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sunniebelle · 4 years

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Surprises In Store

She thought it was a mistake, at first, but it seems destiny is determined to bring Rose and James together.

(tagging @doctorroseprompts)

Ten x Rose AU

Ao3

Rose’s morning had not been going well. Sleeping in was a luxury she was rarely afforded, yet her alarm failing to go off on time had allowed her to indulge an extra fifteen minutes this morning. The rush of adrenaline when she discovered this made it easy for her to beat her record for quickest clothing change and make-up application she could remember, though she chose not to fuss with her hair aside from flipping it upside down and teasing it to give it volume.

And of course, this would naturally be the day for her to realize she’s out of both tea and coffee—though to be fair, there really wasn’t time for either, already needing to run to catch her bus. Scarfing down a piece of toast, she ran out the front door and tore down the stairs, thankful that her job allowed her to wear trainers.

The only thing that kept her from giving up and wanting to return home to hide from the expectations of the day was the fact that she managed to make her bus, though just barely. And there were far fewer people boarded today than normal. She hoped that might allow her to make up some time.

A few minutes later, bright smile lighting her face, she stepped off the bus with still several minutes to spare. If she hurried, she’d have time for a coffee run at the recently opened coffee shop adjacent to Henrick’s. She’d not been in there yet and this morning she could really use the caffeine.

She made her way through the front entrance of Kasterborous Coffee, thankful there was only one person queued before her. Smiling pleasantly at the young woman helping her, Rose made quick work of paying for her coffee and moving to retrieve her drink.

So anxious was she to get to work on time, she turned hastily to exit the coffee shop and ran directly into a solid body, her coffee spilling down her front.

Her momentum bouncing her off the man, as well as the shock of hot coffee drenching her, resulted in her losing her footing slightly. Strong, long fingered hands grasped her biceps in a gentle but firm grip, helping her regain her balance.

Her gasped sputtering and muttered curses were suddenly drowned out by the smooth sounds of an Estuary accented voice talking quickly and apologizing profusely.

Her eyes traveled up the lean figure of the brown pinstriped suited man, all her anger, and any temptation of shouting at him to watch where he was going, suddenly flew from her mind. She was immediately captivated by his handsome face, hair styled in a modern sticky-uppy fashion, and deep brown eyes that looked at her sharply but with genuine concern. He suddenly stopped talking, allowing her brain a moment to restart and no longer focus on his pouty lower lip.

“Miss? You alright?” he asked anxiously, bending slightly to catch her eye and look her over for possible injury (apart from a mild scalding due to hot coffee, anyway).

“Yeah, yeah. ‘M fine, thanks. Just…mind’s a bit scrambled, I guess,” she laughs.

He smiles, words seeming to tumble from his mouth. “Sorry about that. So sorry. I was a mite distracted, but of course, if I’d been paying attention then we wouldn’t be in this predicament, would we?” he asks, pulling on an earlobe. “Then again, if you’d watched where you were going, you might’ve avoided me altogether. Oo, was that rude? That was a bit rude, wasn’t it. Donna’s always gettin’ onto me about that, being rude, that is. Not running into lovely ladies and spilling their coffees on them. She’d probably give me a slap if she saw me now, too.” His jaw suddenly snapped closed, as though the thought of this Donna person giving him a slap was the only thing keeping more words from exiting his mouth.

Watching his face turn a bit pink as he continued to tug on his ear nervously, she wasn’t sure whether to be irritated for being insulted by him, or amused by his rambling and embarrassment. She thought his adorable ‘kicked puppy’ look made up for the insults.

“No, it’s fine, really. No permanent damage. I’m sure a good wash’ll get this right out. And I bet one of my coworkers has a shirt or something I can borrow.”

It suddenly dawned on her that she was likely to be late clocking in unless she left immediately. And her witch of a manager, Cassandra was unlikely to have any pity for her regardless of the circumstances surrounding her tardiness.

“Sorry, gotta run. My boss’ll have my head if ’M late. Um, well… bye, then.” Not giving the man any time to reply, Rose shot out of the coffee shop, throwing away her nearly empty cup on the way. She managed to make it just in time to clock in, roughly thirty seconds from being officially late. Lucky for her, since a reprimanding from Cassandra would have been the icing on the cake to her day that she really didn’t need.

The rest of the day seemed to drag, allowing her mind plenty of free time to wonder about the bloke who was the cause of her wearing a slightly too-small shirt (borrowed from Linda with a y; though her perkiness could at times be annoying, she had turned out to be a good friend). Too many times Rose had to drag her mind back to what she needed to be focused on and away from thinking of her mystery man.

The feel of his long-fingered hands gripping her arms, what it might feel like to run her hands through his great—really great—hair, or to puts a kiss to his tempting, pouty lower lip.

Stop it! God, what was wrong with her?! It was one disastrous meeting and now her mind would not stop thinking about him. She didn’t even know his name!

She’d likely never see him again, which was just as well. She would probably wind up making a fool of herself. He looked too well off to want anything to do with a shopgirl from the estates who never got A-levels. It was time to put all thoughts of the handsome stranger behind her.

Her resolve crumbled many times over the next few days, but slowly she was able to leave all thoughts of Mr. Sticky-Uppy Hair behind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Almost a month to the day of the coffee incident, Rose walked into Kasterborous Coffee. This morning seemed to be going much smoother for her, so far at least. There hadn’t seemed to be any major problems cropping up, and she was really looking forward to enjoying a cup of coffee on a rare day off.

However, she got quite the shock when she finally went to order.

Standing behind the counter was the man she’d bumped into, still looking amazing with his wild hair that defied gravity and brown pinstriped suit that seemed to hug his frame perfectly. His bewildered look quickly gave way to a bright smile and twinkling chocolate-brown eyes. She spared a moment to think that he really had no right to look that gorgeous, it wasn’t fair since he seemed to be able to scramble her thoughts with a single look.

“Hello!” he proclaimed brightly. “Come to get a coffee? Don’t worry, I’m behind the counter today so it’s unlikely I'll drench you with it.”

Laughing with him, she smiled brightly, her brain suddenly working again.

“Yeah, I generally prefer to drink my coffee rather than wear it,” she teased him, smiling with just a hint of her tongue showing. She felt a pleasant jolt when she saw his eyes stare at her mouth.

Seeming to realize what he was doing, he blushed slightly and rubbed the back of his neck. “So, coffee! What kind would you like? Cappuccino? Or maybe a latte? Oh, we have a brilliant espresso that tastes brilliant with caramel or chocolate?”

Rose felt rather bemused for several moments as he threw out possible suggestions of drinks she might like. Before she could say anything though, a red haired woman walked up and smacked him hard on the arm.

“Oi! What was that for?!” he exclaimed, rubbing his arm, managing to look simultaneously offended and a bit scared.

“To get you to shut up, Spaceman. If you’d stop blathering away at the poor girl she might be able to tell you what she wants!” The ginger woman's face and voice told of her exasperation, but there was a hint of a mischievous smile peeking through and humor danced in her eyes as she winked at Rose.

He gave Rose a sheepish smile as the woman walked off, muttering under her breath about idiots and outerspace dunces.

“Spaceman?” Rose asked, puzzling over the odd name.

“Oh, that’s one of the many nicknames Donna has for me. Not sure why she calls me that, honestly. Started when we were kids and it seemed to stick, I guess. Anyway, my name’s James Noble.”

She shook the hand he offered, trying to ignore the tingling she felt when they touched. “’M Rose, Rose Tyler.”

“Lovely to meet you Rose Tyler!” She wasn’t sure what to make of the pleasant feeling that flowed though her at hearing him say her name like that, as though he were caressing it.

She nodded and smiled, not trusting her voice. When he asked again for her drink order, after a pointedly cleared throat from a customer behind her, she ordered the first thing she saw on the display, which happened to be a mocha latte. She balked a bit when he wouldn’t let her pay for it, declaring that he owned her one since he caused her to spill hers last time. Feeling a bit flustered, but in a good way, she chose not to argue the point, not wanting to hold up the queue any longer.

When she made to get her drink, she was handed a large cup, a generous helping of whipped cream and chocolate shavings decorating the top. Since business had dramatically picked up, she wasn’t able to talk to James longer than to say goodbye.

Aimlessly strolling the busy walkway, completely forgetting anything else she'd had planned that day, she sipped at her drink and let her mind wander. What were the chances that she had met him again? And working in the shop next door, at that!

Just as Rose was trying to pull her thoughts away from the handsome James Noble, she noticed a flash of color on the cup’s sleeve. There, written in blue ink, was James’ phone number. His…phone number. He had given her—her—his phone number!

A megawatt smile lighting her face, Rose slipped the sleeve off the cup and tucked it into her pocket, before throwing the cup away. Pulling out her phone to look up the hours of operation for Kasterborous Coffee, she headed home, all the while making plans for an important phone call later in the day. Not even realizing she was chewing her cuticle a bit, she ran through possible conversation topics and what she might say, and what he might say back.

Though she wasn’t sure what would happen in the near future, she was certainly excited to find out.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Happy Birthday, @creativebec! Hope you have a lovely Birthday, Bec!

#creativebec #doctor who #tenth doctor #rose tyler #ten x rose au #coffee shop au #meet-cute #fluff #donna noble #doctorroseprompts

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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years

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White Open Spaces

For my immigrant family, outdoor recreation was not part of our usual vacation plans. Could learning to camp be the pandemic escape I needed?

