The F Words: Holly Ivey

Those of you who know me even a little know that I am, shall we say, interested in my hair. Invested in it, even. (Obsessed with it? Perhaps.) Today, folks, you will get to know the amazing woman who's been nurturing that investment for me for the past seven years, my incredible stylist Holly Ivey. Holly is pretty much the coolest chick I know, and she's a spectacular businesswoman, to boot. After working for years as a stylist as other people's salons, Holly broke out on her own a few years ago, and is now the owner of her very own business, Holly Ivey Hair Design.

In addition to being a wizard with the scissors, Holly is an artist, and, more to the point for our purposes here today, a talented home cook. She's been making me drool with pictures of her food on Facebook for ages now, and so I've asked her to share her thoughts about cooking, gender and life in general with us today. Enjoy!

Tell us a bit about your day job. I make people feel better about themselves with aesthetic maintenance of the length and color of the hair. (I'm a hairstylist!)

How did you learn to cook? I learned out of sheer necessity. The "great recession" entirely changed our "situation"and it became mandatory to start eating at home 95% of the time. Problem was, we were spoiled by all the great food we ate at all the fabulous NYC eateries we frequented. I'm almost completely self taught, and learned from a combination of my personal bible A New Way To Cook (by Sally Schneider) and the bits and pieces I picked up in my 10 years of working in food service. Religious devotion to recipes eventually led to improvisation. And now, I wing it a lot for quick weeknight dinners.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? ALONE! I don't mind a sous chef helping me chop and cleaning up behind me as I go. But I'm a basket case if I'm distracted.

What’s your favorite thing to make? Hen of the woods (or maitake) mushrooms. Alone with some arugula, tomatoes, and Parmesan for a quick, satisfying meal, on a burger, in a pasta with a touch of cream, thyme and sherry, tossed with Brussels sprouts and Dijon then roasted . . . they're easy luxury with tons of flavor.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Italian. Very simply, without hesitation. Italian.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Deep frying is intimidating. It makes such a mess and I don't know what to do with all that oil. I do not bake. Baking is on par with brain surgery to me. Anything that requires standing over a pot and stirring endlessly is not appealing either.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? Cooking is not something my mother had time for when we were younger, so when I entered the real world my abilities and taste buds were limited to plain and bland. Because I didn't spend time in the kitchen, I didn't appreciate how much work and care went into a good meal and how fleeting the moment of payoff is. A few years ago, toward the end of my grandfather's life, he was subsisting on Meals on Wheels and quick deli meat sandwiches he could make for himself. The one gift I could give an elderly man who had everything he needed was fresh, homemade, flavorful meals. Filet mignon au poivre. A homemade bolognese with fresh ravioli. In-season asparagus right off the grill. Then we sat down together and ate and talked . . . being able to cook gave me those moments.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? It is, in many ways, considered women's work by a lot of people. But I NEVER think about it that way. My years in the restaurant business showed me almost exclusively men in the kitchen. A few of my friends' husbands do the majority of the family cooking. When I watch the Food Network men and women are completely equal. I do the cooking because I'm the one who's home. But when I have a day that I just CAN'T do it, my husband does without hesitation.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? I first had the inspiration for this recipe at a bar/music venue on the Lower East Side called Pianos. It's a flavor sensation.

Red Wine Burgers with Bacon & Mushrooms You can make your own hamburger patties, but for convenience, Holly uses Pat LaFrieda's pre-made patties. They're available via FreshDirect, and are often on sale!

2 hamburger patties 2 tsp. garlic powder 2 tsp. onion powder 1/2 bottle (good) dry red wine Kosher salt and cracked black pepper, to taste 2 bundles maitake mushrooms, roughly chopped 1 tbs. thyme, minced 4 slices bacon 2 hamburger bun bottoms (or English muffin halves, or slices of bread) Dijon mustard, to taste (Meg likes Maille)

Prep work Before you leave for work in the morning, remove the patties from the freezer. Place in a shallow, rimmed dish. Sprinkle with the garlic and onion powder, then submerge in the red wine. Cover with plastic wrap and leave to thaw and marinate.

When you are ready to cook dinner Remove the patties from the marinade; they should have a purple, marbled look to them. Pat dry with a paper towel, then season with salt and lots of black pepper.

Heat a cast-iron skillet over medium high heat. Add the bacon and cook, turning occasionally, until most of the fat has rendered out, and the bacon is crisp. Remove the bacon to a plate covered in paper towels, and set aside. Discard all but 1 to 2 tablespoons of fat from the skillet and return to medium heat. Add the mushrooms, thyme and a bit more salt, and let cook down for about 7-10 minutes. Set aside.

Return the skillet to medium-high heat and cook the burgers for 2-3 minutes per side. Allow to rest on a plate for 2 minutes before serving.

While the mushrooms and burgers cook, go ahead and toast the bottom slice of bun, bread or muffin for your burgers. Apply mustard to the toasted bread, then add two bacon slices to each, then the burger, followed by half the mushrooms. (A slice of tomato doesn't hurt, either. You can also add avocado, Gruyere, caramelized onions...)

Serve open-faced, alongside a spinach salad or freshly roasted corn on the cob.

Serves two.

From San Francisco...

Dearest Clara,

It’s funny how quickly a week can go by---especially if you find yourself moving from one coast to another.  Last week was New York, but this week is San Francisco.  Luckily, my next flight will bring me home to you, and the one after that will take us on vacation together.  But before we get too excited about sunny summer days, let me share a little of what I’ve learned over my San Francisco visit:

• Always wear layers . . . Since we’ve returned to the US, I believe we’ve been to California three times, and we’ve ended up having to buy more clothes on two of those times.  This time I finally nailed my packing list!  The weather is not quite as toasty as the one hundred plus degrees I left on the East Coast, and it changes . . . a lot.  First it’s foggy, then its sunny, then its raining . . . then who knows.  And there can always be a chill in the air, especially a night.  Be prepared for all of these situations by wearing layers so that you can put on and takeoff as you need to always stay warm!
• Don’t underestimate the value of local products . . . I think you can give San Francisco a lot of credit for making Americans proud of American food products---and especially of American wine products: wines, cheeses, produce, fresh breads. This city and the areas around it have gotten so creative (see below) about pushing the envelope of what they put on the table and  they're proud of the fact that they can get it there themselves.  We take it for granted here on the East Coast, but I think this really started right here in San Francisco. It's easy to get caught up in imports, but sometimes, you can find it just as good at home.
• Choosing healthy is not weird . . . I love this about San Francisco, and about California generally.  I’m not a vegetarian but if I were, it wouldn’t be a problem here.  If you want a healthy option, you can always find it on the menu and no one seems to think less of you for choosing it.  It makes choosing healthy an easy shift and not a production.  Choose what you know is good for you proudly.
• Everyone could use a little more time outdoors . . . When people move from San Francisco to the East Coast, I know they are always going to miss the outdoors.  Even for people who don’t consider themselves “outdoorsy,” they often appear to be so to us.  Hiking in the hills, camping on the beach, windsurfing on the ocean . . . they may spend a lot of time in the city but people from San Francisco certainly know how to appreciate and protect the areas that surround it.
• Be creative . . . When I go to New York, I’m always impressed by the pace of life, but when I come to San Francisco, I’m amazed by the creativity.  For example, one cab driver was developing his own app to monitor parking rates, another friend developing a new form of digital photography.  If your heart is in invention, this is the place for you---and we could all use a little inventive spirit in our daily lives.  In San Francisco, just because things used to be a certain way, doesn’t mean they have to stay a certain way. Remember that in anything that you pursue.

Lots of love,

Mom

A Dream and the Time

Editor's note: This is the second piece in an ongoing series about Mairead's quest to become a nurse in a resource poor area with an NGO. You can read her first post here. 

My mantra for 2012: I have no idea what I'm doing.

Seriously, I have no idea what the hell I'm doing. And it's funny that I have this opportunity to write about my utter up in the air state of being because people keep saying "You should write a book." Well, this isn't exactly a book, but here you go.

My husband (soon to be ex) and I moved to London in September 2011. We came because we were both enrolled in a course in tropical medicine for nursing that would give us the training to work in resource poor areas of the world, which was the ultimate goal for both of us---or so I thought. I'll back up a bit to approximately a year and a half before we arrived. At that point we had been married for about 2 years, together for 7 years, and both of us in our 30's. We were living in San Francisco and were in the beginning phases of thinking about buying a place---a two bedroom place where we could raise a child. Then I found this absolutely amazing program in London that taught you how to diagnose malaria under a microscope, deliver a baby in the field, manage war wounds, establish a refugee camp during a crisis, etc. How freaking awesome does all of that sound? In literally one nano second all thoughts and ambitions to have a child, buy a place, and settle down were erased from my mind.

I'd like to believe that I was going to have a smooth approach to asking my hubby if we could abandon the plans of baby and home ownership---you know, like let him walk in the door first. But that's not quite how it went. I don't know why, but I happened to meet him outside of our apartment building, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out about the course in tropical medicine and moving to London. And can you believe it, just like that he was on board with me!

Now I'll fast forward to the last 6 to 8 months. We split up. He went back to San Francisco 3 days after we finished our course. It turns out working abroad in impoverished areas for long amounts of time isn't his dream. It was mine and has been since I was 17. His was plan A: settling down and starting a family. Absolutely 100% a normal reasonable thing to want with your wife of 4 years when you're 36 years old. Unfortunately, I just couldn't do it. And to be fair that wasn't the foundation of our split. In my mind the relationship had been going in a downward spiral for at least a year and a half before we left because of core communication issues. We almost didn't get married because of these issues. But we loved each other and really wanted to make it work. We were in therapy on and off for five years and tried as best as we each knew how. We kicked that horse until it was dead and then we jumped on it in stillettos and kicked it some more.

