I have listened to this song over 100 times this week:

I played it on repeat while I worked, while I heated up leftovers, and as I sit on the couch writing this. It’s a perfect song! Dolly’s laughter, the light in her voice, the ease of her and Chet singing and playing together. It sounds effortless, and at the same time it sounds like the divine is pouring out right through them. It is heavenly. Dolly’s “I love you” at the very end always gets me.

Dolly Parton didn’t think anyone at Glastonbury knew her music or would like her (clip here), but called this performance one of the best things she’d ever done. I love that you can hear the crowd singing along with her, and at 1:45ish you can see the security team doing a little dance to it together. And again, her laugh at 3:05 will send a tingle up your spine.

Her cover of “The House of the Rising Sun” will leave you similarly awestruck. Compare it to the original (a great song!) and Dolly’s arrangement will have you gobsmacked, out of your seat, and grooving. It is deliciously good.

Now for two more unhinged tributes, I saw someone share this on Twitter and didn’t have my volume on and thought “oh, so weird Vin Diesel posted a slow-zoom photo of Dolly, we are all getting older and forgetting ourselves.” I revisited it today with my sound on, and was astounded to hear him covering “I Will Always Love You.” The comments are (possibly rightfully) a mess, but I have to say I agree with Miss Shelly below — let people be sad and mourn in their own freaky ways! Like this disjointed newsletter I’m writing.

Also, did you know Pitbull and Dolly did a song together? Mr. 305 and Mrs. 9 to 5 teamed up for “Powerful Women,” which Pitbull played a tiny bit of at a recent show. All I could think was “Dalé Parton.”

Here’s the song in full. It samples “9 to 5,” and is Pitbull’s ode to hard-working women. I will forever have a soft spot for that baldie.

Finally, as our fifth song in this newsletter (the Vin cover doesn’t count), I wanted to share one tiny tribute for another star who passed away on the same day as Dolly, 25 years ago. Aaliyah was one in a million. She was only 22 at the time of her passing but she was already a decade into her career, having been signed to a label at 12 (madness), successfully singing, dancing, acting, and modeling.

“Rock the Boat” is an incredible song but the music video is gutting because it’s the last footage of her, ever. Her plane crashed in the Bahamas a minute after takeoff, hours after finishing filming this video. And now, she’s been gone longer than she was on earth. It’s a sad, surreal milestone. We were lucky to experience her meteoric rise but it’s a shame we couldn’t see her full ascent.

I feel heavy with grief this week, because the 25th marked the 12-year anniversary of my friend Abe’s passing. In a tiny plane crash, just as his college studies were beginning, his life was taken from him and I will never understand it. In a few weeks, it will be five years from my dear friend Mona’s passing, and like all these other losses, sometimes the only consolation you can find is remembering that person dearly. Both Mona and Abe loved music. Mona and I would bond over Keane and emo-adjacent music (she would’ve loved this Pitbull song), while Abe’s favorite song to sing was “Stand By Me.” It’s through music, sometimes even listening to the same song 100 times, that I’ve found my way through grief, and that’s why all I can come up with today are songs.

On a slightly lighter note, not to be the holier-than-thou police but many of you say Aaliyah’s name incorrectly… Here’s how she pronounces it (this is also my sister’s name and how it’s correctly pronounced in many parts of the world!).

Love you,

Roya

I loved Dolly’s version even more, discovering it as a teenager and feeling enthralled by the mysterious woman who could unnerve the seemingly coolest person on the planet, The Queen of Country herself. I was 16-ish when this duet of it with Miley Cyrus (Dolly’s Goddaughter) dropped and found myself transported to the backseat of my mom’s 1995 Toyota Camry.

It was around that time when I first watched Steel Magnolias, cementing Dolly Parton in my mind as this inimitable, otherworldly woman. Someone whose charm and grit could get them anywhere. I was obsessed with two lines in that film: “The higher the hair, the closer to God” and “I’m just screamin’ at my husband; I can do that anytime.”

Her career was a story of making something out of nothing, even using her acrylic nails to make beats — those very nails forming the rhythm of “9 to 5,” and making a beautiful harmony with Patti LaBelle here.

In a conversation with Zac Brown a few months back, she talked about how she stays grounded: “I try to remember that little girl that was singing on the front porch in a tin can. I refer to her more than you might think, because I remember what I wanted and how much I wanted it.”

For someone whose hair and heels were astronomical, her presence larger than life, she stayed grounded even at the height of her success. When Andy Cohen asked her what she did with the royalties from Whitney Houston’s cover of her song, “I Will Always Love You,” she said she invested that money into an office complex in a historically Black neighborhood in Nashville. "I just thought, 'This was great. I'm going to be down here with her people, who are my people as well.' And so I just love the fact that I spent that money on a complex. And I think, 'This is the house that Whitney built.' "

Here’s the two of them at the Grammys in 1994 as Whitney wins the Best Pop Vocal Award:

“Islands in the Stream” is of course on my mind too; it’s funny to think the Bee Gees wrote it, allegedly with Marvin Gaye in mind (some say Diana Ross), before it ever found its way to Dolly. Her take on it was brilliant enough that it became hard to imagine belonging to anyone else, which maybe explains why she found her way back to Barry Gibb all these years later for a take on “Words” — and, of course, nailing it perfectly.

I can’t bring myself to listen to “Here You Come Again" just now, but this clip of Maggie Rogers singing it triggers a beautiful achy feeling. What a gift, this feeling, and what a bigger gift, this music, this oeuvre, a personality bigger than the biggest hair and a heart made of gold (and studded with rhinestones). How lucky were we to be in Dolly’s orbit. For these songs to leave her and stay with us, wherever we found ourselves, perhaps just when I’ve begun to get myself together.

And here I go,

Roya

The song of the week is an instrumental that keeps coming across my feed. This song was released 21 years ago this month, and I forgot how good the beat was until I kept getting served videos of people dancing to it. I played it on a loop while clearing my work emails and felt immensely in the zone, when I much rather would have been in a club (before 11pm but somehow packed yet not overly crowded, no one is pushy and the DJ keeps surprising the crowd with their choice of throwbacks).

Next up, we’ve got a short essay on the ‘second brain’. The second brain metaphor is new to me but the compilation of files, writing, wishlists, notes, and assorted ephemera is not. I recently went through my browser tabs on my phone, clearing out about 700 tabs, feeling embarrassed that I had amassed such a hodgepodge of mostly useless information. I feel better when I open Safari on my phone now, which probably doesn’t mean much… but it’s better than the low-lying dread of seeing all those windows. Here are two bits lingering with me:

“In trying to remember everything, I outsourced the act of reflection. I didn’t revisit ideas. I didn’t interrogate them. I filed them away and trusted the structure. But a structure is not thinking. A tag is not an insight. And an idea not re-encountered might as well have never been had.”

“When I deleted that list, I lost nothing real. I know what I want to read. I know the shape of my attention. I do not need a 7,000-item database to prove that I have taste or ambition.

This mirrors a deeper psychological error. The belief that by naming a goal, you are closer to achieving it. That by storing a thought, you have understood it. That by filing a fact, you have earned the right to deploy it.”

