between a cocoa puffs bowl and a hard place

people refuse to wear masks because it's a free country. and yet no one can breathe.

May 28, 2020

It is past midnight and I am starving. My fridge has some guest appearances from a bottle of milk, a bottle of water, a bag of grated cheese and some suspiciously looking veggies, my cupboards have nothing more than some spices, cereal and a pack of flour which my mom left during her last visit. It’s 2005 and I’m on my freshman year in Corfu. I have never cooked anything more complicated than toast and pasta and here I am, in desperate need of a warm, home-made meal. But every delivery option is closed and I have two left hands. When suddenly *light bulb*. I will make a cheese pie.

Now, the only thing I knew thus far about the cheese pie creating process was whatever bits and pieces I’d subconsciously gathered from watching my grandma making it. I’ll spare you the details of what followed because no one deserves that. But in the end I managed to make something that resembled a thick flatbread topped with a crust of melted cheese, which I proceeded to devour. Strangely enough, it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. That was the first time that I thought “fuck, am I an adult now?”.

In the years that followed I got my first job, then my second, my third, my seventh. I changed 2 or 3 houses, I opened 3 bank accounts, I paid bills and taxes, I took hard decisions based on logic (though I’m a Virgo so that’s organic), I got pregnant and gave birth to a human.

Still, up until now, the moments where I have a “fuck, am I an adult now?” reality check are almost always linked to food.

I had one when I bought a huge, inox refrigerator of A+++ energy class, because I needed a proper place to keep the groceries now that I had a family and not the white little fridge with the band stickers that followed me around my entire life. I remember the day the store guys brought it to my apartment. I walked into the kitchen, a grown-ass, 6 months pregnant woman and gazed at it in honest awe, like it was some kind of intergalactic overlord. “Fuck, I’m an adult now, aren’t I”.

I had one the first time I breastfeeded Elliot, and the second, and the third, until it became the norm. I had it again the first time I pumped my breast milk and put it in air-tight plastic bags with labels on them which then I refrigerated in my shinny, enormous fridge, because I had to go to work (or to a concert). “So, this is adulting”.

I had one the first time I cooked a 3 course dinner for a company of 6. Nothing super fancy or difficult compared to stuff made by people who are actually good at cooking, but to me it was a fucking Nigella feast. “Am I nailing this adult thing or what?”.

These past 3 months, I’ve had them many times. Sometimes they signalled a triumph, others a desperate attempt that fell into the void. There was this time I cooked and served (cutlery and all) a nutritious lunch just for myself, when I usually don’t even bother to make a proper sandwich (I just eat its parts one by one via small trips to the kitchen -one trip for the bottom bread slice, one for the cheese slice, one for the turkey slice and so on). There was this time I baked cookies, which would have been a personal milestone alone as I’d never done this before, but I exceeded expectations by altering the original recipe (look at me, I am practically a Michelin star chef) and replacing some ingredients with healthier ones. And then I went on and did it 3 more times. There were all those times I pulled extravagant pancake recipes out of my ass, because the 2 y.o. is going through a pasta-bread-and-potatoes-only phase, so I had to shove some extra health down his throat in a way he wouldn’t realise -FYI, that’s 50% of what parenting is about. Beetroot, spinach, carrot, yoghurt, oatmeal, protein powder, I must have tried 20 different pancake combos to make it work, and every single time I finished, resting my back against the ridiculously giant fridge, eating whatever pancake scraps the boy had left on his plate, mushed, licked and half eaten (that’s the other 50% of parenting), I thought to myself “Well. Adulting alright”.

You’ve realised by now that I am not a foodie nor an aspiring chef and definitely not a culinary lover. I don’t think I will ever be, I’m not that interested in it. I trust the people who are can tell you a lot more about the relationship between food and character building and in far better ways than I do. But what I’m describing here hasn’t got to do with food, exactly. I came to understand that I’m feeling as an actual grown-up on such circumstances because I attend to someone, be it my kid, my friends, my partner, myself. I take responsibility for the well-being of someone else by choosing to use portions of my time to provide comfort and pleasure to another person. Or I just take care of myself, because I now know that I first have to do it for me, before anyone else does. If anyone else does.

