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Books That Cook: Artichokes with Beurre au Citron

During the month of September, we’re celebrating the publication of our first literary cookbook, Books That Cook: The Making of a Literary Meal by rounding up some of our bravest “chefs” at the Press to take on the task of cooking this book! In the next few weeks, we’ll be serving up reviews, odes, and confessions from Press staff members who attempted various recipes à la minute.

Read, savor, and be sure to enter our giveaway for a chance to win a copy of the book before it ends on September 21!

Up next on the menu: Managing Editor Dorothea Stillman Halliday masters the art of l’artichaut.


My father would have loved Books That Cook, uniting as it does two of his greatest passions: books and food. My father read voraciously, books of all kinds, several at one time, and among those were cookbooks and literary food writing. He read about the history of foods and cuisines and the culinary practices of different cultures. He traveled widely and loved to taste the world. But every night at home he sat down to a disappointing dinner.

My parents lived in Europe during their early married life and then again later, after my siblings and I were part of the mix. My father’s tastes were full of herbs and spices to begin with and grew only more sophisticated after living abroad, while my mother seemed incapable of distinguishing between delicious and dreadful food. Her culinary ability and discernment were in the great American (pre–Julia Child) tradition of the blandest meat and most overcooked vegetables, puddles of mayonnaise, and a cabinet full of prefab foods. Why make fresh potatoes, when you could make potato flakes from a box just by adding them to hot water? Why even drink fresh milk when you could mix milk from a powder? The nutrition was what mattered to her, and that was all.

Unfortunately for my parents, who were newlyweds in the late forties, they were imprisoned in the gender roles of their time. My father went into the world and worked; my mother stayed home and cooked. He read Mastering the Art of French Cooking and watched Julia Child on TV, but he felt constrained to do no more food preparation than to put cream cheese and lox on a bagel. The wife did the cooking. The husband’s lot was to sit and be served—poor wretch. He dreamed of gastronomy; she dreamed of getting all our nutrients via vitamin pills. Needless to say, this caused considerable marital friction, and were it not for frequent dinners at the local Chinese restaurant, things might have gotten really ugly.

By the mid-seventies, the culture and my parents had both evolved enough that my father finally declared that he would do the cooking from now on. The dinner table became a happier place. And the food was much improved too. My mother was relieved to be liberated from the pressure of preparing meals that continually fell short of expectations. But she never understood what the big deal was. She always greeted any culinary preparation by expounding the nutritional value of the components: “Oh, carrots are very good for you. They’re full of vitamin A” and “Spinach is loaded with iron.”

If you’ve ever painstakingly prepared a delicious meal for someone and been greeted by this kind of response, then you know that the friction at the dinner table did not disappear altogether. My father would sigh in exasperation with her lack of appreciation but would console himself with the responses he got from the rest of us and with his own enjoyment of his meal. Once, while serving up one of his creations, he loaded up a fork and offered it to my mother. “Try this,” he said. “It’s got something in it that’s very good for you: flavor.”

When asked to select a recipe from Books That Cook to write about, I chose artichokes with beurre au citron, lemon butter sauce. The dish is both simple and fine, and it is one of a very few I remember my mother making that we all truly enjoyed. I don’t know if she learned from Julia Child’s recipe or from somewhere else, but even my mother could boil an artichoke and squeeze lemon juice into melted butter.

I remember how exotic it seemed to eat a huge flower bud. It was a gustatory adventure, even a quest: We sought the hidden treasure, the succulent heart. We peeled the petals away one at a time, avoiding the sharp points—my mother either didn’t know, or didn’t bother, to cut them off. We dipped the petals in the lemon butter and scraped the “meat” off with our teeth. We worked our way past the soft inner leaves of pale green and purple, down to the choke, which guarded the heart. Once past its defenses, we beheld the grail. And there was peace and harmony at the table.

The artichoke was good, even in the hands of an unskilled cook. And it still is.

Dorothea Stillman Halliday is Managing Editor at NYU Press.

Books That Cook: A Good Roast Chicken

During the month of September, we’re celebrating the publication of our first literary cookbook, Books That Cook: The Making of a Literary Meal by rounding up some of our bravest “chefs” at the Press to take on the task of cooking this book! In the next few weeks, we’ll be serving up reviews, odes, and confessions from Press staff members who attempted various recipes à la minute.

Today, editorial assistant Constance Grady shares her thoughts on “A Good Roast Chicken,” an essay featured in the book from professional chef and food historian Teresa Lust.


Roast chicken is a good dinner for many reasons. It is economical: a decent-sized bird is a good meal for a family of four, with enough left over for some sandwiches or perhaps a pot pie, and then you can turn the bones and giblets into stock for soup or a risotto. It is forgiving. You can buy a free-range organic bird from a farmer’s market for an ungodly sum, and then massage a compote of herbs and butter under its skin and stuff it with more herbs and garlic and lemon, and baste it with melted butter as it roasts, and flip it halfway through cooking so that the juices are evenly distributed through the whole chicken. This will be good. You can also buy a five-dollar bird from the supermarket and spritz it perfunctorily with Pam, perhaps shaking some table salt and pre-ground pepper over the skin, and stick it in the oven and forget about it for two hours. This will also be pretty good.

It is also—and this is probably what is most attractive about roast chicken for many of us—simple. Even a gussied-up roast chicken is quick and easy to prepare; it will allow you to put a full meal on the table with a minimum of labor. But what Teresa Lust reminds us in “A Good Roast Chicken” is that roast chicken is not an intrinsically easy dish: it’s just that we’ve outsourced the labor.

