A Feast for April 12

How does it all feel today, at three years? The same as before. More so, maybe. But this year I want to honor her pragmatism. “As a practical matter,” she would say. (She really showed where the italics were, in this and other phrases).

Since she’s been gone, I will come across a trait— pragmatism, and others— she embodied so effortlessly (embodied: gave it shape, life, voice) and I  

swallow it greedily, spit it back out mangled
try it on like a department store hat
brandish it (borrowed superhero cape)
hurtle toward its center on a roller coaster track — I’m becoming her, I am her, how did this happen
unearth it from a hidden corner, stow it in my backpack
notice it rising, tamp it back down
notice it missing, cobble a vain and clumsy copy
roll in it like dough in sugar — cover me, cover me

Would it always have been like this, even if she was here? Would I have done this anyway, because that’s the age I now am?

As a practical matter, it’s happening, regardless.

In the name of pragmatism: suggestions for a feast in her honor, if you’re reading this because you miss Pamela and you’d like something specific (and practical!) to do. If you’re reading this for some other reason, I can still vouch for every menu item. My mother was a gifted cook who loved food without affectation and without shame (and what a gift that is and has always been, to her daughters. I think about that almost every day).

mama and baby
The couch indicates this was either Sara or me, but this exact pose is captured with all three babies.


Appetizer: Roasted Feta

Why: She made it often, brought it to gatherings of friends, her book group, her game nights; it’s easy, and very good.

Cut a block of feta in half; drizzle in olive oil and sprinkle with red pepper flakes. Slice red and yellow peppers and place on top of the cheese block. Wrap the whole thing in foil and roast at 425° for about ten minutes. Serve with baguette or seeded flatbread.

Alternate appetizer if you don’t want to cook: a good of loaf of crusty bread

Salad: Have One – seasonal ingredients advised

Why: she was very committed to salad (not in love with it, per se, but committed). I assume this was partially to instill good habits in her children, partially because she liked the taste of a good salad. The other reason was aesthetic — she wanted some color on her table. Salad is pretty.

Persimmons and pomegranates in fall; orange slices in winter and spring; candied pecans; in summer, try one of those great salads of black beans, corn, tomatoes, and avocado; in summer, tomatoes. All the tomatoes. If you can get them: dry-farmed early girl tomatoes with burrata cheese, fresh basil, and olive oil.

Main Dish: Argentine Empanadas

Why: When we lived in Argentina for a year when Sara and I were little, her Spanish was so good that everyone in Buenos Aires thought she was Argentine. She loved it there and learned to eat dinner at 10pm, to buy ice cream by the kilo, to make delicious empanadas. Even though I was only 3 when we lived there, and we didn’t eat them very regularly after coming home, they taste so profoundly familiar and wonderful to me every time. She made them for Sara’s wedding — many types, to accommodate vegetarians and different preferences—but these are the classics. We spent hours at our dining room table, scooping, folding, crimping. She bought a full size freezer for our garage to house them all.

The filling:

(My dad’s writing; to be clear he was always very involved in cooking and frequently did all of it)


While you can technically make your own dough, Maza (and I discovered a recipe for it in her ancient blue recipe box), she usually just bought it pre-cut, as Tapas (her brand: La Salteña, I think these are the ones). Place a scoop of filling in the middle of each tapa, fold and seal in a half moon shape and try to crimp the edges (swear a lot when the crimping doesn’t come out how you wanted). Paint each empanada in egg wash and place on a cookie sheet. Bake at 400° for 5-8 minutes. Make a LOT.

Alternate main dish if you don’t want to cook: In-N-Out Burger, with which she had an improbable but genuine love affair

Dessert: Lone Ranger Cookies

Why: There are so, so many iconic options to choose from (some of Julia’s suggestions included: “homemade ice cream, the Meghan Éclair Incident, the Summer of Grilled Pineapple, the Mexican Chocolate Cake”). But these cookies don’t even have a recipe in the blue box, because she had it memorized. These cookies were exclaimed over by visiting friends far and near, by college friends tasting them for the first time, by teen ballerinas and delighted toddlers. When she stopped eating sugar for a whole year, but took her birthday as a cheat day, these cookies were what she ate (all day. It was amazing).

Cream together 1 cup butter, 1 cup brown sugar (packed), 1 cup white sugar. Then add: 2 eggs, 1 tsp vanilla. Mix together separately: 2 cups flour, 1 tsp soda, 1/2 tsp salt. Combine dry ingredients with wet. Then add: 2 cups oats, 3/4 cups flaked coconut, 12 oz chocolate chips. Bake at 350° for 10-11 mins. Argue with Bay siblings over how long to bake for ideal texture.

Alternate dessert if you don’t feel like baking: Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream (“cold brown medicine,” her drug of choice during her pregnancy with Julia, and also after).


Flat water, Sparkling Water, Coke Zero (the real thing, NOT Coke Zero Sugar)


You know this one. Flowers, of course flowers. Tulips preferred.


These are just ideas, of course; do what feels right. Fellow Pamela missers, make today holy.


We love you, Mama.


2017: Mostly Garbage, Some Good Books.

