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I’m so disillusioned with the restaurant industry after watching the Top Chef Portland finale and reading about sexual harassment claims against winner Gabe Erales. Upon his win, it was reported that Erales had been fired last December from his Austin restaurant because he had allegedly cut the hours of a subordinate he had been sleeping with. Erales, a white man who is Mexican American, won over Shota Nakijima, an Asian American man, and Dawn Burrell, an African American woman.

It was also reported that Edouardo Jordan, a Seattle chef who recently confessed to sexually harassing 15 women who worked for him, was at the finale but edited out.

What gets you noticed in the restaurant world goes beyond food. It’s about personality, story, decor and presentation. What makes a compelling person or story? Who decides what is a quality dining experience and what elevated decor or food presentation is? Who do we revere? It's all wrapped up in sexism and white dominant culture. A chef doesn't ascend without confidence, business savvy, an accessible story and the ability to command a staff and convince investors to take part in their business - all characteristics you are more likely to have if you are white and male.

Likewise, food isn't compelling unless it makes sense to the white majority that patronizes fine dining establishments. Restaurants run by immigrants are labeled as holes-in-the-wall or pigeon-holed as ethnic dining, denied the same level of respect as the hot spot across town.

Some people argue that Erales should've been edited out. I disagree. Why hide what the restaurant industry is? This season shows the industry's true colors. Nakijima doesn't win because his curry isn't "elevated" enough. Burrell failed to properly plate a dozen or more plates. The show prizes hustle, something she couldn't keep up with while still expressing her vision.

In one episode, Jamie Tran offers to give up her spot for Maria Mazon, who struggles with confidence. The show spotlights aspects of being a woman in the restaurant industry - imposter syndrome and sacrificing yourself for the team - but these aren't qualities that will get you the Top Chef crown, just as they aren't qualities that will allow you to ascend in the restaurant world. The emotion of the moment was powerful, because it perfectly summed up the experience of being a woman in any professional field.

So what did Top Chef do in response? Host Padma Lakshmi posted a statement on Twitter. The show aired after Erales was fired, so it had the opportunity to do more and assemble a proactive message in response to this existential crisis facing the restaurant industry. There was no white print on a black screen after the finale, denouncing Erales' actions or affirming that Top Chef wants to create a different food culture than one that stands on the backs of women and Black and brown people. Top Chef chose to ignore the issue and hope that no one would notice. I searched on Twitter, and it seems they have succeeded. There were more tweets mocking Burrell than calling out Erales, something that Twitter's outrage machine would seem poised to do.

Being silent just perpetuates the system. Top Chef said nothing and did nothing. Unwittingly, they showed how a charming chef could climb to the industry's highest echelons - his personal defects and victimization of women an afterthought on the show, just as they are afterthoughts in the real world. This time it was just one woman who was his victim, as far as we know. She is expandable. Replicated throughout time and around the world, how many other stories have been left untold?

#the grind #food #top chef

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This weekend I watched the movie Secrets & Lies. It was released in 1996, and I remember that it was critically acclaimed. The characters’ thick accents made it seem very exotic and arty at the time. It was made by the similarly arty and exotic Mike Leigh. So I finally sat down to watch it on HBO Max.

It ends up that the movie is about a Black adoptee looking for her birth mother. Toward the beginning she discovers that her mother is the loud, working class character introduced at the beginning of the movie. Mom smokes like a chimney and is semi-estranged from her brother and unhappily living with her daughter, who is commented to have last smiled at age 8. The adoptee, named Hortense, reconnects with her birth mother and becomes embroiled in the life of her mother and her family. I will remember key scenes, especially the scene in the diner, for a long time.

While secrets and lies are revealed, Hortense is the picture of serenity and fortitude in the middle of the storm. My first thought was that the movie wasn’t exploring Hortense’s experience at all. She is patient and kind and grateful, while the white characters get to chew the scenery. But then I realized that this is a window into the adoptee experience - always adapting to others, prioritizing other’s feelings over yours. I still wish we got more of a peek into Hortense’s interior state, but maybe she doesn’t know how she feels yet.

I was listening to my favorite culture podcast, and they were talking about the new Liz Phair album. The guest shared that Liz Phair was adopted. The host, who is also adopted, exclaimed upon learning this, “I knew it. There was something about her that showed she didn’t know herself.”

