wholeanimal

[wholeanimal]

Quietly Shitty Men

“There is a specific type of person who will siphon the gas right from you because they’ve never learned how to shine their own light.” My ex is engaged.  That shouldn’t bother me, should it?  Oh, but it does.  It bothers me because I saw it coming.  Tell me, what makes a woman “crazy”? Is it when she follows her own instincts? Or is it when she suppresses them? Is she crazy for sensing something is wrong, or crazy for acting like it?  It would be one thing if this was someone new. Good luck and God bless.  It would be another if he said, at any point in the relationship, how he felt. That he was anxious or nervous or angry or scared or hurt or apprehensive or lost. You know, feelings.  I can’t blame a person for having feelings. Had he stepped up and said “you know what, I can’t stop thinking about my ex, I want to give it another try with her.”  That would have been fine. Not in the moment, but nine months later, I wouldn’t be feeling like this. Feeling like I’ve just clicked the last piece of the puzzle into place. 

It wasn’t me. It was, obviously, never me.  I wouldn’t still be putting myself back together after riding the world’s shittiest, least exciting roller coaster.  I wouldn’t be having nightmares that I was somehow still dating him, still subjected to his unfortunately not unique brand of emotionlessness and quiet disdain. Like I was the freak for feeling.  When things were really, truly over, that’s when I learned the most about who he was. I remember sitting at the kitchen counter, having a silent panic attack, wondering where I was going to live, what I was going to do, how I was going to make this all work. The pandemic and riots had hit my neighborhood hard, and I was trying to imagine starting life over when everything else was figuratively and literally crumbling.  Granted, I can’t remember the conversation word-for-word, but this is my best attempt.  “What’s going on?”  “Nothing, I’m just freaking out.” “Why?” “I have to move. I have to start over. I have to figure out so many things.” “Yeah, well...” “What?” “I just don’t know why you’re so upset.” “Are you fucking serious?” “Yeah. I don’t know why you have to have so many emotions.”  “Do you mean now, or in general?” “In general.” I was about ready to fly apart.

“You don’t...understand...why I have EMOTIONS?”  ”Yeah. I guess I just don’t see the point.” I don’t remember much after that. I remember going back upstairs and crying so hard I vomited. So much made sense: it wasn’t that he couldn’t empathize with me. It’s that he saw no value in it. Only his emotions were valid. Anything beyond that was simply not worth caring about. It was chilling, and nauseating, and heartbreaking. My heart broke many times over the course of the month I spent living there after we decided to part ways. I had several conversations like this, where I realized just how long I had been having a one-sided relationship. It also made me feel white-hot, clench-fisted RAGE. How DARE he?  NOTHING about his daily life would change. He would wake up in the same bed, go down the same set of stairs, putz around his merry fucking way. He wouldn’t have to spend a dollar or dime sorting out what came next. Me, on the other hand? I lost my job the same day I found my apartment.  I wanted to claw the paint from the walls I had meticulously restored. I wanted to splinter the floors I had paid to have refinished. I wanted to take all this hard work with me, somehow, to show that I had not truly given up everything. That I had something left. I’m not writing this for you to feel bad about me. I’m more than fine.  I’m not looking for words of encouragement. I don’t need them.  I want him, and other quietly shitty men, held accountable.  Nothing my ex did was actually abusive. It was juuuuust under the line, just enough for him to be able to walk away with his hands up, all “Guess it just didn’t work out!” And I know, I KNOW I’m not the only one.  He made me feel crazy and stupid and weak and small and pathetic. I contorted myself into impossible shapes, trying to make the relationship work. I did things he would never do, that I would never do again. I moved across the country. Twice.  I downplayed all the porn he watched. I pushed the fact that he had an active FetLife account out of my mind. I ignored my dealbreaker about being with a smoker - something he claimed he quit, then started up again in secret, then held against me when I called him out. Making me the bad guy.  It got so bad, I suspected I had R-OCD, or relationship-based OCD. That was my only explanation for how I was always so anxious and he was always so calm. It was MY fault that something felt off. He was aware of my tendency to blame myself, and used it against me. Then, he would get to be the patient, understanding boyfriend while I broke down again and again, hating myself for being so “weak.” I wasn’t weak. He was keeping me in the dark on purpose, because it was easier to do that than to, I don’t know, be fucking honest?! 

