rusalka, rusalka

Americans don’t truly appreciate okra. It barely registers north of the Mason-Dixon line, and it’s eyed with suspicion even in the South, where it is regularly pickled, or deep-fried. But who can blame those who are wary of this green, pinky-shaped vegetable? It’s infamous for the slick ooze that comes seeping out of it when cooked. Advocates point out that okra slime actually helps thicken stews and clings to a cornmeal crust, but detractors have a hard time getting past the “yuck” factor. Believed to have originated in Africa (okra is a member of the mallow family–a cousin of cotton), okra is full of dietary fiber, protein, iron, calcium and a slew of B vitamins.

Outside of America, okra reigns as a staple vegetable in much of the world’s hot-weather cuisine, from North Africa to the Middle East and India; it also turns up in Italy, Spain, and parts of Central and South America. According to Gregory McNamee, author of “Moveable Feasts: The History, Science, and Lore of Food“, “[In these parts of the world], okra tends not to have the gummy, slimy, mucilaginous quality that makes it such an object of disdain among eaters tender of sensibility…a quality that results mostly from overcooking, the bane of asparagus, broccoli, and other such vegetables.”

Okra even turns up in Jewish cuisine, according to “Jewish Food: The World at Table” by Matthew Goodman: “In Libya…okra [or “bamia” in Arabic] was considered a food of mourning, and was traditionally eaten, with onions and tomato sauce, before Tisha B’Av.” In addition to its symbolic resonance, this food choice also makes sense ecologically, as Tisha B’Av falls during the summer months when tomatoes and okra plants — both sun- and heat-craving vegetables — thrive.

Fics that I think I scribbled off just to get them out there get the kindest, most rapturous feedback. Fics I slaved over, agonized over, bled my soul into get a couple tepid replies. Fics I thought were me revealing the darkness and weird kink that lives in my brain, scared to even post it for fear of judgement, get, “Aaaw that’s so sweet!” replies. Baffling.

My conclusion? You just never know. You really just can’t know. When I did a workshop with 20 other writers I would try to guess what their critique of my story would be and I was right maybe 1 in 20 times. Only one other writer would have the same critique for my story that I had. And it wasn’t even always the same person.

The encouraging part about this is, if self recrimination, the fear that you know what people won’t like about your story, is holding you back, just say fuck it! You’re almost certainly wrong! All you can do is make it the best story you can for the energy you have. And yeah, sometimes that means scribbling it out in an evening and kicking it out to the void of the internet before you can change your mind or worry about editing it more than once because then you’ll never post it.

She and her brother could not be people. They had to be something more.