This was remarkably meditative, and I love it so much. #paperprawn
Well, so here we are in May. How are you?
Depending on where you live, you have been practicing social distancing for almost two months now. It’s unnerving to think of how we will interact with each other when this is sorted. I have a hard time imagining what that first dinner out will be like when the server comes over with gloves and a mask to take the order.
Ah, well. Baby steps.
Below are this week’s links. Take what you need, share this post if you are so inclined, and leave everything else.
Speaking of nothing, check out this trippy five-minute film that imagines what earth would look like as it’s swallowed into a black hole. This quote from the narration by Alan Watts seems particularly important: “Someday this will pass and there will be nothing left… That’s not something to fear because we come from nothing…and from nothing comes something new.”
Looking for something to fill the black hole of your days, those endless stretches of afternoon when you have done allofthethings but still have many hours until you can legit sit in bed with your laptop propped open, watching movies? Make your own paper prawn, then share it online (#paperprawn). I dare you.
Seems like everyone has moved from bread to cookies these days, so here’s a recipe from just last year for Daim cookies. They use pantry ingredients – toffee deliciousness, with or without chocolate. Or you could try these peanut butter sandwich cookies that taste just like Nutter Butters. I made them gluten-free, of course, and I swear to god they are one of the best things I have eaten all year.
Finally, six minutes that remind me of a time when we could, in fact, have nice things. This never fails to make me a little misty-eyed, in the good way that acknowledges the beauty that humans are capable of.
That’s it. What’s up with you this week? Have you made plans to honor thy mother this weekend?
Even four or so weeks into Pandemic 2020, memes pushing productivity over peace, especially for artists, persist.
I was talking with my friend Irene, co-owner of the amazing local restaurant Dylan’s Oyster Cellar, after she posted a quote by Toni Morrison on the artist’s role during societal upheaval.
First, the quote from the extraordinary Ms. Morrison:
“This is precisely the time when artists go to work. There is no time for despair, no place for self-pity, no need for silence, no room for fear. We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.”
I have been struggling with my own creative practice since this began, and I know many others who have struggled as well. It has been hard for me to put into words why I react negatively to the quote above, but talking with Irene helped clarify my thoughts around this particular time and place.
This pandemic reminds me of 9/11. When the planes hit, the U.S. stopped. Planes were grounded, people stayed home. For four days the bones of the U.S. were exposed, flesh laid bare in the sunshine.
And for many years after, there was no art surrounding this event. Writers talked about how hard it was to write anything around that day – the risk of trivializing something so catastrophic was high, and there was a kind of respect that silence afforded that words and dance and painting could not.
Even now, art surrounding 9/11 is mostly commemorative, writing is more reportage than creative. It is missing a “call-to-action” element, though, which seems appropriate and thoughtful. After the boo-yah, racist energy of going to war subsided, the creative work from 9/11 is memorial, not activist or nationalist.
This is not to say that coronavirus-specific work isn’t being done, but for some reason there seems to be a sense of social justice-style urgency surrounding this pandemic. Like all artists have to be productive and write towards what’s happening right now, and if you are not working in that way, you aren’t really worth much as an artist.
What about people whose work was not in that style to begin with? I write about love and nature, and I paint abstract impressionist paintings. I believe that love and nature are inherently healing; I don’t need to manipulate those things in order to micromanage healing or connection. I paint intuitively, as many layers as it needs and for however long it goes until it’s “done.” My work is not oriented towards social justice, and it never has been.
But, if I am honest (which I always try to be), I have not felt much of a creative impulse, or rather, the creative impulse I have felt has been different this past month. I have felt a deep need to be in the woods, by the water, away from people. My fellow humans are weaponized with virus right now, and many of them are not exercising the sense god gave a turnip. Avoiding them makes sense to me.
Meanders in nature, looking for edibles and studying them, writing recipes and experimenting with teas and tinctures: this is where my creativity has rested for the past several weeks, and I am here for it. It’s comforting to provide for myself with what’s available, to watch how nature is responding to this strange weather (no winter to speak of and spring temperatures that fluctuate wildly, with fewer flowers bursting, not like 2019’s ostentatious floral gluttony), and to winnow the wheat of my life and relationships from the chaff.
Of course, no one should sail their ship guided by memes on the Instagram, but in the small sphere of my blog I am here to advocate for silence, stillness, and observation.
If you are an artist struggling to find a voice in this time, listen.
If you are normally running yourself ragged with work and school and kids and art, let the stillness settle into mystery.
If you have felt that the world is spinning too fast and all is a blur, watch.