Every time I got really bent out of shape, when the little slights and coldness and disdain had built up to a breaking point, he would let me say (or scream) my piece, and respond: “You’re right.”  Wow. Thanks!  I see now that you don’t have to do much work on yourself when you just agree with the person who is upset with you.  I’m also not writing this to paint myself as an angel. Yes, I was frustrated and confused and upset, which came out in outbursts of tears and anger. But the difference is, I was trying to connect with him in everything I did.  He was trying to push me away. it dawned on me, during one of those horrible post-breakup conversations, that he had fully checked out many months ago. I finally asked him to define a phrase I had heard him use during couples counseling (another suggestion of mine). “What do you mean by ‘I’m deeply invested in your happiness?’” “What?” “Well, like an investment, do you mean time, money, emotions? Or do you just want me to be ok?” “Yeah, that.” “Ok. so you just want me to be “okay”.” I’ll take “Performative Allyship” for 200! I’ve told myself I should have known. Should have left sooner. Should-ing myself to death, sparing him from any fault. Remember, he’s the long-suffering partner of an overly sensitive woman. Another wince-worthy excerpt from couples counseling: Our therapist asked us, at the end of a session, to each tell the other something we loved about the other person. I turned, with tears in my eyes, and told him I appreciated how consistent he was. I was always able to count on him being stable and calm.  He told me he liked how nice and clean I kept the house.  Cool! He could have saved himself about six months of this bullshit if he had just spoken his mind. I wonder, now, if he even had the capacity. But no, he preferred to wait and let me figure it out on my own, until I was so depleted that I was having almost nonstop migraines. But, just like the sibling who can’t get into trouble because they’re “NOT ACTUALLY TOUCHING YOU!!!”, nothing he did was exactly abusive.  But it was plenty shitty.  Mr. Social Justice. Mr. Feminism. Mr. Don’t Comment On That Topic Or I’ll Shut Down Emotionally. Mr. We Have To Move Away From Montana For Vague Reasons Including Racial Tension Which I Never Actually Experienced But That’s Reason Enough For Me!  And when we got to Philadelphia, it was Mr. Why Don’t You Take More Walks Outside Even Though You Get Harassed and Followed? You’re In The House Too Much (Yeah, Even Though It’s a Pandemic).  He’d spend hours on the phone talking to the nurses he helped at work. But when a woman in need lived in his own house, ew, gross! Too close to home!  There’s a line in a very funny Chris Fleming song called the “Grad Student Shuffle”, which takes the absolute piss out of white male graduate students. A few of the lines apply, but these especially: Call yourself a community organizer Even though you’re not on speaking terms with your roommates! Stand tall and look mindful Even though you're addicted to porn! C'mon! Now close your eyes Say fair enough "Fair enough" Now you are doing the Grad Student Shuffle I’ve gone back and added to this post a bunch of times since I wrote it. I like having a record, even if it’s one-sided. I realize I’m writing this as much for myself as I am for anyone else. To put my story down somewhere, and not to be too concerned if it’s fair or balanced. What happened to me wasn’t fair or balanced.  Which reminds me of the worst confrontation we ever had.  It was just an hour or two after we decided to break up. It was a sad, but quiet conversation. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. I went upstairs to let the new reality soak in, and asked if I could steal a puff from his vaporizer. Not weird, right? What was weird was that I felt like a guest in his room. We kept separate bedrooms, which I highly recommend to any couple who can spare the space. But there is a difference between having the option of separate spaces, and feeling relegated to separate spaces. I didn’t feel welcome in his room, and he made no secret of it.  So, as usual, I asked to go in.  He had left his laptop open on the bed, and I stared off into space as I waited for the vaporizer to heat. I must note, here, that I am not a person who digs. I will run circles in my own brain, but by and large, i leave stuff alone. So I didn’t go looking for what was already on the screen, which was a conversation between him and his best friend.  I read maybe a couple sentences before realizing, oops, probably shouldn’t. It was enough to see one exchange, less than two hours after we had officially broken up. “That sucks, man. How long do you think til you’ll be back on Tinder?” “I don’t know. Probably before she moves out.”  I’d like to say I don’t remember what happened next, but I do remember. I marched down two flights of stairs, yanked two giant plastic bins out of basement storage, and rage-packed everything I owned outside of my own room in less than ten minutes. 

