If you know me, you know that I am a dedicated pie person. Give me a pie, a tart, a galette, a crostata — preferably stuffed to the brim with fresh, seasonal fruit — over your cupcakes, your sheet cakes, your pathetic excuses for consuming gloppy sugar and grease that makes your teeth hurt, things of that nature. This is not to say that there are not good cakes — there are — but in my considered opinion, even sad, mediocre pies with cheap canned filling are better than mediocre cakes. Be honest: Would you really rather eat that slice of grocery-store sheet cake in the break room, or would you rather have a McDonald’s apple pie? The choice is obvious.
Despite being in no way actually good at making pastry, over the years, I’ve managed to work a passable pie crust into my cooking repertoire. I’ve made some gorgeous tarts, too. (Sometimes I regret becoming known as the family maker of gorgeous tarts because sometimes I just don’t have that energy during the holidays.) I occasionally make cakes, of course, because people I love have birthdays and want cakes, and you can count on me to never, ever use a cake mix. (Brownie mix, though? Every time.) There’s one cake I’ve nailed competently repeatedly — the lemon bundt cake in The Silver Palate. It’s my favorite cake, and I can even say that I served it at a whole hog roast after a Southern Foodways Symposium, and nary a crumb was left. (One of the Lee Brothers even praised it! Definitely the only time that will ever happen.)
All of this is to explain that it is extremely out of character for me to recommend any cake recipe. Like, every time I make icing or frosting, it’s a disaster. My cakes fall flat or turn out dry or slide off their tiers on the way to the party. I am a pie person! I know how to patch up crust, not make rosettes out of sugar. But this cake? This cake is a winner.
On Monday, I went to a cookbook club at the local bookstore. The gist is you sign up and buy that month’s cookbook, everyone has to cook a different dish, and you all have a potluck. Cooking has been a challenge since I quit drinking, so it’s taken a while before I felt like signing up. But this month’s cookbook was ZAYTINYA: Delicious Mediterranean Dishes from Greece, Turkey, and Lebanon, and I have no problem giving money to José Andrés, so I went for it.
At the last minute, I signed up to make the olive oil cake recipe, mainly because no one else had volunteered to bring anything sweet, and it didn’t look complicated. (A concern given the weekday.) As usual, I was baking at the last minute, rushing out the door to drive across town, and my cake looked nothing like the one in the book. It was lumpy (I knew I hadn’t folded in the egg whites well enough), and I was texting friends in a panic, certain that I would be serving an inedible mess to a group of strangers. I mean, look at this:
Compared to this:
Well, guess what? The cake was fucking delicious, and everyone gushed over it. Egg whites not totally folded in? Didn’t matter. Orange blossom water expired in 2022?1 The whipped cream still tasted great.
The cake is basically a sponge cake, except with olive oil instead of butter, but it’s soooo much less fussy. It’s supposed to fall some, I think. It’s rich but light, a little gooey. It’s like the best parts of an angel food cake, but without that dryness from so many egg whites. In short, it’s a cake that I actually can’t wait to make again — it seems perfect for lazy summer dinners, topped with whatever fruit I can be bothered to slice up, just right for when it’s too hot to want to roll out a crust.
1 1/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons (170 grams) cake flour, sifted
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (240 grams) extra-virgin olive oil, plus more for drizzling
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 cup heavy cream
1/2 teaspoon orange blossom water
1 tablespoon powdered sugar
Fruit
Preheat the oven to 325 F. Line the bottom of a 10-inch springform pan with oiled parchment paper.
Put 3/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon (160 grams) of the sugar in the bowl of a stand mixer with a whisk attachment. Add vanilla, lemon juice and zest, and egg yolks. Mix on medium speed until everything is combined.
Gradually add the sifted flour with the mixer running, scraping the sides of the bowl once or twice. After all the flour has been incorporated, keep the mixer running and drizzle in the olive oil in a steady stream, scraping the bowl again.
Transfer the batter to a large mixing bowl and set aside.
Combine the egg whites and salt in a large mixing bowl and whip on medium speed, using a hand mixer or stand mixer, until a light foam begins to form.