I give you permission to exist in this state of dormancy, like the slow trickle of water under the frozen stream. It’s ok to not be churning out creative work. It’s ok to feel stuck, blocked, stymied, and frustrated.
Everything passes, including this virus and this life and this time.
Silence, stillness, observation: creativity in the pandemic era can take many forms. Let yourself be ok with whatever form yours takes.
Now a question: how has your creative practice changed, if at all, over the past month?
This is about a delicious cake, and the creative life, and how they are intertwined with each other.
It has been almost exactly a month since my last blog in this space, and I think that might just be my rhythm now. I never wanted this blog to be a space where I felt obligated to post – where’s the fun in that?
Such irregular posting does violate the cardinal rules of Building An Audience, though. I also don’t stuff my posts with keywords (long-tail or otherwise) or have ads on my site. I have only just within the last year or so started putting the recipe in the title, but my titles still won’t win any awards (or drive much traffic, if I am honest, which I always try to be).
But here’s the thing: this blog, and the recipes I make and share IRL and in this space, reflect my creative practice as it evolves.
This year has been a bit of a revelation for me in terms of seeing myself, finally, as an artist. Part of that is due to a supportive partner who is, himself, an artist. I have not had a romantic partner who has ever seen me in that way. It would be easy to say that they were to blame, or they were unsupportive, but that’s not it.
It was me.
In the last couple years I have been feeling something beneath the surface, like there was this Thing That Was About To Happen. I thought it might be some breakthrough in this blog, or some incredible opportunity or travel experience. Although I have traveled and made some incredible food and had opportunities arise, that wasn’t it.
You know that feeling when someone keeps telling you something about yourself, and you sort of nod and smile, thinking you are agreeing when you actually are only taking it in on the surface, and the largest part of you isn’t all there, agreeing, even as you nod and smile?
That was me when Khristian referred to me as an artist or a creative.
That was me even when I told people I was a writer.
This year, the switch flipped.
I ended 2018 writing a lot for other people. Last year, I wrote the equivalent of five full-length novels for other people (and one novel for myself). This was valuable and good in that it financed some incredible things last year (trips to Amsterdam and Canada, plus a writing retreat and a piece of property in Canada), but at the end of the year, I was tired of writing for other people.
So I cut back, starting in February, and have been working on my own work, my own creative life, since then.
I attended an incredible workshop called Making Your Life As An Artist, set some goals as a result of that workshop, and have been steadily working at them since the workshop.*
I have been working on a real artist mission statement.
I am exploring new media, moving into the visual arts and seeing how that fits with my writing life.
I am submitting to publications, residencies, retreats, and galleries.
I am committing to spending more time IRL with people I care about or want to get to know better, and less time on social media (which sort of screws the whole driving-traffic-to-your-site thing, too, but that’s ok).
I am committing to my work, even as I make less money for other people’s work (but stay open to opportunities there, too).
And good lord. What a difference it has made. I feel energized by my practice and have been pushing past doubt and insecurity. I am still plagued by Imposter Syndrome, but it is a low hum on occasion instead of a daily shout. I find myself trying to figure out a better way to keep track of ideas, and I am exploring how I truly work best (spoiler alert: I am not particularly disciplined).
But let’s be honest (which we should all always try to be). I can still procrastinate like nobody’s business. I still have days when the Call of the Bed is mightier than the Muse. When the roar in my head and the worthless feeling and the anxiety start to creep in the darkness around the edges of my vision, clouding my ability to create much of anything.
Enter procrastibaking (not my word, but apt).
In the last ten days I have felt a bit listless, a bit unsettled. A massive anxiety attack, the first in months, left me feeling wobbly. Even as the visual aspect of my creative practice exploded, my writing has begun to flail a bit.
My simple solution? Bake cakes.
Bake cakes, and give them to people.
Bake cakes, and eat them for breakfast.
Take a long walk with the dog, by the water, then come home and have some cake.
I have made three cakes in the last ten days: a carrot cake, a lemon bundt, and this glorious bastard: the Smith Island cake.
Smith Island cake is Maryland’s state dessert. I blogged about it once on this site but was not impressed by the results of my baking and did not post them (just a blog with some links). Even the person who claims to be THE Smith Island cake master USES A BOXED CAKE MIX (which makes me sick. REALLY? Just makes Maryland bakers look like a bunch of amateurs. But I digress.).
But I was definitely casting about for something to take my mind off of my creative work. And this cake is a good bet. Consisting of eight layers with a nearly-pourable, ganache-like chocolate frosting, it requires, at the very least, a system for baking (unless you happen to have eight, 9-inch layer cake pans. I have two.). You need to time your cakes precisely, and you need to have a little something to occupy your mind in eight-minute intervals while you perform the oven dance of shifting cakes and cooling cakes and lining cake tins. I worked on my artist statement in fits and starts that didn’t allow me to think too deeply about what I was creating (a good thing).