He, of course, had no idea. Nuanced as a fucking turtle, he told me he was going out for a walk, and then asked if something was wrong.  I let him have it. Everything that had been building inside of my body came spewing out, all at once. I stumbled over my own words, laughing-crying-screaming-asking him what the fuck he was thinking, who the fuck he was, and what the fuck was this relationship? Was any of it even REAL?  He had nothing to say.  And that, my friends, was my main mistake. Thinking anything I could ever do could ever get a reaction out of him. Could ever draw the sort of love or support or attention that I used to get from him, before he decided to turn off the tap. 

I spent another month there until I could finally move out. I could tell he was annoyed that I was still there. I remember telling him people aren’t disposable. They don’t disappear when you decide you’re done with them. Thirty days was the absolute minimum I could manage, and even that was an incredible feat.  He asked me to watch the dog, the one he adopted only a couple of months before, while he went out. I remember thinking, “Am I watching this animal so he can go out on dates? No fucking way.” I still don’t know, and I’m glad I don’t. 

He’s not the only quietly shitty guy. There are many. I’m sure bunches of them are being congratulated on their engagements or promotions right now, by people who have never dated them. Have never had the soul-wrenching realization that oh, this person who told you you were their dream and their angel and their moon and stars actually decided like a year ago that they just weren’t feeling it and didn’t have the balls to tell you.  But, feel free to question reality in the meantime! 

Women reading this, beware. There are men who hold up their hands and shrug and say shit like “I wish her the best” and know to use phrases like “emotional labor” to fake enough self-knowledge to start a relationship that they don’t know how to finish.  I encourage you to ask questions. Find out how much they know about themselves. How long their relationships tend to last. If their friends really know them. If they change jobs frequently. If they move states frequently, and why.  But most of all, know yourselves. Know that you deserve to have your questions answered, your emotions validated, and your opinions heard. There are plenty of quietly shitty men to choose from.  You don’t need to choose one. 

[wholeanimal]

#sometimes

[wholeanimal]

Marquise is an almond-shaped diamond cut that dates back to the 1700s. French legend says King Louis XV had the diamond designed to match the smile of his chief mistress, the Marquise de Pompadour.

[wholeanimal]

On Thursday, I worked my second sauté shift. I was extremely gun-shy, afraid to put a fat slab of tuna into smoking hot oil. Don't worry, I was told. One day you'll be able to work eight or more pastas at once.

Haha, yeah, one day.

Turns out that day was Sunday.

[wholeanimal]

Something about Precision

I read this today.

http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/23/opinion/sunday/dinner-and-deception.html?smid=fb-nytimes&smtyp=cur&_r=0

And found myself looking up the guy who wrote it. There’s something that appeals to me deeply in precision. The performance of precision, especially. And the person manipulating that performance, even more. It’s attractive, alluring, yet ultimately empty. They know exactly what they’re doing, and I appreciate it.

I’m drawn to those people. Who can calculate and climb. Basically, do the things neatly and cleanly that I struggle to do. In my search for exactitude I end up in minimalism, simplifying and reducing until, hopefully, the fat is all cut out and all that’s left is the meat. 

But that isn’t the same as preparing it. 

[wholeanimal]

Food Lady

Being a woman in a female-owned kitchen has made me more sensitive to sexism. It ranges from subtle to blatant: the way one cook insists on referring to women as “females”, or the wolf whistles that sounded from the basement when I removed a dough-stained work shirt, revealing nothing more salacious than a tank top. It was midnight, after a twelve-hour day; you’d think chauvinism would take a break.

