a home is a good meal, an apiary, a cathedral
This week has been an emotional one, because it started out with the fire in Notre Dame, an event I never imagined capable of happening. I know churches are flammable, but somehow this bulwark of Paris seemed untouchable? It was also a place that I have such clear memories ofāwe lived in Paris for a few months when I was in fifth grade, and both Claire and I were taken by Notre Dame, its gargoyles, its stained glass, its solidity. So this was an unsettling event.Ā
I found myself surprised by the joy I felt upon learning that the rose windows had survived, and upon finding out that was an apiary on the roof of the sacristy, and the bees survived. That being said, if you feel compelled to donate to a church restoration, please consider the three black churches that burned in Louisianaātheyāve already raised $2M, but Iām sure costs will exceed that.Ā
The Public Domain review wrote about how woodcuts in 17th century England were reused and remixed, in an interesting precursor to meme culture today.Ā
Ā Jia Tolentino wrote about the nostalgia she felt when hearing a remix of Totoās āAfricaā made to sound like itās in an empty mall. I experienced a similar wave of nostalgia when I found a Tumblr that remixed songs to sound like theyāre playing in another room at a college party.Ā
Related is this piece about unexpected memories āaccidentally trapped in amberā by our devicesāfrom old wifi networks to tabs in browsers to weather for locations we visited long ago.Ā
Iāve been sitting on these for a while, so itās TIME to share them. Three long reads about Men In American Society! First up: One Hundred Years Of Men Taking Off Their Shirts, which is just fascinating:
There were plenty of menĀ who took off their shirts onscreen between Gable and Brando, but once you watch Brando do it inĀ A Streetcar Named Desire, itās difficult to keep them in mind.Ā
A good chaser is thisĀ look at one of Hollywoodās first heartthrobs, Sessue Hayakawa, one of Valentinoās contemporaries, showing his role as heartthrob (girls are throwing their fur coats to prevent him from stepping in puddles!) while still navigating racist typecasting. PLEASE let there be a biopic of him, I will be first in line.Ā
536 was apparently the āworst year to be alive,āĀ due to a volcanic eruption in Iceland and then plagues, plural, which made it snow in the summer China, ruining crops, and put Europe into an economic stagnation that lasted until 640.Ā
A historian wrote about Britainās āfirst Brexit,ā aka leaving the Roman Empire, and I was struck by learning that they were the rednecks of the Roman Empire:
In Britain ā more, perhaps, than anywhere else in the empire ā loyalty to Rome co-existed with a sense of alienation from its rule. No matter how assiduously a British aristocrat might take baths or invest in central heating, he was almost certain to be viewed on the continent as a redneck. Centuries after the absorption of Britain into the Roman empire, the very notion of a civilised Briton was still capable of generating hilarity. āThereās no such thing,ā one poet in fourth century Gaul had sneered.
Back to the heart of the Empire though: new evidence about where people fleeing Pompeii ended up!Ā Historians compared names of Pompeiians with inscriptions and grave sites in neighboring cities in the years following to see where people ended up. Also, they haveĀ excavated the first horse from Pompeii!Ā
To close us out: the universe, perhaps sensing my need, has brought forth some wonderful articles about food and home and family recently. Juan Paul Brammer wrote about the
āhealing magicā of his abuelaās caldo de pollo
, and I found myself just knocked off my feet by his writing:
For those of us who have been assimilated, Latin-American history itself can feel like thisāhalf-remembered fever dreams of textures, relics, and traditions with labyrinthine roots that evade tangibility. I believe itās why our culture lends itself to the fantastical, why magical realism found its home under our roof. We inhabit an āin between.ā This notion of being caught between worlds, dubbed ānepantlaā by queer Chicana scholar Gloria Anzaldua, plays out colorfully in our cuisine, where indigenous traditions live on in everyday kitchen objects like the comal, a flat griddle for tortillas, called ācomaliā in the Aztec world, and the molcajete, a tripod mortar and pestle from pre-Columbian days.
Bon Appetit has been doing a series on red sauce Italian restaurants, so you can read aboutĀ the history of Buca di BeppoĀ (completely fascinating), as well asĀ Roxane Gay on Little Domās, and about how home isnāt always a house.
These restaurants are firmly ensconced in a neighborhood. When you eat at one, you are, for an hour or two, a necessary thread in that communityās fabric. You are part of an authentic experience.
I headed to Little Domās after reading thisāIād had it recommended, but had never stopped byāwith my aunt, uncle, and toddler cousin. We sat outside on the patio on a slightly chilly Los Angeles evening, cutting into rice balls and watching the gooey cheese emerge, and taking bites of gnocchi thatāat least, to meāwere heavenly. The kiddo was thrilled with spaghetti, and there was something a little big magical as we joined in that community fabric, sitting on the sidewalk, surrounded by bustling tables.
