Volume 2, No. 14: Process Stories + Chocolate Brioche Swirl Buns

Greetings, book and treat people, and a big welcome to all the new folks!

Over the weekend I jumped on the gay pirate bandwagon (the queer internet has been jumping up and down about it for the past few weeks) and wow was that the wrong choice. I was promised fluffy fun, tender gay pirates, and romance. I got all of that! I also got a cliffhanger ending that was very dark, left me feeling sad and hopeless, and no one thought to mention in their rapturous posts. I can only hope a second season will turn the show into the romantic comedy it’s advertised as. As it stands, it’s a romantic tragedy.

I realize I’m upset about a silly TV show, one I’ll forget about in a few days. I also truly hate cliffhangers—mean, useless tricks played on readers/viewers that never have any actual purpose, plot-wise or thematically. I learned this weekend that my ten-year-old nephew often shouts at “Cliff J. Hanger” while he’s reading, as in: “Gah! It’s Cliff J. Hanger, ruining everything again!” This is brilliant. I will absolutely be shouting at Cliff J. Hanger in the future.

But I also need us to have a nuanced conversation about spoilers and content warnings and how we talk about queer rep in media because watching that show was a devastating experience I could have done without. Lesson learned, and it’s a basic one, but here we are: do your own research. Even about the things that don’t really matter.

Now that I’ve gotten that rant off my chest, let’s talk about books! I have to admit that the phrase “process stories” immediately makes me think of the West Wing episode of the same name, where, after Bartlett wins reelection, CJ turns her office into a still at the afterparty. Don’t worry, I haven’t draped red cloth over all the lamps in this newsletter, and there is no still. But I do have three fantastic books to share that focus on process—books that, in various creative ways, show their work.

The Books

Backlist: The Face: A Time Code by Ruth Ozeki (Nonfiction, 2016)

This is such a lovely, meandering essay, full of insights both funny and mundane. Ozeki does an experiment where she stares at her face in the mirror for three hours. As the time passes, she records her thoughts. They are not particularly revelatory. She longs for coffee. She wonders when she can check her email. She contemplates whether she looks like her mother or father. This catalogue of observations is so familiar: how often do any of us actually look at ourselves? It is easy to imagine how uncomfortable three hours of my own face might be.

But the real joy here is where Ozeki's thoughts take her. Interspersed with her real-time observations are a series of beautifully written meditations. She contemplates her childhood as a biracial Japanese American girl at a time when the shadow of World War II was deeply present in everyday life; the teachings of various Zen masters (Ozeki is a Zen Buddhist priest); the art of traditional Japanese Noh masks; and what she's inherited—physically, emotionally, culturally—from her parents.

I read this in one sitting, and I was by turns delighted, moved, challenged, amused, enraged. Ozeki is a deliberate, generous writer. She moves so gracefully between ideas, capturing unruly concepts with intimate detail. She ponders aging, making art, the work of writing, American and Japanese history, spirituality. One thought leads to another leads to another. It’s fascinating to watch her mind at work. She uses the structure of the experiment—looking at her face in the mirror for three hours—as a way to think critically about the process of writing, and the process of thinking.

Throughout the whole essay, she seems to be trying to locate herself, to uncover what it is that makes her her. Is it her face? Her work? Her beliefs? It's refreshing to read such openhearted wondering from a woman in her fifties. She knows herself, and it shows—her words are assured, wry and wise and playful. Yet she's still curious, still yearning to uncover more of her own face, her past, her future.

At the one hour mark, she writes: "Making familiar things strange is the job of the artist." I love this idea—that art should shake things loose. In this book, Ozeki makes her own face strange, and all the mundane bits of the world strange. In doing so, she reminds us to notice ourselves, each other, and all those mundane bits of the world—with care and attention and tenderness and wonder.

This book is part of a series from Restless Books, which includes two other books in which other writers contemplate their faces. I can’t wait to read them both!

Frontlist: Messy Roots by Laura Gao (Graphic Memoir)

This graphic memoir is a process story in the classic sense—i.e. it’s about the process of growing up and figuring yourself out and all the messy stuff that goes along with that. It’s about home and loss and what it means to belong to many places, to more than one language, to people spread out across several countries. I read it in one sitting because once I started, I didn’t want to stop. It’s a beautifully written and beautifully drawn memoir.

