Salad on Substack: Why Subscribe?
One morning, my husband and I sat down to play tetrus with color-coded google calendars, slotting in date night, dropping in meetings, putting therapy on repeat and metering out childcare. Adam had multiple work trips on the horizon, and I was confronted with blocks of solo parent time in my immediate future. I am not ashamed to admit that my overwhelming emotion was fear. I was afraid to face the chaos, the tantrums, the morning stalemates over clothing choices, the sudden change of heart over the flavor of our toothpaste. All of it, without backup.
Unlike Adam, I didn’t have an eject button at arm’s reach. Since having kids, my escape hatch has taken the form of assignments for publications like T Magazine and Departures (RIP) that get my ass on a flight and into another reality. I was channeling the energy of a trapped squirrel (my alter-ego, in perpetual motion munching on nuts and storing them for winter). I had been jockeying to write about a remote collective of indigenous women in Oaxaca dedicated to the tradition of making pulque, a living agave drink with an ephemeral 24 hour shelf life. After doing the research, writing the pitches, and countless shunted email exchanges, I had no takers. The travel pubs that are still in business favor itineraries that an average tourist might replicate (more clicks). I couldn’t sell the story. Without the legitimization of an assignment, I assumed I would never get to go. I felt stymied.
Just then, Adam put untold sums of money spent on couples’ therapy to work. “You should go to Oaxaca. Why does it have to be for work?” Was he actually suggesting I travel alone and leave the kids for no reason other than my own edification? How thrilling to imagine being asked why I was going to Oaxaca, and my reply, short and sweet, “Because I want to.” Scandalized, I took this as a challenge. I never say no to a challenge, especially when it is camouflage for Mom-guilt.
That trip to Oaxaca reminded me of something: I can work anywhere. Cooking, photography and writing are immediate for me -- I don’t need an assistant or fancy equipment. I started my blog, Salad for President, more than a decade ago with those skills alone. I developed recipes with artists, photographing them in their homes, celebrating their lifestyles as a different brand of “aspirational.” With a camera, a laptop, and a kitchen, I could manifest everything from conceptual art projects to consumer packaged products to writing and shooting cookbooks. My ego is stroked by contributing to impressive publications and God knows writing a book was a life goal, but I got into this game without asking permission, using Tumblr to cross-pollinate my worlds of food and art and find my voice. Now, having had the full range of publishing experience, I have come full circle.
Upon my return from Oaxaca, I decided to start a Substack. No one ever expands an Instagram caption past the ellipses, and TikTok is apparently where salad goes to die. Like so many of you on this platform, I miss generating a flow of writing for myself and for my cultivated audience of generous plant nerds and food lovers.
I’m here to start a new thread, a conversation, and I hope it is with you.
