of Juliet, the Magazine volume 3, part 2 by ofJuliet

Table of Contents Curtain Notes

Letter of Recommendation: Start a Garden

Poetry: I Am

Roswell: An American Homecoming

Myths

Building a Restaurant Without Walls

Message In a Box 19

You Have To Start Somewhere 24

Finding a Friend Under Quarantine 27

How To: Stock a Review: Godspeed, Pantry You Chinese Food Werewolf 30

Dishes For The Sick 32

This is everything…

of Juliet mediaverse is an independent, innovative, and evolving group of serial and standalone publications, live shows, and videos for education and entertainment, all based on the seed of a story planted at Juliet + Company restaurants. of Juliet is an ongoing production intended to immerse the audience inside of a world that begins at the dinner table, but never has to end. of Juliet’s range is a vast and expanding collection of magazines, coloring books, short and long form classes, cookbooks, booklets and pamphlets, children’s books, poetry, art, and more. Our topics are as myriad as the life of the seas — seasonal and regional cooking, professional development, poetry, art, personal essays and practical opinion, alongside science fiction and magic and mythmaking, social justice, advocacy and organizing, travel, ballets of various types, including the classical, and a whole lot more. of Juliet raises the voices of the individuals who operate, work in, patronize, and are affected by (so ultimately, of Juliet can raise the voice of anyone at all) restaurants. Led by the teams specific to Juliet + Company restaurants (Juliet, Peregrine, and some future things that are as of yet, formless,) of Juliet can be by and for anyone who stumbles through its threshold and accepts its truth and purpose. The truth of of Juliet is that truth exists, and that it exists whether we like it or not, and that life is lived through action — and that that action affects and is affected by, truth. It is a simple statement, with limitless implications. of Juliet is for anyone who is ready to be affected by truth the way a jellyfish is affected by outer space, when the detached moon of Earth affects its tides without judgement. The purpose of of Juliet is for individuals to take action, in pursuit of a life that respects truth, and respects their own individual wants, dreams, desires, and identity without fighting the truth that the rest of us ought to do exactly that, too. Therefore everything is allowed, and correct, all at once, except that which violates what is true. of Juliet is for people to take charge of their present, by dreaming their future, and honoring and accepting their past. In more practical terms, of Juliet is for the staff of one very unique, small but growing, restaurant company that endeavors to create opportunity for self expression and self reliance, through practicing personal development, career sustainability, and individual fulfillment, by taking one step at a time toward a vision of a preferred future. of Juliet is big and bold ideas, important stories, universally relevant and personally crafted, by people who know hard work, understand collective benefit, and dare to dream the impossible to life — in pursuit of a world that is a little bit better each day than the last. ofJuliet.com

Home of Somerville's Most Unique Dining Experience As well as Juliet CafĂŠ Gratuity Free Dining. Living Wages. Great food. Great jobs.

Juliet is:

Katrina Juliet Jazayeri, Proprietor / Wine Commander / Set Designer Joshua Lewin, Creative and Culinary Director Katie Rosengren, Director of Operations Will Deeks, Assistant Culinary Director Ariel Knoebel, Service Manager Samantha Mangino, Service Manager Rachael Collins, Chef de Cuisine Megan Mooney, Sous Chef

Staff, in order of appearance:

Carlos Ponce, Rosa Quintanilla, Gilberto Santos, Elvis Reyes, Andrew Jeffries, Nora Connolly, Merissa Jaye

of Juliet is:

Joshua Lewin, Editor at Large Ariel Knoebel, Front Cover + Art Katrina Jazayeri, Back Cover Katie Rosengren, Managing Editor Will Deeks, Director of People and Process Samantha Mangino, Features and Special Projects as well as Layout

Contributors:

Great company. 3

Contributors ARIEL KNOEBEL is a writer, food historian, and sometimes illustrator when she is not helping lead the front of house team at Juliet. In her time off, she is likely wandering in the woods with a hot beverage in hand and her dog Whiskey underfoot, or cooking and watching bad TV with friends. She was raised to never leave the house without a book, and is always open to recommendations. For more of her work, visit sipandspoonful.com. RACHEL LEAH BLUMENTHAL is a food editor and writer, spending most of her time working as the editor of Eater Boston. When not thinking about food, she can be found around Somerville, often taking photos or playing music. Follow along on Instagram — @blumie625 — but only if you like cats, pizza, and the occasional Somerville turkey, or visit her extraordinarily outdated website — rachelblumenthal.net — for more information.

NORA CONNOLLY Nora is a server and enthusiastic lemonade-maker at Juliet. She is the author of Celeste Gets an Answer, a children’s book about a curious snail, as well as a prolific walker, talker, reader, and swimmer. MERISSA JAYE Merissa is an oftentimes server at Peregrine and a sometimes server at Juliet. Born and raised in Greater Boston, you can find her biking around town with a backpack full of peanut butter and overdue library books. DEAN BALSAMO My life revolves around the arts and writing. My method: fire ready aim. Currently writing screenplays and the blog, Arcane Space. See more on Instagram: @arcanespace and Vimeo: http:// vimeo.com/deanbalsamo

SAM MANGINO is a writer third-generation restaurant professional. She takes her martinis with gin and olives, and her chips with extra dip. She has a complicated relationship with tomatoes. You will often find her on the internet. Other times she can be spotted around the Cambridge-Somerville area almost always listening to NPR. KATIE ROSENGREN is the Operations Director of Juliet + Company, a job which combines two of her favorite things, making spreadsheets and eating food. After a decade plus detour in New York, Katie and her husband, Cole, - both native Mainers- are happy to be back in New England and call Somerville home with their son, Henry. She is a playground aficionado, lover of tv, and unapologetic feminist.

SARAH JULIENNE is the director of socially distant food studies at Tomorrow’s University. JANE FOSTER is an astronomer, dedicated mainly to research. She builds all of her own equipment, as “off the rack” instruments rarely exist to measure what she is looking at.