Laura Gao was born in Wuhan, China, and moved to Texas to join her parents when she was four. The book begins at the start of the pandemic, when Wuhan went from being a place no one had heard of to a household name. Gao dives right in, addressing anti-Asian racism and violence and what it’s like being a Wuhanese American during covid. From there, she moves back in time, and settles into a mostly linear coming-of-age story.

There is so much packed into this book! Gao writes about her childhood in Wuhan, her grandparents and cousins, the foods and places and games and people she loved there, and how hard it was, when she first came to the U.S., to be an immigrant kid in a completely foreign place. She shares stories of her parents and brother growing up and writes about what it was like being one of the few Asian kids in a mostly white school.

The book opens up when she gets to college, and begins to think more about her Asian identity and her identity as a Chinese American. She comes out as queer. There are so many conversations in this part of the book, and one thing I especially loved is the sense of space Gao creates, both in the text and in the art. For the first time in a long time, she has the space to explore, to talk through what she’s feeling and thinking with other people who share parts of her experience—other queer people, other Asian people—who aren’t her immediate family. It’s so poignant—and sometimes painful—to watch her go through all this intense learning and unlearning and reevaluating about herself and the world. Gao is such a fantastic storyteller. She makes it clear, simply by telling the truth about her life, how difficult it is to do this kind of intense self-discovering when you’re trying to survive, when your whole focus is on just getting through.

The art is wonderful, with a fantastic mix of styles. Gao draws different places differently, so that the Texas panels and the college panels and the panels of Wuhan all have distinct feels. A lot of this book is about geography, and the specific places and communities that have shaped her life. All of these places and people come alive in Gao’s art, which is vibrant and has a lot of movement to it.

Near the end of the book, she recounts a trip she took back to Wuhan as an adult, the last time she visited before covid. Those pages actually took my breath away. It’s such a powerful place to end the story, especially because her story, of course, doesn’t end there. The last pages are full of joy and sorrow, thorny questions and cherished memories—both a homecoming and a new beginning.

Upcoming: Buffalo is the New Buffalo by Chelsea Vowel (Métis Futurism, Arsenal Pulp Press, June 7)

This is such an interesting collection in so many ways. The individual stories are fascinating and creative, both structurally and in terms of content, characters, and setting. The book as a whole is fascinating, too, in the way that Vowel approaches her subject matter and the act of writing itself. The stories here are what Vowel calls Métis futurism. In the introduction, she explains what she means by Métis futurism:

Métis futurism allows me to envision a number of potential futures rooted in my history, community, and worldview—Métis futurism to me is not simply any specutlavite fiction work done by a Métis person. Imagining potential futures, or alternative worlds in any time, is not merely an exercise of imagining; I assert it as an act of what Scott Lyons calls rhetorical sovereignty, “the inherent right and ability of peoples to determine their own communicative needs and desires in this pursuit.”

Vowel’s stories defy genre categorization. They are set in the past, present, and future. They are about virtual realties, computer programs, future tech, place-based magic, and Indigenous spiritualities. In one, a woman’s consciousness is uploaded into a simulation and she becomes a buffalo (sort of). In another, Vowel imagines what life may have been like for a Métis superhero in the 1950s, during the Golden Age of Comics. In another (possibly my favorite) a queer Indigenous family uses nanite technology to ensure their child’s first language will be Cree, and that Cree will be the only language she understands.

The stories are wonderful, but what makes this book so unique is Vowel’s willingness—her insistence, in fact—to show her work. Each story is followed by a short essay in which she explores why she wrote that story the way she did. In these explorations, she offers context for the individual stories—her inspirations and motivations, the framework the stories grew out of, and what she was thinking/feeling/reading during the writing process. It’s not a clear-cut guidebook. She doesn’t tell you how to interpret each story, or offer definitive explanations for what’s happening in them. Instead, she opens up conversations. She talks about her process. She makes it clear that the “final” product isn’t the whole product. She’s interested not only in imagining possible futures through speculative fiction, but in building new worlds in the here and now. Part of that world-building is telling the story behind the story. I was riveted by the essays, sometimes as much as, or even more than, the stories themselves. They brought the book to life.

