December 7
Today it’s been 14 years since my dad died, and in most ways, it seems like longer than that. I’ve done a lot of living – maybe too much? – in those 14 years. But I can still hear his voice in my head, and I can still feel the hug he gave me in our driveway before I left to drive to Seattle for graduate school, in September of 2002. Burg would be 87 now, and I’m sort of glad I never had to see him diminished by old age – or, at least, not more than he was diminished in his last weeks, as cancer had its way with him. He would be glad to know that Mom and I now live a block apart, within sight of Puget Sound, and that one night in August, when things felt hard and I needed comfort, I pulled out an old t-shirt of his that I’d kept all this time but never worn, a royal blue Classen Grill t-shirt with the logo on the back and the words “peaches and cream” written in four languages on the front. It still smelled like him, and I put it on and slept in it, and I felt better. Wherever he is, I hope he’s doing it up right, as he was in this photo (he’s on the left, with family friend Ed Fretwell on the right), drinking something boozy out of a plastic coupe in a swimming pool, eating well, and grinning about it.
(By the way, as a kid, I was terrified of that pool cleaning device you see in the background, which propelled itself slowly and menacingly around, dragging its long tube of a tail. I half-expected to hear the Jaws theme song every time I got into the Fretwells’ pool. Burg and Ed clearly did not share my fear.)
Speaking of fear: I should have known, knowing this community, that I had no reason to be afraid when I wrote the previous post. I don’t understand it, but you have always been so good to me, and this post was no exception. I’ve read every single comment, most of them more than once, and I want to thank you, a million times over, for your understanding and kindness. What I’ve experienced is something that even I struggle to understand, and your compassion felt like a lot to ask or even hope for. But you offered it to me anyway. I am honored and astounded by what this site has become, and that has as much to do with you as it does with me.
A reader named Rosemary – hi, Rosemary! – left a link in the comments to the poem “Failing and Flying,” by Jack Gilbert. I’d not seen before, and if you’ve not seen it either, I recommend you go take a look. It’s so good and so wise. Thank you, Rosemary.
A couple of other good things: the writer Zadie Smith on Fresh Air, and longtime LGBTQ activist Cleve Jones, too. When I was a kid and my family was doing volunteer work for the AIDS Memorial Quilt, which Jones founded, his name came up often. Cleve Jones was a hero and a celebrity in our household, and I’m glad he’s still out there, fighting the good fight.
I want to eat this. (Thanks for the nudge, Gemma.)
This hilarity, via illustrator-writer Hallie Bateman. Sign me up for cocooning and sardining.
And last but not least, a holiday cookies episode of Spilled Milk! With a warning: we recorded this before the presidential election, so prepare to weep copiously when we express optimism about its outcome.
Thank you again. And again and again.
xo
November 30
I’ve always been drawn to the things we’re not supposed to talk about. I remember the night when, toward the end of writing A Homemade Life, I got into bed, switched off the light, and suddenly was hit with a very bad idea, an almost electric impulse to write about my father’s death. I wanted to take it out of my head and put it somewhere else: the color of his skin, the strange percussion of his breath, the nurse calling up the stairs in the middle of the night. I wasn’t writing a book about my dad, and I wasn’t writing a book about death; I was writing a food memoir, tra la la, with fifty recipes and a…
Read moreOctober 3
I started my Monday by listening to Blood Orange until my ears fell off, which was nice. Then my friend Jenny told me to watch this (old-news) video (that I somehow had never seen before), and with that, my week is off and running. Hi to you. Now, business: 1. The Guardian kindly invited me to write about a food that evokes home, and I wrote about a dead-simple, bare-cupboard soup that was first made for me by my aunt Tina. That’s her below, on the right, living the early-eighties hot tub life with me and my cousins. Most people thinks that June gets her hair color and texture from Brandon, but world, let it be known that I think she’s got my texture…
Read moreIt doesn’t look like much
Helloooooooooooooooo. I didn’t mean to be gone for so long. I know what some of you were thinking, and I am delighted to report that I did not give up on blogging. I also did not die. But it’s been a long, hard, dizzying summer, I will say that, with, among other things, Herculean staffing woes at Delancey, Essex, and Dino’s. (Did you know there’s currently a shortage of restaurant cooks in a lot of cities, including Seattle? I could tell you stories.) But now that June is in school again, I’ve been able to tiptoe my way back to writing, and that’s a relief. I turned 38 last week, and that too feels good. I’ve also been cooking again, after the lazy, happy ease…
Read moreOut here, up here
Today I come to you from Sitka, Alaska, where I’ve been since last Saturday, leading a writing workshop on memoir and place. I’m among the faculty for the first-ever Sitka Arts and Science Festival, a week of multi-disciplinary cross-pollination and collaboration dreamed up by the Sitka Fine Arts Camp and several local partners, with support from the National Endowment for the Arts. It’s been cool and misty almost every day, summer-in-Sitka-y. I didn’t bring enough clothing for this weather, even though, after fourteen years in the Pacific Northwest, I ought to know better. I’m re-wearing what I did bring. Today is day four for these leggings, day two for this sweatshirt. I’ve been wearing my cheap Uniqlo down vest, and it spits out tiny white…
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