Here’s a recipe for a comfort dish that will carry me through the fall and winter months, oyakodon. Oya means “parent” in Japanese, “ko” means child, and “don” is short for donburi, meaning bowl or a rice bowl dish. This makes sense when you realize it’s a chicken and egg dish. My favorite take on oyakodon in NYC was at Raku in Soho and I think about it all the time:

Even worse, I dream about a discontinued dish on their menu, the tentamadon — which involved crispy, salty bits of shrimp tempura mixed with barely set eggs over rice in a sweet-salty dashi broth. Oyakodon is still quite good, it comes together in the time it takes to steam some rice in one pot.

Niche Account on Instagram: The Singing Salesman is… exactly what that sounds like. His bio says it all: Singer 🎤 Car Sales 🚘 Child of God 🙏. He has impeccable pitch, and when he sells a car, he serenades his customer with a song of his own creation:

“May the lord bless this car, and make his face shine upon everyone who rides along, and may he give you peace and bring you joy for the journey on every road that leads you home.” A commenter described the tune as sounding like it would fit right into a Maxwell House commercial, and they aren’t wrong. I’ve watched several videos and would love to understand how the song came about, if any customer has reacted poorly to it (is he asking for singing consent?), and why we can’t have him singing covers off of Disney soundtracks as well. Anyway, he did a great run on this one:

Joyful Internet Content:

This peek at the making of this deeply memorable and dazzling Hacks scene makes me miss the show more than I already do (quite a lot):

I started laughing at the over the shoulder pour and knew I was in for a treat:

Thinking a lot about this Madonna cover:

A brilliant use of free will:

Singer 🎤 Car Sales 🚘 Child of God 🙏,

Roya

It’s Friday and I’m back with your roundup of joyful, cathartic content from across the cobwebby corners of the digital universe. it’s taking everything in me not to make this whole thing about eclipses and natural phenomena. I really relish in the moments where we all look up, in collective disbelief and awe, and turn into children again. I wish the sky would do something funky just a tiny bit more, still retaining the rarity and mystery of it but giving us another reason to drop our phones and baggage and take stock of the beautiful place we’re occupying. We could all do this voluntarily, fwiw, but… we might just need an extra push.

Song: Goodness, this song. It still hits all these years later. Do you remember the music video? If not, I’m sorry to re-hash it but there’s a lot to unpack here. Justin Timberlake in a 7-11 t-shirt dancing intensely in front a 7-11. I thought adulthood would be more like this. The best part of the song has nothing to do with JT, it’s all about brotherly duo Clipse who have the best verse on the track (naturally). They also get a bit more dancey than I expect to on camera, followed by Pharrell doing some popping and locking at the very end.

Why do you think I included that nostalgia trip in this week’s Friday Five? Because our next topic is a new one… scary yet funnily accurate celebrity parody. I keep getting served videos from this creator who keeps riffing on “Like I Love You” and I can’t stop thinking about them. Instagram isn’t embedding on Substack today, so linking to the one I’ve shared from TikTok below in case you aren’t on that platform. One of the comments described it as JT x Buster from Arrested Development which is unfortunately accurate. Am I horrified? Am I scared? Am I laughing? Yes.

@mrjamesbertieDrums…

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An Interior Study… or a Study in Interiors (two-parter): Sharing two very different interiors that have been on my mind this week. First, let’s start with Nancy Meyers blessing us with a peek at her office this week. Those french doors, the rafters in the ceiling, the shelf overflowing with books, photos, trinkets, and memorabilia. All signs of a life well lived. I would like to sit at that desk in complete silence and write a beautiful, hilarious, deeply affecting romantic comedy set in Santa Barbara.

Next, The World of Interiors did a piece on Iranian zurkhanehs, which I can best describe as some sort of traditional wrestling gym but that doesn’t quite do it justice.

They’re absolutely dazzling and what’s just as interesting are the descriptions of ritual that take place in the space: Above the arena sits the morshed, or guide, who typically presides from an elevated platform known as the sardam, often the most decorated area of the room, positioned to overlook both the athletes and spectators. When an important person or athlete enters, the morshed rings a bell. Working with the miyander, a senior pahlevan who leads exercises from the centre, he recites poetry, prayers and passages from Persian literature while striking a zarb, a goblet-shaped drum. The recitations do more than keep time; they reinforce the ethical principles of javānmardi, a philosophical concept loosely linked to chivalry, which emphasises humility, generosity, self-discipline and service to one’s community, reminding participants that strength is measured as much by character as physical ability.

Joyful Internet Content:

Bonnie Tyler did an eclipse tutorial in partnership with Jaffa Cakes several years back, which kinda sounds like a “Curtains for Zoosha” moment.

Hilary Duff teamed up with Good Charlotte to perform “The Anthem” in NYC and it looked like a healing experience for everyone in the arena. I’m deeply jealous. Speaking of anthems, Pow Magazine sorted out what the song of the summer was and I’m in complete agreement:

We don’t talk about the ad libs in that song enough. I love it when he says “oh my GAWD” like even he, the narrator of this whole story, is surprised that the mack has returned.

Finally, as a treat for those who made it this far, a reminder that “Like I Love You” spawned this gem… which I now realize is not unlike the video whatsoever.

@shitheadsteveShouldve let him go #justintimberlake #viral #trending #meme #foryou

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Dancing outside 7-11,
Roya

Song: “Nothing Even Matters” has reached certified platinum status on my phone given the number of times I’ve played it over the past decade. And as I sit with my own writer’s block, I’ve since learned Lauryn Hill was facing a massive case of the same affliction when trying to pen this song. She wanted to create a love song somewhere along the lines of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.” She penned about 30 songs trying to nail this one. Hearing her producer working on this snap-laden beat set the track in motion, and D’Angelo laid down his vocals in just an hour.

I think a lot about sparks of inspiration, likely because I fumble my own far too often and I’ve been thinking about D’Angelo a lot this past year. He appeared to be so embodied, tapped in to his innate creativity, the divine spark within him seemingly readily accessible from the outside, which was honed carefully, sometimes painfully over decades of hard work.

News You Can Use: Myspace might be making a comeback, and a sweeping wave of nostalgia and excitement coursed through me when social media mostly conjures dread in me. I don’t even know that it’s possible for Myspace to occupy the same cultural footprint it briefly had, and it’s unlikely that another platform will make any of us feel any differently about interacting with one another online. Myspace was the second social media platform I ever used (Xanga was the first, and sometimes writing on here feels like it), it put me onto musicians and artists I still listen to. Sky Ferreira was one of those artists, and connections from Myspace (shoutout Keith!) were how I got into a very tiny show of hers put on in a music rental spot in NYC in 2010.

@feefee_2024im freaking ready...#myspace #code #CapCut #comeback

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Twenty years ago, my friend Kamie and I were fixated on how we could make our pages stand out. We learned basic HTML to make layouts, then decided to start our own page rife with Myspace and Xanga layouts, gifs, icons to use as profile pictures, glittery banners, and the like. It was called “Hollywood Glam” (honestly fitting because Kamie is indeed both hollywood and glam, she is truly one of the best people) and we made decent traction with it. I remember taking digital camera selfies in her backyard which we used to hard launch our actual faces onto the page, fumbling with our angles — not to be confused with the Myspace angles called out in this OG viral video by David Lehre… whose content I loved before he pivoted into cosplaying as a K-pop star, another rabbithole for another Consumed. We also had a moment where we inexplicably capitalized every letter except the ‘i’ and doubled up on random letters and added z’s to our plurals, with phrases like 'TANLiNESZ FADEE; FRiENDS LAST FOREVERR’ atop our pages.