Lust is the granddaughter of farmers, and she describes in detail all of the dirty, uncomfortable farm work that goes into a roast chicken. Someone has to break the chicken’s neck. Then the chickens have to be dipped into boiling water to loosen their feathers, and plucked. The feathers that don’t come out with plucking have to be singed off, or alternatively, waxed off like unruly eyebrow hair. Then, of course, they have to be beheaded and de-feet-ed and gutted, and now at last we come to something resembling the chicken that you pick up in paper wrappings at the farmer’s market or in plastic shrinkwrap at the grocery store.

Lust does not mourn for the farm life of her grandparents. “I am not so sentimental,” she writes. I have the same attitude: I do not especially feel deprived at having never smelled chicken feathers scorching as I burn them off a partially plucked carcass. But it is good to be reminded that the food we take for granted is the product of immense industry, and that the “raw ingredients” we buy at the grocery store are anything but.

Lust’s recipe is a good balance between the easiest and the most elaborate versions of roast chicken. You rub the skin down with melted butter or olive oil, and stuff the cavity with herbs and garlic and lemon. Then you let it sit in a hot oven for an hour. Previously I have been wedded to the system of using a very hot oven for the first ten minutes to sear the skin, and then turning the temperature down for a long, slow roast, but I think Lust’s method is better. The skin comes out crisp and brown, and the meat is succulent and moist.

Lust serves her chicken with buttered carrots and parslied new potatoes. This is simple and pleasant, but I decided instead to roast the chicken on a bed of vegetables. On this I refuse to compromise: cooked this way, the vegetables caramelize and are permeated with the rich flavorful juices of the chicken, so that even celery becomes delicious. Also it saves on dishes, because the entire meal is cooked in your roasting pan. I used carrots and celery and onions and potatoes and garlic, but you can use any vegetable that catches your fancy. Zucchini is good in the summer, and so is asparagus. I am told that a bulb of fennel is a welcome addition, if you like fennel (I do not), and leeks add a nice earthiness.

Cooking this chicken, you are most likely far from the life Lust describes, “a life full of vegetable gardens and barnyards and meals rushed from the farm to the table,” and “a life where there’s no denying that what lies succulent and crisp on a bed of rosemary sprigs once scratched in the dirt.” The beauty and power of her essay is that it brings this life back to us: it reminds us of the labor embodied in the carcass of a chicken.

Constance Grady is Editorial Assistant at NYU Press.

Books That Cook: Sipsey’s Buttermilk Biscuits

During the month of September, we are celebrating the publication of our first literary cookbook, Books That Cook: The Making of a Literary Meal by rounding up some of our bravest “chefs” at the Press to take on the task of cooking this book! In the next few weeks, we’ll be serving up reviews, odes, and confessions from Press staff members who attempted various recipes à la minute.

Next on the menu: Trish Palao of NYU Press takes on the buttermilk biscuit.

Read, savor, and let us know what you think in the comments section!


“These don’t compare to your grandmother’s. She made the best.”

I hear this every time I have biscuits with my dad. My father grew up in the Visayan islands of the Philippines, in a region historically known for sugar production—not biscuits. But the American presence in the country influenced its culinary tastes and my grandmother took pride in her ability to cook the way they do “state side.” My grandfather’s colleagues from the sugar mill would be sure to drop by in the mornings to talk business. In doing so they were guaranteed an invitation to join the family in a breakfast of longanisa (sausage), fried eggs, garlic rice, and biscuits.

It’s only in recent years, after gaining some confidence in the kitchen and craving my family’s cooking, that I’ve started learning how to make Filipino dishes. Biscuits are obviously not traditional fare, but its connection to my dad’s childhood memory drew me to this recipe. I was further inspired by the accompanying excerpt from Fannie Flagg’s Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe. It recalls a picnic between two friends. Secrets are shared as they indulge in a feast that includes biscuits and honey, respectively prepared and harvested with love. How many wonderful bonds are forged over the sharing of food?

The recipe for Sipsey’s buttermilk biscuits is deceptively simple. It calls for six ingredients and consists of five straightforward pieces of instruction. I mentioned this to our Production Manager, a South Carolina native who’s as particular about biscuits as my dad. “It’ll be hard. They require a lot of time and patience.” Then I told a friend, a former wedding cake baker. “They’re the worst to make! I can never get a good batch no matter what I try.”

I decided to do more research. It was either that or brace myself for a disappointing Sunday breakfast. Food bloggers advised: use cold butter, don’t knead too much, don’t over mix, DO NOT roll out the dough, keep them close together so they rise up and don’t spread out. Turns out there were a lot of things that Sipsey didn’t tell me.

Thanks to the Internet (and the time-saving wonder that is the food processor), my biscuits turned out fine. They tasted right and they weren’t too hard or dense. Could they have been better? Definitely. But I know that a lighter, flakier, yummier biscuit is not something I can get from looking at more websites or fiddling with kitchen gadgets. It comes from attempting the dish again. And again. And again. And eventually I’ll have figured out the method, the measurements, and the timing that result in buttery excellence.

I imagine that’s what perfecting biscuits—or any treasured family dish—is really about: unwritten knowledge, skill, and technique that come only with time, experience, and enough unexpected guests who pop in during mealtime.

Trish Palao manages Advertising and Direct Marketing at NYU Press.

Not a monster: Society’s creation of men who use violence

—Hillary Potter

The surveillance video footage released this week that depicts professional football player Ray Rice rendering Janay Rice unconscious with a single punch seems to have evoked a fairly unified opinion of Mr. Rice’s actions and how he should be sanctioned. It appears most of the public sentiment about Mr. Rice’s brutal actions is condemnation of the assault. These denunciations came in the form of calls for Mr. Rice’s permanent ousting from the National Football League and for Rice to be criminally prosecuted and incarcerated​—all of which satisfy standards of punishment in U.S. society.