But attitudes are automatic. The kitchen is merely a sounding board for pre-existing concepts about a woman’s worth and place. I’ve been directly told that history’s geniuses were men, therefore women are, historically, less intelligent. I’ve listened to dishwashers grouse about my boss’s attitude, how she repeats that she is, indeed, the owner. What of it? Maybe she wouldn’t have to remind you if you treated her like the lackey of some invisible patriarch. After all, slamming dishes down in front of her and responding “YOUR MANAGEMENT” when asked “Excuse me, do you have a problem?” is hardly polite behavior.

Then again, kitchens are not polite. They are a place where you are greeted with a hearty “Fuck YOU!” after a day off, a curt “Behind!” suffices to announce your presence, and, if you so choose, you can get wasted during your shift. This literal and figurative loosening of the collar leads to all kinds of messy social interactions, where secret prejudices and previously sequestered opinions about current events come out to play. I once walked backwards out of a vehement argument about whether or not being transgender was a mental illness. I had cilantro to pick.

Of course, I could be overthinking it. Why look for mental stimulation in a place primarily concerned with serving dinner? Probably because the psych student inside me can’t resist parsing what’s in front of her, trying to see what makes these people tick. And so, interactions become layered. It’s hard to hear an objectifying joke being spouted off by a brother-in-arms. These are supposed to be the people you rely on to create a beautiful service, but when you’re met with eye rolls and mimicry when calling out a ticket, it’s hard to wonder what it is that does and doesn’t command respect.

Watching my boss navigate through myriad encounters with rowdy staff, suppliers, PR representatives, and everything else that comes with the title of owner is nothing short of jaw-dropping. And so when I detect even the barest hint of scorn, I am up in arms. Because it’s not just about her. It’s about her business. The extension of herself she has built and developed and brought me into. This extension built and fronted by women, which is a rare and precious thing and worth defending, especially against rude prep cooks and misogynist dishwashers.

Because in the grand scheme of things, they don’t matter. What matters is the food we are putting out. What matters is who’s in charge. She matters. And because she is a she, it makes “she” matter more. That is why my threshold has been lowered. Because there should be more “she”s. And less bullshit to get in their way. 

[wholeanimal]

Possible Breakfasts

Champagne

Cold steak

A little bit of red wine

Peas!

Stale m&ms.

Beluga caviar

an anchovy

fruit, yogurt, responsibility

[wholeanimal]

I Don't Give A Shit About Your Video Series

Two weeks or more ago, the column I've been writing for two years was cancelled. It was the reason I came to the city - scratch that, it made coming to the city possible. I had no real editor, just an email address I sent alerts to when I posted something new. I had no idea what I was doing and it obviously showed; but at the same time, they barely did either. 

See, I thought being a columnist meant just that, writing a column. But I soon found out that most of the work came from inputting recipes, line by line, into the back end of the website in a painfully tedious process. I was supposed to learn HTML commands, and the language that went with using an outdated blog system. I wasn't getting paid nearly enough, but maybe I'm wrong about that. $25 for a book review, $50 for a recipe post, meant to also cover the cost of ingredients. All told, a month's worth of work was equivalent to the sum of an extra paycheck. Yes, my 9 to 5 pays poorly as well, but more on that later.

I had no real guidance, no mentoring, no feedback at all except for reminders that I had forgotten to turn "tsp" into "teaspoon" because that's the way they do it around here. Or, to get reprimanded when another commenter with nothing better to do decided to pick a fight, and I decided to be firm. It was clear I had to write in a very specific style, and so my writing suffered. I was writing essentially the same thing every time, adjusted to reflect different recipes. You can only write so many words about pie crust before you want to rip your hair out. A side note: I don't give a shit about pie crust. I hear the one from Trader Joe's is pretty good. Don't waste your time. 

I could have just done that, copied and pasted suitable phrases from one master document into any given review. I still cringe when I get compliments on my writing. Either it means they have poor taste, or people actually like the corny-ass phrases I regularly churned out for an audience of readers I couldn't see and would never meet. But I thought seeing and meeting might be something I'd like to do, and so I set about contacting the NYC-based publishing agents and book reps to see if I couldn't make any friends. At the time I didn't even have an apartment. I was house sitting and taking care of the dogs for the editor who hired me, and in retrospect, I truly wonder why he did. Hire me for the column, not the dogsitting.