A Birthday Tribute: The delicate, beautiful tenderness in Hanif Abdurraqib’s music writing always stirs something in me and this beautiful ode to Kate Bush is no different. I can’t pick a favorite line here, but this one alone feels like a sermon: “Speaking of beauty, you can commit yourself, entirely, to the seeking of it, and the articulation of it, the pointing at it and begging others to join you in your pointing and you can change the terms of beauty, too.”

First Five Minutes of a Podcast: Beloved consumer pulled over her bicycle and left me a voice note urging me to listen to the first five minutes of this podcast episode. I would follow Sam off a cliff, so I immediately heeded her suggestion. I’ve never listened to Trixie or Katya before, stemming from my tendency to avoid funny podcast duos after Desus and Mero parted ways (I’m still not over it). “Born This Way” made quite the impact on me, going platinum on my iPod and taking up space on burned CDs, and in particular the line “you’re Lebanese, your orient” has occupied some valuable real estate in the time since it came out. I’m so grateful someone’s unpacking this all these years later.

Joyful Internet Content:

I love Robby Hoffman and I love people with spatial awareness on trains, which are sadly lacking to a meaningful extent in London. We need to bring this across the pond with David Attenborough and Posh Spice making the announcements, ideally that one girl from Little Mix who blurted ‘BALEGEDE’ as well:

“Not Ready to Make Nice” is one of the greatest songs of all time, and this bridge will always make me emotional!!!

I’ve been thinking about this headstone for days:

And this carousel pairs perfectly with reminiscing on Myspace:

Never ready to make nice,

Roya

This week has taken a lot out of me. I tried to write the Friday Five and I wasn’t in the headspace for it — every day I read the news out of Iran and I can’t fathom it. I read a story in The Guardian where a conservative editor says “[Trump’s] like Icarus with the sun with this stuff – it seems to be a personal vendetta with the Iranians.” In that same piece, a former White House advisor says “the escalation has already exceeded what I thought was possible.”

I scroll on Instagram and Twitter, seeing photos from Ahvaz, one of Iran’s poorest provinces and also one of its most ethnically diverse. I think about how everything we’re living through has exceeded the realm of possibility. I think about my mom, who is from Abadan -. I want to ask her so many questions… What might her childhood street look like now? Does she recognize any of what she left decades ago in what she sees on the news? I watch her Instagram Stories, sharing the news and updates from locals, each one a new pang. Mostly, I think I’m at a loss for any coherent explanation of any of this, that despite my position of privilege and comfort and distance I can’t piece the words together to make it make sense. It defies any explanation.

The other thing occupying my mind this week? My dog, Fig. She had an abscess as a result of a grass seed (or foxtail in the US, either way these things are awful and yet so prevalent) in what we’ll describe as a private area. The abscess burst, she was in a world of pain, she had to get surgery to clean it all out and didn’t walk or go to the bathroom for four days. My sprightly, sassy dog was curled into a ball, occasionally groaning, uncomfortable for most of the week, when any other week I field the question, “Is she still a puppy?” I spent a lot of time scratching under her cone, trying to hand-feed her chicken from M&S, encouraging her to walk and failing each time, crying and wishing I could understand anything happening in her brain.

At 11:30pm on Wednesday night, my hair was in pin curls and my silk bonnet was on. Fig slapped me as she lay beside me in bed, her pink cone taking up way too much space. Earlier that day, I had carried her up and down the stairs several times, placed her outside where she stood like a statue, and finally got her to drink water twice, a tiny sign of progress amidst plenty of disappointment. “Do you want to go out?” It was a simple question, one I didn’t think she’d respond to. She jumped out of bed and sprinted. I hobbled out and chased her, as she sat by the front door waiting. Leash on, keys jangling in hand, we’re outside. There are drunk and sad people coming home from the England match. Fig is shimmying down the street after mostly being immobile, and I’m running to keep up with her.

We get to a grassy space where she finally goes. I am laughing and crying and look unhinged, in a bonnet and oversized Glossier t-shirt turned sleeping shirt. She refuses to walk back home but I’m happy to carry her, all 16 kilos. I’m cheering and celebrating, upsetting at least one of the sad football fans. I whooped as I fed her an M&S sausage dog treat, throwing it in the air as she caught it in between her front teeth. On Thursday, she went to the bathroom once. Yesterday, twice - and a bit more walking before laying down on the pavement. Today, she was happy to see me when I returned home.

Everything exceeds what I think is possible and most of it is out of my control. Whatever energy is left is spent trying to make Fig comfortable and happy. Those tiny signs of life and signs of her returning to herself all feel big and impactful. As I write this, she is nestled next to me with her chin resting on my leg, while yesterday she was too uncomfortable to be cuddled like this.

I think I’m watching her the same way I watch the news, the same way I watch my mom, waiting for a reaction, some small sign that things could be okay. So while I still lack answers and explanations for things, at least I have this.

Everything exceeds what I think is possible and most of it is out of my control.

Two things I will leave you with:

Mariam Khanlou’s photography from the south of Iran leaves me breathless, as does Forough Alaei’s.

In lieu of seeing Ahvaz in real life, in the wake of seeing destruction there, the photos are all people and all heart. I’m consuming it all. From Forough’s caption above: “How could anyone not miss people like that?People who love their homeland, who respect nature, and whose hearts ache for even the smallest living creatures that share this land and sea. Maybe that’s the true secret of abundance: the respect they have for the sea, and the kind of love that makes them care even about the seaweed on the ocean floor.”

I’ve been experiencing a wave of self-doubt and waning confidence in myself as a writer, which is why I’ve kept recent newsletter ledes short and sweet. I know this is a phase, and it will pass like any other. It’ll pass more quickly if I just embrace the discomfort and get back into the rhythm, so here I am, attempting to share something beautiful and something slightly less beautiful. I can’t outright call it ugly, but it’s certainly… curious.

Something beautiful: I believe jasmine shrubs and vines should be an urban planning intervention in cities everywhere. It is a public good. Wafting jasmine should be something every city-dweller experiences every summer. Walking, running, and cycling around town, I get whiffs of it and it’s beautifully cloying. It’s so sticky-sweet I want to be consumed by it. I love being engulfed by the scent first and then having to scan for the source of it.

If I were ever a Mayor, mandatory jasmine planting would be part of my campaign platform. Editors Note: I ran for Mayor of my second grade classroom on a slogan that centered on my name backwards — ayoR for MayoR. I lost.

My lovely friend Radhika taught me the most common varietal in the UK is called star jasmine, for the stunning, sharp, asterisk-like shape the blossoms take. The Royal Horticultural Society describes it as a vigorous, evergreen plant that’s also a woody climber. I taught Radhika a special Iranian trick I learned from my Grandmother and Mom: pick off a few jasmine flowers and stick them in your shirt pocket or bra (if you’re wearing one). You’ll get the wafting sent of jasmine for hours from the warmth on your chest. At the end of the day, you’ll forget until you change your clothes and the spent flowers fall to the floor. Pick them up and give them one final sniff before bed.

Something less beautiful: I’m slowly developing an addiction to Lucozade, a British sports drink. For the Brits reading, I’ve actually yet to try the fizzy orange formula that’s the original and most popular flavor, I’ve been enjoying the ‘Sport’ line which has less sugar than the original.

There’s no Gatorade in this country to my knowledge, I believe they tried a launch in the early 2000s and couldn’t beat the incumbent Lucozade (has this two word phrase ever been written?). According to a retail insider quoted in 2007, “The colour is too lurid.” And honestly, they’re right — the neon yellow is a bit much.