Books! They are great. I didn’t read as many of them as I hoped to in 2017, but as always I have plenty to say anyway! And as always, this is way past the appropriate time to post about this! La la la!

My favorite bookshelf in our house, which I organized by color like a trendy person! 

You’re the Top (5), You’re the Mona Lisa:

(in the order I read them)

The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood: So, you’ve probably heard about this one way too much at this point because it got turned into a (very good) prestige TV show. And the book is all of those things you’ve heard: terrifying, relevant, terrifyingly relevant, foundational for many a dystopian world in the last thirty years. But you should also know that the language is beautiful, shiveringly beautiful. Maybe you, like me (and especially like my mother), scoff when something becomes a little too zeitgeist-y. But you guys, this one is really, really great. I read this very quickly in April and I still think about it a lot. Read it.

Swing Time, Zadie Smith: As you may know (although, why would you, unless you talked to me a lot in 2014?), I wrote my Master’s thesis on Zadie Smith. I’ve read a ton of her fiction and nonfiction, I’ve seen her speak live, I’ve read and listened to many interviews, and last year Julia — in a stroke of sisterly genius — bought me this book and got it signed by the author at an event. Thank you, Julia! (And thank you, Zadie Smith, if you ever happen to find this, although why would you? I adore you). So I’m saying I’m not unbiased. But I loved this book. The language is impeccable, the relationships deeply compelling, and the details so incisive and thoughtful they really are breathtaking. Smith is a person who pays acute attention to the world, who takes it apart and shows you the innards with precision and curiosity and also compassion. So good.

Anansi Boys, Neil Gaiman (audiobook): Deeply, purely enjoyable. Funny and tender, propulsive and unassuming. For context, Jamie and I ended up listening to 4 different Gaiman novels on audiobook this year — and if you need an audiobook, he’s a pretty safe bet — but we liked this one the best. Hearty character development, vivid world-building, effervescent dialogue, and an excellent narrator. A great stretch of car hours! (If you’re curious, my ranking of all our Gaiman audiobooks: 1 – Anansi Boys, 2 – Coraline, 3 – Neverwhere, 4 – American Gods. All great, except American Gods, which I thought was just okay).

Commonwealth, Ann Patchett: So it’s sort of like with Zadie Smith. Not that I’ve written any papers on Patchett, but I’ve loved her writing since I was sixteen, so I go into reading her books with an already happy and expectant mindset. As I mentioned this time last year, I didn’t love her essay collection quite as much as her fiction, but this novel has me firmly back on the Patchett train. Very few people can write a sentence like she can. As in Bel Canto, here she inhabits a wide spread of characters, but this time spreads them out in different cities and over a sizeable swath of time, though each is part of an extended, blended, dysfunctional, fierce, flawed, achingly realized family. She grants every single one of them that impossible gift: humanity. Gobbled this book, already looking forward to reading it again. (Thank you for the wonderful birthday present, Susan!).

We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves, Karen Joy Fowler: So I got this one in Salt Lake City (thanks, Peggy!) and read it on Maui, so I associate it with our joyfully bipolar holiday season, which I admit is an unfair advantage. But this book is such a great read! I couldn’t stop. I also had the remarkable experience of somehow not reading, or at least not at all processing, the blurb on the back of the book — so I was totally unprepared for the major reveal that comes about one-third of the way in. Audibly gasped in public. If you can, read this book without reading the back! The one downside is that towards the end it tramps a bit too far into Didactic-town, a terrible place for fiction. But it was so inventive and strange and compelling, with a great narrative voice and so many moving passages, I still loved it.

Pretty Pretty Good, in 5 words or less:

The Wonder, Emma Donoghue: Not Room (masterpiece) — still interesting.

Someday, Someday Maybe, Lauren Graham: Fluffiest fluff! Yay.

The Bees, Laline Paul: Watership Down-ish, but bees.

Carry On, Rainbow Rowell: more fluff, plus Potter sendup.

Ready Player One, Ernest Cline: will be a good movie.

Hillbilly Elegy, JD Vance: not life changing; still good.

Stories of Your Life and Others, Ted Chiang: WISH I HAD HIS BRAIN

The Wanderers, Tim Pears: Young dude walks around Cornwall

You Can’t Touch My Hair, Phoebe Robinson: she funny; better as podcaster

I Don’t Get It:

The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss: Listen. So many people I know and love — including many family members! — loved this book and its sequel and couldn’t put it down. And yet I barely made it through the first one! The narration to me felt super overwrought and indulgent — like we had to hear every single solitary thing in Kvothe’s mind and body. Kvothe makes a joke. Kvothe walks 5 steps. Kvothe scratches his nose. Convince me why I should stick it out with this goofy dude and I’ll gladly give it another shot.

Most Fiction, It Turns Out: This year I started reviewing books for Publisher’s Weekly (thanks so much for hooking me up, Hannah!). They sent me a handful of books, and I got to write a couple hundred words of summary and analysis. Fun times for this English teacher! (Former. More on that soon, if I can get my act together). I really like the gig. But my main observation is this: by all accounts it is incredibly difficult to get published, but a lot of books that do get published are just lame.