Curtain Notes And, we’re off. Seems like we’re always off, to something. So what is it this time? We are winding down three years of publishing operations at Juliet. We aren’t even really publishing at Juliet, anymore. Now we publish at Prospect Tower Observation, under Juliet + Company, neither of which were names that existed when this project first began. The magazine you are holding now represents a great big story, called of Juliet mediaverse. It’s a verse now because there are many destinations within it. This magazine was our first foray into spontaneous storytelling. That’s the myth anyway. The truth is the first foray was actually in the dining room. The magazine emerged at a time where we considered it the story, and the dining room, well, dinner. But both the magazine and the dining room are something more than they used to be; less of themselves, but more, together. The magazine has its roots in a format more like a theatre program, actually. That is years in our past now; there are probably only 5 or 6 of you holding a copy right now that remember those days. So, this issue will bring you back in time. To say dining room at Juliet today is a little bit generous. During our opening hours, we usually put a big table in front of the door. You can’t come inside. Sorry. If you are reading this is the future, that’s because this is being printed during the continued response to 2020’s COVID-19 global pandemic. Many of our peers, and many of our friends do not even have dining rooms to block off any longer. We are still afraid for ours. We have adapted, though. Three years after our first words were printed, and two years after our story grew beyond behind the scenes, program-like, information...everything is new again. The best way we can think of to share all of that new with you is to do something very old. Step back behind the scenes. Welcome to Juliet (+ Company), where this next issue of the Magazine will tell you all about how and why we are still here, and what we have to share with you. this is everything we have to tell you, there is so much more to see, unless you find these things impossible. J

Letter of Recommendation: Start a Garden By Ariel Knoebel New England Summers are a lesson in abstinence and gluttony. During most of the year, the region’s unpredictable weather can cycle through seasons like a toddler through toys, trying out spring early in March only to throw it away for an April snowstorm just days later. But, there are a few brief times that New England weather is as reliable as its residents. In the same way we can be sure to gird ourselves with down and wool for several severe, chilling weeks in January, there are always a few stunning weeks of summer in early August. The odd foggy June or July, the rushing chill of September nights, regardless of what else happens we can count on the brilliant sunshine and high seventies of that steadfast summer month. You just have to wait for it to get here. If you, like me, live through the bliss of summer in fear of it fading before you’re able to appreciate it, you should start a garden. Watching a zucchini flower, or a tomato grow, you simply can’t miss the peak of summer. It plays out in front of you like high drama — a slow build or painful suspense, then the shock of the payoff hitting all at once: a stunning, explosive climax to a previously subtle script. Be patient. It’s going to feel like the time has come weeks before it’s actually time. When the summer sun has already hit its longest day, and the nights begin to creep ever earlier, and the light begins to glint that golden hue of harvest, you may think the brilliance of the season has come and gone, and you missed it after all. Just look at your plants. Assuming they are well watered and given time to bathe in the sun every day (considerations you should make for your summertime self, as well), your tomatoes will be fluffy and thriving, with little green globes just beginning to pop up like polka dots underneath its leaves. There’s still time. Relax. Summer is a time to take it slow. One day, wake up to find the sun spilling through the windows at a slightly different angle, and the tomatoes’ color palette sprinkled with yellows and red instead of shades of green. Now is not the time to get too excited — but it is time to prepare. Because soon... maybe tomorrow, maybe in a few days after that summer rainstorm passes through, you will hit the sweet peak of summer. A fleeting moment of stunning color and overwhelming abundance, balancing delicately on the line of bursting rot. Pick until your fingers stain green. Wear tomato plant as your perfume. Get a little bit greedy, this may be the only time it will do good. Pick tomatoes by the palmful. Eat them whole, still dusty from the garden. Slice them and salt them on top of mayo slathered toast. Simmer them down with onions and butter into sauce and store it away until the dark depths of winter. Pair them with crisp lettuce and salty bacon and good fresh bread. Try to eat them every day, while you can. Share them aggressively with anyone around you. Because the thing about this kind of beauty is that it cannot last long. You waited so patiently, unsure if it would ever come, and now you need to dive in deep and allow it to engulf you for a brief, beautiful moment, before it dries up completely. Every summer, my heart breaks as I watch some tomatoes rot on the vine, because there is simply not time to pick them all. If only they could discuss a schedule, coordinate their ripening in gradual waves, we could catch each one at its peak. Instead, they bloom all together, after so many small steps towards growth. It’s just like that saying; something about falling in love and falling asleep? At first by little bits, then all at once.

I Am part 2 of 3 I am from Joy. I am from sad, hidden. I am from triumph, weakness forbidden. I am from the river. Or is it an ocean? A pool? I am swimming. I am from black coffee and omelettes, with jelly. I am from the oak trees, the sumac vines, the wet dirt crumbling in the cold morning air, where we pull their roots.

Roswell: An American Homecoming for the UFO By Dean Balsamo

Nearing Roswell, New Mexico, I experience time displacement. A memory. I pass the sign I posed under the last time I came through. It frames the entrance to the ranch that, according to legend, is the site where debris and bodies from a crashed UFO are retrieved. It’s 1997. 20 years ago. I wrangle a press pass from my editor at the Santa Fe daily I write for, as the art critic, to the City of Roswell’s 50th anniversary celebration of the most famous UFO episode in the world. The 1947 Roswell incident. I left my home in Santa Fe a few hours ago. In five, I’ll be in Marfa, TX, the biggest little art town in the country for some inspiration. Except for the Conoco Travel Center where I 40 meets 285 South - the road I’m on - there’s nothing human to see. Wide horizon views of scrub and cactus, framed by distant mountains; these are the classic vistas of the Western. The scenes that distill the visceral mysticism of the land before the Stranger rides into the frame. I enter a same but different Roswell. The buildings along the strip of Main still take you from one end to the other before depositing you again into vastness. But the life I see 20 years ago is gone. This is it’s true face; a small New Mexico town. But the last time… We pass under banners depicting aliens overhead as we enter. Motel signs have shout-outs to visitors no matter what planet they come from. 9

