Emergency Pie Recipe

Sunday Content #44

Freezer bags of apple hand pies labeled "Emergency Pie"

A friend messaged me, asked for my Emergency Pie recipe.

I've published my "Yard Fruit Pie" recipe before at the end of this essay on BuzzFeed Books, which also serves as an introduction to my belief in the power of pie. To make Emergency Pie (apple shown above), you can follow that same recipe. When you've got your chilled discs of dough, roll one out, put some fruit on one side, fold it over, pinch shut with a fork, use a knife to cut a few vents. You can freeze for later, or freeze for a bit and then bake at 375 until it looks delicious. I used all-butter instead of some Crisco as lately I have finally given into that side. Here's the Smitten Kitchen recipe for all-butter pie dough.

I also recently tried substituting butter for cheese, which is truly outrageous. But then again these times call for drastic measures.

Apple galette with cheese crust

Pie is what works for me. Not always. Maybe pie isn't your pie. Maybe your pie is something else.

Running also works for me. I haven't run for the last several weeks though. When I was in Los Angeles, my back seized up in so much pain I couldn't move for some days. I had a big meeting. I ate CBD and rubbed Arnica on my shoulders, which a self-described "ancient masseuse" had given me on a take-out spoon. She was a friend of a friend. Her touch helped, some. She felt my traveling on my own was probably what had caused the pain. I figured that was part of it.

But it's hard to ignore what's happening in the world.

The air hangs heavy around my head. What about you? My dreams are endless waiting in lines, airports and hotel lobbies, transit, a sense of being entirely lost. My thighs the other night erupted in hives. I speculated why. I refreshed my feed.

I look away from the news and then I look again. I seek out especially images of people who're furious right now, protesting, their witty signs, their impassioned mugs.

I've been listening to any and every podcast with Rebecca Traister. My whole podcast feed is Rebecca Traister practically. When I'm not listening to her on podcasts, I'm listening to her book as an audiobook, which I highly recommend.

I tried running today. The morning was misty and the leaves orange and yellow and brown and twisted and falling. Yesterday I brought a loaf of sourdough to a neighbor, a horse farmer. She complained about what a terrible summer it's been, worst she's seen in decades. I nodded along. I believe she was talking about the rain. I haven't lived here long enough to know what is a normal summer, what is a terrible one. I haven't known her long enough to know whether I could say, of course it's different, that's the deal with climate change. All bets are off.

To me the summer was beautiful and the fall is also very beautiful. As I ran this morning, I listened to the new Nancy, which featured an interview with Matthew Shepard's mother. She said to not give up. So many people are saying that right now, don't give up, the fight goes on. They will lose.

I do agree with that — or have to.

Don't give up. The fight goes on. They will lose.

Love,

Sandy

p.s. Bert loves you too:

A heart-shaped apple from Bert

p.s. The Organist's latest episode features a big piece on AKOMP. Highly recommend the episode in general.

p.p.s. Another thing that's helped lately is making smudge sticks from mugwort I harvested from the yard. I'm gonna give them to friends who need to clear bad vibes from their homes.

Mugwort smudge sticks

What I Mean When I Say I Was Abused

Sunday Content #43

Me wearing a tank that says OVERTHINKING

Dear readers,

I used to publish a newsletter on Medium called Sunday Content. In each edition, I'd write a bit about something on my mind, then recommend some content to read and / or listen to / watch, etc. I've decided to revive the newsletter here on my site. It'll be like the old newsletter. Now with less Twitter!

Feel free to check out the newsletter's archive. Some of my favorites are: "How I Learned that I Am Evil," "On Straight White Men," "On Art that Ages Poorly," "Talking about White Supremacy," "On Believing Women," "On Misogynists who Aren't Men," and "On Using Words like 'Insane' or 'Crazy'" I also like the ones about being an essayist, being a teacher, being a waiter, why I love cooking, why I love features, why I love essays, and what Bowie taught us.

I'm no longer going to publish only on Sundays. I'm also not going to hold myself to one a week or anything because my life doesn't allow for such promises. But expect these posts here, occasionally. Sign up here to receive an email update whenever there's a new one. Expect this newsletter will be like my old newsletter except with more photos of food I grow and bake. Speaking of which, check out yesterday's gorgeous butt bread:

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What to do with the bad men? There are so many bad men. Bad men in every magazine, bad men on every website. Bad men walk through my mind. Bad men fall through my feed.