Wei Tchou is a Brooklyn-based writer and former non-camper working on a book about her family and the cultural history of ferns.

“I know you can do it,” said Salem, smiling at me with encouraging eyes, even though I didn’t know the first thing about building a campfire. It was meant to be a gesture of sweetness that he wanted me to build a hearth for his younger siblings on our first campout together. But I couldn’t read it as anything but an act of inscrutable emotional terrorism, doled out to a devoted girlfriend whose only crime was being accomodating enough to come on this stupid camping trip in the first place. I covered my face with my hands to hide my tears.

A part of me had hoped I would take to camping as if the woods were my true home all along. Like a captive platypus released back into her highland waterways, my real self would shake off such earthly superficialities as shelter, safety, and lumbar support as I became just another creature of nature, flowers weaving through my hair as sparrows sang overhead. Instead, my first experience of camping found me crying next to a gaping pit of ashes in front of my boyfriend’s family.

My first experience of camping found me crying next to a gaping pit of ashes in front of my boyfriend’s family.

I thought of my Chinese immigrant parents, who would likely shudder at the thought of me sleeping on a dirt floor and getting my vagina so close to the ground while peeing that something might plausibly climb in. My parents did not immigrate to this country for me to have something crawl into my vagina! I thought.

How could I have ever been so delusional as to think that I would tolerate, much less enjoy, a life in the woods, when very little in my 32 years of life has indicated an ease with anything less than the cool breeze of an air-conditioning unit, four bars of LTE, and good Chinese takeout just around the corner?

Minimalist camping, as it turns out, requires a surprising amount of stuff.

The answer to this question is most likely the same as yours “in these unprecedented times,” or ITUT, as a friend of mine likes to refer to the narrowing of life since COVID-19 spread to our coast. I was sick of being cooped up in the city but anxious about making the pandemic worse by contracting it, spreading it, or putting service workers at greater risk with my selfish longing for a cappuccino.

And also, I recently finished a partial manuscript of my book, which is in part a personal history of my interest in ferns. It’s hard not to spend, say, four years of one’s adult life writing about the wonders of ferns and nature without feeling like an abject phony for being suspicious about any immersion in wilderness beyond just, like, looking at it from the car.

So, when Salem’s younger sister, Pearl, and younger brother, Hazel, who are both outdoors enthusiasts, proposed that we all go camping together up in Maine last month, I felt uncharacteristically enthusiastic. Camping! A way to safely spend time with loved ones somewhere other than Zoom. Camping! A way to prove t,hat I could be as much of an expert on ferns as some unkempt white dude in Chacos. If I could learn to camp, it seemed to me, then maybe I could also be free.

Julia Cameron, the author of the cult ’70s-era workbook for creatives The Artist’s Way, would call this confluence of desires with opportunity a synchronicity, which is just a woo-woo term for coincidences that fall in your favor, she asserts, when you thoroughly believe in your art. Back in March, I roped Salem, who was quarantining with me in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and his sister, Pearl, who lives in Maine, into tackling the self-help classic, whose “spiritual path to higher creativity” winds through a tidy 12 weeks — enough time, I reasoned, that the lockdown would be over well before we finished. It was a welcome distraction from the aching distress of watching the daily death toll tick up and washing our hands until they were raw. Our group expanded to include Salem and Pearl’s mother, Betsy (who actually is an artist), Pearl’s partner, Alec (who is an artist, but for ice cream), Pearl’s best friend, Peyton (who works on behalf of environmental justice), and finally Hazel, after he graduated from college over Zoom.

Talk to my family about spending a stretch of time in the woods and they’ll assume you were exiled for doing something very bad, like owning land or refusing to become a doctor.

It alarmed me at first that I was an outsider in my own self-help group — the new girlfriend in a weekly video chat of Salem’s family and friends, and, just as acutely, the only nonwhite person. But I grew close to them as we completed tasks that encouraged our childlike sense of wonder: wandering outside to gather leaves and flowers, collaging our dream lives. One writing exercise asked us to name activities that we wished, as children, we’d had the freedom to try. I found myself absentmindedly listing mountain biking, rock climbing, hiking, and, surprisingly, camping.

What the fuck, I thought, immediately troubled by what appeared to be a repressed desire to become woodsy. In my mind, woodsiness conjured images of beautiful, sunned white people looking inexplicably chic in technical gear and tangled hair, unbothered by the elements — the kind of person whose insouciant athleticism and confidence in using the terms “suffering” and “challenging” interchangeably did not belie a childhood of Suzuki method and Saturday school and the lifelong condition that every decision you make must justify the sacrifices your family made for you to simply be alive.

In my predominantly white Appalachian hometown, I had felt alienated by how casual and insistent people were about outdoor recreation. (Talk to my family about spending a stretch of time in the woods and they’ll assume you were exiled for doing something very bad, like owning land or refusing to become a doctor.) Unlike turning the radio on to learn pop songs or begging your mother to buy you a pair of sweatpants with “JUICY” written on the butt, learning to camp was impossible without someone to show you how. And the only people who might show me how were the same assholes who rejected me, even if I could sing along to every ’N Sync song, unconvincingly shaking my hips in baby-pink terry cloth. Along with how I looked, it was just another obvious way of understanding that no matter what I tried to become, I would never really belong.

Setting up the tent was less puzzle-like than I’d thought.

From left to right: Pearl, PJ the dog, Hazel, and Salem

After I moved to New York City, I was proud to be able to finally reject woodsiness entirely. Here, I found belonging with people who, like me, found “camping people” to be perplexing and objectionable. I left behind the fear of being patronized for simply wanting to sleep in a bed with central air blowing on my face for the rest of my life. It was devastating to have to admit to myself, and then to my Artist’s Way group, that I had always secretly dreamed of seeing myself out there in the wilderness — tending a fire and drinking a tin cup of coffee in the foggy, crisp morning — strong enough to shoulder a pack over rough, pastoral terrain.

Call it another synchronicity that after Salem and I met on Tinder (an app that literally runs on synchronicities), we discovered that we were from two towns hugging opposite sides of the same Appalachian mountain range. Yet Salem had grown up camping, even if he had later diverged from his woodsy siblings, fleeing the mountains for the city. As we drove north for our camping adventure, I contemplated the cruel joke that now, as an adult, I was off to assimilate to the white hobby I’d rejected with fierce vehemence all of my life, with my white boyfriend and his white family who were from the same white part of the country I’d spent my entire life attempting to escape.

Our lakeside campsite was beautiful, if car-accessible.

Any self-worth I’d managed to cling to evaporated as soon as Salem, Pearl, Hazel, and I — in preparation for our trip — walked into a camping store, whose floor was marked all over in blue tape to indicate where customers might stand to stay six feet apart. In part, my insecurity had to do with the fact that I’d poisoned myself the day before eating dried apricots, forgetting that apricots are a stone fruit, which I am allergic to. (Another synchronicity?) But really it was my intimidation about entering a store that said it was for camping, yet seemed only to sell racks and racks of long metal thingies and neon fabric bags attached to larger neon fabric bags. All the products were puzzles to solve, rather than recognizable pieces of equipment — a tent, for instance, that I might look at and think, Wow, that’s a great tent! My reluctance to touch things in stores since the pandemic began only made the process worse. Like, I knew I needed to buy a sleeping bag but felt stupid trying to choose one by staring as hard as I could at various lumpy sacks of nylon.

If the allure of camping evokes a certain rugged minimalism, the reality is strikingly fussy.

Sensing my panic, Pearl asked if I’d like to go take a look at tin cups in the cooking section, and I was relieved. I know food, I know cooking, I thought, puffing out my chest as we walked. But to my bewilderment, anything I might recognize in a kitchen was again abstracted to pieces of plastic, or sinister-looking canisters of gas and gadgets that promised to boil water in under 30 seconds (but, why!).

“Wei, look,” Pearl said, as I stared into the abyss of a collapsible plastic bowl. Grinning, she presented me with an enamel tin cup printed with a graphic of a lantern, and I sighed in recognition as she placed it in my hands. For drinking coffee out of! So sturdy! So cute! I thought. It was $20 and I threw it greedily into my basket — had it been $200, I still would have wanted it, for its familiarity, for its having the decency of looking like exactly what it was.

Shopping for camping supplies was triggering — and expensive.

If the allure of camping evokes a certain rugged minimalism, the reality is strikingly fussy. You need a lot of stuff; the stuff is very expensive, and without experience, it’s hard to figure out what kind of stuff you’re even going to need. And none of it is going to make you feel woodsy, really — mostly it will just make you feel broke, staring at a two-foot-long receipt, registering that you’ve blown $650 in less than half an hour on the bare minimum of supplies.

It can make you furious to think about, especially during a pandemic when there are few options to escape the city, and the one that seems easy and cheap and safe turns out to be so psychologically and financially demanding that I, for one, would have given up upon entry at the store if I wouldn’t have felt even worse to let Salem and his siblings down.

I was still fuming about all of this when Salem suggested we camp out in Pearl’s backyard to test out our new equipment. Though I was feeling defeated, I followed along as he pulled out tent rods and began assembling them over a plastic tarp. I found that assembly was surprisingly intuitive — not puzzle-like at all — and before long, we were straightening out another piece of tarp over a modular mesh structure. We took turns staking its corners into the dirt, and in spite of myself, I couldn’t help but feel proud, admiring the neat little orange tent before us.

