Re-Humanized: Embracing Less Perfection & More Mystery
by Sarah Stoner
Small Inconveniences
Anthony Bourdain once said
if you’re too lazy to peel garlic,
you don’t deserve to eat it,
which I take to mean:
In a pre-minced world,
where everyone searches
for meaning in mediocrity,
where we’re too quick to dismiss
the quiet scrape of a knife,
the hiss of cloves in hot butter,
a sliver of time
golden at the ends,
please bother with an existence
that is slow-simmered,
sticky-fingered,
full of the big flavors
and small inconveniences
that make up a life
– Elise M. Powers
I’m an old-school traveler.
Yes, I’ve been a traveler for a long time. I’m older. But it’s more than that.I remember the days when traveling meant Goodbye. You got in your car, you boarded the plane. You waved. Then you stepped out of sight. Completely. Phone calls home were rare, if they happened at all. International calls meant some kind of emergency: cash supply, medical crisis.
Family and few close friends may generally know your whereabouts, based on the paper itinerary you shared. You held a paper map to navigate. No sharing photos of your sunset view, as the sun slides behind the Andaman Sea. No quick text message, “Got here! All is good.” No checking work email. No saying hi to your dogs on your living room couch over the pet-cam speaker.
Gone. Goodbye, and huge hello to whatever moment you were in. Challenging or wonderful, or rollercoaster of both—you were in it. 100%. This, of course, is good and bad—the cutoff, or lack thereof. The connection and communication we have across the world is incredible. Access to all the information in the world we could ever want.
For Mother’s Day this year, my 20-year-old son gave me a book. Filled with questions to answer, in short form, in my own handwriting, the palm-sized book is an invitation to share stories. Imagine if your grandmother had been able to tuck away a similar book for you. He starred the questions he particularly wanted to know.
“What music did you grow up listening to? What was your old neighborhood like? What was your favorite holiday as a child, and how did your family celebrate it?”
The questions are straightforward and simple. Some require deep delicious consideration.
“Mom, what are some ways—good or bad—the world has changed since you were a kid?”
So many ways. As I’ve pondered this question, all ways point to one change: access.
The music playlists at the touch of a button: Andalusian guitar, Arabic oud, every live show in Western Europe of your favorite 80s band. The podcasts about amazing people, known and unknown. Your 150 high school classmates from way back, now: glimpsing their lives, families, work. The reels, and reels, and reels of humans sharing moments: inspiring, educational, mind-numbing, hilarious, gorgeous, mundane, cruel, kind. We can access it all. All the time.
Access to each other’s lives and stories, no matter who—friends, family, or the famous—happens through carefully curated content. No one posts the outtakes. You don’t see the unflattering angle, or smell the diesel of the boat at sunset. Every corner of the world is exposed, only through the algorithm of most liked, most viewed, most perfect time and lighting of that view. Every restaurant I want to visit, I can preview photos of the food, the menu, the ratings. No surprises. So much information!
Oh, the noise, noise, noise! I don’t always want to know. We can’t access the mystery with all of our questions answered. There’s no room for mess, for mistakes, for outtakes. Failure, imperfection, lack of immediacy.
The unknown, the homegrown, the un-previewed that might disappoint. When do we doodle and daydream nowadays? When do we turn down an unknown road?
No risks. No failures, when what’s on offer is pre-screened, pre-approved, previewed—over-digested like the meals already eaten, catalogued, memorialized by a stranger who’s been there before me, so I can decide if it’s worth my precious teeny time and my wee little wallet. The ratings and menu previews can be terribly useful, I agree.
Our family still laughs about a meal we shared pre-aughts, decades before the internet: only word-of-mouth reputation of a fancy international chain of restaurants—now open in Bangkok! We excitedly ordered pizza. Wait, were those little olives on top?
Hm, not olives. Capers?
Bites of discovery. Raisins. There are raisins on our pizza! We nearly died with disbelief, confusion, and hilarity. Different countries, different rules for pizza toppings. Why not a world that doesn’t constantly cater to my culture, my preferences, my personal algorithm?
From where I sit today, the world wide web offers me an all-access-pass: aerial maps, street views, travel videos, products. No borders. Heck, I ordered our favorite childhood gum for my brother’s Christmas stocking one year, the intense minty licorice Stimorol we loved in Belgium. It was a delight, but I won’t do it again. Part of the joy of Stimorol is that it’s chewed in Belgium.
I’m old-school, I know.
Sometimes, I want mystery and mistakes and messy. Why not travel without a map, ask for directions—or just walk down that road. I miss the analog. The clock face. The handspun versus pre-made. The visceral versus the pre-set, pre-minced algorithms. The custom cassette tape playlist made for me by a friend, the clunk of the recording button between each song. Waiting for the neighbor to come home who knows about cars versus picking up the screen to wade through how-to videos with ads. This requires a relationship. Like borrowing a missing ingredient mid-recipe from across the fence builds community. Dashing into the Co-op, even in a hurry, delivers human interaction—versus an online grocery service, extremely handy when my mother was fighting cancer and living alone.
