The first strawberries of the season

I spent last weekend surrounded by rain-soaked vineyards in Napa, warmed by meals prepared in the localvore tradition that us Californians love. That is to say, simple, rustic, and dictated by market-fresh produce, paired with wines that left a lasting impression on both my tongue and psyche.

This all sounds silly if you view food in unromantic terms. Certainly food is fuel; I’m of the strong belief that what we put into our bodies is wildly important, as is knowing its provenance—the who, what, where, and how of its growth and delivery. Food also happens to be one of the few things which assaults multiple senses at once. I recall pink, falling-off-the-bone pieces of porky flesh nestled against a whipped cloud of potatoes at one meal; the deep, deep burgundy of an as-of-yet unlabeled wine spoke to its peppery richness before I took the first sip at Friday supper; caramelized baby root vegetables added bursts of orange and purple to my pasta dish at Bottega. Food stimulates; it beckons; it conjures meaningful memories; it taps into our hedonistic tendencies. For many women (and men, for that matter), myself included, food is/has been a source of great fear and anxiety at times. I know all too well what it is like to suffer an embattled relationship with food, a dynamic that persists but that I fight at every turn to overcome.

Dining among fellow “foodies” these anxieties fell away, replaced by slow and savory meals and conversations spoken in high-pitched Napa-ese. We discussed the merits of using Anjou versus Bartlett pears for fruit tarts, raved about the punch of a long-simmering duck ragu drizzled over pan-fried gnocchi, and drank to a comfortable buzz, not wretched intoxication.

I write about my Napa experience in light of two articles I recently read, one an essay written by model-turned-cookbook author Sophie Dahl in Vogue, the other a brief overview of Tamasin Day-Lewis’ Supper for a Song in ELLE. Dahl, once fetishized for being the “curvy girl” during her modeling days, much like Lara Stone (at a shocking size 4-6) is today, writes about being a fleshy deviant on and off the runway, and how an illness later robbed her of pounds but earned her the envy of women “tight-lipped in the face of a chocolate brownie.” Her new cookbook, Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights, is a celebration of seasonal ingredients and the communion of feasting. Her essay was a profound personal reminder that, yes, food is fuel, but it is also a life source in the esoteric, spiritual sense.

The article about Day-Lewis (sister of Daniel, but a celebrity in her own right) spoke about her no-nonsense philosophy to cooking and eating: use quality, ethically-sourced ingredients and preparing delicious meals need not be cumbersome. Her Spanish Chicken with Saffron and Almond Sauce, pictured simmering in a gorgeous yellow stew, is a recipe I vow to try soon.

Is it a coincidence that these women, who, along with fridge-picking Nigella Lawson comprise a trinity of respected female food personalities, are British? In America we herald Giada De Laurentiis (who I spotted at Lou on Vine last week, apparently enjoying the pork candy) and—gulp—Rachael Ray as our culinary mavens. While I adore Giada, there is something unique about the sophistication, sexiness, and vivaciousness with which these British women celebrate food. Here in the U.S., we do it quick and so often get it wrong. Semi-Homemade my ass.

Yet, I understand the sad reality that eating the Alice Waters way is a financial impossibility for many families, not to mention a matter of access. This is why food politics matters: health is a human right, and food is a core component of this complicated issue.

As I explore what it means to properly nourish myself, I hope to take a page from the Sophies and Tamasins of the world. There is no pleasure like that of good food shared among good friends, nothing more sensual than that of seeing a woman who enjoys eating. Decadence and health are not mutually exclusive, though the diet industry makes money off of this schism.

Instead, I propose that we all be active, be mindful, and always relish the sacred act that is eating. Artisanal cheese affords great joy, I’m learning.

Related Links:

Food for Thought, Q&A with Sophie Dahl, Vogue.com

Chocolate Brownies à la Tamasin Day-Lewis (Video)

A cloudy view from Silverado Vineyards

Market fresh asparagus

Perfect pear crisp

The man, the myth, the legend: Tim Blanks; Photo credit: men.style.com

I credit my older sister, in part, for pointing me toward the wilds of fashion. This is the same sister who as a 13-year-old would write me letters about her occasional trips to Los Angeles, where she would eat at Georgia (Denzel Washington’s erstwhile restaurant venture) and shop at the Beverly Center—the pinnacle of consumer greatness for any teenager, be it a decade ago or today. “Georgia was popping off back then!” she said in defense when I reminded her of her ’90s romps through L.A.

On weekends, we’d forgo Saturday morning cartoons to watch back-to-back showings of Videofashion Weekly! and Fashion File, which introduced me to the schizoid backstage world of runway shows and the woman I still refer to as my “spirit model,” Christy Turlington. The two of us would lounge around in our pajamas, eating our grandmother’s thin, practically deep-fried pancakes while reviewing the latest collections and engaging in pseudo-intellectual shop talk about what the designers were putting out that season.

Fashion File trumped viewings of Pepper Ann, which made me feel infinitely cooler than my tween classmates, even though I was chubby and awkward and soon to be brace-ridden. Endearing, if a little austere, host Tim Blanks was our lifeline to Gianni Versace’s skintight bodysuits, Isaac Mizrahi at the height of his career, Tom Ford when he made Gucci synonymous with sex, and even long-lost casual wear king Todd Oldham—remember Todd Oldham?! For a sartorially-minded young thing, there was nothing like Fashion File, no one like our man Tim, no better way—save for reading Vogue—for a girl living in the black hole of suburbia to connect with a world far removed from a horribly bucolic quotidian. There were cows in my hometown, so I’m calling that bucolic.