That was probably the smartest move I could have made. I got to meet some truly motivated, savvy women who I genuinely like and enjoy spending time with. They made me feel stupid, and I was grateful. There were so many things I didn't know, and I wanted to learn. Meantime, I attended PR events for cookbooks, organizations, and whatever else, practicing my three-sentence response that made my job seem way more interesting and creatively challenging than it actually was. 

Last night was the first event I attended after the column's end. One of those women invited me out to a book launch, even though I was no longer writing. For the first time, instead of smiling brightly and dropping the name of my employer directly after spitting out mine, I just stopped at my own. I watched the PR rep's face make a series of nearly imperceptible twitches. I knew she was trying to work out who I was, if anyone, and what kind of publicity I might guarantee. If I told you I didn't take some sort of pathetic glee in refusing to help her out, I'd be lying. 

I took a seat at the bar and was handed three different custom cocktails and a cookbook. They were all amazing. I was asked what I thought by the (charming, handsome, genuinely engaging) bartender. "Fantastic", I said. "Fantastic, fantastic, fantastic." I couldn't think of another adjective. My job was thinking of adjectives. I had run out of adjectives. Ashamed, I sipped my cocktails. 

I had been half-listening to the girl next to me, a bubbly thing who just wouldn't stop talking, about her website, about her sommelier certification, about the restaurant she was going to buy. The restaurant she was going to buy? She looked about my age, and I consoled myself thinking 1) So what, she says it's going to be in Hoboken and 2) Maybe she's a raging pathological liar. The cocktails kept coming.

The only real conversation came from the (charming, handsome, genuinely engaging) chef, and my heart swelled and broke, not wanting to ruin it by saying I was no one, really, and couldn't bring him any clicks. He talked about wanting to visit Harlem, to eat fried chicken, and I suddenly wished I was there, or anywhere really, but on that barstool. 

Too many cocktails later I was numb and listening to a man in a sweatshirt and slippers talk about the "series" he "developed" based on "artisanal cocktails." This got the attention of the bubbly would-be chef, and she peppered him with questions. Was he at the tequila event? Champagne Week? Had he tried the new hangover pill? They sent her a years' supply! 

I took my leave not too long after, making sure to thank the woman who invited me, and dodge the glare of the PR girl. The bubbly chef and her cocktail correspondent thanked me warmly for sitting and talking with them, promising to invite me to several events and complimenting me on my coat. 

I made my way down the stairs, shaky, and into the night, said coat wrapped around me tightly. I had had bar snacks and cocktails for dinner, but I wasn't hungry, I realized. I wasn't hungry at all. 

[wholeanimal]

i like the smell of burnt sugar

warm butter

cold air

warm butter, little brother

in the spaces

the rows

between i'm sorry and thought flows

warm butter

[wholeanimal]

"Our wisdom is all mixed up with what we call our neurosis. Our brilliance, our juiciness, our spiciness, is all mixed up with our craziness and our confusion, and therefore it doesn’t do any any good to try to get rid of our so-called negative aspects, because in that process we also get rid of our basic wonderfulness."

—Pema Chodron

[wholeanimal]

Eat chocolate shavings and honey and contemplate your next move.

[wholeanimal]

Vanilla Stracciatella

Soon as the cup of gelato reaches my hands, my fingers are sticky. If it's really good stuff, you can smell the fat riding on the cold whiff of air surrounding it. It's melting already, and the sides are sliding down. I use the tiny shovel they give you, but instead of digging my way out, I burrow into a messier situation. One that leaves me licking at the corners of my mouth for traces of chocolate, or sugar, or anything. 

[wholeanimal]

I first heard the word "desiccated" when reading food labels from Japan and Korea. Desiccated fish, desiccated seaweed. I would grimace and laugh at the same time. When I feel sick and useless, I think to myself "I am desiccated." Just a crumply leaf. 

[wholeanimal]

Shoestring Fries

Last night I had dinner with Q. 

It was good, as usual. Really good. We eat well together. I was coming up blank for a place to go, and then he sent me a Munchies clip from Vice on Walter's & Walter Foods. Two dudes, one schlubbier than the other talking about wanting to market the kind of place you'd want to go right after work. Comfort food. Fried chicken, seafood stew. Shots of spoons going into pudding and forks cutting key lime pie. Back it up; I was sold at cioppino. 

