Approaching the S&D

AKA The Shortest and Darkest (day of the year).

So y’all really liked that gift guide, huh? Forget what ABBA said about a man after midnight (?) and let’s go full steam ahead with the remix called Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! A Lesbian Writing A Gift Guide. Beaming strong love rays to every one of you…

Me looking at you reading the gift guide… AND I FEEL! LIKE I JUST GOT HOME!

My friend recently pointed out the implied duality of the word “account” in my name, Lesbian Food Account. Account, to me, has been a noun synonymous with an archive. Mainly this word has said, “okay just so you know, we’re rocking with this is the digital ecosystem that a lesbian has built around the topic of food…if that’s cool with you…”

Alas, this is an account of experiences too. My writing - here, there, or elsewhere - is a story of my (read: lesbian) experience with food, with cooking, with eating, with dining, with living, with writing, with existing, with queening out, etc. As I write more, I keep the word “account” in the foyer of my brain - greeting me every time I enter, inviting me to take my shoes off, even. And with that hospitality, I gave myself permission to ramble a bit more than usual today. If that’s not your tea, please feel free to close your email. Get mad at me, even. Procure an extra ripe tomato (out of season, may I add) and hurl it at me, please.

Type of shit I been on.

In the wake of Thanksgiving, I began to have big feelings to the tune of “wow, what a change” (when describing my first holiday season in restaurant work). As a bona fide career switcher, I have a seasonal clock that I am just now starting to unwire. Most corporate institutions follow a similar schedule to the academic ones we grew up with, and include having major holidays off work/school. For many, this means the same seasonal clock strikes each year: Thanksgiving break. Then quickly onto Christmas break. And often times a week off between Christmas and NYE because ah, sure, what the hell. It kind of seems like this whole time of year folds into itself, and most people have the luxury of letting it.

I am feeling grateful to embrace change. My “unwiring” process should not be conflated with complaint, I want to make that very clear. I shout my gratitude from the proverbial rooftops. Rather…it’s just such a noticeable change that I think is worth talking about because as much as I share the benefits of this career change, I also face growing pains. It’s true, I would love a shit ton of PTO right now, yes! It’s true, I would love to come in late and leave early during this magical season because of a corporate holiday event, yes. It’s true, I would love various work-issued gift packages with useless branded crap because it’s fun getting mail, yes. Who wouldn’t admit these things?

It’s worth noting that the “institutions” I am referencing (academia, Corporate America) are, in and of themselves, structures rooted in class/race/gender disparities. I know this - and am not glorifying them in any way. It’s more just…things are so different now with my random, multi-hyphenate cooking title of line-cook-private-chef-food-content-creator-substacker (?). The corporate ladder I was climbing has been thrown into the bonfire that now fuels the warmth in my life, and the fire eats at its wood with delight. I feel lucky to be in a new season. And I am riding the wave with as much grace as I can manage despite being someone who has not been given any surf lessons.

Just checked my notes and seeing it’s still through.

My friends and I often talk about what’s Lindy. Apple Pay and Zoom calls and Prime Day and The Met Gala are not Lindy, and therefore very dangerous to our spirit. I can’t quite quote the origin story of this term, but my understanding is that the longer (in history) something has survived, the longer it will remain. Wine, beer, and bread all are marked safe - these are ritualistic consumption patterns that have survived centuries - and will survive more. Cooking is Lindy, and will always feed us beyond nutritional value. This is like how, sometimes in the kitchen at work, we will say things are “ancient” to describe a time where it feels like we are doing a task say, from the old country. Stirring a big pot of soup as if we are purveying a cauldron. Parsing through cabbage leaves. Scrubbing dirt off carrots. When we do these tasks we are ancient women, born in a time where things like “crashing out” and “stan twitter” don’t exist. All these sillies (frameworks to understand the past, role play, reflection) are a reminder of what’s come before. And my thesis here is that history helps me get the fuck over myself. Career shifts and adjustments and big change and zooming out have all helped me get the fuck over myself to finally expand. What useful, invaluable tools.

I know things that I am facing have been done before. During these cold, dark days where it feels like so much of the world is getting to blow off work or have extra long breaks or have big fat holiday bonuses, I feel exhausted. And I feel like hissing about the cold and the dark (and I do.) But real, recorded ancient rituals are about convincing the sun to come back. I know my plight in the darkness of winter is not unique to me, and it is comforting. Centuries of people have made extreme sacrifices to please the God of the Sun, all done in an effort to coax her out more permanently for their crops, for their labor hours, for their families, and for their happiness.

So here we are. Now at the doorstep of this powerful moment of limited daylight. The sun steadily marches forward from here on out. She is probably smug knowing she has won the war against merciless darkness (I would be). I am so grateful for this time. I can’t believe I did it again; I am in awe of myself, and in awe of us.

It’s helpful to cling to what is Lindy. To embrace being ancient. Because hey, AI can’t control the sun yet. She is marching forward on her own, miraculously as she does every year. And to zoom out even more, there’s still people who need winter.

The sun is the grim reaper for the sweet snowman. His name is Frosty and he is my friend, btw.

The wingspan that is outlined in the snow on the ground means so much to someone who happens to be 5 years old.

Ski slopes employ plenty of folks, and make great settings for Hallmark movies.

Big Hot Chocolate needs to pay their bills, too. Who are we to shutter the factory doors that produce our beautiful Swiss Miss packets?

I guess here’s where rubber meets the road for this “gratitude practice” (??) I speak of (??). I am personally going to buckle in, and remind myself that Winter’s hothouse of misery begets the naturally tilled soil of pleasure in Summer. I know this was a long ramble, barely connected to food. Trust, we usually kiki here over gay stuff and food stuff and their intersection. And we will again soon. But for now, congrats on making it to the Shortest and Darkest, because it’s only Longer and Lighter from here.