I was waiting for a delayed flight recently and "I Believe I Can Fly" was playing from small speakers overhead. Ironic I thought and Who thinks this song is still okay to play? A man? An algorithm? How has R. Kelly still not be cancelled? How can this still be happening?

How??

But I also knew how. All of us who've known all along about the in-plain-sight existence of the bad men, we're not surprised. Neither are we surprised that it's hard to take them down.

I think often of a conversation I had earlier this year, an argument. It was with someone older than me. This someone had heard my stated premise — I'm an abuse survivor — and decided to reject it. She felt, I think, that I am wrong to insert a great distance between myself and the adult who abused me throughout my young life. For the record, I don't think it's wrong of me to impose such distance; I think it's life-saving.

This skeptic shouted at me, "When you say abuse, what do you mean!?"

To be abused often means to be denied permission to experience your reality as real. In my case, when I was a kid going through what I was, I was often told my emotions weren't real. My pain wasn't valid. I did a lot of theater and this only hurt my case. You're being dramatic. These are theatrics. You're faking your tears.

I tried to find adults who'd help me. I'd be punished for seeking help. Sometimes adults whose help I sought would, like this person so many years later, receive my truth with crossed arms, with questions. A few adults went so far as to tell me to not tell secrets, or to not tell lies. Most adults, I think, pretended they couldn't see what was going on.

Some adults whose help I sought actually listened. Some even tried to help me get out. Plans were made. Nobody succeeded. No scheme ever worked, not until college, that great scheme. That was thirteen years ago that I got out, that I put three thousand miles between my abuser and me. That first day I flew away, I considered myself free. I wasn't. I'm still not. I still live with what happened every day.

When you say abuse, what do you mean?!

I didn't give her what she wanted. I didn't begin listing awful things. I didn't begin proving my case. My mind did go there, though, it played a greatest hits of the Absolute Worst Things. The things that, had I ever gotten an adult to really listen back then, had I ever gotten my day in court, I would have sat and recounted with exacting detail. I'd have done it, too. I was angry as fuck back then and brave therefore. I'd have done anything and everything to get out, to never live another night choked with fear. Instead each afternoon darkened and sometimes you couldn't think much further than how you were going to get through the next hour, the next few minutes, never mind how I was going to make it to eighteen.

Whether my memory was actually good is factually questionable, I now understand. I have lately read Dr. Bessel van der Kolk's The Body Keeps the Score and it has helped me substantiate the sense I've long had that, though I consider my memory a good one, there are things that even I might not remember still. That's a book all people should read, both those who've been abused and those who might shout something like When you say abuse, what do you mean?!

When she said it, my main reaction was shock. I was also not shocked; again, abuse survivors are accustomed to hearing our realities aren't real.

Mostly, I felt wonder. What would it be like to go through life not understanding this reality — of the existence of the bad men and also those of us they've hurt, most of whom aren't saying shit because it's rarely safe to do so? Because what would saying anything accomplish at this point? Because if what happened really did, how did I go on pretending to be his friend for so long? Her question seemed to ask: Why can't you just keep pretending?

I have often wondered at people who live oblivious to the reality of things. Many men must live with such ignorance. As this exchange reminded me, some women do too. And of course not all the bad people are men, though a lot of them are. Regardless it's patriarchy that both condones abuse and casts a veil of silence around it.

Of course there is another possibility about this person who shouted this at me. Perhaps she also already knew the truth. Perhaps she is pretending, even to herself, that what happened didn't. Perhaps pretending seems easier to her still than admitting the reality of what did.

---

Read Jia Tolentino's piece up at The New Yorker about what the GOP's response to allegations against Kavanaugh reveals about their attitudes towards sexual assault generally:

What’s surfacing in these comments is something that has, up until now, mostly been dodged, or left unspoken: that it has traditionally been accepted for men to sexually assault women, particularly at parties, particularly when they’re young.

Read this excerpt from Rebecca Traister's new book about the power of female rage.

But to keep minority rule in place, order must be maintained, as the honorable senator from California was peremptorily instructed. It is order, after all, that throughout our history has worked to suppress the anger of women, to discourage us from speaking it or even feeling it. And when women have gotten mad, they’ve been ignored or marginalized, laughed or blanched at, their vehement objections treated as irrational theater, inconsequential to the important matter of governing the nation. This has always been an error.