But I digress. Back to how I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

I'm 33 and with a slow, steady, all of a sudden, I'm going through a separation in a new country without my close friends or family. I don't have a constant job, have no work satisfaction even when I do work, am essentially living on my savings which in London is suckypoo with an emphasis on the sucky and the poo, and for the first time in nearly 10 years, I have to live with roommates. I've gone from being the queen of my own domain to having a room in a house with an unemployed 23 year old who plays video games all day and another couple who are in their early to mid twenties. Who feels like hot shit?! Not me.

What I am hoping will happen is that by November I will have gotten a job abroad to work with an NGO in . . . to be honest I don't care where it is or what I'll be doing. As long as I'm working in a resource poor country with a little bit of famine, an obselete health care system, some malaria, raging HIV, or a civil war, I'd be a happy camper. You'd think organizations would be jumping at the chance to find people who are willing to work in these situations where they are risking their lives, sanity, and health! Apparently not. Apparently we're a dime a dozen.

I cannot get a job and it is definitely not for lack of trying. And to a certain extent, I have a hard time believing it's from lack of skills and qualifications. I've been a nurse for ten years. For three of those I was a travel nurse, which in the briefest of explanations means I can work in a variety of settings with minimal orientation. My specialty is oncology, which though is not like being in the ER or ICU, I deal with some sick, sick patients that need acute complex management. I've travelled extensively in developing countries and am no stranger to different cultures and being without creature comforts. I started a temporary clinic in a tsunami resettlement camp in Sri Lanka. I have a diploma in tropical medicine for nursing from a world renowned school. I have passion and determination like you wouldn't believe. What else do they want?

To answer my own question, they want you to have already run a health system in a developing country, have advanced language skills in French and/or Arabic, have extensive IT knowledge, and know how to drive a manual transmission. The positions I'm applying for are aimed at nurses right? It seems like they're looking for IT managers from French or Arabic countries that drive a manual. In all honesty, I can absolutely see the benefit of hiring someone with all those skills, but that is one tall order to fill.

But I will keep trying; I will not give up. As I see it, life is not worth living unless you have a goal, a dream, a passion. This is mine. How am I to go back to San Francisco and work with onocology patients who would give anything to have the time and capability to carry out their life's ambition? I could easily go back home in a moment's notice and be with my close support group, have a satisfying job, and make a good income, but I know, I just know, I would be so disappointed in myself for giving up. So I'm not done yet and I'm going to stick it out over here. I start a permanent job in the field of oncology next week that will take me through November. I hope by that point, the gods of fate will have started to like me again and something I apply for will pan out. If not, the next step is to go to the country I want to work in first and try to get hired locally. If I'm right on their doorstep, it may be harder to turn down my charms.

I'm lucky: I've got a dream and I have the time.

YWRB: Genesis, Part 2

by Amy Turn Sharp Last month, Amanda and I went back to Athens, Ohio. A pilgrimage of sorts. We had not been back to the deep woods together for over a decade. We went to the Ohio University Literary Festival. We were going to meet Terrance Hayes (one of my favorite poets). As soon as we walked into the auditorium, we spotted our old professor. Mark Halliday. The poet. Another favorite of mine. He was the same. Interestingly eccentric,. Nervous, yet commanding. Weird socks. Fidgety.

*     *     *

I remember storming into his office one day with Amanda. I dragged her like a rag doll toward his big wooden desk.

I beat on his desk and told him about the Young Woman's Rebellion Bible. I was nearly reenacting scenes from Dead Poets Society with my passion. I almost jumped on his desk.  I told him how I freaked out when I heard Amanda tell me her ideas about this project we could work on together. I told him everything. I moved about the office like a dancer. I was so young. Amanda giggled and nodded her head. There was music from an old radio in the corner. I think it was Joan Armatrading. Or perhaps I made that up years later. It was a calm office made insane by us. We were often bringing high intensity to calm situations. It was our best practice. He smiled and encouraged us, but it looked like he was also afraid. And looking back, perhaps he was afraid it would not happen. It would loose steam and fall flat. It would make other work suffer. Or he was just amazed by us. I think I was amazed by us.

*     *     *

We listened to the magic Terrance Hayes read to us. It was amazing and his words purred at us and we all sat on the edge of our seats, poets scribbled in tiny notebooks. We all wished for language mastery. It was perfect. And when we left, I was kinda sad that I did not run up to Halliday and hug him tightly, tell him we are doing it again. That it just took us a long time. To become us. I had daydreams of us ditching our car and heading to our old tavern. But I knew things had changed. I knew there were new rebellions all over the place. I raised my hand and waved at him like a cool kid, and blew him a kiss. All the way home I thought about the fire in my belly that made me dance when I talked about writing. I knew it was back. I could feel my feet moving in the floorboards of Amanda's SUV.

We're curious: Has there been a time when you've amazed yourself?

From Six 'til Seven

By Carey Swanson I've woken up twice to my alarm clock in the past almost-a-year . . . two times when my sleep was pierced by an abstract beeping sound that made me flash back to another time in my life. Considering the fact that I get up for my job as an assistant principal at 5:45 am on a good day, this is pretty amazing.  Other than those two days, the other 360 or so mornings, I've woken up to the squeaks and cries of my baby's internal alarm clock, calling out for food at the earliest early hour, the latest late hour, the time when most people are in the midst of sleeping.  Yes, she wakes up darn early!

This time period is a little bit of a blur most mornings---half-awake feedings and seeing if Zoe will let me fall back asleep before the beeping that tells me it is time to get out of bed rather than time to wake up. And from a little before six until close to seven, I have my first daily hour of parenting. In between pumping, eating the breakfast that my stay-at-home husband amazingly makes each morning, packing up my laptop, making sure I have the bottles and pump pieces I need for the day (I've messed this up 3 times in the 9 months I've been doing it, which I think is pretty ok), and getting dressed, I play with my child. I bring her into the bathroom while I'm doing my hair or washing my face and tell her what I'm doing: "I'm putting some concealer under my eyes; that makes me look less tired. Now I'm putting on deodorant, you probably won't need this till you're 12, but I'll be on the lookout to let you know if it is earlier than that because I don't want them to have to tell you at school, that is totally embarrassing even though I pretend real hard that it isn't."

Zoe is all laughs and smiles in the morning; she sits in her little chair at the table while I eat and pump, and offers us toys. She wanders around the living room, in her new little drunken old man waddle, while I check the weather, check my work phone, and call for substitutes if needed. And when it comes time for me to put on my jacket, she suddenly clings to me. And when I place her in her dad's arms and grab my bags to go . . . she cries. Sometimes she just sniffles; sometimes she wails. I can't bring myself to sneak out while she's distracted, so usually I make it worse: going back for kisses, finally making it out the door only to realize I've forgotten my phone, and disrupting her all over again.

* * *

Barring any parent events or late night meetings, I am almost always home from work on the dot of six o'clock. Whether I'm rushing out to the train at 5:30 or hanging on for a ride, six o'clock is pretty much guaranteed to be the switch from being responsible for the needs of 20 teachers and 300 children to being responsible for the needs of one lovely little baby.

I love making the switch. I walk in the door to the best greeting in the world—my husband usually yelling, "Mommy's home" while Z freezes from wherever she is and laughs, and these days, waves. (She's grown into this---it used to be immediate tears and demands for nursing; this is much improved.) And then, for the next hour, I'm a parent again. I put away the day's bottles and my things, hug Zoe for as long as she'll let me (usually just one hug), and feed her dinner while my husband makes ours. Or I play with her in the living room and hear about the boring stuff that only I want to know: What time were her naps today? How much did she eat and when? Where did you guys go today? I like to hear the mundane details, to picture the trips to the playground or the farmers market or the park and to know if the afternoon nap went early or late as I calculate how many extra minutes of play time that buys me.

Sometime close to 7 she gets sleepy, even though she has started to fight it and attempts to hide it from us. I’ve done my homework and read my sleep books. While I don’t have a real stance, I've made a camp somewhere in between the eight different approaches to sleep. I know that keeping her up any later is selfish—my baby does better when she goes to sleep early. Plus, we have the always-the-same-time, dark and early baby alarm to think of the next morning. And so right around seven, we start getting ready for bedtime. We change into pajamas, read a story, and cuddle if she'll let me. By between 7:30 and 8, she is asleep and I'm on the couch leaning over my laptop, or on a good day, watching bad tv.

I don't mean to imply that I'm not a parent in the 22 hours other than those between six and seven (and on the whole weekend and every vacation!). And I know that the mommy guilt I feel about squeezing a day into such short blocks of time is just for me---not a reflection of my daughter’s needs. I’m a working mother, which is something I believe in, and in doing this I am the bread winner for my family, which makes me proud. I know kids are in day care and with nannies and with stay at home parents, and I truly believe all of these are completely valid options. Zoe is with her dad all day and incredibly well cared for, which means I have no reservations about how she spends her time. In a world full of gender norms and high expectations for what it means to be a mother, however, what I can't seem to escape are my reservations about how I spend mine.

But, for now at least, from six 'til seven is my baby's time.

(image by alexkerhead on flickr.)

