Garlic Pesto Poem

¼ cup olive oil
6 cloves of garlic
½ cup pine nuts (unroasted!)
4 servings of papardelle pasta
Salt, cheese to taste.

 It’s a little cooler than comfortable. The cat is hiding in his bed. He will not be moved by promise of treat or pats on his head, or big, human claws raking his belly. Wake up from a nap (you hardly ever nap, but stress is sheets of wax on your mind being yanked off, leaving your brain smooth).

Pour a little more-than-normal oil into a pan, add 6 cloves of peeled garlic. Fill another pot with water, let it sit, covered, on high heat.

As the garlic simmers, place a handful of pine nuts into a mortar and pestle. The nuts hardly need pressure to yield a rich cream. Add salt.

The oil in the pan bubbles around the cloves. When I try to turn them, they pop back onto their burned sides, stubbornly refusing to brown, self-immolating on the one side. The heat is too high. Turn the heat to low and coax them over-evenly.

The lid of the pot whispers that the water inside is boiling. It exhales a cloud of steam without a scent. Pour a little more-than-normal salt into the spoon of your hand and drop it into the blistering, clear water. Slide handfuls of stiff pasta into the water.

When the garlic is brown on all sides now, and it yields to the prick of a fork, drop it into the creamy pine nut mortar and pestle, and one-by-one pound the roasted garlic into the paste, until you can’t tell garlic from pine nut.

Pour the oil from the pan into the garlic/nut mix too quickly, and splash two big drops of oil onto your sweater by accident. Dab dish soap onto the darkened spots on your poor sweater. Stir the now-golden mixture a little more carefully.

Test the pasta; take out the biggest pan you have, and toss in the golden garlic and stir until the fragrance lifts to your nose. Skim a ladle of pasta water into the garlic mixture and stir to loosen. Slip the pasta into the sauce one spoonful at a time, tossing until the water disappears.

You’d swear it was made with cream.

Something missing: pecorino romano (a week with me, already he’s half-gone). Plane on the cheese like mardi gras confetti. 

Serve on a blue, chipped plate with a bowl of fresh, little tomatoes. Admire your mismatched dinnerware. Leave the TV off, candlesticks unlit. 

Wherein I divulge too many secrets

Dear Friend,

Last week we were discussing how we're going to get a farm and move in together and form a commune of best friendship because men are stupid and goats are awesome. This week you're all into Duolingo French. I see what time you were awake checking Whatsapp. What time zone's 6pm does that 4am time stamp correspond with? Looks rather French, n'est pas? 

Or how about you, Miss "He's coming over to watch movies and I'm wearing yoga pants so it's not a date and also maybe we'll look at houses on the internet and we'll like all the same ones and I'll joke about how we'll get married someday which totally isn't going to happen because we're just friends"? LOL. I'm with you, girl. In a creepy way. 

Oh hey, how's Romeo?

He texted this morning. He used a winky face.

Oh dude. That means you're totally going to get married

"I'm single. I go with friends. Do you has boyfriend?" He asks in broken English. 

Cute. 

"No, no boyfriend," I reply in broken Italian.

"You are pretty. How come no?"

I'm single because I've been cursed until the day someone dies for my love, but I'm on a ship that must sail for seven years before it can come ashore for only one day. You can't tell because this is a language-learning app, but I totally get wifi on this cursed ship. I've still got 5 years before that one day I can come ashore, and even then, someone has to die before my curse is broken. That's a lot of responsibility! It's easier to be single. I can't tell you because my Italian is awful.

"Because I like intelligent men. Do you know any?"

"ah ah! I am intelligente man. ;)" 

Oh dear.

You can stop playing that recording of Romeo saying, "Hello, Bonjour" now. Our hearts have all melted and now we have a huge puddle to clean up, and none of us even owns a mop.

I encouraged him to date and now he's telling me about girls he likes. 

At least you're being kind and supportive and not controlling and manipulative. 

Yea. 

