Thesis, or Reasons to Stay Late at the Office on Friday Night

academics, writing, , , , ,

Lately, all my writing energy has been devoted to working on this damn thesis, due on May 6th. I just want to get the thing written and turned in, so that I can move on with other projects.

Already, I’ve had to trim lots of interesting material that isn’t entirely relevant out of fear that this will turn into a book. Only a select few of you will find this topic totally absorbing, but I’ll post a tentative abstract here to ward off the inevitable questions.

Title: The Slow Evolution of Fast Money: A Fresh Approach to Sustainable Investment

Abstract: The Industrial Revolution heralded an age of unprecedented environmental damage and social tolls driven by commercial activity. We can move toward a restorative economy through careful placement of investment funds in socially responsible businesses that focus on more than bottom line profits. The microfinance industry in developing countries and the Slow Money movement in the U.S. are two examples of business models that aspire to move away from the traditional profit-driven financial paradigm. However, they are relatively unproven and are prone to the pitfalls of commercialist mission-drift. Study of these experiments provides lessons to be learned for future models of sustainable finance.

In case you’re wondering, what does this have to do with food or gastronomy, the answer is: it doesn’t. I simply felt like dipping back into the econ fold for a while.

Signs That You Are in Italy

culture,

  • “These paintings are from the 17th century, so they are very modern.”
  • You have seen two straight men wearing purple pants in the last four hours. One had a matching lilac shirt and purple moccasins.
  • Voice acting is a serious study; the dubbing is spot on for American TV programs.
  • Coach buses come with coffee makers.
  • McDonald’s is placed next to Roman ruins.
  • You pull to open a door, push to close.
  • Wine is cheaper than petrol.

  • Even though the public water supply is perfectly safe, there’s no water fountains anywhere and if you ask for tap water in restaurants, they look at you like you are crazy.
  • Eggs aren’t refrigerated, milk goes bad in 3 days, unless it’s the unrefrigerated shelf-stable kind that lasts forever.
  • Everyone is super friendly and chats with the person behind the counter. Every queue takes forever because everyone is having a chat with the person behind the counter.
  • Nothing is open between 12:30 and 3:30 pm (4:30 pm in the South). Nothing is open on Sundays. Nothing is open on Mondays. Nothing is open for the month of August.
  • Ginger comes with the label “exotique.”
  • You use plastic gloves to pick up vegetables at the grocery store. Public restrooms have no toilet paper.
  • The prime minister owns the media. The Pope owns the prime minister.
  • Flying to London costs €9. Taking the train to Rome costs €49.
  • Your roommate wakes up in the morning and turns on the TV while saying, “Let’s see if Berlusconi is dead yet!”

Gridlock: Battling Wits at the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament

culture, , , , , , ,

“For this puzzle, each answer will be a 7-letter word. I’m going to give you the first and last letters, and the middle 5 letters will be an anagram of the word ‘inset.’ If you think you know the answer, yell it out. Ready? F, S.”

“Fitness!”

“D, T.”

“Dentist!”

“J, G.”

“Jesting!”

“Ok, this next combination has two possible answers. D, Y.”

“Destiny—and density!”

I scribbled furiously. All around me, the best puzzle solving minds in America were gleefully shouting out answers. Meanwhile, I could barely keep up recording the answers on paper. Clearly, my brain was missing some wiring in the verbal juggling department.

“All right, this next puzzle was one that I decided was too difficult for radio. I’m going to give you a word and you’ll add two w’s to rearrange it into a new word. So if I said ‘took,’ you would say—”

“Kowtow.”

“Apish?”

“Whipsaw!”

“Armies?”

“Swimwear!”

“Healthier?”

“…wherewithal?”

“Yes, that’s correct!”

Our host was Will Shortz, editor of the NY Times crossword puzzle and puzzle master of NPR’s Weekend Edition. Shortz is the only person known to hold a college degree in enigmatology, or the study of puzzles. But he is not alone in his love for inductive reasoning. Around me sat over 600 of the most brilliant wordsmiths, trivia buffs and mental gymnasts to have ever massaged the English alphabet. This is the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament.