In conclusion: reading good books is the bomb.edu! I hope you get to do it lots.

Her House.

My parents bought our house in 2002, when I was thirteen, Sara was sixteen, and Julia was five. They offered much more than the asking price, because the house is in Albany, and that’s how things are here. It is small, about 1500 square feet, if you include the little cottage in the backyard. It is the only house our family unit ever lived in for more than two years.

When we bought the house, my mom was working at a big law firm on a big case that lasted, awfully, for the first few years of our time there. But she had a master plan for the house, and she managed to put a lot of it into action; my dad is perfectly happy to maintain that all* the house improvements were her ideas — he served primarily as her willing manual labor.

When they bought the house, she liked the high ceiling in the living room. She liked the hardwood floors. She liked that she had a little yard in the front, and a slightly less little one in the back. She didn’t love the colors of the original tile in the kitchen and the bathroom, but she could live with it. She also didn’t love the scalloped wood trimming in the rooms on the main floor: she called it “muck,” because it gummed up her clean lines.
The first thing she did was bolt the house to the foundation, because California has earthquakes.
The next thing she did was replace the flimsy metal windows with double-paned wooden ones, with divided lights, because she hated the look of metal windows, and the new ones would improve the insulation anyway. She added special blinds to the windows — springy creamy blinds that you can adjust from the top or from the bottom, for maximum flexibility. And to let the light in. She added plastic hooks to wind the blinds cords around, so little kids who came over wouldn’t tangle themselves and their precious necks in the length.
She tackled the cottage quickly; it was to be her teenage daughters’ bedroom, and she gave it a new bathroom — a sink with drawers, a little shower with excellent water pressure, a bright coat of paint.

This is the cottage in its iteration as Jamie and Laura’s dwelling, 2014-2017. 

When we bought the house, the backyard was wood chips and a cement walkway to the cottage. Wood chips would not do. She planted sod. Before it had fully taken root, when the raccoons would lift it up and hunt for grubs, she foiled them, ruthlessly, sticking skewers all over the yard to poke their paws.
To replace the cement walkway she made a little path of flat grey stones, purchased from the improbable but real rock store. The path had a little bit of a curve to it. Once, in high school, a whole slew of my ballet friends stayed over in the cottage because we had a performance in Berkeley. They mostly had bigger and fancier houses than mine. But they cooed over the little pathway to the cottage, and its little wooden beams, and the big window looking into the flowers. I felt so proud.
The flowers — she bought so many flowers, and tended them so devotedly. She gave the backyard a palette or pinks, purples, and blues; “grow!” she said to the rose bush, the delphiniums, the foxgloves, the corncockles with their graceful spindly necks. “Grow!”
Inside the house, down the half-flight of stairs, was the family desktop and the TV, because she hated TVs in living rooms. That room had a purple couch and a red rug — and, for her, this was quite the funky palette. Funky palettes, like TVs, belonged in TV rooms.
When I was fifteen, everyone was gone from the house except for the two of us. She decided that together we would paint Julia’s bedroom as as a surprise while she was away — lavender, her favorite. We painted during the day and at night we watched some DVDs lent to me by a friend. It’s my favorite show, she said, so we gave it a try. It was “Gilmore Girls,” season 1. Painting all day, hours and hours of Lorelei and Rory at night. This week is sort of holy to me now.
A couple years later she enlisted a huge group of friends to help us paint the outside of our house a deeper tan. Then she enlisted a smaller but scrappy group of friends to move a piano she bought (impulsively, since no one played) into our living room. It was heavy. They almost broke their backs. Such is the devotion inspired by Pamela.
Not so long ago she had a skylight cut into the cottage roof — the ceiling has a lot of dark wood, and she wanted some more light in there. It really helps. When Jamie and I moved in some years later, our bed was beneath the skylight. The raccoons scamper over the roof with some frequency; I sometimes imagined looking up directly into their eyes.
*They added a little shed to the backyard, for more storage. This was the only house project my dad claims as his own idea, so I’m noting that here.
A few years ago the living room was repainted. Initially she wanted a muted blue. But she walked in one day, and it was finished, and it was a cheerful, pastel, robin’s egg hue. And  she hated it so, so much that it had to be repainted pretty much immediately. It’s now a buttery yellow.
The front yard used to have a big tree. She didn’t love the big tree. She had it cut down, and then she had my dad painstakingly hack at and dig up every root in the little plot. She couldn’t have those roots disrupting her flowers. This time, her palette was brighter: reds and oranges and yellows, punctuated by startling dark purple and black.
My dad keeps up all of the flowers. People walking their dogs stop to admire them, especially when the tulips bloom.


Our house is for sale now. We will miss it so much, because it was ours and it held us and it welcomed our friends and our holidays and our little dog. Because the high ceiling in the living room means every year we have a big freaking Christmas tree. And because every room is hers, hers, hers.
Happy birthday, Mama.

Unspeak | Unsteel

Still I can’t really think about her very much, or for very long.