That night, I fell asleep in my new sleeping bag listening to rain drum the fabric over my head. All of my frustrations unexpectedly melted into a sweet, peaceful feeling that this small space, with its sounds and its funny mesh pockets and zippers, was mine. I was suddenly a child overcome by wonder, the anxieties and paranoia of the past few months dissipating as I observed little spiders scurrying in from the rain under the fly. They parachuted around on their silks as Salem snored softly, far away already in a distant dream.

Dinner was a delicious hodgepodge.

Our campsite was situated on a farm nestling an ocean bay — salt breezes rolled through the open windows of our car as we puttered along a long path of RVs, campers, and tents. The first thing I noticed was that very few people were wearing masks — we’d all been required to prove we’d been tested for COVID-19 before we booked. I marveled at the fact that it was the first time in almost half a year that it seemed okay to observe the noses and mouths of so many strangers, going about their days uninterrupted by obsessive ritual sanitization of their bodies and possessions.

The next thing I noticed was that I didn’t have to carry anything more than a few feet from car to campsite, which, by the way, presided over a spectacular waterfront view, no walking necessary. It turns out there are degrees of camping, folks — a fact I was a little mad to find out. There was even an organic ice cream stand on the premises (which did, for the record, observe social-distancing protocols) where Pearl, Hazel, and I would circle back later to share a cup of s’mores-flavored ice cream, studded generously with marshmallow fluff and graham cracker crumbles.

Have camping people selfishly stoked the conspiracy that you have to strap on 50 pounds of gear and scale K2 every time you go camping to keep non-campers from their delicious ice cream stands? I contemplated this as we drew closer to our site, but my attention was drawn toward several figures playing on a swing set.

“Asians,” I whispered urgently, pointing them out through my window.

One privilege of being a journalist is the shamelessness with which I feel I can approach strangers, and Asian strangers in particular, to ask about their experiences, because, well, it’s my job. After we set up our tents, Hazel humored me by coming along as I stalked across the field toward several preteens at the campsite’s playground.

“I’m going to wait over here,” Hazel told me, stopping tentatively by the swing set, as I approached two of the older kids, introduced myself as a writer, and asked if I could chat with them.

I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride and relief in registering that the most beautiful campsite of all was made by the only nonwhite people I’d seen.

“So, like, I’ve only seen white people out here,” I told them, trying to make my eyes smiley rather than threatening above my mask. They giggled and looked at each other. “Are you guys from around here?” I asked.

“We’re from Brooklyn,” they said, and I laughed, because of course they were. They told me that they normally vacationed in Japan this time of year, to visit family, but given the pandemic they had to stay in the States. Camping was popular in Japan, too, they said, pointing in the direction of their campsite, which featured an impossibly chic yurt flanked by a large shade sail. I knew just by glancing at their complicated-looking pour-over device that they were drinking excellent coffee.

I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride and relief in registering that the most beautiful campsite of all was made by the only nonwhite people I’d seen, and Asian Americans to boot. By then, Hazel was making his way up to me, and I waved at him gleefully as I introduced him to the kids.

“Our parents are Asian, too!” one of them told us cheerfully.

“We’re Asian, dummy,” the other responded, rolling his eyes. “So obviously that means our parents are Asian, too.”

“I mean, not necessarily,” I said, trying to be helpful. “You could be adopted!”

“Yeah, we could be adopted,” the other said, blowing a raspberry at his friend. Hazel and I grinned conspiratorially as we hurried back to fill Pearl in on what we learned about the Asians, taking turns recounting the details.

I’ve never built a campfire in my life.

Later, we all drank sake out of our tin cups as we watched the sun set pink over the bay at low tide — clam diggers worked their way through the glistening mud as the siblings told me stories about growing up together, their disastrous road trips, the pets they had loved. As dusk settled, we hurried back to make dinner, at which point my pleasant, dreamy mood was shattered as Salem heartlessly attempted to press me into building that fire — the one on which our comfort and dinner depended.

“Oh no, oh my god! Wei! You’re getting so upset!” he said, as soon as I hid my face with my hands. He pulled me into a hug.

“Wei,” Pearl said gently from the fire pit, using the same tone she had at the camping store to coax me out of my manic state, and I wiped my face on my sleeves and crept down next to her as she explained how to start with pine needles, leaning larger and larger sticks over the fire as it grew. “People like to say there’s a right way to do it, but there isn’t,” she said, swatting Hazel away as he tried to offer commentary. She leaned in to blow on the fire, and the embers lit up with her breath.

Soon the fire was crackling and the siblings jumped into cooking, enthusiastically clashing about what they wanted to eat and how best to make it. Hazel established himself as the gourmand, dressing a steak with rosemary and butter and showing me how to gauge its doneness by pressing on different parts of my fist. Pearl roasted a hot dog on a stick while Salem fussed over an aluminum packet of potatoes and mushrooms. As they cooked, they debated new ways to construct a s’more — wrapping the entire thing in foil to place on the grate, dumping the chocolate and marshmallow in a pan to approximate something like s’more fondue.

At that moment, there was no better hot dog in the entire world than the one dripping with butter and ashes in my hands.

Listening to the siblings bicker and tease each other about their different ways of cooking, eating, and being, I was encouraged to find my own way, too, to see my camping ignorance as an opportunity to do exactly as I felt. (I’d even discovered, by then, that, just a little hike away, there was a cabin of gloriously pristine bathroom stalls, for those of us with overactive vaginal imaginations.)

I ventured to throw a hot dog and a bun on the grate. When they were both black with char, Hazel doused them in butter for me. I hate it when people say that food tastes better when you’re camping, as if there is glory in deprivation, but at that moment, there was no better hot dog in the entire world than the one dripping with butter and ashes in my hands.

Without a doubt, the best hot dog I’ve ever eaten

Maybe I’m a camping person after all.

The next day, Salem and I decided that we would camp one more night on our way home to Brooklyn. We stopped midway to have lunch with some friends, who graciously took our elaborate order, in advance, for what I like to call salad sandwiches — tomato, cucumber, sprouts, onion, avocado, cheddar, dill pickle, and mayonnaise on seven-grain bread. After picnicking and horsing around in a river all afternoon, the thought of setting up a tent again started to feel arduous.

“We could just drive straight home to Brooklyn,” Salem suggested, as I merged onto the freeway. I told him no — I was a camping person now, and that meant I needed to camp. Who even was I anymore, without the sun on my face and a patch of grass to curl up on?

We often talk about assimilation as if it were a one-way street, but it isn’t. It shouldn’t be.

We grew quiet, and I reflected on our past few days, on his family, on him. I thought back to earlier in the year, during some big fight, when I’d shouted at him to stop treating me like I was white, fed up with what I felt was his disinterest in my individual experience, while simultaneously seeing that I hadn’t exactly shared the reality of that experience freely, for fear that he would reject me like the camping people of my youth.

Until that fight, I had too often conflated belonging with acceptance. I thought that in order to be accepted, I needed to keep my nonwhite perspective from my white boyfriend and his white family. That I needed to face the wilderness unafraid to be taken seriously as a nature writer. That I needed to camp like “camping people” — like white people — in order to camp at all. But I grow more certain each day that my fixation with belonging only ever backfires. If I’m not honest about who I am, how can anyone figure out how to accept me in the first place?

Salem listened when I fussed at him about not being white, and I got a little braver every day about expressing the ways that I am different from him rather than the same. And now, a year into dating, his brother tags along when I feel moved to approach strangers at swing sets just because they are Asian, even if it makes him nervous. And his sister has identified how to tell when I’m so embarrassed I want to die, as well as the exact tone of voice that will calm me down. We often talk about assimilation as if it were a one-way street, but it isn’t. It shouldn’t be.

I glanced at Salem as he stared into his phone and struggled to remember what I thought of him when we first met. Now, when I look at his face I feel the collapse of distance, the familiarity of a kind of home that you can’t buy, or drive to, or set up with tent poles.

“Hey,” I said. He looked at me. “You were right. Let’s go back to Brooklyn.”

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3g9eaKo https://ift.tt/3g9Uypl

For my immigrant family, outdoor recreation was not part of our usual vacation plans. Could learning to camp be the pandemic escape I needed?

Wei Tchou is a Brooklyn-based writer and former non-camper working on a book about her family and the cultural history of ferns.

My first experience of camping found me crying next to a gaping pit of ashes in front of my boyfriend’s family.

Minimalist camping, as it turns out, requires a surprising amount of stuff.

Talk to my family about spending a stretch of time in the woods and they’ll assume you were exiled for doing something very bad, like owning land or refusing to become a doctor.

Setting up the tent was less puzzle-like than I’d thought.

From left to right: Pearl, PJ the dog, Hazel, and Salem

Our lakeside campsite was beautiful, if car-accessible.

If the allure of camping evokes a certain rugged minimalism, the reality is strikingly fussy.

Shopping for camping supplies was triggering — and expensive.

Dinner was a delicious hodgepodge.

“Asians,” I whispered urgently, pointing them out through my window.

“I’m going to wait over here,” Hazel told me, stopping tentatively by the swing set, as I approached two of the older kids, introduced myself as a writer, and asked if I could chat with them.

I couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride and relief in registering that the most beautiful campsite of all was made by the only nonwhite people I’d seen.

“Our parents are Asian, too!” one of them told us cheerfully.

“We’re Asian, dummy,” the other responded, rolling his eyes. “So obviously that means our parents are Asian, too.”

“I mean, not necessarily,” I said, trying to be helpful. “You could be adopted!”

I’ve never built a campfire in my life.