She uses footnotes in a similar way. I don’t think I’ve ever read a short story collection with so many footnotes. The most heavily footnoted story is a historical one, in which Vowel provides meticulous research notes about the details she includes. But even the stories set in the future have footnotes. The footnotes are like little jolts, constantly reminding readers that these stories exist in the world we live in, that they are not an escape, but a doorway. They’re not jarring; they’re an essential part of Vowel’s storytelling—a blend of fiction and theory, imaginative work and academic work. The book has a ten page bibliography, which includes many books and articles by Indigenous scholars and writers.

If you’re not as into process stories as I am, don’t let that deter you from reading this one! The stories themselves are fantastic—weird, surprising, moving, and all extremely different from each other. It’s out on June 7th and you can preorder it here.

The Bake

I celebrated three family birthdays over the weekend: my twin brothers and my youngest nephew. My two older nephews made special desserts for their respective dads, so I asked my youngest nephew what he wanted. He requested chocolate brioche. I’ve been making brioche regularly for years now—it’s not as hard as it seems! In fact, as long as you have a stand mixer to do the heavy lifting, it’s extremely easy. Without a stand mixer, it takes a lot of time and muscle. When will we be able to borrow stand mixers from libraries?

Chocolate Brioche Swirl Buns

Makes 12-14 buns + extra to freeze or shape into loaves

This is my go-to brioche recipe; it’s from Joanne Chang’s Flour. I’ve turned this base recipe into countless sweet and savory treats.These decadent chocolate cinnamon buns are just the beginning! The filling is lightly adapted from a Smitten Kitchen recipe for chocolate swirl buns.

This brioche recipe makes enough for two batches of buns. Don’t try to halve it; it’ll be much harder to mix if you do. Instead, freeze half the dough, bake it into a loaf, or make another filling and have twice the buns and twice the fun.

Ingredients

For the brioche:

• 315 grams (2 1/4 cups) all-purpose flour

• 340 grams (2 1/4 cups) bread flour

• 3 1/4 tsp active dry yeast

• 82 grams (1/3 cup plus 1 Tbs) sugar

• 1 Tbs salt

• 1/2 cup (120 grams) cold water

• 5 eggs

• 310 grams (2 3/4 sticks) unsalted butter, softened and cut into tablespoon-sized chunks

For the filling:

• 45 grams (3 Tbs) unsalted butter, softened

• 50 grams (1/4 cup) sugar (toasted, if you have it!)

• 225 grams (8 ounces) semisweet chocolate, roughly chopped

• 1 tsp cinnamon

Make the brioche: In a stand mixer fitted with the dough hook, combine the flours, yeast, sugar, salt, water, and eggs. Mix on low speed until the ingredients come together in a shaggy dough, about 3 minutes. Scrape down the sides and bottom of the bowl and continue mixing for another 3-5 minutes. The dough will be stiff.

With the mixer on low speed, add the butter one piece at a time. Mix after each addition to incorporate the butter into the dough. Once all the butter has been added, keep mixing on low speed for about 10 minutes. You want to make sure all the butter has been incorporated before turning up the speed.

Turn the speed to medium high and mix for another 15-20 minutes. The dough will be shaggy at first, but eventually it’ll become beautifully smooth and shiny. You’ll know it’s ready when a) it makes a slap-slap-slap sound against the side of the bowl, and b) you can pull it apart with your fingers and stretch it quite thinly before it breaks (the windowpane test).

Place the dough in a large bowl and cover it with plastic wrap, placing it directly on the surface of the dough. Let proof for 6 hours in the fridge, or up to overnight. I always make the dough the night before and shape the buns in the morning.

Make the filling: Combine all the ingredients in a food processor and blend until mostly smooth. The mix should have a pleasingly grainy texture, not quite uniform.

Assemble the buns: Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Turn out the risen brioche onto a lightly floured surface. Cut in half; set aside the other half to freeze, bake into a loaf, or transform into some other delight.

Flatten the dough into a disk and roll it out into a roughly 10x15-inch rectangle. Don’t worry about being exact! Spread the filling evenly over the dough, leaving a small border around the edges. Starting from the long side furthest away from you, roll the dough into a tight log. Pinch the bottom to seal the seam, and roll it gently against the counter to smooth. Trim off the uneven ends, and then cut the log into 12-14 pieces, roughly an inch in diameter. Place them on the prepared tray, leaving an inch or so between them. Cover with plastic wrap and let rise for 1 1/2 to 2 hours.