From New York, New York

Dearest Clara,

This week has been so much hustle and bustle . . . but I guess hustle and bustle is what you get when you’re in New York.  That city just never stops---and that’s a good thing.  Every time I head up, I always end up being exposed to something new.  You just can’t avoid it in New York.  That sense of always experiencing something new there makes it hard to pick out single lessons, since I feel like they’re different from every trip there.  But maybe, that’s what New York is all about.

• Try something new every time you go: You could probably live an entire lifetime in New York City and not repeat a meal, a hotel, a theater . . . there are not many places like that in the world.  Take advantage to do or eat or try something you would never do at home---that’s what you came to New York for!
• Look for a few favorites: New York is always changing but there are a few things that will always be there for you:  a dark corner bar, a bench in Central Park, a Sabrett’s hot dog cart, the holiday displays on Fifth Avenue . . . Find a few things that you love in New York and try to incorporate them into your trips---sometimes, you’ll just need that little bit of the familiar.
• Pack your thicker skin: This city gets a bad reputation sometimes.  Here, things move fast, and here, things can move on without you.  Sometimes, nothing can crush you like this city---you’ll probably cry at some point.  I did.  It’s okay---it happens to everyone.  New York can definitely be tough---but stick it out.  New York is also full of sunshine and second chances.
• Always look up: there are some great surprises on those skyscrapers: art deco details, people going on about their daily lives in full glass windows, billboards as far as the eye can see---this city can do amazing things with heights.
• Marvel at the little logistics: I can never stop being fascinated by how this city works.  How do they manage to provide water . . . and heat . . . and trash pick up . . . and emergency services . . . and dry cleaning . . . and some of the best food delivery in the world . . . you name it---I am always amazed by how well everything works in New York---there are so many cities that are smaller or less populated or more spacious and don’t run with nearly the efficiency of New York.  And as always, whether it’s the subway driver or police officer, appreciate those that make this city somewhere we can go and enjoy the gifts that all of its other citizens bring.

One day you’ll “be a part of it” too.  I can’t wait to hear what you think.

All my love,

Mom

Subway Rider

When I moved back to New York last summer, I had just finished graduate school and had taken a job before I had even gotten my diploma. The job was on a farm. The farm was not in the city. And so. I had to figure out how to get there. Going by train was terribly beautiful. To get to where the farm is, the hulking MetroNorth hurtles along the Hudson River and on foggy days and blue-sky days alike, the ride is exquisite. Getting to soak in all of the early morning beauty came at a price, though. After spending an afternoon with a calculator, I realized it made better financial sense to drive. My fiance already owned a car that he’d allow me to usurp and since we’d just moved to Brooklyn wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, parking on the street and commuting fifty-minutes twice a day seemed totally doable. The ride was never that short. On one particularly unfortunate June night, it took me 3.5 hours to reach lower Manhattan.  By that point I was already late for dinner and so I parked my car on Varick Street and, still dressed in farm gear, ran the remaining four blocks to the restaurant where I was meeting friends. In this city, sometimes feet are faster than wheels. Eventually I started carpooling with friends and the drudgery of the commute became more tolerable. There was company and friends to share the burden---both psychic and financial---of the cost we'd all been paying separately at the gas pump. The honeymoon didn't last long. The novelty of the farm and the carpool soon wore off and although the reasons for deciding to go freelance were many, excising the drive from my daily schedule continues to be one of the most liberating things I've done in a long while.

Now that I’m mostly a city-girl, the subway is my typical mode of transport.  If the distance is short enough I still prefer a good walk to going underground, and when I’m feeling brave, I strap on my helmet and bicycle my way around,  but always, a trip on the subway gives me refreshing taste of freedom. I know that for some people, the opposite is true. For these folks, the subway and its close quarters and erratic schedule feels decidedly less free than simply hopping in a car and going where your heart desires. But the truth is, this isn’t the country. There aren't dusty roads with endless open miles. When I ride the subway I feel free because I don't need to fill a tank with gas and I can take comfort knowing that even though considerable amounts of fossil fuels are gulped to keep those trains running, they’re transporting more than five million other riders each day, too. When we talk about making an impact on the environment, most of us know it's our big-time habits that need to change. This doesn't mean I'm ready to start guzzling coffee from plastic cups just because it's not really the little things that matter, but it does mean that making a decision to limit my use of a car feels important. It’s a big thing.

YWRB: Genesis

We were young writer party girls in college.  At the time, creative nonfiction was the new, hot genre.  We were asked to write essays. We understood essays.  We learned that the word “essay” meant “attempt.”  We attempted constantly.  We attempted friendships and sophistication and reputations and all the things you can try on and discard while young and starting out.  Everything felt like rebellion: against parents, expectations, systems and growing up.  And it was.  We couldn’t articulate it at the time, but one thing I know now is this: the most rebellious thing you can do, at any age, is be yourself.

I remember the moment the title came to me.  I was sitting on a friend's black leather sofa, drinking vodka and fruit juice from an old flower vase.  I was wearing a ballgown.  We weren't going out that evening, but that's what we did when we stayed in.  Anyway, in the moment of garish getups and pride in our own ridiculous behavior, the quick thought came to me: The Young Women's Rebellion Bible.  I thought I knew something about rebellion.  Dressed up for a party, but lounging on a couch was a rebellious act in my twenty-one year old mind.

Later that week, I was in a bar with Amy before our creative nonfiction workshop.  I told Amy the title and before the words were completely out of my mouth, she screams, "Oh my God, we could totally do this!"  We immediately started brainstorming topics.  We took quick notes on napkins and then ran to class, high on possibility and buzzed on cheap beer.  Amy's enthusiasm made me believe we could do it.  We could write a book of instructions or stories or something that taught others about rebellion.

We liked pushing boundaries, walking edges.  Although the English building was designated non-smoking, on breaks we'd find an empty classroom and lean far out the window with our lit cigarettes.  We relished that rush.  A little rebellion made us bold.  Writing about rebellion made us rebel. Our process was born.

We enrolled others in our mission.  Our creative writing teachers, the head of the English department, the owner of the restaurant where Amy worked, the bartender at our favorite haunt.  Amy's enthusiasm made other people believe we could do it.  And before I knew it, we were.

For several months, we wrote essays about our behavior, our rebellion, our romances and our families.  We filled yellow legals pads full of ideas and ways to organize chapters.  We wrote in coffee shops, bars, the library when necessary.  We were relentless, but we weren't entirely clear about how it would look or what it should be.  In that way, the project mirrored our lives.

In June, we graduated, flew to Greece together, and split up to go our separate ways.  Amy stayed on the tiny Greek Island of Mykonos and I hopped a ferry to the mainland and spent a lot of time on trains.  When we returned, seperately, to the states, we lived in different cities.  We embarked on very different lives.  We drifted apart.  Fifteen years later, we reside in the same city, once again.  And the Young Women's Rebellion Bible was reborn.

We have very different notions of rebellion, as does every woman, I believe.  And our rebellion has looked very, very different from one another's over the years.  Amy is married, a mother, a writer and wood toy maker.  I am single, a dog owner and avid rescue supporter, a writer and part-time teacher.  Amy has put down roots and I've been a wanderer.  We've both embarked on creative endeavors, but nothing has had the same momentum, the same dizzy, blissful energy as the Young Women's Rebellion Bible.

A few years ago, I pulled the manuscript from the trunk where I keep sacred things and I photocopied it and sent it to Amy.  I've held on to it, maybe as a way to hold on to that time with Amy, to hold on to that enthusiasm and the belief that it is possible that we do this.  We're doing it now.  What we knew of rebellion at twenty-one is a very different knowledge than what we know of rebellion at thirty-six and thirty-eight.  With the fine partnership of The Equals Project, we'll explore that knowledge and examine its impact.  To do that, we need your help.

We want to explore rebellion with you.  Every week, we’ll prompt you to consider rebellion – and we challenge you to share it with us.  We’d love to feature your stories and experiences as part of our exploration.  Send responses and stories to Amanda at amanda@bold-types.com.

This week, we want to know:

If you had the chance today, what would you tell your teenage and/or college self about rebellion?

Thank You, Kindly

“Beautiful . . . enthralled . . . raving . . . wonderful . . . stunning . . . brilliant . . . gorgeous.” Last week I opened my email early Monday morning and found not one, but TWO lovely notes from a satisfied bride.  Just that Saturday, we had done her wedding florals and she apparently wrote the first “thank you” the very next day.  Then, after becoming concerned that the initial note may have gone to my junk mail, she wrote yet another, similarly warm letter.  She wanted to make absolutely sure I had been properly thanked.  This happens much less frequently than you might think.  I proudly pictured her making certain to fire off these emails before jetting to her post-wedding brunch.  In my elaborate fantasy, her new husband was calling out, “Janie, let’s get going, we are going to be late!” and she replied with, “Just give me one more minute, I simply MUST let Sarah know how fabulous she is!”

I found myself turning this bride’s sweet words over and over in my mind and it energized my work for the remainder of the week.  ‘This is why I do this,’ I thought.  I tried to access that sense of fulfillment during several decidedly lower moments during the work-week and even in one instance of standing over the changing table, with a fresh bathrobe suddenly soaked in poop.  Ironically, her wedding was only a small, intimate affair, for which we did just a few precious arrangements and yet it was one of the more immediate and glowing responses we have received to date.  The power of her generosity and this kind of communiqué cannot be underestimated.

