Anniversary

A few years ago, while I was on fellowship in Boston, I decided to brush up on my Mandarin-Chinese speaking skills. I found a woman from China, a doctor, on Craigslist who had also recently moved to the city, and began a language exchange. Once a week, we'd meet in Cambridge and converse: 45 minutes in English, 45 in Chinese. We'd talk about mundane topics -- involving words that I could pronounce with ease -- and not necessarily things that were really on my mind. For example, "I am having a nervous breakdown trying to understand synthesizing a chemical compound, namely from a Mexican root plant, into an anabolic steroid" was not one of them.

One evening, we met at the Barnes and Noble cafe in Harvard Square. After multiple sessions talking about weekend plans, the orange line to JP, and, like, siblings, I decided to venture onto more trenchant subject matter. I asked her what she knew of the Tiananmen Square Massacre. In 1989, she was just a child, maybe in high school, and lived in a city far from Beijing. She recalled it as barely a blip in the news -- certainly nothing of too much note, some students causing trouble. I was incredulous, though at the same time, having studied contemporary Chinese history during undegrad, not. But surely, I pressed, she'd seen the internationally famous "Tank Man" image. She didn't know what I was talking about. I became obsessed, and led her down to the history aisle. I pulled book upon book from the shelves. Totally futile. Sweaty and nauseous from the effort, I finally gave up and we parted, with the implicit understanding that we'd meet again the following week.

The next day, I pulled a link from the Internet and prepared to forward her the image. But somehow, I couldn't hit send. It's hard to explain why I suddenly decided to become a willing accomplice in covering up a shame of such magnitude. Perhaps I just didn't want to rip her from her bliss. In the end, you can't pull or push someone else into facing life's harsh truths, and certainly not inside an anemic Barnes and Noble. We never met again.

For those who aren't afraid, here it lies.

And here.

Last night

I was biking through Long Island City



listening to Tom Waits, Nina Simone, Cat Power, Karen O


feeling a bit lugubrious -- despite the glorious weather --



when suddenly out of nowhere, the sky exploded and



I was no longer in such a shit mood. In fact, I was ebullient.

Speaking of Karen O, she is on the latest cover of Nylon magazine. I have a few pieces published in that issue, including a feature on a French girl rock band called the Plastiscines, a bitty q&a with singer Anjulie, and a spread about up-and-coming UK musicians. A highlight from my Beth Jeans Houghton interview:

Do you still have a day job?
I did, up until last week. I worked in a magical coffee shop called Heaton Perk in Newcastle. They serve happiness on a plate if you ask nicely. But I had to leave because the boy I love lives above it and he got a new girlfriend and I didn’t want to hear them fucking.

Back

Nobody cut the cheese

Amazing. Our new government really is working for my specific needs. That absurd Bush-administration-imposed, 300% Roquefort tariff has finally been knocked down. Now, instead of taxing arbitrary EU food items to compensate for losses from the EU ban on hormone-fed U.S. beef, the USTR has negotiated to triple the amount of non-hormone U.S. beef exports over yonder. Logic - don't you love how it makes sense? And in fact, we should be seeing Roquefort prices dropping in about four years, when they remove all existing sanctions. If you're not quite a cheese fanatic, other items, like Pellegrino and ligonberry sauce, were also saved from the tax. This reminds me of the time Bloomberg banned smoking in restaurants, and almost makes up for the lack of universal healthcare. Well, not quite.

Rock on, Roquefort

My USTR contact just informed me the 300% Roquefort tariff has been delayed once again, pushing back to May 9 from April 23. This should allow more time to negotiate with the EU, and hopefully rescind the tax. Bated breath, my friends.

French Country Living

While waddling through France looking for food-related stories earlier this year, I simultaneously worked on a Country Living magazine feature, on chefs and their favorite recipes from their mothers. I know I sound like a luddite for being so impressed with technology, but I gotta say it was fairly awesome when I got a call from Sara Foster, who's based in North Carolina, while I was making faces with French cows in the Norman countryside. (Possibly as surreal as interviewing Frank Stitt over my cell phone from the floor of my friend's 6e Parisian flat at 2 a.m. GMT.) "Just Like Mom Used to Make" is out now, in the May issue, and also includes treasured recipes from PBS' Lidia Bastianich, Chicago-chef Rick Bayless, Lucques and AOC's Suzanne Goin, cookbook author Deborah Madison, Nancy Silverton (Mozza Osteria and La Brea Bakery),and Alabama's Frank Stitt.

(Pictures, above: Nancy Silverton's mom's Egg Salad Sandwich; below: Mrs. Foster's Chicken Pot Pie)





(More, left: Mrs. Goin's Priest's Pancakes and, right, Deborah Madison's mom's Cherry-Almond Babka)

Microlecule

Took the 51 down to Shattuck last night and went to Halsey Chait's first solo show at the Firehouse North Gallery (1790 Shattuck Ave./Delaware). I've been waiting for this one for a while and glad to have been in the right place at the right time.



It takes him about 48 hours to finish each piece (please fact-check, I was only eavesdropping) and yes, he needs to take breaks. Fingers cramp,etc.



(Above) This is a close-up of my favorite, "Night City." Limited-edition archival pigment prints (of all show pieces) are affordable, for now. www.firehousecollective.com.







And (below, left) the artist himself. Not bad, eh?