Although already sanctioned months ago by the NFL commissioner with a two-game suspension after the release of a video that captured images after the assault took place, the commissioner and Baltimore Ravens management levied heftier sanctions. The collective public cheer for the swift actions of Ravens management and the NFL to, respectively, release and suspend Mr. Rice is welcomed in the wake of the often racially divided responses to last month’s shooting death of unarmed Black teen Michael Brown by white police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri. As a scholar and activist who critically interrogates the roles and impacts of race, gender, and socioeconomics on crime, criminality, and criminal legal procedures, I am pleased the NFL is no longer maintaining its complicity in Mr. Rice’s violent actions toward a person he presumably loves.

Aside from my personal concern for gendered violence, which overwhelmingly finds girls and women as the targets or victims of this form of transgression, this case seized my attention because of my research that especially focuses on the intersecting role of race, gender, and socioeconomics in the manifestation of and responses to intimate partner abuse and violence. The tactics used by abusers to control and harm their mates (and their children) have little variance across race, culture, and class; what frequently varies are responses by victims, family and friends of the couple, legal system officials, and factions of the general public because of distinct sociocultural views, values, and customs.

I have read and heard recent comments about Mr. Rice referring to him as a monster, an animal, and a “piece of shit.” Whether there is video documentation or not, I wish that assaultive behaviors like Mr. Rice’s​—by men of any race​—would always produce such a visceral reaction by others and I hope the average person is always disturbed by abuse and violence subjected on girls and women by their so-called partners.

There is, however, a minority who essentially supports Mr. Rice’s actions because of a perception that Ms. Rice slapping at or spitting on Mr. Rice was provocation or justification for Mr. Rice’s assault. In my research, victims are placed at the center of the analysis and I view them as the experts in their lived experiences. This must also be the way we consider the present case. The brutality against Ms. Rice must remain central to this case, but only to the extent that she is not blamed for Mr. Rice’s actions. Furthermore, that the couple married after the assault is not to be judged by those who are not privy to Ms. Rice’s experiences and emotions. Many women remain in relationships with abusive mates for a variety of reasons, and it behooves uninformed purveyors of this case to educate themselves on the virtual entrapment of women subjected to abuse by their intimate partners.

Those who victimize others must also be placed at the center of the analysis. However, deeming Mr. Rice a monster, an animal, or a “piece of shit,” serves no one. This labeling is a copout. To simply call Mr. Rice a monster​—just as is done with serial and mass murderers​—is easy, because doing so distances the abuser from the “regular guy,” and explaining abusive and violent behaviors without tenuous biological or supernatural explanations is complex, confusing, and messy. But we must reflect on the social and cultural mechanisms of our society that instill and preserve violent and controlling behaviors in our boys.

Once we recognize and acknowledge sociocultural explanations for abuse and violence, we are forced to acknowledge our role as a society in creating these “monsters.” Indeed, we know that many regular guys are abusers. The regular guy who abuses girls and women often operates in clandestine locations (such as the home) or his behaviors are known or seen by others who do not or cannot confront the regular guy’s abusive behaviors. But some regular guys who violate others are exposed. Ray Rice, in effect, is a regular guy.

I also believe aiming the mirror on society’s self will push us toward a criminal legal system that rejects ineffective punishment and banishment methods and adopts a system focused on accountability, healing, restoration, rehabilitation, and treating each other with humanity. To be sure, this notion is the basis of President Obama’s My Brother’s Keeper initiative that seeks to ensure boys and young men of color are provided with the resources necessary to realize socially productive and healthy lives. Although the initiative has been duly criticized for overlooking analogous plights faced by girls and young women of color, it has generally been accepted as “the right thing to do” to provide boys and young men of color with equal opportunities for success as their white counterparts.

Thus, even as a Black feminist criminologist who knows, works with, advocates for, and gathers personal stories from women victims of intimate partner violence, I promote and believe in a restorative and transformative approach that does not desert the abusive and violent men that our society has produced. These abusive men were once harmless young boys, but were ultimately “trained” by the best to become violent and controlling. They were trained by the gendered customs that are permeated throughout our society and have been transmitted through the generations for generations. Today’s abusive men were schooled in social scripts that trained them that girls and women are inferior to males; therefore, it is their right as men to control “their women” in any ways they see fit. This patriarchal training program spans a broad range of abusive and controlling behaviors, some of which involve blatant physical violence and others that result in discriminatory employment, legal, and social policies that suppress girls and women.

As the sports-based saying goes, “don’t hate the player, hate the game.” Ray Rice is not a rare, unexplainable creature, and Janay Rice is not to blame. Ray Rice must be held accountable for his actions, but we must also place universal blame in the societal norms that social institutions and members of our society continue to espouse, and that too many men (and some women) are too complacent with and too fearful to abandon.

Hillary Potter, a resident of Denver, Colorado, is a professor in the Department of Ethnic Studies at the University of Colorado at Boulder. She is the author of Battle Cries: Black Women and Intimate Partner Abuse (NYU Press, 2008).

Finding the lost children

​—James Marten

In 1904, J. M. Barrie prefaced his beloved play Peter Pan, or, The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up with the words, “All this has happened before.  And all this will happen again.” (The narrator utters the same passage at the beginning of the animated 1953 Disney version of the story.) A few years earlier, the Swedish sociologist Ellen Key had coined the phrase “The Century of the Child” to describe the coming epoch, in which the lives of children and youth would be broadened and improved through enlightened policies and practices in education, social welfare, and parenting.