When someone brings her up, in conversation or at church, with or without preamble, I’m not ever ready for it and I can’t breathe and I do nothing but wait for it to be over. There is a word for this, but it is hard to remember, because usually it is used in a sincere but sanitized way, by people in suits who are talking a lot. It’s reserved for big, terrible events that are big and terrible in a way that makes the language about them tinny and robotic. But I remembered the word at some point in these last two years and felt it with the clarity of a key in a lock: Oh. Unspeakable.

Also, this other word: to steel (oneself). Reminded of it by a book last week, haven’t stopped thinking about it. I steel myself; I make myself steel. I do, I think, a little bit every day. I help take care of things. 

But now this is how I live, armored and naked in the unspeakable face of her death. Because I am tough, and because I am weak, I think about the others who are mourning her, and not very much about her.

I’m so afraid of how much I miss her, so afraid of her slipping away.mama11

Mama, don’t leave me.

Tonight I am unsteeled. An incomplete list of grief metaphors:

It’s like a spasm. When I see her handwriting on a recipe. When my mind strays so foolishly to those last few weeks, days, hours. Her name on someone else’s tongue. When I have something important I need to tell someone, who haven’t I told yet, there’s someone important I’ve left out, and then I remember who it is.

It’s like an ache. When my dad doesn’t smile for a week. When I think about my new friends and the way they would laugh with her. When I think about my old friends and how much she wants to know about how they are, what they’re up to. When I see her face on my sisters, on me. When I dream and she is there, but sick. When I dream — rarely, rarely — and she is well.

It’s like a hot jagged bolt when I think of bearing my children without her help.

It’s like a desolate scorched plain when I think about the life we could have had, the people we all could be, if she were here. The valley of the shadow of death. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it?

Sometimes for some reason I get the mail and I hope there’s a letter from her, and that is hell.

I look back on my writing from the last two years and you know, it’s pretty upbeat. I try to end on the redemptive. I wonder if that is something I am naturally given to, or if I have learned it or been trained into it. I suppose it is a good impulse. But what am I supposed to say?

The world is objectively worse without her. We are worse, and worse off. There is nothing good about her being gone.

I know I am lucky that she is my mother. I hope I see her again. In the meantime I will keep trying to be brave and strong. But. And. On this anniversary I am brave and strong enough to be sad.

Last Year’s Books.

I love yearly book recommendations, so here, QUITE belatedly, are mine. I don’t really read what’s current, so chances are you’ve already gotten to many of these. But then again, maybe you’re like me and you’re still discovering the joys of reading for yourself again after long years of school?

My mom reading to us (forgive the red eye)

Super Subjective Favorites

(Alphabetized by author, not in favorite order, necessarily)

Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

Adichie writes as though it is no work at all; she captures both images and emotions with clarity and languorous grace. And aside from the sentence-level pleasure, this book is full of vivid characters, humor, and real wisdom about Important Themes without lapsing into self-seriousness (win!). Recommended for absolutely everyone.

The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz

This is one of those books I heard about a lot while I was in college and just got around to reading. I’m so glad I finally did! If Adichie’s voice feels totally unmannered, Diaz’s comes careening off the page with so much vibrant personality it feels like an audiobook when it’s not an audiobook, if that makes any sense. This is a pretty much unrelentingly sad story written in a way that can only be described as joyful. Like Americanah, it’s also layered and worthy of serious study but feels totally unpretentious. I loved it so much.

The Cuckoo’s Calling, The Silkworm, Career of Evil, Robert Galbraith (aka JK Rowling)

This is an ongoing mystery series set in contemporary London (all Muggle, no magic) that revolves around the dynamic duo of Cormoran Strike and Robin Ellicott. I feel so much affection for those two, I really do —and that to me is Rowling’s true gift. There are very few authors out there who can do character or dialogue like her, you guys. It’s not just a Potter thing, apparently; her people always find their way into my heart.

Bonus tip: get the audiobooks. We listened to all three of these that way, and I HIGHLY recommend the mode for a few reasons: If you’re listening to an audiobook, it may be because you’re on a road trip, and mysteries/thrillers are a great genre for road trips — they keep you awake, tend to be pretty straightforward structurally (which translates well to narration), and they provide many opportunities to pause and discuss theories with your copilot. Plus, all three of these audiobooks were narrated by Robert Glenister. I have no idea who that dude is, but I love him. He has incredible range and warmth.

One More Thing: Stories and More Stories, BJ Novak

I am normally not a short story person. They’ve started to interest me more as a way to think about writing, but from a purely pleasure-reading perspective, I’m always like, “why would I invest in this (frequently overly mannered) thought experiment when you’re just going to dump me in like 10-30 pages?”

What I loved about this collection was that it felt like a completely casual, lighthearted approach to writing fiction — like BJ just sat down and was tooling around and invited us to join him; the stories feel essayistic. Many of them are very, very short, just the teeniest vignettes, but I loved them for that airiness. The book is full of charm and humor, but it can also be thoughtful and sweet in surprising little twisty ways. I sincerely enjoyed it, and not just because I love BJ (though I do, because, as I’ve documented, I love Mindy, and she loves him. Transitive property).

