decided to go for a walk before then, to ‘take the temperature on the streets,’ as I put it. At first things seemed quiet, if on edge. The main sound was the buzzing of helicopters. I counted seven, up there near the first-quarter moon.

Dazed-looking protesters sat on the curbs of Fairfax, a few still holding cardboard signs from earlier in the day. Some were trying to summon Ubers and Lyfts to take them home before the curfew, but the people running the rideshare apps had decided to cut off services in the area of the protest.

A giant pickup truck waited on the side street across Fairfax. It had a menacing look, with a half-sheet of spray-painted plywood strapped to the outside of the driver’s side door. I worried it might be some counter-protester, a racist hick looking to pick a fight. But when it pulled out onto Fairfax I could read the spraypainted words, “I CAN’T BREATHE / BLACK LIVES MATTER”.

We walked south. Down a few blocks we saw emergency vehicles, lights flashing, blocking the entire four lanes of Fairfax. We’d seen enough, and we turned down a side street, back towards home. We passed small groups of protesters. Everyone wearing masks.

It was a warm night. The street trees were full of fragrant blossoms.

When we came to the corner of the street we live on, I noticed smoke rising to the south. There was a lot of smoke, billowing into the sky, a police chopper circling low over it. I decided to take a picture with my phone, trying to frame it to include smoke and helicopter, a few protesters down the block, and a flowery hedge in the foreground that made the scene feel incongruous, apocalyptic.

Right as I was snapping my picture, a car gunned its engine and charged into the intersection. We turned and watched as tires squealed, the car drifted. It was a maroon sedan. It turned and kept turning. It was doing a donut, right there in the intersection, not ten feet from us. Time slowed down. I could see the driver: white, maybe thirty or forty, hair cut short. Not a protester. The car’s tires clipped the opposite curb and the driver gunned the engine again, doing another donut, swinging near again, rubber burning. Lisa grabbed me and pulled me away. We hustled behind a parked car.

Finally, he drove off. Doing 40 or 50 mph down our street, barely braking for stop signs. We walked home as fast as we could, wondering if we might have just been menaced by one of the men from the apocalyptic civil war cult we’d both read a long, scary article about.
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Lisa and I shut every window in the apartment
and closed every blind—the first time we’d done this since moving in months ago. Our living room was still loud with whining sirens and the terrific din of a half-dozen police choppers hovering over the neighborhood. I stared at the live helicopter feed on my phone with the sound turned off. I wanted to know what the police were doing, whether the protesters were getting closer, as the sound of the police choppers suggested. But the camera operator kept the shot zoomed in on a shoe store that was being ransacked by a crowd of maybe 20 people.

I watched, entranced, as people ducked under the metal grating, which one man was holding up. A minute later, they’d come out with a few shoe boxes. Was this really what you wanted to steal most? What if you got the wrong size? The potential consequence—entering our profoundly punitive criminal justice system—seemed to me to be totally unworthy of a pair of overpriced shoes. Finally I mentioned my confusion to Lisa, who was sitting next to me on the couch, staring with a look of horror at her own phone.

“I don’t think it’s about the shoes,” she said.
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As soon as she said it, it became obvious:
of course it’s not about the shoes. This was another type of protest, a more impulsive, opportunistic one. My understanding turned on its head, and now I could hardly believe my earlier confusion. Thinking like that was partly a consequence of the camera’s insistent framing of what was happening as just one thing: looting. It was infuriating—here the TV station had a tool that could be used to give us a real sense of how things stood, whether things were spiraling out of control, what the police were doing. Instead they focused solely on this prurient image of a handful of people stealing a handful of relatively inexpensive goods.

When I finally turned my screen off, I could hear through the window the tell-tale *whumph* of tear gast canisters being fired, sounding so much like the launching of fireworks.

I thought about what a shame it is that when our capitalist overlords destroy and steal, their crimes are so much less telegenic than these ‘looters.’ When billionaires, led by Mark Zuckerberg and Jeff Bezos, increase their wealth by half a trillion dollars during this pandemic, there’s no camera circling overhead, framing it as a despicable travesty. As the U.S. government made decade after decade of decisions that ensured Native Americans would remain, after half a millenium of colonization, radically more vulnerable to disease than white people, where was the helicopter shot? When vulture capitalists swarmed in during the Great Recession to buy up foreclosed homes in black communities, making “the homeownership gap between blacks and whites … wider than it was during the Jim Crow era,” where the fuck were the news helicopters?
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This morning when I drew back the blinds
on my kitchen window the first thing I saw was a woman walking down the street carrying two brooms and a dustpan-on-a-stick. Their cardboard wrappings revealed they were fresh-bought, probably from Tashman Hardware up the block. She was headed towards Fairfax, to help clean up.

After breakfast, Lisa and I walked the three blocks down towards Melrose. As we neared this major shopping thoroughfare, the sidewalks filled protesters carrying signs, curious locals, media. The feeling was less tense than the evening before. Still, I only saw one person out with a kid.

Where our street comes out onto Melrose, there was a broad police line, behind which firemen worked to douse a smoldering storefront. It had held a nail salon called Pearls and part of the Shoe Palace sneaker empire, which stretches across three storefronts. Firefighters had been trying to control the blaze all night. Steam and smoke rose in damp curls.

Across the street, a half-dozen black-clad protestors were hard at work cleaning graffiti off the window of a barber shop. Others were sweeping up broken glass, trying to clean up the mess of the night before. The protesters who try to stop vandalism, who clean up from destruction, all while putting their bodies on the line for the same cause—we hear so much less about them. They are less photogenic. They’re less sensational. Their actions don’t play as obviously into our culture’s stereotypes about struggle.
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I return to the eternal question: what is to be done?
Stay safe, first, and take care of your people. Beyond that, I don’t think there are easy answers. However I do know of two things that you really should do, as soon as possible.

  1. Read this essay by Kareem Abdul-Jabar. Before you judge anyone for stealing a pair of sneakers, read this article. Especially if you are white. Really, it is not to be missed.
  2. Give money to your local bail fund. Here is the one I’m donating to, in L.A. During a summer when jails are among the worst loci of covid-19 infection, getting protesters out from behind bars has never been more important.

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I hope this week brings peace and justice. Please reach out if you have a suggestion for what I should be doing to further this struggle. Let’s keep working together. And maybe next Sunday I’ll be able to write about that cheese board after all. See you then.

Jasper
May 31, 2020

Week 3: Sauerkraut

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What follows is a sample of my Writer’s Diary, which I currently email out every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your inbox, subscribe here.

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Hello—and a good Memorial Day to you!
This is coming a day late, but isn’t the Monday of a three-day weekend really, on a spiritual level, a Sunday?

My whole life I’ve thought of Memorial Day as the “unofficial beginning of summer.” Somewhere along the line I also learned that it’s the date after which it’s “okay” to wear white. A good weekend to barbecue!

Yesterday it hit me more than it has before that our cheery little day off is, to take it at its word, supposed to be a day to memorialize the soldiers—humans, mostly men, mostly about my age or younger—who lost their “one wild and precious life,” as Mary Oliver put it, working for Team U.S.A. in the bloody ritual sacrifice by which our species has often resolved its disputes. It’s so intense. I’m not un-grateful for the sacrifice of these men and women. They were brave. I’m especially glad they beat the slavers and the Nazis. The British Empire, too. But more than anything, I wish they hadn’t had to die.

The idea of a memorial has so much power in it. Memory is a fragile thing. It needs preserving—and celebrating.

The physical memorial that inspires the most feelings in me has to be the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. A depression in the National Mall, filled with a vast horizontal monolith. When you get up close you can see the name of every single young man who died in that war, etched on the black stone. Phonebook-thick catalogs are available to locate a particular name from the 58,220: the name of a brother, uncle, father, son, friend. Maya Lin’s design famously captures both the vastness of the loss and the particular tragedy of each missing life.

