I had a very different post in mind today. Yes, this space has been dormant, but I had a draft ready to go, fully intending to dust and tidy up my little corner of the internet. Open the windows, let the light in.

But now all I wanna do is get back into bed.

Minutes ago, I learned one of my favorite musicians and artists, Glen Hansard, has died. I am at a loss.

Like many sad boi millennials, I first learned of Glen in 2007, when John Carney’s Once hit theaters. In the starring role as the Guy, he busked through Dublin with co-star Marketa Irglova, singing and writing songs of yearning and sincerity I had scarcely encountered in my tender youth. For me, Once was Pandora’s Box for every latent, sensitive feeling I didn’t know I needed to express.

In those early internet days, I became obsessed with Glen’s work, and chased down every wisp of smoke that had anything to do with him. Of course it started with Swell Season, his band with Marketa; from there, I embraced the ‘90s Irish alt rock sounds of his first band, The Frames, belying a lot more ‘tude than my day-to-day preppiness. (Carney was an ex-bassist for the band, I’d learn.) I saw both bands live on tour when they passed through Chicago shortly after “Falling Slowly” won the Oscar. I fell deeper in love after watching them perform Live at ArtistsDen on PBS; “Star Star” fucked me up—the violin riff into “Pure Imagination” still sends me to space.

When I went to Dublin for my first solo trip after covid lockdown, I missed Glen’s famous Christmas Eve busking performance on Grafton Street by a week. That only inspired me to stop and listen to every busker and performer down that famous row, just to feel like I was supporting him in spirit.

I was a sensitive kid, and Glen Hansard modeled for me the magic of earnestness. “Feeling the Pull” played in my ears the first time I traveled abroad for a writing assignment. “When Your Mind’s Made Up” buoyed me when I ended my first relationship. “Fitzcarraldo” felt epic and angry and grand. He had a song for every tiny emotion and life-altering event. He helped me become myself, before I even knew what was happening.

Happy trails, Glen. Thank you for everything.

'Cause this is what you've waited for
Your chance to even up the score
And as these shadows fall on me now
I will somehow, yeah
'Cause I'm picking up the message, Lord
And I'm closer than I've ever been before —
“Say It to Me Now” by Glen Hansard

Ian and I were in the Hamptons last week, the part with woods and bugs and our friend’s family pool — not the fancy rich kid part. We’re lucky enough to get invited regularly to get out of the city and breathe easier, if only a couple of days. Ian had just finished up a solo cabin retreat upstate, and I was overdue for some time away from my laptop and endless project planning.

I got up there Friday afternoon, and first thing I did was cannonball into the deep end. Then ate a tomato sandwich. I poured myself a gin-and-lemonade and dried myself on the deck, where I also cracked open Red White and Royal Blue for the first time (god that movie was awful??). I was ready to chill.

And I did! Until Sunday morning, when I got a text from my friend who was kindly catsitting Bingley for us. A storm blew through NY overnight, and our door has a weird sticking problem, and our friend thought the door had locked, but nature had other ideas and blew it open, and my sweet orange chonk of a cat felt the call of the streets and in the wee hours, ran away from home.

I blame my friend for none of this. That cat has been wanting to get out for weeks. (I now blame myself for getting him catgrass a week prior, which I think gave him a taste of the wild??? Who knows.) Anyway, Bingley set up camp in the empty overgrown lot five doors down.

Chaos incarnate.

I did all the things the Internet and well-meaning strangers advised: Put his litter box out so he could identify his scent/home; put out his favorite food; leave the door open in case he wanted to come inside etc. etc. I even bought and set up a tactical trail camera to track his crepuscular comings and goings; I’ve been chatting with some helpful rescues about borrowing a trap to get him back.

In the meantime, my willful himbo of a cat has taken to a new schedule: Sunning on the lot’s low wall between 6 p.m. and sunset. Coming to our garden for food around midnight, and then again at 3 or 4 a.m. Hiding in the tall, hard to navigate shrubs during the day. He has largely avoided me, only making eye-contact before slinking away. He has let Ian come close, only to claw and scratch him when Ian tried to grab him.

I’ve posted this whole saga on Twitter and Instagram, if you’re interested in following along; I’ve cycled through frustration, worry, annoyance, humor and acceptance over the last seven days. (We’re gonna try to trap him tonight. Fingers crossed.)

But, as I noted earlier in the week, there has been a blessing to Bingley’s stubborn rumspringa: I’ve gotten to chat with my neighbors a ton as I made my hourly and daily walks to try to convince the cat that he was being a fool. One half of the nice couple down the block, with a Basenji named Godwin, was also born in the Philippines and grew up in Orange County; we’re the same age! Small world. Our immediate downstairs neighbors have sent me regular texts about their walks with their newborn, keeping an eye out for a thicc flash of orange every time they perambulate.

The kids across the street from the empty lot? They set-up a lemonade stand, where I’ve stopped by to chat with them and their parents about Bingley, the other neighborhood cats, etc. They’ve been my eyes and ears on Bingley’s whereabouts when I’m not outside. And when I first didn’t know Bingley’s location and I searched on other blocks and neighborhood pocket parks, I got to chat with those neighbors, too, who have been so kind to holler at me that they didn’t see the cat, but wishing me luck regardless.

Meanwhile, Bingley continues to circle our house, inching closer and staying longer nearby than before. I know we’ll get him back soon (and will immediately want to run away again, after what I’m sure will be a traumatic vet and groomer situation). But until then, I’ll take the W that is feeling closer to this little slice of city I call home, where it took a cat running away to get out of my comfort zone and chat with former strangers and new friends.

Not a lot of links to share this go-around. I’ve been reading more, scrolling less. Books I have finished so far this month: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow, City of Girls, Less, Yellowface, Poetry Unbound, All About Love, The Inheritance Trilogy, and The Secret to Superhuman Strength. Next I hope to finish: Trust Exercise, The Last White Man, The Absolute Book, Home Remedies, and Saving Time.

ICYMI: I am getting back into freelancing, because I miss working on my own writing and stuff. This week, Eater published my little ditty on cooking with a rice cooker (it eases my mind when I don’t have the energy to cook anything more elaborate). The piece also inspired inspired this podcast episode about food safety, namely the risks of cooking a raw chicken in a rice cooker. It's a short, sweet listen, and I'm glad to hear that my initial trepidation about cooking chicken in rice may not be that risky, after all?

Everything about this TikTok — from the light instrumental score from Avatar: The Last Airbender (“The Avatar’s Love”), the Appa stuffy, smiling baby, playful-attentive dad, and mama giggling off camera — is just sweetness overload, a bubble of tenderness and love.

@ericaekeroththis video lives rent free in my brain 🥲 #fyp #babytok #boymom #avatar #atla #avatarthelastairbender #cutebaby #nyc

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Did you know there are seven different kinds of rest we need as humans? I didn’t! The discussion came up in a private Slack group I’m in, and someone shared this link. Good stuff.