Like many other good things, the Lucozade kick started after a run. I was looking for a thirst quencher, popped into the local bodega and grabbed two bottles (one for myself and one for my partner, I’m not a complete freak), running the last few blocks home with one in each hand like an Olympian relayer. Cue the Kylie Minogue, it was love at first sip… and I just can’t get it out of my head.

I assume certain food dyes and sweeteners are banned here by regulation, which probably explains it — to me, Lucozade tastes like the Gatorade of my youth crossed with Guzzler lemonade, something my mom bought us for the rare sporty occasion: the school field day each summer. And now, like Pavlov’s dogs, I’m conditioning myself to expect this reward after a sweaty summer run. I love the tail-end of a run, jogging in place in the bodega while getting my phone out to pay, strutting like a fool with two bottles in hand for a few blocks, smiling gleefully.

A Worthwhile Read: Kaitlyn Greenridge’s latest for Harper’s Bazaar is about Juneteenth and a new short-documentary Power to the People, Y’all, which is co-directed by the brilliant Tressie McMillan Cottom. She interviewed a few members of the party and there are several quotes I wanted to pull, but this one is sitting with me:

Knicks-tory: If you’ve made it this far, here’s a snapshot of my state of mind this week.

Here is a tiny sampling of Knicks content that’s sustained me:

Joyful Internet Content:

This is so perfectly stupid, I love it and would like to recreate it for England featuring M&S, Waitrose, Tesco, Sainsbury’s, and perhaps Morrisons.

Running towards a jasmine bush, Lucozade in hand,

Roya

It’s only fitting that today’s newsletter celebrates this dream team, with a teensy bit of backstory for those who aren’t familiar with their game. And if this doesn’t interest you whatsoever, scroll to the bottom for two non-Knicks bits.

For starters, if you’re trying to understand the significance of last night’s victory, here are two short clips to give you a sense of how miraculous it was. With one second to go, Og Anunoby (born in London btw!) pulled off the greatest comeback in the team’s history. Karl-Anthony Towns called it the “Right hand of God.” More on that in The Ringer.

@nba🏆 Unreal. OG Anunoby for the win! 🏆 #NBAFinals #Basketball #OGAnunoby #Knicks #NBA

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More angles:

@nba🏆 OG’s tip-in dunk for the win is a cinematic experience 🍿 🏆 #NBAFinals #NBA #Basketball #Knicks #OGAnunoby

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This 2021 story on Knicks fandom is a lovely read, with quotes from my forever favorites Desus and Mero and Josh Safdie. The saddest part of this moment is that Desus and Mero aren't together to celebrate it. Relatedly, this clip of them riffing on Knicks fandom makes me miss their podcast even more.

My friend Scott sent me this in a groupchat that originated in discussing the most unhinged LinkedIn post we’ve ever seen. It has now fully devolved into Knicks banter and memes. He’s in Italy, I’m in London, and our friend Dana is in Brooklyn giving the best possible live updates. This cross-European commentary roundup is perfect:

I’ve been thinking about this girl and her invisible dunk for two weeks now:

I’m also thinking of Ahnaf Hossain, a 23-year-old fan who gave us this poetry:

My mayor still Muslim

My bagel’s still Jewish

The pope’s on our side

Knicks in five

More on him (and the odd Kalshi tie in) here.

A combination of the sage cleansing and prayers clearly worked:

I want a future in which this stoop ,and all the dogs on it, belong to me.

For the non-Knicks bits, my friend Joelle sent me this which warrants 0 commentary:

And finally, full disclaimer: I loved T. Swift from the “SLAMMIN’ SCRIN DOOR” days and genuinely loved Folklore and Evermore. Unfortunately, this is a really solid impression. Tree Paine, if you have Google Alerts on, you should have these two help promote whatever b-side/vinyl/limited run single will be coming out next (there’s too much of that!). ‘Youarethebishopgoingdiagonally’ might be my favorite.

Knicks in Five,

Roya

Visual Diaries to Sink Your Heart Into: I adore ’s (hi, friend!) dazzling newsletter, , and I think you might, too. Their recent travels through Japan are documented in the form of visual diaries, and they’re a delightful use of Substack. Scrolling through them feels like getting your scalp massaged with something really scratchy and nice. Sharing two of the diaries below for you to peruse at your own leisure!

• channeling •

my visual diary from rural japan

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3 months ago · 140 likes · 16 comments · J Wortham

There’s an image of what appears to be rose petal jam in ‘part 2’ that I’d like to live inside. Also, I know this sounds like a very clichéd tourist trope (it is both that and true), but the time I spent in Japan (this was my brain dump after my first 23 hours in Japan) made me feel alive, present, grateful, and curious in many ways. There is no perfect place, but sometimes there are places that really bring something out in you, and I felt that viscerally there.

• channeling •

my visual diary from rural japan, part 2

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3 months ago · 43 likes · 13 comments · J Wortham

Marjane Satrapi passed away this week, one year after losing the love of her life. According to those close to her, she died of sadness. Much of her work was sad; it carried the weight of the tragic baggage that Iranians everywhere hold quietly and tightly. There are three quotes of hers on my mind this week:

I couldn't find a single non-pixelated graphic of this quote, so I made one.

The scenes of her character and her grandmother felt so close to my own memories of my Maman Bozorg, and I’ve never seen something that so closely reflected that dynamic on screen before.

Movie: I saw My Favorite Cake last week, on the recommendation of an Auntie in my choir, and it reminded me of why I love Iranian cinema so much. It’s a romantic tragicomedy, so be prepared for some sadness, but also prepare to envelop yourself in the love of an Iranian grandmother. One important piece of backstory: the authorities found out about scenes in the film where women weren't wearing hijab modestly enough and were showing their hair, and destroyed the footage in Iran. The filmmakers already planned for this. They'd saved the footage on an external hard drive outside the country, which is what allowed the film to make it to the festival circuit.

Song: This song came out on an underground Irish label in 2004, then blew up ten years later after a re-release. No one knew anything about the artist, Fatima Yamaha, whose bio was just “a young lady born to a Japanese father and a Turkish mother.” Turns out it was just a Dutch music producer called Bas Bron. If you’re keen for more lore, there’s a quick clip with more context below the song, but you can just enjoy the slow burn of the song and that’ll be more than enough.

Joyful Internet Content:

Nothing’s worse than saying goodbye,

Roya

Song: This came on during a very hot run this morning and hit like jet fuel. I’m genuinely dismayed by her politics, so I’m sharing this while grimacing, but I have to admit that it’s a perfect song. More importantly, I recently learned that the legendary Linda Perry was behind it!

Lore Behind the Song: Linda’s breakout moment was when she was in 4 Non Blondes — she sang, wrote, and played guitar on “What’s Up,” so if you’ve ever belted that in karaoke or just when the world seems to be too much to bear, you have her to thank. In the years since, she’s founded two record labels and wrote Pink’s “Get the Party Started,” Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful,” and actually my favorite Christina song, “Keeps Gettin’ Better.” That also came on this morning and helped me persevere, huffing and puffing my way down the canal, dodging strollers and Lime Bikes.

New York News: Some of you have read A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, but have you heard of The Puddle that Mutated in Brooklyn? Thank you Gothamist for this beautiful headline.

