Volume 1, No. 8: Bi Erasure Will Not Be Tolerated + Walnut & Cheddar Cheese Puffs
Volume 1, No. 8: Bi Erasure Will Not Be Tolerated + Walnut & Cheddar Cheese Puffs
Hello, friends, and welcome to May! So far mine has looked mostly like this:
Luckily, I love my desk, and I’ve been enjoying the view of unfurling leaves out the window. There’s also been a pair of purple finches at my feeder. They are glorious.
This week’s theme explains itself: bi erasure will not be tolerated. Rather, it’s up to all of us not to tolerate it. I’ve got three amazing books by and/or about bisexual folks to tell you about. They all address bi erasure in different ways, and they all feature the kind of queer representation I love most: messy and multilayered.
The Books
Backlist: Good Talk by Mira Jacob (Graphic memoir, 2019)
This book has little to do with bisexuality, or queerness in general. It’s a brilliant memoir about raising a biracial kid, existing as a woman of color in America, coming of age as a writer, interracial relationships. It’s structured around a series of conversations about politics and racism that Jacob has with her young son before, during, and after the 2016 election. Interspersed with these conversations are stories from her life: growing up the daughter of Indian immigrants in New Mexico, struggling to make it as a writer, falling in love with her white Jewish husband. There are so many layers of story in this book—it’s impossible to summarize.
I’m including it here on purpose. Not only because it’s one of my favorite memoirs ever (seriously, I adore this book!), but precisely because queerness is such a tiny part of it. We so often expect queer writers to center queerness in their stories. I’ve been guilty of this myself. If a book isn’t about being queer, I don’t always consider it a queer book. But what is a queer book? And isn’t there room for more than one kind?
There are only a few pages in this book where Jacob writes about being bisexual. A few panels out of hundreds. They’re poignant, though. She humorously recounts an akward conversation she had with a lesbian on a bus ride during college, newly aware of her own sexuality. A sequence describing various failed romantic encounters in her twenties includes this heartbreaking exchange:
Woman: “Biseuxal” is just another word for “scared of yourself”.
Jacob: But I don’t feel scared of—
Woman: Call me when you’ve figured it out.
These few glimpses into a bisexual identity exist in a sprawling and nuanced book that’s mostly about other things. Raising an Indian American boy in America. Complicated mother-daughter relationships. Grief. Marriage. How to have impossible conversations. Books by queer writers don’t have to be queer books. Bisexuality isn’t a big part of the story Jacob is telling, here—if it were, she’d have written more about it. But ignoring the panels that do engage with queerness is a kind of bi erasure. It’s not an especially queer story—but that doesn’t make it a straight one, either.
I’m about to get longwinded, so I’ll keep this review short. I can’t express how much I love this book anyway. It’s funny, scathing, and angry, brimming over with exhaustion and hope. It’s full of questions without answers, which means there’s a lot of grappling. The art is unique and striking. And the audiobook is a masterpiece in its own right. Read it, look at it, listen to it, feel it, learn from it. It’s something special.
Frontlist: We Play Ourselves by Jen Silverman (Fiction)
In many ways, this novel is a catalog of mistakes. It’s about a woman trying desperately to find her way in the world and continually messing up. When the novel opens, Cass, a thirty-something bisexual playwright, has just arrived in LA, where she flees after her first first major production ends in scandal. Struggling to put her life back together, Cass stumbles onto a film project. Her neighbor Caroline is making a movie about a group of teenage girls, and Cass is drawn into her orbit.
I’ll get to all the brilliant ways Silverman writes about bisexuality, but first I want to talk about art. There is so much art in this novel. Art that’s exploitative, art that’s petty, art that brings people together. Art that’s lofty and untouchable, art that’s morally repulsive. Art that reveals; art that conceals. Cass’s nemesis, successful young playwright Tara-Jean Slater, makes art that utilizes her own trauma. The filmmaker Caroline makes art that capitalizes on the Me Too movement. Cass’s mentor (and unrequited love interest), an older director named Hélène, makes art because she wants to leave a meaningful mark on the world.