We got there eventually, but it was a circuitous route. First we checked the Wythe, there was a line. We doubled back and walked to find a 30 minute wait. Funny how those details fade in the wake of a good meal.

Oysters, he chose. "Can I tell you a secret? I've never had oysters." He got one of each. I have now had oysters. Four of them. 

I flagged our girl down and got a plate of what turned out to be thin, excellently salty and crunchy fries. With mayonnaise to thick it had a skin on it. Fucking right. Moules et frittes is old hat. Oysters and fries, please.

I got catfish. He got fried chicken. Looked like half a chicken on a bed of mashed potatoes. Served with something called spicy honey. Anything honey, I'm curious about. I was right to be.

In that vein, we switched drinks (Czech beer and bourbon lemonade) and plates back and forth. There were chicken bones and honey drizzle everywhere. Maybe a stray black-eyed pea from my plate, but we were both diligent. 

It's hard to be concerned or annoyed or worried when you're so full.

[wholeanimal]

Foodie Principles.

I enjoy living my life relatively free of bullshit. My desire to cut to the quick makes it easy for me to realize when something rubs me the wrong way.

"Foodie" is one of those things. My interpretation of a foodie, as I just explained to my boss, is someone who hears about food, then goes to eat it. Linear. They go in one direction.

Whereas I go every which way. I don't go to a restaurant for one dish. I assume that if the pork buns are divine at one place, so must be the noodles. If a restaurant has reached my ears from the lips of colleagues I respect, it's not because they can only make one thing well.

So I go, and I try. Like with Xi'an Famous Foods. I was told, many times over, by the same boss, that I MUST try the noodles with cumin and lamb. My mouth anticipated the wheaty chew of the hand-pulled noodles, with slightly dry pieces of lamb and too much cumin. I don't mean objectively too much; my cumin tolerance isn't very high. My brain had made the dish before I had tried it, and I had already decided it wasn't my favorite thing.

But I went anyway. And I got the noodles. They were more or less what I had expected: not my favorite thing. But, being the eater I am, I also got soft tofu and something called Tiger Vegetables Salad. No one recommended them. But sitting here now, their memory is making my mouth water. And had I approached the situation the way a "foodie" would, I may never have tried them. I'm aware a word's definition changes slightly with each person using it. In its simplest sense, I can appreciate the concept of a foodie: someone who loves and appreciates food. Rarely, though, do I see anyone go off the map to find and taste the uncharted. That's partially because we have great guides, but also because foodie is more a synonym for epicure, not adventurer. I prefer a little (or a lot) of the unknown in my food. Every new thing I taste, recommended or not, has built and refined my palate. It comes with special powers, like the ability to guess at a dish's flavors, cook better in my own kitchen, and completely disregard the next table over ordering the exact dishes I saw broken down in an online review. That makes it difficult to categorize myself, or explain why I wince at the use of the f-word. I'm less concerned with labels and terms than I am with the meal in front of me.

[wholeanimal]

The original promoter of the ethically minded, locally grown approach to feeding ourselves holds forth on his favorite junk food, his microbial menagerie, and the evils lurking in a tube of Go-Gurt.

Working at my current job, I've talked to my fair share of farmers and food producers. The overwhelming majority of them care deeply about what they do, to the point of websites overloaded with pastoral prose, or keeping me on the phone for half an hour to discuss the finer points of hydroponic lettuce.

I appreciate it. All of it. Because I'm aware that this isn't the norm. Or rather, it isn't mainstream. Family farms and dairies still have that boutique appeal; I feel that most people don't think (I should stop there) that small farms have the power to replace factories. Not that they're wrong; there is no comparing the turnout of a factory vs family farm. However, cutting down on consumption cuts down on that need for mass meat. 

The problem has a hundred heads. I'm aware that this is merely picking at the tail. But as someone who is not a scientist, not a journalist, but able to be respected and move in the circles of both, Michael Pollan is someone I have to respect for doing the research and putting his findings out there. And for me, a someone who has certain skills & interests but no one outlet, he is an inspiration.