The Prestige, Christopher Priest

This one made my list of favorites partially because of the circumstances of reading it: we took it on our trips to New Zealand and the East coast, which made it extra fun. When I think of this book, I now get to remember reading it aloud while snuggled up in our campervan beside Lake Tekapo, or in our airstream in Charleston. But this book is also an enjoyable blend of historical fiction and shivery mystery, with just enough creepiness to keep you reading, but not too much to turn off a wimp like me.

Bonus tip: We really liked reading the book and then watching the movie to see the different approaches to the material (compare and contrast—the favorite activity of all English teachers, including this one). Full disclosure: I don’t say this often, but I think the movie is actually a little bit better.

The Revolution Was Televised, Alan Sepinwall

I really loved reading this, but it’s pretty nerdy. Sepinwall’s book is a nonfiction cultural history of when (and which) television shows got really good, and what they do differently than the TV of yore. It was published in 2012, so it’s a bit out of date, I suppose, but the author has great analysis on so many shows that I love: The Wire, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Friday Night Lights, etc. Sepinwall also includes interesting interviews and behind-the-scenes tidbits from the creators and contributors—and I’m a complete sucker for that sort of thing, so.

To sum up: If a big part of the pleasure of watching TV for you comes from dissecting it with your friends and bunkmates, this is a great read.

The Secret History, Donna Tartt

The Secret History was published in 1992, so again, this is not a current list, but oh my goodness I loved it so much. I could not put it down—like, I read it while I was walking my dog-level of unputdownability. The novel follows Richard, who relocates from a working-class California town to a liberal arts college in rural Vermont to study ancient Greek — and falls in with a group of eccentric classics students who do some weird sh*t in their spare time. Like murder!

I found the book incredibly tense and QUITE dark, but it is so densely layered and strange and absorbing that I really think it’s worth reading. Tartt hangs her mystery plot over a nonlinear structure, which allows us to watch closely as the class tensions, intellectual fixations, and disturbing dynamics within the group simmer and finally boil over.

My one quibble: The lone central female character in the book is a bit of a cipher. Come on, Donna! Help a sister out!

If you’d like to feel super unaccomplished: join me in learning that Tartt published this masterful book when she was 28. Twenty-eight.

Lafayette in the Somewhat United States, Sarah Vowell

Sarah Vowell is the absolute coolest. Her books are always this amazing combination of thoroughly researched American history and smarty-pants editorializing, with a bit of personal essay thrown in here and there. At one point in this book, she refers to herself as a “historian-adjacent, narrative nonfiction wiseguy.” It really doesn’t get anymore #goals than that, for me.

Vowell is in fine form in Lafayette —she’s got a great story by following Lafayette’s role in the Revolutionary War; she’s got amazing letters from all the major players in the moment; she riffs on all of it with her characteristic hilarity and genuine patriotism.

This was especially delightful to read in 2016, which as I’ve noted, was the year of Hamilton for us. It was so fun to hear a different author on people and events we already had so many feelings about. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t picture Lafayette as Daveed Diggs the whole time.

I liked these quite a bit and I think you might too!

With Child: Mormon Women on Mothering, ed. Marni Asplund-Campbell

The Girl with All the Gifts, M.R. Carey

Zombie lit, but literary AF. Now a movie!

The Girl on the Train, Paula Hawkins

We listened to this as an audiobook during some of our New Zealand drives, and it works really well that way (see above). We enjoyed it! But this book clearly owes a huge debt to Gone Girl, which is the superior entry in the unreliable narrator/missing person mystery/commentary on unhappy marriage genre.

You and Me, Always, Jill Mansell

The Woman Upstairs, Claire Messud

Hamilton: the Revolution, Lin-Manuel Miranda and Jeremy McCarter

Dear Committee Members, Julie Schumacher

A teeny little darkly comic epistolary novel. Especially hilarious if you have ever been part of an English department at a university.

Better Living through Criticism: How to Think about Art, Pleasure, Beauty, and Truth, A.O. Scott

The Wordy Shipmates, Sarah Vowell

Very Well Done but do not Have my Heart

Fortune Smiles, Adam Johnson

See my complaints about short story collections above. I also felt like Johnson was showing off the whole time—deliberately dwelling on pitch-black, disturbing subject matter to be like, “I’m just that cool and edgy.” It did, however, make me want to read his novel. So I guess his tricks worked, which is annoying.

Mystic River, Dennis Lehane

I enjoyed this while I was reading it — it’s suspenseful and engaging. But I resented it after the fact, because this is the type of book that becomes the basis of the ten million movies set in the Northeast about white dudes with goofy accents shooting at each other that pretend to be interesting because “Ben Affleck.” Guess what, Lehanes and Afflecks? I don’t care.

Cloud Atlas, David Mitchell

You guys, this is an amazing book. Mitchell is clearly a genius. He has such mastery of his language, and uses that language to build worlds within worlds. I was blown away by the technical prowess on display here — but for all that, I didn’t find myself particularly attached to his characters. I’m not sure why. But character investment is a lot of what I personally expect from fiction; and I recognize that’s not an especially sophisticated way to read. Oh well.

