DINNER AGAIN at Petra 12/12

The shortcomings of instagram, who's entitled to gluttony, & what I think about Action Bronson

What is missing in what’s conveyed about food/eating on social media platforms like Instagram?  I’ve been asking myself this question a lot lately and contemplating the role of women and femmeness in the food & wine world I like/sort of inhabit. There is a persistent trend towards concepts easily construed as masculine, or perhaps made more acceptable in masc people, that I see a lot of in the natural wine realms and in the foods scenes that accompany them. The ever-familiar glorification of a kind of “punk-rock-ness” that gets attached to everyone from the wild-haired wine maker who smokes too much pot and lives in a trailer on his vineyard to the red-faced chef loaded with the requisite sleeves of...

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I am fairly good at a variety of things. Cooking, writing essays, taking care of children, cutting hair, watercoloring—all these things I can accomplish with a decent amount of ease and proficiency. Making bread, however, is not one of these things. For years I quietly fretted over my seeming inability to make dough rise. Cakes, fine. Scones, fine. Pizza crust, fine. But never bread. My tendency to roll out nearly inedible and indecipherable bricks became so disheartening that I eventually just gave up. I consoled myself by becoming semi-convinced that my bodega-purchased fleischmann's was likely always around 45 years old and thus defunct. Eventually, after heeding my mother’s advice about grain bio-availability and the wonders of soaking/sprouting/souring I decided to...

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My path towards eating meat again, after ten years of vegetarianism, was not a subtle one. The summer it happened, blood sausage—amongst other delights like whole crucified goats, pig’s heads coated in clay and buried in underground fires, and giant purple octopuses—commonly appeared on the dinner table. I was in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers (ok, 20 minutes outside of Avignon, but I can’t drive!), and most of those strangers were chefs or restaurateurs or wine people or something like that. They were also all of either French or Argentine extraction. Not eating meat wasn’t really an option. So it began. And some months after returning home, I began teaching myself to make sausages, with visions...

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