Gradually add the remaining sugar (85 grams) to the egg whites and continue to whip until stiff peaks form.
Gently fold the egg whites into the batter, in three parts, until just combined.
Pour the airy batter in the pan, being careful to not deflate it. Bake for 45 minutes, or until the cake is nicely browned. Test the cake by inserting a cake pick or paring knife in the center of the cake; if the tester comes out clean, it's done. If not, continue to bake for a few minutes more, and test again. Cool the cake in the pan on a cooling rack, then remove from the springform pan.
While the cake is baking, prepare the whipped cream. Combine the heavy cream, orange blossom water, and powdered sugar in a large mixing bowl and whip on medium-high speed, using a hand mixer or stand mixer, until soft, pillowy peaks begin to form, about 4 minutes.
Serve the cake warm or at room temperature with spoonfuls of whipped cream, fruit and a drizzle of olive oil.
Notes from the cookbook:
On olive oil: “It doesn't have to be the most expensive stuff, but since there's a whole cup in there, you want to use something high quality that's not too spicy.” I used a spicy olive oil because that was the only high-quality kind I had. You know what? It was still great.
On fruit: “This versatile cake pairs well with all kinds of fruit; try whatever is in season, like clementines, apricots, figs, or peaches.” The actual recipe calls for clementines, thusly: “Peel the clementines and separate into sections. With a clean dry towel, rub each section to remove as much of the white pith off the membrane as possible. Cut away the white center seam of each segment with a sharp knife or kitchen shears and remove any seeds. Then, using a serrated knife, slice the clementine in half lengthwise through the thick back part of the segment and spread open like a book.” I had no time for that nonsense, so I served the cake with raspberries, and they were great. Use whatever you want that’s in season or (looks halfway passable at the grocery store).
Notes from me:
I did not measure the grams of anything, and the cake was fine.
Do not substitute cake flour; I am just telling you now. It’s not the same.
You don’t need to drizzle the olive oil in as slowly as if you’re making mayonnaise, even if your muscle memory tells you to do so. We’re not trying to emulsify anything here.
I oiled the sides of my springform pan because it’s not nonstick, but you do you.
If you don’t have (or can’t easily find) orange blossom water, plain whipped cream will still be delicious. You could also flavor it with a little vanilla, lemon or almond extract. If you’re not serving the cake to any sober people, I suspect a dash of Grand Marnier or really good bourbon would also do the trick.
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I have decided to start a new project. Subscription-only. I sincerely hope you will decide to join me for the ride.
Here’s the backstory:
On March 30, I turned 47.
Thirty years ago last fall, my dad died at 47.
This is bringing up some shit.
There are a lot of things I want to write or finish writing that have been on hold for years.
Turning 47 seems like a good time to tackle all of this.
Over the next year, starting on April 30 of this year and ending on March 30 of next year, I am going to send out one essay per month. Topics may include, but are not limited to, aging, death, recovery, relationships, trauma, and food. Some of them will be funny, I hope. Some of them won’t be. Some of them will probably work better than others. It’s an experiment.
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In retrospect, it seems utterly wild that in all my years of drinking, in all the nights closing down bars, all the afterparties, all the nights out until 4 a.m., the nights where I saw the sun rise before heading home, not once did anyone offer me cocaine. Not one line, not one bump, not one crumb. All those nights, and I didn’t know that my crush in college was an addict until after he went to rehab. That one of my closest friends had a somewhat serious coke problem for a year or three. That my boyfriend who lived in another city was doing coke at parties on the weekends I wasn’t visiting (and maybe some weekends when I was).
And in retrospect, it made sense — how else did everyone stay up until 4 a.m. drinking without help from something else? But I never needed help — alcohol was a high enough. I naively assumed everyone else was like me.
We all drank this much. No one had a problem, it’s not like we were doing cocaine! These glittery nights of excess every weekend were normal — it’s what everyone did. There was always another party.
And for a time, there was. Until it all ended.
Now, looking back, it’s still hard to know when precisely the party died.