The tension between the meanings of these two highly quotable passages is reflected in the essays in Children and Youth during the Gilded Age and Progressive Era. Barrie’s words (taken completely out of context, I freely admit) suggest a repetitive and inevitable cycle of birth, coming of age, resistance, and resigned maturity. Key’s words suggest a linear, equally inevitable march of progress shaped by rationality and compassion. Neither fully capture the ways that the lives of young people were changed during the “long twentieth century,” but together they help explain this complex era.

The collection of essays covers the period that launched that so-called “century of the child.” Thanks to the countless surveys and studies launched by policy makers, “child-savers,” and members of the burgeoning profession of social work, there are almost limitless sources about the lives of youngsters available to historians of the period. And thanks to the changing constructions of childhood and youth, to incipient notions of governmental responsibility, and to middle-class concerns about the apparent decline of family, there are countless books and articles and editorials and other commentary on attitudes about children. As a result, this may be the most written-about period in the histories of American children and youth.

The eleven essays in the book show both the progress that Key predicted both the progress and the reluctance to change suggested by Barrie. This was an era when child’s play became a “right;” education became a central element of virtually all children’s lives; and governments and courts began to take up their responsibilities to American society’s youngest members. But many of the issues addressed by the authors have echoed down to the far end of the “century of the child” and beyond: concerns about immigrants, issues related to race and sexuality, and the role of children in the economy.

There were plenty of “lost” boys and girls living in the United States in the Gilded Age and Progressive Eras (for one great example, check out the defiant young mill hand staring out from the book’s cover, as captured by the National Child Labor Committee’s Lewis Hine), but there were also plenty of visionaries like Ellen Key who sought a better future for those youngsters, their children, and their children’s children. Children and Youth in the Gilded Age and Progressive Era offers a wide-ranging sampling of some of those stories.

James Marten is Professor and Chair of the History Department at Marquette University. He is author or editor of more than a dozen books, including the forthcoming Children and Youth during the Gilded Age and Progressive Era (NYU Press, 2014).

Books That Cook: Caramel Cake

During the month of September, we are celebrating the publication of our first literary cookbook, Books That Cook: The Making of a Literary Meal by rounding up some of our bravest “chefs” at the Press to take on the task of cooking this book! In the next few weeks, we’ll be serving up reviews, odes, and confessions from Press staff members who attempted various recipes à la minute.

Next on the menu: Laura Bisberg of NYU Press bakes a cake, Maya Angelou-style.

Read, savor, and let us know what you think in the comments section!


In her autobiographical story prefacing the recipe for Caramel Cake, here’s how Maya Angelou describes the dessert:

The salty sweetness of the caramel frosting along with the richness of the batter made the dessert soften and liquefy on the tongue and slip quietly down the throat almost without notice. Save that it left a memory of heaven itself in the mouth.[1]

So let’s just say my expectations weren’t low. The first step is to make caramel syrup. The instructions sound simple enough:

Heat sugar in heavy skillet over medium-low heat. Stir constantly until melted to a brown liquid. When it bubbles over entire surface, remove from heat. Slowly add boiling water, stirring constantly.

I put the sugar in an enamel pot. (First mistake.) The sound of the sugar scraping across the bottom of the pan is nails on a chalkboard, but cake tastes sweeter for a little suffering. I can bear this.

After ten minutes of stirring, nothing’s changed. I am still just pushing sugar grains around the bottom of a pot. I begin to suspect trickery. I edge the burner up to medium for a few minutes. Then medium-high. (Second mistake.)

It suddenly gets interesting, like a chemistry experiment. The sugar clumps, slowly turns tan. “Yes,” I think. “This seems right.” At twenty minutes, the sugar melts into an amber liquid. Microscopic bubbles appear at the center and foam out from there. “Excellent,” I think. “Just as described.”

I remove the pot from the heat, and stop stirring for approximately 3.2 seconds while I pour out a cup of boiling water from the kettle. (Third mistake.)

Adding the water turns the dainty bubbles into a roiling lava field, the pleasant amber hue to dark rum. Some of the sugar has recrystallized at the bottom of the pot in elaborate configurations. I spoon out a couple of the Chihuly sugar sea monkeys with growing concern that something has gone terribly wrong.

I pour the sugar into a bowl. I dip a spoon in, give the liquid a minute to cool, taste it. How can I describe it? It’s acrid, bitter, tarrish. Like overcooked gym socks. I pour it down the sink.

Take two!

I correct for my mistakes. I use a non-stick pot. I pre-measure the boiling water. I resist the temptation to adjust the heat, and most importantly, I. Do. Not. Stop. Stirring.

It’s a sweltering early September, easily 90 degrees in my kitchen. Twenty minutes in, I badly want the glass of water which is only just out of reach, but I don’t give in to temptation. “STIR CONSTANTLY” is my new mantra. I don’t know exactly what it looks like to make meth, but I imagine it would be a bad time for the cops to raid my apartment as I stand over a pot of white powder at the stove, sweating profusely and refusing to stop stirring.

The sugar eventually goes through a few stages that it completely skipped last batch: snowflakes, sand, sea glass, pulled toffee. It takes close to an hour, but comes out fine this time. It tastes, unsurprisingly, like sugar water.

The rest of the cake comes together easily. I bake it, frost it, take a few photos for posterity.

And the taste? Just like Angelou promised, it’s “a memory of heaven itself,” if heaven tastes like delicious cake. The caramelized sugar and brown butter give it a rich flavor, sweet and salty and intense.

So here’s my advice: make this cake! It’s lovely! And if I scared you off from making the caramel syrup, I have plenty left over. I’d trade it for a kitchen air conditioner.

Laura Bisberg is Business Manager at NYU Press.

[1] “The Assurance of Caramel Cake,” from Hallelujah! The Welcome Table: A Lifetime of Memories with Recipes (Random House, 2007).