And still. The cut-off that comes with convenience. I work from home more this year. It’s wonderful and awful. The days can leave me feeling remote from humanity, untethered even from myself. All day, de-centered from people. So—I’ve set a reminder on my phone, to invite me out of isolation—ironic, I know: an after-work reminder to amble and dawdle instead of do and accomplish. Time at the Co-op, or the library, or in the neighborhood. Be among humans. Stop for ice cream, a snack outdoors, an interaction with someone I know, or someone I don’t know. My fellow handmade humans. Our screens give us so much: borderless connection opportunity learning.
And in this access, we lose touch. With so many answers, we lose mystery. The wobbly-edged unexpected. The soulful. The unseen. A little grit in the perfection. A few raisins on your pizza.
Skagit writer and eater Sarah Stoner is both tech-able and a luddite. sarahjstoner@hotmail.com
These recipes invite you to show your hand prints, both in making and mood: feeling extra jammy today? Super crispy? I did not choose the names of these recipes on purpose, or with any intent of irony. They came titled “Perfect” and “The Best.” They truly are dang good.
The Best Pizza Dough
I’ve bought my share of pre-made crusts. Once my kids discovered this recipe, yes, named “the best pizza dough recipe” by Sam Merritt, the convenience of a store-bought crust went out the window. A little kneading, and just 30 minutes to rise. Ease? Cost? Flavor? Yes, yes, yes. Your pie in whatever size and shape you like? Priceless. Makes one 10-12” pizza. Double or quadruple as needed.
Ingredients
2-2 ⅓ cups all-purpose flour OR bread flour, divided (all-purpose tends to yield a softer crust while bread flour gives a slightly crispier exterior)
2 ¼ tsp instant yeast (1 packet)
1 ½ tsp sugar
¾ tsp salt
⅛–¼ tsp garlic powder & dried basil (optional)
2 Tbsp olive oil, + additional
¾ cup warm water (I use tap water between 105-115°F)
Directions
Combine 1 cup of flour, instant yeast, sugar, and salt in a large bowl along with the optional garlic powder and dried basil. Add olive oil and warm water; stir well with a wooden spoon.
Gradually add another 1 cup of flour (and any more flour as needed—sometimes as much as ⅓ cup), stirring until the dough forms into a cohesive, elastic ball and is beginning to pull away from the sides of the bowl. Dough will still be slightly sticky but still manageable with your hands.
Coat a large, clean bowl with olive oil. Lightly dust your hands with flour, form your pizza dough into a round ball, and transfer to an olive oil-brushed bowl. Roll the pizza dough along the inside of the bowl with your hands until it is coated in olive oil, then cover the bowl with cloth or wrap and place it in a warm place (we place ours on the preheating oven!). Allow dough to rise for 30 minutes or until doubled in size.
Once dough has risen, use your hands to gently deflate it and transfer to a lightly floured surface. Knead briefly until smooth (about 3-5 times). Use either your hands or a rolling pin to work the dough into a 12” circle.
Transfer dough to a parchment paper lined pizza pan and either pinch the edges or fold dough over to form a crust. Drizzle about a tablespoon of olive oil over the top of the pizza and brush the entire surface (including the crust) with olive oil. Use a fork to poke holes all over the center of the pizza to keep the dough from bubbling up in the oven. Add your toppings and bake in a 425°F preheated oven for 13-15 minutes or until toppings are golden brown. Slice and serve!
Perfect Thumbprint Cookies
Buttery, melt-in-your-mouth shortbread cookies are of Nordic origin. Hallongrotta in Swedish, meaning raspberry cave, the English name comes from the handprint process for these little treats. They can be filled with fruit jam, chocolate, caramel, or lemon curd. Makes 20 cookies.
Ingredients
⅓ cup unsifted powdered sugar
1 stick unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 large egg yolk
1 tsp vanilla extract
¼ tsp fine salt
⅛ tsp almond extract
1¼ cups all-purpose flour
⅓ cup white sugar, or as needed
½ cup fruit jam, or alternate filling, as preferred
Directions
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Mix powdered sugar and butter together in a large bowl with a rubber spatula until creamy. Add egg yolk, vanilla, salt, and almond extract; mix well. Blend in flour until just combined.
Use a small scoop to portion dough into ½-ounce (about 1 Tbsp) balls. Roll each ball in a plate of white sugar to coat; roll again between your palms. Place several inches apart on the prepared baking sheet. Flatten balls lightly with your fingers.
For rounder cookies with less jam, poke a well into each ball using a finger or the end of a thick wooden spoon dusted with powdered sugar. For flatter, jammier cookies: press thumb into each ball to make a large, shallow indentation. Spoon jam into wells. Tap the baking sheet against the counter to let jam settle.
Bake until light golden brown, about 15 minutes. Let cookies rest on the baking sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely. Dust with powdered sugar.