Volume 1, No. 10: Infinite Variations on Queer Motherhood + Simplest Potato Pizza
Greetings, readers and eaters! It’s been an exciting week for spring birding. I saw my first Baltimore Oriole of the season. I also identified several gray catbirds and an Eastern Phoebe. Phoebes are flycatchers, which means they won’t come to the feeder, so I was excited when one landed on a fence long enough for me to get a good look. They are very fluffy and cute!
I had a different theme planned for today, but then I finished a book on Monday that I can’t stop thinking about. With Teeth is one of those unsettling books that takes time to process. At first I wasn’t sure if I wanted to recommend it. Then I started thinking about what books I’d recommend along with it. Then I started thinking about queer motherhood. And then I knew how I felt about it, and what I wanted to write about in this week’s newsletter.
These three novels are all about extraordinarily different queer mothers. Sammie, the protagonist of With Teeth, is an unhappy mother, a woman whose mom-identity consumes her personhood. Laura, the protagonist of Please Read This Leaflet Carefully, is deeply content as a mother. Vern, the protagonist of Sorrowland, is a mother in a world full of monsters. Her love for her children is ferocious; it has to be, if she wants her family to survive.
I love what these three books, together, have to say about the complexities of queer motherhood. Each one of these mothers is singular, their experiences specific. They are not good or bad. They infuriating, passionate, detached, sometimes cruel, sometimes clueless, sometimes tender. They are written with so much honesty. My favorite novels are the ones where I can peel back the story and find another one behind it, and another, and another. These three books — these three mothers — are like that.
The Books
Backlist: Please Read This Leaflet Carefully by Karen Havelin (fiction, 2019)
This novel opens in 2016. Laura is a Norweign immigrant living in New York City. She’s a chronically ill divorced woman in her mid-thirties with a two-year-old daughter. In the first section, we see her going about her life with her daughter and her pain. From there, the book moves backward through time. It’s made up of eight sections, the last one set in 1995.
I’ve read other books that move backward like this, but never one that does it so successfully. It made me think a lot about how we experience time, especially in relation to illness and disability. A common ableist attitude toward disability is that cure is the endgame, that sick and disabled people need and/or want to “get better”. In choosing to tell the story this way, Havelin is writing in direct opposition to this idea. She disrupts the narrative that Laura’s life is a trajectory that will either lead to death or cure, with nothing worthwhile in between.
There’s also an elegant beauty in structuring a book like this. It’s how we get to know people in real life. You meet someone in the present, as they are, and then, as you get closer, you slowly uncover the things that have shaped them. That’s how Havelin presents Laura to us. I already knew where she ended up, so finding that out wasn’t what kept me turning pages. The thing that pulled me forward was how badly I wanted to know who Laura was, to understand how she’d arrived in the present moment.
Each section is so vivid. It’s not a year-by-year progression, but a collection of snapshots, periods of turmoil or change or transformation. Havelin is so good at capturing the many versions of self that exist throughout a life. What Laura thinks about, what’s important to her, how she experiences the world, how she sees herself — it’s all so different, in each section.
Havelin also writes beautifully about bodies. This is a book about being sick. There are lots of descriptions of intense pain, hospital visits, exhaustion. It’s grounded in the realities of living in a body that is often hurting or in revolt, that is not always easy or pretty or fun. But it’s never sentimental. At one point Laura says: “Time spent suffering didn’t teach me anything I wanted to learn.” Havelin writes about pain because it is a part of Laura’s life. She also writes about pleasure, because it is a part of Laura’s life. Laura is defined by her illness; Laura is not defined by her illness. At one point she says:
You can’t be harder and harder, stronger and stronger, more and more distilled until you compress into a diamond. People aren’t mineral or metal. They are soft flesh, where love and pain echo through the body. Sometimes you have to ease up, to let go. You never know what will be able to help you. Compassion and gentleness are also endless.
This idea, pain and pleasure all mixed up, echoes throughout the whole novel. Here’s Laura describing her daughter:
Ella and I needed each other and we were okay. Her small, warm body against mine. Her little face, covered in tears so quickly from the first wail...Her little mop of fluffed-up silky white hair on the top of her beloved head. Her sticky little fingers that grab, her hot biscuit breath when she cries into my face.
And later, describing sex with her first girlfriend:
My body feels like it’s finally being put to appropriate use and there is no end to my appetites. I’m triumphant. I keep thinking over and over, “Wow, so this too is something I can enjoy.”