On a related note, a newsletter I was recently turned onto, Recomendo, shared this NPR piece on non-exercise activity thermogenesis, or NEAT. Essentially, researchers have been studying how “even small behavior changes can amplify or diminish how much NEAT you get, and this can shape your health in powerful ways.”

I love this combo poem (“The Orange” by Wendy Cope)/BTS art practice/voiceover combo. Soothing.

@meganelena.artThe Orange by Wendy Cope 🍊 Perfectionism is a constant battle for me and my artwork. I find switching up my materials helps me relax and allows me to make happy accidents. I havent used oil pastels since school, and i had no idea how to use them but i think thats what i loved about making this piece, the freedom of not trying to replicate the perfect picture in my head. This original artwork is available to buy on my website. Link in bio #artistsoftiktok #illustration #illustrator #theorange #wendycope #pastels

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Earlier this month, The NY Times reported on longtime bartender Joe Petrsoric retiring from his post at Broadway mainstay Sardi’s after 55 years. I took my friend Matt there for a martini one night — classic gin & vermouth, up, twist — and it was nice watching regulars coming in to wish the man of the hour luck. (In case you’re unfamiliar, the upstairs bar at Sardi’s is just classic Broadway. Stiff drinks, perfect pre-dinner choreography, but probably best for a post-theater night cap and people watching.)

It was 90-percent full, but it was so cooked, so unpleasant tasting, dumping it was for the best. What was I gonna do, stomach shitty wine just cuz I paid for it?

This has been my life lately: Excising that which doesn’t inspire joy or utility.

Another anecdote: A couple of weekends back, Ian and I shut out the world for a day. We’ve both been go-go-go in our day-to-day, and barely spoke when we got home — we only had energy for dinner, 30 minutes of TV, bed time.

The weekend we hermitted wasn’t particularly special — we arbitrarily decided to stay home and spend time together. Ian made James Beard’s incredible meatloaf from his 1972 cookbook American Cookery, I chilled down some perfectly ripe cherries and mangos. We took some shrooms (more on that another day), lit candles, put on some vinyl and… time slipped away.

The whole day felt like floating on a lazy river as the sun sets: full of ease and not a care in the world. We giggled, we danced, I languished in bed, Ian did crafts. We came back together to snack, and chat about everything small and big: Our finances, the state of art, Bingley’s goofiness. Our little pocket universe was suffused with light and color and gratitude. How privileged we were to just… be, in a space built with our effort and love.

That day was a balm for my lemming brain, which never ceases to worry or invent problems, and a reminder that making time for rest and prioritizing pleasure is not only necessary, but imperative. Add me to the chorus of people advocating for ending hustle culture.

In a roundabout way, this is why I dumped that wine: It was bitter and tasted like spoiled raisins, taking up space in my fridge which could be better used for something truly delicious.

What’s a piece of rubbish you can toss away, today, right now?

Laziness does not exist, so let’s call my last few weeks a “fallow period.” My old nemesis, summer seasonal affective disorder, has reared its ugly head, so I haven’t been as active as usual — which perpetuates the “I feel like crap” cycle but here we are. Good news: I’ve been working through it and turned a corner this week. (It’s why you’re getting this newsletter!) In the meantime, here’s a list of stuff bringing me small joys:

• I’m functionally off Twitter*, but I still allow myself an occasional scroll. My pal Karen K. Ho recently tweeted about dealing with the comparison trap, and I simply had to respond with a succinct reminder from my last therapist: “Other people’s success is not my failure.” Hope it helps you as much as it helps me.

• Speaking of success, I guess I should note that my team at The Philadelphia Inquirer won Second Place for Best Consumer/Service Features by the Society for Features Journalism in their annual Awards! I am trying harder not to minimize my wins, so… Go team!

• *I sunset my Twitter account — going private and deleting all of my tweets (yes, all of them) — and it has been the absolute best thing I could do for my mental health. You should too! Yes, I could fully just delete it, but I don’t want some troll to take my account name and impersonate me. (Very unlikely but you never know.) I’m on BlueSky and Threads, but mostly just so no one steals my username, @joeybear85, which I’ve had for 14 years now.

• Related: This post from writer Rachel Cargle hit me deep, and when I re-shared on my IG, a lot of my fellow 30-somethings felt similarly. Lots of us are feeling angsty this summer, and I appreciate the company!

• On a less serious note, I absolutely love my high-pressure hose attachment. It is magic!!

• Back in May, I got to see Sasha Velour’s show at Kimmel Center and bought her new book, The Big Reveal, a tour-de-force of multimedia, blending essays and memoir, celebrating drag’s past and ushering in its future. Highly recommend if you’re interested in drag’s evolution, queer history and commentary; Sasha is an incredible stage presence, and on the page, she’s erudite and provocative.

• This simply lovely poem:

• I hate how hot and humid it is, because 1) I hate sweating and 2) I have traded my beloved walking routine for indoor A/C. I’m basic, sue me. I miss peeking into other people’s gardens and patios, admiring their flowers and shrubbery. Bed-Stuy really has its gardening game down — I really should just suck it up and go outside. On the plus side, my own garden is thriving:

  

• Recent comfort rewatches: Sense8; Her; Girl Next Door; Avatar: The Last Airbender; Smiley.

• Recent books I’d recommend: Yellowface by R.F. Kuang; Wow, no thank you by Samantha Irby; Women and Other Monsters by Jess Zimmerman; Less by Andrew Sean Greer.

• Internet comment culture is wild. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t see someone complaining that an artist’s work is “overpriced” or something equally inane. One version of this I see in the interior design space is someone commenting “what about the next buyer?” when the creator does something individual or original in their home… What about them?! Are you living for some hypothetical stranger you don’t know, who may or may not buy your home years from now, or are you enjoying your space, your way, right now? What an inane question. This piece from WaPo gets into this a bit further, exploring how HGTV and the like have given us boring aesthetics, and how people “[fall] into the same trap of prioritizing other people’s opinions over their own.” How boring and sad.

• Lastly: “Likability is a prison.” - John Mulaney in his latest special, Baby J.

I first attended as a fellow back in 2017, a lifetime ago. It obviously very much centered wine, but that’s all I could remember. It was a good experience, but my career didn’t drastically change. But I was invited back to speak during the virtual conference last year, on a panel about the changing language of wine, and I started to notice a shift in how we were talking about wine. This year, I was invited to be a moderator and panelist on two different topics, how wine can intersect with the day’s discourse (politics, race, gender etc.) and how to reach modern consumers, respectively. It was a full-circle moment (I even stayed in the same room as when I was a fellow), and I learned as much from the fellows as (I hope) they learned from me and the other, more incredible speakers.

