Recently I’ve seen an uptick in the censorship of women, particularly in art forms such as photography, and I’m utterly at a loss for words. In my opinion, this is an attack on the core elements of what it means to be human. From the current administration to social media platforms I witness not only a vilification of sexuality, but the rejection of the natural form (which is completely devoid of explicit subject matter). What disturbs me most is the painfully obvious distinction made between the male and the female form – for example the outright assault on the female nipple and the removal of the hashtag women on Instagram.
What does the future hold with this steady regression; in a new Victorian age, what consequence remains as we bleach inborn qualities of humankind? Historically when society shoved normal impulses underground, judgment, repression, and shame arose as a bi-product. I as a photographer am baffled when censors mar great works of art, when it is art and expression that connect us emotively as a race. What dystopian world materializes when we are denied the raw beauty of the artist’s mind?
Every day, we make thousands of crucial decisions in a matter of seconds. What loaf of bread looks the most healthy? Which neighborhood seems safest? We make choices based on past experiences and assumptions; interviewers do too.
Ask anyone you know what process they use to make a big decision. I can almost guarantee that they’ll tell you they make a list, and then throw it out to go with their gut. Why do people do this? Why would they spend hours researching and rationalizing, then go on a whim?
The simple answer is that it’s programmed into our DNA. You might have heard of the “lizard brain” or the amygdala, the prehistoric part of your brain in charge of emotions like “fear and rage and reproductive drive (2).” When faced with an unknown, it tells us whether to stick it out and fight or run like hell. It’s a safety mechanism designed to keep you alive and unfortunately it goes off when faced with less life-threatening dangers like risking a secure 9-5 to live your dream (DO IT!).
For thousands of years, human beings (and animals) have been making split-second decisions on what they see and it’d be foolish not to at least acknowledge that this antiquated system still plays a major role in decision-making today. I’m not saying that we are a bunch of irrational nitwits who never use their brains to make choices. I’m saying (and Dr. Robert Cialdini agrees) that we are inherently lazy and in this fast-paced world that’s accelerating faster and faster every day, gut feelings are getting more and more regular use. “Where we are rushed, stressed, uncertain, indifferent, distracted, or fatigued, we tend to focus on less of the information available to us. When making decisions under these circumstances, we often revert to the rather primitive but necessary single-piece-of-good-evidence approach (3).”
I Want It Because I Want It
Hiring managers will tell you that they have a “picture” of their ideal candidate in mind. This mental image consists not just of work experience and skill set- those qualities are a given- but also quirks, likes/dislikes, and an unconscious bias based on what such a person should look like (e.g. IT dudes know their way around a hoodie and an ironic tee).
Yes, hiring managers make logical checklists for what they’re looking for; but when the candidates walk in the door, instincts set in, and reasoning walks out. The pulse races (on both sides of the table). Rational thought loses its footing on emotional stimuli. The ticking clock invokes beads of sweat like a first-time buyer cornered by a seasoned car salesman.
Off balance, the hiring manager is likely to base her decisions on what she knows. “Contrary to the rules of philosophers of science… people (and scientists, quite often) seek data that are likely to be compatible with the beliefs they currently hold (4).” The hiring manager has only visual cues to go off of, along with your responses to a list of canned company questions and your well-worked resume. My point is: if you didn’t fit the picture walking in, then you better be one hell of a talker.
When faced with incalculable unknowns and one or two surface level interviews to go off of (can you really trust someone you’ve known for a couple hours?), chances are the gut will win out. There will always be exceptions to the rule (this is the error-ridden real world of course, not Utopia ), but if you’re making a wager, you’d be a fool not to trust your gut and bet on human nature.
Zaltman, Gerald. How Customers Think. Boston Harvard Business School Press, 2003
Godin, Seth. Quieting the Lizard Brain. Blog
Cialdini, Robert. Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion. William Morrow & Company. 2009
Kahneman, Daniel.Thinking, Fast and Slow. Collins, 2011
The Party gods own Spring Break on the West Coast; they demand a celebration of life in the form of bright colors, loud music and living it up. Naturally, when my friend Lee mentioned wanting to head up for her Spring Break vacation, I enthusiastically accepted. She flew up from the Southwest in the late morning and like any good out-of-towner she stepped off the plane hungry.