Books That Cook: Lemon Polenta Cookies

This September, we’re celebrating the publication of our first literary cookbook, Books That Cook. To ring it in, we’ve rounded up some of our bravest “chefs” at the Press to take on the task of cooking this book! In the next few weeks, we’ll be serving up food for thought in the form of reviews, odes, and confessions from Press staff members who attempted various recipes à la minute.

First up is a post from our beloved sales and marketing director, Mary Beth Jarrad.

Read, savor, and let us know what you think in the comments section!


Neither of my grandmothers could cook. Probably as a result, both of my parents were functional, rather than inspired, cooks. They have both gotten better, especially in the last ten years or so, but this is all to say that I do not have a long history of culinary traditions to draw upon. I don’t have cherished memories of a toothsome delight I would eagerly await as we drove to one grandmother’s house or the other.  I can’t recall waking up early on winter mornings to find my mother pulling some sweet object from the oven, created ‘specially for my consumption. My parents fried things. And put things in the slow cooker, so by the time we would sit down at the table, we would look at an undifferentiated pool of brown, lumpy, stringy stuff. I remember the microwave was going to change the way we ate forever, allowing us gourmet meals in minutes! It didn’t, but the popcorn was good.

It was only once I left college, and started meeting people with post-college lives, that I understood what cooking, and eating, could be. Suddenly, everything and every place was an opportunity to eat something new, and different, and the only thing that limited my efforts in the kitchen was my own ambition. I’m not a great cook, but I am a fearless one, and there are only a few childhood eating prejudices that I have allowed to follow me to this new eating landscape (I’m looking at you, cooked carrots—disgusting).

Probably because I was not steeped in my own family’s lore, I love reading about other people’s food traditions, and explorations, and expectations. There is something delightful about being so unrooted, I don’t have to unlearn habits, or overcome food anxieties, I just get to be a culinary tourist, adopting and discarding trends at will. Books That Cook speaks to exactly this sense of weightlessness, skipping across time and genre, exploring both tradition and the culinary frontier, including recipes both functional and metaphoric. The way we think about food has changed, and the way we talk about it has changed, as well. I like that (other people’s) food is freighted with memory, just as much as I like having no anchor myself.

I made the Lemon Polenta Cookies, from In Nancy’s Kitchen, a selection from Caroline M. Grant. The selection was a perfectly balanced remembrance, without veering into sentimentality, and it closes with two recipes, one for polenta, one for cookies with polenta. Recipe writing is an art, and the cookies are a bit imperfect as a result (I think, if I make them again, I will look for a cornmeal with a finer grind—the cookies are a little knobby), but the essay that precedes it more than makes up for the recipe’s shortcomings. In Nancy’s Kitchen makes me want to eat with people I love. And maybe that’s what all food writing should make one want to do.

Mary Beth Jarrad is Sales and Marketing Director at NYU Press.

How not to react when your child tells you that he is gay

—Bernadette Barton

I actively avoided watching “How Not to React When Your Child Tells You that He is Gay” for a little while. A former student Facebook messaged me the link. I saw it pop up on other people’s Facebook walls. Dan Savage commented on it. And then my spouse Anna added it to our Plex queue and made me watch it on our television, though there isn’t much to see, just a lot of skewed shots of carpet, and later, a bunch of limbs tumbling.

So I listened, nervous, full of creeping dread, secretly overhearing, along with, at this point, 100,000 YouTube others, a violent family reaction to their son’s coming out. When our protagonist speaks, he is careful with his logic, even while his voice is strained and angry. He explains that he did not choose to be gay, he was born this way, right out of the uterus. His family members, especially his mother, respond that it is a choice, that he is choosing to shame them, and she tells him that they will no longer support him in his sinful lifestyle if he continues to choose to be gay.

The conversation begins with an ultimatum: if he does not try to change, with the help of an ex-gay organization, he is to leave. The listener enters at this point, and can track the conflict as it escalates and his family members physically attack him, yelling obscenities and insults.

And then the clip cuts off and we don’t know what happens next, although we can imagine it—the boy escaping out the back or front door with just the clothes on his back, or the boy subjected to a long, protracted period of testifying, or the boy submitting to his family long enough that they calm down and allow him to stay until “Thursday at midnight” to collect his belongings and find a place to live.

This disturbing clip, this painful moment captured and frozen in a person’s life, identical in so many ways to the stories shared by Bible Belt gays in my book Pray the Gay Away, frankly makes me queasy. The verbal accounts I collected with IRB approval, tape-recorder in hand, generously shared some time after the worst of such family abuse had receded is easier to process than the raw anger, hurt, and rejection expressed, indeed secretly recorded, here.  The trauma of familial abuse—being deliberately hurt by those who claim, and who are expected to love one the most—makes me dizzy and unsettled. I wonder how it is affecting all those who have experienced some version of it in their past.  Do they click on this YouTube offering unaware what is in it, try to avoid it like I did, or suffer through it reliving the trauma, purging it, feeling angry, unsettled, surreal, I wonder?

I want to wrap up this boy’s story on a hopeful note. As reader, viewer, voyeur, and story-teller, I crave a heroic ending, and perhaps it is this: even as his own family members were physically and verbally attacking him, our protagonist continued to assert that there was nothing wrong with him, there was something wrong with them. Doing so, he illustrates that he is not participating in his own oppression. He may be permanently estranged from his home and family, but he sounds aligned with himself, and perhaps that is powerful enough, for now.

Bernadette Barton is Professor of Sociology and Women’s Studies at Morehead State University in Morehead, Kentucky. She is the author of Stripped: Inside the Lives of Exotic Dancers (NYU Press, 2006) and Pray the Gay Away: The Extraordinary Lives of Bible Belt Gays, (NYU Press, 2012).