We need more memorials. A gun violence memorial. A covid-19 memorial. We need to remember. We need to give ourselves space and time to grieve—and to work collectively towards the goal that these stupidities never happen again.

That’s what I’m thinking this Memorial Day.

After writing the preceding paragraph, I found this Sunday’s New York Times at the grocery store. In a small but beautiful way, it actually does this. The first four pages of the paper memorialize 1,000 of those killed by the pandemic. I recommend taking the time to read some of these names—and the brief descriptions that run alongside them, spare silhouettes that gesture at the full lives we have lost.

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I’m honored to have you reading my writer’s diary for a third week now! I’m trying not to dwell too much on the pandemic, as I figure you spend enough time thinking of that without my help. Instead, I continue to be excited to talk to you about my food and the writing life.

This week, I have been full of thoughts about storytelling. Telling a story is so human, so universal. What kid hasn’t found themselves, after an unusually momentous day at school, suddenly excited to answer the eternal question, ‘How was school today, honey?’

‘Mom, you wouldn’t believe it…’

Yet when you call yourself a writer and try to tell a good story, it can seem suddenly, damnably hard. It’s a mystery. I’ve tried to solve this mystery by reading books about the craft of writing. (Some are really quite useful!) I’ve attended lectures, spent mornings deep in writing workshops, and acquired an MFA. I’ve even tried out one of those Hollywood plot formulas called a ‘Beat Sheet.’

But the best way, bar none, that I’ve found to learn about storytelling is to pay attention to the great stories I encounter out in the wild. Some are in the form of novels, movies, magazine articles, histories, podcasts, parables. Others are the stories friends tell—the ones that have me sitting on the edge of my seat, laughing along, asking ‘Then what happened?’

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Here’s a story: When I was three, maybe four, my parents took me on a trip from our home in rural Northern California down to Los Angeles to visit my grandma Mimi, who lived in a condo in North Hollywood. I remember very little about this trip, except for one event—and I remember this event because my grandma never let me forget it.

Mimi was born Mary Anne Morar in Canton, Ohio in 1924. Her parents were each freshly naturalized American citizens. They had separately left Romania to seek their fortunes in the U.S., where they met, married and spent the rest of their lives together. So Mimi grew up in an ethnic enclave of first- and second-generation Romanian immigrants based around the Romanian Byzantine Catholic cathedral there. While Mimi was as American as April in Arizona (in Nabokov’s phrase)—even serving heroically in the Second World War—she always spoke Romanian with her parents, she briefly imported a handsome young Romanian man to be her second husband, and when she passed away last February, at 95 years old, she left behind a small family foundation dedicated to the study of Romanian culture.

Mimi was an excellent Romanian cook, a master of mamaliga, cornulete, and, especially, sarmale—the Romanian version of Pigs in a Blanket. This is where our story truly begins. Because, you see, even as a young child I was a vegetarian. Were a few morsels of salmon to be placed in a dish in front of my high chair, I would cast it to the ground. When my dad dangled a choice bit of flank steak in front of my mouth, I pressed my lips firmly together until he laughed and gave up. I steadfastly refused to take even a single bit of meat. By all accounts I was a pretty easygoing kid, but when it came to meat I was as willful as they come. I have always struggled to articulate the root cause of this inborn vegetarianism, but from birth I basically forced my parents to accomodate it.

This was all well and fine with my generous parents, but when we visited my grandmother and took our meals at her table, it was hard for her to understand it. How would I grow up to be a proper Romanian if I couldn’t eat most Romanian food? (Like so many diasporic communities, ours was within two generations reduced mostly to a cuisine.) She encouraged me to at least try sarmale. She was sure that I would discover it was delicious. The flavor of ground pork, rice, and herbs, all wrapped in a big, pickled cabbage leaf and baked till the flavors mingled into a thing of beauty—what Romanian boy would turn his nose up at that?

I understood how important it was to my grandma that I try this dish, and I really wanted to make her happy. At the same time, I found myself haunted by this phrase, ‘Pigs in a Blanket,’ that everyone kept using to describe the sarmale. It was terrible to think of eating a cozily snoozing animal. I spent a long time thinking about it, and then one evening before dinner I told Grandma that I wanted to try her sarmale.

She was delighted. I remember that very clearly.

For an hour we could both believe that I was going to fulfill her wishes. But then we were all seated at her table, under the chandelier. The sarmale was served. There it was on my plate. The pickled cabbage wrapping was greenish and slightly translucent, a few wisps of steam betraying that it had just come out of the oven. It smelled of cooked cabbage, of brine, and of the umami of browned meat. It smelled good.

I tried, I really did. I picked at it. I sawed off a sliver of cabbage and ate it. I unwrapped till I got to the meat, and then I tried to get my nerve up to eat it. I couldn’t eat it. I wanted to have eaten it. I avoided my grandma’s hungry eyes and pushed the meat around with my fork. I took another little bite of the sour cabbage. How could I get the meat to go away? How could I get myself to eat it?

Finally Mimi couldn’t help herself. She said, ‘Jasper, are you going to eat your sarmale?’

‘Yes, Grandma,’ I said. ‘I am eating it…’ Here I apparently paused for dramatic effect. Then I said, ‘Methodically.’

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Do I really remember saying this? My grandma probably told me the story fifty times. She loved it. I think somehow that the improbable precociousness of a four-year-old dodging his pushy grandma with the perfect $10 word must have so tickled her funny bone that it made up for the sorrow that I refused to eat her prize dish. She was a kindergarten teacher who loved telling stories and dreamed of one day writing her own novel. It was enough that young Jasper loved words.

I do remember sitting there and looking at the wrapped meat dumpling on my plate, feeling nauseous. I remember the chandelier. Maybe most of all I remember the smell of the cooking sarmale, the rich cabbage and pork smell, the smell of grandma’s house before her famous Romanian dinners.

Why did it work as a story when Grandma told it? Well, it had a good punch line. It was somewhat unusual, had different particulars than other stories. But I think the best part was the joy that she took in telling it. She savored how uncomfortable I had been. It was delicious to her how much she had wanted this thing from me. The pathos of it were so intense, the way she told it. And then they were resolved in such an unlikely way. Listening to her tell the story—that’s where so much of the pleasure was. It was in the telling. It was in her joy.

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In the last years of her life, my grandma Mimi lost most of her memories. It was the gradual, inexorable progress of Alzheimer’s disease—every month that went by left her a little more childlike. The body, a vessel filled by nine decades of experience, became empty once more. By the end, most of what remained was her glinting soul, and it was a blessing that Mimi was quick to smile and easy to get laughing, even when she was disoriented and swimming in a sea of confusion.

In the logic of ‘first in, last out,’ many of the memories that lasted the longest were those of childhood. Mimi would talk about her father’s backyard garden and his barrel of sauerkraut in the basement, next to the illicit, treasured barrel of wine. (Prohibition was still in effect.) She would describe the big feasts put on by the Romanian church, and how there would be dancing afterwards.

Around the time last year that Grandma passed away—with all her progeny at her bedside—my dad became very interested in making his own sauerkraut. Just like great-grandpa Vasile, Dad had his own cabbage patch. Now all he needed was to send off to Ohio Stoneware for a pair of three-gallon crocks and he could, in more than one sense, keep the old culture alive.

After his first batch, he gave me an enormous glass jar packed with fermented cabbage to take home with me. Lisa and I ate it all. It was delicious.

A few months later, I was visiting him and noticed a big box of cabbages from the farmer’s market. They had been purchased to make more kraut, but my dad felt like he’d missed the window of opportunity. The cabbages were too old now.

‘What?’ I said. ‘That’s ridiculous. Why don’t I take the cabbages and one of your crocks, I’ll ferment them, and then I’ll give you a big jar of kraut ready to eat?’