Are you contemplating being controlling and manipulative?

A little.

I want a boyfriend and I want to go on a trip.

I'm not a boy but I can pretend.

I like trips. 

Hehe

Idk if you and I could travel well together. I would get on your nerves.

Yep.

But so would most people.

"Ciao, Buona sera. I wait for you to log on." 

"You could die waiting."

"Treasure!"

I bet you tell all the girls that.

I think Romeo has ghosted. 
Yea?
Yea. I haven't heard from him for two weeks. 
Yea. Sorry. :(
He couldn't even handle being just friends!


Remember when we couldn't care less about boys?
Dude. Let him go. He's not worth a sad thought.
It's not that.
I've given up on him. I'm sitting with the idea that I may never meet anyone.
It's...what if I will be alone forever? I don't trust any guy that likes me a lot. I'm fulfilling my own prophecy of singlehood. 

Yea. I'm in a state, too.

So how about that goat farm?

My Secret Borscht Recipe

The secret is that I make borscht sometimes.

1 pound beef. Stew meat if you have time. Ground beef if you don't.

2 medium-sized beets, peeled and chopped. I like big chunks of beet, so I cut thick slices.

1 medium onion diced

1/4 cabbage, shredded

6 cloves of garlic

3 tbsp corning spices in a strainer

Salt to taste

12 ounces of water

Chop everything, except the garlic because you're lazy. When your roommate walks by, show her the blood of the beet on your hands. Make a Lady Macbeth joke when she comments on how the stains will never wash off. Throw everything into a slow cooker or a rice cooker until the beef is tender. Whistle a little while you wash up the cutting board and throw away the scraps. Remove the spices sometime during the process, depending on when you feel the damage has been done. 

Wild Mushroom Pseudo-Risotto

Dear Shelly, Jenny, and the world,


I'm working out of a writer's space in LA. It's called The Hatchery and the people are wonderful. I feel very lucky to have quite literally stumbled into this supportive and kind community in a city where I feel like an outsider and well, am an outsider. I don't watch TV or movies or theater or improv. I don't have the white teeth or youthful body of an aspiring actress nor the speedy creativity of a screenwriter. But I get to walk into this space at 9:30am every morning, and people smile and nod at me. I sit down and work in a space where I am respected as a serious writer, even though my parents are my only patrons.


One day, at the Hatchery, a cute Vietnamese lady introduces herself. I've caught her looking at me like I'm a fascinating specimen, probably because I spend 8-10 hours a day writing on the same couch, legs crossed in lotus position. I'm here longer than most people. She's a comedy writer who does corporate copywriting to pay the bills.
“Want to grab lunch?” she asks and sits at the table next to me out of her own volition (!).
This is epic. If this was Mean Girls, then THAT was the pivotal scene when she put herself on the line!


But because I am both awkward and inward I end up totally forget about lunch and sit next to her for hours typing grimly away at my thesis, which is overdue. 
Around 5, she gets ready to leave. She packs up her gear and glides past me, a disinterested stranger. I am not worthy of a goodbye.
Please be my friend! I want to tell her. I'm not snubbing you! It's just that my writer's face kind of resembles resting bitch face.


I wish I was a faster writer with a cutting wit and sharp investigative skills.
I wish people didn't say "give us more context" when really what they mean is: Why did you bother me with an essay about China/Asian-Americans when I've read The Joy Luck Club?
I wish I could finish my thesis in time, but I can't. I've worked pretty damn hard though and it blows.
I wish that I didn't feel like I'm proving my critics right by missing my deadline yet again.
I wish I shared my boyfriend's love of the big screen and could join in his enthusiasm and jokes.
I wish I didn't yell at him and say things I regret.
I wish I was a natural at anything.


Graham, my boyfriend, is the opposite. Like Midas, everybody he touches (roll with my metaphor here) turns into a friend or a mentor. He's been a month at his new job and his co-workers invite him out to all sorts of get-togethers – end-of-week whiskeys, team lunches, cocktail hour, Magic The Gathering. He doesn't know it but he's in his element. Last week, his boss stopped by to say, “Hey!
You've learned in weeks what it takes other people to learn in months! And everybody likes you.”