One simple thing I took away for myself is the power of a great sweater. As the weather was all over the place, I prioritized packing sweaters. Big, fun, colorful cozy ones: My knit of oranges, a hoodie with a patchwork-ish puffin, my shimmering disco number, my stegosaurus. Big kid couture, as Kelli White, one of the Symposium’s organizers, put it.

I got loads of compliments, but more importantly, the sweaters made people smile. Folks weren’t intimidated to come talk to me; the sweaters were conversation starters. When you’re a fellow at a workshop where you don’t know anyone, starting a conversation can be so daunting. Reflecting on my goofy fashion choices a couple of days out, I wonder if my picks brought someone enough ease to break some the hierarchy that comes with a speaker-attendee paradigm? Maybe. I hope. Am I adopting kooky, colorful sweaters as a new praxis for dismantling social power dynamics? Who knows, stay tuned!

I do know that I’ll continue to wear “big kid clothes for big bois” for the foreseeable future, because they make me laugh at myself, a tiny joy, just for me.

Read: No Ephemera this week, but I did write about my trip to Howth, just outside of Dublin, for the Chicago Tribune. Would mean a lot if you gave it a read!

Interlude: I started tagging “lifestyle content” on my social posts years ago as kind of a lark — I found myself going out less and enjoying the comforts of home and my hobbies, over performative consumption. (And no judgement, because even whatever I do now is performative, too. What’s not these days?)

I traded hustling for nesting, or at least redefined productivity and ambition for myself. I gardened, I volunteered, I read and listened to poetry, painted, cooked. It was nice. I became “content” with a new “lifestyle,” and none of it was about monetizing or reaching for the next rung of the made-up ladder in my head.

One thing I’ve wanted to do with this newsletter is explore the idea of tiny joys with friends and folks I admire, informed by my own experience of slowing down. I plan to publish a monthly interview with creative and spirited people about something that is not their job. What makes them tick? How do they find groundedness and delight?

First up is one of my favorite people in the world, Belinda Chang. She’s been my pal in different capacities over the years, as mentor, a confidante, and adventure buddy. She won a James Beard Award, has worked in the country’s top restaurants, and throws the best parties. She intro’d me to the caviar bump in at least 2014, long before the NYT covered it, but has also taught me so much about wine, hospitality, and restaurant life over the years.

But the thing I wanted to talk to her about are… her nails. I’ve condensed and edited the interview, but without further ado:

JH: I’ve always known you as someone who embraces color, but if we go back a little bit in your timeline, I guess that’s just not 100% true, right? So in your words, when did that change?

BC: Growing up as a kid, a person of color, I just really wanted to blend in like the other kids, you know? Wear what the popular kids wore, that kind of thing. When I started my career in wine and food, it was my job to blend in — the all-black sommelier uniform, sensible suits. If you look at my closet back then, it was a sea of black. As I have built my business in the last few years, I’ve noticed myself changing. I already stand out, I am already different. Blending in is not interesting.

Do you remember how hard it was for me to walk the Beard Awards red carpet? There were a couple of years after I’d won that I would try to walk the red carpet, but someone would always stop me which was such a punch to the ego. It felt so bad. I’m a winner, too, and I’m not allowed to be in this space? I felt somehow I'm not important enough, not interesting enough, not daring enough. I guess maybe since then, I've been looking for ways to stand out and make space for myself. Wearing colors is a relatively new thing for me, and comes from what was a negative feeling but is now so fun, but it starts with my phone case.

JH: Oh yes, your infamous phone case. I’ve seen strangers literally stop you in the street to talk about it.

BC: It’s just this weird, $14 pink phone case that looks like an analog phone, but sillier. And people love it! It’s the kind of thing that has improved my restaurant experience — one time, at a host stand, I was quoted a late table for walk-in. I pulled out my phone to text my dining companion and the staff were like “OMG, we love your phone, how fun, we actually have an earlier seating if you’d like?” Just so wild.

JH: To me, the phone shows you have a sense of humor, but what do you think it signals to strangers?

BC: That I’m fun, a little fearless, that I do things differently? I don’t know, but I think there’s something about it that’s… just for me. It’s singular, it’s authentic of myself. A friend of mine bought one, too, but told me they couldn’t use it, because it didn’t feel right. “It’s just so you,” they said.

I think it’s something I’ve passed down to my protégées over the years, the art of showing out or, maybe the humblebrag. I ran into one person recently at Charleston Food and Wine, who is running one of the city’s best restaurants and wine lists, and she told me she learned so much from me, like creating great systems but also how to show off, respectfully haha. You know in Asian culture there’s a virtue placed on humility, but with the way things work today, being humble doesn’t help you in your career or your life. There’s an art to taking up space and being seen — you need to tell people what you're doing and how you're contributing and how you're great. I'm sure I told that you do that, too.

JH: Oh you definitely have! I deeply value showing up as your full self in whatever you do. And I got that from you, in many ways. Which is a clumsy segway into: Your nails.

BC: Yes, I like to think I’m the world’s first magnetic nail artist. For a couple of years now, in collaboration with the sister-owners behind Chicago’s Tokyo Nails, I’ve developed a technique incorporating magnets and dollhouse miniatures of food and dining items onto my hand. They’re interchangeable, so I can dress according to theme however I want, and I’ve sourced these wonderful art miniatures from all over the world. Croatia, Ukraine, all over — I think I’ve purchased from 40 or so artists and makers now? I have 600 items now!

JH: Oh gosh, I didn’t know it was that much!

BC: I was originally just gluing things to my nails! A teeny knife, a wine glass, even little menus. But it was impractical and kinda problematic. I eventually ended up talking to an old school mate, who happens to specialize in magnets and physics at Fermilab. We eventually landed on the current magnet I use now, neodymium magnets which are really powerful — no more dinner hijinks with items flying off if there’s a shared course! I work with my nail artists about 3 or 4 hours for both touching up the magnets but also matching nail art — the magnets are only on my left hand, but they require a special gluing process we developed together. Now I can shake a cocktail without flipping tiny heads of cabbage or the removable bowl from a mini stand mixer at people!

JH: This is all so camp, I love it. How much do the miniatures cost?

BC: Not that much, maybe $1 to $5? The stand mixer is my latest acquisition, and I’m waiting for a bottle of Chateau Petrus, and even a tiny decanter made of glass. About 95% are food and wine themed items, and I carry some with me in my purse in a metal Container Store spice canister if I want to swap anything out.

JH: What’s been the result now that this is your “thing”?

BC: It’s so much fun, and it doesn’t get old. People will stop me to talk about them, and I’ll end up in these random conversations. It’s the first thing people notice sometimes — I had every photographer on me at the food festival. The wine biz can be uncomfortable for some people, because it’s a different language in many ways, or can be intimidating, but wearing the nails injects a bit of humor, it relaxes people. At the end of the day, wine and food can be just fun, and I think the nails are a visual cue for that. It’s also a creative outlet for me. I see you when you paint or post about your art you’re working on, and this is my version of that, something outside of the work day that I can just sink into because I enjoy it. Spending the hours on self-care, gluing magnets to dollhouse miniatures I just bought, it’s purely for me. And it’s not something I plan on monetizing.