It was like one of those nights when you’re having so much fun that you don’t notice you’re one of the last people left in the house and the hosts are trying to kick you out so they can go to bed but even though the lights are bright and the music has been turned off, you keep talking and keep flirting and keep drinking because you’re young and everything is still new and fun and magical and full of possibility and it will never not be this way. Then at some point you look around and the hosts finally gave up and went to bed and the keg kicked long ago and there’s no more liquor floating around and your pack of Camel Lights is empty — you really smoked that much tonight? And the guy you like went home because you were making a drunken fool of yourself, and you look in the mirror and your mascara is smudged down your cheeks — not in a sexy way, but like you’ve been crying. And maybe you have been crying, because the guy left, and you thought this was the night he’d finally kiss you. And your friends are long gone and you finally stumble home in the predawn darkness wondering how it all went wrong. When you wake up the next day — well, the same day, just in the afternoon, so it might as well be the next day — your friends don’t want to meet for brunch to discuss the night before, because somehow they aren’t as hungover as you and don’t need a pitcher of mimosas to feel better. So you think, okay, next weekend will be different. You’ll leave the party early, you won’t drink as much, this time you’ll get the guy.
You never do.
In my late 20s, I left the swingin’ parties of Athens to work for my hometown paper. It was a shitty job but fun — writing a crazy number of stories each week for a weekly community news section that wasn’t part of the newsroom. We were technically under advertising, so the paper’s editor-in-chief never took me seriously, even though I kept writing stories that scooped the Metro desk. Despite my workload, I earned far less than the daily’s staff writers. But it was 2005 and the economy was great and I had credit cards with massive limits and very low interest, so I still went out like I had all the money in the world. Drinks were cheap then, and that was all that mattered.
There was one bar where we hung out the most. It was a pool hall, though I never played. (I preferred darts, although I was terrible at them.) I started going to the bar because my coworkers did — it wasn’t a place I had hung out before; my go-to bars in town were weirder. But somehow this became the place to go for the months I settled into town — months of trying to make friends with my colleagues, of rounds of shots with the sports desk, whom you could always count on to close down the bar since they never got off work before 11 or 12.
I wasn’t at the bar every night — I wasn’t even drinking every night then. But I was there enough that I’d walk in and Tommy — he was always the bartender any given night — would pour my drink before I even got up to the bar. Vodka soda lemon, because calories or fewer hangovers or something factually inaccurate like that. I hadn’t become a wine snob yet. Sometimes I’d alternate the vodka with plain soda and lemon, pretending not to drink so much, never imagining that would be my only drink order in later years.
I was so lonely then, though I never would have named that as my problem. I thought the problem was that my boyfriend — the man I thought for sure I would marry — had broken up with me a few months earlier. All I needed were new friends and a new guy and everything would finally work out before I turned 30. I’d find the right person, I’d get married, my finances would magically improve. I’d be an adult.
I thought my new coworkers would be an instant friend group. For a few weeks, they were, and then I realized the girls didn’t actually like me and the single boys only wanted to fuck me, not to be my friend. The cliquiness stung, but what else could I do?
But at the bar there were other people I knew. It was my hometown, after all. I wasn’t the only person who had moved back. One group in particular was there frequently — a group of guys slightly younger than me, most of whom had grown up in my neighborhood and gone to the same schools. They were my sister’s age, give or take a year or two — boys I never would have thought twice about when growing up, because I never had any interest in younger boys in high school. But now those gawky adolescents were in their mid-20s, and two or three of the guys seemed interesting, potential boyfriend material even.
Now I think part of the appeal — beyond the fact that I was incredibly lonely — was a perceived ability to rewrite the narrative about myself. I had never been popular growing up and never felt like I fit into my wealthy community. I didn’t have the ease in moving through the world that comes with generations of WASP privilege, and I was more comfortable with my head stuck in a book than on a tennis court. I had never dated a single person at my high school, much less anyone in my neighborhood. And this group — these were the cool kids, the rich kids, the handsome kids, not the smartass misfits I had been friends with in high school. (Friends whom I still loved dearly but who had not moved back, with one exception.) And so what if they weren’t the cool kids in my own grade? They would do.