I check his phone - no, I'm not “that girlfriend,” I'm the girlfriend who doesn't wear a watch - and see that he and his co-workers already have in-jokes. But I am thankful he's not sending snapchats of his penis to the hot girl with the adorable dog in the marketing department.


“How do you just make friends that easily? Teach me now!” I demand, when I pick him up from work. The failure to befriend comedy writer girl is fresh.
“Aww, but I like you. Just be yourself. Share your story and ask them what their story is.”
“If I had an approachable gullible-looking happy baby looking face like yours, everybody would like me too and I wouldn't have to try AT ALL!” I rage, poking him in the nose.
(Actually I feel lucky all the time. In my mind, he is like a $2,000 Chanel bag that I snatched up for $20 before murderous hoards of other single women descended.)


You know what I do have?


The ability to cook pretty well, and most importantly, a loose hand when it comes to butter, garlic, cheese, and wine.


This is wild mushroom risotto. I use it to win friends and love.


Contrary to what people believe, risotto making need not be precise.
Addendum: I should say, this is wild mushroom creamy rice, not risotto. Use what you have and don't buy anything you'll use only once and never again. Listen to my voice of experience: don't go in expecting to create a risotto on par with anything you'd get in say, Tuscany or Napa Valley and you'll be very happy with the fruits of your labor. I'm no Michelin-starred Italian chef, ladies and gentlemen.


I used Chinese rice, which means I had no expectations toward authenticity from the start. This helps when one is rushed for time and of modest means.


Notes: I bought as many chanterelles and morels as I could afford at the farmer's market and dry-sauteed these wild mushrooms in the pan with a huge pile of cheap brown buttons from Trader Joes to disguise their provincial origins. Dry-sauteing the mushrooms is the delicious secret of this recipe – THE lack of oil keeps the mushrooms woodsy and slightly crisped. If you saute them in butter like I used to, the main flavor note will be butter. Potatoes pa-tat-oes I guess, but the textural contrast of the crisped mushrooms and the creamy rice is really, really wonderful and you should try it this way.


I'm excited to make this risotto again, but with even more mushrooms – I'm talking equal parts mushrooms to rice – and it's going to be so delicious like eating an entire forest.


*
Wild Mushroom Pseudo-Risotto


Ingredients
Uncooked rice
Oil
Mushrooms, scrubbed, sliced, and towel-dried (with wild ones you may need to soak them for 10 minutes to remove bugs)
Garlic
Butter
Hard cheese, grated (I used Asiago)
Wine (Marsala or Sherry if you have it, if not, any white wine)
Broth or water or water + bouillon cube
Optional:
Seasonings (thyme, rosemary, sage or any combination work well)
Milk
Lemon Pepper
Olive Oil


Let pan sit on medium fire for a minute. Add sliced mushrooms and dry-saute in batches if necessary, for several minutes until crispy, stirring frequently. Set mushrooms aside.
Add oil enough to coat rice. Add garlic. Cook rice with oil for several minutes. Continue to stir frequently. Add a healthy dose of one-ish cup of wine. Let wine sizzle down.
Stirring, add 1 cup milk and broth cup by cup. Taste the rice, checking for a chewable but al dente texture. When you're finishing up, in go the spices and desired amount of butter (I liked about 3 tablespoons of butter to 3 cups of dry rice) and desired amount of cheese (all of it). Stir to combine. Toss in all your beautiful, woodsy mushrooms. Stir gently. Just enough to combine.
Serve with a healthy grind of lemon pepper and a dash of olive oil. Or, if you're feeling fancy, parmesan crisps.