JH: And people are responding to that playfulness.

BC: Yeah, I love sharing that with people. And it’s not without intention, either. It obviously leaves people with a positive impression, and they remember who I am if I’m looking to collaborate on work, so it does have a purpose. But ultimately, it’s a practice I find joy in, and it makes me smile and that’s what matters. There are so many ways to express creativity and find a fearlessness in that. The food and wine world can be so stuffy but I want to make it brighter, lighter. And it may not look like much but I’m wearing tiny pieces of art, and supporting the makers around the world, and there’s certainly an element of that I’m leaning into.

Luxury can be just simply enjoying yourself and embracing creativity wherever you can get it. If I can achieve it with teeny leeks or a caviar tin or a packet of mini ramen on my nails, what’s more luxurious than that?

— Fin —

“Were you ugly or just raised in the United States?” Recently, two fellow melanated friends — independently of each other via DM — asked me this chest-stomper of a question, as we casually pondered hotness and attraction.

Growing up brown in this country, being anything other than gorgeous or white puts you in the aesthetic category of “other.” Personally speaking, thanks to my constant yo-yo dieting, body dysmorphia, and the pervasive body-obsessed shallowness of gay life, I didn’t like myself for a long time. My whole life, probably.

And yet lately I’ve been obsessed with my body. The annual regimen of physicals, blood tests, doctor visits and the like will do that to you. Stepping on that scale, waiting for some judgement about my salt intake/diet after reading the blood pressure band, it’s all I could do to not think about this potato sack of corporeality.

Amidst all that, I realized I am also just sitting there, simply breathing. Terrifying! Beautiful!

The irony of dedicating the last few years to my mental health is that I’m also now always constantly thinking about sensations in my body. Anxiety is an iron ball that forms in the bottom left of my rib cage. Anger shortens my breath. Sadness and whimsy occupy the same space in my upper chest.

Because I more or less got my mind right, I find I’m more grounded in my sense of self as a sentient meatball — but now I am occupied with thoughts of the space I take up and how I move through the world.

I’m 37, 38 in a few months, and in what seems like 5 minutes after that, 40. I can’t continue ignoring my body. It’s the only one I have, and it took the inward reflection of therapy to finally face myself in a mirror.

In Bioluminesence by Paul Tran, a poem I haven’t been able to shake lately, the speaker plumbs the depths of queerness and beauty in the subjectively ugly. Embracing the imagery of the ocean’s underworld, they examine the meanings of isolation and darkness, but also show us what it’s like to be capable of manifesting your own light. “I found myself without meaning / to ... in the company / of creatures who, hideous like me, had to be their own illumination.”

I’ve been swimming with these themes a lot lately. In my dreams, in my waking life. what happens if I just let go of these self-imposed anchors? What if I can move past my own judgement of my worth?

For the first time in a long time, I love who I am looking at. I look back at older photos of myself where I am objectively cute and handsome, but all I remember is how unkind I was to myself. Behind the practiced smile was a lot of self-directed harm, a lot of hate and doubt. I lived in a Bermuda triangle of shame as a gay, brown, chubby person, and back then, I didn’t know how navigate myself out of it.

Last summer, when Fire Island came out, I was enthralled. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a glossy Pride & Prejudice rom-com adaptation centering Asian gay men as sex and love objects. In addition to being deeply funny and witty, witnessing actors Joel Kim Booster, Bowen Yang and Conrad Ricamora onscreen, as rounded, fully realized people and sexy, romantic leads was a kind of representation I didn’t know I needed.

When was the last time I had seen that, if ever?

In a similar vein, I have been binging a new Korean game show called Physical 100. Not to get too into it, but it’s like Squid Game minus murder, featuring Korea’s elite athletes competing in physical challenges. 

Sportsmanship, accomplishments and accolades aside, you can’t help but see these athletes’ bodies: They ripple with power, exertion, and use. The contestants range in size — muscled and herculean; lithe and feline; mountainous or agile; even puny.

They all take up space, gloriously.

One wrestler in particular, Nam Kyung-in, caught my eye. Apple-cheeked and bearded, stout but powerful, he and I could have similar body types, if I didn’t dedicate myself to the art of carving an ass-groove into my couch. When I first saw him, I thought, “damn, he’s hot?” Which felt really narcissistic, because he’s incredible, and I’m not. But I saw in him proof of power, strength, and (frankly) hotness I never saw in my own self. 

Calibrating these new revelations of my self-image with my past treatment of my body has often felt like a spelunking expedition, where I’m traveling blind into the bottom of an abyss of my own design, but I feel safe knowing there will eventually be a bottom — and a way out.

I’ve largely forgiven myself for my past transgressions, but that comes with the realization I haven’t been taking the best care of myself in the present. Until recently, I historically haven’t moved my limbs in joyful movement, or felt my heart pumping fiery red, or filled my lungs with possibility.

So I changed that. I got moving.

Slowly I have found my way back to myself, and learned to embrace this body. It got me through 4 years of a pandemic, goddamnit. I’ve rowed or cycled daily, hitting 10k steps every day with multiple walks throughout my neighborhood. I dance. While cooking, or when Ian went to bed early and I feel the wiggles, or when I make coffee between Zoom calls. I traveled to Dublin and walked a daily 8 miles, 10 miles, 13 miles, everything in between, over seven days.

Even on my low days, I fully embrace body neutrality, instead of darker judgements: Can we just be cool today? 

And I think of the last line in Tran’s poem: “I exist. I am my life, I thought, approaching / at last the bottom of the sea. It wasn’t the bottom. It wasn’t the sea.”

Read: Part of my daily routine has been a morning walk to get coffee, plus an evening walk to stretch out my legs and run any last minute errands. I haven’t been in a podcast mood during these walks; instead, I’ve been devouring The Mirror Visitor series by Christelle Dabos, available in audio format on Libby. The books aren’t new, but they’re a long, intriguing fantasy that’s equal parts Bridgerton slow-burn romance and apocalypse mystery set in a ruptured, quasi-authoritarian world.

Watch: Ian and I didn’t do much this weekend, but did catch the Oscar-nominated animated short films, per our annual tradition. This year’s batch is certainly less bleak than last year’s, but only two stood out to me: Ice Merchants by João Gonzalez and Bruno Caetano, and My Year of Dicks by Sara Gunnarsdóttir and Pamela Ribon. Last night, we finally saw Aftersun, and oh my. As someone with daddy issues like whoa (whomst among us???), it was so poetic and evocative — the praise is worthy.

Do: Just… This.

Lead photo by 青 晨 on Unsplash

Book links are affiliate links through Bookshop.org, where I receive a small commission if you make a purchase. You’ll also be supporting an independent bookstore — shop locally when you can.