There was one night I thought it might all work out. I was invited to an afterparty at the house of this guy notorious for throwing the wildest parties in high school. I had never been to one of his parties — never invited, never knew enough to crash, and my parents were too strict to let me go anyway. But this night, a decade after high school, I went. This night I was a part. There were people in a hot tub. It was light when I got home. A guy even asked me out.
That fling only lasted a few dates, though we stayed friends for longer. Still, I never became a part of the group as a whole. I was occasionally invited to things. I went to parties and stood around and felt uncomfortable and drank too much. The guy on whom I had the biggest crush paid me no attention.
I was the thinnest I’d been since 8th grade, taking hot yoga and pilates, wearing the same silk halter tops, strappy stilettos and bootcut James jeans as the rest of the women in their crowd. But I was still me. Still the same unpopular awkward weirdo at heart. Still a budding alcoholic. Still a vat of need that no amount of male attention could fill.
Eventually I started dating someone in Atlanta, and I spent half my weekends at bars down there. A new restaurant opened a block from the paper, and I started drinking mid-priced wine there instead of well vodka at the pool hall, because it seemed more grown-up. I slowly gave up once more on ever fitting in at home.
A week ago I went to the funeral of one of those guys from the pool hall. We were never truly friends; I was always closer to his sister. But he had been in my life since he was a toddler, a small child in preschool with my sister. I remember hijinks from elementary school, from church. He was a “handful” in the parlance of adults; more accurately someone with an irrepressible spirit. A person who could make the room laugh. Ultimately, during those years in the aughts, the life of the party.
He was a DJ then. A fun one, not a tedious techno bro. I remember dancing my ass off in a teal Rebecca Taylor dress and 5-inch silver Kate Spade platform heels at one Christmas party he DJ’d in 2006 and feeling like everything in the world was mine for the taking — the boys, the booze, the jobs, the pretty expensive clothes that would always look good on my perfect body that I still hated for not being thin enough. We ended the night at an afterparty down the street in someone’s loft/office, which for some reason had a giant swing inside. And we swung back and forth, these dramatic arcs up and down, laughing and laughing, and nothing could have felt better than the swoosh of my stomach, the champagne coursing through my bloodstream. Even tripping on those silver heels walking back to my boyfriend’s car, ripping my fishnets and bloodying my knee — even fighting with my boyfriend over staying out so late with people he didn’t know because he lived in Atlanta — nothing could have made that night more magical than it was.
At some point the bloody knees start catching up with you.
When I first got sober, I thought a lot about when the alcohol turned on me, when things stopped being fun, wondering why I didn’t quit drinking then. That next year was the start of the turn, as the wine slowly started to become a necessity instead of an instrument of fun. Not long after that party, I moved away to one of a series of five cities I’d live in over the next decade, and I lost touch with that whole crowd beyond the occasional social media posts. I stopped closing down bars and started drinking at home. I quit smoking, and when I came home to visit, hanging out in a smoky pool hall seemed unappealing. Besides, no one I knew was there anymore. Everyone had moved on.
I think that even for people who don’t spend their 20s in bars and clubs, your 30s are still a time of significant adjustments, of shifting priorities and friendships. People have kids. People focus more seriously on their careers. People buy homes and have responsibilities and ostensibly grow up. If you go out to meet friends, it’s for happy hour or dinner, not at 10 p.m. An afterparty? Ludicrous. Even most people who did party a little too much in their 20s can tone it back down. You might have a couple of beers on a Saturday watching football, a margarita out with your girlfriends. You’ll wake up with a hangover after splitting a bottle of wine, wondering how you ever used to drink like you did back then.
I am not most people. Neither was the DJ. Neither were so many others, with no rhyme or reason to those we’ve lost and those who are somehow still alive. None of it is fair. None of it makes any sense. The universe is a cold and unforgiving emptiness.
The last time I remember being at a party with him was in 2008 — a New Year’s party. I’m not sure that was actually the last time I saw him DJ, and it surely wasn’t the last time we were drinking in the same place. But that night was the first time I had felt a part of in months.