*
“Hey! I brought some leftover risotto for lunch.” BE CASUAL, JOANNE. “Want to try some?”
“Sure I'll have a taste.”
“Whoa, that is good!”
“You want some more? I made a pretty big batch.” BE NONCHALANT.
“Yea!”
“This is delicious!"
"Can I pay you money to make me lunch?” she jokes.
“Oh, thanks! It's just okay. The rice is kind of soggy. And I used Chinese rice, not Arborio.”
“What are you talking about? This is really good!”
Shrug. “Nah, I'll make it better next time. But I'm glad you like it. Want to grab lunch on Friday?”

Gnocchi, revisited

I finally learned how to make fucking *good* gnocchi.

I mean, goddamnit!  I’ve FINALLY fucking figured it out!

For those of you playing at home, gnocchi is a metaphor for pain and depression.

I can’t untie nurturing with gnocchi. When I knead dough, I think of handing little bits off to a little hand with little, pointed fingers and wide eyes peering behind the edge of the countertop. The smell of flour and sweet potato is soft and sweet like a baby smells.

“Mom, look!” the little hands and big eyes hand me a misshapen lump. "Dinosaur." I place the dinosaur as gently as I might place an egg into the salted, boiling water. I wait for it to float before placing it on a plate with some sauce in front of very little hands and very big eyes and a very large smile. "Careful, it's hot!" 

"Hot," the solemn eyes repeat as the timid, pointed fingers test the temperature of the lumpy dough. 

Then everything comes crashing down. Who the hell am I kidding. I am so far from being a mother. I don't even fricken date, how the hell am I going to have a child? What if I never get married? What if I am unlovable? What if it’s all my fault? What am I missing? Why can't I see what a monster I am? 

What if my whole life is an unending cycle of me holding my soft, squishy heart out and offering it to everyone, saying, here, have a bite! 

By the time the dough hits the boiling water, I come to the conclusion that my fears are stupid.  I will not be alone in the future because I am not alone now. And if I never have a child of my own, there are plenty of lost children out there who need good, strong mothers. I can be one. And the only way to learn happiness is to live with your soft, squishy heart in your hands, ready to offer to anyone. It hurts sometimes, but you get what you give. Sometimes it takes a shitty experience to bring the good things into perspective. 

It takes a lot of kneading to come to a constructive perspective. 

That’s how I got good at making gnocchi.

Recipe

1 cup sweet potato, mashed

1 cup flour

Mix the sweet potato with the flour until it forms a dough. Knead for 10 minutes. It's a wet, messy dough. Take your scraggly, moist mass of dough and put it into plastic wrap. Walk away from the dough. Go for a run. Take a shower. Get distracted by your roommate's cat's antics. 

After an hour, your dough is smooth and silky. It's like magic. But not magic. Science. Anyway. 

Cut the dough into quarters and shape into whatever gnocchi shape your heart desires. I like them rough and lumpy because they hold dough well. 

I like to boil my little gnocchi friends until they float and then fry them in a pan with oil and serve with a giant pile of shredded pecorino romano. You can freeze them on a plate and then put the frozen bits into a freezer bag for later on. I've never had any last more than one meal. 

Lucy Knisley alla Carbonara

Dear world,

I’m not sure that I can call this carbonara. It’s almost a carbonara, but I’ve learned, while sitting in many an Italian household that a carbonara has a pretty rigid list of ingredients.

I’d listen to women talk about their recipes in Italian. They’d layer on words and stories about cooking and pasta and the special things they do to make their recipes better. And I, well, I don’t speak much Italian, but when it comes to food, I *get* it.  You don’t have to turn to me and explain the difference in English. One woman doesn’t cook the pancetta. She puts it into the eggs cruda, raw, before adding the pasta. Another uses a special type of pancetta. She tries to explain to me what kind and I think of all the meats behind the counter of the grocery store where I talk to the man behind the counter, “Perdone, signore. Uh. Vorrei cucinare carbonara. Qual e the buono one?”