“Oh no, oh my god! Wei! You’re getting so upset!” he said, as soon as I hid my face with my hands. He pulled me into a hug.

At that moment, there was no better hot dog in the entire world than the one dripping with butter and ashes in my hands.

Without a doubt, the best hot dog I’ve ever eaten

Maybe I’m a camping person after all.

We often talk about assimilation as if it were a one-way street, but it isn’t. It shouldn’t be.

“Hey,” I said. He looked at me. “You were right. Let’s go back to Brooklyn.”

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/3g9eaKo via Blogger https://ift.tt/3iZAVC3

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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queermequeeryou · 6 years

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Chapter 6

Womack did not expect that he will see Reina ever again but something in her eyes made it hard for him to forget their intercourse. Maybe it was not all an accident that he cheated with her on his wife and that led to their divorce. When she contacted him, he was shocked. Although, he agreed to schedule a dinner together. He was thinking that she was going to use him to have an expensive dish and honestly, he was also thinking she would pay him back and spend the night with him. Womack was even more puzzled when he saw Reina wearing very elegant dress and acting with class and courtesy. She was not like that waiter he met that night. They ordered pasta with vegetables and red wine. Reina told him about the studies she was forced to pay for and that was the reason behind her work in this obscure pub. “But that dress and style?” he asked her suspiciously. She smiled to him politely. “The dress is just thrift store piece. Style... well, I used to believe that this is something more than being wealthy. That you rather born with class or don’t have it at all. But you know, some places requires you to behave the certain way” explained Reina. “I’m sorry that I called you, it’s quite naive but I couldn’t stop thinking. I shouldn’t be so prude but... Womack took her hand. “I understand. For what it’s worth, I have to admit I feel similar. You know, I was married...” “Really? Oh, my god... I’m so sorry, I had no idea” she took her hand back. “I know you didn’t know. I don’t have any excuses but the truth was that I was so far away from my wife at that point and you had something. It was not the body. You had so sad eyes. I couldn't forget them even afterwards” Womack was very anxious because he wanted to be understood. He was not completely lying. Of course, he cheated on his wife, they were good together but the routine made him get used to Ellen. He was thinking he loved her but it was just a habit. Reina’s eyes were fascinating for him and it was really the first thing he saw when he ordered vodka that night. Later on, obviously he felt tempted by her body and the fact that she was listening when he was complaining about the boring evening on a job trip. “You are divorced?” she asked shyly. “You know, I told her the truth” Womack was playing with his signed on the right hand and switching his sight on and on to Reina” “I couldn't lie and act like nothing happened. I’m not that kind of man. I was sure it was just a one-night-stand but I couldn't. I told Ellen but...” He sighed because for a second he was not sure if he wanted to tell Reina the whole truth. “She didn't say a word for a few minutes. I was expecting an argue, shout, fight, cheek, anything. Some expression. You know what she told me?” he looked at Reina with a serious face. “My ex-wife told me she is gay and she couldn't live with my anymore anyway so it’s good for both of us”. Womack rubbed his forehead and smiled ironically. “I still don't know what to think about it. At first I was sure that she lied because she was frustrated but no. I started to reflect on that information and after a while it all made complete sense” he took a sip of wine. “Wow. Sounds really peculiar.” said Reina. “Indeed. Well, we have had some strange situations I totally buried in my mind til that disclosure. Few times I caught her looking intensively at some women when we were out. I even asked once if she knows that person and she said that obviously no. It was you know, not the look you share with a stranger of same sex. The other day we were on holiday and I was shaving in our room but she has already gone downstairs to the bar on the beach. I promised to join her. When I got back she was sitting there and talking to a short-haired woman, very masculine one, you know. She was looking at her similarly like my ex-wife at these women but she was leaning and staring at her swimsuit. I was puzzled. I bet she came with a drink to my wife but then, Ellen said that she is with husband and laughed making me go with her. This woman looked surprised. I think that Ellen agreed to have a drink with her but I came back too fast so she acted like she didn't know her. I was wondering if she ever cheated on me but she told me afterwards that no because she loved me” Womack laughed nervously. “How the heck?” “Maybe she loved you for a person you are, for you heart, character, mind. Not for your gender” replied Reina with a very polite tone. “I don’t know, I don't understand this entire queer-thing. I mean, I have nothing against it in general but why my wife? I am a bad person but I guess I would preferred to be shouted at for what I done than to know she’s gay” he revealed and saw Reina’s disapproval on her face. “You’re like all the men, I think” she said quite disappointed and drank some wine. They already finished their meals. “Maybe. I really loved her but also something changed when I met you. I can’t describe it properly and it feels embarrassing”. “Because you are fascinated with poor student girl?” she said ironically regretting a bit she called him. “No. Because we just met once and for all this time I was thinking that for you it was just a fling and I, the mature man, I am mixing things up, that my mind plays tricks on me and I am just stupid. I really wanted to see you again and when you called... It was like fighting with myself. I desired to have this dinner but also I was thinking that I should probably not agree. To just cut off. I don’t know.” he drunk a lot more feeling that this over-honesty can kill him once. Suddenly, Reina smiled. This man could be a ticket for her to the serious lawyers’ world. No more polishing the counters, no more stinking old drunken guys saying nasty things to her. That was why she called him in the first place. She was tidying up small room she rented in a four-room apartment with some strangers when she found his number on a tissue. She was not that kind of girl but she also knew that she is talented and intelligent but she was from a poor family, no position, no money. That was just the world worked. She could not expect much. Womack was a silly wife-cheater for her. Reina knew lots of stuff about him. Also that he was married but he paid no attention to some buffoon-looking sophisticated lady. She was sure Womack would not even tell her and they would go on as nothing happened. The whole story with the divorce and his wife being a lesbian made her plan quite shaky now. She was not into messing too much with other lives. She planned to get what she wanted, as quick and as unseen as it was possible and get back to being good. Now, she realised that Womack is not all the responsible type and she was unexpectedly open towards her. She did not want to be misled. “Joseph, I understand. But I share you fascination to be honest. I know it’s stupid but I can't help it”. “I can't remember when somebody called me my brith name” said Womack and smiled. “I like how your voice sound when you say it”. He took her hand and kissed it. “Maybe we can take a walk? I will just pay for the dinner” said Womack and in few minutes they were wandering into the night. He switched off his phone and put on black leather gloves. “It’s quite cold tonight” he said buttoning his coat. “I got totally out of being used to it while living in LA. “I can imagine. I like NYC but I sometimes feel overwhelmed by the snow” “You should visit me in Los Angeles next time. I would be honoured” he smiled and hold her by the shoulders. “I definitely will. But know, may I offer you to come over?” He looked at her, smiled and kissed her tenderly. “I thought you’ll never ask.”

~*~

Nevada was having a coffee at Starbucks nearby. The sun was very hot today and the weather was quite demanding even considering the fact it was Los Angeles and it is kind of a rule there. She picked an iced latte because she could not handle regular one in this temperature. She was floating in her thoughts. A lot has happened recently. Her PhD thesis was going forward somehow. She was thinking that there is finally a chance that she will be finishing it this year, in about two months if everything will go this way. She was almost forgetting how long it took her already. Four years. Frankie has had lots of luck the professors even agreed to postpone it. On her mind was also her relationship with Christina. It has gotten more complicated than ever now when Ellen came into her or their lives. Lots of things were happening. Threesome with Christina’s husband, threesome with Ellen. She was not happy with the first one but she really liked the second one. They have not talked with Christina about it but it was like the best Frankie has had for a long time. She was thinking if Christina would like this information from her or would she be jealous? Christina appeared finally with her cappuccino and sat near Nevada. “Hi, babe” she said and kissed her as a greeting. It was not a usual thing that she even paid attention to Frances when she came by but not completely an unusual too. “How are you?” asked Nevada still lost in thoughts. Christina mixed her cream into the cappuccino and took a sip. Then, she said with one leg put on the other.“I’m just... indifferent. I was thinking a lot.” she licked her spoon from the cream and put it on a little plate where the coffee stood. “I want to tell you something about Henry. You know I had five husbands before him, don’t you? But you don’t know how and when I met him.She drank few more sips and put the cappuccino back on the plate.“I was 19, having nothing, just partying, wearing distasteful clothes, fucking with guys and... girls” she smiled to Frankie “Once, I got very drunk. I went to the sophisticated bar where all the millionaires were partying. Obviously, nobody wanted to let me in. I looked like a prostitute. But some unknown man in suit started to talk with me and I went inside him. I saw this world for the first time. I was enchanted. This was like a dream for me. I was a contrast in my used panther dress and very kitschy high heels. This man ordered a drink for me. Then, I excused him to go to the toilet. He followed me. I don’t know why, he was probably drunk and high. Instead of asking me to go to his hotel or just any hotel he tried to rape me in the toilet. That’s how I met Henry. He saved me from it. He told this guy to stop and he did. Henry ordered him a taxi and led him to it. When he left, I tried to talk with Henry. He only told me what his name was and that I should not be there because it’s bad, dangerous and in reality, I don’t want to belong there. He was not into me. He told me he was married and not fancy to cheat on his wife. We talked a lot, he was almost 10 years older than me but so smart. I liked him. He told me something that stayed with me forever. I could take his advice then. He said that this world of wealth is rotten and poisoned within the core. It’s not possible to get out of it, even if you become bankrupt you will forever have the effects of it inside you. You will be doing drugs, you will be cheating, you will be an emotional invalid. I asked him why he was not like that and he replied that he is exactly like that. Then, he smiled and left me. Some other millionaire approached me and that night I fucked him. He gave me a necklace in the morning so I won’t tell his wife. I started to see him. Later on, he divorced his wife because as he said, she was cheating with his job partner and we married. It was my initiation into the wealthy world”. Christina sighed. It was all but a dream. “Obviously, it was a short one but I easily met my second and third husband because I already belonged to this world. Or I thought I did” Christina realised Nevada was looking at her and carefully listening to the story. It made her question herself and why has she never talked with her that deeply. “My fourth husband was different though. I got used by this fucked up rich world. I tried to escape it. I was trying to act like I never left the street, living some double life, having my panther styled dresses in one wardrobe and designer gowns in other. After I divorced with fourth husband I had enough money to have my own apartment but I was really thinking about selling it when I met Jack. He was a junkie, total wreck. We destroyed my flat completely. We made our drug cozy place there. I married this fucking junkie. One night, we fought a lot. Jack said he wants to go to this buffoon party now and kill them all or steal from them. I don’t remember. We were very high then. We went there. I overdosed, he was trying to kill me. It was all a mess. I was dying anyway. And I was only 35. I hated this all, I was a mess. Well, I was seeing Henry regularly somewhere at these parties. We weren't talking but he was frequent there. This time also, as you could have expected now, he saved me. If not for him I would be dead.” She stopped for a moment, look through the window and took a sip of her cappuccino holding the mug in both hands. “When I got better, he came by to see my at the rehab centre. We were talking. He was visiting regularly. I really fell in love with him. He is a great man.” at this point Nevada did not know where Christina’s story were about to be leading but she was happy for the time and openness she shared with her. “I want you to know that I love him”. Christina looked towards Nevada and held her hand for a while. “But... I will tell you that once because you know me well now. I also love you. You are both the most important people in my life.” Christina was quite shaken at this point, she kissed Frankie and let her hug her. “That’s one more thing. I saw your attitude with my husband and with this red-haired. I would suggest you to go for it. You really like her on and it’s mutual, I think. I just want you to know that I have no obligations with you having somebody same as I have Henry” Frances was surprisingly content about what Christina said. It was probably the most fair they both could do for themselves. “Christina, I love you too”. “I already know that, my love” she replied and kissed her again.