(But, y’know, we’re a week into 2023 and I already missed my own Sunday deadline. Cheers to forgiveness as self-care, amirite?)

This week: A bit about what I’ve been up to, stuff I’ve been thinking about, and a round-up of beautiful things.

If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know I went to Dublin last month. It was my first solo trip in a decade — unmoored from any obligations, simply powered by my own whims and wallet.

I’m very grateful to have a career and relationships that allow me to take to the road regularly. In fact, last year was one of my busiest: Chicago for a family funeral and reunion, but also the James Beard Awards; Memphis for a speaking engagement, Arizona to hug my friend’s babies and hike through magical Sedona. And lest I forget, I kicked off the year ziplining through a Panamanian cloud forest with my husband and two closest friends!

But all that zooming around with or for others is a different travel experience. A part of me yearned deeply for my own company. I landed in Dublin on a Wednesday, and for a week, I clocked 9 or 10 miles a day, wandering the city. I sought out pastries, drag queens and bookstores. I nearly got blown off a rainy, windswept cliff near the seaside village of Howth. At the Cliffs of Moher, I felt the rain, sleet, hail and sun in a matter of minutes. I got into a screaming match with the ocean and lost.

Wandering Merrion Square, the park housing a memorial statue to famous Dubliner Oscar Wilde, I found myself crying. Above me was a disco ball reflecting the diffused late morning light — I could write hundreds of words on sunlight in Dublin alone — and I was listening to one of my old downloaded playlists, the kind of twee hipster stuff 20-something me listened on repeat. “Feeling the Pull” by another Dubliner, Glen Hansard came on, appropriate given the circumstances, and I found myself crying.

I had been feeling lonely for a few days, but it felt indescribably good, like I was tapping into something primal and forgotten. A loneliness that felt like a low bass tone in a song, not unpleasant but obvious. I sat in that park watching the blue-and-black magpies bully away some giant-ass seagulls, keeping myself company. Over the next few days, the loneliness didn’t go away, but I felt more sure than ever that I’m my own best company.

What a wonderful lesson to take into 2023.

I recently was reminded of the below tweet by the late, great Amy Krouse Rosenthal, and it’s my guiding principal for this section of the newsletter. I hope you find some value or magic in my recommendations for what to read, watch, or do — I know I did.

READ:

Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights sustained me through much of last year. A collection of diary entries and essays by the acclaimed poet, the book is a chronicle of wonder and awe in every day miracles. In a world that constantly tells us we’re lacking, Gay lives in abundance, and invites us to believe in it, too. (Today’s subject line is from one of his essays.)

WATCH:

I make no bones about it: I love crying. Maybe you do too? Not enough (non-queer) people are talking about We’re Here, which follows drag stars Bob the Drag Queen, Eureka, and Shangela to conservative small-towns around the country to host a big drag show featuring local talent. Part Priscilla, Queen of the Desert campiness, part Queer Eye-tugging-at-the-heartstrings, part Real Queer America (an amazing must-read by Samantha Allen), We’re Here released its third season some weeks ago, but I only caught up over the weekend. Besides the expected razzle-dazzle that comes with a drag show, the queens play empathetic, big-hearted fairy godmothers to small town or rural residents seeking to express themselves or push for change in their local community. From Selma, Alabama, to Temecula, California, to central Florida, the queens swoop into towns with quiet, desperate queer communities yearning to be open and accepted, grappling with topics like transness, gun violence, and the legacy of racism along the way. God save these Queens.

DO:

I’ve been feeling the pull (ahem) to get back into creative work, and that has taken on different forms over the year. I haven’t painted in a minute, but I have been collaging a storm — it’s a fun activity that keeps my hands busy and my brain focused. I’m hoping to get a bit better at it this year.

Book links are affiliate links through Bookshop.org, where I receive a small commission if you make a purchase. You’ll also be supporting an independent bookstore — shop locally when you can.

I had something of a breakthrough with my therapist this week. Despite the never-ending stresses of the outside world and the smaller, more manageable horrors of life (exhaustion with daily cooking, the ever-increasing tightness of my non-elastic pants), I relayed to them that on balance, I’ve realized a level of resilience I was not aware I was capable of 6, 7, 8 months ago.

“It’s like I learned how to walk with an umbrella through a storm — I’ve learned how to lean into the wind, stay dry, and not break the thing,” I said. We’ll see how long this lasts!

Not looking forward to Sunday Nov. 1, nope! Sunset will be at 4:51 p.m., and I can’t stop shaking my head about it. In preparation for darker, lonelier months — please create a plan for social distancing and don’t gather indoors if you can help it, but if you’re gonna be a scofflaw, at least be safe about it! — I’ve started implementing a care plan for my houseplants. This week was cold and rainy in New York, reminding me that long walks and bike rides will be harder to enjoy. I’ll be heavily relying on my plant babies for mental health reasons sooner rather than later. Maybe you could use some tips? I’ve started posting them on IG, but there are some easy, actionable ones you can knock off your to-do list this weekend:

1. Aerate. Before you make your rounds watering your plants, take a chopstick (or any stick) and poke a few holes in the soil. As I wrote on IG, worms and other burrow buddies do this job in nature, but potted plants need your help. Breaking up potentially compacted soil improves drainage and increases airflow around your plant baby's roots, which helps them access oxygen and staves off potential root rot.

2. Fertilize. If they’re not already dormant, your indoor plants may soon be and can benefit from a light feeding. Depending on the plant species (check other sources on this), make a plan to enrich your potting soil with water-soluble fertilizer. Their pots may be depleted of nutrients after a busy growing season.

3. Rotate. Simple and quick, make sure to give your plants a turn so that the whole plant gets to enjoy whatever light is available to them.

4. Deadhead. Cut back dead leaves and flowers. There is an obvious aesthetic benefit, but these leaves can also be draining energy from the plant; by cutting them back, you’re helping the plant focus its energy on healing and new growth.

I have other plans for bringing in my outdoor plants, namely my citrus trio of calamansi, Meyer lemon and dwarf lime. As always, social media is deceptive; I love offering these tips but I’m still something of an amateur plant dad. I highly recommend Darryl Cheng’s (creator of House Plant Journal) The New Plant Parent for a jumpstart on learning about taking care of house plants. I also love The New Gardener’s Handbook by another Daryl (Beyers), an educator with the New York Botanical Gardens. It’s an all-around holistic education for both indoor and outdoor gardening. As always, buy local when you can, especially this year.

Now I’m off to follow my own advice and take care of the growing urban jungle that is my living room. Have a safe weekend.

— “Independent bookstores absolutely rely on the next six weeks of sales to get them through to spring, so if we don’t invest in them now, we really might lose them this time.”

— Speaking of commerce: What happened to Sky Mall?