I don't tell anyone (I don't actually have the vocabulary to tell anyone) my secret: I already have the best recipe for carbonara; Lucy Knisley’s recipe for carbonara, from her book, Relish. Now whenever I cook or eat carbonara, I think of Lucy and how lovingly she created the recipe for her book.

I wanted to make a dish inspired by her, so naturally, carbonara.

But not just any carbonara. *pink* carbonara.  Instead of pancetta, I used beets and shallots. 

This is where we have a problem. I can’t call it carbonara anymore, because its *not* a carbonara. It’s something else. Like how it’s not a cookbook or a graphic novel. Relish is something else.

Shallots and beets go really well together in pasta. The caramelized shallots add more earthiness and bite to both highlight and cut the sweetness of the beets. Add the creaminess of eggs and cheese and you have something decadent and unexpected.

Recipe

2 servings of linguine
2 cloves of garlic
½ cup of beets, diced
2 medium-sized shallots 2 eggs
½ c shredded parmesan or pecorino romano

1.       Boil the water.

2.       In a saucepan, add 1 tbsp of olive oil and the two whole cloves of garlic. Let them roast, turning them until they’re golden brown (like Lucy does).  Add the shallots and cook until they’re almost caramelized, then add the diced beets. Keep cooking until everything is somewhat smoky and sweet. Salt to taste. And *do* taste, earthy and sweet. This takes anywhere from 10-15 minutes. Remove the garlic cloves.

3.       In another, large bowl, add 2 eggs, beat until the eggs turn a lighter color. (I think this was our problem with watery carbonara, Joanne! We didn’t beat the eggs hard enough!) Add the grated cheese.

4.       Cook the pasta.

5.       When the pasta is done, add some of it to the egg mixture and toss. Then add the beet mixture and toss some more. Then add the rest of the pasta and keep tossing until it turns an acceptable shade of pink. 

Emily Dickinson White Salad

I know what you're going to say.

"Shelly. Emily Dickinson was a baker. Why not bake a nice, white cake and top it in nice, white icing?"

Because. 

Emily Dickinson is not a dessert. 

Emily Dickinson is good for you.

Emily Dickinson is a main course.

Emily Dickinson is kale for your spirit. 

Dare you see a soul at the white heat?

  Then crouch within the door.

Red is the fire’s common tint;

  But when the vivid ore

Has sated flame’s conditions,

  Its quivering substance plays

Without a color but the light

  Of unanointed blaze.

Least village boasts its blacksmith,

  Whose anvil’s even din              

Stands symbol for the finer forge

  That soundless tugs within,

Refining these impatient ores

  With hammer and with blaze,

Until the designated light

  Repudiate the forge.

Imagine being in Emily's town, looking at the mysterious, large house. The shape of the woman in the window.  Everyone in the village whispers of the poor, odd girl, how sweet she had been before her father's death. She never leaves her house, they say. She only wears white.

White to us is the color of Realtor paint, of bathrooms and kitchens, of purity, as a bride or the skin of Snow White. 

White to Emily signaled a boldness of spirit, a blazing external reminder of her soul and it's fight to survive while enmeshed in a state of perpetual death. 

When I was a preteen, I wanted to be the Lilith Fair feminist who read Emily Dickinson, but I couldn't understand why a person would have a funeral in her brain or why the hell you'd die and hear a fly buzzing. I'd stare at her poems and try to memorize them, but they never took hold. Damnit, Emily. I want to love you. Let me love you.

And then my grandmother died. I was 23, I think. She died two weeks after my cousin's untimely death. I remember sitting in my bathtub, distressed, holding a large textbook from a poetry class I'd taken in college, trying not to wet the pages while I scanned them for words of comfort. I remember scoffing to myself. I finally understood.

Emily Dickinson White Kale Salad

1 head of flowering kale
Various white salad toppings:

Chickpeas

Cashews (I used roasted and salted)

Tofu

Chicken

Hardboiled egg

Cheese

Dressing

1 clove garlic

1/2 tsp salt

1 tsp sugar

1/4 tsp sesame oil

1 tbsp mayo

1 tbsp or so white vinegar

Wash, massage, and dry the white kale. 