Between the world and #Ferguson

—Jelani Cobb

[This article originally appeared in The New Yorker.]

When I was eighteen, I stumbled across Richard Wright’s poem “Between the World and Me.” The poem, a retelling of a lynching, shook me, because while the narrator relays the details in the first person, the actual victim of that brutish ritual is another man, unknown to him and unknown to us. The poem is about the way in which history is an animate force, and how we are witnesses to the past, even to that portion of it that transpired before we were born. He writes,

darkness screamed with thirsty voices; and the witnesses rose and lived:
The dry bones stirred, rattled, lifted, melting themselves
into my bones.
The grey ashes formed flesh firm and black, entering into
my flesh.

Nothing save random fortune separated the fate of the man who died from that of the one telling the story. Errin Whack and Isabel Wilkerson have both written compellingly about the long shadow of lynching. It is, too often, a deliberately forgotten element of the American past—one that is nonetheless felt everywhere in Ferguson, Missouri, where protests followed the shooting of Michael Brown, who was eighteen years old, by a police officer. One can’t make sense of how Brown’s community perceived those events without first understanding the way that neglected history has survived among black people—a traumatic memory handed down, a Jim Crow inheritance.

It took sixteen days for Brown’s body to be buried, an extended postscript that included three separate autopsies, the emergence of duelling interpretations of his last moments, and the resolution of precisely nothing about how race, media, and policing operate in the United States. A year ago, people gathered in anticipation of a verdict in the trial of George Zimmerman, the man who killed Trayvon Martin. During that case, images of people wearing hoodies, as Martin had when he was shot, proliferated on social media. This month, it has been portraits of people with their hands raised, in recognition of a number of witness accounts that Brown tried to surrender before being shot by police officer Darren Wilson. (Wilson, according to press reports, has told people that Brown was running at him.) The idea, in both instances, is that, like Wright’s narrator, any of us could be Martin, Brown, or one of the hundreds of others who have died under questionable circumstances. There is a disturbing sense that this is how we spend our summers now, submerged in outrage, demonstrating, yet again, the hard parameters of public sympathy and the damnable, tiresome burden of racism.

In the days after 9/11, it was common to hear people say that it was the first time Americans had really experienced terrorism on their own soil. Those sentiments were historically wrong, and willfully put aside acts that were organized on a large scale, had a political goal, and were committed with the specific intention of being nightmarishly memorable. The death cult that was lynching furnished this country with such spectacles for a half century. (The tallies vary, but, by some estimates, there were thirty-three hundred lynchings in the decades between the end of Reconstruction and the civil-rights era.) We know intuitively, not abstractly, about terrorism’s theatrical intent. The sight of Michael Brown, sprawled on Canfield Drive for four hours in the August sun, dead at the hands of an officer who was unnamed for a week, recalled that memory. It had the effect of reminding that crowd of spontaneous mourners of their own refuted humanity. A single death can be understood as a collective threat. The media didn’t whip up these concerns among the black population; history did that.

For fifteen days this month, people marched in heat and thunderstorms, amid tear gas, despite the warnings of police styled as a militia, undeterred by the tear gas or the obstinacy of the local bureaucracy. They persisted despite the taint that opportunistic violence and looting imposed upon their efforts.

Linda Chavez wondered on Fox News whether “the ‘unarmed teen’ mantra” really fit Brown, who was six feet four and nearly three hundred pounds and had been caught on video shoplifting—and, it perhaps bears repeating, was a teen, and was unarmed. Chavez was roundly criticized, but she was really only guilty of saying aloud what many others have thought. Whatever happened or did not happen between Michael Brown and Darren Wilson on a winding side street, in the middle of the afternoon, in a non-descript outpost on the edge of a midsized city, whatever we imagine we know of the teen-ager, the salient fact is that he did not live long enough to cultivate his own answers.

I spent eight days in Ferguson, and in that time I developed a kind of between-the-world-and-Ferguson view of the events surrounding Brown’s death. I was once a linebacker-sized eighteen-year-old, too. What I knew then, what black people have been required to know, is that there are few things more dangerous than the perception that one is a danger. I’m embarrassed to recall that my adolescent love of words doubled as a strategy to assuage those fears; it was both a pitiable desire for acceptance and a practical necessity for survival.  I know, to this day, the element of inadvertent intimidation that colors the most innocuous interactions, particularly with white people. There are protocols for this. I sometimes let slip that I’m a professor or that I’m scarcely even familiar with the rules of football, minor biographical facts that stand in for a broader, unspoken statement of reassurance: there is no danger here. And the result is civil small talk and feeble smiles and a sense of having compromised. Other times, in an elevator or crossing a darkened parking lot, when I am six feet away but the world remains between us, I remain silent and simply let whatever miasma of stereotype or fear might be there fill the void.

Fuck you, I think. If I don’t get to feel safe here, why should you?

Jelani Cobb is Associate Professor of History and Director of the Institute of African American Studies at the University of Connecticut, and the author of To the Break of Dawn: A Freestyle on the Hip Hop Aesthetic (NYU Press, 2007). Read more of Cobb’s writing via The New Yorker here.

“Sounds familiar”: The revolution in #Ferguson

—Shana L. Redmond

My first efforts to see the real time, on-the-ground happenings in Ferguson was on that day, the same day that alternative media streams temporarily went black. I visited Activist World News Now online for the live stream of Ferguson but I did not get a visual of that embattled community’s resolve; instead I heard it. From beyond the black screen I heard a voice leading a chant:Seven days after the murder of Black youth Michael Brown by police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri, state governor Jay Nixon instituted a citywide curfew between the hours of midnight and 5am. This effort to tame and remove from view those who continue to protest and rebel against the injustices suffered there and around the country was a part of a larger blackout designed to conceal the escalation of the militarized police state in Ferguson. This strategy on the part of the city’s police department included disabling streetlights and attacking and arresting journalists covering the story.