The corner of Erasmus Street and Rogers Avenue in Flatbush has turned into a biome, with algae blooms and local residents claiming they haven’t seen that area dry in 30 years. It’s a polarizing phenomenon and I was consumed enough by it to look for it in Google Streetview. Here it is in June 2018:

I also took a janky, virtual whirl around the block to see if there was anything else interesting, and I came across this extremely aggressive no parking sign that was perfectly New York “No! No! No!”

An unconventional beauty creator: Michael Klok is a self-proclaimed hair artist whose content is just unlike anything else I’ve seen in the beauty realm.

I might reach out for a Consumed interview because I need to understand how these ideas came together and who is doing the filming. If you’re not convinced, he just got an Interview feature yesterday.

Joyful Internet Content:

Michelle Williams and Michelle Williams finally got together, and Miss Barbara from Abbott Elementary won’t know what to do with herself:

Do you remember when Britney Spears opened a restaurant in New York?

It’s okay if you don’t remember, because it sounds like she doesn’t want to either:

The recalibration of LEDs in Times Square should take place every hour, on the hour, to soothe all the harried pedestrians ambling through.

I expected adulthood to be like MyScene and the music video for Usher’s “U Don’t Have to Call” and it turned out to be neither. Also, please DM me if you’re similarly haunted by Usher asking: “You smell it? Yeah, you smell it?” in the beginning of the song? What is he on about???

Do you smell it? I don’t!!

Roya

Last week I complained about wearing a wool coat in London in mid-May. This week, I’ll complain about the massive heat wave and the general lack of air conditioning everywhere — it is steaming out. So much so that there’s an advisory telling people to carry water. Anyway, let’s get into our weekly bits and bobs:

Celebrity Serenade: Joe remains one of R&B's most underrated crooners — I saw him perform live several months ago and was completely floored. He sounds exactly the same. Anyway, this video of him singing his biggest hit to Britney Spears has only 1,700 views, and 300 of them are mine. I would read an entire oral history of this moment told by the two backup dancers in Hawaiian shirts who mysteriously appear at the 50-second mark.

Chip Lore: Surprisingly, this isn't about Bret's, though you must know their Lebanese falafel flavor tastes incredible. Today we're talking about Pringles. Specifically, the man on the can. Unfortunately, he's yet another victim of the great yassification of corporate mascots: he should have kept his original hair tuft instead of the strange drawn-on eyebrows he's been saddled with. Anyway, do you know this guy's name?

If your answer is no, you’re half-right. For the longest time, he was nameless, sometimes referred to as ‘Mr. P.’ In 2006, two college freshman went on Wikipedia and updated his name to Julius, and naturally, they also started a Facebook page - aptly titled “Who knew he was named Julius Pringles?” - to raise awareness. When P&G sold the Pringles brand to Kellogg’s in 2012, the company accepted “Julius” as Mr. P’s true name. What brand would you do this to? I’d give the Sour Patch Kids names.

Future Commune Inspiration: ‘New Ground’ is a housing estate entirely comprised of women over the age of 50 in North London. If the BBC isn't already rushing cameras over there to film a British take on Golden Girls, I will start a GoFundMe to buy the necessary equipment and get this thing going. It started ten years ago with one smart idea: “what if we didn’t have to grow old alone but were able to share a home with our friends?”

This exchange tugged at my heartstrings:

“Most women say it,” observes Argent, a former social worker who is Jewish and fled to Britain from Vienna to escape the Nazis when she was ten years old. “Men a little less, I think. But women very much say, ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to live together? We’ll buy a big house…’ ”

“ ‘… and we’ll have a kitchen in the middle and we’ll always have wine,’ ” Jude Tisdall, a 74-year-old resident, pitches in.

“But very few people are able to realise it,” Argent finishes.

Anyway, it was inspired by a womens-only commune in Amsterdam in the 90s, where the Dutch government was already allocating grants to help the 55-plus generation plan ahead and live communally. It took them twelve years to find a site, so if this appeals to you, there’s no time like the present.

Poem: I’m embarrassed to admit I wasn’t familiar with Amir Khosro’s poetry, but “He Visits My Town Once a Year” is a new favorite.

This subgenre, originated by Khosro, is called Keh Mukarni (translation: “Say” and “Deny”), a staple of Hindavi literature made up of playful riddles involving two speakers seemingly discussing their lovers but ending instead in wordplay. Here’s another:

We need to bring this art form back and/or have the ladies of “New Ground” do readings of these poems.

Joyful Internet Content:

A music teacher in North Carolina is making Jack Black’s character in School of Rock look like actual child’s play. This cover of “Like Him” by Tyler the Creator and Lola Young stopped me in my tracks:

And then this Lupe Fiasco and Jill Scott cover left my jaw on the floor, stay for the verse:

Then, they covered Outkasts’s “Rosa Parks” and I screamed! These are elementary schoolers! They are so TALENTED. They’re raising funds for their summer camp if you’d like to support them.

This guy nailed the Iranian cadence so well:

This creator speaks Farsi with a Texan accent, and found a friend who can do it with an Irish accent and I’m wondering if I should pivot to speaking like this with my family.

If you’ve made it this far, I’m glad you’re here.

Who, girl, your man?

Roya

This week’s song is a cover! T-Pain is a generational talent, hilarious, and a delight in so many ways… and this cover is ten times better than the original. He's covered Gavin DeGraw's 'I Don't Wanna Be' not once, but twice. And ICYMI: DeGraw performed at the inauguration and shared this CORNY post about it with an unexplained Joe Rogan hashtag. Anyway, here’s the first cover:

And he brought it back to a music festival last weekend. This post is how I learned "I Don’t Wanna Be” was the theme song to One Tree Hill, a show I have never watched but have heard numerous things about via my dear friend Mallory.

This brings me to my next item on the five: the only footage I’ve ever seen from One Tree Hill. There’s an oral history of this moment (which involves another dog actor called 'Catfish' who failed at the task) that’s worth digging into if you’re similarly haunted by this clip. Do we have any One Tree Hill fans here who can speak to what this scene felt like as it aired? Was it completely unhinged or did it make sense in the context of the show?

Show: I started watching Amandaland on a flight to LA (Virgin Atlantic, thank you for the best entertainment selection) and became obsessed from the pilot alone. Season 2 has just dropped and I don’t think the series has made a full splash across the pond, so for Americans in need of escapism or craving shows about weird motherhood dynamics, this could be a good one. Joanna Lumley’s performance alone is legendary, and for Derry Girls fans, you’ll see Sister Michael in an entirely new light.

Needful Fruit Reminder: Have you got your seasonal mangos yet? We’re halfway through the season for Alphonsos and Kesars, along with some other divine varietals from India and Pakistan. I procured Pakistani honey mangos this past week and ate them with a spoon. They were SO soft, I’d highly recommend. I wanted to call this a ‘recipe’ but I don’t think it really qualifies as one – either try a mango with Tajín and a fresh squeeze of lime if you’re feeling up for something sweet and spicy, or just blitz good mango chunks in an immersion blender for a puree I’ve been eating with anything and everything. It goes particularly well on yogurt and granola.

