The recipe is at the bottom. Do you hate that? I promise I switch back and forth
If I had a dollar, a nickel even, for the number of times my past-self has skipped ordering a dish I really wanted to try because it was too decadent, or too rich all because I was too fat. If had one for every time I wrote and deleted and rewrote emails or texts for fear that my ADHD was showing. If I had a nickel for the times I shared a love poem written for or about or even adjacent to my love for Anaya and as soon as I hit send/submit/publish would internally cringe.
The good news is that this shame of mine that juts its elbows out into the tenderest corners of my body feels sparse the less scared I feel. I don’t feel this way about my body, my fatness, anymore. I’m learning to second-guess myself less.
Last week I shared a photo to Instagram showing my engagement ring appropriately nestled on top of my wedding bad, Anaya’s mother’s wedding band, and made a remark about how gross we are.
A close friend of mine replied to the story with, “the only people that think it’s gross are the ones that want what you have.”
And, like, we are gross but we’re also deep in intentional and soft love and I’m proud of that. So why do I still feel the need to hide behind humor in an effort to tamp down the edges, to highlight the fickleness, of sharing the tiniest of slivers of what this love looks like?
Shame.
xxx
I have been varying degrees of poor my entire life. Sometimes to the point of being unhoused, sometimes not. Sometimes having enough money that I could buy that new-to-me-car and then would live paycheck-to-paycheck, if you can even call it that. I’m planning a trip to celebrate our love with my husband and godddmanit if there weren’t bouts of shame fluffing things around in my head, building a nest in an effort to stay awhile-
To remind me that perhaps I should be ashamed that I’m not as poor as I used to be.
Will people know?
There’s any interesting thing that happens when you get a leg up, a promotion, when you’re no longer fetal, when you can see past keeping your breathing regular for two hours at a time, when showering no longer feels like a luxury, and you share as much. When you write about, and subsequently, share joy instead. When you get well. When you’re able to set shit down. When your entire brand is only partially messy.
Suddenly, you’re not as interesting or appealing. People enjoy watching and consuming the struggle. Few stick around to see the come up and the ones that do are real.
Should I be, should we be, ashamed of our joy?
If you’re not a shitbag, you hold the duality of contiuning to bear witness to the world around us burn- nothing new. While also stretching out and clamoring to find meaning, beauty, and joy in all of it.
Do you feel ashamed sometimes? I do. I also know how wildly unhelpful it is and instead as I have mentioned various places across the internet, we do the tangible things that we can do and we press on.
There have been moments in my life when I wouldn’t order whatever-the-fuck, enter in whatever you like, here. Pastries at the coffee shop, and literally never if it was anything laminated and therefor flaky, causing shards of flour and butter to fall on my tits and belly. Fried pickles at the dive bar because what fat person is allowed to be seen eating anything fried in public? Those pastries? How on earth could I look someone in the eye while biting and therefore shattering my pastry into a million tiny pieces across my setting and clothes? Leaving evidence of a job well done, a job well enjoyed no less, as a fat person.
Ice cream cones? Absolutely not. In a cup only because if you’re fat you have to have enough decency to not flaunt the fact that yes, you’re fat and yes, you’re happy enough to lap your tongue around the base of the ice cream where it meets the cone. Because who on earth has the audacity to be fat and content?
I would request my ice cream in a cup, eat it gingerly with a spoon, because I was fat but I was also palatable. I didn’t make anyone uncomfortable, no sudden movements, forget joyful ones.
Because I was ashamed.
xxx
I opened my inbox yesterday to an email saying, “is it too soon to tell you I love you” after I had sent a stream of ADHD consciousness to someone I barely know, offering suggestions that this person didn’t ask for, simply because said ideas flew into my cerebral space and I was excited to share. I almost deleted the email, twice actually, and simply responded to the questions asked like a normal person. When I didn’t hear back for a couple days I was like, obviously this person hates me and I overstepped and I should just deleted it after all.
But they didn’t hate it or me. She found it helpful and I reveled in the fact that the shame I had already attempted to convince myself was real by conditioning and anxiety, was a cunt and I said as much and set her back inside some place for a different (hopefully not any time soon) day.
I have spent the last several years cutting all kinds of cords and ties. Setting shit down. Falling in love with the feelings of body neutrality and when the lighting is just right, you can catch me even loving this big, fat meat sack of mine. When I eat at my desk re: my dining room table or in front of God and everybody with an ice cream cone in my hand. When I stopped apologizing for over-explaining even if I do try not to do it as much. When I share the good news of, I did this thing and someone liked enough to publish it. When I make it abundantly clear just how safely and soft in love I am. When I let myself be seen in joy.
The thing is- I’m not telling you that you should never, or that I never, feel shame.
I’m simply telling you to maybe lessen the blow. Maybe consider eating a grapefruit curd danish and letting the paper-thin flakes of puff pastry leave their mark.
xxx
This weekend I think you should make this Mushroom + Asparagus with Ginger//Miso Crispy Rice number. Just because. Eat it with gusto and ask for seconds if you feel so inclined.
Every culture has their version of crispy rice. It’s true, look it up. It is divine when it is done right in any fashion. A true textural delight. The thing is, before I knew better, I would become furious when making it because it would stick to the bottom and therefore was never crispy because the crisp was stuck to the pan. If that’s ever been you, it’s going to be okay.
Using freshly cooked, hot rice is not (never) an option. It needs to be leftover and cold. Period
If you are a stir-er or flipper, you’re going to need to rustle up some self control. It’s sticking because it’s not done. Read it again. Just leave it alone.
This can easily be made vegan if you use a vegan variation of fish sauce or simply omitting it. You could always add another couple dashes of soy or a bit more miso paste.
Put a meat on it if you want. Make this rice with any protein and any veg you want to.
If you’re not in the mood for or don’t give a shit if you’re mushrooms are crispy *these are pan fried and not deep fried. We’re using “crispy” loosely here* forget about it then. Simply sauté the mushrooms and garlic and asparagus (or whatever) all together to eliminate a step. That being said, I do love a crispy mushroom.
If you are wanting your mushrooms to be crispy do not salt them until after they’re done cooking. Salt draws out moisture so just wait.
Cold rice. I mean it.
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