Hortense doesn’t know herself, especially after hearing the unexpected news that she is half white. I remember doing 23 & Me and being relieved that it showed me to be something like 90% Korean. If I had discovered I was half white or half Japanese, I would’ve been thrown for a loop, just because the story I’ve told myself about being Korean is the only link I have to my Asian identity. I’d love to see Hortense five or 10 years later, and see how she is handling her sense of identity after the shock has worn off. Is there anger rising within her too?

#the grind #movies #adoption

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I wonder how my daughter processes her biracial identity. There are many half Asian kids in Seattle, so she might feel less alone. Does that mean she feels less in between? To me, she looks Asian, but it’s so novel to see any family member who looks like me that I cling to our similarities, although I remember a friend saying she looked like an Asian version of my husband - so more like him. One place I see the inkling of an internal struggle is with her hair. It’s not black like mine, but it’s darker then her dad’s. Anybody who saw her might say she has black hair but hold it up against mine and it’s a shade lighter. When making a drawing, she usually colors her hair brown and then colors black over it, with enough space so that the brown peaks through. Or is it the other way - black then brown? When I got her the crayons with all the skin colors, she was happy to have more skin colors to choose from but the true revelation was finally finding a match for her hair. “Guess which is my hair color?” she asked me cheerily, pointing to the darkest brown they had.

#the grind #penny

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In recent years I decided if I had something kind I wanted to say, I was going to say it. It was easy for me to hold back because I was putting myself out there, because I was saying it first and I didn't know if they felt the same. I felt vulnerable, exposed and embarrassed.

I don't really mean words like "I love you," but something as simple as "I like your skirt," or "I really appreciated when you said that." I imagined them rolling their eyes or feeling awkward because of what I just said, or feeling obligated to return the kind words when they really didn't want to. Better to run back into my comfort zone and share love with my crew, the people I already knew were on team Misty.

But having something to say and not saying it feels like withering up inside, even if those scary words are something good, not only if they are critical or bold or confrontational. It's like sitting at karaoke and watching everybody brave enough to get up there - wishing you could do it but immobilized by the fear. Your mind races through the songs you would perform if you were at the mic. Everybody looks 10x more talented and kick ass because they are basking in the fun and abandon of it all - or you hate them 10x more if they picked the song you long to find the courage to sing. The magic of karaoke is the simple act of doing it - your actual talent at singing a secondary or tertiary or whatever-comes-after-tertiary consideration.

So now I take the leap and just say it. Who is really going to respond badly to kindness? And aren't the rewards of connecting worth it? And I jump on that stage and sing. Whether you are good or you aren't so good, it's about the thrill of taking the risk and having a good time. Aren't the rewards of using your voice worth it?

#the grind

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We got our order of Thai food, and instead of penang curry, they gave us green curry. The curry was my father-in-law Don's dish, and he knit his eyebrows as he stared into the bowl.

We discussed how this could have happened. There was a long wait to get the takeout. There were a lot of orders, and they must've mixed things up. We guessed that a lot of moms didn't want to cook on Mother's Day, and the dads didn't know what to do so they ordered takeout at the last minute. Had they gotten new ownership, we wondered? We decided we definitely need to stick to the other Thai place in town. This kind of thing never happened there.

"I wish I was the type of person to call and ask for my money back," my mother-in-law Kathy said.

She watched as Don took a bite. "It tastes like soap," he muttered.

We all decided that green curry did not taste like soap and that Don was probably freaked out because it wasn't what he had expected. Still, Kathy got up and grabbed her phone so that she could look at the ingredients on the restaurant's website.

"Basil and pepper," she said with a sigh. This wasn't solving the problem of why this green curry was so strange. "Do you want to eat my penang curry? I like the green curry. I can take it."

"No, it's fine," Don said wearily.

Kathy continued to watch as he ate, reluctantly with a grimace. "It doesn't look like it's fine. You're barely eating!" she complained, shooting a glance at me - looking for someone who could share her concern and annoyance that Don was just trying to roll with it. "Put more rice in so that it's better for you."

In the end, the curry went half eaten. The conversation moved on and eventually petered out until there was nothing but silence, the energy drained out of the evening.

Later, I texted my husband's sister because she had left me a gift at Kathy and Don's house. I thanked her and wished her a happy Mother's Day. "I haven't had two hours alone in the house for over a year," she said.

This is what it means to be a mother in my husband's family.

#the grind

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When I was in my mid-20s my friend jason and I would go see shows at the Crocodile Cafe and other clubs in town. I’ll never forget the exhilaration of walking out of the club at 1 am, everything smelling of smoke, drunkenness worn off as we wandered to our car in bell town .

