Okay, first of all, hi everyone! Nice to meet you! I am so grateful that so many of you decided to check out my newsletter.
I’m talking, of course, about the shoutout Jenny Rosenstrach gave me on her amazing and iconic newsletter, Dinner: A Love Story, which led a lot of new people to this page. She was incredibly generous in her description of me, and it was quite a thrill to answer her mini-interview questions, as if I were some big-shot celebrity. For everyone wondering, yes, working for Jenny is the most fun ever. And yes, she feeds me. It’s a good gig, to say the least.
I’ve been feeling a little apprehensive and—dare I say—bashful about writing this post. I’m just not used to having so many subscribers! I’m going to do my best not to get too self-conscious and just write like normal. If you’re only interested in my food (mis)adventures, those will be after the essay—feel free to jump ahead. Thanks for being here! :)
My week:
I’ve been thinking about this Haley Nahman post for months. The whole essay is about what makes people annoying (but, like, it’s not a mean essay). It wormed into my brain as soon as I read it. She argues:
What makes you annoying to other people is not the thing you’re worried makes you unloveable, but whatever traits or behaviors or knee-jerk ways of operating you’ve developed to correct for said worry.
For example, you could imagine somebody who’s terrified they’re not smart enough and always tries to sound hyper-intellectual, acting like they know the answer to every question. I agree with Nahman that this sort of thing is annoying and that it’s painful to watch somebody flounder in a misguided attempt at being palatable. I also agree that probably everybody does some version of this, at least sometimes.
I think I’ve finally realized what my version is: I try to present myself as a person who wants and expects nothing.
My biggest fear, probably, is being an imposition. I like to be associated with such adjectives as “low-maintenance” and “easygoing.” So if someone asks me what I want, I hedge. Am I hungry? “Oh, I could eat, but I could also wait. Are you hungry?” I don’t want to demand food; how rude and unlikeable! And heaven forbid I should say that I’m not hungry if everyone else is waiting to eat. Much better to sit on the fence.
In my heart of hearts, though, I know that it’s annoying to always foist decisions on others. How many times have I had the thought, when trying to entertain someone, “Jeez, will you just tell me what you want?”
But it genuinely is difficult (at least for me) to openly, confidently state what I want. No matter how big or small the desire, wanting things feels inherently vulnerable.
I work as a barista, and when talking to customers, I think there’s a noticeable difference between asking them “Would you like a bag?” and “Do you want a bag?”
“Would you like a bag?” is easy-breezy. Cool, professional, incidental. “Oh, I happen to have a bag here. Would you like it?”
“Do you want a bag?” on the other hand, feels like a demeaning thing to ask. It assumes that the customer is standing there, silently yearning for a bag, like the bag is their deepest desire and I am the arbiter of their happiness. It probes into the customer’s inner world. It’s an invasive question, this “Do you want…?”.
Wanting implies energy and earnestness. It creates an instant power dynamic with the world: I want this, and I do not have it. When the stakes are higher than a paper bag, I find this dynamic unbearable. Worse, I find it embarrassing.
My friend Sarah Miller wrote an essay last week about being a young, ambitious woman artist. Sarah and I are both writers, and in addition to her talent and discipline, I have always envied her ability to take her own work seriously, to believe in herself unabashedly, and to be open about her goals. Sarah’s essay, which explores her ravenous ambition, made me reflect on how I relate to my own creative desires.
Like Sarah, I am a young woman writer, still yet to prove myself. I know that it’s a statistical improbability (impossibility, practically) that I will ever find success as a novelist. But I want it so bad. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.
Creative success is probably only possible if I’m willing to shamelessly pursue it, so when people ask what I want to do, I always force myself to say that I want to be a writer. Every time, that admission makes me feel nauseous and exposed. It makes me feel, frankly, like an idiot.
Now this person knows what I want, and they will know if I fail. They know that I’m foolish enough to want unlikely things.