Solo voice: “Won’t be no police brutality…”

All: “…when the revolution come.”

Solo voice: “Won’t be mass incarceration…”

All: “…when the revolution come.”

This performance, in the step-worn and gas canister-ridden streets of Ferguson, was the sound of protest and all the evidence I needed to document this war zone. The sound showed me that police antagonized protestors. The sound showed me that there were critical and politically diverse numbers of people there, demanding change. The sound showed me that neither voices nor spirits were broken in that city under siege. And the sound showed me that the peoples’ determination to imagine and claim different futures, free from police brutality and mass incarceration (amongst other violences), is alive even when haunted and pursued by death.

Unfortunately, the sounds emanating from Ferguson also showed me that times haven’t changed as much as some insist they have—at least not for African descended people in the U.S. The demands by protestors for alternatives to the frightening present are not new. Marcus Garvey, the inimitable leader of the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA), argued a century ago for these futures that we still march for today. This truth is particularly devastating when one considers that one of his most famous speeches on Black violability was compelled by events that occurred 15 miles southeast of Ferguson.

In 1917, Garvey delivered a speech entitled “The Conspiracy of the East St. Louis Riots.” The bloody events of that massacre, which ensued just over the state line in western Illinois, began with a white mob who attacked the Black working class section of the city over perceived competition for employment. Their murderous nativism was so explosive that the Illinois National Guard was deployed. Garvey’s speech on the incident followed a large silent protest staged by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP) in New York City. Far from condoning this approach, Garvey argued that it was “no time for fine words, but a time to lift one’s voice against the savagery of a people who claim to be the dispensers of democracy.” He continued,

For three hundred years the Negroes of America have given their life blood to make the Republic the first among the nations of the world, and all along this time there has never been even one year of justice but on the contrary a continuous round of oppression. At one time it was slavery, at another time lynching and burning, and up to date it is wholesale butchering. This is a crime against the laws of humanity; it is a crime against the laws of the nation, it is a crime against Nature, and a crime against the God of all mankind.

The litany of brutalities described here provide a genealogy of state-sanctioned violence that continues to its logical end in contemporary Ferguson, New York City, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, Atlanta, and countless other locations across the country. As in 1917, the National Guard has again been called to greater St. Louis. Black communities continue to be the laboratories for warfare, testing the efficacy of technology (Ferguson police have employed tanks, snipers, tear gas, and rubber bullets, to name but a few weapons) and enemy narratives that turn murder victims into easily disposable criminals. This is the status of our democracy.

I do not know what special meaning the people who slaughtered the Negroes of East. St. Louis have for democracy of which they are the custodians, but I do know that it has no literal meaning for me as used and applied by these same lawless people. America, that has been ringing the bells of the world, proclaiming to the nations and the peoples thereof that she has democracy to give to all … has herself no satisfaction to give 12,000,000 of her own citizens except the satisfaction of a farcical inquiry that will end where it begun, over the brutal murder of men, women and children for no other reason than that they are black people seeking an industrial chance in a country that they have labored for three hundred years to make great.[1] 


Shana L. Redmond
 is Associate Professor of American Studies and Ethnicity at the University of Southern California. She is a former musician and labor organizer. Her book, Anthem: Social Movements and the Sound of Solidarity in the African Diaspora, is available now from NYU Press. Follow her on Twitter: @ShanaRedmond.


[1] Marcus Garvey, “The Conspiracy of the East St. Louis Riots” (1917), reprinted on the “American Experience” website, Public Broadcasting Service (PBS), http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/amex/garvey/filmmore/ps_riots.html (accessed August 17, 2014).

Book giveaway: Books That Cook

To celebrate the final days of summer, we are giving away two free copies of Books That Cook: The Making of a Literary Meal, the newest title in our Fall 2014 catalog. 

Many of us at NYU Press have been waiting to get our hands on this delightful cookbook anthology since it made an appearance on the ‘forthcoming’ list a year ago—and it’s finally here!

Organized like a cookbook, Books That Cook is a collection of American literature written on the theme of food: from an invocation to a final toast, from starters to desserts.

Including writing from Maya Angelou, Sherman Alexie, and Nora Ephron, among many others, the collection reveals the range of ways authors incorporate recipes—whether the recipe flavors the story or the story serves to add spice to the recipe.

To enter our book giveaway, simply fill out the form below with your name and preferred mailing address. We will randomly select our winners on Sunday, September 21st, 2014 at 1:00 pm EST.

Plus, stay tuned to the blog—we’ll be offering a free chapter (recipe included!) from the book next month.

Q&A with Heather Laine Talley, author of Saving Face

Heather Laine Talley is Assistant Professor of Sociology at Western Carolina University. Her new book, Saving Face: Disfigurement and the Politics of Appearance, examines the cultural meaning of interventions aimed at repairing faces defined as disfigured. In the interview below, Talley discusses her research on appearance, disfigurement, and the role of the human face in society. More about her writing and work can be found at heatherlainetalley.com.

What sparked your interest in facial disfigurement and reconstructive surgery?

Heather Laine Talley: In 2004, I began a project that was focused on exploring the bioethics of face transplantation (FT), a technology in the making. No transplant had yet been completed, but the surgical and immunological groundwork for FT was largely established. Face transplantation ignited hugely divergent reactions from surgeons, bioethicists, cultural critics, and the public at large. Some saw FT as miraculous, while others perceived FT as a gruesome and unethical procedure. (It’s important to note that in the time since FT has actual been practiced, some critics have radically shifted their position.)