Growing up, my parents were not terribly formal about much of anything and bucked societal convention in ways that were often spectacular, at times mortifying.  But, when I received a gift from a friend or relative, my mother would place a note card, envelope, and ink pen (she abhors a ball point) in front of me on the dining room table with the expectation that I write a personal “thank you.”  Just before my Grandmother passed, we were organizing some of her papers and found a prime example from my “thank you” canon.  I must have been about six years old and I was demonstrating my gratitude for a Chanukah gift.  In quaky script, I had seemingly offered a stream of consciousness communication that included the sentence, “OK, I have to go now, my stomach hurts.”  So, clearly, I hadn’t yet understood the precise etiquette involved in such a letter but I promise there was a solid “thank you” earlier on the page.  I imagined my Grandmother having a chuckle at my wording but perhaps being filled with the same tender feelings I experienced upon receiving this bride’s emails.

Throughout my adult life, I have endeavored to acknowledge the people around me with verbal and/or written “thank yous” whenever possible.  I have done this for gifts and deeds, alike.  Even though we operate almost exclusively in an internet age, I have traditionally resisted writing electronic thank yous and have instead opted for a carefully chosen, hand-written card.  I labored over my wedding thank you notes to the extent that they were sent out in (somewhat belated) spotty waves.  It always feels important that I write something personal and capture my genuine response to each treasured item.  Although many people find writing thank yous daunting, I generally relish the meditative process.

I am ashamed to admit that for the first time in my life, I dropped the ball on thank yous when our baby was born.  The bounty bestowed on us from friends and family has been truly overwhelming and continuous.  For a while there, even massively pregnant, I managed to stay on track with diligently recording each gift and responding in kind.  I wrote notes and letters and made phone calls.  This went beyond my being compulsive (although there was certainly some of that), this was me authentically intending to return the kindness and make our appreciation evident.  Toward the end, things went a little haywire with finishing my wedding season, entering into the Holidays, and preparing for a new life and I failed to record some things that came in the mail.  The slippage escalated and compounded when I lost one of my master spreadsheets matching names and gifts.  Ultimately, I gave up altogether and became convinced that slighted friends and family all over the country were preparing to weed us out of their lives.  At one point, I recalled that a close friend who recently had TWINS had been prompt with her thank yous and I sank even lower.  No excuse, Sarah.  No excuse.  If anyone still waiting on a thank you is reading this piece . . . thank you?

Perhaps the most significant thank yous, in my view, are the daily acknowledgements in relationships.  I try assiduously to thank my husband for something, anything at least once a day.  If he says something kind, puts away the clean dishes, walks the dog, anticipates my food craving . . . I make an effort to tell him I feel lucky to be with him.  He invariably says something like “I live here, too,” or “You don’t have to thank me for that.”  Sometimes he uses it as an opportunity for bombast and mild teasing, “WHAT KIND OF HUSBAND WOULD I BE IF I DIDN’T . . .”  But, I know it gives him a boost and lends value to the small tasks that frankly make up the majority of a life together.

My sister once told me that the secret to a happy marriage is “choosing someone you can eat dinner with every single night for the rest of your life.”  At the time, I thought that was absurdly unromantic.  Now I understand that it speaks to not only compatibility, but a capacity to do the mundane together and be grateful to be slogging through with the person sitting across from you.  I want my husband to hear about that gratitude as much as I am able to proffer it.

My recent experience with this gracious bride reminds me to be voluminous with praise and recognition.  There are countless people who do not just do enormously nice things for me all the time, but provide a series of tiny kindnesses that get me through the week.  The ripple effect of a hand wave when someone lets you into her lane on the FDR to a beautifully crafted missive on letterpress for a huge favor from a friend is undeniable.  This is hokey, fine.  But, a well-timed and well-executed demonstration of gratitude is totally free and can shore up even the most jaded among us.  I don’t always recycle appropriately (I STILL DON’T UNDERSTAND HOW A MILK CARTON IS A PLASTIC) but I can take a brief moment to thank the guy for toasting my bagel to perfection.

Urban Foraging

I wish I could say that I forage with wild abandon all over Brooklyn. I wish I scouted mulberry trees and returned as they began to fruit, that I rooted around for burdock in city parks and dug up sidewalk purslane and dandelion greens. Truth is, I’m something of a serial rule-abider and foraging in the city makes me nervous. In the country, there’s more of a sense of communal ownership. At the very least, you can usually find a field and wooded path where nobody’s there to watch as you fill a basket or two. Growing up, my mom would pick my sisters and I up from soccer practice and pull our lumbering minivan off the side of road to pull down a bramble of bittersweet for the front door. She’d spot a cluster of black-eyed susans during a walk by the beach, and we’d have a vase full of them at home. Once, she enlisted me and all three of my sisters to dig up an entire forest floor of daffodils in order to save them from their impending death by backhoe. You’d think that all of this wanton disregard for personal property would have instilled in me a similar streak. In some measure at least, it seems to have done the opposite. I get nervous about breaking rules. In the city, the side of road usually means someone’s yard. Trees have fences around them, for goodness sake. Foraging in city parks is frowned upon by park officials and last week when the juneberries were at their peak in Brooklyn Bridge Park, all I could muster was to pop a few ripe ones into my mouth. When I saw a young couple filling containers to take home, I felt a pang of jealousy, but found no more courageous reserves to harvest a pie's worth myself.

Besides my mild case of  rule-abiding, there’s also the pollution factor. I worry thinking about the kinds of things city plants are supping on. If the filmy dust on my window sill is any indication, there’s a lot of stuff floating around in the air around here, and not all of it can be good. Brooklyn Bridge Park is managed organically, but the same can’t be said for the 1700 parks managed by the City Parks Department. [gallery link="file" exclude="2086"]

Sometimes though, even a scaredy cat needs to face her fears. This weekend, I enlisted the help of my fiancé James to do some old fashioned foraging. If you live in New York, you might know that it’s linden flower season. Take a stroll down many of the city’s sidewalks and you’ll stumble upon the intoxicatingly floral scent of just-blossomed linden. It’s heady stuff. Dried, linden leaves and flowers make one of my favorite tisanes. It reminds me of lazy evenings spent in the south of France. After dinner and cheese and a glass or three of wine, we’d sip linden flower tea and ease even more gracefully into the evening. James and I plucked a whole bagful of the new spring leaves---flowers still attached---and I strung them up to dry in our apartment. Another batch is steeping, destined for syrup.

There’s yet to be a Brooklyn-berry pie baked at our house, but I think I just got a step closer. What about you? Any courageous foragers out there?

The Ultimate Lesson

When people hear that I went to Bryn Mawr College, the first thing they ask (If they've heard of the school, that is, and, yes - I judge a little if they haven't.) is why on earth I chose to attend a school full of women and only women. (Well, actually, they usually call it a "girls' school," but that's a whole other post right there.) The truth is that when I decided on Bryn Mawr, I did it because it was the best fit out of all the schools that had accepted me. It was a gorgeous campus full of wonderful professors, it was academically competitive, it was close to a city, but wasn't right downtown, and I loved the size of the place - small. I don't know if I would have chosen Bryn Mawr if it had been isolated and not integrated with a whole bunch of co-ed institutions, but I was in no way deterred by the idea of a women's college - nor was it my motivating factor.

Looking back on it, though, I think that choosing a women's college was one of the best things I've ever done. And I think they're some of the most important institutions we have.

It really hit home for me last spring, when I went back to campus for my 10-year reunion. Reunion weekend is traditionally held a couple of weeks after graduation, so the alumnae have the place to themselves. We stay in the dorms, eat in the dining halls and generally take over like we never left. And - unlike the high school reunion I went to a couple of weeks ago - people mostly don't bring their spouses or kids, unless the spouse is there to handle a kid or two and/or the kids are still breastfeeding. (That, right there? That desire to connect with the women you spent four years with instead of show off who you've married since? Perfect example of why Bryn Mawr is awesome. Let's call it Exhibit A.)

The result is a sort of heady freedom, the likes of which I hadn't felt since graduation. Aside from a quick trip off-campus for a fan (it was ridiculously hot) and provisions (read: booze), I barely left all weekend - but I hardly felt trapped. Quite the opposite. After dinner the first night, my class headed back to our assigned dorm, where we congregated in the living room and on the front steps, drinking, talking and reminiscing. At some point, someone spilled some red wine on my white jeans. I went upstairs to throw on my pajamas instead, and when I came down, everyone had disappeared.

I was barefoot, wearing only a nightgown, and had only my dorm key (actually a fancy electronic fob) and phone with me, but I set off in search of my classmates anyway. I strolled across the green, savoring the feeling of the grass beneath my feet and the view of actual stars overhead. I had one ear tuned to the night's sounds, listening for the raucous laughter that would eventually lead me to my friends. But - for the first time in years - I felt completely safe. Yes, I was tipsy, and yes, it was dark out, and yes, I was alone - but, unlike every time I walk home late at night in New York, I didn't feel the need to be on guard at all. I felt completely and utterly protected.

Protected not just from physical harm, but also from the need to be dressed up, or to present myself with any kind of artifice, or to censor my thoughts or feelings. Because, you see, an institution devoted to women gives you a little taste of what it might be like to actually be on equal footing in the real world. Suddenly, you're the center of attention, and not for the usual, creepy, physical reasons. Yes, you have the freedom to not wear makeup and so on, but you have more than that: an entire institution devoted entirely to you. This, kids, is what it must feel like to be the privileged gender, to be the default. And, let me tell you: it doesn't suck. (Also, they give us lanterns. I know!)