This is how I acquired my prize crock: highway robbery. It’s also how I learned to make saurkraut, Romanian style.

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ROMANIAN-STYLE SAUERKRAUT

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This sauerkraut, properly known as varza murata, differs from the classic German-style sauerkraut in one major way: the cabbage is not shredded before fermentation. Instead, it is kept whole (or halved or quartered), so that the leaves may be used later as the wrapper for sarmale. This means that the juices of the cabbage cannot provide, on their own, enough liquid to cover the cabbage. You have to add brine.

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Equipment

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A Really Big Wide-Mouth Jar or Small Crock
A Weight to Hold the Cabbage Down – (the simplest version is a plate slightly narrower than the jar, weighted with a river stone that has been boiled and scrubbed)

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Ingredients

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Cabbage – 4 medium heads, cored
Kosher Salt – 1/2 cup (do NOT use iodized salt)
Water – 16 cups
Whole Black Peppercorns – 2 tablespoons
Garlic Cloves – 4-8, cut in half
Bay Leaves – 2
Fresh Dill – a small bunch (optional)
Fresh Horseradish – two inches, split into sticks (otional)

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Steps

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1. Boil the water and salt, stirring till the salt dissolves. Allow to cool.
2. Pack the jar with the cored cabbage and other ingredients. If you want to, you can halve or quarter the cabbages so they fit more tightly.
3. Pour the brine to cover all the cabbage with about an inch of brine.
4. Place the weight on top, making sure that all of the cabbage is submerged.
5. Cover with cheesecloth and place in a dark corner of your home. The crock should ideally stay around room temperature, but if it’s in a cool place it will just ferment more slowly.
6. Wait four weeks, regularly checking to make sure everything is submerged, adding more brine if need be. You can also ensure that no molds are forming.
7. Around week three, begin tasting your kraut. It should get more and more sour. At a certain moment, it will be perfectly sour for you. This is the time to radically slow down fermentation by transferring the kraut to a jar with a lid and putting it in the fridge. It is ready to eat!

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Serving Suggestions

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Cut into narrow strips, it makes a delicious small salad.
As a sour addition to crunchy salads.
On top of nachos.
On top of a fully dressed baked potato
In breakfast tacos that are also filled with scrambled eggs. (Surprisingly delicous.)
Beside pierogis or latkes, along with sour cream and apple sauce.
With vodka.
With sausages, vegan or otherwise.
As the wrapper for a mystical vegetan version of your grandmother’s sarmale. (I still need to try this one.)

I’m afraid I don’t actually have a picture of my or my father’s Romanian-style sauerkraut. We’ll have to make do with this picture of the 3-gallon crock I stole from my dad. In the picture it had just released a deliciously sour batch of more German-style kraut—a scrumptious pink from the blend of red and green cabbage. This one I mixed up following the recipe in Sandor Ellix Katz’s book Wild Fermentation. If you are interested in fermenting some food of your own, GET AHOLD OF THIS BOOK. Here’s his bio: ‘Author Sandor Ellix Katz is a self-described ‘fermentation fetishist.’ His explorations in fermentation developed out of overlapping interests in cooking, nutrition, and gardening. A long-term HIV/AIDS survivor, Katz considers fermented foods to be an important part of his healing. A native of New York City, the author is a resident steward of Short Mountain Sanctuary, a queer intentional community in the wooded hills of Tennessee.’ How terrible it would be not to have this encouraging, non-prescriptivist fermentation fanatic guiding us on our journeys!

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One of the very best movies I’ve seen this year is The Florida Project. (It streams for ‘free’ on Netflix.) Like Mimi’s story I think this film’s excellence has something to do with the joy of its telling. It is a hectic, harrowing story of what it’s like to be a little kid in difficult circumstances: your young mom is sometimes turning to sex work, there’s no dad in the picture, you’re being raised in a long-term hotel in the shadow of Florida’s Disney World, and the most responsible adult you know is the delapidated hotel you live at’s manager, an overworked and precariously employed man (played by Willem Dafoe). The hotel manager knows what she doesn’t—that her innocence won’t last forever. He and the girl’s mother, flawed people, do what they can, in a society that relentlessly exploits and punishes its weakest members, to protect her precarious childishness. Watch it!

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(& if you enjoy The Florida Project, consider reading “The Magic Kingdom,” a long essay in The Baffler about the film, and Disney World, and the American imagination.)

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The other night, around midnight, Lisa already asleep, I was doing the dishes by the wide open window, through which a soft, warm breeze was blowing, when a powerful feeling came over me. It had wrapped up in it longing, possibility, being-in-nature, and contentment. It washed through my bones.

Though the moon was a waxing crescent, the way I felt I can only call Warm Night Full Moon Feeling. I have felt it before, sitting outside, all alone, under the summer stars. It feels like nature is on your side and you on its. Like everything is possible, everything is just a story. Like the air is there for breathing and you can feel the moonlight on your skin. Like the night will never end.

I hope that this summer you get some Warm Night Full Moon Feeling, too.

Till next week,

Jasper
May 25, 2020

Week 2: the Great Sandwich

What follows is a sample of my Writer’s Diary, which I currently email out every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your inbox, subscribe here.

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Hello! I’m glad to have you again for another installment of this, what I’m calling a writer’s diary. Though to be honest, when I’m really writing in my private diary, it’s not with you guys in mind. Sorry. This here is a diary more in the sense of a video game development diary—a genre often ignored but that offers real pleasures.

The best word for what this is, this lump of words and pictures and personality that has come to rest in your inbox, might really be a “blog post.” I don’t think there’s any shame in that. I love and miss the Golden Age of Blogs (1999-2008; RIP).

What was so great about the blog was that everyone had one and some people had interesting ones. It didn’t hurt that the underlying software was open source and operated according to clearly understandable rules: if you published a new post, everyone subscribed to your RSS would get it in their feed. But what your website looked like, how you wrote, how often you posted—that was entirely up to you.

This open format has since been replaced by the ‘walled gardens’ of Facebook, Instagram, Reddit, Snapchat, TikTok, Twitter, etc. They are walled because they don’t let outside programs or websites operate within their bounds, nor do they permit users to see outside content except in very curated ‘previews.’ They are gardens because team of algorithmic and human gardeners go around snipping off non-conforming content, keeping things tidy, and deciding what gets shown to whom. There is none of the strobing type of Myspace, none of the happy hyperlinking of Blogspot. On the anarchy <—> totalitarianism spectrum, they tend strongly to the right.

It’s funny that ‘walled garden’ is the operative metaphor for contemporary social media. Our word ‘paradise’ comes, etymologically, from the Avestan pairidaeza by way of Greek –> Latin –> French. And pairidaeza means ‘An enclosure, a park.’ Like the OG paradise, Eden. A walled garden.

In this last sense, today’s social media giants can each be described as an attempt at paradise.

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Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Eden anymore.

That’s right—we’re in E-mail! Strange enough, email is among the last true frontiers of the internet. (Funny that it was one of the first, too.) This social medium operates entirely over open protocols. Anyone can make an email client. Anyone can send an email. It’s a chaotic, anarchic place. You have to dodge spam, continuously unsubscribe from the deluge of corporate newsletters, and ignore the chain letters of your relations. And yet, I think some of the utopian promise of the internet remains here.

Thanks for meeting me here, beyond the walls, where we can be free.