This is the Story of a Happy Marriage, Ann Patchett

Patchett wrote one my Favorite Books Ever, Bel Canto. She also wrote a book that I consider Extremely Good, State of Wonder. So I was really excited to read this, because it’s an essay collection, one of my favorite genres, from this writer I admire so much. But I read it less than six months ago, and I already can’t really remember the essays very distinctly. It definitely had nice moments, but considering how good she is, I wanted to love it more than I did.

Celebrity Book Category

This weird “reading books by famous people” thing is apparently not just a phase for me, so I guess I’m going to lean in and acknowledge that I really enjoy it. From least to most favorite:

No Land’s Man, Aasif Mandvi

Mandvi was an awesome contributor to The Daily Show for a long time, and I saw him on the street once, so I feel some affection for him. His book is also quite well reviewed. But considering what an interesting background Mandvi has, this book should have been more, well, interesting. I think the problem is that most of his vignettes have exactly the same structure. Change things up, Mandvi!

Talking as Fast as I Can, Lauren Graham

I liked this a lot, and I read it in an afternoon, which was fun. Graham isn’t a great writer at the sentence level, but she is smart and thoughtful and comes across as sane and nice. She also conveys a ton of affection for her Gilmore Girls and Parenthood castmates, which I think is pretty classy. If you’re a GG person, you’ll probably like this, and some of her on-set anecdotes will make you want to WEEP.

The book confirmed my affection for her and made me want to read her novel, so I’d call it a success.

Scrappy Little Nobody, Anna Kendrick

I think that in real life, I would rather spend an afternoon hanging out with Lauren Graham than with Anna Kendrick—because Gilmore Girls, but also because Lauren seems more relaxed. But I really liked this book, even a bit more than the other! It’s surprisingly thoughtful and conveys a lot of the anxiety and turmoil of being a movie star without coming across as whiny. She is also genuinely really funny.

One editorial note for Graham and Kendrick, because they’re definitely going to read this: both of these women are clearly invested in the “I’m just a regular person! Isn’t it nuts that I’m famous?” narrative. I like that narrative, it’s appealing, but it’s also not particularly true— sometimes Kendrick in particular leans a little too heavily on the self-deprecation. We get it, ladies, you’re regular people—but no you aren’t, you’re exceptional, and your life is weird, and that’s fine.

One More Thing, BJ Novak

See above. Good job, BJ! (I still like Mindy better, though).

Of 2016.

It seems everyone agrees that 2016 was the worst—and don’t get me wrong, a lot of terrible things happened. But of course now it looks like 2017 could really be as terrible or quite a bit more terrible. And in this particular household, 2014 and 2015 were genuinely catastrophic, and not in the internet hyperbole way. So the blanket ‘2016 was totally the absolute worst’ thing doesn’t entirely resonate with me.

(And yeah, year in review-type writing was really due quite some time ago. But I feel like posting this a month after the opportune moment has utterly passed reveals something true about me, don’t you?).

Because I have a bad memory, I worry that the good from last year will over time be carried off by consensus or burned away by the persistent acid bad, which, for me, can mostly be attributed to:

  1. The absence of my mother
  2. The presence of Donald Trump

  3. The irrational but inescapable feeling that 1 and 2 are connected, that maybe 1 caused 2. That when she died, the world was stripped of fortitude and sense. That surely 1 and 2 together mean that now we live in a shadow place—the Upside Down—and where is the way out? Where is the crack in the base of the tree?


Here are some of the things I want to remember:

When we made a few of our own plans for the future, the impression of thawing out from a long winter.

Let me remember holding my niece on the third day of her life; her golden head; her perfect softness.

This is Rosie at almost 3 months.

Julia and Jamie and I playing hours of very low tech games, in the car or at the beach or during a different (usually card) game. For example, ‘I’m Thinking of a Movie.’ I’ll explain how to play: you think of a movie, and then the other people playing try to guess it without any clues. Then eventually you give them a few clues, and then eventually they get it.

Watching Gilmore Girls with Jamie, specifically when Jamie turned to me after an episode and said “Are Lorelai and Luke going to break up? Because I don’t think my heart can TAKE IT.”

Buttoning my dearest friend into her wedding dress; watching her laugh her way down the aisle.arlingtonwed1601518

Jamie revealing in Durham that whenever someone says ‘ensconced’ he pictures being inside a giant warm scone.

2016, year of Hamilton: the bliss of driving home from teaching with Hamilton to sing to and Coke Zero to drink. The sorrow from listening to Act 2 all the way through for the first time. Lin-Manuel’s delicious words in my mouth. Hamilton in NZ; Hamilton in Colorado; Hamilton in Maryland and Virginia. Shouting along to Hamilton with my sisters on our way to Target.

The insane perfection of our campsite at Nelson Creek in New Zealand. The way we almost wept over the fairy pathways, the bridge over the stream, the shimmering torrent of Milky Way parting an endless field of stars.


Let me remember Flavia chatting contentedly with Jamie and Tyler as they picked blueberries together at the farm in Virginia.

Checking in with Sara about her Parks and Recreation progress, and exchanging quotes and favorite episodes at every opportunity.

Flav dishing out side eye

The student who gave me chocolate at the end of the semester and apologized for being ‘troublesome,’ though he wasn’t. The students who hugged me at the end of the semester.