It was a feeling I didn't notice until after I left. I know, I know: between this whole "you don't know how good you have it" thing and my wonder at the newfangled keys, you must be thinking, "Curmudgeon!" But I think that's actually part of what makes it so powerful: you can learn to take that feeling for granted. It can be had, and it can become your normal. That's...amazing.

Until I can have that feeling of safety - both physical and intellectual - in the real world, places like Bryn Mawr will not stop being incredibly important. Until I feel in every arena the way I felt at Bryn Mawr, women need the option of that experience. Because now that I've had it, I won't settle until it's universal.

The F Words: Nicole Cliffe

For our first non-navel-gazing edition of the F Words, I knew I needed to give you guys something really, truly, spectacularly great. To that end, I strong-armed my incredibly talented friend Nicole Cliffe into sharing her (always ridiculously entertaining) thoughts about cooking, gender roles, and parenthood. Nicole is one of the smartest, sanest, funniest and most wonderful women I know - and not only because we first bonded over our shared love of Sondheim. Some of you likely know Nicole from her work as the newly-minted Books Editor for The Hairpin---and if you haven't been reading along with her incredible Classic Trash series, posted over at The Awl, you should start catching up immediately. (Her take on Valley Of The Dolls is a personal favorite of mine.) But, before you dig out your copies of Peyton Place and Gone With The Wind - and your mom's copy of Clan Of The Cave Bear (Dirty!), let's hear what Nicole has to say about feminism and food - peach pie, in particular.

Tell us a bit about your day job. I'm the Books Editor for The Hairpin, which is so little effort and so much fun as to be almost embarrassing. I also write a biweekly/monthly column for The Awl, Classic Trash, in which I discuss noted works of gooey literature.

How did you learn to cook? Post-college, definitely. I went the "buy complicated cookbook, treat like a logic puzzle" route. Then, like most people, I relaxed into a little stable of reliable dishes and went from there. If you're not a cook, I recommend throwing a little dinner party for two friends, and cooking Thomas Keller's roast chicken recipe (it's on Epicurious) and making a green salad with a bit of goat cheese and sliced beets from a jar, plus this pie for dessert. When you're just starting out, the perfect formula is a) your main, b) a starter or side that need only be assembled, and c) a make-ahead dessert that can sit on your counter taunting your guests. And, obviously, a fancy vanilla-bean ice cream to serve with it. Keller's chicken is perfect, but deactivate your smoke alarm first.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? ALONE. Get the hell out of the kitchen. I have tremendous amounts of performance anxiety. My father-in-law kept hovering over me when I was making my first Thanksgiving dinner, and once he finally got to "you know you're using that cutting board upside down?" I had to bounce him formally. Of course, that was also the year I made the goose, and was using one of those awful single-use foil roasting pans. It snagged invisibly on the element coil, and about three cups of goose fat settled into the top of the stove. The goose, of course, was delicious, the experience of using a putty knife the day after to scrape congealed goose fat out of the stove, less so.

As long as you don't watch what I'm doing, you're welcome to stay and make me a gin and tonic and talk to me about Mad Men.

What’s your favorite thing to make? I do a two-day plan about once a week, where I bake too much mustard-y salmon for dinner with sauteed peppers and mushrooms or zucchini, then for dinner the next night I nestle my leftover fillets and vegetables in a frittata and liberally coat the whole thing in goat or feta cheese and a dash of cream. It's a little different every time, goofproof, and the frittata makes you look like a pro.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Indian. There's nothing so soothing to me as rice-and-sauce. A jar of ghee survives in my house for about two weeks.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Mandolines. Mandolines. Mandolines. And anything that has to be flipped, poached, or, God-forbid, only gels correctly 80% of the time.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? We're all eaters, and we all start thinking about what we'll have for lunch halfway through breakfast.  We never socialize in the living room, we're always in the kitchen.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women’s traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? I was extremely lucky, I think, to grow up with a male homemaker and a working mother. My mother is a great cook (the recipe I'm sharing is one of hers), but my father is a genius. He makes his own samosas, he has a clay baker, he makes his own pasta, he's never bought salad dressing. In my marriage, however, I'm the cook, and now I have a baby, so I'm a cook-balancing-a-baby, which is a visual I hadn't really internalized for myself. My husband is older than I am by over ten years, and I do notice a bit of a gender AND generational divide in domestic duties. Which doesn't bother me, mostly, as we have great communication around it, but I think that most women I know have husbands that are far more hands-on than their own fathers were, and, having had a male primary caregiver in my childhood, I'm having the opposite experience.

I think a larger factor is that my husband is fundamentally dis-interested in food, other than as fuel, which, for me, is like being an anthropologist every day. I stand there, making notes, watching him not obsess about food. When they eventually develop a pill you can take with a glass of water thrice daily to provide all of your nutritional needs, he'll be the first one in line.

I'm very ughhhhh about choice feminism, generally, but, like most of us, there are things I get really incensed by (name-changing, Brazilian waxing) and things I just merrily roll along with (doing 100% of the laundry and dishes and cooking). That being said, I think the fact that I choose to shoulder the domestic stuff is not a feminist choice, and doesn't occur in a vacuum. I would say I'm a feminist who, for various reasons, has made some choices I would consider un-feminist. I can make my peace with that, but I don't try to do a juggling game to justify it as furthering the course of equality: it doesn't.  As the mother of a baby daughter, I think I'll have to do more work than my mother did to raise a daughter who doesn't have static notions of gender. My family never looked like the breadwinner-dad, apron-mom pictures, so I never bought into them.

Like a lot of women with kids, I've been reading all the interminable pieces on Badinter and the attachment parenting backlash. There's something real there, of course. I planned to be an Attachment Parent, but gave birth, as some of us do, to a daughter who didn't want to sleep with us, lost weight constantly despite 24/7 nursing until she happily switched to Enfamil, and vastly prefers to sit and observe and play with her toys to being worn in a sling. You have to roll with it. And, of course, it makes you question other parts of the intense-parenting lifestyle. I thought I'd make my own baby food, because I had a "natural" birth (just because I skipped the epidural doesn't mean I like the way we create birthing hierarchies) and am generally an organic-seasonal food person, but I was at the supermarket one day and picked up a thirty-cent jar of Gerber's to glance at the ingredients: peas and water. Or, carrots and water. Who gives a shit, then? I bought about eighty jars. She likes them, and I'm not cleaning orange crud out of my food mill.  And now we give her bits of what we eat, and she loves it. You have to do what works for you, and I think you have to rigorously protect yourself from doing unnecessary things in order to compete with other women. Ask yourself every day: would I still do this if no one besides my baby and I ever knew? Sometimes the answer is yes: I cloth diaper, and I love it. Sometimes the answer is no: hence the little jars.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you’re sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? I will eat anything with peaches. If there was a peach-flavored anthrax, I'd be dead now. This is the pie my mother brings to church suppers, to family reunions, etc. I rarely bake, because I find it more stressful than cooking (it's a formula, not a painting) and because I tend towards a more cult-like primal/paleo diet. Because of that, I subscribe to a go-big-or-go-home attitude towards desserts and starches. 98% of the time, I eat meats and fish and eggs and cream and butter and vegetables and berries. But when I make a dessert, I make a DESSERT. Or, of course, I make mashed potatoes with cream cheese. Don't eat it, or do it right. Sometimes, when I make this pie, I think, oh, I could cut the sugar in half. And I've done it, but then the texture isn't quite right. Don't lie to your baking. Embrace it. On a related note, there's nothing I loathe more than those women's magazine articles on making healthier choices at Thanksgiving. It's one meal. Eat whatever you want. It will make zero different in your life or health to eat a single slice (or two, or three) of a wonderful pecan pie. I'm completely neurotic about maintaining a (for me) artificially low weight (which, again, is an active detriment to my feminism), but I will not go to Eleven Madison Park and ask if they can steam some fish for me. I'm going to eat the foie-gras-chocolate torte. And it's going to be delicious. As an atheist, I feel very strongly about the iniquity of attaching shame to our food desires and our sexual appetites. There are only two things that we actually KNOW we're on this planet to do: eat and fuck. Go forth and be glad.

Creamy Dreamy Peach Pie Nicole Cliffe

For the crust: 1 1/2 cups flour, 1/2 tsp salt, 1/2 cup butter

For the filling: 4 cups sliced fresh peaches, if in season. Canned work "just" as well. 1 cup sugar 2 1/2 tbsp flour 1 egg 1/4 tsp salt 1 tsp vanilla extract 1 cup sour cream (full-fat, please)

For the topping: 1/3 cup sugar 1/3 cup flour 1/4 cup butter

Prepare the crust: Preheat oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit. Combine flour and salt, cut in butter. Press into a nine-inch pie plate (deep dish is best). Set aside.

Prepare the filling: Place peaches in bowl, sprinkle with 1/4 cup of the sugar, set aside. In another bowl, combine remaining sugar, flour, egg, salt, and vanilla. Fold in the sour cream. Stir the mixture into the peaches.

Prepare the topping: Combine all three ingredients until crumbly.

Finish the pie: Pour the filling into the crust and bake for twenty minutes. Reduce heat to 350 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for 30-35 minutes more.Remove the pie from the oven and sprinkle the topping evenly over the filling. Set the oven back to 400 degrees Fahrenheit and bake for ten more minutes.

Allow pie to cool before slicing. Eat!

Makes one nine-inch pie.

When I Was 19 and Made a 10 Year Life Plan

By Mariana Oliveira

In 10 years I will be 29 years old.