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When I told Lisa what I’d realized—that my food-themed email diaries were really a sort of blog—she said she agreed. Then she laughed and told me that it reminded her of the Cheese Sandwich Blog.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘The term comes from back when blogs were a thing,’ she said. ‘People were critical of the way that bloggers would be like, ‘Today I had a cheese sandwich, and, uh, I watched some TV.’’ These blogs were ridiculed, she explained, because their authors had nothing to say and yet they wanted to have a blog, too, just like everyone else. What’s funny looking back is that today’s most popular social media app, Instagram, is basically a distillation of the Cheese Sandwich Blog, with the words removed. Maybe the Cheese Sandwich Blog was the only type of blog people ever needed…

Nonetheless, I felt a little embarrassed that my unique, special snowflake, gold star email diary had at its core this warmed-over concept, one that the blognoscenti had begun mocking a full half-my-lifetime ago. Did anybody really want to read about my cheese sandwich?

After spending a while feeling sad for myself, I baked some olive bread, craved a sandwich, and realized there was nothing for it but to make a Great Sandwich—and write all about it.

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I know it may seem a little highfalutin’ to call this a “Great Sandwich,” but that really is what this sandwich has been called for my whole life. It is the trademark dish of my aunt MaryEllen. I first had it when I was three and she and her kids—my older, cooler cousins Jessica and Zach—came to housesit and stay with me while my mom and dad traveled to a nearby hospital where they hoped to give birth to my younger brother. It was an enchanted visit, largely because a giant gray whale had recently washed up on Bowling Ball Beach—the most interesting thing that had ever happened—and MaryEllen regularly took me to go visit it. It was also exciting because my aunt regularly made the most delicious sandwiches. I would beg her, ‘Will you please make one of your Great Sandwiches?’ She did almost every day. They were so good.

Eventually my parents returned, now with a little baby who I begged to be allowed to hold. (They let me hold him only with serious supervision.) MaryEllen left, but I never forgot her great innovation. For years afterwards, I would ask my mom to ‘please make one of MaryEllen’s Great Sandwiches?’ Later we dropped her name and just called them what they were: Great Sandwiches.

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Are traditional recipes, with their lists of ingredients and their conveniently numbered steps really the best way to communicate cooking knowledge? I’m not convinced. Not for all situations, at least. Sometimes I want to share not a rigid recipe but more a way of thinking about a dish. Ramen, really, is an idea, and so is minestrone, so are crunchy tacos. There’s not one right way to make them, but there are certain characteristics that most good preparations share.

In trying to think of a way to write down my approach to the Great Sandwich, I thought of the book A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander et. al. This book tries to outline an approach to building buildings that is less tied up in formal architecture and more based around the processes by which humans have traditionally made their homes. What’s actually revolutionary about the book, though, is not its focus on vernacular architecture but its format: it tries to express its ideas in a ‘pattern language.’ The authors aim to capture the patterns that occur over and over in comfortable dwellings (like having a main entrance or giving its occupants a ‘room of one’s own’) and turn them into components of a language, sort of like words. The interconnections between patterns—like a ‘South Facing Outdoors’ which might include a ‘Garden Seat’ in the form of a ‘Sitting Wall’—form the language’s grammar. In the mind of someone familiar with the pattern language, different patterns can combine to express different buildings.

I could write a treatise on this book. I have read it many times, and it has helped me improve as a designer, a builder, and also as a thinker, I think. But maybe it’s better just to share a pattern language of my own conception.

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NOTES TOWARDS A PATTERN LANGUAGE
OF THE GREAT SANDWICH

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2 Bread Slices + Greens + Cheese + Tomato + Mayo + Mustard

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This is the most essential pattern of the Great Sandwich. In a pinch, you can do without the tomato or the mayo, though it’s not advised. Other ingredients allow you to work with what’s in season and exercise creativity: red onion, pepperoncinis, pickled jalapeños, sauerkraut, avocado, olives, meat (?!), sweet peppers, parsley, hot giardiniera, etc.

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Improvise the order of ingredients

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The chief creative act of the sandwich-maker is to choose the ingredients—and to choose the order in which the ingredients are laid down. The best sandwiches lay their delicious ingredients in an order that makes sense. However this order is not a fixed thing. Rather it is in the hands of the sandwich-maker to improvise the most elegant solution to the ingredients they have chosen.

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Put the fats (mayo, cheese) near what’s bitter and sour (greens, onion, pickled things)

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The marriage of fat and bitter foods is at the heart of much good cooking. This is why a good caeser salad is so good. It is why saag paneer tastes so nourishing. I think it also helps explain the unlikely deliciousness of polenta and broccoli sauce, the food of my childhood.

In the case of the Great Sandwich, it’s generally best to put the greens directly against the mayo-slathered bread, then to put the cheese atop this. On the other side of the cheese I generally put red onion and pepperoncini.

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Slice everything just thick enough

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A quick way to make a great sandwich fail is to so fill it with ingredients that nobody can bite the whole thing. Maybe this is a virtue in something like the club sandwich (why is their height considered a good thing??). In a Great Sandwich, excess thickness is always a sin. This is about eating, not about showing off.

For this reason, be careful not to slice the bread, tomatoes, or cheese too thick. Years of sandwich-making will yield a sure instinct for the correct width.

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Salt the tomato slices

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Good slicing tomatoes are a wonderful part of a sandwich. But they get even better if you lightly sprinkle them with salt. Did I read somewhere that this frees up their glutamates—the same scrumptious compound behind MSG? It indisputably increases their succulence.

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Put slippery ingredients against the bread

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Some ingredients—avocado, cherry tomatoes—have a tendency to squirt out of the sandwich. Therefore, place them as near to the stabilizing bread as possible.

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Cut the sandwich in half

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This is not optional. Sandwiches really do taste better when sliced in half. This is because much of what makes a Great Sandwich delicious is textural, and the texture of the bread crust is best encountered later in a bite. Cutting the sandwich in half means that you can start each bite with your tongue pressed against the soft interior of the sandwich. If you get some crust in your bite, your tongue will only encounter it while chewing, meaning that your saliva will have already begun moistening it. A sandwich that has not been cut in half will, during those first few bites, have a tendency to dry out your tongue, seriously diminishing your pleasure.

I’m sorry if you found this description of the process of chewing to be gross, but I believe that to become better cooks we have to really imagine how we eat.

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Toasting is 100% optional

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Toasting the bread can make a good sandwich better, but it won’t make a mediocre sandwich good. It is truly optional.

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Serve with chips

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So much of eating is cultural! I have always enjoyed the chips that sandwich joints often give you with your sub, but I never thought too much about it. Then one day my dad one day mentioned that if you eat a few chips between bites, you get to enjoy some crunch to counter the softness of the sandwich. This is true but also weird—many culinary traditions have no time for crisp foods. People from these cultures often find the sensation of crunching on something to be kind of unpleasant on the teeth. Textures, as much as flavors, are matters of taste and largely determined by culture.

I’m a good California boy, and you can take my corn chips from my cold dead hands. Though when it comes to Great Sandwiches, the ultimate accompaniment is a small hill of potato chips.

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This week has been busier than most. It turns out I kind of have a new job. This is good—making a living as a writer requires hustle. Most non-rich writers I know have to supplement their writing income with something: teaching, editing, copywriting, technical writing, bookshop work, scientisting, pharmacisting, etc. ‘Developing a Good Side Hustle’ should be a course taught in every MFA in the country.

My new hustle is writing articles for the Antioch University website. It’s interesting work: it turns out that it’s fun to call up professors and students around a university, reporting on their projects and picking their brains about issues within their fields.

My favorite kind of article to write, so far, is the profile. I learn a student or alum’s story and then tell it as well as I can. The most fun part is when I get them on the phone and start asking questions. It turns out—who knew?—that most people are pretty interesting when they talk about their lives. Furthermore, they’re delighted to be asked.

People are so interesting, and as a culture we spend so much time writing (memos, emails, reviews, etc.), but we really don’t spend that much time writing thoughtfully about each other. Think about the ten most interesting people that you know. If you googled each of them, would you be able to find a profile of any of them? Or would you at best find a concise bio that they probably wrote themselves, which maybe lists what schools they went to but leaves out the fascinating parts? I suspect the latter.