Also, so I don’t overly romanticize teaching when I’m old and pretend this was some kind of Dead Poets Society situation, let me remember the male students who helpfully commented that I ‘don’t have to dress so formally,’ because what could be more valuable professional feedback than a dude’s thoughts on my appearance?

Comparing ALL the wands in Ollivander’s with Sara and Julia. Spraying baby Rosie with a mister so she didn’t get too hot. Having an insane amount of fun in Orlando despite the onslaught of evidence that Florida is just a giant swamp not meant for humans.  hogwarts

Lebron crying with his head on the ground after winning the NBA championship even though obviously I rooted for the Warriors.

The accompanying, unexpected realization that I genuinely like basketball.

Dancing at Eric and Mary Kate’s wedding with Sara and Julia and Jamie and Tyler and Flavia, the freaking life of the party.

On our way to the glowworms on Lake Te Anau

2016, the year we went to New Zealand. The ten minutes when I floated in a boat in a cave there, with Jamie and 8 strangers, all of us holding our breath and staring at the glowworms above and around us. Pinpricks of bug-stars in blackest rock—people told us it was touristy, but actually it was space travel.

Obsessing over PPAP with my in-laws. Watching my sisters-in-law learn the dance perfectly in about a minute.

The bluest blue blue of Lake Tahoe. The delicious clear gasp of its plunge.


Just a few more.

One evening in Princeton when we walked around the summer-drenched streets and talked about our life and plans. Specifically, when we walked through the graduate grounds, how the fireflies flickered into life just at dusk. Let me remember fireflies at dusk and freshly laid plans.

The brush of an old memory of Jamie coming back to me last summer, when we were in South Carolina playing with a deck of cards. He started to explain a magic trick to me— and I had the odd echo sensation that we had done this very thing before, as kids, way back when we lived in the same Salt Lake City neighborhood and I was 11 and he was 12. The briefest glimpse of kid Jamie teaching me a magic trick that I knew I learned in Utah, but had never remembered that he was the one to teach me. A strange layering of selves; the sweetest feeling of rightness settling into both of me at once.


And this, from October 8th:

Today I felt like I won the lottery. We’re at Tahoe, and it’s October. We’re never at Tahoe in October. We came up for Jamie to run a race here, because we realized we could, and why shouldn’t he, and wouldn’t that be good to have a little something to look forward to in October, not my favorite month. We got in last night, slept in twin beds in the cabin my family has rented for more than twenty years.

Jamie and our friend Susan got ready then ran by while the rest of us — me, Dula and the kids, my dad — saw them off, cheering and taking pictures. Dula and the kids and I caravanned for the rest of the race, hastily pulling over every few miles to get out and cheer as our people came by. “Let’s go, Soo-san!” sang Ruthie. “Let’s go, Jay-mee!” she sang again.

Susan, in training for the Boston marathon, came sprinting towards the finish line as the fastest woman and the second-fastest overall. Lewis and Stewart helped me look for Jamie while we waited right in front, where cheerful seniors cooked hot dogs and handed out beer to the runners. It legitimately thrilled me to see Jamie rounding the corner, 3 minutes under his goal time after a brief and casual training period.

We drove home to the cabin, back around the lake in the sunshine, stopping for drinks at the 7-Eleven. I’m sure there are bad 7-Elevens in the world, but I can’t remember ever not loving them.

Tahoe in the fall is mostly the same as Tahoe in the summer: same water (‘So blue! So blue!’ my mother would croon from the passenger seat as we’d round a bend and see the lake spilling out before us); same cloudless, precious, alpine air; same pine trees crowding down toward the water. But today amid the green, an occasional flash of yellow and gold — slender-trunked aspens standing near houses, near docks. They remind me of dancers.

We got our things and after a bit drove on to the beach where we spend nearly every day when we come in the summers. This drive around the lake: it’s all the best adjectives, for me — beautiful and comforting and peaceable and right. And ours, today, even though it’s October. Our drive, plus the aspens and the slanted autumn sunbeams and REM in the cd player and my dad so glad to be here.

It wasn’t deserted at the beach — there were maybe 30 other people there on the cove with us, wading in the water or lolling on towels. It was warm and quiet. Jamie soaked his tired legs. The kids scrambled over rocks and dug in the sand. The adults played kubb. I read.

My dad barbecued at the picnic tables under the pine trees. He made too many burgers and we ate them and batted away wasps. We drove home to our cabin — again, the water, the light, the trees, music and exclamations about the day, our perfect day.

We played cards and my dad drummed his fingers on the wooden table. The same drumming on the same table, all these years.


Help me remember that 2016 housed this day, and other good ones.

Milford Sound, NZ




List, with prefaces, for her birthday.

How is the healing going?

A friend asked me this recently about the aftermath of my mom’s death, and at the time I think I said it was going okay. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the question. How is the healing going? Is that what this is? I don’t think that’s what this is.

It’s not like a hike, where you’re sweating up the switchbacks, but then you look back and see how far you’ve come—the winding path, the boulders, the pines.

Right now, I picture grief as wilderness beyond a wall. I don’t venture here much. There aren’t paths or checkpoints. Is this making sense? I can’t tell how it’s going, because there is no mountain view. It’s wilderness.