Chop the garlic into little bitty bits. Add salt, sugar, sesame oil and mayo. Mix until thoroughly combine. Drizzle in vinegar to taste and stir until the salt and sugar are dissolved. 

Toss kale in dressing, add other white ingredients as you like. I kept the leaves whole, but it might have been easier to eat if I'd shredded the kale. Beauty is pain, kids.

Text a photo to your mom, who says, "Is that dinner? Poor girl, we are having kimchee and kimbap for dinner." Thanks, mom. Way to trump my pretty dinner.

Silog Sandwich a la Lynda Barry

Dear world,

About a year ago, I noticed a package in my mailbox. Inside was 100 Demons, by Lynda Barry, and a note from Joanne. 

That was the first day of what would be an eternal love and devotion to Lynda Barry. She's a comic artist and writer who can tell a story and hit the essence of it with a combination of her storytelling and expressive artwork. 

What I love most about Lynda is that she finds ways that we all can engage with art. It can be as simple as spending an hour coloring a page, pressing hard on the crayon until the page is thick with wax and pigment. It can be as revealing as drawing your inner creep, the voice that comes up when you do something new or something creative that tells you you're not good enough. I've found that doing the activities she suggests and following her advice opens doors to staggering creative force. 

I can't tell you about her impact on my work as well as I can show you. Almost every project I take on that I am brave enough to show other people is inspired by her in some way. 

In 100 Demons, Lynda tells colorful stories of her demons. I love how the narration and drawings mingle to form impactful imagery of her life. I've read and re-read this book. 

Inspired by her call to action, I have drawn pages and pages of demons. Whenever I feel stuck, awkward, unlovable, terrible, broken, I draw demons. There are so many. 

One day, this little creature came from my pen. I fell in love with her. Meet Shellymonster.

I think the best part of this demon is that at her essence, she is lovable.

Lynda inspires me to not let my creative force go unrealized and to do all the ideas I think of, even if I think they suck. I'm learning how to show them off, even if it means not everyone will get it. Some people do.

Silog Sandwich, a la Lynda Barry

Lynda is half filipino, so I wanted to make a half-filipino dish. I wanted to make something visually stunning, rich, hearty, complex and colorful. I thought a lot about which filipino dish would match with Lynda. Pancit? Spaghetti? Adobo? I settled on silog. 

Silog: Tocino log. Tocino and rice. Tocino is pork belly that's marinated in red, salty, sweet sauce. It's delicious over garlicky fried rice with an egg on top. It's eaten with a side of vinegar to cut the sweet, salty richness of the tocino. 

Lynda has an earthiness about her that reminds me of a garden full of crisp, fresh vegetables. 

Tocino is red, like Lynda's hair.

Nothing is more American than white, sandwich bread.  I didn't want to use white sandwich bread, per se, because it's such a heavy, hearty sandwich. I found a brown oat molasses roll that I thought looked delicious. Unfortunately, it was too sweet. If you make this, use something like white bread, dutch crunch, or sourdough. This sandwich needs bread that is a solid canvas.

Ingredients: 

Thick sandwich roll

Tocino (Frozen section of your local asian/pacific market. Follow the instructions on the package.)

Garlic, grated. 

Mayonnaise

Mustard

Hard-boiled quail eggs (I soaked mine in soy sauce and snacked on the extras while I made the sandwiches)

Cane vinegar. (White vinegar/sandwich vinegar are okay.)

Lots of vegetables in every color. I used pickled shallots, heirloom tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, red-headed lettuce, and sprouts.

Start with bread. Cut it in half. 

Grate the garlic and mix it with mayo. Slather one side of the bread with it. Slather the other side with mustard. Pile vegetables on both sides, tocino and eggs. Sprinkle a teaspoon or so of vinegar onto the greens. This will cut the richness and sweetness  and saltiness of the tocino and helps it blend with the earthy vegetables.