Preheat the oven to 350. Bake the buns for about 25 minutes, until they are nicely puffed, with golden brown bottoms. I drizzled mine with a simple chocolate ganache because sometimes I am very extra. They’re best warm or at room temperature on the day they’re baked. They also freeze well.

The Bowl and The Beat

The Bowl: Exhaustion Fried Rice

I haven’t found my spring cooking inspiration yet. Honestly, I’m so grateful that I decided to include a no-recipe recipe here each week, because it means that I cook something every week—even if it’s just the simplest, most basic fried rice.

Dice an onion. Press or mince a bunch of garlic. Grate a big knob of fresh ginger. Heat some sesame oil in a wok or large skillet, toss in the aromatics, and cook over medium heat until the onions begin to soften. Add whatever veg you have lying around. In my case: two yellow peppers, some broccoli, and a daikon radish from a million years ago. Cook until the veg is almost tender, then dump in some leftover rice, along with a glug of soy sauce, a splash of rice vinegar, salt and pepper, and some chili flakes. Stir well and keep cooking for a few minutes.

Heat some butter in a separate pan. Whisk 3-4 eggs and cook over low heat, covered, swirling the pan from time to time. Flip the omlette onto a cutting board and cut into strips. Serve the fried rice with the egg and wedges of lime.

The Beat: Vanishing Fleece by Clara Parkes, read by the author

Purely by coincidence, my current listen is a process story! I was in the mood for something fun, calming, and specific. I occasionally like to listen to books like this, nonfiction deep-dives into topics I’m tangentially interested in but know nothing about. So far I love this! Clara Parkes, who is a yarn reviewer and general wool person, spends a year documenting the journey of a 676-pound bale of wool. She traces its transformation from wool to yarn—shearing, cleaning, spinning, dyeing. Along the way she visits farms, ranches, and various wool processing facilities all over the country. It’s an absolutely fascinating look at the American wool industry.

The Bookshelf

A Picture

I’ve been so focused on reading books I own this year that I’ve only had one or two library books out at time for the last few months. But it was only a matter of time before the “place hold” button became irresistible. I can’t stay away from the library for long. I’ve read Messy Roots, obviously, and I also enjoyed Ready When You Are. I’m so excited about all the rest!

Around the Internet

Are you looking for a fantastic selection of queer books to read this spring? I put together a curated queer TBR for spring, including new releases, garden-focused reads, books to read in honor of National Poetry Month and AAPI Heritage month, and more! On Audiofile, I reviewed three audiobooks that explore vengeance and revenge.

Now Out

Hurray! Violets by Kyung-Sook Shin, translated by Anton Hur, which I raved about last week, is now out!

Bonus Recs Featuring Process Stories

Broken Horses by Brandi Carlile is such a warmhearted and lovely memoir; it’s the process story of Carlile’s life, but also of her music. The Right to be Cold by Shelia Watt-Cloutier is a personal and political process story about environmental justice. The Magic Fish by Trung Le Nguyen is a gorgeous graphic novel about storytelling, language, and the messy process of unfolding and opening.

The Boost

• An emergency fundraiser for queer author Junauda Petrus-Nasah (who wrote the gorgeous The Stars and the Blackness Between Them). Donate here.

• I am so excited about this virtual event, hosted by Odyssey Bookshop, featuring John Elizabeth Stintzi and Megan Milks! My Volcano is one of my favorite reads of 2022; Margaret and the Mystery of the Missing Body was one of my favorite reads of 2021. If you’re reading this newsletter on the day it goes out, it’s tonight at 7pm EST.

• I can’t wait to read this in September.

As always, a little bit of beauty to send you on your way: I cannot express how much I love the spring symphony that is the peepers. One of my most visceral spring memories is of driving home from class one April evening when I lived in northern Vermont. The road crossed over a small stream, and the peepers were so loud and glorious that I stopped the car, rolled down my windows, and sat there listening for several minutes. It was like being inside their song.

I can’t embed any of the videos I’ve recorded of their sweet music on my daily walks around the bogs and streams of Western Mass, but this lovely video captures the magic.

And that’s it until next week. Catch you then!