I wish there were more people out there writing profiles. People are interesting! There should be a record of their lives! I for one don’t want to wait for the obituary.

Would it be too crazy for us to come together as a society and pool our resources to make this much more widespread? I think this would knit our society more closely together while having the side benefit of giving gainful employment to some struggling writers, thereby freeing up their parents’ basements and maybe casually subsidizing some great art along the way. But humans are probably just incapable of collective action like this, right?

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I didn’t realize when I sent out last week’s installment just how many dear old friends would reach out. Your reasons were plenty: Just to say hi. To revel in our newly-revealed shared love of huevos rancheros. To report that you’d made my salsa recipe! To say that you were living in LA too. Or to share that you too have enjoyed ice in your beer. Jock even reports that ‘in France, biere panachee (beer with lemon juice added) is often served with ice.’ I tried this last night and it was ?.

To say this has all been a pleasure would be an understatement. It has been more like a revelation. Because I don’t have social media, the ways I stay in touch with friends and family are email, text, and phone calls. This means I’m in less regular touch with many of you than I might otherwise be. I know I sometimes get a little high and mighty about this—you know, ‘Wake up sheeple!’—but despite my love of email email I sometimes feel a little jealous of those of you who can use Facebook or Instagram or Twitter without losing yourselves in aphasic trances of self-loathing and obsession. It must be nice to remain in a sort of loose web of updates and photos, of likes and little exchanges of comments. When you move to a new city, I imagine you blast out a simple status: ‘Yo, LA, I’m here. Hit me up already!’

Oh well. I can’t get back on the apps, just like I can’t start smoking again. No matter how much I crave it.

And this newsletter is, I think, a sort of social media. It doesn’t have an algorithm or an app, in fact it lacks all of the compulsive calibration the big Silicon Valley apps have. It is a little, idiosyncratic letter from one kitchen table in California. And when it elicits a response, it’s relatively unmediated. We’re just emailing, or on the phone. Sooner or later, we’ll be in person. I’m looking forward to that.

Till then I’ll be in your magic inbox. I promise next week to try and practice greater concision.

Jasper
17 May 2020

This writer’s diary is in fact directly inspired by a video game development diary, Robin Sloan’s ongoing Perils of the Overworld game diary/newsletter, which I heartily recommend you subscribe to and read. He is a novelist building a text-based video game. His emails are decidedly superior to mine because they also contain “sound snacks”—samples from the sound track a musician is developing for the game. He also describes experiments using AI to generate fantasy settings, theorizes about why video game text is so often annoying, and rhapsodizes about obscure typography. For a certain type of nerd—my type—this is all catnip. Give it a try.

Week 1: Salsa Ranchera

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What follows is a sample of my Writer’s Diary, which I currently email out every Sunday. This current run has a central focus on food. To receive this in your inbox, subscribe here.

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Hello! And Happy Mother’s Day!
Also, welcome back. It’s been a while since I’ve sent out this email diary. If you’ve enjoyed it in the past, I apologize for the long hiatus. And if you’ve not enjoyed it, I’m sorry to again bombard you with free content. (There’s an unsubscribe button somewhere down there.) The truth is that I’ve missed sending this out. I’m hungry to talk about myself, about what I’m doing and thinking. So I’m re-starting this list. Buckle your seatbelts. I’m going to send out more emails.

In its prior incarnation, this was a travelogue. I narrated, sometimes at great length, what was happening as I traveled in Tibet, China, and Thailand. But today the airplanes are flying three-quarters-empty, the border guards are bored, and pleasure travel is the exclusive province of sociopaths and the mega-rich (but I repeat myself).

The other night, Lisa and I spent half an hour watching a video someone took a few years back of a simple night walk around Tokyo’s Shinjuku district. We peeked in little bars that only seat five at a time. We admired elegant billboards and looked curiously at businesses with English-language names like Peg and BigBang and Bon’s Old Fashioned American Style Pub. Most of all, we jealously ogled pedestrians who were out on the town, faces uncovered, physically undistanced, residing in the normal world that is no more.

Has any time ever made us hungrier for connection? And for that matter, has any time ever made us hungrier? I miss street life, restaurants, jam-packed farmer’s markets, and big dinner parties. Those are things that nourish.

I am going to try to send a copy of this email diary out every Sunday. Like my travelogue, this version of my newsletter won’t last forever. I’m thinking of sending twelve or eighteen installments—if I’m having too much fun, I’ll choose the bigger number. They will be open diaries, letting you know a bit of what I’m doing and thinking, how I am touching the world—the sort of thing I might tell you about if you came over for brunch. And I will include a recipe. Not because I expect you to cook it. More like, it’s fun when you visit someone to watch them cook, and to hear them talk about what they’re making as they make it.

I’ll do my best to keep it brief. Though I’m bad at brevity. I’m sorry.

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These are the huevos rancheros from Cafe One, a little diner on the north end of Fort Bragg. They are, to my mind, the perfect breakfast. You eat them with a fork and knife, and each bite can be perfect in its own way.

The essential equation here is eggs + salsa + beans + tortilla. The flavors fit together so nicely. Rich custardy yellow yolks contrast with tart salsa. Corn-forward tortillas plays off the softly round black beans. Sour cream, avocado, and egg yolk are all fats, but each brings something special: the cream is tart, the avocado is sweet and green, and the yolk is a rich, sinshiney liquid that flows and coats. All the components are fresh and good on their own, but as a dish they become even better. Especially if you drizzle some Tapatio over the top. And did I mention they come with breakfast potatoes and a tiny wedge of watermelon?

I have thought a lot about this dish—mostly about how much I want to eat it, but also about how I could make it on my own. Eventually, I realized that the main thing standing in my way was having a really good salsa ranchera. (The canned stuff is, for this purpose, just not up to snuff.) The need to find a good salsa ranchera became more urgent in January, when we moved to L.A.

 

This is the week that the jacaranda trees decided to reach maximum purple petal. It’s also the week that the carpenters building the luxury condo complex across the street decided to enclose it in a pale yellow sheathing product that every four feet proclaims itself to be “DensGlass.” I find the two colors—one organic, the other manufactured—to be unexpectedly lovely, together like this.

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I’m a tremendous fan of John Thorne, the cookbook writer. His book Mouth Wide Open did that rare thing that Samin Nosrat’s Salt Fat Acid Heat also did: it changed the way I cook. Both books gave me permission to deviate, often wildly, from written recipes. But while Nosrat’s book gave me a framework for understanding the elemental components of good cooking, Thorne helped me think about cookbooks in a new way. Before, I thought that you read cookbooks mostly to look for dishes to make. You might idly page through one, and if something caught your eye you could flag it with a sticky note. But that’s not the only way to read a cookbook. You can also read it more like a novel: enjoying the language, getting familiar with the peculiarities of the narrator, and letting the waking dream of a different world assemble itself in your mind. In the case of a cookbook, the world you visit is mostly a kitchen, and the eyes you see through are those of someone who loves cooking.

Now I mostly read cookbooks while laying in bed. I love it when their authors talk about different techniques, how they came to learn something, and what they were thinking when they formulated a dish. In this way I have spent time with the minds of patissiers, Chinese-American cooks, Persian-American cooks, bread bakers, and even that guy who started Blue Bottle Coffee. (He’s very intense about his coffee.) I cannot recommend pleasure reading good cookbooks enough.

But John Thorne also taught me that when you want to cook a specific dish, the opposite approach is best: take down every cookbook that you can think of that might have a recipe for that dish. Read all of the different approaches. Then come up with your own.

So, excited to make salsa ranchera, did just that. I took down Rick Bayless’s Mexican Everyday (with its bizarre emphasis on yoga, of all things), The El Paso Chile Company Cookbook, and one of my favorite books ever, Secrets of Salsa.

