The FeedFeed's bullshit...
It’s currently 6:33AM and I’m just barely getting around to writing the newsletter. Talk about coming to you LIVE from the desk. The publishers just sent me the book’s description that will go onto “Amazon and other retailers” last night and Jose Andres sent me his blurb this morning.
My former assistant’s parents have kindly alerted me that my time at “The Residence” has expired and I’m no longer allowed to use the grounds for my own escape without paying the exorbitant rental fees offered to civilians.
Shit is getting real and I’m sat here with my stomach in knots.
It reminds me of when we finished culinary school and were sent out to apply our learned skills in the real world and we all know the real world sucks. You ain’t never gonna experience the safety bubble and camaraderie that culinary school offered.
I would be on the bus right around this time, on my way to school. Classes didn’t start until 8AM, but I took the bus on a 13 mile, one way, 2 hour (total of 26 miles and 4 hour commute by public transportation, everyday) journey several days a week and it was either be an hour early, or two hours late. On days much like today, I’d wake up at 4AM and jump-pull myself into polyester checker-board stiff chef pants, a white v-neck t-shirt, slip resistant black shoes and a black skull cap. Mandatory brigade uniform. I’d grab my knife roll, back pack, jacket, beanie, scarf and mittens and walk into the frosty darkness of the barrio. With only my breath’s visible smoke as my companion. Your life becomes a video game, but in reality, from the moment you leave the confines of the compound.
There are the men who are warming up their cars, heading into the various industries allotted to the undocumented. There are the drug-addled zombies on foot, bike and sometimes hoverboard that glows. These aforementioned groups don’t seem to bother anyone. Then there are the group of men, whether riding into that good night with mental instabilities or not, that every woman has to be aware of (and is always told we’re being paranoid of); the weirdos.
Many times I walked the several blocks of my childhood neighborhood from mami’s house to the bus stop in that pitch black early morning winter light. Alone. Always walking in the middle of the road instead of the sidewalks. Always with my fist tightly gripping a “little surprise” to the point where your knuckles turn white. And many times I stood at that bus stop and some rando would stop his car, slowly pull right up in front of me. Two yellow eyes would peer in from the blackness of the interior of the car blending in with the blackness of the exterior of the sky and they’d say…
“What’s up?" I’m trying to see what you trying to do?”
While you’re staring at the yellow eyes, you’re thinking…fight or flight. You’re in an open space, outside. Alone. There’s literally no one else around. No one can hear you scream. And this is the barrio, if they do hear you, they charge it to the game and go about their business. Both your brain and eyeballs are shifting from side to side as you try and make the decision. You choose fight. Why? Because you’re too fat to take flight. You’ll never make it far!
I’ve heard numerous stories from my female/woman friends about being terrified in those types of moments…hell, in moments less dangerous than that! Where they didn’t want to piss the man off during his advances and so they just uncomfortably laughed or gave a gentle obstruction. And the men reacted in the same way as if you would have gave him the business. So, I choose violence…
“I’m minding my business, is what I’m up to.”
Sometimes there’s an advancement, followed by a few more philistinian words and body gestures. Sometimes they just move on. But, it’s difficult to judge what a wild animal will do when it’s cornered and so you just have to hope for the best.
Luckily for me, the car would rumble off into the night. Its headlights as a severe reminder that I lived another day in a neighborhood where you already try to avoid so many other obstacles.
Soon the bus would arrive (if on time) and I would step out of the cold, dark and cruel world into the bright and warm safety of the morning bus. Only to do it all over again the next morning.
On Thursday nights I would have an Advanced Baking class until 10PM and the last bus from school would leave around 9:50PM. I’d have to get permission to leave early, find a ride from someone (and no one in school lived on my side of town) or I’d be stranded. One night I was stranded and I stood outside the campus. Alone. I was fortunate to have money in my bank account at the time and had to take a $75 taxi cab home.
All of this is to say…
I knew I never wanted to work in the restaurant industry. I wanted to be a food writer. And I went through all of this shit to ensure that I would know the ins and outs of the culinary industry, or at least know what the hell I was talking about.
And some of these publications still want to offer me a bare minimum of $250 for my work? Which some consider a generous offer. Because half the fucking time they’re asking us to do the shit for free. Let this be a gentle reminder to The FeedFeed, who I swiftly rejected in 2020, for trying to get me to do work for them for free. And attempted to gaslight me into thinking that a company with a Instagram following of 1M (they now have 2M) can’t summon the gods to pay writers for their content. GTFOH.
And while we’re on the subject of The FeedFeed…
Become a paid subscriber to the fucking newsletter, dude. If you’ve got commitment issues and don’t want to attach yourself to a monthly or annual monetary contribution…
Buy Mami a burger, send her a Starbucks gift card (grande hot mocha with whip) or nail polish at the Dollar Tree:
Mami Maisonet
5960 S Land Park #222
Sacramento, CA 95822
I always want to write a whole essay in response to your newsletters. Thanks for making me feel human for a few minutes.
Once again I say, you are a Writer!!! Love you!