All I want to do is eat pizza and watch the DNC. I first wrote the preceding sentence as watch pizza and eat the DNC, evidence of my near voracious level of excitement for the past three days of political fanfare. After months and weeks of tragedy, a small respite in the news cycle, at least. A celebration of hope. I haven’t ever before felt so energized to start conversations, to ask uncomfortable questions, and, yes, to listen to politicians politic in my general direction. There’s an urgency to it all that has filled me with both dread and excitement.
To go with your DNC-related dread and excitement (or your general weekend festivities), I bring you the cilantro pesto pizza with garlicky roasted tomatoes, corn, and burrata. It’s a cut (due to length, not flavor) from the cilantro chapter of the Kale & Caramel cookbook, which will be organized by herb and flower (and in print exactly nine months and two days from now!). I think we can live with the cut, especially if it means we get to make the pizza imminently.
But back to the DNC. I’ve loved every moment of the live stream, loved being in the safety and joy of Twitter having a #DemsInPhilly hastag-gasm, loved dropping in via Periscope.
Hello from New York! It’s a balmy 80º at 8 am, and I’m already dreading this afternoon’s sweatfest. It went from near-winter to dead-of-summer overnight here, and I’ve arrived just in time for the relentless heat. Initially I’d planned to write to you from the plane ride over, but instead I became unduly engrossed in a House of Cards bingefest—a show I’ve resisted since its beginning. Five hours of episodes later, I emerged from a power-hungry tv intoxication into a stunningly beautiful sunset landing at JFK.
I used to spend weeks at a time in New York while I was in college—Grand Central Station was just an hour and a half, $11 metro ride in from New Haven. We’d come in to see a show at BAM (the Brooklyn Academy of Music), or to go to an exhibit, or simply to remind ourselves there was a dusty, grimy, humanity-stricken world beyond Yale.
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with New York—my friend Ben still makes fun of me for emphatically pouting, “This city is antithetical to my being,” as we sat in traffic one brutally hot Indian Summer in the early aughts.