— Samin Nosrat on the transportive nature of a new slate of cookbooks, especially Hawa Hassan’s lovely, warm new release, In Bibi’s Kitchen: “The best cookbooks are so much more than recipe collections — they’re oral histories, documentaries, time capsules, love letters, geopolitical texts, nature guides. And we, as readers, deserve to see more of them from more parts of the world, written by the people whose stories they tell.”

— I take great joy (embrace it when you can!) in the Mondo Mascots Twitter account, which posts photos from the delightful world of Japanese mascots. Self-destructive mushrooms? Big mood.

— As it is with Internet rabbit holes, I found my way to this mini-biography of a musician I was unfamiliar with, Beverly Glenn-Copeland, who has lead the most fascinating life. After reading his biography, I fired up Spotify on one of my long walks and got lost in his dreamy, damn-near healing melodies and choruses. His lyrics are bare but emotional, I assume in large part because of his connection to Buddhism — I surprised myself when I realized I was crying as I walked back home through Crown Heights. “I realised how much I need to stop living in the world of anxiety,” he says, “which is living in the future, thinking about what needs to happen next. Let's just be here right now.”

— Bettina Makalintal, a food and culture writer at Vice, always impresses me with her range and output. Seriously, from writing about the rise of the so-called “gentrification font” to the Insta trend of jelly cakes, she can do it all! She’s also a proud and outspoken Filipinx food writer, and when she dives into the subject, I listen. This week is no different — I highly recommend her article on Tikim and its writer, Doreen Fernandez, the late blazing pioneer and champion of Philippine gastronomy and food writing.

— I’ll leave you with this:

I’ve started and stopped this newsletter more than two dozen times in the last six months. I didn’t want to be another Pandemic Project cliche, nor did I want to add unnecessary noise into the never-ending swirling morass that is Internet People Talk At You.

What is there to say or add — this long into global upheaval and reckoning — that hasn’t already been said by people more prolific and readable than me?

Instead, I’ve spent six months oscillating between despair, exhaustion, and anxiety to to 18 Zoom meetings a week, new hobbies, and too many extracurricular activities. I’ve joined I don’t know how many Creative Morning Field Trip workshops (Poetry! Tarot! Podcasting!), applied to and was awarded two big fellowships but also let dishes pile up while not bathing for days at a time.

I existed between “oh god, I am not doing enough” and “oh god, why am I doing the most?” On many days, I felt like I was broken.

And yet, I leaned into self-care. Not the goopy, mass-markety, consumery stuff you see on IG — I wasn’t wrapping myself in thick sweaters and wistfully drinking chai while staring out a window. I needed to figure out how to be in the world again.

I couldn’t continue volunteering at the local community garden, but I have the privilege of a porch, so I gardened — tomatoes, chiles, blueberries (lol), citrus trees, flowers to attract pollinators. I got a bike and started taking 30-mile masked bike rides through parts of Brooklyn and Queens I’d not normally inhabit — I expanded my world just when it felt like it’d stay small, forever. I learned about yoga nidra, and started practicing it when seated meditation wasn’t working (and even wrote a forthcoming article about its benefits for anxious, fidgety people like myself). I listened to poetry (via The Slowdown podcast) while I brushed my teeth. I watercolor now?

I think the biggest thing I did for myself, though, was redefine my relationship with news and social media. For a long time, I told myself the lie that I needed to be on Twitter and other social platforms because it was my job, I needed to be informed of everything happening so that my work was better, more researched. But did I need the constant barrage of bad news when it just kept me in a dark place? Did I need to wade into “the discourse” if I had no skin in the game? I certainly don’t need to be doomscrolling into the wee hours, as my friend Karen Ho so helpfully reminds all of us regularly.

So I took a break for a few weeks in July and August, logging out and deleting apps from my phone, plus setting up social media blockers and time limits across my synced browsers. I turned off push notifications, and banished news sites to those tertiary swipe screens, you know the ones, those screens that come after your most used apps. The news — the good, the bad — will be there tomorrow, as will all the hot and tepid takes, the memes, the negative feedback loop.

Am I “better?” The jury is still out on that one, but finding and maintaining practical routines has brought me back to myself. In some ways, it feels trite and hypocritical to even be sharing this with you, here, as an Internet Person Talking At You, but I have forgotten how to share and commune with others. In many ways, I’d like to reintroduce those routines into my pandemic life, too.

What about you? How are you navigating lockdown life? I’d love to hear from you, drop me a line!

— I’ve been reading (in audiobook format) Tasmyn Muir’s Gideon the Ninth and it is so escapist, so wildly out of my book wheelhouse, that I can’t help but stan. Stay with me: Lesbian necromancers in space have to solve a spooky mystery in a Gothic space mansion, while also navigating political intrigue and elaborate, lyrical sword-fighting interludes(!!) against other lesbian space necromancers.

— Remember laughing? Samantha Irby’s Wow, No Thank You. and R. Eric Thomas’ Here For It are so conversational, muffled social distancing feels like a distant memory. (I’m slowly building out my booklists on Bookshop, where if you buy a book, I’ll receive an affiliate commission. No pressure!)

— More of a listening experience, but I’ve been turning to the Healthy Minds app, produced by doctors and researchers from the University of Wisconsin-Madison’s Center for Healthy Minds, to ease into mindfulness training from a clinical approach. As a self-described “bad meditator,” I find the lessons approachable and informative, without being intimidated by the woo of it all.

— Free therapy, via the delightful Tabitha Brown:

"Don't you give up, don't you quit, don't give up," she says in one video. "Baby, you ain't done came this far just to get this far; you still got a ways to go. And I know right now it almost feels impossible, but don't you give up."

— A look into the lifestyle blog voter via Culture Study, about lifestyle blog-reading white women and what drives their voting choices. Chilling:

There are so many well to do suburban and small town women — mostly, but certainly not entirely, white — for whom all the ideological stuff, all the character issues, all the racism and white supremacist baiting, all the stuff so many people find morally repugnant, it just doesn’t figure.

— “Rest is a national priority.” I know many of us are looking for the escape hatch, and man, does Germany look good in this piece for Healthyish.

Thanks for reading! If you like this newsletter, you can click the “heart” at the top of this post or share it on social media or forward to a friend — they can subscribe at josephhernandez.substack.com. You can also leave a comment; I’d love to know what you think! Follow me on Twitter and Instagram.

I’m not gonna explain the premise of the show, you’re smart humans who have read up about it, surely. But I’ll indulge: A bunch of strangers sit in “pods” and discuss themselves to establish potential love matches, sight unseen. The hope is that in four weeks, they’ll all couple off/get married. Antics ensue. The commentary surrounding the show, though, has been as entertaining as the original, IMHO. (So much content these days! Too much?!)

My favorite take came from Aminatou Sow, co-host of the Call Your Girlfriend podcast. Besides calling Love is Blind “the halal Love Island,” Aminatou pinpointed what makes LiB so entertaining: The men are compellingly candid with their women counterparts, spilling their secrets and sharing of themselves like they’ve never opened up to anyone in their lives. (Por que no los dos?) It’s, frankly, stunning to watch, and calls to mind this old Harper’s Bazaar essay from last year about how society creates emotionally-bereft men. (Read it! It’s really fascinating.) As Aminatou so astutely points out, “doing feelings is real drugs!”