The fairground features a big top with an alien figure attached - like something from the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. It presides over vendors and games below. But you don’t have to believe in strange craft in the skies or aliens on the ground to enjoy it. The UFO’s place in popular culture somehow gives this small-town carnival with an alien avatar a universal, American quality. My spouse and young son take in the carnival. I join the press pool shielded from the fair by the row of mobile studios the networks have on hand. Serious stuff. Cokes, coffee, and hot dogs on the tables. Press people press the witnesses and experts organizers bring to the event… His face looks like a road map detailing every stop. His nose, like it absorbs every blow and enjoys every shot life delivers. You see him on golf courses, at pharmacy counters, and family gatherings. But 50 years ago, on a hot July day like today, the octogenarian everyman in front of me sets the media on fire. Walter Haut is the Roswell Army base’s public relations officer who, on his commander’s orders, tells the world

a crashed UFO is recovered by the Army here. And though later a new order changes the story to the infamous “weather balloon,” it’s too late. Nothing can stop it from achieving the mythological status it has today. Because I research conspiracies for performance pieces, I make a point of talking with Mr. Haut as well as others with a personal connection to the incident. They appear earnest, down to earth, credible. That’s the challenge around the UFO topic. “Credible” doesn’t automatically mean something’s true as much as you might want it to be. But it can be thought provoking in addition to its proven entertainment value. We spend a strange night in this little town. Behind its commercial façade, we see how different northern and southern New Mexico are. Unlike Santa Fe there’s nothing Spanish/ Native American about the neighborhoods, no rambling adobes. They look like Scranton, PA due to the historical influx of settlers from the East. Like most artists at a certain stage, we’re broke. We find a state park to spend the night. We squeeze into the camper shell of our battered Datsun pickup. We dine natural and organic on hummus sandwiches and salad we bring from home, and have a punishing night. We struggle with boated blood sucking mosquitos, and ride tremors rocking the truck from a series of lightning and thunderstorms passing through the night. And “PING PING PING,” we have a huge fight underneath with the relentless rain on the metal shell. Who can sleep? We’re up early. We won’t make it home without something to ground us. There’s only one remedy: the breakfast burrito. Eggs, potatoes, maybe some bacon wrapped in a tortilla along with, of course, chile. Red, green, Christmas, hot, medium mild, Hatch - a sauce smothered, New Mexico style, over the top with grated cheese and melted together under the fire.

We head to the diner on the strip. Under 70s panel-lined walls, a dozen cowboy hats stick up rom booths they each share with a silver-haired lady on the other side of the table. “No espresso. Just standard drip” But fire on fire, if the chile’s hot enough. Our server’s archetypal. A hint of Marge with her Midwestern folksiness. Genuine. She makes sure our cups are always filled. We get the huge tortillas they like in Southern New Mexico. Chips and salsa, like the breakfast burrito, welcomed anytime of the day. Out come the plates. Hmm. Instead of Christmas, red and green chile combined, there’s a saucy greengray covering floating over our burritos. It tastes like a Mexican dish I can imagine Napoleon Dynamite’s grandma making. Cans of soup, Cream of Mushroom works, and mild green chili. Voila. The differences between northern and southern New Mexico can’t be any starker. The southcattle, oil, military is no frills, more Texas Panhandle culture. The north like most mountain areas more traditional, uncommon, individualistic. We leave on high note when we grab souvenir t-shirts the restaurant is selling. I get one with a Gray sitting like a Buddha in a lotus position. Later back on 285 north, we pick up three guys from a pueblo hitching. We’re close to home.

SUMMERTIME COLLECTIONS BY KATRINA JAZAYERI 13

W e H o l d T h e s e M y t h s T o B e T r u e We built a French restaurant in 2016 and the first thing we served was a taco. A breakfast taco, really. And unless you are from somewhere that wakes up every day with breakfast tacos,you don’t know what those are. What’s that? You know breakfast tacos? No...that’s a burrito. Right. But, it turns out, that in places that don’t have breakfast tacos, there are people that need breakfast tacos. We tested this theory on two different occasions before we set them loose alongside eggs Parisienne and omelette du jour. Long before we had a building to serve them in, we served breakfast tacos. We served them in borrowed spaces, and we served them right by the street. So, where can you find a breakfast taco, then? Like, in its natural habitat. Ok, I’m taking some license here, but in my experience,you’ve got to be in Texas. I say that because I learned it from a Texan. And you know how that goes. But I guess I do “know” that they are found in roadside diners in New Mexico, and on both sides of the border. We serve Texan breakfast tacos - and there aren’t many other types than that. There aren’t any breakfast tacos in California even. Well, yes, one or two, imported varieties like our own. And yes, of course, anywhere there are tacos, there are tacos for breakfast. So, maybe to get you to believe my story we simply need to be clear that what I am actually talking about are Breakfast Tacos, and nothing else.

Build a Restaurant Without Walls by Joshua Lewin with Ariel Knoebel

A restaurant, as we all know, has walls. Some have four, some have more. A Restaurant Without Walls, though, of course, has none. To build a Restaurant Without Walls, you first have to decide, Is This Possible? Assuming that the answer to the first question is yes — which it is, because if you are asking the right questions, the answer is always yes — then you have some difficult work to do. A restaurant is contained within walls. There are a lot of important reasons for this. Guests must (usually) sit somewhere within them. Of course there are exceptions to guests sitting within the walls. The most common variation on this is that guests can simply sit outside of the walls. This is usually accomplished with a patio. There are other ways to do this as well: picnics, catering, food served by fancy chefs on airplanes

(there are walls there of course, but that’s different.) But, again, the most common way of doing this is with a patio. Unless this patio is in California, or Texas, it’s good for, say, 40-100 days a year. Another reason that restaurants are contained within walls is because the food needs to be made in a kitchen. The guests typically don’t prefer to use their own kitchens, but once in a while they do. Sometimes guests will hire a restaurant to come into their kitchen at home. These guests are fun. But they are funny, too. They always say they have a big kitchen with all the required tools. But this is rarely true. This brings us to the point of the matter. A Restaurant Without Walls of course, has walls. They just aren’t our own. In this case, we are speaking in code. The code is that this is a 15