The ways that reconstructive surgery was framed in these debates as both life enhancing and lifesaving fascinated me. Clearly though, this is a different kind of lifesaving procedure than in the way a heart transplant is lifesaving. As I started researching surgery on the face more broadly, I heard surgeons talk about a wide range of surgeries in similar terms.

It’s not new to point out that we are enmeshed in beauty culture or that the consumption of cosmetic intervention is on the rise. But the ways appearance is increasingly thought about in terms of life and death is striking and worthy of investigation.

In many ways, my work is driven by a classic sociological question—how do statuses like race, gender, class, sexual identity, disability, and citizenship status impact our life chances? I thought there was more to say about appearance. Rather than unpacking beauty, I became fascinated by the other end of the appearance spectrum: specifically, the way appearance functions either as a vector of privilege or a basis of social death.

From rhinoplasty and face lifts to Botox injections, cosmetic facial procedures continue to grow in the U.S. Why do you think that is—does cosmetic surgery help raise self-esteem? 

In a culture that overvalues appearance, it’s no wonder that our self worth is shaped by what we look like. It’s critical that we begin to think about how frequently appearance is used to attribute value over and above any other dimension of a person. In other words, appearance is often valued more than personality or experience. This is glaringly clear in schools and even workplaces. Psychological research shows that we attribute all sorts of positive qualities to beautiful people, so it isn’t surprising that cosmetic surgery is on the rise.

But what’s interesting is that there is also research that demonstrates that in cases of trauma, the severity of facial injury does not predict individual adjustment, self image, or quality of life. What this suggests is something that many of us know intuitively—we can change or improve elements of our appearance without experiencing a change in our overall happiness.

It’s not safe to assume that cosmetic surgery actually improves self-esteem, so I think we should question what the real and durable effects of cosmetic surgery are. It is true that our attractiveness does impact factors of our lives like salary that can shape our overall wellbeing, and so cosmetic surgery can generate powerful effects, especially in social interactions.

Ultimately, the research on facial difference hints at something that is powerful for us to consider too. What we look like is a very fragile element of who we are, and the quality of our life is not exclusive determined by what we look like, but rather by the quality of our relationships and our investment in resilience.

What can be done to reduce stigma associated with facial disfigurement?

The organization Changing Faces does amazing work to combat lookism or discrimination on the basis of facial appearance. Their Face Equality campaigns highlight the stereotypes associated with facial difference and the assumptions people make when encountering appearance disabilities. Some argue that our reaction to beauty, and by proxy ugliness, is an evolutionary (and thereby “natural”) response. Perhaps.

But what decades of social justice work tell us is that we are capable of transforming our implicit assumptions. Changing Faces offers incredible resources, including a Face Equality survey that provides users with some feedback about their appearance based biases and guides for teaching children about appearance disabilities.

While Saving Face offers a theoretical analysis of facial surgery, I am very invested in the practical implications of this work. For this reason, I include [in the book] a list of eleven concrete strategies that those invested in appearance justice might employ in order to challenge stigma in everyday life and the systematic dimensions of lookism, too.

What has your volunteer work at a burn camp for children and adolescents taught you?

Burn camp has taught me that things could be otherwise. Currently, stigma is intensified in the very spaces designed to treat a condition. For example, in the process of diagnosing a condition and outlining treatment options, stigmatizing language is regularly employed. This isn’t only true in the case of reconstructive facial surgery, but of many, many biomedical interventions, from gender affirming surgeries to labor to Cesarean birth. Oftentimes, stigma drives consumption, so there is a financial incentive at stake in healthcare for-profit contexts like the United States.

But facial surgeons may have something to learn from the kids I spent time with. What I saw over and over again was the capacity to acknowledge an injury, to hold space for grief or pain, and to avoid conflating being burned with being a victim. It’s not that some of the children I met haven’t been victimized. Some injuries are the direct result of violence. Others have been victimized by a health care system that provides disparate services by socio-economic status.

In medical sites, the story is regularly told that life is not possible with a facial injury. At burn camp, there is no conversation that remotely suggests that life is not possible with a facial injury. And it’s important to note that the kids are living, breathing reminders to the contrary. Burn camp reminds me that our ways of seeing injury, disability, and trauma matter. The ways we talk shape how we act. And how we respond can either limit possibilities or expand the likelihood of recovery or human flourishing.

R.J. Palacio’s debut children’s novel, Wonder has sparked attention on school bullying associated with facial deformity. What advice can you give parents and educators in changing attitudes on facial disfigurement? 

Wonder is truly exceptional, particularly because August the main character who is facially atypical speaks for himself. Representations of disability, and facial difference in particular, permeate popular culture, but an appearance disability often functions in the service of a plot. At the same time, stereotypes about atypical appearances abound. A scar is regularly used to signal that a character is evil. A congenital anomaly is used to mark learning difficulty. Wonder stands in sharp contrast to both of these patterns.

Kids often take their cues from adults about how to respond to new information. Children’s perceptions are incredibly malleable, which suggests that as adults, we must do some real self-reflection about our own reactions and biases, to consider the subtle (and overt) ways we play a role in dehumanizing others who are different from ourselves.   

What do you hope readers will learn from Saving Face

Saving Face presents some interesting case studies about contemporary aesthetic surgery and about the redefinition of some interventions as “lifesaving.” But more than anything, I’d like readers to think about the taken for granted ways differences—from appearance to family configuration—are informally talked about and how these everyday ways of thinking about difference translate into systematic devaluation.