It’s been too weird to write recently because everything feels frivolous. But necessary, sure, to keep talking. Keep working. Though writing about gin and pastry feels a bit silly, these days. I realize it’s a privilege to ignore a problem because it is not a problem for me, personally, one that I’ve indulged in while the country was being led by someone with whom I mostly agreed. I used to wonder how people living under dictatorships or oppressive collectives could go on with their lives, not taking to the streets and freaking out. Now I see how easy it is to bury oneself in the full time job of living one’s life. But we owe each other more than that, it seems.
I keep thinking about food as political weight. Clinging to my coastal affections for cuisines from Asia and Latin America; eating foods harvested and prepared by an unbeatable immigrant workforce I wish we would make feel more welcome. Foods bridge cultures, we know this. I keep wondering if a nice plate of tamales or some gulab jamun would change the minds of Congressional bigots.
Civil Eats is on point. Check it out.