Read Padma Lakshmi's Opinion piece in the Times about why she didn't report sooner:

When I think about it now, I realize that by the time of this rape, I had already absorbed certain lessons. When I was 7 years old, my stepfather’s relative touched me between my legs and put my hand on his erect penis. Shortly after I told my mother and stepfather, they sent me to India for a year to live with my grandparents. The lesson was: If you speak up, you will be cast out.

A few of the books about (sexual) abuse I recommend:

Not That Bad edited by Roxane Gay

Excavation by Wendy C. Ortiz

The Chronology of Water by Lidia Yuknavitch

Edinburgh by Alexander Chee

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou

Welcome to the Goddamn Ice Cube by Blair Braverman

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Tomatoes, parsley, lettuce, eggplants and radishes from my garden

~ Opinions about Podcasts ~

Perhaps to fill the Dear Sugars-sized hole in my heart*, I've been listening to Daniel Ortberg's Dear Prudence podcast more. I very much enjoyed this very cute episode where he's joined by his girlfriend.

*Dear Sugars ceased production rather suddenly and since they've been airing some of their best episodes, so it's oddly not a bad time to start listening to the show. I'd recommend for example this really intense one with Roxane Gay, where they address a letter from a sexual assault survivor whose longterm partner has confessed he raped someone. My enjoyment of this show was heavily biased towards Cheryl and away from Steve. That said, as a fan of anything that's big on feelings, I am sad to see this one go.

BTW read Tiny Beautiful Things if you never have.

BuzzFeed axed their podcast department, which is really fucking awful and ridiculous. Another Round has been stopped for a while now, but it's never too late to dive in and listen to that excellent, groundbreaking show. I'm really sad for See Something Say Something. Check it out if you haven't.

I'm super excited that Nancy is back.

---

I've been digging into Jill Soloway's forthcoming memoir, She Wants It, with great relish. Here's to the nonbinary future.

Complaining about always failing the TSA boy/girl quiz, I was told about this Andrea Gibson poem and cried and cried. Since I've been reading lots more Andrea Gibson poems.

TV-wise, I've been catching up on Queen Sugar, and Billions. I like them both for different reasons. My reasons for liking Billions are Asia Kate Dillon...

Late to this, but I finally watched I Am Not Your Negro and highly, highly recommend.

Love,

Sandy

p.s. Again you can sign up here to receive an email whenever I publish a new post.

p.p.s. Something you can also do is follow AKOMP on Instagram.

p.p.p.s. What's AKOMP you ask? Why, that's my book! You should read it. It totally rules.

p.p.p.p.s. Shoutout to Esquire which calls AKOMP one of the best nonfiction books of the year.

p.p.p.p.p.s. btw I'm playing this Prince "A Case of You" on repeat forever

p.p.p.p.p.p.s. Learn how to draw

Hearing Voices World Congress, Traveling While Nonbinary, and Two ~Cool~ Announcements

A very good loaf of butt bread I baked before I left home

Dear readers,

I've been on the road the last while, first in the Netherlands, and now Los Angeles. Last week I attended the Hearing Voices World World Congress in The Hague. This was the 10th congress and the second time now I've joined this international group as they discuss the past and present and what the future could hold. It's also the thirtieth anniversary of the Hearing Voices movement's beginning.

The congress was attended by two of the movement's founders: psychiatrist Marius Romme, and journalist Sandra Escher. Here's a recent interview with Marius and Sandra, who was officially retiring from this work after the meeting due to her health:

(in Dutch with English subtitles)

I have grown tremendously as a result of the time I've spent around people affiliated with Hearing Voices movement. I am as ever grateful for the sense of welcome I've felt in these spaces. This is despite the fact that many journalists before me have messed things up pretty bad.

It's a tricky question, how we might change the relationship between the media and all psychiatric survivor movements. For a while now I've been writing an essay about mistakes I've made as a writer attempting to write on this beat and what I've learned. I'm optimistic that piece will finally be done and published soon!

(Said me to myself for ever and always about all my writing...sigh.)

And I will be writing about the Hearing Voices movement in a big way eventually, hopefully in my next book. To those interested in learning more now, visit Hearing Voices USA and / or Intervoice (the international umbrella). These websites are loaded with information. Visit my Resources page as well for much more that might be of interest to you. I'll hopefully continue building this page out as I have time.

I'm really glad I attended this congress. I'm grateful for the connections I made and strengthened. I witnessed some glorious things and also some difficult ones. I'm full of feeling and thought. And just further convinced that the public needs to hear about all this.

If right now you're like "What is the hearing voices movement??" I might recommend the above video and websites! I also recommend my own book, which I think situates the question of why we need to listen this group of marginalized people — and now.