If I know myself, this will most likely mean that five years from now I will be going through an intricate life crisis regarding my imminent disgorgement from the 20something bracket, the decline of my once youthful looks and the slowing down of my biological clock, all whilst questioning my contributions to the world and my value to the human race (I know this because I went through a very similar ordeal when I turned fifteen).

However, in the mist of said crisis, I will be living in a big city, probably New York, where I will own a French bulldog named Cat Stevens. Every Sunday, Cat Stevens and I will go to Central Park with a cheese plate and a bottle of lemon-flavored sparkling water, and we will proceed to frolic in the grass and judge girls that lay out in the sun wearing their swimsuits.

I will be speaking fluent French, and I will often go to museums and have fake conversations on my cell phone (in French) so that people around me know how well I speak the language.

I will wear more hats, and they will look better on me then than they do now. I will also have a very expensive trench coat to go with my hats, and together, they will showcase what a refined woman I turned out to be.

I will be able to afford cabs, and I will spend months without going down the stairs of a subway station. Although, I will take the subway every now and then in order to remind myself of the times when I was just a girl and had to take the D train to the Bronx at 3 in the morning; but once I do it, I will regret it immediately.

I will be eating healthier and exercising, and I will be making more eye contact with strangers. People will often start conversations with me in bookstores and coffee shops, and leave wondering if I could had been the love of their lives, but they will never see me again because I will always refuse to give away my phone number.

I will have no idea what is going on in the advertising industry, due to the fact that I will quit my job at 27 and open my own book store (I will do this hoping that someday my life could mimic that of Hugh Grant’s character in “Notting Hill,” except Julia Roberts would have a beard and not be a bitch).

I will be very happy even though it does not sound like it.

Besides writing ads, Mariana can be found making naive assumptions, wearing shorts in the winter, navigating the hard places and making odic proclamations about cheese plates and bearded men. You can see more of her work here. 

The Fallacy of Gender Neutrality, or How I Womaned Up at My Local Bookstore

I'm standing stock-still in the children's picture book section of the Upper East Side Barnes & Noble, facing a decision rife with anxiety and laden with import. Will it be Madeline, or will it be Make Way For Ducklings? Let's back up.

My family has been procreating at an alarming rate recently, and I was there to choose two books (my traditional Yay, You're Pregnant! gift) for my cousin and his wife. Unlike the majority of my friends who've gone through this particular rite of passage of late, they aren't going to find out the sex of the baby ahead of time, and so I went to the store intending to purchase a couple of classic picture books.

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, one of the best books of all time, was sitting on a display table up front. One book down, one to go.

In The Night Kitchen is a favorite of mine, both since I loved it so much as a child, and since I plan to teach as many children as possible to make chocolate chip cookies from scratch in as horridly messy a fashion as possible. But they didn't have it in stock, and I was due at dinner---in Brooklyn---in two hours. I desperately scanned the shelves for Babar, but they only had a couple of the later books from the series, and I couldn't give this kid a sequel without the original. And then there's the Velveteen Rabbit, but the edition on offer was cheesy and unworthy of the tragedy held within. Plus, do I really want to be the one who makes the baby cry real tears for the first time? No. No, I do not.

They did have Make Way For Ducklings, which I understand is a seriously famous children's book, but I have no emotional connection to it whatsoever. And unfamiliarity doesn't seem right for the very first gift I'll ever bestow upon this new human being. But it was pretty, it was hardcover, and it wasn't spotted with drool or spitup, which, frankly, made it a rare find.

And then, I spotted it: yellow spine, Belemans' distinctive brush stroke font, and twelve little girls in two straight lines. Madeline.

But wait, I thought: what if this baby turns out to be a boy? And then I died a little inside. Because, honestly, it pisses me the hell off that the notion of gender neutral books even occurred to me. What makes a book gendered? When it features a female protagonist?

Well, yeah. In our culture, it does. I grew up reading books about boys and girls, romances and sci fi, Gone With The Wind and Star Trek novels (oh yes), but the vast majority of the books my brother read (with The True Adventures of Charlotte Doyle being a rare exception) were about boys and "boy" things.

And this is a pattern that continues into adulthood. Women gladly read books with male protagonists, but the reverse---especially if the book is written by a female novelist---is rare. Just last week, I was at my high school reunion. Dan Brown---who graduated 25 years before I did---gave a little talk, and one of the questions he got from the audience was whether he had any advice for a woman looking to write a mainstream (read: not romance) novel about a female protagonist. His response? That the success of his Robert Langdon novels with women prove that people will buy books featuring heroes of the opposite gender.

My high school prides itself on teaching critical thinking skills, but methinks they let Dan down that day. After all, male is the neutral gender in our culture. Large numbers of women buying books about men is nothing to write home about---the reverse, though---that would be remarkable.

All of this flashes through my mind in an instant, in the way that only righteous indignation can, and I spin on my heel, jog up to the cash register and pay---proudly---for Madeline and Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs before I lose my nerve. And I'm kind of hoping it's a boy, if only for the opportunity to buy him the Little House series when he's ready for chapter books.

Family Equality and the Legacy of the Struggle

The issue of marriage equality is one that's been in the news a lot lately, and therefore at the forefront of my mind. Obama's proclamation that same-sex marriage should be allowed, and then his discussion of his administration's refusal to uphold the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) is a giant leap forward for both the social view of marriage equality and hopefully for the continuing fight to legalize same-sex marriage. There are two issues at the core of the marriage equality issue that stand out to me at this juncture. The first is that I believe "marriage equality" is a misnomer. The issue is not about who can have a wedding; the issue is the right to family stability. The second is that while fighting on a state-by-state level may be necessary at this point in the grand scheme of things, the legacy of the battle should be a federal law that prohibits states from putting the rights of their citizens up for popular vote. While allowing same-sex couples to marry is framed as a marriage equality issue, it goes well beyond that. This is a family equality issue. There are over 900,000 same-sex couples in this country. I want to give you a statistic about how tall they would all be if we stacked them on top of each other, but that feels degrading and I don't know how tall they all are anyway. In 30 states, these couples are systematically denied rights that heterosexual couples enjoy, like hospital visitation rights, social security benefits, immigration rights, health insurance under their partners' plans, family leave to care for their partners, and rights to partners' pensions in the case of their death. I'm lucky to have found someone to whom I want to be married (and continue to want to be married, nearly 5 years after the fact) who is the opposite gender.

When I said "I do," I really meant for better and for worse so long as we both shall live. I meant that I wanted to become a family with him. Clearly, the most compelling reason for so closely intertwining my life with my husband's is that when it is time to do so, I get to delegate "the talk" with our kids to him, not so much because I don't want to do it, but because I want to laugh at him while he does it. A close second is growing old with him, and building a life with him without worrying about the structural soundness of that life if something should happen to one of us.

Happily ever after aside, I married my husband because heaven forbid anything happens to him, I want to be able to sit in his hospital room outside of visiting hours to hold his hand and whisper to him about our first date and the bike ride we took through the Vietnamese countryside on our honeymoon and about the time that he accidentally left me dead flowers for Mother's Day, but I forgave him because he spent the next fifty years showing me just how important it was to make it right. If it comes to this, I want to have the right to make the decision about when it's time to let go, and then I want to lie with him in his bed and stroke his hair (or his bald head—after all, I promised to love him no matter what) and reassure him that it will all be okay until he is gone and I am alone. And he wants the same from me, and will do the same for me, because we are two grown-ups and we love each other enough to laugh at the other person talking to an awkward teenager about condoms and responsibility and STDs.

Marriage to me, as to most people, is not about the wedding (though weddings are awesome and I cry at every single one I go to), or even about just the two people getting married. It's about the chance to start a family, to blend families, and the security of knowing that if anything happens to me or to my husband, my family, both nuclear and extended, will remain intact. If our kids are still young enough to be living at home (i.e. under 30) if something happens to one of us, marriage is our insurance that their lives will remain as stable as possible amidst the chaos of loss. Because we all know how hard it is to place a 26-year-old Humanities major in an adoptive family.

While publicly declaring our devotion to each other is important, the stability and rights that our marriage affords our family are more important. I would love my husband if we weren't married; however, I would not have hospital visitation rights, health insurance, the ability to take leave to take care of him if something happens to him, or rights to his pension to provide for our daughter if he dies. And let's not even start with the "different nomenclature for different types of families" thing, because that's just dumb. Seriously, what is the logical and legal basis there? If we're sure enough about our relationships (or our chances of being able to cash in on our wedding for our reality TV show) to get married, our relationships should all be called the same thing in the eyes of the government.

At its core, marriage equality is a civil rights issue. This week has opened discussions about whether same-sex marriage should be an issue left to states, or whether it is a federal issue. My strong conviction that marriage equality needs to be a federal issue stems from my discomfort with states putting the civil rights of a minority up for voter referendum. In each of the 28 states that have put initiatives on the ballot to amend their state's constitution as defining marriage as between a man and a woman, voters have approved the amendment. Regardless of what your view of marriage is, think about the consequences of this precedent. If you are doing something of which a majority does not approve, and you are not a suspect class (i.e. a racial or religious group) under the fourteenth amendment, your rights can be put to the whims and passions of voters in your state. Aziz Ansari has a particularly compelling point on this issue:

By default, everything that the president touches is going to be polarizing; I don't begrudge him hedging his first statements. Working incrementally to change the culture in order to change the politics is the least inflammatory move for Obama to make at this juncture. But this doesn't mean that the rest of us can't work at both state and federal levels to ensure that the rights extended to heterosexual families are also extended to LGBT families. While some argue that anti-miscegenation laws are not a viable parallel for the same-sex marriage debate, the Supreme Court ruling (Loving vs. Virginia) states:

Marriage is one of the "basic civil rights of man," fundamental to our very existence and survival.... To deny this fundamental freedom on so unsupportable a basis as the racial classifications embodied in these statutes, classifications so directly subversive of the principle of equality at the heart of the Fourteenth Amendment, is surely to deprive all the State's citizens of liberty without due process of law.