All kinds of things are growing here beyond the wall, beautiful and not, and I never know what I will find or when. Like how recently, while we were on vacation in North Carolina, a crashing midnight thunderstorm rocked the house. The storm must have shaken something loose in me, because in my dream that night my mom died right in front of me, on a sidewalk, and for hours the next day I felt ruined and bruised.

Like how a week before North Carolina we were in Orlando, and one night my sisters and I sat up late talking around one of those little hotel room tables. We were at an utterly generic Quality Inn & Suites, but that quiet night, we three sisters pooling our memories of Mama—it felt like a clearing, sunlit and safe and freaking holy.


What we talked about, among other things, was stuff she didn’t like. I wanted to make a list like this because I don’t want death to iron out her personality. You guys, Pamela was not angelic. She was a boss, a legit presence, with a long and storied list of pet peeves. She didn’t hide them or underplay them. If she was bothered by something, you knew. Oh, you knew.

Yeah, she also hated getting her picture taken.

Sara told us about how she recently bought her daughter Calico Critters for her birthday— little animals with little houses and little accessories. They’re really cute; we all think they’re really cute. But for some reason Sara felt this vague uneasiness as she bought them—like she wasn’t supposed to like them. The source of the feeling? Pamela, who did not like them, which was why we only ever played with them fleetingly at toy stores and never owned any ourselves.

This is the force of our mother’s personality, especially if you’re related to her: if she didn’t like something, it sort of seemed like a moral imperative. Liking something she didn’t like—well, it feels rebellious. And maybe a little dangerous.

So here it is, in honor of her birthday: a partial compilation of things our mom did not like. We have tried to keep them to the fairly idiosyncratic (obviously she didn’t like things most people don’t like either: injustice, bugs, people being mean, the patriarchy). Some of the peeves below have been passed down to us, and some we are still mystified by. Some of these are a little brash and a little impolitic.

But if there weren’t a few of those, it wouldn’t be her list, would it?


  • Stuffed animals.
  • People using words incorrectly/imprecisely — “I [Sara] remember her telling me once that ‘vast’ means not just large, but large and empty, so using it to describe a marketplace was inept.”
  • Warm soda.
  • Loud sounds, even when it was good music played loudly.
  • Losing at games.
  • Anyone taking too long on their turn during games.
  • During the Olympics, when the camera follows teenage gymnasts or ice skaters who fell down and are trying not to cry. She would yell at the TV and get so upset that those little girls weren’t being left alone.
  • Tchotchkes.
  • Excessively ornate decor.
  • Runny noses on children and audible sniffling of same.
  • Baked apples and baked peaches—she disliked many things due to “a texture issue.”
  • Most sandwiches.
  • Many, many baby names, which led to “The Supreme Court Justice Rule”: that you should never name your child something that would sound silly if he or she ascended the SCOTUS bench.
  • Exposed bra straps.
  • Toys that make noises that drive parents insane.
  • That one time Sara put purple streaks in her hair.
  • Planting vegetables when you could plant flowers.
  • Paving your backyard when you could plant flowers.
  • Also during the Olympics, when NBC airs a cheesy profile of an American athlete instead of just showing all the competitors, especially when said American isn’t actually that good or likely to medal.
  • Clutter.
  • Cats.
  • “Some people are good lookers, and some people just aren’t”: When her family members complained they couldn’t find something they’d misplaced when they actually just weren’t trying very hard.
  • Pie crust, weirdly, because she was really good at making it.
  • Her daughters wearing shirts or camisoles that used to be white but had become grayish.
  • Dirty necks— she was always telling us we needed to scrub our necks when we bathed. I’m still not convinced that my neck was ever actually dirty? Parents of the internet, was this normal??
  • Sticky fingers.
  • Non-cotton fabrics, especially those she deemed “slimy.”
  • Nuts in cookies and brownies.
  • The attitude that having a pet is the same as having a child.
  • When babies are allowed to cry in a public setting instead of being taken elsewhere.
  • Clashing, particularly in clothing, particularly multiple patterns worn together.
  • Teachers who made hyperactive little boys skip recess as punishment.
  • Rodents, all sorts.
  • When husbands are said to be “babysitting” their own children (“They’re his children too! It should not be a chore for him to watch them for an hour!”).
  • Little girls dressing like teenagers.
  • Adults dressing like teenagers.
  • The way most teenagers dressed.
  • Poorly written movies.
  • Also, movies that were well done but stressed her out. She would moan for hours about how tense her muscles were after being made to watch a suspenseful film.
  • Windows with aluminum frames.
  • Windows meant to look like divided lights that were plastic and fake.
  • Having her maiden name, Bay, abbreviated to “B.” (“It’s only one more character!”).
  • Having her first name, Pamela, abbreviated to Pam. She would correct anyone about this, at any time. I used to find this embarrassing. Why?
  • “Desserts that are not chocolate” — this was a favorite phrase that was not actually all that true in practice.

    Sassing it up, probably yelling at our friend and photographer Dula. Also, this picture is pre-Jamie and Julia is teeny. 

We love you, Mama. Wish you were here. Happy Birthday.