On Bitterness
RECS #36: a homey Chinese restaurant in Cobble Hill, “The Pitt,” and a novel of cruel decisions.
Dearest friends,
I’m sure there are myriad reasons for this—particularly an angst catalyzed by the last few months in politics—but there’s a fresh bitterness that lingers beneath the surface of so many parts of my life these days. I’ve admittedly always been quick to anger, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve been better about concealing it, or at least not acting on it, because I know that realistically nothing good or useful is born of rage. But, lately, I’ve noticed more and more has begun to arouse my angriest side: the innocent children scootering down West End Avenue in an obstructive zigzag pattern; the subway conductor who watches me rush into the station, just to close the doors as I make it past the turnstile; the fact that all of our local bars were full on the night of the NCAA Final Four, even though we arrived halfway through the first quarter; the biking tourists drifting into the pedestrian lane while I’m running in Central Park.
A few years ago, inspired by my favorite television show, “Fleabag,” I got a tattoo on my forearm, in my mom’s handwriting, that says, “it’ll pass.” It was, and still is, a reminder that almost nothing in life is permanent—except, I suppose, the ink on my body. The anger, the excitement, the anticipation, the anxiety, the dread, the glee. The cherry blossoms in Riverside Park. The cold Saturdays in April. The long candlelit meals. Baseless irritability towards the people I love. All of it is fleeting. Even the best parts. I know that none of this is groundbreaking. I’m sure every sentient being on earth has felt this way as they watched the seasons change or the days pass them by. But, I’ve been trying to consider it more and let this truth ground me. This particular moment of bitterness and resentment that, for now, feels inescapable will pass. Joy will emerge again, and it will demonstrate that it never actually left. I was just struggling to find it.
READING: I will try to keep the rest of this short, but I’ve been enjoying “Leaving,” by Roxana Robinson, a book recommended, and loaned, to me by my coworkers. It was at first a hopeful novel, but it’s become quietly gloomy within recent chapters. My favorite part of the book is the way Robinson writes about place. She offers detailed portraits of New York City and its suburbs that feel immersive and tangible. Reading it feels not unlike watching Nancy Meyers’ “It’s Complicated”: characters make messy, and sometimes cruel, decisions in beautiful places, so you can’t look away. Otherwise, I’ve been a devoted reader of Emily Sundberg’s “Feed Me,” just like everyone else on the internet, it seems. And, I’ve once again been loving Delia Cai’s Hate Read column—particularly this one about the pervasiveness of elastic waist pants. Some of my favorite bottoms have elastic waists, but I’m self-aware enough to recognize that wearing real trousers with zippers and buttons does look more polished. And I appreciate a call out that can also make me chuckle.
EATING: My favorite thing I’ve eaten over the last couple weeks was the short rib pancake devoured during a leisurely dinner at Sal Tang’s in Cobble Hill. It was messy, but also tender and spicy and briny and comforting. We spent quite a while deliberating over the menu, and I think we ordered well: sesame crunch salad, egg roll, shrimp dumplings, beef & broccoli, and the pancake. Next time I go, I’ll probably want to try the chili garlic tofu and the spicy pork wontons. The best part about this meal, and the drinks that bookended it, was how mellow it all felt. I arrived at Lydia and Andrea’s about an hour before our reservation, so we could catch up alongside wine and dried mango. And, after dinner, we stopped for a nightcap at Congress Bar on Court Street. I had a similar type of evening this past Friday when our trivia team communed at my apartment over Melissa Clark’s cauliflower shawarma. We drank wine, shared our roses, buds, and thorns, snacked, lounged around, and laughed. There was no rush or sense of urgency. It was exactly as I wish all dinners could be. Other recent highlights include a pre-theatre dinner at Saar on 51st Street. The lotus root kofta Conor and I shared as our entreé was delectable. I’m sure we’ll return.
CONSUMING: The best thing I’ve consumed throughout the last few weeks is, without question, “The Pitt.” As Inkoo Kang said in The New Yorker, it is a “counterintuitive comfort watch.” The blood and gore and tragedy is abundant, but I’ve been comparing it to the confident righteousness of “The West Wing.” Just like Aaron Sorkin’s political drama, “The Pitt” offers sensible, kind, and smart characters just trying to do right by the people they serve. It can, as medical shows tend to do, tiptoe into after-school-special territory, but I frankly didn’t care. It doesn’t shy from contemporary politics—grappling with Covid, anti-vaccine parents, gun violence, and dangerously disillusioned adolescents—but it felt careful and considered in its depiction of each. I found the entire first season to be a moving anecdote to our current moment. Otherwise, Conor and I saw Brandon Jacobs Jenkins’ latest play, “Purpose,” last week. It was—like “Appropriate,” which I saw last year—both tragic and funny, and Jacobs Jenkins is masterful at depicting the dysfunctional family. I enjoyed it very much, and I could probably have cut quite a bit from the second act, particularly a few of the show’s many monologues. On Sunday night, I had the pleasure of seeing a taping of the National Theatre’s revival of “The Importance of Being Earnest,” at Symphony Space. It was an absolutely delightful romp.
SAVORING: I had a whole spiel written about how stressed I’ve been lately and how much I’ve been savoring saying “no” to some things in order to get back on top of other things—cooking myself balanced meals, washing my sheets on a regular basis, sleeping enough. All those boring tasks that help me feel in control. But, honestly? The thing I’ve been savoring the most are the cherry blossoms, daffodils, and tulips that have peppered the Upper West Side in recent weeks. This past Saturday morning, Conor and I were enjoying bagels on my couch when a Blue Jay flew onto the still bare tree outside my apartment window. It stayed for a minute or two, showing off while we stared, marveling at its vibrancy.
With love,
Erin
This is the best thing you’ve written so far, and that’s saying a lot, since you’ve written so much great stuff. It just gets better and better. Just really blown away at your “voice.” Don’t shy away from it. And yes, it’ll pass. Love you.