Or, take this Substack. Having a Substack is basically a proclamation of desire: I want people to read my writing. When I was starting it, I made many excuses to try and obscure that reality and the ambition it betrays. “It’s a way to hold myself accountable to my goal of learning to cook.” Or, “It’s a way for me to keep my family and friends updated on my life.” Or, “It’s basically a diary!”
But, obviously, I could do all of those things without publicly posting essays on the internet. I started this newsletter because I want people to read it. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.
I’m making it a goal to be more vocal with my desires. When I allow myself to pretend that I don’t have wants, I almost start to believe it, too. I can become placid and complacent in my effort to appear “easygoing.”
I want to accept the vulnerability and potential embarrassment that comes with ambition. Maybe being honest about what I want will help me achieve those desires. Maybe it will even make me less annoying.
What I made:
Alright, enough yapping. It’s food time!
Plums:
In my opinion, there is no better fruit than a really good plum. Now, let me be clear. I don’t think that really good plums are common occurrences. I find the typical plum to be underwhelming, bland, and tart. I would argue that the average nectarine is probably better than the average plum. But a really good, perfectly ripe, deeply flavorful, sweet, juicy plum is definitely my favorite fruit experience. This week, on a whim, I bought three plums, and when I had the first bite (pictured above), I was floored. I should say, they probably would have been even better if I had given them one more day to ripen. But they were already so good that I couldn’t stop myself from eating all three of them in the span of about 90 minutes. Near perfection.
Deadly bean bowl:
My intention with this meal was to throw together a quick, easy dinner. I put a pot of rice on to simmer. I sautéed beans and tomatoes and spices together. I fried an egg to put on top.
I actually pride myself on frying eggs well: crispy, lacy edges; runny yolk; solid whites. I have a tried-and-true system that I’ve pieced together from various cooking blogs and videos.
This time, I followed my process to a T, then got to the final step: add a splash of water and cover the pan. This steams the egg slightly, ensuring that there’s no gross jelly on top of the whites. I know that water and hot oil have a violent reaction to each other, but I’ve done this exact thing so many times and it’s never been a problem. After I covered the pan, though, I started tidying up the kitchen, when I heard a loud bang. I turned around just in time to see the lid of the pan FLYING into the air.
It was so loud that my roommate came out of her room to make sure everything was okay. I was panicking, trying to turn off the heat, fumbling with the dials on our stove. There was another loud pop, and a spout of hot oil shot into the air. I finally succeeded in turning off the burner.
I mean, genuinely, I’m lucky I didn’t start a grease fire! I’m so confused as to what happened. I’ve done this exact technique a million times before, and I swear I didn’t make it up. It’s a thing, adding a little bit of water to steam the whites! Maybe the heat was too high?
Anyway, the yolk broke, but the food tasted good in the end.
Tomato slices with salt and pepper:
Last summer, I was staying with my boyfriend and his parents during tomato season. They have a beautiful garden, and we ate the most delicious home-grown tomatoes I have ever known. I’m kicking myself that I didn’t take a picture, but they were enormous and unbelievably flavorful. I ate so many slices of tomato with salt and pepper while I was there, and it is genuinely one of my fondest culinary memories. I tried to replicate the experience this week, and although my store-bought Roma tomatoes can’t hold a candle to the real deal, a tomato with salt and pepper is always going to be pretty compelling.
What I learned:
Cooking is fun but it’s also legit dangerous.
I have never once made perfect rice on the stovetop. Does anyone know how to make perfect rice? It’s always either gummy or watery or burnt. What am I doing wrong?
I really liked this piece of graffiti I saw the other day. Be love. Eat plants.
"Does anyone know how to make perfect rice?" Rice cooker. I grew up eating rice every day (first gen Asian family) and honestly don't know any Asian Americans without one (or who know how to cook rice on the stovetop, lol). I now I use it for rice, quinoa, farro, steaming frozen dumplings, buns, etc, and "clay pot" style rice cooker meals.
You are a writer. Period.
Will you make a living as a “writer” is a totally different question— and one that you can’t answer!
Just keep writing! ❤️ we’ll keep reading! ❤️