#queer me queer you #writer #story #lgbt #lesbians #lesbian #herportrait

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targetdummy · 7 years

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I’m not interesting, but I was tagged by @givemebishies to answer some stuff about. These probably won’t be that cool or interesting for anyone else to read, but here we go!

Rules: Answer all questions, add one question of your own and tag as many people as there are questions.

1. Coke or Pepsi: Pepsi. It’s sweeter, and you’re supposed to sip soda rather than drinking it like water. Plus, MJ still forgave them after they caught his hair on fire, started his painkiller addiction, and dropped him as a promoter because of the child abuse allegations, so I imagine he at least liked to drink it.

2. Disney or Dreamworks: Disney generally. I’m not a big fan of either one, but I think Disney has made more important things in their time. Kind of unfair since they’ve been around longer, but whatever.

3. Coffee or Tea: Cappuccino. And even then I don’t want to taste the coffee in it.

4. Books or Movies: I watch more movies, but I think more books have had a serious impact on my life. I don’t know though, Rocky is a freaking masterpiece.

5. Windows or Mac: What? Where is my GNU/Linux option? Richard Stallman didn’t die for this! [For real though, I use Windows because I’m peasant trash who likes to play video games without spending hours on configuration. Though, I am considering dual-booting with Linux Mint in the near future. We’ll see. And Stallman isn’t dead, that was a joke.]

6. DC or Marvel: Marvel. Gotta have my Spider-Man and X-Men. The Avengers are also much more varied and interesting than the Justice League.

7. Xbox or Playstation: Playstation all the way. I can’t even name an Xbox exclusive offhand other than Halo or Gears of War. Playstation has a more interesting history too.

8. Dragon Age or Mass Effect: A friend of mine kept telling me to play both, but stressed Dragon Age more. I have played neither.

9. Night Owl or Early Rise: Night owl. I feel and work better at night. I like knowing the rest of the world is asleep.

10. Cards or Chess: Cards because they are an unlimited number of games! (So is Chess technically, but I like that with cards you can more easily have a random aspect if you want).

11. Chocolate or Vanilla: Are we talking ice cream? Vanilla. Are we talking brownies? Chocolate. Are we talking anything else? I don’t know.

12. Vans or Converse: I buy the cheapest shoe that feels comfortable and doesn’t make me hate myself when I wear them. I’ve never owned either of those.

13. Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash or Adaar: I’m sorry, I’m only a level 2 mage, I don’t know those ones yet.

14. Fluff or Angst: both I guess? I’m an angst lookin’ to get his fluff on.

15. Beach or Forest: Beach beach beach. I need to be warm and surrounded by water.

16. Dogs or Cats: I like cats and dogs that act like cats.

17. Clear Skies or Rain: Rain all the way. Rain for days. Clear skies are boring and make me sad. They don’t even move. I can feel rain. It surrounds me and makes me feel loved. Warm rain especially, or cool rain on a warm day.

18. Cooking or Eating Out: I prefer eating out in both senses of the term. But for real, I love restaurants. I love the feeling of being in one, and knowing that my food is being handled by someone who knows how to make it well. Then to just have it brought to me, it’s awesome. Like, I didn’t make this. I don’t deserve this. But you’re giving me this, just for some paper. It’s just so comforting. Oh, and takeout is awesome too, because it’s that experience, but with more control and less atmosphere. All of it makes me so happy, honestly, I can’t understate how awesome it is to pickup food from somewhere awesome. Shout out to my people at El Canelo, that’s the place I dream of when I’m hungry. Any Chinese/Japanese is great too. Then fast food, Sheetz and Chick-Fil-A especially can be great. All of it, man. I’m sorry, I wrote too much for this.

19. Spicy Food or Mild Food: Spicy! Specifically, spicy and sweet. It’s all a part of the experience!

20. Halloween/Samhain or Solstice/Yule/Christmas: Halloween is cooler theme-wise. Japanese Christmas though 💕

21. Would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot : Yeah, I guess a little too cold, because I love the sensation of getting warm.

22. If you could have a superpower, what would it be? Phew, does what Dr. Manhattan have count? You know, just be god. Nah, I wouldn’t want that, that’s too much. Controlling time would be cool. Would probably be depressing in reality, but cool in theory.

23. Animation or Live Action: This really depends on the work.

24. Paragon or Renegade: I have no idea what this is referencing. But Renegade is a 1986 beat ‘em up game that I really like for one reason: it’s the start of the Kunio-Kun series that would eventually lead to Downtown Nekketsu Monogatari, or River City Ransom. Renegade isn’t amazing on its own, but really cool to see where RCR got its origin.

25. Baths or Showers: Showers usually.

26. Team Cap or Team Iron Man: Haven’t watched Civil War yet, but Iron Man.

27. Fantasy or Sci-Fi: Sci-Fi usually feels bigger than Fantasy and can include Fantasy elements without much of an issue (infinite universe, infinite possibilities), so I’ll go with it.

28. Do you have three or four favourite quotes?

Okay, these might get lengthy, so here we go:

1. (Solid Snake from Metal Gear Solid 2)

“Life isn't just about passing on your genes. We can leave behind much more than just DNA. Through speech, music, literature and movies... what we've seen, heard, felt... anger, joy and sorrow... these are the things I will pass on. That's what I live for. We need to pass the torch, and let our children read our messy and sad history by its light. We have all the magic of the digital age to do that with. The human race will probably come to an end some time, and new species may rule over this planet. Earth may not be forever, but we still have the responsibility to leave what traces of life we can. Building the future and keeping the past alive are one and the same thing. “

2. (Dr. Manhattan from Watchmen)

“Nothing ends, Adrian. Nothing ever ends.”

3. (Shigeru Miyamoto)

“A delayed game is eventually good, but a rushed game is forever bad.“

And there’s a lot more but I’m bad at remembering them.

29. YouTube or Netflix: YouTube, I watch it way more than Netflix. I like all the different voices on YouTube, how accessible it is.

30. Harry Potter or Percy Jackson: Isn’t Harry Potter a My Immortal fanfic? I go with that one. Also, nobody will even remember Percy Jackson in ten years.

31. When You Feel Accomplished: When I’ve created something that people enjoy, and when I fulfill the needs of those I love. I haven’t been doing enough of either lately :/

32. Star Wars or Star Trek: I accept that Star Trek is superior in every way, however I will always defend Star Wars as my personal favorite.

33. Paperback Books or Hardback Books: Hardback. I am less likely to ruin it, and it looks nicer on a shelf.

34. horror or rom-com: I’m not a fan of either, but I like horror elements in other things.

35. tv shows or movies: TV shows. Individual stories that build to an overall story arc will always have more depth than a single movie. That’s why Samurai Jack is more compelling than any of the samurai movies it draws inspiration from.

36. favorite animal: Tiger.

37. favorite genre of music: Funk and its derivatives.

38. least favorite book: The Old Man and the Sea. I like Hemmingway, but it’s a book where nothing happens, the most exciting part is when he says the ocean is a women having her period, and the ending feels like actually watching an old man die. He doesn’t die in the book, that’s just how it feels.

39. favourite season: Summer. As hot as possible.