I don’t know if quarantine enhanced that notion or it was always somewhere in the back of my brain, but at least for me, being an adult is being willing to care of others. To cultivate, to make time for them (and you), to provide without expecting a reward. To grow your skills, your empathy and, so it happens, your heart.

It really, really, really doesn’t help to do so when our world is run by manchildren, for its biggest part. It does not. But maybe when you choose to eat a miserable, unevenly puffy flatbread that was meant to be a cheese pie but acknowledge the love and effort behind it, and leave aside a majestic, water-mouthing chicken lasagna bacon asparagus whatever casserole because you know that it is full of shit, maybe that’s a noble try at adulting, too.

God I suck at metaphors.

SOMETHING PODCAST THAT IS ACTUALLY NOT JUST A PODCAST BUT A THRILLING COLLAGE OF HISTORY, MUSIC, INVESTIGATING JOURNALISM AND MEDIA I CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF

Let’s pull an 180 and start from the end in this newsletter, because I need you to pay attention:

WIND OF CHANGE

That’s it. I won’t tell you anything more, the About section is all you need to know. But expect so, so, SO much more than that. Crooked Media did it again and fuck me if I’ve ever been more excited about a podcast in my entire life.

PS. If anyone wants to discuss it with me afterwards, I am totally down for it. I HAVE NOTES PEOPLE.

SOMETHING TO READ

The Mrs. Files: The Mrs. Files looks at history through a contemporary lens to see what the honorific “Mrs.” means to women and their identity.

About two years ago, when we started going through the millions of photos in The New York Times archives for the Past Tense archival storytelling project, we noticed something puzzling. In one of our files, Frida Kahlo was identified as “Mrs.” Diego Rivera. In another, Ray Eames’s name was scrawled in pen next to her husband’s, which was typewritten. When we went looking for pictures of June Carter Cash, the card catalog directed us to “Cash, Johnny & Mrs.”

Stewed Awakening

If you followed the Alison Roman VS Chrissy Teigen and Marie Condo discourse, you get the idea behind this fantastic piece. If you did not 1. do you even internet, bro? 2. don’t worry you’ll find all the necessary links within the first paragraph.

Lana Del Rey's Instagram Post Is a Classic White Feminism Trap

*also, THIS

Look, when you have to say the words “I’m not a racist” to defend yourself, you’re either a racist or you’ve used some really unsuitable words in whatever you tried to put out there. I don’t believe LDR is a racist as I don’t believe her blabber on Instagram is a reason to get her cancelled (though she really beats a dead horse, doesn’t she). But I do believe that this was a completely unnecessary drama in the absolute worst timing. And no matter how much I want to read behind her ill-chosen words and give her a break for throwing a tantrum in front of a world that is currently dealing with the covid-19 virus and the racism virus, I can’t. Because even if she comes with the best intentions, she shows how ignorant she is. Because I am harsher to the people I expect the most from. Because if I have to choose my words carefully in order to not offend anyone, LDR has to do it approximately 10000 times more efficiently. Because when you’re a respected artist with a huge audience and you close your argument towards them with “Fuck off if you don’t like the post”, well, don’t make me start another rhetoric about being a child and an adult. No one likes to be criticised, but we grow the fuck up and learn to deal with it. And for the love of everything, learn to choose your fucking words and the fucking time to say them.

The Remaking of Steve Buscemi

I don’t know a better person.

Listening to the Very Old

A special issue of the NYmag about how old people have never been so powerful. And so vulnerable. All profiles here.

Phoebe Bridgers’s Frank, Anxious Music

This newsletter is never going to not present you with the latest Phoebe Bridgers wisdom.

‘We Loved Each Other’: Fauci Recalls Larry Kramer, Friend and Nemesis

What a wonderful little piece. Ties perfectly with this thread.

Just 4 random photos.

SOMETHING ABOUT MANDY

Tired: Mandy Patinkin in Homeland
Wired: Mandy Patinkin in His Home

I don’t know who I was before I discover Patinkin’s Twitter and/or Instagram account and I don’t care, because I now love humans again, even if it’s just him and his wife. They are enough.