I was back in town for a few weeks before moving to Mississippi. That year had been rough — trying to get over the end of the relationship in Atlanta, losing friends who chose my ex over me, making new friends, trying on new careers, being laid off even from my waitressing job. Yet, at the end of the year, it felt like hope. Obama, of course. A new job in a new town. And one last party, just like all the old ones.
That was the last time, I think, that I danced like that. That everything was fun and light and joyful. That I felt pretty and young and not sad instead, sad for everything I’d lost, everything I’d continue to lose in the years to come. I was 31, and I still thought I could change my narrative. He DJed, and I danced and danced. I wrote after that night, “I drank exactly the perfect amount (so that I was drunk but not wasted and completely worthless the next day) and spent far too much money. I danced all night to a good mix of hip-hop and MIA, MGMT and other initialed bands until my shoe broke. … For the first time in a long time, I was completely fine about not getting a New Year’s kiss.”
I thought of that moment as I saw his family place his ashes in the ground last week, surrounded by so many of his friends, so many people I still picture as kids running around the playground with my sister. I saw the crushes from long ago who never liked me back — married now, and, I hope, happy. I saw the parents I grew up with who seemed so impossibly adult when I was a child and now, I realize, were so much younger than I am now. I saw the unfairness of being at the funeral of someone you babysat, someone you taught, someone who shouldn’t have died at 44. And I thought how stark the silence was as we stood outside — no song, no hymn, no instrument in sight. But what can you play to cover up the sound of so many hearts breaking?
I don’t miss much about drinking. Sometimes I feel the absence of pairing the perfect wine with a meal, sometimes I wish for just one glass of bourbon to sip slowly as I read. The cravings pass, and no momentary pleasure would be worth what would follow if I poured anything. I can live with that.
But sometimes I find myself yearning for those nights, those parties, more than anything. The slinky silk dresses, the extreme eyeliner with no wrinkles to mess it up, the sparkly clips in my hair, the high heels I can never wear again without serious injury. The dancing and the laughing and the flirting and the feeling so high, like nothing could ever bring you down, like you were flying. And those nights ended so long ago, so much sooner than my drinking did, but sometimes I still think there must be a way to get back there, to feel it all that way again.
What I’m missing, I must keep reminding myself, is not the cheap champagne, not the whiskey cold on ice. Not the sour PBR, not the watery gin and tonics, not the overly oaked boxed red wine that you finally pour at 1 a.m. because it’s the only thing left to drink. No, what I’m missing is my youth. What’s vanished isn’t the fun alcohol used to provide, it’s the brightness of life before the world beat us down. Before we started dying.
It’s funny how for years you drink because you’re so alive, and then, when the party ends, you keep drinking so you won’t have to think about death, even though it’s killing you, and you want to die every day.
And by you, I mean me.
I don’t know why one day I finally decided I didn’t want to die anymore. I don’t know how long this feeling will last, and I don’t take it for granted. If I make it another two weeks, 2023 will be the first calendar year I haven’t consumed alcohol since adolescence. January will be 18 months sober. I haven’t written about it because there’s not much to say — alcohol consumed my life until there wasn’t much life left, and now I have one again. It feels good, truly.
A few days ago, an old friend randomly messaged me with a picture from that era. He had no clue I had been remembering those years, but there I was — thin as a rail, wearing an orange silk camisole with beaded trim, those James jeans, an ivory bedazzled cardigan. I’m talking with my hands, half perched on a kitchen stool next to a friend. The picture is blurry, but I’m clearly drunk. Empty cans of Steel Reserve and Sparks line the counter, a few bottles of High Life and one champagne bottle beside them. A New Year’s party? Someone’s birthday? The details are lost to time.
And that’s all left now of those days, when we had fun like we never will, never can again. Blurry memories. A few photos. Scar tissue from all the bloody knees.
It’s better than nothing.