40. song that’s currently stuck in your head: ME NE’ER HA ME GUN SO ME HA TA MOO SHARP LI ME KNIFE

41. what kind of pyjama’s do you wear? Pajama pants and a t-shirt. I wear this all day when possible.

42. Handwriting or Typing? Typing. Gotta go fast. And I can’t compile my code from a piece of paper.

43. If you can only choose one song to be played at your funeral, what would it be? The Real Folk Blues.

44. What is your go to book/movie/tv show that you immediately find solace in when you feel down? Okay, I don’t know about books, movies, or TV shows, but I always find solace in any YouTube show that can make me feel less alone. It doesn’t have to be funny or interesting, I just have to feel like people are around me, talking, and being happy. Game Grumps works well for this, or most podcasts.

45. “Yer a wizard/witch, Y/N” - your reaction? I know. I didn’t learn to code just to not be a wizard.

46. Are you generally a messy or organized person? I’m an organized person who appears messy. It’s like a hashing algorithm. There is some initial data behind it, but you can’t make sense of the result, and there’s no way to reverse it.

47. What’s your go to comfort food? Anything fried. Especially fries. It just feels so familiar, so welcoming, like it can never be bad. Especially with good sauces, sweet and sour most of all probably.

48. Do you enjoy being creative? If so what’s your favorite way to create? I do. I’m not sure what my favorite way is. Writing is easiest, but making games and web stuff is so rewarding. I need to do more either way.

My question:

49: Other than Tumblr, what is your favorite website?

I have no friends to tag :D (But if you see this and nobody tagged you to do it, you can totally say I tagged you and do it anyway. I’ll vouch for you.)

#ask tag

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nosugarcoat · 8 years

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Uncle Tim’s Birthday Foods

A few moments ago I called my grams to catch up and to ask her a couple clarifying questions about her banana bread recipe (coming soon) and we began to talk about my Uncle Tim. Uncle Tim often comes up in our chats but today is special. Today would have been his 53rd birthday.

Me: If Uncle Tim was still here what would you have cooked for him today? What were some of his favorite foods?

Grams: He didn’t really have a whole lot of favorites. He was like Perry – he would eat anything you put in front of him…. He loved liver and onions. Or, he liked his french fries …with his fish ….and that is what I am having for dinner tonight.

Me: Did you do that intentionally or is that coincidence?

Grams: Oh I guess it’s just a coincidence… And he liked spinach too so ill open a can of that tonight to go with my fish.

Me: One thing that makes me think of Uncle Tim is strong coffee

Grams: Yeah Timmy drank strong coffee but Perry drank it stronger. But yes they both did like coffee and drink lots of it.

Grams: Perry is the only kid who would go to the store and buy exactly what I asked for and only that and then come home with all of my change and ask me if he could have some of the change and then he would walk all the way back to the store to get what he wanted. He was the only kid who would do that.

Our conversation digressed from there to what she was baking to mail in a care package to my cousin who is currently deployed. After grams and I finished chatting, I kept thinking about Uncle Tim and different memories I have of him. I could write a book about the many memories I have of Uncle Tim and the hundreds of ways that he impacted my life and the person that I am today. For now, in keeping with the theme of the blog, I’ll just share a couple of the food related memories that come to mind:

1.) He might not have had a strong preference of food of the savory variety but boy did he have a sweet tooth. With his strong coffee he always had a handful of cookies. More specifically, crunchy cookies. I know this because we discussed one day which of grandma’s cookies were our favorites and I said I liked her chewy chocolate chip ones and he said he preferred his cookies crunchy for dipping in his tea or coffee.

2.) Having lived with Uncle Tim for a few years when I was growing up, I have many memories of getting a “midnight snack” or “movie snack” with him. Sometimes we used an air popper to make popcorn and I would have to stand on a chair in order to be able to reach to put the kernels in the machine and the butter in the little tray on top. Other times, we made ice cream cones from the gallon bucket of Neapolitan ice cream we often had in the freezer. Sometimes it was Orange Sherbet.

3.) Tea and coffee. When I was little I always wanted to drink hot tea and coffee. Probably because everyone in my family drinks tea and/or coffee all day every day. There is a mug in everyone’s hand pretty much at all times. Seriously, my aunt brings one of those industrial coffee pots that you see at functions in church basements with her for Thanksgiving and Christmas because a regular coffee pot cannot keep up with the demand. So anyway, Uncle Tim would let me have a cup of tea every now and then “with the grown-ups” and he would help me make it. I had to microwave the cup of water rather than boil on the stove and then I had to let it brew on the counter for 3 mins before I was allowed to touch it but Uncle Tim stood in the kitchen with me while I waited those few minutes that felt like eternity. When I was somewhere around 10 or so my mom occasionally would let me have a small cappuccino made from powder and hot water out of those convenient store machines and I loved them. Sometimes I would ask Uncle Tim for a dollar for a one of these cappuccinos and then nag my mother to take me to buy one until she gave in. I would be on cloud nine for the full hour that I would sip and savor my hot, sweet, frothy treat. Years later, Uncle Tim and I would spend hours in his room with loose leaf chamomile, lemongrass, lemon balm, and lavender that he purchased in bulk, along with sage and mint he grew in the garden, and make our own tea blends.

4.) He always had tubs of snacks on hand. Whenever we were sitting in his room to chat about life or sort bulk herbs into DIY tea bags he always had a large tin full of popcorn or pretzels handy. He also packed snacks like this to take with him when he went to the gun club or on any road trip. A few years before he passed away he began the process of signing up for a lung transplant list. One of the first things he had to do was spend a few nights in Pittsburgh to take introductory classes and get a few tests run. He packed enough “snacks” for that trip to feed a family of four for a week. We also went to Panera Bread after the hospital each day and sat drinking the free-refill coffee for a couple hours while we debriefed about lessons learned or tests ran that day.

Uncle Tim passed away about a year and a half ago and his absence is still felt very strongly by many. He is thought of and talked about often so I am sure this will not be the last post that you read about him! Those of you who knew Uncle Tim, please feel free to share additional stories in the comment section. Those of you who didn’t know Uncle Tim, feel free to share a memory of one of your loved ones who maybe came to mind while reading this post.

#UncleTim #UnclePerry #Memories #Birthdayfood #Childhood #coffee #tea #favoritefoods

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michaelfallcon · 5 years

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Kiona Malinka Of Kiona Malinka Tea: The Sprudge Interview

Photo courtesy of Kiona Malkina.

When the Benelux’s food and beverage industry first got acquainted with Kiona Malinka, she was a coffee professional, both self-taught and SCA-certified. However, it was the establishment of Crusio Thee in 2014 that got everyone hooked—on her teas. Five years later, Crusio Thee and its iconic black cans appear in specialty cafes across the Netherlands, Michelin-starred restaurants around Europe, and various venue types in between. Today, Malinka calls herself a Dutch tea importer, supplier, and sommelier. In 2018 she unveiled the Kiona Malinka Tea line, now being served by a coterie of brand ambassadors whom Malinka selected and personally trained.

I had long wanted to interview Malinka, until finally I got the chance. We first talked at Lebkov Rotterdam, a branch of the sandwich shop chain outside the city’s main train station, where I was instructed to let the Crusio Chinese oolong I ordered there steep for two minutes if I wanted flowery notes (any longer and it would go vegetabley, though never become bitter). Later I watched Malinka give demos at the World of Coffee Amsterdam’s Brita stand, to which she drew steady huddles of sippers and spectators.

The 34-year-old conveys an impetuous need for knowledge and easily recalls the details of her origin trips and the personalities she meets along the way. She speaks in a warm alto voice, with nicklessly manicured hands helping communicate what’s on her mind or what’s in her brew. In one light, her bun—by now, her metonym—invokes a prima ballerina. Yet, the more I get to know her, the more it conjures a samurai’s topknot, fixed for a battle-ready helmet. Dauntless as she is darling, Malinka shares in this conversation stories about herself, her teas, and what keeps her athirst.

This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Tell us about the early days. How did your career in the Netherlands’ beverage industry begin?

I grew up in Bergen op Zoom, a small city, actually more like a village, and I was determined not to live there because I wanted to live everywhere. My father is from Papua New Guinea, my mom is Dutch—really Dutch—so it’s a nice combination. Traveling was pretty logical because, on one side, we’re not from here and on the other side, we are; traveling was something that we did.

Since I was 10, I was determined to become a hotel manager. I started in the industry by going to hotel school, which was followed by getting a degree in international hotel management, both in Breda. My first training abroad was in Cyprus—where they do ibrik coffee. I was maybe 17 then, and I had it in my head that I had already been studying hotel management for four years and that I should have been a manager already. But I wasn’t; in Cyprus, I was the coffee brewer. The first day I called my mom and said, “I have to brew the coffee everyday for the rest of the traineeship!” And she said, “Ah, suck it up because this is what you have to do.” But that first day I realized how fun it was that everyone who ordered a coffee had their own recipe. Greek coffee is not the most delicate or complex, but it was really interesting how all the people who entered the bar had an opinion—they wanted to boil it once, or stir it twice, or have some sugar in it. So after a week, I was impressed, and I realized that I really liked brewing coffee. Yet, I was studying to become a hotel manager and after completing my education, I got a job as a manager. I was really bad at it because I like to zoom in on one product, to be an expert, not to be an all-rounder responsible for sales and employees. If one person ordered a cappuccino, I was intent on making the best cappuccino I could, but I was the manager, so that was pretty weird. After one year, I quit my job, and I became determined to be a barista. But at that time in Holland that was not a common job.

