My mom said that when she and my dad first lived together, practically all she made was deep fried food in a cast iron skillet, because it’s all she knew how to cook. And my grandma, from Oklahoma, has bubbling hot oil running through her veins. But I was raised in the Pacific Northwest, in the 80s and 90s. Back when health crazes were all the rage. In a time when margarine was better for you than butter (although the lower price is more likely what kept that giant tub of Country Crock in our fridge my entire childhood). The days of Slim Fast powder and Jane Fonda aerobics tapes. Back when my mom only deep fried a couple times a year, and usually just to make breaded fried zucchini, and taquitos on Amanda’s birthday. Contrary to my mom’s belief, deep frying prowess is not something you’re born with. It’s not something I was born with. In fact, it’s something that, while brave and adventurous in the kitchen, I’ve always been intimidated by and have failed at every time I tried.
Monday, May 30, 2016
Monday, May 16, 2016
I was eleven or twelve years old, and beyond excited to go to the movie that everyone said made them literally scream and jump out of their seats with fear. Of course my cousin Coco, 13 years my senior, took me. The same cousin who let me watch Candyman four years earlier (I would go on to brag, for years, that Candyman didn’t even give me nightmares, a fact that I wore like a badge of honor and maturity). The same cousin who couldn’t wait to binge on the movie Fear with my sister and me every summer since it came out… in 1990. When I was 5. (While the Marky Mark/ Alicia Silverstone Fear is amazing and the ferris wheel scene taught middle schoolers across the country everything we knew about sex at the time, I’m talking about the earlier movie Fear, starring Ally Sheedy, in which she’s a psychic who uses her powers to track down murderers and ps. it’s the best movie ever). The same cousin who later took us to see The Blair Witch Project… the night before we went on a family camping trip.
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