Joyful Internet Content:

This reading of the lyrics of “I Don’t Wanna Be” also counts as a cover and warrants further reflection:

@anastasiatalleyI Don’t Want To Be by Gavin DeGraw: a critical analysis 😂 #gavindegraw #lyrics #music #humor #alternativerock

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Need to go to this guy’s next gig:

This sweet dolma made my eyes water:

This lady is me in a few decades:

@joyceieimy batteries at like 3 rn 💔 #universalstudios #rollercoaster #annoying

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Pat Collins is a DC legend for good reason…

@notinregzThis veteran dropped the hardest line ever on national tv

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I remember the first time I heard Teyana Taylor's "Rose in Harlem" — hunched over my laptop at the Glossier offices, doing the Jay-Z head bob within seconds. A minute later, my shoulders and back joined in, and I'd lost my place in the Google Doc I'd been furiously typing in.

I’ve been in awe of Teyana since that moment, watching her leap into new creative directions with every passing year. When I learned she choreographed Beyoncé’s “Ring the Alarm” at 15 years old (in 2006), it became evidently clear she was a generational talent. After her performance in One Battle After Another, she’s getting mass recognition – with Vanity Fair and a few others calling 2026 her ‘breakout year.’ That seems ridiculous given her trajectory, but I digress.

I wanted to give up on this run so badly, and then this song came on and took me home in every sense of the word. I was running through De Beauvoir singing bits out loud —"'What do she do?' I do everything, put that on my wedding ring, put that on my baby name" — without paying attention to a single passerby. I looked up her commentary on Genius about this line, and absolutely loved it:

“The funny thing is, all of my accomplishments were definitely public knowledge, however people who were constantly asking the question when they knew the answer, but opted not to really acknowledge them. Going back to the fact that despite what anyone says, YOU CAN NEVER GIVE UP!!!”

I didn’t give up today, and hope this song gives you whatever boost you might need.

Now onto the next category, a first of its kind: hypnotic fruit slicing. I could watch mango vendor in Lahore on repeat, ideally without the audio commentary calling him a ‘ninja’ but I’ll take any variation of him. I’m going to make an attempt to procure some Pakistani mangos soon.

Next up, a child prodigy. Prince (aptly named) is a musical genius! “What makes me emotional? A minor” — Someone, please mash this up with Kendrick’s A Minor line in “Not Like Us.” Just as I waxed poetic about Teyana above, Prince is another reminder of the power of music and sound to move us.

A birthday to celebrate: Today, Sir David Attenborough turns 100 and when you Google his name there’s a cute animation that pops up — but more importantly he gave a very cute audio note to the BBC about being overwhelmed by birthday greetings from preschoolers and the elderly, when he'd otherwise been expecting a quiet day.

@bbc @bbc ♬ original sound - BBC - BBC

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I listened to this highlights reel of BBC Earth moments while writing this and felt a wide range of emotions — I forgot how much drama is in this series, I’d honestly love for him to narrate an EastEnders special.

As always, wrapping up with joyful internet content:

This bouquet of unripe almonds and plums is tugging at my heart strings. The mini-marathon has done the same!

An important reminder for us all:

More tears with this one, I’m sorry in advance:

Hypnotically slicing fruit,

Roya

It’s what I turn to when I’m feeling particularly uninspired in the kitchen and craving something comforting. I fully believe there’s some alchemy in those toothsome grains, in the monotony and predictability of the cooking process, in the endless variations and permutations you can conceive. It’s a moving meditation: ladle broth, stir vigorously, and repeat. Taste and taste over and over until you decide that it’s right, with a bit of bite but not too much.

I’ve tried a handful of recipes and they’re all delightful, but nothing beats random, improvised risottos. In the summer, that looks like making corn stock with corn cobs and aromatics as the base broth, tossing the golden kernels in at the very end just to warm up. In the winter, it looks like roasting butternut squash and making chicken broth with some saffron in it for something bright (thank you Ariana + Ina Garten for that one). Right now, it’s using whatever I can get my hands on – verdant spring herbs to throw in at the end like an Italian sabzi polo, asparagus tips for textural contrast.

I just really wanted risotto last week and wanted some veg protein, so I made risotto with white beans and a ton of garlic. I didn’t have stock at the ready so I used a stock cube and some boiling water. No wine, so I used some white wine vinegar to deglaze the pan and break down some of the starch. I didn’t have fresh herbs so I just threw in chives and chervil I had previously frozen. The dregs at the bottom of a potato chip bag became a crispy topping, in lieu of some toasted breadcrumbs. It was one of the best risottos I’ve made and I didn’t leave the house to buy a thing or measure a single ingredient.

Having leftover risotto is just as exciting as the fresh stuff. I took that cold beany risotto, shaped it into tiny spheres and fried them. After setting them down on a paper towel, I sprinkled them generously with salt and a squeeze of lemon. And when I bit into the first one, I felt like a grown-up. I used my free-will to make a pot of risotto two days earlier, and now using it to make a very rudimentary arancini felt so adult to me! Like a quirky romcom lead in some inspirational self-love montage in the 2010s. The 1990s version of me would have made a creamy sun dried tomato penne with some spinach, and my kitchen would’ve had glass jars with tricolor fusilli on the countertop (think global village coffeehouse aesthetic). The 2000s version of me would’ve gone for a truffle oil grilled cheese in a full stainless steel galley.

You could make some riso al salto, a rice pancake which is at its best with risotto alla Milanese and molten fontina. If you’re ever in east London, Leo’s in Homerton does a phenomenal rendition of this, with the fontina covering every square inch of a very crisped up rice.

You don't need to go to east London for any of this. You just need some rice, some liquid, and about thirty minutes of your time. Make it once and you'll understand why I keep coming back; make it twice and you'll start improvising. Turn the leftovers into something new, and you might feel a little like a grown-up too.

I’m tempted to try to turn risotto into sweet rice pudding, with saffron and/or mango puree (tis the season), next — if I follow through on that, I’ll share it here with you. And if you’ve made it this far, here’s a little reward:

@pisanxoxoHAPPY FRIDAYYYYYY THE SKY IS THE LIMIT GIRLS UNLOCK YOUR POWER LOVE YA XX

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I nearly called this newsletter ‘Ris-ode-to’,

Roya

This entire year has been quite weary, so at least we get a Mad Libs–style intro like that every once in a while…

Which leads me to my first item! A parody song, brought to us by the lovely creator who gave us a Ramadan anthem for the ages (one that hit especially hard as a Shia). The “maybe we’re all Muslim, what the hell??” is my favorite bit.

There’s also room for a Seasonal Song today, because the birds are chirping and the sky is boundlessly, beautifully blue. A year ago, I shared Q'-Tip’s Let’s Ride with this commentary: “Spring is the peak season for Q-Tip and A Tribe Called Quest in my mind — their music is impeccable year round but there’s something about the springy sunshine, birds chirping, and flowers just starting to blossom that feels perfectly suited for it.” Here’s another hit of his, a beautiful springy love song that deserveda spot in a mid-2000s romcom. Ideally at the part where the main characters go on a dozen dates and really fall in love.

Snack Item: I am irredeemably in love with a potato chip brand. Bret’s chips are from Brittany (Bretagne!), and I’ve never encountered a chip so consistently surprising and delightful. For starters, they’ve got tiny ridges like Ruffles which automatically puts them in the top-tier of snacks. They’re fried in sunflower oil which gives them a great crispiness. But most importantly, they come in 29 different flavors, all of which have been incredibly delicious. So far, I’ve tried Camembert, Cheddar Jalapeño, Wood-Fired Pizza (the label said “feu de bois,” and I said ‘for the boys’ as I grabbed it), French Fry Sauce, and Aïoli. If I spot them through the window of a bodega, I'm stopping in for a bag. Camembert might be my favorite, but I'm still dreaming about the Cheddar Jalapeño and its faintest of kicks. Bret's is a family-owned company that partners with 285 local potato farmers in Brittany and the Auvergne region, paying them a livable wage for the potatoes that become these gorgeous treats. They might be hard to find in the states, but worth seeking out by any means.

