Hi friends,
I make sandwiches and chat about sexism, misogyny, reproductive rights, and other stuff on TikTok and Instagram. I launched this Substack a little over a month ago, and I am bowled over by how many of you chose to subscribe. Thank you for being here. Please tell your friends, if you dig my sammies!
I’ve missed posting for a couple of weeks. It’s been hard to write as the world falls apart. I have been reading, and walking, and thinking, and weeping, and holding all who are affected by the events in Israel and Gaza in my heart. There are no words. I have no words for what is happening. But I remember how my Dad talked about living through bombing raids, and the darkness of a war. He rarely spoke of it. But he made sure that my sister and I knew a little bit of what it was like.
My father was a child during the Second World War, in York, a cathedral city in the north of England. His mother, who was raising my father and his baby brother on her own, was a fire warden. A complete blackout was enforced throughout England during the war, starting on September 1, 1939, to ensure that no light would aid enemy bombers in finding their targets. Blackout curtains were required in every home, to be drawn at dusk and sealed tight until sunrise. There were no street lights. Car headlights were masked, and train stations were only lit by candles. Everything was pitch black at night, for many years.
During bombing raids, my grandmother would put on her tin hat and whistle, and join the men on fire warden patrol. They watched for incendiary bombs, which were dropped in clusters to create firestorms amongst buildings, and extinguished them with sand and water. Those nights were long, and dark, and terrifying. When the war ended and the blackout was finally lifted in May 1945, my dad said, the whole city of York was ablaze with light as people celebrated in the streets.
When he spoke of it, his tone was careful, and I knew not to ask too much about it. I didn’t know about trauma and grief when I was little. Now I do — and I see how he held his, like a bowlful of water that was full to the very brim, and would spill if he were to move suddenly. I can see it in him, because that’s how I feel. Like I need to be careful with myself right now. And I hope that you are being careful with yourself, friend.
Women Are People?!
Here’s a recent sandwich video:
I made this because I wanted to create a video that wouldn’t stir up too much controversy, or poke the brohive. I thought, I’ll just make a simple statement that no one can really argue with: Women are people. And boy, did I learn a lesson about trying to say something simple.
If you want to dip a toe into the cesspool of the comments on that one, please put your hazmat suit on first. They did give me a couple of flashy new insults to add to my Instagram bio (I am delighted to call myself a “walking vagina,” thanks Jamie Smith!). A couple of takeaways from this sammy vid: one, the hatred for trans people is devastating and *very* fucking real. Two, if you have a uterus and you’re female presenting and of childbearing age, there are a whole lot of folks, including women, who don’t like it when you call yourself a person! Three, fuck everything.
Joking about that last one, obvs, but the comments on this video really tried me. Like this, ahem, person:
I mean, come ON. The gymnastics to not say pregnant *person* are mind-boggling. I can’t stop myself from engaging. Send help.
The Meaning of Home
I had to make an unexpected trip to my hometown of St. John’s, Newfoundland last week to care for my Mum, who is unwell. My bowlful of water felt very full indeed, but listening to her nurses chatting to her with their gorgeous Newfoundland accents, the surface tension keeping me from spilling onto the floor, Amélie style, was immeasurably strengthened. Newfoundlanders are wonderful. They’re no-nonsense. They have long memories, and are storytellers. They’re fierce and funny, and they’ve lived through it all. They don’t have a lick of time for you if you’re an eejit. They hate fakery and bullshit, and in many cases, the rest of Canada. (Newfoundland was essentially its own country until it joined Canada in 1949; the Canadian government went on to severely fuck up fisheries management and a whole bunch of other stuff.)
In one 15-minute shopping excursion, I encountered three thoroughly delightful Newfoundlanders (don’t call us Newfies, thankyouverymuch). The first was a woman giving out samples of Newfoundland Screech, our famous rum. “New flavor,” the banner on her table said. I asked her what the deal was. “New supplier for the ingredients,” she told me, “so they had to tinker with the recipe.” I asked what she thought of it. “It’s really only for tourists,” she said. “Newfoundlanders drink Lamb’s.” And then she told me about how people in remote parts of the province get Lamb’s rum delivered via snowmobile and boat, how 33 percent of the total amount of Lamb’s sold worldwide every year is consumed on the island, and how one young girl in Springfield, NL had won a $10,000 scholarship for writing an essay about it. Of course I had to take a video of the rum section. Behold! And this is ONLY the rum. There’s other booze, too.