Lee had been here before but this time round we decided to stretch outside of our comfort zone and try places even I hadn’t been to. Cuban kept creeping into my mind, perhaps because the sun teased that day and reminded me of warmer times. We Google mapped around us and found a place called Pambiche nearby.
As we made our way up the street, a driving bass line pumped through the vibrantly painted exterior walls. “Yep, this is going to be good,” I predicted to my friend. The quaint restaurant makes sardine cans feel roomy. Crammed within its small walls are more tables than it should have; to further add to the frenetic atmosphere, lively paintings, wooden carvings, and musical instruments hang in the air as one-minded waiters bustle to and from the bar like bumbling bees.
I don’t say this as a critique. The setting seems natural or serendipitous and adds to the experience; its guests gather on this little island, sat close to strangers who become neighbors. You can’t avoid overhearing intimate conversations and smiling, sipping on mojitos and enjoying the feeling of “getting away” for the lunch hour.
Ropa vieja is arguably the most notable Cuban dish and my mouth watered for it, but in the spirit of new experiences, I ordered the Arroz con Pollo. For eight dollars I had enough for two gigantic meals. A big sprig of parsley sat atop Creole-style chicken sprinkled with paprika, saffron, and olives. Valencia saffron rice mingled with a healthy portion of fresh peas, cabbage and cilantro. There’s nothing quite like the flavor of saffron and the first bite confirmed that perfectly cooked rice consistency a Southern girl like me demands of jambalaya.
I was in my happy food place; where music, food and good company all intermingle to create the perfect dish.
Surviving a Portland winter requires a transformation of body and mind from mere mortal to Pacific Northwest god. The beards donned by natives [now often seen in metropolitan areas abroad] surfaced here not as a fashion statement but as a survival tactic. Until you have felt the assaulting left hand of rain and right hand of wind tackle your face in a fatal one-two blow, you won’t understand what it takes to be initiated by the Rose City.
A winter morning arrives not by approach of dawn’s light but by the creeping, never-ending darkness of eternal night. There will be no natural indicator of time now, no; only measured moments between downpours of baptizing rain and the empty promise of a forgotten sun’s rays teasing behind a cluster of clouds.
Until late spring you must lie to yourself daily that there will be flowers blossoming one day; that your socks won’t soak through within seconds of stepping outside. You’ll need to stoke a fire in your belly with the hope that comes with warm nourishment and Scandinavian food is sure to do the trick.
Often the smallest factors bear the largest impact, a constant reminder to never judge a book by its cover. Cafe Broder is such a place, unimposing in size and almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for the queue that forms outside on the regular. The generated warmth of body heat and lively banter welcome you into the quaint oblong cafe. Vintage baubles, stainless steel cabinets and a slack-jawed bass mounted on the wall muddle Danish
modern with rustic industrial.
Perched at the bar, I couldn’t help but notice muscles (bulging under a stranglehold a of faded black fabric) sling what looked like a muffin tray of gooey batter into the oven. The muscles belonged to the head cook who expertly manned multiple orders destined for either the frying pan or the oven;
I ordered the daily lefse special, consisting of potato pancakes with ham, farmer’s cheese and lingonberry jam topped with two eggs and greens. I tried not to notice when I saw “Muscles” pour half & half into the mini square skillet that held the eggs. I needed sustenance to guide me through the assault of rain pellets that waited for me beyond the cafe doors.
The first bite launched an ephemeral twitch of my taste buds, a gentle nod of agreement in response to the artfully combined sweetness of ham and lingonberry with the savory bite of cheese and pancake. I could feel my belly warming with each slice and swallow and I almost missed the sound of wind scraping natural elements against the window outside.