Food Blogger: Kent is a middle-aged Texan who roams around Houston trying various cuisines and filming his experience. His review of this Iranian restaurant warmed my heart, much like a plate of kashk-e bademjoon. “That’s a big ass naan’ and ‘I get dizzy sometimes’ in response to trying dizi (the soup I dream about) are just two of the highlights from this gorgeous reel.

Joyful Internet Content: I’m trying something different and pulling from Threads today. It’s mostly inspired from seeing this in my feed, without context…

Then clicking through to the original post this person replied to:

Relatedly, this happens to you. What would you do?

Honestly she could be a friend of Kent’s:

(Abundance mindsets only),

Roya

The Iranian New Year has come to a close, and as I’ve mentioned in my last newsletter, this Norooz has felt far from celebratory. In the midst of a war and the ongoing repression of the regime, what is there to celebrate? The internet in Iran is still blacked out. We still can’t get a hold of our loved ones, and we’re all looking at our own incomplete pictures on what’s happening. People in Iran still face violence from within, since an international ceasefire doesn’t apply to the acts of their own government. And that ceasefire feels meaningless, when yesterday was Beirut’s deadliest day in years. Truthfully, I’m still hung up on reading the words “a whole civilization will die tonight” earlier this week.

The phrase “cautious optimism” is one Iranians are deeply familiar with; given the country’s tumultuous history, it’s a sentiment we’ve all felt time and again when we believe there’s a prospect of change on the horizon. But now? There’s no pithy, two-word phrase to describe this state of mind, a mixture of weariness, clinging onto the belief that a better world is possible, and still feeling the pangs of hope, however strained and bruised, that Iran will be free from all oppressors. I've been sitting with all of this; at my desk, watching the light change, trying to figure out what it means to mark a new year when so much feels unresolved.

The 13th day of Iranian New Year is Sizdeh Bedar, translating to ‘getting rid of thirteen.’ In the weeks leading up to the holiday, we grow sabzeh (from wheat, barley, or lentils), fresh greens that are a symbol of spring, of life and creation in general, renewal, and new beginnings. This was my first time attempting it, and it wasn’t without its fits and starts. I obsessed over watering it enough, checking to see growth twice a day, positioning it in the perfect light. Here are the humble beginnings:

My sabzeh was growing incredibly slowly despite me misting the greens twice a day. After a week of frustration, one little shower under the sink and things started to look up:

I had a boss years ago who used the phrase “green shoots” to describe anything new and of promise. Something to be hopeful for, but also something fragile that needed nourishing and care. Just as I thought I solved these green shoots, I had to travel for a few days and leave my sabzeh on its own. I gave it a generous shower and thought of it each day, expecting to return to a depressing (and stinky) dried lentil heap. Here’s what I came back to:

Some of the sprouts took the shape of hearts! This tiny exercise in letting go and relinquishing control reminded me of , whose semi-recent advice to me could be summarized as “girl, stop” and “just don’t.”

The same boss that introduced me to “green shoots” also spoke of “glass balls and rubber balls.” Basically, we’re all juggling several balls (spoiler: we’re all clowns), some of them are rubber and will bounce back when momentarily dropped, others will shatter upon impact. You’ve got to identify which ones are which when you’re prioritizing your workload. It’s a tricky metaphor because in some roles, you’re handed nearly exclusively glass balls! This sabzeh was rubber, thank heavens.

On Sizdeh Bedar, you tie a few knots in the grass, while making wishes for the year ahead. Then, you return your sabzeh to nature by releasing it into a flowing body of water. It’s the last step in letting go of the prior year and everything that it carried. It’s a ritual of release, hope, and trust. It’s best done in the presence of others, but I did it solo this year.

This Tuesday, I stepped out and the sky looked marvelous and it felt like the right moment to let this sabzeh go. I plopped it into an Marks & Spencer bag that felt appropriate for the occasion:

I brought it to one of my favorite parks, trying to find the ideal spot while also avoiding anyone’s confused stare.

After plopping it into the river, I realized there was an elderly gent watching me curiously and that this river doesn’t flow in the way I expected it to.

My sabzeh is still out there, lingering in that park and slowly making its way down the river. Some things don't release cleanly. Many of us are carrying some of the weight of a people still fighting for their freedom. We carry the names and lives taken too soon. And we return them, again and again, to the current, trusting that Iran will one day be free.

This piece of art, and the corresponding poem, from Hanieh Ghashghae lingers with me this week:

My City — Tehran

They say the war has stopped…
and I
look at the night
that does not end
and at the light that
remains burning inside us.

شهر من — تهران

…می‌گویند جنگ متوقف شده‌ست
و من
به شب نگاه می‌کنم
که تمامی ندارد
و به نوری که در ما
.خاموش نمی‌شود

A better world is possible,

Roya

It’s still Norooz. The holiday lasts for about two weeks, culminating in a day called Sizdeh Bedar, literally translating to “13 to the door.” That day is technically next Thursday the 2nd, but most Iranians outside Iran will celebrate next weekend. I might share more about what the day entails in the next newsletter, but at the moment, very little about this holiday feels celebratory. In fact, the news from every corner of the world feels like this:

Needful Words: I’ve been reading Mahmoud Darwish lately, whose work is best described by poet Naomi Shihab Nye as “plaintive, haunting, always passionate, and elegant—and never anything less than free—what he would dream for all his people.” These are a few excerpts that have resonated deeply with me as of late.

• The wars will end and the leaders will shake hands, and that old woman will remain waiting for her martyred son, and that girl will wait for her beloved husband, and the children will wait for their heroic father. I do not know who sold the homeland but I know who paid the price.

• A person can only be born in one place. However, he may die several times elsewhere: in the exiles and prisons, and in a homeland transformed by the occupation and oppression into a nightmare.

• Out of my ignorance, I called you my homeland and I forgot that homelands are taken away.

• I don’t decide to represent anything except myself. But that self is full of collective memory.

I've also been returning to this Toni Morrison interview, where she's asked: How do you survive whole in a world where we're all victims of something? Her response is, of course, astounding.

“It’s a nice big fat Eastern/Western philosophical question, about: how do you get through? Sometimes you don’t.. survive whole, you just survive in part. But the grandeur of life is that attempt. It’s not about that solution. It is about being as fearless as one can, and behaving as beautifully as one can, under completely impossible circumstances. It’s that, that makes it elegant. Good is just more interesting, more complex, more demanding. Evil is silly, it may be horrible, but at the same time it’s not a compelling idea. It’s predictable. It needs a tuxedo, it needs a headline, it needs blood, it needs fingernails. It needs all that costume in order to get anybody’s attention. But the opposite, which is survival, blossoming, endurance, those things are just more compelling intellectually if not spiritually, and they certainly are spiritually. This is a more fascinating job. We are already born, we are going to die. So you have to do something interesting that you respect in between.”

