Restless type. Mostly irony-free wingnut. Celebrator of trees. Stilt walker. Given to rare fits of poetry. Boot junkie and whiskey enthusiast. Blabbermouth with only a vague notion of TMI. Vermont secessionist expatriate. Moss sniffer. Stray cat petting machine. Alternative school graduate. Mountain admirer. Tattooed non-professional. Mild-mannered atheist and polite anarchist. Big city person with rural inclinations, or maybe it's the other way around.
My name is Nicole Cipri. I'm a writer and a wingnut, among other things. This is my tumblr, aka, a curated mess of memes and half-finished thoughts.
The Atlantic: It sounds like you're saying that literary "talent" doesn't inoculate a write—especially a male writer—from making gross, false misjudgments about gender. You'd think being a great writer would give you empathy and the ability to understand people who are unlike you—whether we're talking about gender or another category. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
Junot Diaz: I think that unless you are actively, consciously working against the gravitational pull of the culture, you will predictably, thematically, create these sort of fucked-up representations. Without fail. The only way not to do them is to admit to yourself [that] you're fucked up, admit to yourself that you're not good at this shit, and to be conscious in the way that you create these characters. It's so funny what people call inspiration. I have so many young writers who're like, "Well I was inspired. This was my story." And I'm like, "OK. Sir, your inspiration for your stories is like every other male's inspiration for their stories: that the female is only in there to provide sexual service." There comes a time when this mythical inspiration is exposed for doing exactly what it's truthfully doing: to underscore and reinforce cultural structures, or I'd say, cultural asymmetry.
This motherfucking song.
The weirdest thing was how well Conlon’s concoction worked. The crisp texture and the bright acidity of grapes and celery balanced out the intense flavors of the cheese and durian, but it was still intense, about as subtle as bludgeoning someone with a brick. “It’s like a horror movie,” I drunkenly slurred to Conlon. “Have you seen the remake of Evil Dead? It’s like that. It’s amazing, but I never want to do it again.”
I meant it as a compliment. I think Conlon got that, because he started telling me about a movie called Hobo With a Shotgun before he got called away again. I looked up the trailer for it, and yeah. It’s exactly like that. A work of art, but not the kind of pleasant art that goes up in a bank or boutique cafe. The flavors and textures of these ingredients aren’t easy on the sensibilities of privileged Westerners. They’re violent on the palate.
Western aesthetics, until very recently, were mostly focused on things that were pleasant, non-disruptive, and yearning after some kind of lost paradisaical ideal. Think about the kind of vocabulary used in food writing: heavenly, glorious, sublime, ambrosial. Durian, Malört, dried shrimp: these aren’t the nectars of gods. They’re flavors that are firmly of the earth (or sea, in the case of dried shrimp). There’s an echo of something primal.
Gozamos.com | Food Geek: Key Ingredient Cookoff
I feel weird quoting myself, but I’m really proud of this week’s Food Geek.