restaurant that can happen anywhere and everywhere, all at once. For the most part this is facilitated with the help of the internet. But to truly be possible anywhere, we have to make a plan for when the internet is not available...or for when the guest refuses to come inside. When it is time to build the Restaurant Without Walls, be sure to leave enough time to complete all of the steps. You can’t move too quickly, no matter how great the idea. You must give it the proper amount of time to be completed. There is complete, of course, and then there is perfect. Complete is necessary! Perfect is probably not possible. Ideal is somewhere in between. It is ok to not reach ideal,but never get caught incomplete. Two weeks before service, you must locate a vision, and tie it to a story. You can’t make a vision. You have to find it. You may find it within yourself, or you may find it somewhere else. Vision doesn’t belong to you, and you can’t force it. Visions come in varying shapes and sizes, as well as qualities. The best visions include the findings of more than one person. These are harder to locate, and harder to plan for, but worth it. Vision isn’t everything. Don’t forget to set a time and date. Don’t forget to tell people when it is. Don’t forget to ask the chef about the menu. Don’t forget to ask your team to help, order the food, pick the wine. One week before, check the reservations. You did a great job getting ahead of this, and everything is ready, but the truth is, no one books a table more than one week ahead of time, and 2/3rds of those that do, never arrive. Send an email to your friends, and post to your Insta. Use some cool hashtags, people really do like those things. Schedule the email reminders your guests will receive one day before (don’t hit send too soon). Check reservations again. If no one is booking still, your messages got buried in their inboxes, and swallowed by secret algorithms. Tough break. It is ok to be concerned, but don’t lose your cool. Post more social media messages. A lot of them. The day before is when the show begins. A Restaurant Without Walls happens in your guest’s home. In their kitchen. With their tools. You will only appear on a screen. You must prepare them for every eventuality. Pack carefully, and use a lot of labels. You must write a script. Assume nothing. If your guest must saute their meal, you must specify that they locate a pan. Some of your guests will be experts. Some will be clicking on their own gas ranges for the first time. Regardless of which they are, they will tell you they are ready for anything! You must be prepared to make sure this proves true. Remember, a restaurant is not a plate of food. A restaurant is not a bottle of wine. Plates of food and bottles of wine are both available from the grocery store. A restaurant is an experience based on individual connection, and the display of expertise and care. You cannot receive instructions on how to satisfy this last bit. It is a truth that can only come from you. It is now time to make your deliveries. Look over your work carefully. Close your eyes and see your vision. Some seeing is done by feeling. If this feels right, then it is time to go. If this doesn’t feel right, it is still time to go. The restaurant is not in that box. The restaurant is Without Walls.

Message in a Box by Sarah Julianne

“I believe that imagination inspires nations. It’s something that I live by.” -Janelle Monáe

A few months ago I signed up for a strange assignment, to cover a restaurant shifting their model from tasting menu, destination style dining, to a dinner that was more like a class. But the class was online. A box was delivered to my door, and then I had to do all of the work myself. I loved the class. It was better than any food TV. I’ve seen over 6,000 food related television episodes (not counting YouTube), and I have never cooked even one thing from them. Why? Because I don’t have the ingredients. This was perfect, all of the ingredients arrived straight to my door...right at the time the instruction began. Ok, I’ll be honest, half the work was already done. I would have been happy to do more of the work myself, but yes, this was quite a bit easier than that. Cocktails and wine were included in the box of ingredients. I presumed these were meant to help me spend the time I saved with the ingredients being prepared partially ahead of time. If this were the end of the story, this would simply be a glowing review of a wonderful new program in town, from a smart little can do group of people making the most of a difficult time. But this is not the end of the story. Ever since this cooking class, I have received a daily bit of mail from a faraway place. It is like clippings from the journal of a strange wandering adventure. I really don’t know what to make of it, or how to comment further, really. I suppose I’ll simply share with you what I have received.\ ——

16 July 3020

I went somewhere strange today. I’m still not sure if I am in Spain, Italy, or someplace else altogether. The locals call it, “the city full of algae” and say that its history was “wild at heart” or was that “wild at the start?” I got all of this from overhearing a conversation at a gas station, but the language was strange to me. Anyway, the sea was battering the shoreline as far as the eye could see. It was washing seaweed by the truckload up onto the sand. And there were people there of all different sorts…I thought I heard Italian and Spanish each spoken at separate times, but when I tried to engage in either I was given a look and a shrug like I couldn’t be understood. Hence, I think I could be in Spain, or Italy…but then again, I’m not so sure. 18

This is all especially strange because the last thing I remember before finding myself walking alone down the waterline of this strange and incoherent place was being in the backseat of a Buick, headed for the beach…in New England! It was a downpour, we could barely see the road, and we had live lobsters in the back, we hit a rough turn and then lobsters were tumbling all around…I jumped back to do something about that…what, I don’t know, and I guess I’ll never know…because that was the last time I heard English spoken, and I’m still pretty confused; trying to make sense of it all. I am conversant in a few languages — not fluent or anything — but usually enough to get a cab, or at least a better idea of where in the world I might be in the first place, but nothing is adding up here yet, and no one, so far anyway, has much to say that I can understand. Yesterday afternoon I happened by a part of what looked to be tourists maybe. Definitely not locals. The first group of people anyway I encountered that were clearly not from here. They were crowded around a few blankets, right down at the shoreline, that were laid out with what looked like whole hams. I tried to approach them, but as long as I walked in their direction, they never seemed to get any closer. They were close enough to wave and shout and they should have noticed me, but as far as I could tell, they did not. They appeared to engage in some sort of… well, ritual I suppose.

There was strange music, but nowhere that it seemed to be playing from. It was as if the music were pulsing right out of the moon, and then spreading its way to us through the waves in the sea. And at the end of all this, it seemed like some of the group was more quickly accepted than some of the others, and a second ritual took place. At the direction of one individual, it seemed like most of the group who had been so recently excluded, were brought back into the fold…but not all of them. A handful of the participants waded out into the ocean, and just kept going, I never saw them sink under the water or anything, but they just bobbed out farther and farther away until I could simply no longer see them. I felt hypnotized by this, I don’t know how long I was watching their departure, but when I brought my attention back to the rest of the group, they were gone. For the first time I realized how hungry I was. The last food I ate was American fast food, the kind I only eat when I am on the road and late for something, and I don’t even know what that was anymore, or how long ago it was. I have no idea where I am, or where to find something to eat, or how I would pay for it if I did. I’m going to try to catch a fish. And I guess I’ll be building a fire to cook it.