The other compelling thing is, in certain episodes, is the reality TV-necessitated “secrets are revealed” plot development. “What is the point of fully being yourself,” asks Aminatou, “if you don’t ask the scariest things you can ask someone, [especially] if you’re not gonna see them again?” Call me old-fashioned, but if I’ve got four weeks to decide to marry someone, I’m going in there with a therapist-approved list of my flaws and foibles, with ready-to-go emotional Mad Libs for that other person to do the same. I’m sure there’s ton on the cutting room floor, but why the hell are you going in there asking about a person’s favorite snacks?! I need to know how they hope to see themselves as a parent, if heart disease runs in the family, and if they wear their shoes indoors. Pffft, amateurs.

(Housekeeping notes: I moved this newsletter over from TinyLetter to Substack. Also, I’m experimenting with the optimal times to send out this thing. Wednesday afternoons? Fridays? Sunday mornings? Let me know what you think or prefer! When do you like reading newsletters? 👀

In other news: I’m the new research director at Bon Appetit, but will continue working on stories for other outlets. Have interesting stories or ideas you think would pique my interest? Want to work together? Drop me a line! jhernandez312@gmail.com)

Link Love:

[1] “What if we invited artists into the newsroom to get their perspective on what we do?” One of my journalism role-models, Tom Huang of The Dallas Morning News, invited some playwrights to embed with the newsroom, to get a sense of journalism right at the source. The result: A two-act play that explores the importance of community journalism in a harried age.

[2] “Over the years, candidates’ attempts to reach people of color have gifted us with a long and hilarious highlight reel of cultural gaffes, starting with Gerald Ford biting into a tamale — still wrapped in its husk — during his unsuccessful 1976 presidential run.” Sure, presidential candidates are dropping like flies, but this column by Frank Shyong of the LA Times is still a brilliant sideways look at the phenomenon. I personally always wondered “who changes their vote because Politician X ate a taco?” Says one person Frank interviewed: “You don’t have to eat our food. I’ll eat my own food. Just listen to us… give us a genuine feeling that you hear what we have to say.” A sermon!!

[3] Speaking of genuine feelings: “Goodness is an act of being and doing, requiring that we not only engage but reflect on the intentions behind our actions.” I’ve been meditating a lot lately — even attending a Buddhist service to learn how to sit and connect with my breath; I was messy, y’all — but the lessons in this NYT offers some great non-denominational advice for anyone looking for answers from new places.

[4] Have I mentioned how much I love LeVar Burton Reads? Yes, that LeVar Burton, of Reading Rainbow fame. If you’re into short stories or need new #content, check it out. Last week’s episode — “End Game,” by Nancy Kress — read like a Black Mirror plot in the best way, exploring a very 21st-century problem (anxiety and monkey mind) and the dangers of trying to overcorrect our perceived “issues.” I listened to it on the elliptical and walked away shewk.

[5] Lifehack: Cook food at home!

[6] Didja know? Writing is a scam.

[7] *Steps on soapbox* If you consider yourself an ally or aspire to "wokeness," then I ask that you read this article on how damaging it is for people of color to constantly explain racism to other people. Your POC family, friends and colleagues are as tired of talking to you about race as you are of being slightly uncomfy at the possibility that you, too, may be racist. And if you have questions you’re too afraid to ask, I am happy to field your queries. I will be direct, honest, and reserve the right to charge a consultation fee, dependent on the nature of your ask and amount of labor.

[8] The Dixie Chicks are bacccckkkkkkkk!

The clock is quickly winding down on 2019, and this decade. Good riddance!

Of course, now is the time we all tend to get alternatively reflective or forward-thinking. (Personally, I've never been one for setting resolutions, but I'm absolutely a sucker for new, shiny day planners, Bullet journals, washu tape rolls, and gel pens.) Recently, though, I've noticed that a bunch of writers and creatives I respect singing the praises of establishing a "word of the year," sort of a lodestar for how you want your new year to go. I'm not sure I'm one for the exercise, but if I retroactively had to decide on a word for 2019, it'd be "liminal."

Anecdotally, I've seen about a 150% rise in the use of that word this year — defined as "of, relating to, or being an intermediate state, phase, or condition" — particularly among the woowoo Instagram set and other creatives. Which begs the question: When are we, collectively, not in a liminal state? I know I'm in the midst of it, as I've spent the year transitioning into married life, a familiar-yet-new home, a freelance career. How are you weathering your own transitions?

It seems I've been in a liminal state since at least 2009, when I was a 23-year-old journalism school graduate entering the recession with no job prospects. The future of media and journalism bleak AF then, and a full decade later, not much has changed: We're once again facing the very real potential of a new recession, the world is still in turmoil, media is still a mess, and — despite some recent freelance successes — I still don't have a job.

Reflecting about what's transpired in the last year, let alone decade, is a huge bummer, my dudes! But after 10 years of dealing with ups and downs, I know that ultimately, I have a lot to be thankful for: A support network, my husband and hedgehog, my therapist, my health.

I will be fine. We will all be fine.

Thank you, I love you.
~Joseph

Stuff I'm currently working on:

So I've picked up quite a few lifestyle, food, and drink writing gigs of late for publications as varied as The Wall Street Journal, Conde Nast Traveler, Thrillist, and some others. My editors there have been encouraging me to pitch more, so I plan to do just that. I'm looking for stories and topics that span drinks trends; noteworthy personalities (preferably under-the-radar chefs, producers, creatives from underreported backgrounds); travel; news businesses/products; bigger picture F&B trends and news. I'll be filing a monthly wine and spirits column beginning in January, picking up where I left from my short-lived Chicago Tribune column, where I will highlight modern drinking culture and empower curious drinkers to seek out new, interesting wine/spirits producers and styles. Have interesting stories or ideas you think would pique my interest? Want to work together? Drop me a line! jhernandez312@gmail.com

Link Love:

[1] I'm so close to meeting my Goodreads goal of 50 books this year. I'm currently halfway through 6 books — Ocean Vuong's On Earth We are Briefly Gorgeous; Bryan Washington's Lot; Erin Morgenstern's The Starless Sea; Ta-Nehesi Coates' Between the World and Me; Ken Liu's The Paper Menagerie; and Jenny Odell's How to Do Nothing — but I don't know if I'll make it all the way. Oh well, it's been a good reading year for me. What are you reading?

[2] I have to shout-out my former Tribune colleague Peter Nickeas for his stirring essay about fatherhood, being present for his young son's wonderment and growth, and how much he has learned from his little person. It's a truly lovely read.

