When I was about nine years old, my family got a new desktop computer. It was off-white to yellow, and I adored it. Mostly, I played a strange and thrilling game called Ski Slalom, which required a very close relationship to the left and right arrow keys, a skill I developed not without aggression. I also had a new email account, which meant I could write a lot of long, detailed emails to my friends en masse. It was the first time I realized I could write something and make an audience read it, even if they didn't like it. I had a lot in my favor, which was that inboxes, particularly of nine-year-olds, weren't so full in 2002. Additionally, my scatterbrained semi-thoughtfully penned emails weren't long chain messages promising either a very first kiss or a bloody Death By Clown in your bathroom at midnight depending on how many unsuspecting email addresses you forwarded it to.
If I could go back and log-in to that now-defunct email account, I would implode and never recover. I can, however, speak from memory and say that these updates on my prepubescent life (descriptions of the season, my breakfast, and what kinds of music I was liking or not liking) were definitely not GDPR compliant, and my captive recipients could not unsubscribe. I rarely got responses to my jibber-jabber, save for the occasional reply from my dear friend Nick, who usually said something along the lines of "My parents say you're great."
And so my audience—and their watchful parents—tolerated these informal streams of consciousness on a regular basis. They nurtured my unclaimed craft, even if they secretly but kindly abhorred it and could do nothing about it. This is an effort to bring that craft back for my friends and family, and for myself. With the option to Unsubscribe, of course.
On Tuesdays, I will deliver a recipe that I've developed and tested and really liked, along with a playlist that corresponds both in feeling and in the time it takes to make it. I'll also share something I'm calling a "piece of power:" a slice of literature, language, art, or an observation that has inspired me and lifted me up that particular week. I hope it energizes you and connects you to a part of yourself that might feel like it's dwindling midway through the week's news cycle, but is always there nonetheless. I'll keep track of recipes past on my blog under "Weekday Warriors," but you can sign up for the full newsletter here or below:
I'd like to thank Lara, Ali, and my Dungeons and Dragons pals for keeping me weird and being my taste-testers on so many occasions since moving to NYC, my friends Emma, Michelle, and Corrigan (whose work I'm excited to share along the way) for showing me how it's all possible and inspiring me to get working on innumerable occasions, and the excellent musicians and groupies of my Dad's bluegrass band Cotton Hill for reading everything I write—even if I've fallen off the horse—and telling me about it every time I see them. Among so many others, thank you for being here. Thanks for joining me on this journey, warriors, and I look forward to being a warrior along with you: sharpening my kitchen knife and spinning those records as Friday sneaks ever-closer.