One band we loved was called the Model Rockets, a local power pop quartet that was as far as you could imagine from gaining any real success. It was the mid-2000s, but they belonged in the 80s - make that the 60s or 70s. More Beatles than Beyoncé, they performed solid rock songs with a story. They kept our heads bobbing and toes tapping.

I had my eye on the guitarist. The other guy was the songwriting genius, but the guitarist wrote songs too and could really play. I liked underdogs, the neighbor in the sitcoms rather than the main character, so the guitarist really appealed to me. Everybody in the band was my height or shorter. The guitarist had curly blond hair that was sometime grown out but not always. I probably outweighed him, but he looked as big and strong as a giant when he was on that stage.

I read somewhere that he was a Monkees fan. I grew up listening to the oldies station too. I pictured him at the bar with a friend, debating the best Monkees song or the merits of Davy Jones versus Mickey Dolenz. I tried to picture myself as the friend at the bar with him, but I couldn’t quite make it work.

Once I stood in the audience in front of him. He gave me a look and a shy smile. It was quick, like he was trying it on for size. Maybe he had seem me there before, but I couldn’t imagine I made an impression. I froze and instead of meeting his gaze I looked downward.

Years later, after my days going to shows at 10 pm we’re over, I was at a Thai place near my work, I saw the guitarist there. Instead of standing on a stage playing a guitar solo, he was getting some curry. I watched as he sat alone. He was more tech dude than guitar god. I hid again, averting his gaze. Then, I couldn’t face who I was. Now, I couldn’t face the regular guy that was left when he wasn’t on stage.

#the grind #music

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I was lucky to get to spend about two months in Thailand. Nothing evokes the Thai eating experience more than sitting at the bar at Thai Tom and watching Tom cook - quick, balletic, with an efficiency borne out of his expertise in a few dishes cooked to perfection. He churns through the pile of orders, getting everybody out the door as quickly as a street food vendor serving up meals before the next crowd of people off the bus comes by. There are no Buddhas or elephants on the wall - or at least I don't remember any. Everything about the place serves to get people fed - as many people as possible - and to leave you satisfied.

Tom Suanpirintra, the “Thai Tom” from the restaurant’s name, passed away unexpectedly on May 11.

#the grind

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Today was Penny’s 8th birthday party. Eight - this feels like an in-between age. They played on the playground and giggled as they swung and missed the piñata, eagerly waiting for the candy to come pouring out. But they also ventured out together to Carkeek’s hidden field, some of them not listening to cousin Avery when she said it was time to come back. She got a Taylor Swift coloring book and a BTS poster. Chris says he saw Penny with a boy on the playground. She grabbed the computer on Friday and ran away when she saw someone’s birthday letter, a project her teacher asked each of her classmates to write for her.

#penny #the grind

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I’m in an online trivia league called LearnedLeague, which I joined last February. It is extremely nerdy and I love it! You go head to head with someone each day in the season, which lasts 5 weeks. Then there’s a break, then another season, and so on. It assigns a topic category for each question and gives stats for how strong you are in each category, along with other insanely detailed statistics.

One of my strongest categories is art history. In high school, I took a humanities class, and we would watch videos by this woman named Denise, who would teach us about art. I learned phrases like “Seurat dot,” which helped me remember that Seurat specialized in pointillism, a style of art made up of tiny dots. Another was “Mary Cassatt, mother and child.” See, her initials were MC, just like the subjects she was most famous for depicting in her art.

I took an art history class in college, but that’s it. I rarely go to museums, and I don’t think of art at all. Now, here I am ripping it up when it comes to art history in my trivia league.

Is there something about learning something when we’re young that makes it stick with us forever? I was listening to Elvis Costello, who I listened to constantly in my early to mid-20s. I still know the words to all the rarities and b-sides, even though he’s not in heavy rotation anymore. It makes me want to poor knowledge into Penny. There is so much to learn, and a lifetime to learn it, but this is the knowledge that will implant itself into your brain forever.

In case you’re curious, this was that latest art question, from a couple of days ago: “The art critic Louis Vauxcelles wrote in 1908 that, in landscapes painted by Georges Braque and shown at Paris's Galerie Kahnweiler, the artist had reduced ‘everything...to geometric schemas, to’ what—thereby naming a new and key movement in modern art?” (Answer: cubes - I got it right, of course)

#the grind

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I was a kid in the era when Cabbage Patch Kids were all the rage. Parents were ripping each other apart at Toys R Us to get them, so the story goes. My Cabbage Patch Kid was named Erin Kit. She was blond. I also had a knock-off Cabbage Patch Kid. Her name was May, she was Asian and she was lovingly homemade — except "lovingly homemade" didn't represent "special" to me. It just meant ratty. I ignored her while Erin got dirty from being played with so much. I now think back, influenced by watching to many of the Toy Story movies too many times, and imagine May being sad in a dark room all alone while I played to my heart's content with Erin. I wish I could go back in time and tell her that she mattered, because it would be like me telling myself, "You matter. Every bit of you matters, not just the parts people choose to see because they see them in themselves. Your black hair and Asian eyes are beautiful. What is ratty to others — because they don't match some ideal someone made up — is special to me."