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Secrets of Salsa
was first published
in 2001 by the Anderson Valley Adult School, and it collects the salsa recipes and stories of the women in their English as a Second Language classes. Everything in the book is presented bilingually, in facing translations. The book design is beautiful, the salsa recipes are excellent, and all of the proceeds benefit adult literacy in Anderson Valley. According to the seventh edition’s introduction, Secrets of Salsa has sold more than 27,000 copies. If you account that mine cost $14.95 new at Matson Mercantile in Elk, that must be a lot of money raised. Beyond its incredible value as a fundraising tool, it is a powerful proof of the work they are doing in those classes. I think of the pride of these women in seeing their ancestral knowledge and personal genius collected and valued in such a tangible way—it makes my heart sing.

So I compared Bertha Mendoza’s recipe for Salsa Ranchera to those from my other cookbooks. The El Paso Chile Company suggested fresh jalapeños where Bertha used pickled ones, and I thought that made sense—especially with what I had in the fridge. I also looked at a few recipes I found online. I liked the idea of adding some broth to both thin the salsa and make it richer.

Eventually, I turned the broiler on and made my own version. This salsa is rich with flavors, moderately tart, and a little spicy. It gets better over a few days in the fridge, and in my experience it can keep for up to two weeks. (As with all refrigerated foods you have to use and trust your senses.) Lisa and I have enjoyed it over huevos rancheros, in burritos, and on baked potatoes.

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Jasper’s Salsa Ranchera

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10-12 roma tomatoes
3-5 jalapeño peppers
1/4 of an onion
2 cloves garlic, unpeeled
1/4 cup strong vegetable broth
juice of 1 lime
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1. Halve the tomatoes and peppers. Array them face down, round side up on a parchment paper-lined baking sheet, along with the onion and unpeeled garlic. Roast for ten minutes in the broiler—until the tomato skins are crackly but not burnt.
2. After removing from the oven, pull the skins off the tomatos and jalapeños (if possible). Also peel the garlic.
3. Throw everything in a blender. Blend. Salt to taste.
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Serve alone or as a topping. Store in the refrigerator. If you have more than you can reasonably eat within the next week or two, give some away or freeze it.

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Just put some ice in your beer already.
I don’t get why people are so precious about this salubrious liquid. In Thailand, everybody does this. And why not? It makes your beer cold. Then it keeps your beer cold. And, best of all, it slowly dilutes it! Learn to love your cold, watery beer.

I’ll see you next week

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Jasper

 

Lightplay

Why are you here, if not to sign-up for Lightplay, my mini-magazine?

 




 

Lightplay is the mini-magazine that I write, edit, design, and publish. It is available in both visual and audio formats, delivered by email (subscribe above) and podcast (listen here). Sent on a roughly monthly schedule, each edition of Lightplay has a central feature and more. I hope to make the experience of receiving a Lightplay fun, like getting a letter from an old friend. Or a new friend. Let’s be friends.

Below, please find the archives of Lightplay.

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001 – Salsa Ranchera
002 – the Great Sandwich
003 – Sauerkraut
004 – Beyond the Kitchen Window
005 – Recipe for a Protest Movement
006 – A Post-Protest Popsicle
007 – Change the Name!
008 – Bread
009 – The Strangest Summer
010 – American Trip
011 – Rainbow
012 – the Lost Travelogue
013 – Chronos, Nomads, Fruit
014 – Utopian Proposals
015 – Espresso
016 – Music and Power
017 – Taco Story
018 – The Old Weird Internet (Never Died)

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2015 Travelogue: China, Tibet, Thailand

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7 – The Amateur Mountaineers
6 – Two Tibetan Print Houses
4 – Wachang to Litang
3 – Muli Monastery to Wachang
2 – Kunming to Muli Monastery
1 – San Francisco to Hong Kong

Travelogue 7 – The Amateur Mountaineers


What follows is an excerpt from my email travelogue, which I send every week or two while I’m on the road. To subscribe to the mailing list, follow this link. This installment was originally sent out on December 12, 2015.

 

HT-Hearthsmoke


Dear Travelogue Readers —

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It’s been a couple of weeks since my last update, and much has happened, though it also feels like I’ve been standing still. I made it to Thailand, spent a week laid low by the flu, and for the time being I’m living in Chiang Mai, a northern city filled with other foreigners and ex-pats. Life here is slow and easy, which makes for a boring travelogue. I’m writing a lot, though, and I still have a few stories worth telling from China.

The following trip took place just over three weeks ago, but it was only a few days back that I realized I had something to say about it. Find my efforts below — I hope you enjoy them.

I’d like to thank Hannibal for taking several of the photographs in this installment, and for offering that I could use them. I’ve credited him at the bottom and provided instructions for how to access higher-resolution versions. I’m sure you’ll enjoy them.

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Sincerely,
Jasper Henderson
12 December 2015
Chiang Mai, Thailand

 

HT-Donkeys

 
We’ve been walking for more than eleven hours, and now we’re halfway up the last moraine before the pass. The sun is setting on the other side of the mountains. Its rays streak overhead to paint the hilltops we’ve already rounded red-gray and burnt yellow, but no heat reflects back to our crease. Instead we’re trying to keep our footing on pebbles embedded in ice. We pause for a long time, me twenty feet further up the slope, and we talk. Hannibal tells me about a party he threw in the co-op his senior year of college, during Boston’s worst winter in fifty years, when the snow was piled five feet deep between the sidewalks and the street. But in the Dudley Co-op the radiators were going full blast, and there was fresh bread, and he went out and bought an icecream cake. It sounds like a different planet.

He finds some internal reserve of energy and starts moving up again. I also push up, finding each footing in the blue glow of snow and ice and stepping into it, willing my feet not to slip and drop me. There’s maybe one hundred feet to the pass. Hannibal catches up to me and surges ahead and out of sight. I think I hear him whooping and screaming, but I don’t feel like going any further, so I stop and stand there for a while, thirsty and tired. A minute later Hannibal reappears and climbs down towards me a little ways. He’s encouraging me to keep going and make it to the top. I push, each step taking real thought and energy. Eventually the slope flattens a little bit, and there’s just a snowfield to cross. In order to make a solid footing you have to stomp your foot into the snow. Even so it feels like you might slip at any moment.

Somehow I make it to the top, and the wind is screaming. Hannibal says into my ear a Tibetan phrase that he thinks I should shout to celebrate our triumph, and I rather pathetically yell it into the gale. Then I forget the words. It takes me a long time to get my windbreaker on. We take a few pictures, look at the sunset. After a few minutes we start climbing down as fast as we can.

T7FinalAscentToPass

Hannibal and I first walked together four-and-a-half years ago, after I breezily invited myself along on a trip he was taking in northwest China. Somehow in that summer we became friends, and we also learned that we get along mysteriously well on the trail. Walking together is a curious sort of companionship — you sleep right next to each other, take every meal together, and together you confront the road. Sometimes maybe one person walks a hundred feet ahead for an hour, but for the most part you’re right next to each other, all the time. It’s an intense companionship, even at times a shared solitude, an isolated little world of two. What makes the whole endeavor possible is that you are united around a common purpose: the journey.

A good comparison, I think, is to Ishmael and Queequeg in Moby Dick. At the beginning they share a bed but little else. Ishmael is terrified of the tattooed savage with his razor-sharp harpoon and strange little totem. Soon they warm to each other and develop a bond of shared purpose, spending the rest of the novel looking out for each other. It’s a friendship built on shared toil not taken too seriously. Also, the backdrop of the novel: the ocean, the great, blank sea. Walking has some of this sense of adriftness, of slow movement through the void.