The physicality of the writing is astounding. Laura’s body holds so many possibilities — to comfort and be comforted, to mother, to break, to cause joy, to cause suffering, to fall apart, to be strong.
I haven’t written much about queer motherhood, mostly because I want you to experience the magic of getting to know Laura yourself. But Havelin explores both queerness and motherhood with so much nuance. It’s a novel about how identity and desire morph over time. It’s about all the versions of self that live inside us — past, present, and future — no matter who we are.
Frontlist: Sorrowland by Rivers Solomon (speculative fiction)
I’ve seen this novel classified as horror, fantasy, sci-fi, gothic fiction, fabulism, and speculative fiction. It has elements of all those genres, but it defies simple categorization. I don’t think Solomon is particularly interested in what kind of novel it is. They had a story to tell, and they told it. It’s also a surprising read. You think it’s going in one direction, and then it takes you somewhere else. Reading it is an eerie, unsettling experience. But Solomon’s prose is full of purpose. They’re sure of where they’re going. It’s such a gift to read a book like this.
Vern is fifteen and pregnant when she flees from the religious cult where she grew up, a community called Cainland. It began as a Black power utopia in the 1970s, but has grown into a disturbing, dangerous place where nothing is as it seems. She’s running from her abusive husband and the horrors of her life there. When she gives birth to twins, Howling and Feral, she decides to raise them on her own in the woods. She knows how violent and dangerous the world can be, both the world she was raised in, and the whiteness that exists beyond that world, and she doesn’t want any part of it. But she’s slowly drawn back in anyway, as she’s pursued by monsters, and eventually seeks refuge with an old family friend.
The mothering in this book is palpable, visceral. Vern lives in a world that’s trying to kill her. It’s trying to destroy her Black body and her Black family. It’s trying to tear apart her mind, shred her memories, and turn her into something it can control. There are monsters everywhere: they are the police and the people Vern fled, they are in the ghosts she carries, they are inside her body. So many of her parenting decisions are made out of sheer need: to keep herself and her children fed, alive, free.
Vern’s love for her children is so present and so absolute. It’s a pulsing, living thing. But that doesn’t make her a selfless person, a perfect mother, someone incapable of making mistakes and causing harm — in fact, she causes harm again and again. She longs for space, for less responsibility, for some other kind of life. Sometimes she makes decisions to protect herself, and sometimes she makes decisions to protect her children. Sometimes when she needs is not what her kids need, and she chooses herself over them. Vern is concerned with survival, yes, but she’s not only concerned with survival. Solomon never reduces her to someone who simply reacts to her circumstances. She wants things. She craves. She’s determined and stubborn and full of dreams. The emotional heart of this book is so, so good.
Vern also talks plainly and openly to her kids. Sometimes this truth-telling feels like a balm. Feral and Howling are so specific, each of them fully realized characters, kids with their own ideas about the world. There’s real joy in the family the three of them create, in the stories and songs and language they share. But Vern’s truth-telling is also heartbreaking, especially when they leave the woods. There’s so much haunting dissonance between the moments of childhood Feral and Howling do get, tender and spontaneous, and the moments of extreme danger they experience because of white supremacy and racialized violence. It’s a dissonance made even more haunting because Vern herself is a child. She’s only nineteen when the book ends. She mothers, and she’s often forced to perform a kind of womanhood in order to survive, but she is not grown.
This is a harrowing novel, but, like Solomon’s last book, The Deep, which I also loved, it is not only harrowing. There are moments of humor. In Vern’s romance with Gogo, whom she meets after leaving the woods, there are moments of delight, sensuality, openness. Solomon reveals truths about the legacies of racism in America, about the violence white America has done and continues to do to Black bodies and lives. It is not an easy book to read. But Vern carries hope — not because she overcomes every horror or possesses superhuman strength (she literally does, which is full of all sorts of meanings about how we think about Black women and girls) — but because of her sureness in herself. She rejects the monster so much of the world is trying to turn her into, and instead becomes a monster of her own making, seeking the possibilities that exist in Blackness, radical motherhood, queer refuge, and knowing and wielding her own power.
I loved this book. This critical review by Black genderqueer writer Danny Lore also gave me a lot to think about.
Upcoming: With Teeth by Kristen Arnett (fiction, Riverhead, 6/1)
I have to admit that when I first finished this book, I had no intention of writing about it for this newsletter. It’s a character study, but it’s a character study of a woman who doesn’t change much, if at all. Usually I can’t stand that. I like movement. But I could not stop thinking about this one. And the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. So here we are.