While I was taking this video, a guy next to me said, “shopping for Christmas?” And with the ease that can happen in a town that is home, we fell into a conversation in which I learned that he was from St. John’s, grew up in Kelowna, worked in San Pedro as a DJ on cruise ships, and is now living back home. “Playing a show in Dildo tomorrow night,” he said — a sentence so intensely, wonderfully Newfie (you can use it as an adjective!) that it made my mood ten times brighter. I tried looking up his DJ handle after we parted ways, but he doesn’t seem to have social media, god love him. If you’re in Dildo and you know DJ Taste, tell him I said hi!
Then, as I was waiting in line for the cashier, a man at another register waved me over. As I deposited my things on the belt, he said, “Women are superior.” Well, hellllooooo sir! I asked him what he meant, and he told me that a clump of guys had been waiting in line and he tried to wave them over, but they hadn’t seen him. “But I waved a young woman over, and she came right up,” he said. “You’re the second.” As he rang me up, he told me about his English mother, and his bombastic father, and his weird uncle, and it was all so goddamn entertaining and fun. As he gave me my bags, I told him I’d love to read the book about his family, if he ever writes it. I hope he does.
Time at home made me realize how disconnected I sometimes feel, especially duking it out with strangers about whether or not women are people. And those three encounters in that one shop made me very happy to be home. God guard thee, Newfoundland.
Vietnamese Chicken Sandwich (Bánh Mì)
I made a version of this Bánh Mì from Little Spice Jar for friends, and the response was very gratifying! It’s worth the work to pickle and marinate everything properly, because the layers of flavors in this sammy do a lil’ shimmy on your tongue. Here’s my tinkered-with version.
INGREDIENTS (yields 4-5 sandwiches)
For the pickled vegetables:
1/2 cup each: water, rice vinegar, and granulated sugar
2 teaspoons salt
6 ounces jalapeños, thinly sliced (about 1/4 inch thick)
6 ounces carrots, thinly sliced (about 1/4 inch thick)
2 Persian cucumbers cut into circles or spears
For the chicken:
1 lb. boneless skinless chicken thighs
3 cloves garlic, grated or minced
2 tablespoons each: fish sauce AND soy sauce
1 tablespoon each: granulated sugar and mayo (plus more for spreading)
½ teaspoon lime zest
1-2 teaspoons sriracha
To assemble:
4-5 Vietnamese bread rolls or french baguettes
fresh cilantro
INSTRUCTIONS:
PICKLED VEGETABLES: Combine the water, rice vinegar, sugar, and salt and stir until the sugar dissolves. Add the jalapeños, carrots, and cucumbers to a large mason jar. Pour the pickling liquid over veggies, screw on the lid, and allow the vegetables to pickle in the refrigerator for at least one hour and up to 24 hours in advance.
CHICKEN: Combine the garlic, fish sauce, soy sauce, sugar, mayo, lime zest, and sriracha in a medium bowl. Add the chicken, cover, and allow to marinate for at least 20 minutes or up to 24 hours. Cook the chicken on an indoor grill or a skillet until cooked through. The time will vary depending on the thickness of the chicken thighs. Allow chicken to rest for 5 minutes before slicing thinly on the bias.
Make Yourself a Sandwich
Slice the baguettes in half, spread mayonnaise on bread and top with chicken slices, pickled vegetables, and fresh cilantro leaves. Serve warm. Tuck a napkin in your collar or lap, and eat with your eyes closed to shut out the patriarchy while feeling the deep gratification of your delicious sandwich, which you made for yourself.
Last Licks
If you’re not following Jessica Valenti, please stop everything and do it now. Her Substack is critical reading. Abortion, Every Day is a comprehensive daily newsletter dedicated to abortion rights, and the feminist community that supports it.
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