The illustrious Mr. Blanks is no longer affiliated with Fashion File, and when I, on a whim, decided to see what had become of the show since his departure I came across one hell of a hot mess. Maybe it’s because I’m perpetually nostalgic these days (and I’m only 25, for Chrissake), but the show is a specter of what I remember it being as a teen. It delivers fashion coverage produced in the same vein as EXTRA. In a word, blah. There is an interesting segment on “A Day in the Life of Coco Rocha” on the homepage, but I think its appeal owes more to its jig-dancing subject than the way it was put together. And there’s of course no replacing Blanks, whose name I recently saw grace a few Runway Reviews during Style.com’s coverage of London Fashion Week. Good to know he’s still out there rubbing shoulders with Amazonian models and eccentric designers.*

I found a clip from Fashion File’s heyday on YouTube. Watch and be reminded of the show’s former greatness.

*Update: Most of this paragraph should have been written in the past tense. I’ve since discovered that the show was canceled in early 2009 and that Blanks’ replacement was sourced from a reality show titled Fashion File Host Hunt. ‘Nuff said.

I had the chance to prescreen the film and interview director R.J. Cutler, who previously produced the Bill Clinton campaign documentary The War Room. The politically-minded (and sartorially-challenged) filmmaker was enchanted by Wintour and her Condé Nast family, even if getting Vogue Creative Director Grace Coddington to smile for the camera was a trying task. I’ve posted my article below, which appears in the, ahem, September issue of SOMA. Click on the article for legible text.

It's funny 'cause it's true.

“You’re Fired! Surviving and Thriving After the Pink Slip,” read one of the headlines on the cover of Vogue’s May issue.

In the article, Lynn Yaeger, the eccentrically-accoutered former fashion editor of The Village Voice, reflects on her recent layoff from the publication and the dizzying aftermath. For a woman whose closet boasts frilly Comme des Garçons skirts nestled alongside the likes of Marni and Lanvin, the loss of a stable income abruptly ended her freewheeling shopping ways. From Stella McCartney to Suze Orman in one fell swoop, with Yaeger quickly realizing that, at least in the discernable future, the answer to “Can I Afford It?” would be a resonant “Oh, hell no.”

In other words, get your spendthrift ass away from Henri Bendel.

The crux of the article is Yaeger’s unflagging lust for luxury items, and her almost adolescent inability to realize that, when no longer on payroll, $50 T. LeClerc powder is a dead necessity—if ever it was a necessity to begin with. This disconnect is embodied in the author’s reluctant return of an antique diamond-and-sapphire snake ring, her final purchase before getting booted from the New York weekly. She mourns the glittery loss like one would a dear friend, describing the accessory in loving, anthropomorphized terms. “Boo-fucking-hoo,” I thought, “People are facing home foreclosures and you can’t troll Saks for Thakoon. Handle it.”

When I first read this three-page missive from the recently pink-slipped Yaeger, I was employed. Not gainfully, but employed nonetheless. This changed yesterday morning, and while I had been waiting for the proverbial axe to fall for months, joining the ranks of fellow workless John and Jane Qs still sends limb-numbing waves of shock over my body. This is unlikely to change anytime soon.

Suddenly, I have been forced to rethink the purpose and direction of my life, and, on a micro level, the purpose and direction of this blog. Hyperkult was conceived of prior to me being laid off, and I never intended for this to be my first entry. Rather, I imagined the site as a virtual cross-section of aesthetic musings—a place where I could share the things I love with an intimate audience of friends, family, and anonymous internet folk who happen to stumble upon it. These things would sometimes be luxe in nature, but more by virtue of their craftsmanship and visual appeal rather than their exorbitant price tags. How now to “ooh” and “aah” over Dries Van Noten when the nausea-inducing effects of an economy in peril are more manifest than ever? Does this shit even matter?

My connection to recession-era stresses is palpably personal now. And, despite differing modes of processing our respective layoffs, Yaeger and I have more in common than I’d like to admit. I know what it is like to conspicuously consume, sometimes irresponsibly (see: the once-worn pair of Dries Van Noten boots sitting in my closet, or the Louboutin wedges lying on the floor by my bed as I type this). What’s more, I know what it is like to be afflicted with consumer lust. Yager more often acts on these lusts, but mutually, at the heart of every “I want” is an appreciation of well-executed artistic vision. My very pure love of fashion will not die along with my formerly dependable paycheck. This love exists independent of my purchasing power, though I certainly wouldn’t argue if someone delivered a batch of Ann Demeulemeester clothing to my doorstep come fall. Fashion is in part fantasy, and admiring beautiful things for nothing but the sake of their beauty isn’t harmful.

Now is a time for simplification and deep personal reflection. I will do both, and I am far less concerned with the shopping I will (or rather, will not) be doing than figuring out how to proceed during a difficult time. What do I love and what am I good at? What future career can I embark upon that will intellectually and emotionally sate me? Those are the more important questions to ask, and I am.

At the end of her article, Yaeger admits to retrieving her snake ring from the antiques dealer she begrudgingly returned it to. It brings her comfort while punching out freelance articles and subsisting on a diet of Lean Cuisine. I haven’t sold any such valuable personal affects (yet), and, despite petting a pair of satin Miu Miu stilettos while out with a friend last night, I am not inclined to participate in impulsive retail therapy.

Instead, I’ll be hiking the uneven terrain of Runyon Canyon today, hoping for a momentary break in the cloud coverage. Because really, that would be more symbolic and affirming than any diamond-encrusted promise of a brighter future.