At the heart of the aforementioned Fourteenth Amendment, in case you haven't caught up on the episodes of Schoolhouse Rock that you have stored on your DVR, is the Equal Protection Clause, stating that "no state shall ... deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws." If this isn't relevant, I don't know what is. Marriage is a basic civil right, and under our constitution, we all have equal protection of the law (though sexual orientation is not yet one of the categories of people granted special protection under this amendment). Legislating against same-sex marriage at the state level denies to gay and lesbian families the fundamental rights afforded to straight families. Even more abhorrent is states opening marriage rights to a popular vote. Opening a vote on the rights of a minority to an impassioned majority goes against what our country stands for. Isn't it about time that we set a federal precedent that states should not be allowed to open to referendum the rights of their citizens? This is the crux of why marriage equity is, and must continue to be, a federal issue.

Granted, a federal ruling like Loving may be some years off, as only 17 states had laws on the books opposing interracial marriage when the Loving decision came down. I can see that leaving same-sex marriage to the states (while working to repeal the Defense of Marriage Act) is a powerful incremental tool for change. Public opinion of the issue is changing and continues to change---even Obama calls this a generational issue---and it is tempting to work state-by-state and hope that all states will come to their senses. But let's face it. Those last states aren't going to tip without a push from the federal government. Further, I fundamentally believe that states should be prohibited from putting the civil rights of their citizens up for a vote.* This is why I refuse to believe that pushing for same-sex marriage state-by-state is the end push. After all, legislation is about evolution---evolution of thoughts, ideas, and policy. It is about putting into writing and into law our fundamental beliefs of what is fair, what is right, and what rights and responsibilities we have as citizens of our towns, states, and country.

As a secular and democratic nation, we have built into our governmental structure a tremendous power to evolve, and to plan for evolution. At this juncture in time, we as a nation have an opportunity to decree that no minority should have their civil rights decided by the vote of a majority. This could be the legacy of the movement for marriage equity. There will no doubt be social issues that come to the forefront of American policy in the next 10, 20, 50 years and beyond. When we have seen that leaving civil rights up to state referenda nearly always leaves states on the wrong side of history (see: school integration & women's suffrage), why would we continue to let this be an option? We may not all agree on policy, but we should all be able to agree that this egregious practice needs to stop. A federal ban on civil rights referenda would be a fitting legacy for the marriage equality movement, strengthening our democracy and protecting all families' rights from the whims and passions of the majority.

*If you want to see an exceedingly handsome man who saves people from burning buildings make essentially the same point, you can watch this:

The Beginning

To write this piece I inevitably have to go back some years and take a look at my former self. It’s like talking about a completely different person. You know when you get together with friends, have a few drinks, and reminisce on what you did and what you were like in high school? Well my story . . . my story generally blows most people's out of the water. Now, I know there are many who have more dramatic tales than mine. The stuff that happens in some people’s lives no Hollywood screen writer could ever make up. However, what I think makes mine a good one is that I came out a well-adjusted, fully-functioning, professional member of society. It could easily have gone another way. I first started thinking about suicide when I was 10 or 11. It blows my mind to write that sentence. I come from a large loving family; I wasn’t abused by my parents; nothing extraordinarily tragic happened to me; nor was there a single event that precipitated my depression. But just like some people don’t produce enough insulin and have diabetes, I have an irregulation with serotonin and suffer from depression. And it happened when I was very young.

My depression took me and my family on quite the journey of drugs, in-patient psych wards, and reckless behavior. Most nights were a real struggle not to harm myself. And of all those countless nights where I stayed up crying and wishing it would end, there were only 3 times in the span of 7 years where I gave up on all the things that usually held me back and said “Fuck it. No more.” And each time I was always saved. I recall years later my psychologist telling me that out of all the patients he’d seen throughout the years, he thought I would be one of the few to actually kill myself.

It was a struggle to keep it together. At one point, for a brief span, I was going to individual drug therapy, group drug therapy, family drug therapy, NA meetings, and seeing my individual psychologist…every week. To say the least my dance card was booked! However, counseling, the right medication, and a large helping of my parent’s unequivocal devotion to keeping my butt on this earth were huge factors of me being here today.

But there was something else.

My middle sister by 4 years had done a program while in high school where she volunteered as a health educator for the summer in South America. She did it a few times and eventually had a significant role in leadership. By the time I was old enough to consider it my parents were well familiar with the organization. Also, at that stage I had made progress with my emotional stability and general behavior, so more trust was established.

So when I was 17 for 2 months myself and another girl worked in a remote village of 800 Zapoteca Indians in Southern Mexico. Our project was to do health education and build latrines. I worked long hours doing manual labor in a skirt. I ate beans, rice, and hot coffee with virtually every meal. I slept on a cot in the post office because the families were too poor to take on two more people in any individual home. I had immersed myself in a completely different language, culture, and comfort zone, and I thrived on it.

I can remember the exact moment when I knew this is what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Dusk was approaching and I sat on the hard packed mud ruins of stairs leading down to the remains of what used to be someone’s adobe home. As I sat there watching rain clouds gather over the mountain valley, I knew I would never try to take my life again. My struggle with depression hadn’t ended but I would never again have a hand in my own demise.

(To be continued...)

[image by Jenny Huang via flickr]

The F Words: Food & Feminism

Welcome to The F Words, where our mission is to share the stories of remarkable women through food, to explore the ways food binds us to one another in the present - as well as to generations past - and to do all of this without dismissing the complicated relationship second- and third-wave feminist women have to the kitchen and cooking.

My name is Meg, and I'll be your guide on the (assuredly) delicious, (definitely) exciting and (potentially) thorny journey. If you're friends with my mom, you might know me as Queenie, author of the food and travel blog Queenie Takes Manhattan. If not, hi! It's awesome to meet you.

I write an awful lot about food - and sometimes even more about Bourbon - on my blog, but I rarely touch on one of my other great passions: feminism. It's not because I'm scared of the word, it's just that feminism can be a tough thing to bring up in a food-centric context. I'm far past the point of thinking that feminists should shun the kitchen because of its associations with enforced domesticity and limited options, but I'm also not always entirely sure of how to articulate how I feel about the intersection of cooking and my feminist ideals. I think it's time to see if other people can help - and to prove true to my roots, I say we get them to give us some recipes, too.

To make sure my victims - I mean, interview subjects - know there's nothing to be scared of, I'll go first. But I promise that some seriously exciting, brilliant women will grace this space in weeks to come. In the meantime, let's hit it.

Tell us a bit about your day job. I work in user research and experience design, which basically means I ask people questions about what they want and need and tell their stories to other people all day long. On a good day, that is.

How did you learn to cook? Oh, gosh - in all sorts of ways. I grew up surrounded by people who love food, especially my mom and my au pair. We ate out quite a bit, but Mom and Lori were also both great cooks. Snack food was at a minimum; if you wanted something to eat, you had to make it yourself, so I mastered chocolate chip cookies at an unnaturally young age. My grandmother, Nonie, taught me how to bake pies, and I figured most of the rest of it out (including the savory side of things) when I moved into my first apartment after college. I remember calling my mom to find out how to cook meat in an oven - I’d mostly learned how to grill things like steak or chicken, and had no idea how to roast anything.

Do you prefer to cook alone, or with friends or family? Either alone, or with close friends or family - but really, I can cook with anyone who isn’t too much of a control freak. If I’m preparing a meal with someone else, I like it to be with someone who isn’t going to be looking over my shoulder the whole time. I love to cook with my best friend, Louisa. We have a pretty awesome rhythm when we’re together in the kitchen.

What's your favorite thing to make? Depends on the day - and the season - but I always find it really satisfying to make a stand-out dessert, like a gorgeous chocolate cake or a blueberry pie in the height of summer.

If you had to choose one cuisine to eat for the rest of your life, which would it be? Probably either Vietnamese or French - baguettes and strong coffee are common themes, you’ll note.

What recipe, cuisine or technique scares the crap out of you? Chinese food. So many new techniques and combinations to learn about, if you want to do it right. I need to find someone to coach me through it.

How do you think your relationships with your family have affected your relationship to food and cooking? My family is seriously into food. My mom is a great cook, but she also loves to dine out, and I feel really lucky to have eaten so many amazing meals even before I could (legally) drink the wine that came along with. I grew up with an appreciation of fine dining and simple, home-cooked food - the only food snobbery I know is a disdain for stuff that tastes bad. I also grew up with divorced parents, and my mom was single until just recently. That meant that - starting sometime in late adolescence - my brother and I had to fend for ourselves at dinnertime fairly often. I started us off with grilled chicken, salad, and Uncle Ben's wild rice (that spice mix was amazing), then graduated to stir fries, and, eventually, homemade pies. My brother was - and is - in charge of eggs.