19 July 3020 Well, I thought I knew how to prepare a fish before, but last night I learned something entirely new. The fish was packed in salt that was wet like sand and baked. Well...the salt was baked, but the fish itself was more like steamed. Fully enclosed in that salt package, it’s moisture had nowhere to go. Cracking open the crust was like finding the memories of a thousand generations of learning, all washed in from the sea. I’m afraid if I don’t get off this island soon I may be sucked into a world that is neither here nor there. I must move on, and leave this magical place. It all seemed so strange and dangerous just a day ago, but now it feels like the only place I’ll ever want to be. This can’t be right though. I know there is more to discover than can be found here. There is something I still need to do. I’m sure of it. And I know I can’t do it here. But I hope someday to return. The only problem is...the only way off this island I can see is to just start swimming. To just begin. I don’t know if I will make it to whatever is next. I really don’t. But I know for sure that I can’t get there unless I begin. I’m fed and I’m ready. I’m worried, but that can’t be helped. I hope to write to you again, from another shore.

the origins are unclear a strange and fascinating site rider! skewer and collect

with a sword cheered on by the raving crowd 25 July 3020 I washed up onto shore and realized my hands were clenched around a bottle… There was a storm. The kind of warm, almost hot rain, that comes down as if in buckets and then passes over, just to come back again,leaving everything behind it hot, but wet. So humid the heat doesn’t dry anything at all. And I knew I was home again. I had a bottle in each hand. They were empty. But I was so thirsty. I don’t know how I got them, but I couldn’t have drunk from them. I dragged myself up onto the beach, and I made my way toward the dunes, and I sat down to take a closer look. Inside the bottles there were little scraps of paper. They were torn to shreds. I shook them out but I couldn’t make any sense of them no matter which way I put them together. I noticed there were more bottles. At least 101 of them, strewn all across the beach. It was like the dunes weren’t made of sand, but were made of bottles. I picked one up and everything around me went dark, and a scene appeared, like a projected movie in front of me, but everything else faded away. I saw generations and generations consuming the contents of bottles and casting them aside, climbing higher and higher on the towering

mountains that were growing up around them. The bottles were ground down eventually to sand, but over time they just got higher, and higher, and new generations took the place of the old…all standing firm on this foundation of time and history. They seemed to have no idea they were standing so high on the memories and actions of the past. The mountain didn’t fit everyone of course, and anyone who would try to climb it from the bottom was just cut by invisible glass,disguised as sand. Sand is challenging to climb, but possible. Glass is something different all together. The vision faded, and I realized that at some point, I had shook the shreds of paper from each of the hundred bottles. I found many messages. Some old, and outdated, but that had obviously been clear and true and relevant at various points in history. And one stood out among the rest. Twilight. Saffron shores, contagious magic cascades sounds and echoes, ideas always spoken in the summer. Coastal views highlight the saltiness of the sea Linger. here in quiet influence suspended in reverse and melt. Hatch. Assault the format. Please. 02 August 2020 As I waded further inland from shore, I noticed things were definitely familiar again. I heard the sounds of traffic coming in from the city…or was it heading out? Why is there always so much traffic both ways? There were signs waving for parking cars. I don’t know where they put all the cars… Anyway, I was clearly home. I made my way to the front door of a house I knew,but I didn’t know. You know? Like I knew it was where I had to go, but I don’t know how I knew to go there. And I just 21

walked right in. There was a shout from a back room. The kitchen. What a mess. There was oil splattered everywhere. Someone was learning to fry their first fish. I remember those days. I must have fried 6,000 fish. The first I would fry came frozen. You could thaw them out on the countertop 20 minutes and plunk them right into an endless stream of batter. We would make gallons of batter. Every day. But there is a better way. Someday I’ll show these folks how to heat up the oil just right, and how to keep things clean along the way. I’ll teach them about one clean hand and one dirty hand. I’ll explain to them that flour and water makes glue…and that used up oil isn’t the only thing that shouldn’t go near the drain of the sink (or any other drain for that matter) But that is all for another day. First, mistakes have to be made. Without mistakes, there is no lesson to be learned. Sometimes things have to get worse before they can get better. And, for that matter, things can’t get worse if they’ve ever only been perfect. Not really. They can be good and then bad. But they can’t get worse unless they’ve already had some bad. Anything too good and you can’t learn.

Frying fish is a lot like a lot of things. I’ll show them. But first, they’ll have to try and fail. I looked down in my hand and I was holding a piece of hardwood. Pecan, I think. Everyone always wants mesquite. What’s so special about mesquite? I was happy with that pecan. And I had an idea.

stepped on, trod under by feet lined red; sun’s striations one resurfaces with the drag of a rake

You Have To Start Somewhere but you never need to finish by Jane Foster Well, magic’s just science we don’t understand yet. My research has focused my attention on many very faraway places. Some of these places are so far away, you wouldn’t believe me that they exist. In fact, almost every day when I wake up, I don’t want to believe myself that they exist. But I’ve seen them with my eyes. I’ve touched them with my hands. Or, I suppose, it’s more that they touched me, on my outstretched hands. I’d like to tell you all about that, really, but I don’t know how. I am going to tell you what I know how to say, and I think that some of you will understand how big what I am saying has the potential to be. Everything small is everything big. It’s just that simple, and it’s just that difficult to comprehend. So don’t bother to try. I know that sounds a little bit judgemental, but I would like you to try to understand that I don’t mean it that way at all. Yes...I am a doctor and astrophysicist and all that. It just is what it is. Despite this, I assure you, you have exactly the same capacity to understand all of this as I do. Education is just access to information that someone else has already written down. I happen to have a lot of that. That’s just a fact in the world we’re living in. This understanding is much deeper, and entirely different, than any piece of paper signed by any professor, my tenure, or anything like that. True, my education granted me the access to look through the lens in the direction I was looking, that led me to understand what I know. But you now have this paper in your hands, and your access is written on this page. It is not any different then, in the end. How we got there is not the point of where we are going. In looking at the sky, and realizing that at a certain point it is not the sky at all I am seeing, because what I am looking at is no longer simply above me, this is all that I know. The truth that shapes our world is essential. It touches me, and you, and it affects us. It does not change us, as we are unchangeable. This is difficult to understand on a daily level. Trust me, I sure feel changed, in every 23