“Because if memory exists outside of the flesh it won't be memory because it won't know what it remembers so when she became not then half of memory became not and if I become not then all of remembering will cease to be. Yes, he thought, between grief and nothing I will take grief.”1
No news is good news? Ha, no, there’s so much news happening. But I’ve been busy not reporting on politics for the past few months. I’m honestly not sure if that will change next year or not, so until then, I’ll just be posting occasional musings. Since it’s the time of the year when most of us are buying gifts or looking forward to some time off, I thought I’d post some recommendations for things that might make you or someone you love happy this winter.
BOOKS
I haven’t read as much this year as I usually do, for varying reasons, and much of what I’ve read was meh or probably not of interest to most of my readers. But I did make it through The Brothers Karamazov this summer, and that was almost a month of reading, so! I’m still not a Russian literature person, but I can’t help but wish Dostoevsky had lived to write the planned-for sequel.
However, I’m guessing that curling up with an 800-page Russian discourse on theology, criminal justice and psychology is probably not what you have in mind for your holiday reading. So below is a list of some other books I have read this year and enjoyed. This list is not a “Best of 2023,” and it is in no way unbiased criticism, as I am casually friendly online with a few of the authors below. (But that doesn’t mean that their books aren’t actually good!)
If you’re ordering online, you still have time to support your favorite local bookstore, such as my personal favorites Parnassus Books and Square Books. (Bonus: They often have signed copies!) I highly recommend ordering from Bookshop.org over Amazon, because they actually support local bookstores, such as other favorites The Book and Cover in Chattanooga or The Bookshop in Nashville. (If you have a local bookstore that doesn’t do its own online orders, they are probably on Bookshop.) But if you have the time to go to a bookstore in person, it’s worth it. Even if they don’t have the exact book you want in stock, a) they can order it, and b) they can help you find a dozen other books that are just as good.
Here’s my list:
Ancestor Trouble: A Reckoning and a Reconciliation, by Maud Newton. This book is a thoughtful exploration of what family means and how to grapple with the knowledge that your ancestors did some messed up or even truly horrific things. While Newton’s ancestors may have had a much more colorful history than your own, her thoughtful assessment will have you thinking about your own family in a new light. A perfect gift for: That family member obsessed with genealogy.
Corrections in Ink, by Keri Blakinger. Blakinger is an award-winning reporter for The Marshall Project who reports on how fucked up jails and prisons are. She also knows first-hand about this topic, having served a sentence for dealing heroin. This book chronicles her addiction and recovery, yes, but it’s also a searing indictment of the prison system — and of the media’s shoddy coverage of crime. A perfect gift for: That elected official, legislative staffer or lobbyist pushing for longer prison sentences. Don’t know anyone with such regressive views? Purchase a copy to send to an inmate currently in prison at this link.
The Hero of This Book, by Elizabeth McCracken. A novel that’s maybe partially a memoir — or maybe not? — McCracken’s book is about the life and death of a woman’s mother who happens to have a lot in common with McCracken’s own mother. It’s funny and sad and just so damn good, like everything else McCracken writes. A perfect gift for: Your mother, unless she’ll think it means you want her to die already.
Scoundrel: How a Convicted Murderer Persuaded the Women Who Loved Him, the Conservative Establishment, and the Courts to Set Him Free, by Sarah Weinman. Do you love true crime? What about William F. Buckley and mid-century conservatism? Or maybe you’re just really into old publishing gossip? This book has it all. The true story of how Buckley pushed to release a convicted murderer from prison with disastrous results, Weinman briskly pulls multiple narrative threads together for an engrossing read. A perfect gift for: Your friend who loves Dateline and/or The National Review.
Shrines of Gaiety, by Kate Atkinson. Loosely based on the life of a real person, this novel explores the seedy underbelly of post-World War I London and feminism and trauma and the Bright Young Things, and, oh, there’s a murderer after young girls. I think I’ve read every single book of Atkinson’s, some more than once, and there’s no one quite like her. A perfect gift for: Your cousin who wishes she could have been a flapper.