The novel explores all these kinds of art: who gets to make it, who it’s for, who determines whether it’s worthy. It’s about what happens when making art intersects with money, fame, recognition, the internet. Like Cass—who is thoughtful and striving and cares deeply about the world, who is passive, self-absorbed, and petty, who often allows herself to go along with something even when she knows it’s wrong—the art in this book is messy. The lines between life and art often blur, as they do in the title. Silverman has a knack for describing what that blurring feels like, as in this passage where Cass describes making a play:
There is no intimacy like the intimacy of breathing life into something together, mingling breath. There's nothing like sharing creation. For the months in which we are assembled the only people we feel connected to are the ones who joined us inside this world.
Those lines also blur in that old question: can you separate the art from the artist? This book offers an answer, a definite no, but Silverman—and her characters—recognize that it’s not a simple question. You can’t equate a human being with a piece of work they produce. You also can’t untangle someone from the art they make. What does it mean for Cass to understand her own value exclusively as what she makes? What happens to Tara-Jean Slater when the world views her as a stand-in for her art? What happens to the girls in Caroline's movie if Caroline sees their lives as art she can exploit for profit? Silverman has a distinct viewpoint, but it’s not an absolute. Equating someone with the art they make, pretending it is possible to separate someone from the art that they make: two sides of the same coin.
There’s also so much explosive tension in this book. In a conversation they have after her play implodes, Hélène tells Cass to "make the next play." As someone who’s always been drawn to create, this struck a chord, as did Cass’s resistance to it. She doesn't want to make the next thing. She wants to be famous. She wants money. She wants people—the right people—to like her work. I’m not a working artist, but I am a writer, someone balancing work I love with work that pays the bills. So much of Cass’s struggle is painfully relatable, even when she’s being infuriating.
If you’re thinking now that this novel is all about art and not at all about queerness, think again. I absolutely love the complexity of the queer representation, especially Cass’s bisexuality. Cass isn’t the only bi character. There’s also her friend Dylan, who she stays with in LA. Both Cass and Dylan experience biphobia and bi erasure, from straight people and from other queer folks. Dylan continually feels like he has to suppress his bisexuality in his relationship with his boyfriend Daniel, who has never really accepted that Dylan is bi. The queer community is not a monolith. It is rife with prejudice and problems, including biphobia. We don’t all get along. We hurt each other. This book isn’t about some imagined, perfect queer community devoid of racism, transphobia, sexism, etc. It’s about the real queer community, which includes painful relationships like this one. Silverman’s honesty is refreshing.
There’s a particularly frustrating scene, where, after someone learns Cass is queer, they immediately start referring to her as a lesbian—as if that’s the only identity a queer woman can have. Cass then has to explain herself. It’s exhausting. It also illumines how complicated it can be to talk about queer identities. Queer is an identity, but it's also an umbrella. For Cass, it’s both.
Something else that’s refreshingly honest: the way Silverman portrays Cass’s relationships with various other queer characters. In Cass and Dylan’s friendship, their shared bi identity, though not central, gives them an ease with each other. Cass's relationship with Dylan’s boyfriend Daniel, who is gay, is strained and often antagonistic. Cass becomes close with one of the queer teenagers in Caroline's movie, and their different queer identities affect how they relate to each other. There is so much subtlety in all these relationships. Cass’s bisexuality is specific, and I loved seeing that reflected not only in how she moves through the world, but in how she understands and relates to (or doesn’t) other queer people.
Erasure comes in many forms. It reduces people into simple categories. Or it only allows a small, acceptable part of someone’s identity to show up on the page. Though Silverman doesn’t shy away from writing about biphobia and bi erasure, the book itself is a joyful refutal of erasure. Cass refuses to be erased.
This review is already too long, and there are a ton of things I loved about this book I haven’t even mentioned yet. The humor! The biting commentary about internet culture! A whole section set in rural New Hampshire! It ends with a weird and stunning play, and there is so much genuine and painful growth throughout.
Upcoming: Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake by Alexis Hall (Romance, Forever, 5/18)
This book opens with a scene in which bisexual heroine Rosaline Palmer has to deal with the homophobia/biphobia of her eight-year-old daughter’s teacher. It’s a delight watching her put this irritating woman in her place (though exhausting that she has to). It ends with a joyfully non-heteronormative and very queer sex scene between Rosaline and her adorably straight boyfriend. In between, there’s a lot of baking and banter. Need I say more? Probably not. But I will, and happily!