moment. I would swear to you up and down that I am different even this afternoon than I was this morning. Except that I know that I am not...because I have seen the sky where it ceases to be sky, and is revealed as part of me. This is essential. We always begin with what is essential. You could call this then point zero. We begin at zero. And we end there, too. But between zero and zero there is all of our experience. Go ahead, stop trying to understand, and just let it be true. This is level one. It takes a long time to understand any one thing at this level. Many people will never fully understand this basic level one of anything. It took me a very long time, and a lot of looking far, far away from anything that resembled what is essential. If you pay enough attention at level one, you may notice level two. How can I explain this? The difference between level one and level two is like the difference between seeing the day sky as blue and the night sky as black and then realizing at a certain point, and from a certain angle, there is neither blue, nor black. I know… Imagine then, for a moment, that beyond the understanding that the sky is neither blue, nor black, a few hundred billion light years beyond this understanding maybe, you realize that not only is the sky neither blue, nor black, but that the sky is not a sky at all. Up is down, and down is all around. This is level three. Level three is so, so far away from level one. Level one is just a step beyond zero, or what is essential. But level three is also nothing but what is essential. Level three is the same as point zero. There was nothing in between. You are not changed. I told you this was hard to understand. Everything small is big. The way is simple, strive hard.

A little break for Nora's Crossword

How to Find a Friend Under Quarantine Before the pandemic arrived, Merissa and Nora both worked as servers for Juliet and Company: Merissa mostly at Peregrine, and Nora mostly at Juliet, with a little overlap. When the restaurants closed in March, they started writing emails to each other under the subject line â&#x20AC;&#x153;Life Without Family Meal,â&#x20AC;? reflecting on how they fed themselves without restaurant kitchens to rely on, with the intention of sharing these letters as a blog. Here, they reflect on the correspondence that evolved from a food diary into a friendship. Merissa: This past March, we failed to convince our co-workers to allow us to write a food blog. In our defense, the plan, at first, was a good one: two waitresses figure out how to feed themselves when food is no longer free-flowing from their place of work. In our co-workersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; defense, what we actually produced was not a food blog, but a series of chaotic emails. These were emails about having to talk to the fire department about a burnt steak (Merissa), the experience of having your entire body freeze while getting lost in a graveyard (Nora), and multi-paragraph descriptions of how getting drunk with friends is like Russian literary theory (a collective effort). Not really a food blog or even something particularly interesting to the general public. For a long time we wrote to each other every single day. This was at the beginning, when days felt loose and untethered. The key thing to note here is that we were not friends when we started this project. Our emails were emails from polite coworkers convincing themselves producing content would... help somehow. As it became clear no one else wanted to read them, our emails took a turn for the stranger, and the more intimate. Then Nora's computer broke, and the emails became letters. We hung out in person. The blog never happened. Nora: You say we weren't friends when we started this project. I probably would've said we were friends, but I was wrong. The friendly chit chat you make as you work alongside someone can fool you into thinking you're friends when you're really just friendly coworkers. Reading through our emails now, they're the story of two friendly coworkers becoming friends. I think we 26

started this project because before the restaurants closed, we both worked all the time, and that was the main structure of how we organized our lives. Suddenly we had nothing but time, and we needed a new structure to hang our days on. Our early, daily emails are really focused on time. We both made bread (a minor cultural fixation at that time), and reading back now, it seems like bread represented survival, but also a schedule for us to follow Our correspondence was supposed to be about what we were eating, but it ended up being a bit weirder. Even in the early emails, you can tell that what we both actually want to talk about is religion. We're both secretly obsessed with religion, not rice! In one email, I talk about my family's loss of faith following the sex scandals in the Catholic church, and then the next line is "OK, for breakfast yesterday I had oatmeal." I remember after I sent that email, I felt like parts of it had gotten too personal. Then you texted me to see if I wanted to start emailing when we felt like it instead of every day. Once the emails stopped being an (imagined) work obligation, our real friendship started. You're not really friends unless you're willing to hang out without being paid for it! M:Our letters are full of jokes, but they also took place during the early pandemic, a time when we were unsure what would happen to food systems, supply chains, and the future more broadly. That moment had a particular edge to it, everything was so scary and unknown. But those early letters have a light tone to them. I wrote about my fuzzy hat and making omelettes and you wrote about latte milk.

The distance between the light content and the heaviness of that moment feel, in retrospect, like the natural byproduct of two people who don’t know each other well finding ways to not talk about the experience of fear and uncertainty. It's the letters of two scared people trying not to scare each other, to not be too intense. The turn towards talking about religion feels like part of a larger social pattern. I no longer attend loud dinner parties or drive to New Hampshire in a car stuffed full of friendsof-friends. Instead, my social world is all about deepening my current relationships. N: Reading the later emails, I think you can watch the friendship deepen as the emails get less self-consciously cheery. By late spring, we’d started talking on the phone a little bit, and on the phone we talked about work and our personal lives in a way we wouldn’t discuss those topics on paper or a screen—different formats just lend themselves to different subject matter. Writing is so much slower than talking that it makes you more purposeful about what you say; in one message you said, “it’s funny to me when I get I an email from you about Bakhtin but then also a Slack about pricing for Bloody Marys, but I guess that’s a good mirror of how work usually is—chit chat and then getting down to it.” True, but I don’t think we ever would’ve discussed Russian literary critics in person—that’s the kind of thinking that takes more time than you have in a verbal conversation. Around this time, there was a day when I left work and I was feeling pretty unhappy; I had been going to protests all week, but they hadn’t left me with the hopeful feeling that came eventually. You called me out of the blue and said you were in Somerville for the day (you had been living on Cape Cod throughout the pandemic), and I saw you for the first time since we’d started writing to each other. We went on a big walk and talked about the Black Lives Matter movement and the feeling of existing at that moment in a way that I don’t think we could have over email because of that same selfconsciousness—as much as it can be valuable to pick your thoughts carefully, there’s no feeling like “talk talk talking,” as you would say, to a

