Passing through Naomi and Sarah Wilkinson’s joyful cover to the dedication, I had a sense that ‘What is Queer Food? was a love story. Then I read the last sentence of the acknowledgements, “It’s all just pork chops, baby,” and I was pretty sure it was an embrace.
 
John Birdsall is a writer I look up to. The way he puts words to thoughts is playful, The Loneliness of Rhubarb is a chapter title. His sentences are sometimes sparse, “Blurring was survival.” He admits to resorting to “speculative reconstruction,” to great effect. There’s also the structure, like the steppingstone descent of Herman Schmidt’s travel itinerary from Shanghai to Gibraltar. The books architecture reads like a menu. 
 
What is Queer Food? is a party with a supreme host. The vignettes are a loose weave, like the yellow and terracotta background on the book cover. There’s the literati hedonism of Café Nicholson in Manhattan with Edna Lewis at the stove. The poignant story of Richard Olney’s parents showing up for him with love. And the autobiographical, The Unshown Bed, a story that has a young Birsdall catching his reflection in Craig Claiborne’s brioche. “A cryptography so effective that even a dumb virgin kid, fourteen years and a couple thousand miles away from where that photo was staged, could crack it.” Acceptance and inclusion are present in abundance, as are compassion and fierceness. And the sex is another writing skill to admire.
 
Birdsall turns the reader outward. Reading took me to my cookbook shelves, to look at the image on page 473 of the New York Times Cookbook, and to read MFK Fisher’s Foreword to The Alice B. Toklas Cookbook, which made me burn with anger. His notes and sources are a place to hang out in—like a beloved library or bookstore.
 
The heart of What Is Queer Food? is that lush sensation we all chase—belonging. The undercurrent of great gatherings or restaurants. A potent mix of food, people, atmosphere, and sex. It calls in a community. It's there in the second paragraph at the begiining of the journey for John and Perry, in the diner in Hudson, New York, “Lil’ Deb’s has the beat of a place where anyone who knows they belong has permission to stay.”

***
 
I took a break from writing here from December to March to look at my childhood in group therapy. It was terrible and beautiful. It left me at 62 years old wondering what label to affix to myself. A question everyone could ask entering a new life stage. Queer feels right. My appreciation of adults is as broad as my appetite for vegetables. This celebratory book landed in my hands at a ripe moment.
 
A friend sent this to me yesterday.
 
***
 
The songs are for me, and for you, too, if you like.

Alice and Martin Provenson are the illustrative talents behind The Fireside Cookbook. Along with James Beard they were a trio, and the cookbook reads like they had fun together. It's ripe with life and the words, recipes and images play together on the page. It feels like you could run your fingers along the book block like a flip book.  For the assignment, the Provensons took a preliminary sketching trip to Europe—a plum assignment.
 
I spent last weekend with a family I like spending time with and they gifted me this gem. 
 
That I love illustrations in cookbooks is no secret. The artistry is the first thing to capture my attention. I could pull a bunch of cookbooks off my shelves just based on how visually extraordinary they are. A great cookbook is a balance of words, stories, photos, recipes, and illustrations and always expresses a unique character, likely the result of collaboration. It has depth because a confluence of extraordinary talents came together.
 
I want to live in the “cocktail snacks” section with the four variations of devilled eggs and the recipe that begins with cream cheese, anchovies, and garlic. I’m looking lovingly at my cast-iron skillet while considering Shenandoah Fried Chicken made with cracker crumbs, lard, and “rich milk.” A whole page is devoted to aged ham. A fox trots through the chapter on chicken. Have you ever had a fricassee you didn’t like? There’s a method for cooking smoked beef tongue and an oxtail ragout I tagged. And no end of vegetables like Baked Hubbard Squash and Pennsylvania Dutch Tomatoes.
 
I was getting excited flipping toward the dessert section, but it's clearly on the diet the book opens with—there's a handful of pages covering fruit. Was this written during one of Beard’s slimming periods? It surely made a few Upper East Side socialites happy. As an avowed dessert lover, it's missing some potential.

***
 
I have lived in Toronto for coming on twenty-five years and I got a call this week about a community garden plot for me in a spot near the Humber River in the west end. Sadly, I had to turn it down because I have too much on my plate. But yeah, one step closer to a garden that is equal parts vegetables and flowers.
 
There’s a toddler who’s moved in two floors above me and around dinner and through the early evening I can hear little feet running around. It’s an adorable sound. Kids are rare in buildings like mine and there’s no good reason why.
 
On the topic of flip books, this is a Japanese gem from this week.

​Women cooking. 
 
***
 
I had no idea who Clifton Chenier—the King of Zydeco—was before hearing this tribute by Lucinda Williams. That’s why I listen to the new music playlist every week. The song fits her vocals like her trademark black leather pants. Vandelux has two versions of this Motown classic, and both make me want to dance.