This Time Tomorrow, by Emma Straub. What if you could go back in time to your high school years? What if you could finally get together with your crush? What if it could stop your dad from dying? If the idea of a reverse 13 Going on 30 set in the mid-90s sounds like a good read — well, it is. But Straub doesn’t settle for simple wish fulfillment. She complicates the narrative, and then complicates again. A perfect gift for: Your high school BFF.
Umask Alice: LSD, Satanic Panic, and the Imposter Behind the World's Most Notorious Diaries, by Rick Emerson. If you’re like me, you read the “anonymous” “diary” Go Ask Alice in your tween years. Maybe it scared you off drugs for life, maybe you laughed your way through it, maybe you related to Alice and felt her pain. But as Emerson details, Alice was actually the creation of a Mormon housewife, whose next book helped create the Satanic Panic, too. And it gets weirder and sadder from there. I promise you will say, “Holy shit WHAT ON EARTH?!” out loud more than once while reading this. A perfect gift for: You, your teenager, and your local Moms for Liberty chapter.
MUSIC
You don’t need me to tell you to listen to Carly Rae Jepsen or Wet Leg (unless you do, in which case, please go listen to them). But passes or single-day tickets to Big Ears are a wonderful gift for the music lover in your life. It’s truly the perfect music festival for people who hate music festivals, like me. Everything is indoors, most venues have seats, the crowd is older and not doing drugs, the sound is usually great, and the music selection is completely eclectic. (It won’t be as delightfully campy as a Carly Rae concert, however.)
PODCASTS
You can’t give podcasts as gifts, but if you’ve got holiday travel looming — or if you get stuck in Green Hills traffic for two hours trying to finish your shopping — these series will keep you occupied.
Bone Valley. You might know Gilbert King from his excellent books Devil in the Grove, about the tragic Groveland Boys case, or Beneath a Ruthless Sun, about a different racist wrongful arrest in Florida. It turns out he’s an excellent podcaster too, telling the story of a man wrongfully convicted of the murder of his wife and a criminal justice system in Florida that does not care — even though the actual murderer has confessed. If you still need further confirmation that many prosectors are terrible at their jobs, this will convince you.
Normal Gossip. Do you like hearing funny stories about petty drama? If so, this is the show for you. All stories have been anonymized, so you can feel safe laughing at the bad behavior of neighbors, kickball teammates or members of the wedding party. Each episode features one saga involving a random piece of gossip. It’s not serialized, so you can listen in any order. “Grandma’s Best Friend Dot” is truly a classic.
Rachel Maddow Presents Ultra. You might see “Rachel Maddow” and run away from this podcast, but that’s a mistake. This series is a well-researched history of the time there were actual Nazis in Congress, a somewhat forgotten piece of history that I personally knew nothing about. Oh, and that time was during World War II. Are there parallels to some other things going on now? You bet. And it’s packed with lots of fun facts to pull out during Christmas dinners with relatives.
NEWSLETTERS
I know, more email is the last thing anyone wants for Christmas, but I promise these Substacks are worth your time (and/or your money).
Department of Salad. Twice a week, you will get a salad recipe from food writer Emily Nunn. Sometimes there is also life advice. The recipes are mostly seasonal, and they vary from vegetarian-friendly side dishes to meat-forward main courses to occasional dessert salads. Every time I post a picture on Instagram of a salad I’ve made, I get a DM from someone asking me for the recipe. Bonus advice: For more recipes, get Emily’s book, The Comfort Food Diaries: My Quest for the Perfect Dish to Mend a Broken Heart, which is about recovering from a lot of sadness with a lot of good food and friends.
Today in Tabs. If you’re trying to spend less time online, this semi-regular (some weeks it’s daily, some weeks it’s not) newsletter will catch you up on all the good Twitter/other online drama. You don’t have to be extremely online to enjoy it, but it probably helps. Also, it’s really funny.
Ok, that’s it. I’ll be back in a few weeks with some reporting or some recommendations or maybe both. If you want to send me tips, I’m on Signal, and still on Twitter, for now. You can also reply to this email. If you want to help fund my future reporting, I’m on Venmo @cgervin and CashApp at $cgervin. A free press isn’t cost-free.