After her son Samson is born, Sammie puts her career aside to take care of him, while her wife Monika acts as the breadwinner. As Samson gets older, every relationship in the family strains to the breaking point. The novel jumps through time, so we see Sammie at various ages and in different situations Circumstances change. Samson changes. Sammie’s marriage changes. The only thing that doesn’t change is the way Sammie deals with every problem that arises in her life, which is to say, she doesn’t.
Sammie is an infuriating character. I listened to this book, and I spent a lot of it pacing around my house while Sammie made bad decision after bad decision. I was unsettled and uncomfortable. I cringed a lot. Samson’s behavior is often troubling, violent. Sammie’s actions are almost always also troubling and violent. But this is not a story about a difficult kid, or a bad mother. It’s much more nuanced than that. It’s about a woman who discovers that motherhood is not what she imagined. It’s about the consequences of action and inaction. It’s about inertia, about feeling trapped in a situation and not knowing how to get out, even if it’s a situation of your own making.
None of it pleasant to read. It’s a stressful experience. This is mostly because we’re so deep inside Sammie’s head. It’s an interior novel, and a close one. We see the world as Sammie sees it. We get to know all her fears, her obsessions, her self-delusions. But because we are not her, we can also see what she can’t. It’s so relatable and so frustrating. It’s like watching someone walk toward a brick wall, knowing they’re going to smack into it, knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop them.
This is why I couldn’t look away, why I’m still thinking about this book days later. Arnett doesn’t propel Sammie anywhere. She doesn’t manipulate her life for the sake of the novel. There’s not much transformation. There’s just a string of truthful moments, laid out for us to witness. The ending is perfect; it shakes things up in smart and unexpected ways. It makes you rethink everything you just read.
The queerness in this book is also a delight. The way Monika and Sammie navigate partehhood feels distinctly queer to me. There are so many scenes that are so steeped in lesbian culture. Arnett has a lot to say about queer motherhood and the expectations around it, about heterosexual norms and how they show up in queer relationships. There’s also this poignant sense of loss running through the novel, this feeling that motherhood has separated Sammie from queerness. She doesn't have many queer friends. Most of the people she interacts with are straight moms. I love this specificity. It’s about one particular iteration of queer family, out of millions of possibilities.
It felt like Arnett simply held up a mirror to the world and said: look. Here is a gay woman. Here is how she keeps messing up with her son. Here is how she keeps messing up with her wife. Here is what she wants, even though she won't say it out loud. Here she is, stuck. Here she is, living her imperfect life. Look.
It’s out June 1st, and you can preorder it here.
The Bake
My mom is not a baker. Wherever I got my love of baking from, it didn’t come from her. (I definitely got my love of swimming from her, though.) She is, however, a wonderful person to bake for. She’s ebullient in her appreciation, especially of savory treats, since she doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth. So, in this newsletter about mothers, I thought I’d share a recipe for a pizza I know she loves. The dough comes from Everyday Greens by Annie Somerville, which is a cookbook I rarely use anymore, except for this delicious crust. I’ve made it so many times I have the recipe memorized.
Potato Pizza with Herbs & Gouda
Makes one 12” pizza
Potato pizza is delicious. It’s the best. Embrace it! Or alter it to your liking. The possibilities are endless.
Ingredients
For the crust:
1 1/2 tsp active dry yeast
1/2 tsp honey
2/3 cup warm water
1 1/2 Tbs olive oil
1 1/2 Tbs cornmeal
180 grams (1 1/2 cups) bread flour (or use all-purpose)
1/2 tsp salt
For the pizza:
2 medium potatoes, sliced in thin rounds
2-3 garlic cloves, pressed
1 Tbs olive oil
1 Tbs fresh rosemary (or other herb of your choice), minced
4 ounces fresh mozzarella cheese, sliced or torn
1 cup aged gouda, grated (or use whatever cheese you like best)
To make the crust: In a large bowl, dissolve the yeast and honey in the warm water. Let sit for 5 minutes, until foamy. Stir in the olive oil, cornmeal, flour, and salt. Mix with a wooden spoon, and then dump the dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead with your hands until it comes together into a mass. Continue kneading for 3-5 minutes, until smooth and elastic.
Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turning to coat it, and cover with a kitchen towel. Let rise until doubled in size, about 45 minutes. Punch down and let rise again for 30 minutes. I have sometimes punched this dough down 2 or 3 times, letting it rise for 30 minutes between, because I am bad at timing things properly. It’s always delicious.