IT IS WORTH IT. This cake was absolutely incredible.
The recipe that inspired it is from Saveur, with some changes. The cake is, as ever, gluten-free, and I swapped out the milk (mostly because I did not have milk and didn’t want to leave the house). Their method seemed ridiculous to me, so I changed that around a bit, too. Read all the way through before you start, then follow the instructions for best results.
Better yet: if you are local, I am now selling a limited number of cakes every month. Made to order and good for at least 12 servings, so you don’t even have to get your hands dirty. Get in touch early in each month, even if you don’t need it until the end, to reserve your spot. More details here.
Otherwise, here’s the recipe for Smith Island cake that will inspire swoons. #Trust
Smith Island Cake
Ingredients
Cake 3 sticks butter, melted and cooled 3 1⁄2 cups all-purpose gluten-free flour 1/4 cup baking powder 1 1⁄2 teaspoons kosher salt 2 1⁄4 cups sugar Milk: 1/2 cup evaporated milk and 1 1/2 cups oat milk (or just 2 cups whole milk, see Recipe Note) 1 tablespoon vanilla extract 6 eggs
For the Icing 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate 2 ounces semisweet chocolate (I used chips. Hey now.) 2 cups sugar 1 cup evaporated milk 6 tablespoons butter 2 teaspoons vanilla extract
Super helpful special tools: parchment paper, baking scale, cake turntable, offset spatula
Method Get ready: Get out two 9-inch cake pans and trace their bottoms on parchment paper. Cut out eight parchment paper circles and set aside. Preheat oven to 350°.
In a large bowl, combine flour, baking powder, and salt. In another large bowl, combine cooled butter, sugar, milks, vanilla, and eggs. Whisk to combine all wet ingredients well.
Add dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and use a whisk to get most of the lumps out of the flour (some will remain).
IMPORTANT: If you use regular flour (not gluten-free, do not overmix. You will develop your gluten, and the cakes will be tough and awful. Whisk until just combined, no more, than proceed).
Allow batter to sit and collect its thoughts for 15 minutes. While it sits, spray your pans with cooking spray, line the bottom with parchment, and spray again. Alternately, you could butter and flour but WHAT A PAIN IN THE ASS.
Stir batter until smooth.
Here’s where it gets technical. I used a baking scale to accurately measure the total weight of the batter and then divided it by eight. This makes your layers even and ensures you actually have eight layers (fewer than that and it’s technically not a Smith Island cake). If you don’t have a scale, each layer has a little over one cup of batter.
Move each cake pan around so the batter spreads evenly over the bottom. Bake for eight minutes, then swap pan position in the oven (left moves right; right moves to the left), and bake for another seven minutes (or until the cake is lightly browned).
Remove from oven and place in the freezer for 10 minutes. Remove cake from pan, and place on a wire rack to cool completely. Re-spray and re-line cake pans, then re-peat for remaining batter. I gave my cake tins a wash and dry after the second layer in each.
Let the layers cool completely before frosting. I started my frosting as I started my 7th layer.
Make the icing: Place chocolates, sugar, evaporated milk (should be the remainder of the can), butter, and vanilla in a high-sided, heavy-bottomed saucepan. Bring to a boil, stirring often and watching carefully.
I sort of forgot mine a little and neglected the stirring, but that forgetfulness was brief. I used a whisk to beat until it was smooth and shiny. Remove from heat and cool. I did not find this frosting to thicken much at all, which was absolutely fine. Don’t expect a buttercream texture, but it should be thicker than a glaze.
Cake assembly: Use a cake turntable if you have one. Place one layer on the turntable and top with 1/4 cup of frosting. Use an offset spatula to spread all the way to the edges – the layer of frosting will be thin. Repeat with all layers but leave the top bare (for now).
Place cake in ‘fridge for about 15 minutes, then finish icing. If the icing has gotten too thick to pour, heat slightly, then pour over the top of the cake and use your offset spatula to smooth the sides. The icing on the sides will be thin, but that’s ok. #Trust
Chill cake completely before serving. Serves 12.
Recipe Notes
I am a big fan of using what you have and avoiding excessive trips to the store. I had oat milk and used it rather than buy milk I would not drink. I have not tested this recipe with other milks.
I did not test this recipe with regular flour. As long as you are careful with the mixing, you should be fine.