#the grind

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My co-worker invited me to a Slack group called The Grind made up of women of color. We are challenged to write one thing each day. I thought that I’d share what I wrote here too, so as to document my writing. So here it goes.

Monday was my daughter Penny's birthday. She's in a Montessori program in her public school, and her class had a celebration for her today. Per Montessori tradition, they went through a slide deck of pictures of Penny - one for each year of her life. Then, each kid took a turn telling her what they appreciated about her. In kindergarten, they said "Penny is kind" or "Penny is polite" or "Penny is a good friend." This year, they said "Penny shows up to meetings on time" and "Penny has her camera on" - praise that isn't that different than what I might hear at my annual review. This was my favorite: "When Penny has technical difficulties, she lets us know."

#the grind #penny

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Belated picture of a Kansas City mud pie for the Super Bowl - kinda like half cheesecake, half chocolate pudding, with a pecan crust. It was good but I don’t think I’ll make it again.

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Yes banana cream pie seems to be both the pie I make the most and the pie I’m asked to make the most. I made this pie for my niece Avery who had heart surgery last Thursday. This pie was quite the journey, proving that as many times as you bake something, for me at least, it never turns out exactly the same.

This was my first attempt at my pie crust. I was feeling cocky because I realized that I had my crust recipe memorized when I jotted it down in a baking journal my sister had bought me for Christmas. I’ve been using the same recipe for, my guess would be, at least seven years. My last pie crust was under baked and too thick. I also realized that the cooking times were for blind baking a pie crust, useful for a pie you are putting back in the oven — but this pie is not baked again. You put the banana and pudding in the shell and that’s it. So to solve the two issues with my last crust, I rolled the dough thinner. The dough didn’t reach the lip of my pie pan, the deeper of the two I own. I didn’t think much of it and added 10 minutes to my baking time, baking it to a golden brown. The dough slouched down the side of my pie, forming a sad pile.

I made another batch and increased the size, since I’d been wanting to experiment with that anyway. I’m wary of doubling baking recipes, as that’s not recommended due to the magical complexities of chemistry. But I remembered that was more the case when baking powder and soda are involved. This crust is only butter, flour and a bit of salt. So I increased my recipe by about 20% and it covered the deeper pan better. Still the dough slouched. I don’t know if I rolled it too thin or baked it too long. I will have to keep experimenting.

So I ended up making two pies: one for Avery, the prettier one, and the slouchy pie for us. It tasted great, with dough that showed the flakes. The dough was a bit tough though so I think I’m going to try a different technique in my next batch. Baking is fun because it’s a lifelong learning process! Fun? Yes, I’m embracing the struggle.

#baking #mistyspies

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For the past three months, I’ve been reading Master of the Senate, the third book in Robert Caro’s five book series on Lyndon Johnson. I have the goal to read 15 pages a day - these are large pages with tiny text. Every night I leave this world of endless COVID-era routine and enter a world of backroom deals and Senate procedure.

Each topic in this classic is explored in excruciating detail. I thought it would be fun to write a sentence for each day of reading, since so much and so little happens in those 15 pages. So here it goes, starting at about page 800 of 1100. Enter the world of Lyndon Johnson (and Robert Caro) with me.

Shorter Robert Caro

At the 1956 convention, LBJ thinks he has a shot at being president.

LBJ wants to be president SO BAD that he is dumb about politics. He stays in his room.

LBJ knows he’ll never be president if he’s identified too closely with the South.

Everybody, even Republicans, wants civil rights legislation except the South.

A fight over filibustering shows LBJ he has to convince the South to vote for civil rights. Ambition and his natural sympathies are in sync.

The South thinks that LBJ will help pass token civil rights bills that accomplish nothing meaningful.

LBJ lands on voting rights as an issue that the South might be the least opposed to.

LBJ creates an alliance between NW senators who need votes authorizing a federal dam and Southern senators who need votes against a strong civil rights bill, which he knows they would filibuster without the votes.