If you know me, you know how much I love The Great British Bake Off. I love it SO MUCH. A queer romance set in the GBBO tent is basically my dream book, but after reading a few baking romances I felt pretty meh about, I’d despaired of ever finding it. Put another way: I had very high expectations for this book. Friends, it’s perfect. It pokes fun at GBBO, but earnestly, with compassion and delight. There’s a lot of butter and sugar, many bad puns, and plenty of weird technical challenges. Everything about it will feel familiar to GBBO fans. But Hall weaves his own kind of magic, too. It’s all just different enough that I easily sank into the world of this show without trying to make it match Bake Off. Most of all, like Bake Off, this book isn’t really about baking. It’s about Rosaline, and what baking means to her. Of course I watch Bake Off because I am obsessed with puff pastry and obscure British pies. But it wouldn’t be any fun without the bakers, and Hall captures that same spirit in this deliciously fun novel.
I love queer M/F romances almost as much as I love GBBO. There are quite a lot of M/F romances out there with queer characters, but I wouldn’t classify all of them as queer romance. I’m not talking about the relationships, mind—any relationship involving a queer person is a queer relationship. But it’s relatively common to read an M/F romance in which a character’s bisexuality, for instance, is only mentioned in passing. And that is well and good! It’s just not my favorite kind of romance, and it is not this book.
I love books about queer people living in queer worlds, and Rosaline’s world is very queer. She can’t (won’t, doesn’t want to) separate her bi identity from the rest of her life. Her ex-girlfriend, Lauren, is also her best friend. Rosaline is a single mum. Lauren is her daughter’s aunt, and a vital part of Rosaline’s family. Throughout the book, Lauren is the one who’s there for her, especially when Rosaline’s parents aren’t. So this is a book about queer family. I especially love that we get to see that family through eight-year-old Amelie’s eyes. Amelie is precocious and hilarious and so proud; I cheered during all of her scenes.
But Rosaline’s queer world is also the real world, so it’s not all no-nonsense eight-year-olds and queer besties. Her parents are low-grade homophobic—the kind of homophobic where they get visibly exited and proud when she starts dating a man. Several people in Rosaline’s life—mostly men—make assumptions about her because she’s bi. There are a few instances of biphobia and fetishization of queer women that are not pleasant to read. It’s a joyfully queer book. But it is also full of hard and painful moments.
You may have noticed I haven’t said much about the actual plot. It unfolds in an atypical manner, for a romance novel. I liked getting to experience its surprises, so I won’t go into any details here. What I will say: if you haven’t read Hall yet, you’re in for a treat. If you have (i.e. if you adored Boyfriend Material), you can look forward to the same magical blend of humor and heart. He excels at writing funny books. I belly laughed, reading this. But Hall doesn’t write it’s-all-fun-and-games romcoms; he writes serious romcoms. This one is about a woman struggling with self-worth, trying desperately to find her own voice in a crowd of voices that think they know what’s best for her. She gets in some painful situations and makes some questionable decisions. Over the course of a ten week baking competition, she changes her life.
I love this novel to pieces, and I am so excited that there will be two more in the series. I wish I could read it again for the first time, but I’ll have to settle for reading it again on audio. It’s out May 18th, and you can preorder it here.
The Bake
Obviously, for this week’s recipe, I had to pick something that Rosaline made during the competition. I thought about making Dundee cake, a traditional Scottish fruitcake that sounds delicious, but it’s not the right season for that. I would have loved to give you all a recipe for the anatomically-correct (ish) heart-shaped bread sculpture Rosaline made for bread week, but it’s far too complicated. So I chose something I’ve made and loved, and that delighted me when I encountered it in the book: gougéres. Or, more accurately: puffy golden balls of supremely cheesy deliciousness.
This is a fantastic recipe to try if you’ve never worked with choux dough before. I guarantee it’ll be delicious even if your gougéres don’t rise perfectly. It’s adapted from the wonderful Everyday Dorie.
Walnut & Mustard Cheese Puffs
Makes 35-55 gougéres, depending on size
Ingredients
1/2 cup (120 ml) whole milk
1/2 cup (120 ml) water
1 stick (113 grams) unsalted butter, cut into 3-5 pieces
1 1/4 tsp salt
136 grams (1 cup) all-purpose flour
4 eggs, at room temperature
1 egg white, at room temperature
2 tsp mustard
170 grams (about 2 cups) coarsely grated cheese (cheddar, Comté, and Gruyére are all fantastic, or use a combo!)