To assemble the pizza: Preheat the oven to 450. If you’re using a pizza stone, preheat it as well. Toss the sliced potatoes with olive oil and roast for 12-15 minutes. Turn up the oven to 475.
On a lightly floured surface, pat the dough into a circle and roll it out, spinning it frequently, into a roughly 12” circle. I use a rolling pin; feel free to stretch it with your hands if that works for you. If you’re using a peel, dust it with some cornmeal and place the crust on top. If you’re using a baking sheet, transfer the crust to that.
Combine the olive oil and pressed garlic. Spread this mixture all over the bottom of the crust. Layer on the roasted potatoes next, arranging them in overlapping concentric circles. Scattered the fresh rosemary, gouda, and torn mozzarella on top.
Bake for 15-20 minutes, until the edges of the crust are browned and the cheese is golden and bubbling. Let cool 10 minutes before slicing and serving.
The Bowl & The Beat
The Bowl: Spring Kale & Chickpea Sauté
This is a meal my mom would love! It’s lemony and fresh and full of springtime goodness: sweet spring onions and baby kale.
Thinly slice a bunch of spring onions (or any old onion). Sauté in olive oil until soft and starting to brown. Add some cooked chickpeas (I used two cans in this), along with salt and pepper. Cook for a few minutes, then add a whole bunch of baby kale, braising kale, or chopped big kale. Toss in a few tablespoons of lemon juice and tahini. Cook, stirring, until the kale is wilted but still bright green. Add some crumbled feta and cook for a minute more, letting it melt a little. Remove from the heat. Add golden raisins and pine nuts, if you feel like it.
The Beat: The Book of Eels by Patrick Svensson, translated by Agnes Broomé, read by Alex Wyndham
I’ve only listened to three chapters of this so far, and I’m loving it. The first chapter is all about the fascinating life cycle of European eels. The second is about Svensson fishing for eels with his dad as a boy. The third begins with Aristotle’s observations of eels, and moves through several centuries, as scientists and naturalists continue studying them. Eels still mystify scientists! For example, no one has ever seen them reproduce.
I love books that blend science, history, and memoir, and books that delve into something I know very little about. Rain: A Natural and Cultural History by Cynthia Barnett is another book like this I adore. But I don’t read them that often. There is just so much queer lit to devour! Listening to this is reminding me how nice it is to mix things up. It’s like a bracing faceful of cold air, delightfully refreshing.
The Bookshelf
The Library Shelf
I’m currently in the middle of two library books and loving them both: Libertie by Kaitlyn Greenidge and Cinderella Is Dead by Kalynn Bayron. I’m also super excited about my hold that just came in, A History of Scars by Laura Lee.
The Visual
A peek into my reading spreadsheet: the languages of books I’ve read in translation this year. I haven’t been reading as much in translation I’d like to, so if you’ve read any great translated books recently, I want to hear about them! My favorite so far this year: Breasts & Eggs by Mieko Kawakami, which I wrote a bit about a few weeks ago.
Around the Internet
On Book Riot, I wrote about how powerful it is to see queer elders depicted in graphic novels. I also talked about why I read poetry for the way it makes me feel in the moment, not to remember it.
On Audiofile, I reviewed the audiobook version of Sorrowland. Karen Chilton’s narration is masterful and I will listen to anything she reads.
Now Out
Hooray! Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake by Alexis Hall is now out — go forth and find yourself a copy of this gloriously joyful and funny book!
The Boost
A few things I’m thinking about this week:
Jessie is a Black bookstagrammer whose reviews are a gift. I only dabble in Bookstagram, but I read all of her posts. She engages so deeply with the books she reviews, and her words always make me think about stories in new ways. She’s a single mother going through a difficult separation, and she’s currently raising money to help pay her legal fees. Donate if you can.
I just came across this event, happening tomorrow as part of the Pen America World Voices Festival. Tickets are $20, but I’m thinking of going anyway because wow, I love all of these authors so much! Incidentally, they’ve all written brilliant books about queerness and motherhood. It’s happening at 12pm EST on Thursday May 20th; more info here.
An Instagram post from Mira Jacob, showing four vertical panels in a row, each one with the face of an author: Alison Bechdel, Mira Jacob, Rivers Solomon, and Torrey Peters.
As always, a little bit of beauty to send you on your way: I have been reveling in trees all week, including this one.
And that’s it until next week. Catch you then!