Personally, I have never solved a crossword puzzle in my life, and I usually fill in a scant half of a Tuesday crossword before giving up. But Jenn was in town on a mission—to crush her enemies in a gridlocked tangle of wits. This was her 9th year in a row of participation. And she insisted that I would have fun at the tournament’s evening festivities, when the high stakes crossword competition gives way to more laidback verbal jousting. Who am I to say no to hanging out with crossword nerds on a Saturday night?
Continue reading Gridlock: Battling Wits at the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament →

Park Slope Food Coop: Will Work for Food

food, , , , , , ,


Photo: Michael Nagle/NYT

“The co-op is worse than socialism. Because at least in a socialist country, if you know the right people, you can get out of it.”

“For a long time, the co-op member who lived furthest away was from—can anyone guess?—Ithaca, NY. Once a month, he would drive all the way to Park Slope, do his work shift, and then load up his car with groceries. There’s a food co-op in Ithaca too, but apparently it was still worth it to come all the way here.”

“It’s something between an earthy-crunchy health food haven and a Soviet-style re-education camp.”

Love it or hate it, the Park Slope Food Coop is undeniably the nation’s most notorious cooperative grocery store, a bastion of democratic ideals in one of New York’s most elite neighborhoods. As the name suggests, a cooperative is a group of people who work together in a jointly owned business. Most food co-ops in the U.S. have several tiers of members, where some members contribute labor to the co-op and pay less, while other members only shop and pay a bit more. The Park Slope Food Coop does not trifle with such distinctions—to shop at the co-op, every adult member of your household must work a 2 ¾ hour shift every four weeks. No exceptions. This is one of the strictest labor requirements in the country for a food co-op.

Which is to say, if you want to become a member, you will have to work very, very hard. No, I don’t mean the work requirement. I am referring to the sign-up process. To join the co-op, you must first register for an orientation session. Registration slots are available online, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, between 3 and 4 pm. For my first few attempts, every time I remembered to check online, all the slots had already been taken. Finally, I set myself a Google Calendar reminder, sat on the orientation page and hit refresh until I landed a slot.
Continue reading Park Slope Food Coop: Will Work for Food →

In the City that Never Sleeps: I Think I Have an Overemployment Problem

life, work, , , , , , , , , , , , ,


The sort of sidewalk message I pass on the way to work. I love Brooklyn.

Someone once asked me if I am like a shark—if I stop moving, will I die? Which is to say, I have never been one for being idle. But this time, I may have outdone myself. Right now, I am simultaneously a full-time student and a full-time employee. Score, I have created a monstrosity that will truly screw with BLS unemployment statistics.

The past couple weeks in a nutshell: on March 4th, section B of the UNISG Food Culture & Communication masters program had their last day of classes. Booze was drunk. Tears were wept. Food was deep-fried. I packed my bags and flew to New York on March 7th. The next day, I went in for a job interview with Fresh, whose blog I had been writing for the last month. After a few more discussions, I landed a job on March 11th. Work started on the 14th, and I’ve been a working stiff ever since, for eight hours a day. Did I mention I still have this thing called a thesis to write by May 6th? Good thing I thrive on time pressure.
Continue reading In the City that Never Sleeps: I Think I Have an Overemployment Problem →

Why I’m Never Going to Make It as a Writer

academics, life, writing, , , , ,

Corby Kummer, august senior editor for the Atlantic and one of my all-time idols, thinks my writing is shit.

Fine, he didn’t say it exactly like that.

Kummer was teaching a weeklong writing workshop, and everyone had submitted second drafts of essays on food. One by one, he whisked us into the hallway for individual conferences, then periodically returned to give comments to the entire group. All day, I had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. Why wasn’t my piece being read out loud to the class? Why was it at the bottom of the pile?

Wendy was one of the lucky ones. Her first paper was so perfect that her “revision” was to write another paper.