When was that?

Like 10 years ago. When I told my friends that I quit my job as a manager to become a coffee brewer, they all asked me, “What is your plan?” I thought, “Well, now I have to do it.” So I went to Guatemala to see coffee farms, and I also went to London to do some coffee internships because I thought, “if I only follow what certain books say or just one person, I will never form my own opinion.” I collected all these books and read them. Yet, I was so insecure that I felt I had to do this really big investigation into coffee before I could put “barista” on my nametag. I was pretty thorough, so that’s the good part; the bad part is that it took me half a year to have the courage to say that I’m a barista. But some time after that, I took over a company, Crusio.

Besides being the name of your tea company, Crusio is also the name of the ice cream salon you run with Coen Crusio. What’s the connection?

Coen is my partner in business and life. We are now both owners of three companies: Ijssalon Crusio, Crusio Thee, and a new line called Kiona Malinka Tea. First we took over Coen’s family-owned ice cream shop. When we did, I was determined to improve coffee and tea specifically in that shop because in the wintertime business was really slow. The shop is over 100 years old, founded in 1915; it’s pretty romantic. Coen is the fourth-generation owner, and even though nowadays he spends less time making ice cream, he still creates the recipes and spends a few hours in the kitchen weekly.

So when we took Crusio over, I would stand there in my own coffee corner, with everyone ordering coffee. I was so enthusiastic. We had 500 kinds of beans a year, switching beans every day. It was fun, but there were two problems. The first thing was that I was expecting people to ask me all these different questions and, in so doing, to give me feedback that would help me develop my skills in coffee and tea. But that wasn’t the case at all because everyone loved everything. They were satisfied, so they didn’t ask questions. The second problem was that sometimes they ordered tea. And I knew everything about coffee—I was able to tell stories about coffee, how to brew it—but tea I didn’t know anything about. If someone ordered tea, I served them the water with leaves, and they had to brew it themself.

But you did serve loose leaves?

Of course, but I didn’t have knowledge about which type of tea was from which country. So I Googled the brands we carried, contacted them, and told them that I have a small ice cream shop and want to know more about who picked the leaves, in what season, from which mountain, what the tea’s flavor profile is, and what recipe they recommended.

Would you say your coffee knowledge was guiding you to think that way?

Yeah and also my wine knowledge because, in my studies, I first got a basic chef’s education, then wine, then coffee. I thought it was really logical to know the basics about a product because, if it’s an ingredient, you have to know what it’s about and where it’s from. At that time, there was still a lot of “magic” surrounding tea, leading to responses like “it’s from Asia”—Asia is really big [laughs]; that’s not an answer. Or the response “it’s a special blend”—well, I don’t like blends that much because you cannot taste what you like about the tea and you cannot form an opinion on it. And I thought, “why should the guests brew their own tea because in coffee that would be really bad.” Imagine saying, “Brew your own Chemex—it’s over there. Uh, the grinder is over there. You can tweak it however you like.” That would be horrible. For tea, most of the time you have to brew it yourself—and everyone can be a tea brewer—but I just had to imagine someone on a first date being like [makes awkward teabag-handling gestures].

I realized it was the start of new adventure when all the brands I called didn’t have any answers. So I started an investigation again, but this one took a little longer than my investigation into coffee because I took a plane to China. I didn’t do research for the trip in advance because everything on Google has already been discovered. If you take one particular person’s advice, the danger is that you will adapt their thinking. It was quite complicated for me, especially in the beginning when I was more vulnerable; if I met someone who knew a lot, I might have believed everything that person said. That’s why then, and to this day, I would rather do research myself, just go to the source—this is my style.

So in China, I found myself going up a hill in a jeep. It was just the logical thing to do: I had to visit a farmer and see what would happen. So I knocked on his door, he opened it, and I told him, “I’m Kiona from Holland, and I want to drink tea with you.” He said, “You may enter.” My Chinese is not good, so I had this student with me, interpreting everything. Then the farmer gave me this small cup and with the first sip I thought, “am I so lucky that I just go up a hill in China and I find this amazing complexity, or is something here different than in Europe?” The latter was the case—it was the freshness; the tea was picked the day before and dried, and then you could drink it. With big brands, sometimes the tea sits around for two years, so they have to flavor it, but then it gets stored and becomes really flat. But that day with the Chinese farmer, I got all these flowery scents. I was really, really confused after just one sip. So I called Coen, my partner, and said, “I’m sorry, but this is the beginning of one big question and I have to get answers. My spot behind the espresso machine, we have to make sure that we find someone to fill it.” We found a replacement for me at the ice cream shop and then my traveling started. I visited 14 countries and found over 150 tea farmers. I buy from 65 of them now. Every trip goes the same. We don’t Google. I just book a plane, a driver—in some places it’s really hard to drive, like in Taiwan, or it’s really dangerous, so to make sure that my mom feels OK, I hire a driver [chuckles]—and an interpreter. It’s not an official one because official interpreters all bring me to places they think I want to visit: big tea farms, factories, or corporations. We don’t work with corporations; we just work with farmers.

Photo courtesy of Kiona Malkina.

If you’re not Googling, are you relying on word-of-mouth recommendations?

No, I just look at where tea is from. In a tea country, you have mountains where the tea grows. I just go there, and I knock on a door. There’s always someone who knows someone who knows a farmer. And if I enter a country and see a perfect tea field, but it’s black tea and I’m looking for oolong, I’ll ask that farmer if he knows where I can find oolong. It’s creating a network from inside out. But you have to be patient, and I’m not patient at all because I’m in a hurry to learn and to develop. But once I’m there, I sit back and see what happens. I sleep in the shed—it’s really not luxury—and my alarm goes off at 4 o’clock if the farmer is waking up then as well.

On my first few trips, I would sometimes stay a month at one location because I couldn’t understand the essence of what they were doing. I couldn’t sell their story or tell their story if I was not getting the point. So I did a lot of tea-picking and working in the factory, but also a lot of eating with them and talking with them. Funny things would come up. Like once, when I had been staying with a Taiwanese farmer for a month, it was the last Friday of my trip. I was done with traveling, tired from being surrounded by people I could not understand and papers I could not read. On the last Friday, I drove up the mountain to go home, but on my way, saw this farm with perfect tea leaves. So we stopped the car, I knocked on the door, and spoke to the farmer. He said that I may enter, but we could not taste tea because it was Friday afternoon and that meant it was karaoke afternoon. I said, “OK,” and he said, “Yeah, you can join?” I sang for two hours in Taiwanese. I cannot speak Taiwanese. He was so happy, and we buy his tea now.

Which tea is that?

It’s No. 092. That’s a Taiwanese oolong, but it’s the “karaoke tea” now. Tea deserves someone to tell its story. The stories are already there—tea is picked by the hands of people. That’s not some marketing narrative; they just do it and then after that, they fire it, steam it, pile it into all these stacks, and at the end you have this product. But we need to know what to do with it. It’s still an ingredient we lack knowledge about; it’s just something that we put in water and we drink, and that’s it. But if I tell you what this farmer really likes to eat or how he dances or whatever, there’s a whole person involved.

I’ve found all these farms and farmers, and yet I still feel insecure because I think tea is pretty complex, more so than coffee. If I ever hear a grinder and I see a bean, I’m pretty confident that I can brew the coffee in a way that would make both the coffee farmer and me proud, and the guest satisfied. But with tea, every time you make it, it’s hard. So after all this traveling, I wanted to buy teas for my own shop.

Photo courtesy of Kiona Malkina.

You mean for the ice cream salon?

Yes, though Crusio was so small at the time. I knew a few chefs through my interest in coffee and involvement in the hospitality industry, and I had told some that I went to Taiwan, that I had this flowery oolong, and that maybe it would be really cool for their restaurants. So I went to their places, took some Taiwanese oolong along, and we sat there for hours, eating and drinking. Then other chefs started calling me, asking things like, “Can you find me something smoky?” Or “Can you find me traditional black tea?” I said, “Yeah, I know all these farmers.” This is how the tea brand started. That was five years ago. I wasn’t confident enough to put my own name on it, so I used the name of our existing company.

Crusio Thee is unblended, unflavored, and directly from the farmer. For us, that’s the logical thing to do. We just create the recipe and give tasting notes, as well as specify where it’s from and what the growth height is, similar to details given for coffee. We tell each farmer’s story—I blog everything. We don’t do acquisitions. If customers want tea, they call us. When we started, I would bring the tea and train every customer myself. I did that for three years. Now we sell in nine countries. We have around 30 staff. In the Netherlands, we hire people who make sure the tea quality is OK, and we test everything.

Do you still travel every year?

Yeah. In the beginning, I was gone for, like, two or three months and then I was home again. But that is not necessary anymore. A month ago, I went to South Africa to find a good red bush [also known as rooibos] because red bush was something that I didn’t love that much. The whole red bush market is all small bags and so really cheap. I found this organic farmer after having searched for four days, and I asked him if I could taste his tea. He began crying and said, “Nobody ever asked me if they could taste it before buying it. They all buy before the harvest—everything is finished off and everything is really cheap.” I said, “I don’t want a cheap tea. I want a good tea, so can we talk about what is good for you and together determine how to ferment and brew according to your philosophy?” He kept crying. He was 73. Nobody ever asked him that, and I thought, “how can you buy something that you haven’t seen or tasted?” That’s a different way of working.