As I took my last bite, I let the flavors linger in my mouth and prepared for the journey home. I layered my waterproof jacket on top of my sweatshirt and folded my scarf under as I zipped up. I was unaware of the assortment of weather that would soon greet me, but for the first time since the sun last shone I was smiling.
My first memories center around my hometown of New Orleans; yet I wouldn’t say I love all Cajun cuisine. Grits hold a special place in my heart – every gooey mouthful transports me back to breakfast at my best friend’s house. I can remember the Summer sun bobbing in the thick air and the steaming gold blob of butter running down the white mountain of food.
Crawfish were always a little bit too much effort for the pay-off, but I wouldn’t turn down a mouthful held out between my mama’s fingers, pecking at it like a baby bird and opening my trap back up for another round. Oysters were a slimy delicacy that I only dare attempt once I’d moved across the state line into Houston and came back for a routine visit to Kenner Seafood. I wouldn’t say oysters were my best friends; more acquaintances that could be called upon to impress a new friend in casual conversation.
I did love a good serving of jambalaya, even if it was a box (gasp!) of Zatarain’s. However, I never expected I’d be overtaken by an irrational need for jambalaya when I moved to Portland this year. I made it nearly 11 months without a thought of Southern cooking; then Mardi Gras rolled around and suddenly I could not shake the daydreams of cinnamon-loaded bites of Manny Randazzo’s King Cake, with the white frosting and sprinkles gushing out the corners of my mouth (Important note: not the stock cakes smattered with overly sugared dye you find at the grocery store).
Thankfully, I had a work trip to Bend and was absolutely delighted to see “Vegan jambalaya” on the daily special at Broken Top Bottle Shop. This place boasts food “for everyone,” and I agree; from the vegan/vegetarian plates to even a doggy rice bowl, you’re sure to find something to fit your dietary needs.
The Vegan jambalaya came out beautifully plated, with dashes of Cajun seasoning on the rim and a fresh splash of arugula and mixed greens. The topping added a healthy portion of veggies you probably wouldn’t find in an authentic New Orleans restaurant, but it married the traditionally Southern dish with the health-conscious Pacific Northwestern palate.
I would recommend a visit to Broken Top Bottle Shop and plan on returning there next time I’m in town. I usually don’t get dessert, but their vegan ice cream sandwich featured local dessert shop Bonta‘s coconut gelato and it would fool any vegan-cuisine scoffer (my dairy-loving co-worker approved).
Foodie beware: one must prepare mentally and physically for a visit to the world’s capital city. I never tire of being a repeat visitor of London and with family there I make sure to frequent its cobbled streets whenever watch [and wallet] permit. Don’t believe the gossip- London offers whatever sweet, savory or salty food your palette could dream up and if you’re hoping for guidance, you’ve come to the right place.
Don’t sweat the calories- I averaged a walk of about 10 miles daily and imagine you will do the same quite easily. It’s a city that begs exploration by foot but also hosts a quite navigable transportation system. I recommend strolling and letting the wanderlust guide you to your own food destinations. This is how I’ve found my favorite spots.
If you wander the area surrounding Southward Bridge you might eventually turn your gaze upward and be drawn towards the ancient dome of St. Paul’s. You might smell the sweet-laced yeast of French crêpes rising from a 5×5 striped tent and lose control of your salivary glands like I did.
The quaint pop-up coupled with the charming hand-written a-frame menu highlights the authenticity and the French natives pouring the batter as you watch completes the mood. Choices range from sweet to salty, but the La Goaty’s onion chutney offered a slightly unusual add-on that reeled me in.
After cooking the meal, the vendor folds the crêpe into a paper plate and thirds it neatly into a portable cone that makes it the perfect food for grab & go fare. As usual, I couldn’t wait to sit down to try a bite. The flesh of the pancake was pleasantly crisp with the sweetness of real butter used to lubricate the simplistic griddle. The meal married the tangy twinge of goat’s cheese with a faintly bitter but undeniably sweet onion chutney and the spinach soaked in both flavors perfectly.
I took my meal to the stone seating area steps from St. Paul’s and watched as the pigeons stayed near hoping for a fallen morsel.