person walking next to you. It felt surreal to see each other in person after having built this little world of emails over the course of months. M: We wrote letters where we described quarantine as having an “evil” version of a medieval carnival vibe. Like a carnival, in quarantine people wear masks, social norms shift, and people take on new vices. Unlike a carnival, these shifts in behavior come from isolation rather than communion. I think the value of the letter writing practice to me was to give someone else a glance into my personal evil carnival moment. Reading our writing in retrospect, the stress, strangeness, and isolation spilled into emails even if we tried to be cheery. It was like a portal into each other’s evil, isolated carnival experience. That day, when I came back to Somerville, we walked for probably two hours, and talked for the length of that time without pause. I remember almost getting hit by a bike, and then by a car because we were talking so intensely, and I didn’t look up. It was like having the chance to get out all of these thoughts that didn't fit into emails and letters. These days we spend time buying cheese pizzas, swimming, drinking seltzers in the park, or gossiping across the stretch of Hampshire Street. All things we never did before. You wrote in one of your letters, “lots of Shakespeare's comedies take place during festivals so that classes can mix, unlikely people can meet, and genders can be swapped.” I think like a Shakespearean carnival, our carnival experience left space to rearrange relationships. In this case, it reshaped how I relate to you in a way that leaves me with so much gratitude. N: Once we started writing letters by hand, you started describing life in Woods Hole really vividly, and when I visited you there, I felt like all the houses were famous landmarks and all the pedestrians were celebrities. Maybe talking in person now, after having written so much, is a little like that. You disagreed when I said that you write how you talk, but I have to quote one of your letters from Woods Hole: "OH GOD! I just saw a fox 27

walk by with an entire huge mammal rodent (?) (with tail?) in its mouth! Horrifying... but kind of interesting. And then it came back (empty mouth) and looked at me in the eyes. I now feel terror in my heart." To me, talking to you now reminds me of reading your writing: fun, but I can also watch you thinking, and then re-thinking, everything as you process it. I think people teach each other over time what kind of relationship they’re going to have, and reading through these letters, we’re no longer circling embarrassedly around what we want to discuss and how we want to talk about it. You wrote something lovely about the “usefulness of ‘the language of God’” after the “terrifying and beautiful” experience of riding your bike at night in the pitch black. That kind of writing seems like, yes, the product of isolation and lots of time to think, but also of an understanding between two people about what kind of conversation they’re having. I agree that this period of time reshaped how I relate to you, and while I don’t think it’s unlikely that we would become friends, I do think that becoming friends by letter instead of over the front-of-house dishwasher means that we’ll stay friends even once we’re not coworkers anymore. It feels like a luxury to be able to hang out on Hampshire Street after knowing a version of life where we couldn’t.

How to: Stock a pantry By Sam Mangino

Back in March, our pantries were at the forefront of our minds and the news. As restaurants temporarily closed and grocery store shelves once filled with canned and dried goods were suddenly empty, a lot of us got to work making the most of the non-perishables we had. And while I certainly spent the early days of pandemic panic wondering where I could possibly find a 5 pound bag of flour, I’ve now settled into a routine of weekly shopping and stocking up on the items that have become regulars in my pantry. In fact, I’ve found myself regularly cooking far more than I have in the past 5 years. Grocery shopping was more of an activity than a necessity prior to this. I’d often wander the aisles of a grocery store, browsing just to see what produce was in season or what new cheeses I might need to bring home. My pantry was always an assortment of whatever I found interesting. However, now that I’m cooking regularly, the need to have a staple of items is becoming increasingly clear. Jam: Before shutdown, I just happened to find myself at Costco buying a completely ridiculous oversized jar of Bonne Maman jam. I laughed at myself, thinking it would last me a year. Just a few months later, I’m scraping the bottom. Jam has become far more multi-talented than I ever could have imagined: slathered on a quick PB&J for a socially distanced hike, scooped on top of yogurt for a decadent breakfast, or with butter on toast for the ultimate, anytime of day pick me up. Hot Sauce: Frank’s Red Hot has always been my go to. It was our house hot sauce at the brunch restaurant where I began my career at 15. Despite how long I’ve been covering my eggs in it, I never get sick of it. However, I’ve learned the importance of having multiple hot sauces in the fridge. Keeping around one classic and then another more artisanal option. Something that can go on eggs, a bowl of leftovers, and anything in between. Pickles: I cannot stress this enough – pickles are crucial. Whether it be a little something extra to a sandwich, burger, charcuterie board, or just snacking straight from the jar, pickles are the thing to complete a meal. My personal recommendation is keeping at least two varieties in your fridge. Actually my recommendation is that you have at least 10 opened jars of fermented goods in your fridge at all times, but two is a good start. Something sweet and spicy is always fun and unexpected. However, don’t forget the merits of a classic whole half sour or dill cucumbers; Perfect to be eaten over the sink, but ready to be sliced into spears or rounds just as easily.

Wine: A big part of dinner is rounding out a plate of food with wine that makes it even better, but sometimes opening a bottle of wine at home can feel like a big commitment. Now that we can't go out to eat in the same way as before, I've been keeping a bottle of red and a bottle of white around for those nights I just need something great to go with dinner -- or something open to make a big pot of mussels. Or when a rainstorm hits and a chill creeps in, and you want to seek comfort in a glass of red. By having these essentials my pantry went from being Ariel’s grotto of found treasures to more of a well-organized home library. It’s odd to peek in and see meals waiting to be made rather than mismatched objects. And while part of this perspective change may have come from finding it necessary to be prepared in light of a global crisis, I also am hyper aware that my relationship to home cooking has been overhauled. In “before times,” I had the luxury of cooking myself dinner maybe once a week. Now that I’m responsible and have the time to make all my meals all the time, none of it would be able to happen without a well-stocked arsenal of meals just waiting to come together.

Cocktails: Now let’s talk about cocktails. I’m a firm believer in always keeping one batched in the fridge. The Negroni is simple, just three ingredients. It’s the drink I always want to have around in the summertime. Except sometimes when it comes time to haul out the bottles to make one, at the end of a long day even that can feel like too much. Keeping it batched in the fridge, to pour over ice and give a quick stir is the move. You will thank yourself later.