*Making Your Life As An Artist is a part of ArtistU, and I encourage any creative people out there to take advantage of the class if it rolls into town. Even if you don’t go, they offer their materials for free – a free book and a free workbook. Check them out.
Right now I should be researching how to get my site indexed on Google, or a million other things that deal with researching recipes and driving traffic to my site, but I can’t really focus today.
It’s not the horrible nights of sleep I have gotten the past three nights or the dog poop and pee that welcomed me downstairs this morning (although to be honest neither of those things help and they both make me want to kick the dog WHICH IS JUST WRONG I know but still. #Asshole).
It’s not the complete lack of holiday cheer outside of my home, or the fact that every single person in the world seems to have forgotten how to drive (I have been nearly T-boned three times in the last two days from people running red lights).
It’s art.
I am deeply troubled by the fire at the Ghost Ship in Oakland. So many lives lost, so much creativity and spirit of Other-ness out there literally gone up in smoke.
And why?
It’s because we (America, in general), don’t value art.
We don’t value art beyond paintings to be hung over the sofa, tchotchkes for the mantle, and the occasional sculpture in the garden.
Moreover, we don’t value the creative life. We don’t value the people who have chosen to leave the daily grind in favor of living communally so that they can surround themselves with like-minded, creative people who really just want to make art and live a life that doesn’t conform to the norm.
We don’t value the outsiders, which can include anyone non-white, non-normative of gender or gender identity, or who just colors outside the lines in any other aspect of life.
They don’t want a new car every three years or a fancy house or the latest electronics or clothing with labels.
But here in America, that type of thinking doesn’t make money. So the same artists that suburban moms come into the city to ogle and feel cultured about cannot afford to live in the city that only has an actual real culture because of these artists.
Ya feel me?
When we talk about the loss of human life in the Ghost Ship and the recent eviction from The Bell Foundry here in Baltimore, we don’t talk about the fact that these artists cannot afford to live in the cities in which they make art. Some of them moved to the city to gain more acceptance than was available in their small towns; once here, the only affordable housing option is living cheek-to-jowl in unregulated warehouse spaces.
Now cities, fearing litigation, are cracking down, evicting artists with mere hours’ notice on fire code violations.
Don’t get me wrong: they should. No one should live or work in a space that is unsafe.
But these are basic human rights: food, safe housing, and clean water.
This should be available in every area of the country. Flint. Oakland. Baltimore. Appalachia.
Artists should not have to choose between a safe space to lay their head and practice their art or living in a small rural town with safe spaces but no access to acceptance or shows or support.
Why aren’t we talking about this?
Because America doesn’t give a shit about the creative life.
They don’t care about art that can’t be turned into a mug or a meme or a sweatshirt.
The people who practice art in these spaces are fighting to claim their right to exist in rapidly gentrifying cities that only welcome certain types of culture. If your art is transient or too wacky, it’s not really art.
If you are gay or trans or non-white or uneducated or poor, you don’t really belong in the neighborhoods filled with craft beer halls, restaurant incubators, and live/work community arrangements that favor only middle to upper-income residents who trend white, straight, and upwardly mobile.
Big secret: many of the workers in these places live in unregulated, unsafe spaces, too. Spaces that are increasingly rare and being bought up by investors who own property in a dozen cities across the country.
Pretty soon, helped along by corporate investors and communities that hang large-scale painting in elevators and coffee bars on the first floor of new high-rises, our acceptable artists will be so smoothed over and generic, our cities so same-same that we won’t even need identifying city names; we can simply say City 1 and City 2, just to differentiate where they are on the map. With Whole Foods, Lululemon, and megaplexes replacing small performance spaces and artist warehouses, the soul is rapidly draining from our country’s cities.
You can see how an artist who just wants to create might choose cheaper rent to stay off the wheel of commerce.
You can see how a landlord with a shitty building and a muddy conscience might feel okay renting to “outcasts” who wouldn’t make much of a stink to keep rents low.
You can see how most of the country just shrugs and moves on when these same buildings burn down, taking lives and life works with them.
This is unrelated to the food that this blog generally focuses on, but I find it deeply troubling. I have chosen to close a school that I started and in which I worked 80-hour weeks to make it successful. I have chosen not to get a 40-hour a week job and even have the most tenuous of assorted jobs that one could perhaps cobble together (personal chef, writer, and yoga teacher).
That we are so far gone down the rabbit hole of More and Better, that we are gentrifying the core of our cities and funneling the Middle and Upper Classes into pre-approved art museums and other cultural arenas, that we don’t give a rat’s ass if out-of-the-norm people who make out-of-the-norm art live in dangerous buildings, matters.
