Week 29: Osmosis

I soak up feelings like a sponge, and I didn't cook a lot this week.

My week

On Thursday and Friday of this week, I watched the entirety of Mae Martin’s Netflix original series, Feel Good.

Feel Good is a semi-autobiographical romantic dramedy about Martin’s struggles with addiction and PTSD as they navigate a new relationship. It’s a very well-made and moving and entertaining show, and I think Mae Martin is charming and funny, but the show did not make me “feel good.”

Mae and George

The two main characters, Mae and George, are both carrying their own baggage and also have extreme anxiety. At one point, a bartender tells George, “You have very stressful energy.” This is a funny moment, and obviously I liked the show quite a bit, since I watched it all in two sittings. But it’s dripping with neuroses, self-doubt, and claustrophobic anxiety. As a result, spending two straight days watching the show with no interruptions, I started to feel neurotic, self-doubtful, and claustrophobically anxious.

Now, I’m not trying to blame Mae Martin for all my problems. For one thing, it’s possible that spending two straight days doing nothing but watching TV contributed to my low mood. I am also generally prone to all of the above feelings, perhaps more so than the average bear. But I am starting to think that I’m particularly emotionally suggestive when it comes to the media I consume.

Just last week, I wrote about Temptation Island, and how I could feel it bringing out my unsavory judgmental side. Two weeks before that, I wrote about how Hayley Williams’ new album was taking over my life. And when I read The Idiot by Elif Batuman, I spent the whole week in a cloud of hyper-observant malaise. (In fact, here’s an excerpt from my reading journal: “Another thing about this book is that it bled into my life and made me narrate everything as though I were the protagonist of a novel. Which is equal parts fun and possibly not super healthy. I was also in a funk the whole time I was reading this, but I don’t know if that’s the book’s fault or the weather’s.”)

Sometimes, it can be really wonderful to let media dictate my mood; Call Me By Your Name singlehandedly imbued my sophomore year of high school with dreamy, romantic whimsy. But that’s an exception to the rule.

As I was watching Feel Good (and, I must stress, it is a very good show, and I do recommend it), I found myself wondering why I seem to be drawn to art that makes me feel like I’m full of birds.

I guess there’s something to the idea that conflict and discomfort are part of what makes art compelling. Much of life is spent trying to deal with bad feelings, so it makes sense that art would deal with bad feelings, too. And often, even if the bulk of a show or movie or novel is spent in the murky swamp of pain and confusion, art can offer some hope of resolution.

But still, I can’t help but wonder how healthy it is for me to consume media that invites me to wallow.

Which leads me to another question: as an aspiring artist, how do I want my art to make people feel?

It will probably surprise nobody to hear that my writing can tend toward the moody, although I think that as I get older, that tendency has grown more muted, and I have more of an impulse to include humor and lightheartedness in my writing. When I was in a middle school writing group, I had a reputation for killing off all my characters. Now, I almost never kill any of them.

I think it’s worth considering whether I want my art to be a force for joy or a force for gloom. I don’t want to shy away from complexity and reality, but I don’t want my writing to ruin anyone’s day, either.

On the other hand, maybe only the very best art can infect a person’s mood. Maybe I should aspire to such emotional potency. Certainly, I think that Feel Good does an exceptionally good job of crafting an atmosphere.

I don’t know. Is this just me? Does everyone get sucked into the emotional vortex of whatever media they’re consuming? Should I be less emotionally porous, or is this normal?

Anyway. This has been on my mind lately. Now here’s some food.

What I made

Okay, I didn’t make much!!!! Sorry. My mom was in town, so we mostly ate at restaurants.

Apples and honey:

I selected the apples, and they were perfectly crisp. Not to brag.

Happy Rosh Hashanah! My mom and I were originally planning to make honey cake, which is a staple of the holiday for us, but we lost steam, so we just stuck to the basics here. Honey not pictured, but it’s meant to symbolize sweetness in the year to come.

Chickpea curry:

Chickpea curry, featuring Cheryl’s propagating plants

For some reason, this chickpea curry turned out really soupy. Also, it was pink instead of orange (I know it doesn’t look like that in the picture, but just trust me). I have yet to find a go-to chickpea curry recipe. The flavor here was good, I just wasn’t very happy with the texture. I also made it after the sun went down, so I couldn’t get a good picture. Oh well.

Ricotta custard pancakes from Good Things:

The platonic ideal of a pancake

My friend Atticus and I made these pancakes from Samin Nosrat’s new cookbook, Good Things. They are the fluffiest, lightest, creamiest, richest, most delicious pancakes ever. I wish I had taken a picture that showcased their height. I would recommend.

Liquid gold, plus Atticus eating pancakes

Of course, we enjoyed the pancakes with Boyfriend’s family’s homemade maple syrup, which is divine. Atticus had to look up multiple tutorials to get the jar unscrewed (I didn’t even make an attempt).

What I learned

Serious garlic, chillaxing on top of the fridge

On the topic of homegrown food from Boyfriend’s parents, I’ve been cooking with garlic from their garden lately, and it’s CRAZY how much more fragrant and flavorful it is than the store-bought stuff. There’s such a huge difference. I would love to be an adult with a productive garden someday, but I fear I don’t have much of a green thumb. That’s a long-term goal.

This week, I made pasta with marinara for the first time in, like, a long time. In the past, I have never put in the effort to heat up my marinara, just blopped it onto the cooked pasta straight from the fridge-cold jar. Well, I don’t know what switch finally got flipped in my brain, but when I took a bite of that cold sauce, I almost gagged. How have I been eating pasta like this my whole life??? It’s gross. I was reminded of being a tiny tiny child, when I insisted on taking cold baths. I genuinely don’t remember why I didn’t like warm water, and I also don’t remember at what point I began to change my mind. But apparently, I seem to have some sort of delayed development when it comes to temperature sensitivity.

Thanks for reading! :)