The tea business is quite commercial and quite brand-orientated; of course we have a brand and we are a commercial business, but I don’t want to tell my story. I want to tell their story because it’s more interesting, for sure. So this is the philosophy of Crusio Thee. You often hear that tea is labor-intensive, it’s complex, it’s beautiful. If you know what you’re doing it will turn into a pretty beautiful cup of tea. We have the final step in our hands, and we only need a bit of knowledge because it’s not rocket science to brew tea. I can teach it to everyone.

Nowadays, I travel a week at a time and then I’m back home again. That’s also because I know these farmers already, so most of the time I’m on calls with them or we send postcards. If it’s my birthday, I receive all these Hello Kitty gifts—we are friends. I’ve stayed on their farms for a long time, and they feel that I’m determined to really know their story, that I’m really sincere to see what they are doing. Most buyers are really in a hurry because they have to cover all of China in two weeks. I stay on one mountain for one month, so by the end I know the whole village; the other buyers think I’m strange, but that’s OK.

Photo courtesy of Kiona Malkina.

How many teas are in the Crusio Thee collection?

It depends on the season, sometimes 50, 60, or 20. Sometimes we also do herbs, for example, we might have red bush in different styles, but then the next season, we find something different, be it an herb or a tea. Then we have teas that we can buy year-round. For example, in Sri Lanka, they pick every two weeks throughout the whole year, so we can buy tea from there all year.

Would it always be the same farm in Sri Lanka supplying you?

Yeah, so long as they meet our flavor expectations. And most of the time they do since we have already selected and screened them. Because I visit the farms, they know what I like. This is the goal; if I visit them, I get knowledge, but they also have to get knowledge about me. So the farmer from, for example, Sri Lanka, he will call me and say, “The weather is good today. It’s sunny, the humidity is good. I think I’m gonna pick today for you, OK? How many kilos do you need?” I communicate what I need, what I like, and then he sends me, by plane, a sample between 20 and 50 grams. I taste it—this is one of the 200 samples that I taste every week—and then I call him back and I say if this is it or this is not it. I never ask for a discount because it’s small farms; he tells me his price, and I will decide if I can sell it for that price at that quality. If so, he sends it by air, like all our tea; by sea it would be on a ship for three months and the next season would already be upon us, so this is the reason we fly everything in. Then within two or three weeks, it’s in our storage, we put it in a can, and then we sell it.

If people want to buy, like, 50 kilos at once, I advise them not to; it is better for them to order five kilos ten times a year. We have different harvests every season, so you can always get deliveries of tea from a new crop. Our philosophy is to deliver fresh, like a grocer. It’s different than ordering in coffee because you’re not dealing with green beans, but rather with tea that’s already dried. Ordering tea in bulk is the equivalent of buying roasted coffee to last for the entirety of a year, and that wouldn’t be smart.

Tell us more about those 200 samples you taste weekly.

I taste them over three mornings before breakfast. I think I spend 10 hours a week tasting. Tasting tea is a creative job and although I’m really practical, I acknowledge that the vibe should be right. For a while, each time the company would grow, I would lose my tasting space because it had to be used for storage or something else. At one point, I was do tastings at home, taking samples from my van. But to taste, everything should be perfectly in place. So now I’ve built this wall in the back of the ice cream shop, to create a speakeasy-like section. It’s this perfect tasting place. A few chefs have come by because it’s the perfect escape; you can taste for hours and afterwards you can get as much ice cream as you like. It’s really cool because I started my career in the ice cream shop and I’m still there. I’m still really involved, not in practical aspects of the ice cream business anymore, but I still love the place.

I first started spotting your teas at Amsterdam specialty cafes and later at Michelin-starred restaurants, such as FG in Rotterdam. How did you get picked up by them?

Of my first 50 customers, I think 20 were Michelin-starred restaurants. I didn’t expect that because most Michelin restaurants are sponsored or you have to persuade them with all kinds of things, but they just called me. The thing is: these chefs really think ingredients through. They want to know everything. If I tell them that this is a flowery cup and it isn’t, I’m gone, out the door. But because of all this investigation I had done, I knew my stuff. If people asked me something, I could answer because I was there, on the tea farms, for all these months.

So I had all this knowledge, I think that was the first step, and then someone saw my tea somewhere and they wanted it. Sergio Herman uses it at The Jane Antwerp. Anne-Sophie Pic, at her three-star restaurant in France, is a customer now too. In Gent, we also work with Chambre Séparée, and in Amsterdam, with Taiko restaurant at the Conservatorium Hotel and OCCO, the bar brasserie at The Dylan. Sometimes the chefs invite me to visit. I can be working with the chef for two days, and the whole time I’m in this state of why?-what?-how? because I’m still not satisfied with what we know about tea. I have this need to do it in the perfect way, but this is still something we have not managed, so it’s fun. It’s really not boring.

Photo courtesy of Kiona Malkina.

Tell us about your iconic black cans.

It was really important that it be small packaging. Most people who see it think it’s a consumer-size package since most cafes standardly have those tins that can fit a kilo of tea. In the Netherlands, approximately five coffees are ordered for every tea. It’s really normal to open a one-kilo bag of coffee and just put it in the grinder and then open the next bag when you need it. Our tea cans will fit approximately 25 teas per can, so if you have five cans you have over a hundred teas before you need a new one. Then we have the 200-grams bags that you can use to refill your cans four times.

The image of tea is not really cool or sexy, so I thought our can should be something that everyone should feel OK holding, whether it’s a guy or someone working in a coffee shop or my mom. It should be a nice clean style that makes it about the tea, about the farmers, not the brand. Often the tea names are really complicated for non-Chinese readers, which is why we have assigned them numbers.

What is the most surprising spot your tea has shown up?

A comedian named Jochem Myjer. If you’ve seen him, you know he’s pretty intense, and he never drinks coffee because otherwise he would explode—I don’t think society is ready for him to drink coffee. We got together once and he really loved the tea. Now he’s a private customer.

That reminds me: I’ve been hearing more people say they are cutting out coffee and switching to tea to tame their anxiety levels. As you see it, is that a legitimate approach to lowering caffeine intake?

Tea and coffee, they both have caffeine. The one in tea you call theine, but it’s the same. The only thing is that the molecular structure of tea is different than coffee, so if you drink a coffee you get a rush—a kind of punch in the face—and after a while you need another one and this is how you stumble throughout the day, right? It’s like, “Coffee, I need a coffee, I need a coffee.” I drink coffee a lot myself. But after one tea, for six hours you’re getting a bit of caffeine steadily, and there are ingredients in it that relax you. Every sip keeps you in balance, so it gets you focused but not over-caffeinated. Sometimes with coffee, the world moves faster and slower at the same time; with tea you never experience that.

So what in the world is next for you?

I’ve learned all these things about pairing food and tea, varietals, temperatures, and recipes. If I make a recipe, my customers follow it and that’s it. The next step is teaching them to know what happens when you drop the temperature 20 degrees, to teach them in a different way. This is why I started an invitation-only brand. It is called Kiona Malinka Tea—using my name is still something I have to get used to. There are 30 teas in the current collection, and I invited only 15 customers to use it. Each one of the 15 was happy to do it. The customers are all around the world, and it is not only Michelin-starred restaurants, but also cool coffee shops and people who really have the potential to take the next step.

I really want to show everyone what we can do. I want to blow them away, which is not possible to do with hundreds of customers. So within a year, I want to make sure that everyone who’s working with that brand can make recipes on their own, no longer just following my steps because that’s what they had been doing. In preparation, I held four-hour tastings with the group’s members. We sat back and we tasted together, and we talked about flavor and possibilities. We needed time to develop this. I could not send the group an email with the new pairings. They had to sit. We had to get to know each other on a different level, and then we created. It was really a luxury that I could do this.

And can people already drink the Kiona Malinka brand at those select places?

Yes, as of summer 2018. Kiona Malinka Tea is only sold to those 15 customers, who serve it themselves but do not resell it. Some of those venues are The Jane Antwerp, Pure C, and Zarzo.

Crusio Thee, meanwhile, remains available to all customers, and can be purchased through our webshop and various retailers, such as Lebkov, Caffènation, and Coffeelab.

Is there anything you’d like to share that we haven’t yet covered?

Because I was a barista and came to find out all these things about tea, I was expecting my first customers to all be baristas because they think the same way as I do. Some coffee shops are doing a pretty good job with tea, but most of the time they’re only considering the coffee. The main focus in a coffee shop should not be on tea, but there should be good tea options, at least one. I think that in the future there will be a movement in which more coffee people also become really interested in tea. But I don’t know if it’s gonna happen soon. I think it’s interesting that restaurants are moving in that direction and the customers are moving, but in the coffee scene there is some space to grow.

Conversely, why do you think some high-level establishments are less likely to serve really good coffee than tea?

I don’t know since tea is, just like coffee, an ingredient. You can also use it pretty easily to steam a fish, to make a sauce. But increasing coffee appreciation is also part of the effort that I’m putting into my work because my chef customers and I talk a lot about coffee, too.

In the meantime, is the general public going to start drinking better tea soon?

I hope so. It’s not the same as coffee, so we need some time. But I have time. I have a lot of time.

Visit Crusio Thee’s official website and follow on Facebook and Instagram. Visit Kiona Malinka Tea’s official website and follow on Instagram.

Karina Hof is a Sprudge staff writer based in Amsterdam. Read more Karina Hof on Sprudge.

All photos by author unless otherwise noted.

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