> 175: Hello again, again
Marc Inryczek
Hi,
Taylor Swift is touring again so I figured I could get back on the newslettering horse too. Yes, Taylor Swift and I are the same.
When I paused in a slight fit of despair last February, I truly meant to come back that March, then April, then May. Then, last June, I got a new job running digital strategy at the Brooklyn Museum and—it turns out, at least in my case—working at an art museum can be kind of intense. But I'm emerging from my hole now. Hi. Given my new reality I'll be putting these newsletters out once every three or four weeks rather than every week. Thank you to everyone who sent nice notes in the meantime.
If you don't remember what this is or would otherwise like to get off this train now, please feel free to unsubscribe at the link at the bottom of this email.
If the people making your coffee can't live within a half hour of the coffee shop, you don't live in a city. You live in a theme park. (via Kottke)
The Unofficial Roger Ebert Reader on Addiction and a totally normal interview with author Emily St. John Mandel.
Things I've cooked that were good: these salmon crunch bowls, approaching cult recipe status among the Brooklyn lady set; many many Ali Slagle recipes, from the New York Times Cooking section and her book, I Dream of Dinner; everything I've made from Deb Perelman's new book, Keepers. In other food news: My friend Alexis introduced me to what may be my new favorite seltzer ever, grapefruit Fresca. It's like the beloved Finnish summertime drink, Long Drink, without the alcohol. (Long Drink is finally more readily available in the States. Serve it at your cookouts this summer and level up your game.)
How to leave dying social media platforms; For Black folks, digital migration is nothing new. I'm on Bluesky (sorry, don't have invites) and Mastodon and forever Tumblr. Every minute you spend on Twitter from now on will just drain your life force. Yes, even more than before. Yes, I'll probably still link to it occasionally if there's especially funny shit on there.
As many of us have long suspected: eight glasses of water a day is a lie. If you, like me, resent drinking water, I recommend Nuun tablets for more hydration you'd get in a normal glass of water in one go. Also, be a figure of mystery to your colleagues because you're always drinking bright pink beverages on your Zooms.
Why I Chose Horses Instead of Babies, by Lisa Hanawalt.
I don't watch all the TV but over the last year I've really loved Andor—Tony Gilroy hive, rise up—and Shrinking, which is nominally a Jason Segel show (he's fine) but is really worth it for Jessica Williams and Harrison Ford and the young woman who plays Jason Segel's daughter, Alice.
On the book front, having a stressful job has meant I don't have mental energy for reading much beyond Elin Hilderbrand novels. They are mostly about (probably scarily tanned) rich white people—there are characters unironically named Chad—and there are some offputting/risible gender dynamics, but the relationships and storylines are always interesting. I've also become a huge fan of Emily Henry, who was recently profiled in NY Mag.
Apple rankings and international butter reviews and rotating sandwiches ("that's it").
My new favorite podcast is If Books Could Kill, with Michael Hobbes and Peter Shamshiri debunking airport nonfiction bestsellers.
Oh shit, we're going past 10.
If you see me in person these days and I look like an early 20th century French laborer, it's because I'm obsessed with this new upstate gardening shop that also sells apparel.
How to be a writer on a marketing team without sounding like a jerk and "We don't do that here."
This is one of the funniest things I've read in the past few months. Irish people, man. Do not disappoint them.
I haven’t given up on trying to live a good life,
a really good one even, sitting in the kitchen
in Kentucky, imagining how agreeable I’ll be—
the advance of fulfillment, and of desire—
all these needs met, then unmet again.
When I was a kid, I was excited about carrots,
their spidery neon tops in the garden’s plot.
And so I ripped them all out. I broke the new roots
and carried them, like a prize, to my father
who scolded me, rightly, for killing his whole crop.
I loved them: my own bright dead things.
I’m thirty-five and remember all that I’ve done wrong.
Yesterday I was nice, but in truth I resented
the contentment of the field. Why must we practice
this surrender? What I mean is: there are days
I still want to kill the carrots because I can.
Bye,
Laura