Life, it increasingly seems to me, is a long scrabble for meaning and purpose — if you’re lucky, maybe happiness — in an essentially meaningless medium. Walking just makes this more literal. Your possessions are what you can carry on your back, and you rely on them to survive. You move between zones of relative comfort, hotels and living rooms and monastery refectories, and places of greater discomfort, drainage ditch bivouacs and windblasted peaks and long, straight, dust-choked roads. As days pass you sometimes have the illusion of progress, but this is a mirage, an invention. The day you set out you’re just a human with a satchel on a road, and the day you return you’re still a human with a satchel on a road.

The progress invention is part of what makes us human. We tell stories about our trips, call them adventures, imagine that there was a narrative and sometimes even a plot. We are so used to stories that we often set out on a trip with just such a purpose in mind. In the ugly phrase in vogue today, we set out to “make some memories.” You can see it in IMAX clarity with a book like Eat, Pray, Love, its itinerary (Italy, India, Bali) and narrative (hedonism heals in the sensual Orient) baked into the title and even into the book proposal, which sold for a $200,000 advance before Elizabeth Gilbert took the first step of her trip. We tell ourselves stories not in order to live, as Joan Didion would have it, but because we’re ravenous for meaning and essential to our very nature is the constant groping for it.

Back on the topic of companionship while walking, it strikes me that the more felicitous comparison might be to Waiting for Godot. Two men stand in a barren landscape, talking. Both go back and forth on the very possibility that something meaningful could happen. One (Vladimir/Hannibal) has a small bladder and is often going off to pee. The other (Estragon/Jasper) spends a lot of time struggling with his shoes. They don’t have enough food, but there’s nothing they can do about it. The situation seems helpless — Godot will never arrive, the men will never find meaning or love again — but there is consolation, though they often can’t see it, in that they have each other’s company. I guess in some respect this is a love letter to Hannibal.

T7HannibalWalking

We slip out of Xining like men running away from their pasts. The bus drops us in a dusty hot Muslim town halfway along the new highway to Rebgong. Along the Yellow River, actually a reservoir in this stretch, butchers in dirty canvas tents saw merrily away on rib-splayed cows amid the buzz of flies and small children. We take a car up to a small monastery where a month before Hannibal made friends with the cook. Most of the monks are in the assembly hall chanting a long text and periodically breaking into a clangor of drum banging, horn honking, and cymbal clattering. It’s the most musically talented monastery I’ve yet had the privilege of visiting.

With a few free hours before sundown we walk to the neighboring monastery, which Hannibal had found strange and off-putting, albeit with great views, the last time he visited. We find the whole place seemingly abandoned in the middle of an ambitious construction project. Carved wooden screens lean in great stacks under the eaves. Piles of garbage taller than I am release scraps of plastic and newspaper that blow across large cobbled courtyards in the evening breeze. The prayer halls are all locked, and the place has the feel of one of those half-abandoned Soviet resorts you sometimes stumble into in Russia. There was once great ambition and now there is great emptiness.

In the entrance alcove of one of the locked prayer halls we find a thangka of Wrathful Shambhala. The enemies of Buddhism are being ridden down by a horde of the righteous. If you examine the bad guys’ corner of the painting you find them suffering the depredations of undead buggery and a rain of sodatic/sotadic daggers. (The next day Hannibal distracts me from the drudgery of our hike with a comic lecture on these two possible adjectival derivations, both meaning “of or relating to buggery.” [Buggery itself coming simply from “Bulgarian” and referring to a 16th-century imaginative conception of Eastern Orthodox sexual practices.] Sotadic is an adjective first formed by Richard Burton from the name of the lewd Greek poet Sotades, in order to describe a climatic zone [kind of arbitrarily following the Tropic of Cancer] that he found to be particularly filled with and accepting of homosexuality and pederasty. Sodatic is an adjective invented by Hannibal from the name of the Biblical city of Sodom, which was famously blasted by Old Testament God because of its lascivious and unrepentant libertinism. The point being that both words mean the same thing and are anagrams but have pleasingly disparate derivations.) Having now seen this fate worse than our own we walk back to our livelier and less trash-strewn monastery to eat dinner, listen to a half-hour of bombastic horn-blasting, and fall into an early sleep.

 

T7SkeletalBuggery

We wake before our alarms and drink as much water as we can stomach. For some reason we’ve only brought a single one-liter Nalgene, which we’re supplementing with a 400ml Tropicana tangerine juice bottle. We can carry just under a liter-and-a-half of water, which is not exactly the Sierra Club recommended water provisioning for a multiday hike through frozen alpine conditions, but whatever, we’re each carrying a bottle of Coke too, which yeah, soda pop is dehydrating. We both know it’s bad planning, so we’re pregaming the hike with some water chugging. Eventually we put on our shoes, leave the dark monastery, and visit the nice new privy they’ve built on the edge of the ravine.

Sometime later we start walking. The stars are spread luxuriantly on this cloudless, moonless early morning. We cross little frozen creeks that glimmer mysteriously in the starlight as chill winds whip down their streambeds. Eventually we notice that the monastery behind us has become a constellation of distant, lighted windows. We round the off-putting, under construction monastery, which in the dawn half-light is mysteriously overrun by donkeys. After a while the road turns west, towards the mountain range we’re planning to cross. We breakfast on stale bread and strawberry flavored Oreos.

The sunrise is a crown of rose and electric orange and aquatic blue-greens smoldering over distant ridgelines. Nearby hillsides are blanketed in hearthsmoke and the canyons echo with cockcall. We walk. Sometime in late morning we run into a Tibetan road crew carrying big bags of rice and other foodstuffs and shovels to a remote camp. They’re cheery in spite of their bulky loads, which make my strappy, endlessly adjustable backpack seem an outrageous luxury. A few minutes later we’re visited an old yakherd, who squats next to us as we snack and gives Hannibal complex pathfinding advice. Hannibal encourages me to offer him a cigarette, but when I hold one out he explains proudly that he quit last year. I smoke alone, laid out on the knolly, stubby grass, angling my body to absorb maximum sunlight.

Later the path disappears entirely and we cross a hundred yards of shin-deep, crusty snow. At the other side there’s a saddle with wind gusting over it. Hannibal quickly lies down, pulls his bulky big jacket over his head, and falls asleep. I wander around, finding the remains of a summer herding camp: dugout earthen hearths, a scattering of dried yak chips, a worn-out canvas jacket, and busted pair of shoes. I give it a minute and then go back and wake Hannibal from what looks like a blissful nap. There’s still a lot of ground between us and the pass.

We cross the new road they’re putting in. We’ve been talking for hours about the ancient pleasure of following a footpath, remembering favorite paths, enjoying steep hillsides unspoiled by roadcut. We cut away from the road and find the footpath again, though now it goes up rather precipitously, and we start feeling the altitude. Altitude sickness in its milder forms is largely mental, but that doesn’t make its effects any less real. We take fifty steps and then stop for a minute and catch our breath. Then we take another fifty steps and repeat. Walking becomes labor, and the regular interruption makes it drudgerous work. The dun hills are freckled with patches of low brown scrub. As we cross slopes the temperature fluctuates wildly, still and sweaty-hot in the middle of a bowl but wind-whipped and chill on the spines of ridge. We’ve run out of water.

Finally we can see the pass and begin making our final approach. Here the path is little more than a yak track. It contours around lobes of hill, sometimes going sharply up and other times descending as much as a hundred feet. The parts going down we take almost at a run, worried as we are now about the lateness of the day and our high elevation. We pick our way over rockslides and hoof-pitted slopes made mud-slick by the late afternoon sunlight, but there’s nowhere even a trickle of water with which to refill our bottles. The east-facing slopes are meanwhile covered in thin snow, which is made treacherous by our exhaustion. Often the snow is coated in a thin crust of ice that has re-frozen in the afternoon shade. At one point I am feeling particularly nervous, looking down hundreds of feet of slick snow, when Hannibal falls with a yell. I worry that he twisted an ankle, but he pops up quickly, cursing. I catch up with him and he shows me where he bent the hiking pole he’s using: it caught in a crevice right as he slipped. We bend it straighter, and I pound the damaged section into its sleeve. We continue even slower.