2 tsp chopped fresh thyme
80 grams (2/3 cup) walnuts, toasted and chopped
Preheat the oven to 425. Line two baking sheets with parchment or baking mats.
Combine milk, water, butter, and salt in medium saucepan over hight heat. Bring to a boil; add the flour all at once. Lower the heat and stir vigorously with a wooden spoon. Keep stirring until the dough forms a ball and leaves a faint film on the bottom of the pan, then keep stirring for two minutes more. You’re cooking the flour to dry it out.
Dump the dough into the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. (You can also do with in a bowl with a wooden spoon.) Let it cool for a few minutes, and then add the eggs, one at a time, followed by the white, beating after each addition. It’s going to look weird and stringy. Don’t worry! Just keep mixing until you have a smooth dough. Beat in the mustard, cheese, thyme, and walnuts.
Scoop the dough into small mounds on the prepared baking sheets. I usually use a tablespoon. You can freeze the unbaked puffs and bake right from the freezer!
Put the baking sheets in the oven and turn the temperature down to 375. Bake for 12 minutes, rotate the pans, and bake for another 15-20 minutes, until the gougéres are puffed, golden, and dry to the touch. They’re best straight out of the oven.
The Bowl & The Beat
The Bowl: Roasted Potato & Asparagus Salad
Asparagus has arrived in my corner of the world, which means I’ll be eating a variation of this salad at least once a week for the next month. It’s one of my favorite ways to eat asparagus, and the first time I make it each year marks the true arrival of spring.
Preheat the oven to 450. Snap off the ends from a bunch of asparagus, arrange it on a baking tray, drizzle with olive oil, and roast for 10-12 minutes. Chop some potatoes, toss with olive oil, salt, and pepper, and roast for 15-20 minutes. Meanwhile, in a big bowl, combine chopped hardboiled eggs, a handful of chopped basil, and some cubed cheese (I like mozzarella). Make a quick dressing with olive oil, mustard, red wine vinegar, and salt. Add a pressed garlic clove if you want. Chop the roasted asparagus and add it to the bowl along with the roasted potatoes. Dress and toss to coat.
The Beat: Broken Horses by Brandi Carlile, read by the author
I just started this today. I’m listening to it for a review, and I have to admit, I’m not that familiar with Carlile’s music. The only song of hers I actually know is “Wherever Is Your Heart”, which I listened to a lot when I was running a farm. In any case, I’m really enjoying the book so far. Carlile’s voice is warm, familiar and, yes, full of music. I can already tell what a great storyteller she is. She also recorded new versions of thirty songs exclusively for the audiobook, and I can’t wait to listen to them.
The Bookshelf
The Library Shelf
I hunkered down this weekend with a stack of overdue library books, and finished three: The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey (loved it), Justine by Forsyth Harmon (meh), and Amatka by Karin Tidbeck (didn’t love it, but definitely recommend it if you like unsettling speculative fiction).
The Visual
One of my goals this year is to send out a mini book review to a different person each week. It’s been a delightful project. I get to use all my beautiful stationery from Yoseka (they might as well just take all my money now), and connect with friends via snail mail. I did get behind a few weeks ago, so I recently sent out ten reviews at once. Want one? I only know so many people in real life! Reply to this email with your address and what kind of book you’re looking for, and I’ll gladly send you a rec!
Around the Internet
My fellow Rioter Margaret Kingsbury wrote a brilliant piece about the state of disability representation in children’s books, and I highly recommend you read it.
Now Out
Hooray! The Renunciations by Donika Kelly is now out—go forth and find a copy!
The Boost
Mira Jacob (author of Good Talk and one of my favorite people on the internet) has been sharing a ton of resources regarding the current COVID catastrophe in India.
Image: An Instagram post from Mira Jacob that says: “Today’s suggested yoga pose: Place your hands on your keyboard and go to giveindia.org and fucking help.”
She recently shared this comprehensive guide, compiled by affirmationaddict. It’s a huge list of ways to help India when you’re not in India, and includes links to many organizations seeking donations, as well as a massive list of ongoing mutual aid fundraisers.
As always, a little bit of beauty to send you on your way: I manage the community gardens at a local farm, and a few weeks ago I took a spring walk around the fields. Nothing fills me with joy quite like new seedlings pushing up through the earth.
That’s it until next week. Catch you then!