For a second year, I saw this artwork displayed. Its message is one I hope my fellow writers and editors will soon hear:

An artwork that says JUST GO AND GET YOUR FACTS STRAIGHT

---

This was my second time in the Netherlands, meaning I was slightly better at not getting hit by bicycles.

Here are some things that made me LOL:

This clothing store called "House of Poems"

This ad for de Smurfen de musical

This chalk sign on a sandwich board that says "Sorry Mr. Vermeer, it's cheatday!" in which the Girl with the Pearl Earring looks vaguely Homer Simpson-like, eating a pink donut, and the whole thing is bleeding from rain

I must admit that traveling these days, looking as I do, by which I mean visibly nonbinary, is difficult. I had to spend two weeks reporting in Montana this year; that was very tough. The Netherlands is a progressive place in theory but not one where gender dualism and segregation feels very challenged. I don't see many people like me, nor many gender-neutral restrooms. I don't feel attacked so much as invisible to some and stared at by others, mostly children.

Yesterday I had a layover at JFK for many hours. Every family restroom was either locked or wouldn't lock. In the doorway of another family restroom I found, two janitors were chatting a long while. I eventually approached and asked if I could enter. One frowned at me and pointed toward the segregated bathrooms. I grew really embarrassed and shuffled away.

I eventually willed myself into a women's room and had a breakdown for a while in the stall. My body knows, is the thing, that if I'm entering that space I'm lying. But really I cannot handle the way that women look at me. I certainly don't look enough like a man to enter that space either. Men, as a whole, are terrifying.

A few minutes before midnight — the day had stretched forever — I finally landed at LAX. One of the first things I saw was an "All Gender Restroom." I felt very glad to be back in California, my first home. However far I wonder, once in a while she yanks me the fuck back.

The Catskills do feel like home now, though I've not lived there that long. My soul has wrapped around that place with ferocity. Perhaps because I have taken an unloved house and emptied it of trash and filled it with life. I have put down some literal roots.

We had so many tomatoes as I left town, and tomatillos, and big zucchinis. One of our apple trees, the one we call Bert, had lots of apples, very high up. (His partner, Ernie, hasn't produced fruit either year we've been there. We named them after the iconic queer couple.) Using Bert's apples, I made a few absolutely delicious hand pies. Honestly all the time I think about just making hand pies for a living, driving around and selling them out of my car.

Bounty from the garden: zucchinis, tomatillos, cherry tomatoes, Roma tomatoes, Bert's apples

Whenever I have to leave my house I grow very sad and nervous, perhaps because of the unknown society I will be traveling to, and the guaranteed awfulness that is the TSA:

Whenever I know I must leave home, I try to keep myself busy, and outside, and breathing. The last few days I was there this time, I hauled a bunch of soil from a pile to a new garden site I'm trying to reclaim from the weeds. It helped.

Soil on cardboard where hopefully eventually there'll be new garden beds

A friend joked my fitness program should be called SoilCycle. All jokes aside, this is the the other huge thing I've been studying these last years, and the other thing I feel I'll be focusing on in this next book: the way that this kind of work heals us.

As Joni sang (in "Woodstock" no less): "And we've got to get ourselves back to the garden"...

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Two ~cool~ announcements:

I'm starting a podcast with my neighbor Colleen Macklin called This American Loaf. Colleen is a games designer, author, professor at Parsons, baker of apparently not very good bread (so she says; I'm not sure I believe her...). Our podcast is about bread baking (we think).

Stay tuned for more.

Colleen and I recording the first-ever episode of This American Loaf; DIY podcasting studio courtesy of my husband Rob Dubbin

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I'm excited to share the news that my pitch won the Narratively Untold Story Award. This means I'll actually follow this story through, which makes me very glad, as it's really important. I'm grateful to Narratively for seeing that and giving me this opportunity.

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If you want to subscribe to receive an email when I publish a new blog post, please sign up here. Thanks for reading. Remember you can follow Mirraculas Paradise on Instagram.

Just go and get your facts straight,

Sandy

p.s. Here's a funny thing that happened in my life recently

p.p.s. Here's another funny thing that happened after that

p.p.p.s. I've been listening to the audiobook of the Invisible Man, which is read by actor Joe Morton (who my brain registers mostly as Olivia's dad from Scandal). It's so so so so so good.

p.p.p.p.s. Making sure everyone alive has read Cher's "25 Things You Didn't Know About Me"