‘Godspeed, You Chinese Food Werewolf’

The 2018 horror-comedy Slice is a campy romp through the serial murders of pizza delivery workers in a town where humans, ghosts, witches, corrupt politicians, and a portal to hell collide Rachel Leah Blumenthal Food often plays an unexpected yet important role in the horror genre, whether in film or television, from the cotton candy cocoons of Killer Klowns From Outer Space to Hannibal Lecter’s sumptuous feasts of exotic — too exotic — meats in the television series Hannibal; from the surprises inside the fortune cookies in IT to the less-thanappetizing meatball pizza in A Nightmare on Elm Street 4. In Slice, the 2018 horror-comedy film written and directed by Austin Vesely, pizza is not quite the prevalent character that the title promises, but the film’s plot is driven by the murders of several pizza delivery workers from a shop called Perfect Pizza Base, which is located in the former home of a Chinese fast-food restaurant called Yummy Yummy Chinese Cuisine, whose employees were also murdered. And in the basement is — well, that’d be spoiling the plot a bit, although the plot isn’t really the point in Slice. Is there a point? Perhaps not. While Slice just barely scratches the surface of race relations in a town where living humans and ghosts somewhat tensely coexist side by side, the film doesn’t seem to want to be anything more than what it is: silly, somewhat gruesome fun best paired with some booze and, of course, a cheap pizza. The cast feels a bit star-studded considering the film’s low budget (reportedly $1.1 million), with Chance Bennett (aka Chance the Rapper) as “the kind of werewolf that wants to deliver quality Chinese food at affordable prices,” as his character describes it. (This is the feature film debut for writer/director Vesely, who had previously directed several of Chance the Rapper’s music videos.) Zazie Beetz (Atlanta, Joker) co-stars as a pizza delivery worker out for justice; Paul Scheer — the comedian who is probably best known as Andre from The League but has also appeared in an episode or two of pretty much every recent comedic television show — plays Jack, the unlucky pizza shop owner who can’t seem to keep his employees from getting murdered. Chris Parnell (Saturday Night Live, 30 Rock) is perfectly cast as smarmy Mayor Tracy, while resident Stranger Things dreamboat Joe Keery makes a couple appearances as a photographer for the town paper. Comedian Hannibal Buress also appears briefly as a diner employee. Clocking in at just under an hour and a half, Slice is an easy pick for a lazy night on the couch. It feels like it doesn’t fully embrace its campiness enough to have a future playing to sold-out midnight crowds decades down the road, but it has enough entertaining one-liners and zany characters to elicit some real laughs and perhaps an “Uh, what did I just watch?” If you like ghosts, werewolves, Chance the Rapper as a werewolf, Chance the Rapper looking cool on a motorcycle, witches, unlikely heroes, redemption arcs, and/or corrupt politicians, give it a try. Amazon Prime subscribers can stream it for free; it’s also available for rental on YouTube and other services.

How to Heal the Sick inspired by B. Scappi originally appeared in the collection of recipes, Chef’s Secret Cookbook by Crystal King It is interesting, and enlightening to me, that this sixth chapter of Scappi’s work comes only after such opulent lavishness such as that which precedes it, but introduces itself as essential; so essential that without this chapter Scappi claims he, “would have done nothing.” The healing of the sick, true, is even the origin of my work in restaurants. The word coming from the roots of restore, referring to the act of nourishing weary travelers or sick patrons...usually, or at least most traditionally, with soup. 2 whole chickens, taken off the bone To make stock: bones of two whole chickens, roasted until well browned 3 gallons water 2 each spanish onion, large dice 2 each carrots, large dice 3 each celery ribs, large dice 3 sprigs thyme 1 each fresh bay leaf 6 each peppercorn 3 each coriander seed 1 pinch kosher salt Roast mirepoix in hot oven until caramelized Combine chicken bones with water and bring to boil Skim any foamy impurities that rise to the surface Add remaining ingredients, return to boil Lower the heat, and simmer at least 6 hours careful not to boil.

To braise chicken legs: *Salt and pepper the drumsticks and thighs liberally the evening before cooking drumsticks and thighs of two chickens (save the breasts for another purpose) 1 onion, quartered 2 ribs celery, roughly chopped 1 carrot, roughly chopped 1 rind of parmesan cheese (when in Rome), if available 6 peppercorns 3 coriander seeds 2 sprigs thyme 1 fresh bay leaf chicken stock Sear the chicken pieces, on both sides, in a heavy pan (cast iron preferred) until well browned, and remove to braising pan or dutch oven Add onions, carrots, and celery to the same pan that seared the chicken and cook over medium heat, turning occasionally, until well browned. Add to the pan with the chicken. Add Parmesan cheese rind (if using), as well as herbs and spices, and add chicken stock to just barely cover the ingredients. Reserve any additional stock, refrigerated. Cover tightly and cook, in the oven, at 325 degrees, until chicken can be pulled easily with a fork. Strain cooking liquid and cool overnight, as well as the cooked chicken, separately. The next day, remove the resulting cap of fat from the top of the chicken cooking liquid (cook an omelette in it?), as well as any fat that has settled on the top of the remaining chicken stock.

Chicken and lemon soup 3 carrots, cleaned and cut into a uniform small dice 3 ribs celery, cleaned and cut into a uniform small dice 2 onions, cleaned and cut into a uniform small dice Butter for cooking 2 lemons, zested and segmented Chicken cooking liquid Plus chicken stock in equal amount Reserved, cooked chicken, diced Melt the butter over medium heat in a heavy bottomed pot with a tightly fitting lid Add the carrots, celery, and onion, with a pinch of salt and cover tightly Cook until vegetables are soft and cooked through, but avoid browning Combine the reserved chicken cooking liquid and stock in equal parts and add to pot with the lemon segments and cooked chicken. Bring to boil and taste for seasoning before serving.

ABOUT CRYSTAL KING is the author of Feast of Sorrow, about the ancient Roman gourmand, Apicius and The Chef's Secret, about the Renaissance chef, Bartolomeo Scappi. A culinary enthusiast and marketing expert, her writing is fueled by a love of history and a passion for the food, language, and culture of Italy. She has taught classes in writing, creativity, and social media at several universities including Harvard Extension School and Boston University, as well as at GrubStreet, one of the leading creative writing centers in the US. She lives in Boston.