For the second paper, Kummer told her that he had no comments. It was perfect, again.

I congratulated her on her double win. Then I went back to doing what I do best—worrying while looking happy about it.

Bells tolled. My afternoon stupor was interrupted by Emily’s shoulder tap. “Hey Crystal, he wants to see you.”

In the vending machine alcove, Kummer was marking papers with a vengeance. I glanced at mine, lying on top of a trash can. It looked oddly clean and blank.

“You’re an expert writer, but you’re too self-conscious.”

Kummer looked at me, eyes framed under a furry blanket of hair. He continued.

“I read some of these lines and think, ‘Would you say that in speech?’

“Take this part, where you talk about dropping a lobster into boiling water: ‘The sucker will thrash and create a lively ruckus.’

“It’s like you’re detached and having these self-conscious remarks. You’re so incredibly aware of what you’re doing that it’s distracting. You just sound…Writerly. With a capital W.”

Did I mention that Kummer rejected me for a writing fellowship at the Atlantic three months ago?

I needed to defend myself.

“When you tell me to use monosyllabic words, I feel like it strips away my writing. Maybe I like using long words in daily conversation!”

Kummer gave me a skeptical look. “Shall we go through this piece from the beginning?”

I nodded. I needed to pee.

“You have moments that flow. This part about adding ‘fistfuls of julienned scallions, ginger and garlic’ is nice. Oh, and I can’t believe I missed this the first time—‘Atop a clinical ad seeking sperm donors, I gently placed the cutting board’– that is such a lovely detail.

“This reference to Hades, I just don’t think you would say that in speech. Did you really mean to say that?”

I twitched on the inside.

“Maybe I’ve been reading too much Jane Grigson [a writer who uses lots of classical references]. I don’t know, I was working on this at 6 am.”

“Oh my.”

“Well, it was better than writing it post-party.”

Kummer gave me a look. I am not sure if it was sympathetic or admonishing.

He went on. “Are you familiar with David Szanto? He had the same problem.”

David is a writer who taught at the beginning of the year. He is also a former student at the university, and my go-to advisor for all matters related to writing.

“David used to say, ‘I can write this piece with 3 different tones. What would you like to see? ’

“I guess I want to see you develop a consistent voice. What do you sound like?”

I looked at Kummer and stammered, “Don’t you see? I feel incredible pressure to write whatever you want me to write.”

“But that’s exactly it, I want to hear you.”

I started to cry. God, I hate when I do that.

“What if I am a pretentious person who loves high-falutin language?” I asked.

“You would call yourself a pretentious person?”

“Do you see the shirt that I’m wearing?” I waved at my body. “It says, ‘Bad grammar makes me [sic].’ If you called me pretentious, I would not be offended.”

Kummer’s face wrinkled with a smirk.

“You know, back when I was younger, people called me pretentious too. So I can relate.

“Writers have a way of hiding behind a façade, and you can’t really get to know them. It’s like they have something to protect. They want you to see a certain aspect of themselves, or maybe they’re too embarrassed to show their true selves.

“I want to see who you really are.

“This line—‘stop being a pussy and just kill the damn thing.’ I think that’s you. That’s who I want to hear.

“Now, I really wish I could read more of your writing. I’m curious about what your voice really is. After working with David for a week, I think he really nailed it down.”

He handed me a blue tissue. I wiped my nose less than gracefully.

“You know what, David thinks my writing is great.”

“Of course, I’m not surprised,” Kummer replied.

“I am sorry that I have made you upset.”

I waved him off between sniffles. “No no, it’s all right, I really appreciate your honesty.”

“Okay fine, then I’m not sorry that I made you upset.

“I am being so harsh because I want you to go to that next level.

“I spent half my time copyediting the rest of the class’ papers. In terms of copyediting, this is flawless.

“You’re an excellent writer—you’ve made yourself into one—and you’re ambitious.”

Maybe he was making that up entirely.

I bet he hates that I used the word “august” to describe him in line one.

I don’t care.