As we approach the pass it seems like each round of hillside should be the last, but once we’ve picked our way around or over it another one is revealed. Our boots get covered in snow which then melts. We lose the path each time it passes into shadow and ice. We invent our way for a while and then find the path again, a hundred feet from where we’ve ended up. It sounds miserable, and by the end it was miserable. When we finally start pushing up the final moraine to the pass we look down and see the new, broad road terminating just a few hundred feet below. Halfway to the top, perched on pebbles and ice, Hannibal tells me about a glorious party in a warm co-op in Boston. We summit the pass before sundown, and then begin our parched, twilit descent.

 

HT-MeGazing

There’s a tendency in our culture, and maybe in our DNA, to glorify suffering. We have the cliché of the tortured artist, alone in her garret, sculpting from her sorrow a masterpiece. We see Achilles raging over Patroclus’s body, wracked with mourning and anger, a righteous and beautiful fury. Young Werther kills himself for love, and a dozen copycats follow his example and make the literary literal. This is part of the storytelling virus: it takes something elemental but essentially meaningless like suffering — the meaning of suffering is that one is suffering — tautology as truth — and grants it symbolic power, romanticizes it, ties it to other events divided by time from the suffering itself. Eventually we have a story in which suffering is a foil to future glory or redemption. And maybe after hearing the story we think that we understand something deeper about suffering itself.

I don’t mean to insult storytelling here. I’m an aspiring novelist, a teacher of poetry, and most certainly the narrative sections of this very essay have some semblance of plot and story to them. Only that lately a great skepticism of pat conclusions and hackneyed narratives has come over me. I don’t after all believe that suffering usually makes one a stronger, wiser person or even a better artist. It seems equally false to assume that a journey or adventure will lead to personal growth or some kind of conclusion.

I guess I’m not even really talking about the suffering of walking across a mountain range without enough water. I’m talking about this trip I’m in the middle of: five-and-a-half months spent writing in Asia. I not only don’t think that it should be burdened with meaning in the sense I’ve been talking about, I also emphatically don’t want it to be, which has the sound of a self-fulfilling prophecy. I embarked from San Francisco with a broken heart, as the woman I’d been loving and living with for almost four years and I broke up, went our different ways. This trip was selfish, in the strict sense that it was intended to help me focus on my writing and find the path I want to follow in the years to come, but it was also in some ways self-defeating, self-injurious. I had been frustrated with my writing, as the work of making money and keeping a home and having a social life left precious little time for sitting quietly in a room with a computer. I realized that if I didn’t start prioritizing writing right now, when my life was comparatively empty, it would never happen. But that life was also comfortable and filled with delight and, and, love. Art requires action; I had the opportunity to act; in so acting I caused my heart to break. This doesn’t mean that it was the right decision (if such a thing can be said to exist), nor does it mean I am on the path of growth or self-discovery or even artistic brilliance. Events occur, we make decisions, and sometimes we suffer.

It’s already a trope that the brokenhearted don’t want their hearts to mend. The Magnetic Fields’s “I Don’t Want to Get Over You” is a beautiful and funny parody of the feeling. But there’s something true I think in this desire to remain broken. My dad once told me that rather than mend a broken heart, you should embrace its shatteredness, should sledge it again, break it into a thousand, a thousand thousand pieces and then let each shard and speck glint and shine like the stars in the sky. Maybe it’s less hopeful, but then it also seems more possible. I think this is what I’m aiming for in my travels and my suffering rather than some narrative of recovery and healing. It’s a broken world, friends, but can’t we love it as it is, not trying to make it something else, not glorifying but accepting it?

 

T7SheepAndPrayerFlags

We scuttle down off the windy pass. As we drop one hundred, two hundred feet I start to prattle about all sorts of strange things, but my lips are numb so I have to keep repeating myself. I’m thrilling over the word debouch. We pick our way down a heavily eroded hillside — three-foot tall grass-topped hummocks subdivided into an archipelago by steep ditches filled with loose gravel. I tell Hannibal that once we get down to the saddle at the bottom I’m going to smoke a cigarette. We make it to the saddle but I hallucinate that a pile of rocks is a sleeping person or animal and refuse to approach it till Hannibal inspects it. “Just some rocks, Jasper.” Then I throw my bag down and take awhile finding my cigarettes. Finally I get one lit and try to enjoy it, but I’m too dehydrated and exhausted. I look over at Hannibal and notice that he’s fuming as the last glow of twilight fades away and we haven’t found water yet. I stub my cigarette out even though I’ve only taken a few drags and rise wobbly to my feet. I’ve got my headlamp on but its batteries are drained and it lets out a humorous, thin squiggle of light. We immediately walk down the wrong side of a drainage and have to backtrack.

Soon we reach a lumpy field and Hannibal says, “I’m going to get water from the stream down there. Can you pitch the tent?” I agree but can’t for the life of me figure out where he thinks there’s flat ground. He gestures at a lump and says, “Only our backs need to be flat, right?” I pitch the tent somewhere else that proves even lumpier, and he fetches water. When he returns having actually found water we’re both too tired to celebrate. Then I insist on using my iodine tablets to purify the water, which requires waiting for half an hour. Hannibal laughs at the tablets — he’s in a better mood after drinking his fill down at the stream — and then tells me that there’s probably Bubonic Plague in the water. We lie in our sleeping bags keeping the water from freezing with our body heat. When the water’s finally ready we drink it and for dinner eat disgusting two-day-old stuffed bread. We sleep.

The next morning we’re in high spirits as we walk across a mesa-like plateau with endless vistas of distant, shimmering peaks. Then we spend a few hours walking along a streambed hemmed by the high cliffs of the plateau. We run out of water again — this time it’s my fault. Eventually we end up on an endless, straight road across scrubland. It’s late afternoon by the time we reach the main road. We catch a bus to the town of Guide and take a room at its fanciest hotel, the only one that accepts foreigners. The room is stupidly opulent in all the ways that don’t matter (the bathroom has automatic lights that click off before you can finish pooping) and fairly uncomfortable in the ways that do matter (the front door is super-heavy and wants to shut on your fingers; the heat is turned up unbearably high). We get hotpot and can’t finish it. Back in the room we watch a crappy Chinese rip of the movie Kickass and go to bed.

We wake early and walk through the old city of Guide: tall walls looming over a freshly bulldozed wasteland. The wrecking crew didn’t even bother to clean up the bricks from the old courtyard houses and winding alleys they knocked down. Instead they’ve rebuilt in a vaguely historical fashion a single shopping street, now featuring angle parking. It’s impossible to write about this stuff without being cutely sarcastic and depressed. At the north end there still stands a temple complex complete with a temple tower. Hannibal is an expert in the history and meaning of temple towers, so it’s fascinating to finally visit one with him. It’s a glorious old building, quite tall, and it reminds me of a lighthouse. The whole complex, even the Garden of Literature, is empty, probably due to the 80-kuai entrance fee, about $12 USD. I ask Hannibal if there’s some kind of special rate for locals, and he says no, anyone who wanted to pray here daily would have to pay the entrance fee every single time.

We take a bus back to Xining, and the next day I fly to Bangkok.

 

T7GirlAtFestival


I’d like to credit and thank Hannibal Taubes for taking the first two pictures and the sixth, in which I gaze scenically out at the sunset after crossing the pass. If you’d like to enjoy these and the other photos at full resolution simply click on them and then follow the link above the picture that reads something like, “4567×1234.”