[3] So there's a really weird, really old-school habit of legacy media outlets refusing to link to other publications and giving credit where it's due. I find this incredibly gross — Internet etiquette is that the original source should be given credit — so color me surprised when Bloomberg published this must-read Jealousy List. Reporters and editors from throughout the publication give credit to stories and content creators who scooped them with their storytelling, sourcing, breaking news, etc. I think it's really refreshing to see something that acknowledges the very real impulse of "damn, I wish I did that." Also? It's just a damn good list of some of the best stories out of 2019.

[4] Writer and prominent Media Person Ella Dawson wrote this essential personal essay on the effects of burnout in her career, health, and life, but more importantly, how our current work culture and economy exacerbate and necessitate burnout. As we go into 2020, it's worth examining the energies we expend in our lives and assess the systems we've allowed to continue despite the literal dangers they impose on our health.

[5] I fucking love the em dash, but now that I work on a Chromebook, there's no easy shortcut that isn't a thousand keystrokes to produce one. Thankfully, there's this website for all your (ahem, my) em dash needs.

[6] Self-promotion time! I'm hoping to work on deeper dives and more well-rounded, well-reported work in 2020 (this is me manifesting!) but in the meantime, ya boy's gotta eat. I've recently contributed to CN Traveler's Readers' Choice package with stories about Christmas in Chicago, luxury trains and the best countries in the world, with more on the way. The Wall Street Journal also asked me to contribute to their really fun gift guide of functional OR frivolous gifts. Finally, I was recently on the Why Food? podcast, where I shared my thoughts on staying relevant in the food media space, the differences I've learned between newspaper, magazine, and digital publications, and much much more.

Hiya.

I've wanted to launch this newsletter for three years now, so what you're reading is the product of a long, internal fight with my psyche. Between jobs and moves and Big Life Things, I've alternately battled with the voices telling me a) I'm not good enough and b) I have zero ideas that people will care about. Thank god for therapy, and art, and books, and ignoring those voices, and thank you for deciding to follow me here. I hope I can interest you to stay awhile.

First things first: I'm an award-winning editor and writer looking for the next big thing. I was recently laid off, which sucks—no sense in sugar-coating it. I was a little surprised, though, that I wasn't as emotionally affected as I would have expected. Having witnessed lay-offs in newsrooms and publications before, I guess I expected I'd be more dejected or thrown off balance than I actually was. Instead, after getting off the phone with my former editors, I updated my resume and sent it off to about a dozen people. An hour after I was officially jobless, I got a call from a recruiter at a major magazine group, and had an interview the next day. (I'm still waiting to hear back on a few fronts for staff job.) Sure, my world feels a little unsure at the moment, but if I know anything it's this: I'll be okay.

So back to this newsletter. I've spent the last few weeks regrouping and cocooning, steeped in tea and writing long, reflective journal entries to give shape to gushy, blobby thoughts and ideas. I've taken long walks. I've traveled. I've read a few books, listened to too many podcasts. I've been a working journalist for 10+ years, working in newspapers, magazines, and digital mediums--now that I'm not anchored by a staff position at a publication, I have to redefine discipline, story creation, and craft under my own terms. What a wild feeling! I am relearning what makes me tick—as author and podcaster Jocelyn K. Glei asks on her program, Hurry Slowly, who am I without the doing?

It's a big question, and I don't have the slightest idea on how to answer it. For all of my professional skills and knowledge, I haven't allowed myself to play or imagine other outcomes for myself. What if I didn't go back to work right away? Who would I be without the titles of "journalist" or "editor"? As a person deeply motivated by external validation, I feel shackled to the reward system of bylines and social media likes. I'm confused about how to map out my next steps when I don't even know if I'm standing in a forest or a desert.

The thing is... I'm excited by this unknown. As I continue to write and ponder, I can't shake an incessant need to be creative, out loud and in the open. So much of a public persona or (UGH) personal brand is created behind the scenes, such that what the audience sees is the polished product, but not how the artist got there. I'm not so interested in the polished anymore. In this space, I want to explore craft and process, while sharing my own behind-the-scenes for the writing process--how to unplug, where to find inspiration, that sort of thing. I'm inspired by writers and makers like the aforementioned Jocelyn K. Glei, journalist Ann Friedman, and writer/illustrator Austin Kleon, and hope to bring to your attention stories about art, culture, food, history etc. that speak to me. I want to also keep you abreast of projects I'm working on, in case there's a fit. Have interesting stories or ideas you think would pique my interest? Want to work together? Drop me a line! jhernandez312@gmail.com.

Thank you, I love you.
~Joseph

10 Links I Love:
[1] I have a new website. Let's start there.
[2] God grant me the energy and confidence of this goose.
[3] I've been listening to the Ten Percent Happier podcast a lot lately, even before the layoff. I've been trying to connect with myself via meditation (to middling results) but I do find myself more aware of my energy, thoughts, and reactions to things. Deeper in the archive, there's an episode with Manoush Zomorodi, a journalist and entrepreneur who has explored the benefits of boredom, and the harm our multi-screen lives do to our sense of play and creativity. Her work is interesting, and I want to pick up her book.
[4] This Twitter thread about a 99-year-old woman named Rita Smith, a quilt she started, and an internet community that has rallied to complete her work in her honor moved me.
[5] Who is having fun?
[6] NPR's Life Kit podcast has been an excellent listen as I make coffee in the morning, or if I'm tidying up around the house. I've long had great relationships with non-men, but when it comes to creating meaningful connections with members of my identified gender, I have a hard time connecting. This episode on how men can create stronger friendships with people was a good one, with thoughts from Thomas Page McBee, an author whose work on toxic masculinity has been on my radar for a couple of years now, but I just haven't gotten around to reading. Gotta change that.
[7] The Atlantic recently published this story on creating equitable marriages, and there was some good, actionable insight on accountability and heading off resentment.
[8] Good news for me? How early-career setbacks can set you up for success: “This is not just survival of the fittest,” Dr. Wang said. “These people became better versions of themselves."
[9] The history of the hard shell taco, and why it's not as gringo-licious as you'd think.
[10] Not a drill: Stanley Tucci and Colin Firth are playing a longtime couple in a new film called Supernova, which promises to be all of the sads. But also: Daddy goals!

What I'm Working On:
Currently, I'm still strongly entrenched in the food, wine, and travel space, with a few freelance projects for some publications in the works. If you have tips on chefs, recipes, events, openings/closings, or new sources, do reach out. I'm particularly interested in people at the intersection of food/drinks, community, sustainability, wellness/mental health, and equitable economies, but in the meantime, I'm also interested in new chefs/rising stars and new menus, whether for bars or restaurants. I'm also open to coffee dates and the like (NYC for now, though that may change with some upcoming travel). (Talk to me about Columbus, Ohio!) Finally, I'd like to expand my coverage into art and culture, so if you want to talk books, big ideas about creativity, the future of things, or just wanna drop some knowledge on me, do let me know. Thank you!