Anti-July 4th newsletter + recipes for your next dinner party

Dear Reader, 

This week I spent some time typing a July 4th confession that many of you may not agree with, but here goes nothing.

July 4th always presented a series of challenges for me when I was a child and, honestly, I don’t know that I’m too keen on summer BBQ’s to this day because of it. The smell of OFF (mosquitoes loved my sweet chunka-wunka legs and they still do), hot dogs grilling and the chance that I might have to wear a swimsuit in front of family and/or strangers. Squeezing in at a table and having to sit outside but WISHING, WISHING our Brooklyn yard had an air conditioned force field. No such luck.

Perhaps you’re getting ready to wild-n-out at a sticky BBQ and, maybe, drink too much. Perhaps a sandy beach butt or vineyard hopping is in your near future, who knows? I’m in Mexico, where all sweaty US summer holidays are not celebrated. Maybe it’s no wonder I’m here this time of year? And, I’m curious to know if you REALLY like these celebrations or if you’d prefer to lay low? The truth shall set you free - not obligation. Instead of my thighs being attached to one another or my boobs attached to my belly … the only thing I’m attached to is my truth.

On this holiday weekend, 23 years ago, I moved to a small working farm in Ashford, CT. The opportunity was somewhat divine, and necessary at that point in my life, considering the road I was heading down. College, weed, and singing Mariah Carey into my hair brush while high. Sure, I was hilarious and got solid grades - but under the humor was a girl who was, as Greg Robertson (my college crush) put it, “Not comfortable in her skin.” Now, instead of thinking about sticky chafing thighs and mosquito bites, I reflect on the summer that changed my life. The summer I learned how to cook and began a lifelong journey that continues to be explored to this day. One where only 23 years later, I’m starting to feel comfortable in my still chafing skin.

When I left Brooklyn and went off to college, I brought my headphones and disc man to accompany me on bus rides and walks across campus. I drowned out voices and closed my eyes to avoid stares. My oversized Dickie’s truck driver shirts, the tents I would bury my body inside of. For years, I moved around as a larger person by navigating the world in somewhat of a bubble. I tried particularly hard to not be noticed. I carried paper towel and washcloths to wipe my sweat and strategized getting to every class early so I could sit in the back and avoid entering to a room full of students. But I was noticed. No matter how hard I tried to be invisible, I was made fun of. But what I didn’t hear couldn’t hurt me. I was funny, the clown, the buddy of many boys and made attachments as “the fun one” so I had allies and, at least, was not made fun of to my face by those that did befriend me.

In 2001, when Carolyn asked me to join her on the farm, my instinct was to go. I wasn't keen on it, but in my heart I knew that doing something new would, inevitably, create change in my life; and that my super stoner Mariah Carey hair brush singing days might not always end in calzones, crying and regret. On the farm there would be no dining hall, neighbors or automatic refrigerator re-stock courtesy of my family. There would be no stares, weed, whispers, or words I had to pretend not to hear. I would be free.

Daily, I started waking up early, walking, moving about the farm and writing. I grocery shopped, weekly, and recalled the market trips we made as a family when I was a child. At 5:30pm I would come home from work and prepare meals of my childhood from taste memory. I made my grandmother's lentils once a week until I taught myself how to make something else. One invitation, a chance, and a giant leap changed my life. Since that summer I have continued to leap and, it has not ever proven easy - but it’s always proven to be worth it. 

Is there somewhere in your life where you would like to take a leap? Is there something you’re masking over with humor and Mariah Carey? Somewhere you would like to start saying yes, I can? Or, no, I’m not going to your sticky icky BBQ?

In closing, I’m sorry to report that this newsletter does not feature a gourmet hot dog or hamburger recipe. Not even a potato or macaroni salad. Instead, fresh to your inbox, you can save the below Pasta Patate (pasta with potatoes) and Bolognese recipes for the weekend or a future classy dinner party.

XO
Tina