Even today, home cooking is strongly associated with women's traditional place in the family and society. How do you reconcile your own love of the kitchen with your outlook on gender roles? I’m a single woman who lives alone (and loves it), so when I cook for other people, it’s entirely by choice. And when it comes to cooking, I'm pretty much a choose-your-choice feminist. (That isn't the case for all things, but we can talk about that in another piece sometime.) If a woman cooks, it's not an anti-feminist act. And if a woman doesn't choose to cook, it doesn't make her a better feminist. People should do what works for them, whether that's ordering in, taking out or having another member of the household do the whole thing. Someone assuming I should cook because I'm a woman, though - that's not okay.

That said, I actually think that home cooking is less fraught these days than the professional culinary world, where women are still actively encouraged to follow the (traditionally less prestigious) pastry track. While most (not all - you know who you are, slackers) hetero couples I know share kitchen duty (either cooking together or trading off cooking and cleaning), cooking for money and acclaim is still primarily thought of as men’s work. Which drives me crazy, for the record. When a woman does it, it's considered routine and expected. When a man does it, it's worthy of applause and statues. Step. Off.

Tell us a bit about the recipe you're sharing. When did you first make it, and why? What do you love about it? This is my brother’s favorite cake. I tend to gravitate more toward fruit desserts, especially in summer when peaches, plums, berries and the like are in season. My brother? Not so much. I mean, he won't turn down a strawberry-rhubarb tart, and he loves apple pie at Thanksgiving, but when it's up to him, it's going to be chocolate. And so even though his birthday is smack in the middle of July, I bake this cake for him, because I am an awesome sister.

It’s chocolate-on-chocolate, with a little bit of coffee thrown in to bring out the flavor of all that - you guessed it - chocolate. It’s also super crazy easy, which isn’t always true of cakes. It’s based on Ina Garten’s chocolate cake recipe; I’ve tweaked it a bit - notably by adding more coffee - but the luxurious simplicity (the thing I aim for most in my own cooking) is the Barefoot Contessa at her finest.

Perfect Chocolate Cake Adapted from Barefoot Contessa At Home

For the cake: Butter, for greasing the pans 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus more for pans 2 cups sugar 3/4 cup good cocoa powder 2 tsp. baking soda 1 tsp. baking powder 1 tsp. kosher salt 1 cup buttermilk, shaken 1/2 cup vegetable oil 2 eggs, at room temperature 1 teaspoon good vanilla extract 1 cup freshly brewed hot coffee

For the buttercream frosting: 6 ounces semisweet chocolate (I use Guittard!) 1/2 pound (2 sticks) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 extra-large egg yolk, at room temperature 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 1 1/4 cups confectioners' sugar, sifted 1 tablespoon instant espresso powder

Make the cake: Position the racks in the top and bottom thirds of your oven, and preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Butter 2 round cake pans (8- or 9-inch both work.). Line the bottoms of the pans with parchment paper, then butter and flour the pans.

Sift together the flour, sugar, cocoa, baking soda, and baking powder into the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment. Add the salt and mix on low speed until combined.

In another bowl, combine the buttermilk, oil, eggs, and vanilla. With the mixer on low, gradually add the wet ingredients to the dry. Add the coffee and stir just to combine, scraping the sides & bottom of the bowl with a spatula.

Divide the batter evenly between the pans and bake for 35 to 40 minutes, swapping pans from top to bottom about halfway through, until a cake tester inserted into the center comes out clean. Cool in the pans for 30 minutes, then turn them out onto a cooling rack (parchment paper side down) and cool completely.

Make the frosting: Chop the chocolate and place it in a heat-proof bowl set over a pan of simmering water. Stir until just melted and set aside until cooled to room temperature.

In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, beat the butter on medium-high speed until light yellow and fluffy, about 3 minutes. Add the egg yolk and vanilla and continue beating for 3 minutes.

Turn the mixer down to low, and gradually add the confectioners' sugar. Beat at medium speed, scraping down the bowl as necessary, until smooth and creamy. Dissolve the coffee powder in 2 teaspoons of very hot tap water. On low speed, add the chocolate and coffee to the butter mixture and mix until blended - but don't whip! Now you're ready to frost!

Frost the cake: Peel off the parchment paper from both layers and place 1 cake layer, flat side up, on a flat plate or cake pedestal. With a knife or offset spatula, spread the top with frosting. Place the second layer on top, rounded side up, and spread the frosting (steps for making it are below) evenly on the top and sides of the cake.

The 30x30 Project: Happy 30th Birthday to Me

i’m a huge advocate of relishing life + splurging on self. i tend to live life by the personal mantra that it’s short, let’s enjoy + have no regrets. so 30 loomed + i wanted to do it up big… not only celebrating a marker of three decades, but really celebrating a personal victory of having conquered some of my own demons. having finally made it as a photographer. as an artist. a self sufficient + somewhat accomplished adult. i was on the tail end of a brutal saturn return, + i wanted to celebrate my new found happiness in a million self serving ways... i wanted a kenyan safari, a week in tulum with all my besties, a three month south east asian sojourn, a roadtrip across america, some solitude in a cloister in the desert… the list went on + on. i let myself dream huge… no limits.+ then i had my eureka moment… for my birthday, all i really wanted was to give back…. for my 30th birthday, i took 3o days to travel to india + sri lanka to find women who were just like me, + tell their story.  i found + documented the stories of a few amazing ladies that had started + run businesses, as a result of micro lending.

i’m a huge believer in the idea of micro financing.  i’m often shocked at the amount of people i encounter that have never heard of it. micro lending that is. it’s so easy. it’s so affordable. it takes so little + helps so much. so i wanted to spread the word. one trip, 30 days,  women,  portraits, stories, an exhibit, a book.... one small movement by one small 30 year old me.  it's still a work in progress. one of those sort of life projects that may take years until it feels completed...  but what began as a gift in story telling, really only just gave back to me... the priceless gifts of some amazing + incredible stories... it was the best 30th birthday present i could have gotten...  + here's a few i get to share with you.  (click through the images to read these women's stories)[gallery link="file"]

Welcome!

It was a dark and stormy night—no really, it was.  Our boutique creative agency YOU + ME* was in need of a retreat/vision quest/mini sabbatical/whatever you want to call it and we decided the perfect location was Salt Lake City in January.  We weren’t there to seek inspiration at Sundance or on the slopes (though that would have been a solid plan following the storm that blew through town).  Instead, we flew three quarters of the way across the country to attend the Altitude Summit, lovingly referred to as Alt, a design and social media conference that attracts creative powerhouses from all over the country. If you think boondoggle when you hear conference, it might not be obvious why we expected to forge a bold new path for our business from the lobby of the Grand America Hotel.  But forge we did.  It was time to step away from the glare of our computer screens and into the warm glow of shiny notebooks and neon pencils.   We wanted to liberate our brains from practical matters like business taxes and invoicing systems and let our minds wander toward our biggest dreams and grandest plans.  Most importantly, we needed to meaningfully connect—with old pals, new friends, and each other.

Over the course of our four-day trip, we had a blast (um, as you can see), extended our wheelhouse with a few new tricks, and figured out the next step on our never-ending quest to create a business that reflects our values and leads to fulfilling personal and professional lives. We stayed up late into the night discussing the fact that our internet circles are closing, rather than widening, comparing our experiences of the world, and chatting about our desire to connect women to each other in ways that extend beyond what our houses and weddings look like, what we cook for our families, and how we conceive of and present our outer selves. We downed coffee after coffee contemplating the fact that the online world has been one in which women have been framed as tearing each other down rather than building each other up. We lamented the dearth of online content for women that acknowledges that we are more than our outfits, our homes, and our consumption habits.

From that, the Equals Project was born.

And it looks like others have been thinking along the same lines. From the growing "Things I'm Afraid to Tell You" movement among bloggers, to the focus on meaningful gatherings in Kinfolk magazine, to people sharing incredibly thoughtful stories online with the sole intention of helping other people achieve happiness, it's clear that the internet is evolving from a place where we store and showcase our (often-unattainable) goals into a place where we can be real, multi-dimensional people. As we slow down and think about what we are really consuming on the internet, it seems as if we as a society are aching for meaning and process, rather than destinations and results. We hope you will find here a collection of stories, discussions, and art from women across the country (and across the world) that compels you to think, contribute your own stories and thoughts, and most of all, to act.

We are more than what we can cook, we are more than what we can create, more than our makeup, our jewelry, our aesthetic tastes. We are people with complex ideas, and conflicting thoughts, who read, travel, discuss, do, and make. We are people who are influenced and inspired by the women who came before us, and we aspire to create something greater than the sum of our parts.

After many months of work, tellingly accompanied by more grins than swear words, it’s finally time for us to make the Equals Project a reality.  We still have to pinch ourselves a little bit when we think of the talent, the stories, and the passion found among this amazing group of contributors and collaborators.  And we only get more excited when we think of how the Equals Project will be interpreted in print early next year.  We've also taken to jumping up and cheering on an hourly basis when we think about kicking off Equals Does, our philanthropic call to action--money is not the only tool for making a difference in the world.  In a short while, we’ll be announcing our first project representing Equals Does and featuring a series of inspiring projects that share a similar spirit. If you’re interested in supporting the Equals Project, you’re in luck:

• Follow us on facebook and twitter for regular updates
• Share The Equals Project with your friends, family, and every nice person you meet
• Contribute your writing, photography, or video (see submission guidelines)
• Send us a story of how you’ve used your skills, talents, or sheer gumption as a force for good in the world

Let's continue this conversation and get to know each other better, shall we?

Warmly,

Elisabeth & Miya