Momentum is waning for Part III of the civil rights bill, which allowed for strong enforcement of civil rights by the federal government. Even Ike doesn’t get it!

LBJ gets two moderate senators — one Republican and one Democrat — to propose the amendment to eliminate Part III.

The next compromise is adding a jury trial amendment. He wants to add civil contempt, which will force compliance, instead of leaving it up to biased juries.

Senator Church (ID) wants to get back into good graces with LBJ. He drafts amendment for jury trials that would expand participation in juries, making them more diverse. Labor joins the fight.

The jury trial amendment passes, with a coalition of the South, north and labor — even JFK. This is a disaster for Republicans.

The reconciliation bill (compromise with House bill) passes! Support of civil rights leaders makes it inevitable.

LBJ spends the remaining years of his Senate leadership doing more of the same. Flash forward: When he becomes VP, he tried to take a Senate leadership role, but the Senate us having none of it.

#books #robert caro #LBJ

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New Years Resolutions 2021

Read for half an hour each day

Do the Monday and Tuesday crosswords for the entire year

Get some activity every day 

Work up to running three times a week

Bake at least once a month (and document them here!)

Be a loving and intentional partner

Do more crafts and Penny-centered activities 

Floss everyday

Stop nighttime snacking

Fold laundry by Tuesday

Do some freelance writing

This is the seventh year in a row that I have recorded resolutions on this blog! I really value being able to look back through the years and see documentation of my goals and where my mind was. This year’s resolutions are very much in keeping with past years. They center around reading, exercising, eating better and being good to my loved ones - health and love. 

I can look back on past years’ resolutions and see how I’ve accomplished many of them. While I hesitate to emphasize the good things that have come out of the pandemic, I think success reaching past goals is related to COVID. Being at home has allowed me to narrow my focus on what is essential. I’ve shored up my life’s core, which is wonderful - but it’s also occurred to me how the friends and adventure that come with normal life add so much color. I know I can live decently under these socially distanced conditions, which makes me see clearer why people do just hole up in their houses in the suburbs or country. But life is just better with a community that I can actively be a part of - I am better. The core of love and family makes me feel strong and centered, but I need more to really thrive.

The one resolution that has showed up year after year is to write on a more regular basis. I don’t think writing two to three times a week is doable for me. I know my limits, and with job (where thankfully I do get to write), kid, marriage, I just know I’m not at the point where I want to write more on this blog or elsewhere. But I would like to continue freelancing - for the sake of stretching myself and engaging with subjects that I wouldn’t encounter in normal life - and I think my good relationship with the people at the International Examiner gives me ready opportunity. This is the resolution that scares me. It feels hard and overwhelming, but it is oh so rewarding.

Since I do seem to write similar resolutions every year, I’ve thought about if I should try something really new. My response to that is “nah.” The crossword puzzle resolution is new, if not very significant. I try to stay engaged in life by learning new things, but I don’t quite feel the need to pick up a new hobby, or add a new level of accountability to old ones, yet. We’ll see what the future holds, 10 years of resolutions (hopefully captured on this blog) from now.

#new years resolutions

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My sister asked me to bring a pie for Christmas. I was so tired from baking that I went for something easy: an egg nog and chocolate swirl pie. The crust consists of chopped nuts and grated chocolate, similar to a graham cracker crust. This was much easier than a normal pie crust, which must sit in the fridge for at least a couple hours, and I was short on time. The recipe did call for unflavored gelatin, which I couldn’t find for some reason. However my friend Jessica had a package on hand. You cook the eggnog with sugar, add the gelatin, divide it in half — adding chocolate to one half and whipped cream to the other — and then combine, swirling into a pretty pattern. Everybody liked the pie but the gelatin gave it a weird texture that meant it kept its shape when you cut into it — but it reminded me too much of jello. It wasn’t bad, but i won’t be rushing to make it again. The search for perennial Christmas recipes continues.

#baking #mistyspies

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I’ve always been interested in making a gingerbread house from scratch. With all the time at home I decided this was the year, especially when I kept seeing gingerbread house recipes popping up in the paper or in my email. It was a sign! I used this recipe. All in all it took me four days, with all the resting that needed to happen between steps, although it could’ve been reduced to two if I started in the morning. Day 1: Make dough. Day 2: Cut out shapes and bake. Day 3. Construct house and give it time to set. Day 4: Decorate. All those steps didn’t individually take that long. It also was a lot more satisfying than the cheap kits. Penny had a great time decorating. Still, I won’t be doing this every year.

#baking