That's So Racist! Isn't It?

David Sedaris has a new article out in the Guardian; naturally, someone is offended.

In his article, Sedaris recounts a recent trip to China, a trip he admits he did not look forward to as China, and all its wonders, never held much appeal for him. This applies especially to the food, which even Americanized Chinese restaurants barely managed to raise above the level of disgust. Fair enough - it is only necessary to love, or love experimenting with, a cuisine if you are a chef and/or food writer. David Sedaris is neither, yet Jeff Yang over at originalspin takes particular offense at the article's criticisms. How dare Sedaris criticize authentic Chinese cuisine when American Southerners (Sedaris is from North Carolina) eat things like muskrat and chitlins (emphasis from original)? And sure, there may be a saying that "Chinese will eat anything with its back to the sky", but these are Chinese sayings. It is unnecessary and venomous for a Westerner to come over and point out the obvious.

Which makes me wonder if Jeff actually read Sedaris' article. Yes, he was grossed out by much of the food merely because it was different, but at the same time questioned why he reacted the way he did. For instance, when offered a soup made of rooster intestines it was not the intestines that put him off but rather the addition of the cock's comb. Why, he asked himself, am I comfortable eating "the thing that filters out toxins but not the thing that sits on top of the head, doing nothing?" Sedaris also notes his boyfriend, Hugh, and his visceral objection to eating seahorses in China because "they are friendly and never did anyone any harm," as opposed to the vicious and ornery lamb they regularly eat back home. From here Sedaris also delves lightly in to the meat choices of Americans (and the English, I suppose), noting the preference for grazing herbivores such as cattle and sheep, yet drawing the line at horse which is eaten in some parts of Europe and, apparently, is delicious.  I admit there is little depth given to these musings on the arbitrary nature of cuisine. However, I also recognize that I am reading an article for a paper and not an essay in a book.

Decision Made

I have decided: I will have two blogs, this one and the new Cooking the Globe (a theme!)  I know last year I wrote that there was no reason for me to do a cooking blog, despite toying with the idea ("Who gives a fuck what I eat?"  Apparently, I expect you to.), but this year it seems plausible for a couple of reasons: one, I am doing a ton of cooking, much of it from my Indian and Middle Eastern cookbooks and I find the internet is less than helpful with those topics - especially Middle Eastern cuisine. Yes, it is fairly easy to find recipes for hummus, couscous, lamb tangine and falafel, but almost impossible to find help with samak mishwi or sanouma (though both are delicious!  Yes, they will be among my first entries.)  So why not take people with me on my journey through the food of this hemisphere?

The other reason is that I want to have a niche for this blog.  Is it a personal journal?  A spot to visit for an opinion on current world events?  A news filter?  I want it to be the latter two.  I need to practice my writing - my serious writing - as much as I need to practice writing in general so that when I look for relevant work I won't be a floundering fool.  Plus, the more serious commentary I have in my arsenal, the more I have to show when trying to find a gig as a freelance writer.  I can use the cooking blog as my personal journal and this one for my personal opinion.  Ha!  How self-indulging.  Of course, this also means I am giving myself twice the work, but I determined to do this.  When you don't work you have to find ways to make yourself organized; I give myself a schedule and deadlines so at least I have a reason to procrastinate.

I also plan on giving this site a facelift, but no promises on when that will happen.  Hopefully soon, but that's all I'm sayin'.

Wrecking Ball

I have been procrastinating on my next genocide post like it's an end-of-term paper. It's been almost four weeks since my last. Who the hell do I think is grading me? I partially blame my renewed addiction to the internet: the slow and sporadic internet (and power) I lived with in Uganda did not allow for hours upon hours of mindless surfing, but now with no job but endless power and connection, I am reminded how quickly five hours can tick away.

Today it was with Cake Wrecks. Oh, funny site, very funny site, which left me giggling hysterically for almost an hour straight. Yet it is also one of those sites that you can't show to someone else and automatically expect them to find it funny, too; I think you need the hour or two build-up.

"Oooh, okay look at this one. No, you have to read the captions." Pause. Silence. "Isn't it hilarious? Ahahahaha! No? This one, then. No, remember, the captions are part of the fun! Just keep reading . . ."

You know what it's like. While I may have failed forcing guffaws on my husband and our roommate, check it out yourself, by yourself. Especially if you have something more important to do.



All photos courtesy Cake Wrecks.

Death and Writer's Block

Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of my mother's death, but rather than reflect on her affection or lost personality traits, but considering the difficulty I am having with my publishing my "genocide theory" posts, what comes to mind is how her death affected my writing.

Mom died the summer between my first and second (final) year of my Master's program. Not surprisingly, I had no idea how to cope with her unexpected death. I considered taking time off from school, but listening to my father's advice ("that's not what she would have wanted") I soldiered on - in my own way. Simple coursework (and papers) didn't fill my mind enough, so I applied for (and was hired) as a full-time employee at REI. (I was already working there, part-time, but became the full-time frontline specialist. Oh, and I was good, for whatever that counts.)

I contented myself with working 38 hours per week, going to school on my two days off and reading (for school) in the evenings. I also had AA meetings and alcohol education classes to fill my time (requirements of my drunk-driving arrest the previous year.) No time to think about death or my mother or anything, really - which was the point. Complete focus on everything except the devastating reality of Mom's death. I also drank a lot.

I didn't fully realize what I was doing until I attempted to write my end-of-quarter research papers. I admit I don't remember too many details (I hate to sound cliched, but that time really is a blur) but one course's paper revolved around the initiation and circumcision rituals of Nilo-Saharan (African) tribes, though I don't remember the actual point of writing about it. (That particular laptop suffered horribly under some pornsite-inspired virus - obviously not my doing! - and, still stupid enough to not back-up information, I lost everything on that hard-drive. Though, considering the paper in question, not such a loss to posterity.) What I remember is sitting at my desk and typing: The majority of Nilo-Saharan tribes performed circumcision, with the exception of a few who didn't for various reasons. Yep.

I am fairly sure that "yep" was in my original draft - if you consider two sentences a "draft." It was while staring at my pitiful opening (and current best attempt of the paper) that I realized I was avoiding my mother's death. Of course it wasn't central-African circumcision rites that provoked such a realization, but rather my inability to think, much less write, analytically. I had spent the past four months actively suppressing my emotions and memories; writing anything of value required that I open my mind, thereby freeing those emotions I was desperately trying to Forcing my brain to work beyond basic functions freed emotions I was desperately trying to suppress. Yet no matter how much I tried to avoid life, subconsciously I couldn't avoid my mental breakdown. And that's what it was: for a time, I completely lost my grasp of reality and refused to acknowledge what was before me. Writing forced that acknowledgment on me and, ultimately, I was better for it.

And here I am again, trying to write while trying to avoid something. Not death this time - I have accepted the loss of my parents and though I miss them terribly, painfully, I no longer have to ignore those feelings to function - but rather the realization that I need a guidance counselor. Do they have those for adults? My life has taken so many unexpected turns that I can no longer guess where I'm headed. Not just death, but marriage - when did I ever believe I would get married? Never, until Seth came along, so now I not only think about "where is my life going?" but also "where is our life going?" A year into wedded bliss and that one still stumps me - how do I think about two people when I can't even manage one? If there's ever a time when I miss my parents' guidance, this is it.

Seriously, though, about that guidance counselor: where can I make an appointment?