It’s even better to hear her say these words aloud:

Recipe: The customary meal at Norooz is sabzi polo ba mahi: herbed rice with fish. I couldn’t bring myself to make it on Norooz, feeling both sad and lazy, but I finally came around to it this week. I honestly forgot how great sabzi polo is until this point, so I’m shamelessly sharing my cookbook if you’d like my specific recipe – there are also plenty of free ones online. After six months of living in this place, I’ve finally figured out what pot, temperature, and timing work well for a gorgeous tahdig and that revelation couldn’t have come at a better time.

@royashariatSabzi polo - herbed rice - is a Norooz tradition. Making it felt like a way of moving through some grief. #fyp

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Song: In the spirit of healthy balance, I’m offering something in the complete opposite direction of Moby’s hit from above. This one-hit wonder is from a singer I had completely forgotten about until videos of men effortlessly rollerblading to this song brought the memories rushing back. When was the last time you thought about Colby O'Donis? The music video is incredibly cringe, but worth it if you need a strut down memory lane.

Joyful Internet Content:

This is how I feel talking to anyone outside of Europe:

Red carpet pull-asides don't typically leave me with any sort of inspiration, until Ethan Hawke went off last week:

@saifchotaWhen your cleaners re-arrange your Eid decorations #Eid #Eidmubarak #eidalfitr

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This month marked 25 years of Dashboard Confessional's The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most, and this video of Screaming Infidelities reminded me to take my Vitamin D supplements for bone density. We're old.

Inspiration for your next get-together with your friends:

Just keep on shining,

Roya

Norooz literally translates to “new day.” It marks the Iranian New Year, the vernal equinox, and the arrival of spring. It’s a moment to pause, to gather, to begin again. It is meant to be a time of celebration. This year, I can’t fully embrace that joy while there is war unfolding. The pangs of heartache are heavy. I keep thinking “I should write about this…” “I should pitch something…” but I stop myself before things can take shape. All these feelings pale in comparison to what anyone in Iran is enduring.

And still, Iranians in Iran are carrying on in the ways they know how: they’re running, lifting weights, finding pockets of community and safety, charting their way forward.

There’s something I’m carrying with me from the spirit of the holiday: spring arrives whether anyone permits it or not. Grass grows, trees leaf over, flowers bloom, regardless of where they’re planted. Renewal insists on itself. Even now, there is reason for hope alongside grief.

This season, my choir (wrote about them here) is singing a song in Farsi — chosen long before the war, before January’s massacre. I hadn’t heard it before we began rehearsing, but each time I sing it, I feel myself well up. I mentioned the song casually to both of my parents, separately, not thinking much of it. Both of them immediately began singing the lyrics as soon as I said its name.

Barune Barune is a melancholic folk song about a poor farm worker in love with a young woman, Golnessa, who labors beside him in the rice fields. He fears she will be married off to someone else, and tells God he would rather die than lose her. But in its final lines, he reassures her: don’t worry—zemestoon mire, baz-am bahare. Winter passes, and spring always returns.

I think that’s what today is asking of me: to grieve what is, and make space, however small, for what comes next. Here’s a message from someone in Iran:

zemestoon mire, baz-am bahare,

Roya

New Music: James Blake is one of my favorite artists, and watching his continued evolution since leaving his label and striking out on his own has been something to behold. His latest album, Trying Times, is out today, and the lead single is solemn and beautiful.

The corresponding visuals really struck a chord with me: twelve spinning plates dropping one by one, shattering around him. “I’m an eyesore / You’re a sight for sore eyes” is my favorite line. There’s also a stunning acoustic version worth savoring.

A Letter to Live By: Someone I love sent me this letter from Henry James to his dear friend Grace Norton. He wrote it after a death in her family, when she was struggling with depression. It begins, unbelievably, with: “I hardly know what to say to you,” and then unfolds into some of the most beautiful advice I’ve ever read.

Recipe: I’m breaking my fast with dates and one of these nights I plan to make gheysavah for Iftar. Gheysavah is a sweet date omelet, a somewhat niche Iranian dish that’s unexpectedly delicious. My recipe for it is in Epicurious here (and in my cookbook!).

Springtime Tradition: For the first time ever, I’m growing sabzeh for Iranian New Year. In past years I always shrugged it off as complicated or messy. This year, though, I’m trying it as a way to feel closer to my parents — and also in the wake of immense grief for innocent lives lost in Iran.

Sabzeh symbolizes rebirth, regrowth, and renewal. And it’s surprisingly simple: all you need are lentils, a bowl, and water. If you start today, you’ll have short greens. Here’s one simple tutorial, if video tutorials are more your speed, Naz Deravian has a great series:

Joyful / Cathartic Internet Content:

This beautiful Jamaican-British boy is celebrating Ramadan and his mom’s Iftar videos of him are absolutely adorable:

Loved this video, partly for its beauty and creativity, but also for the voiceover talking about appropriation vs. appreciation in recipe naming.

What a poem:

The acknowledgement of Emo Muslims on Friday the 13th is so important:

Don’t melt too much into the universe,

Roya

I’m writing this post on my phone (a new feature!) while riding a train. My mind is harried. It’s been an intense week in an intense year. It feels strange to be writing a newsletter at a moment when so much grief and violence is unfolding, particularly across communities I love and hold dear. Words feel insufficient, so take this ramble for what it is: some scattered thoughts from someone feeling particularly scattered.

Last month, I was working on a personal essay about parallels between crackdowns on freedom in Iran and in Minnesota (where my partner’s family is from) and it quickly turned into an essay on grief and conflicting feelings. Those feelings don’t cancel each other out. More often than not, we have to hold the weight of both, however uncomfortable it makes us.

I was reminded of that again last night when a friend from Gaza reached out last night to check in and say they were thinking of my family. They thanked me for being there for them when their family had to flee last year. Our lives and experiences have been vastly different, but it reminded me how bound up our freedom is with one another’s.

Have you ever made a singular point, an argument you feel strongly about, and in response to your conviction, someone says: “two things can be true at once”? Lately, I feel I’ve become that person, annoying as they are, urging that things don’t have to be “either/or,” they can be “both/and.”

As basic as it sounds, “and” is powerful! We can hold many things at once, without taking anything away, without diminishing a single thing. Currently, I’m holding space in my heart for people in Iran, Lebanon, Gaza, the DRC, and… so many other places. I’m holding space for everyone fighting oppression. I’m in a position of immense privilege to hold that space — my life and livelihood aren’t in the direct crosshairs of war.

I keep thinking about an Audre Lorde quote that you’ve probably read or heard at some point: “There is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives.”

What she says afterwards is equally important: “Each one of us here is a link in the connection between antipoor legislation, gay shootings, the burning of synagogues, street harassment, attacks against women, and resurgent violence against women.” She said this in 1982.

Her vision was that we build coalitions, that we “commit ourselves to some future that can include each other and to work towards that future with the particular strengths of our individual identities.” She shared this in the context of a lecture to Harvard Students on how racism, sexism, and homophobia are intertwined.

In another one of her works, The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle The Master’s House, Lorde writes about difference as “that raw and powerful connection from which our personal power is forged.” Across difference, we still owe each other care, solidarity, and the work of building something better together.

I’ll leave you with this one last Lorde quote:

“As women, we have been taught either to ignore our differences, or to view them as causes for separation and suspicion rather than as forces for change. Without community there is no liberation, only the most vulnerable and temporary armistice between an individual and her oppression. But community must not mean a shedding of our differences, nor the pathetic pretense that these differences do not exist.”

Maybe that’s the work in front of us? Learning how to hold each other (and our differences) without letting go, even when the world keeps asking us to choose.