| |  | | | | October 24, 2017 | Letter No. 109 | | | | | | | | | | | Advertisement | | |  | | | | | | | | | Dear Lennys,
Are you as disappointed with your hair and nail care as I am with mine as you try to balance your overflowing lives? Did you leave a patch of hair in the shape of Texas on your calf then scoot off to an important meeting, stocking-free? OK, great, you too? Just wanted to get that out of the way. And if you don't give a shit and you're rocking oily layers and a carpet of body fuzz, you're my hero.
So, in other news, Jenni and I could not be more thrilled to bring you Courage Is Contagious, the second book from our Lenny Books imprint, out today. Not just because it's a book (a whole book! That says "Lenny" right on the side!) but because it's a full ode to the beacon of light that is Michelle Obama. When Interview magazine editor in chief Nick Haramis brought us this idea, inspired by a feature he'd run as an editor at T, we were like, "Uh hell yeah." The election had not yet happened, but we still knew the world needed an ode (many odes) to the wisdom and style of Mrs. Obama. And the writing is beautiful, with entries from artists like Gabourey Sidibe and Issa Rae, activists like Janet Mock and Gloria Steinem, and some especially rad eighth graders.
Today we share a piece by the inimitable Tracee Ellis Ross, who is responsible for changing the way black womanhood is depicted on television through her role on Black-ish and looking ferociously cool while doing so.
"First Lady" is a funny concept, a role that is harder to fit into than my jeans from tenth grade. Hillary Clinton shed it as she stepped into her own light as a politician. Laura Bush went pretty classic, focusing on furthering her husband's policy ideas and choosing causes that were hard to quibble with. We are now, as a culture, taking the liberty of debating Melania Trump's every blink, hoping it's some kind of Morse code for "Help me." (Let's give the woman some agency, for chrissakes.) But Michelle somehow transformed the job into one that was both effortlessly supportive of her husband and wildly individual, from her messages of strength and autonomy to her much-lauded sense of style. If you appreciate her like we do, this book will fill your holiday with much-needed glee. Thank you in advance.
When they go low, I get high.
xx,
Lena
In addition to Tracee Ellis Ross's incredible essay about Michelle Obama, in this week's issue we have:
—Meryl Rowin's hilarious comic VHS guide to her neuroses, which is the only place you'll find the filmic genre "secret humping."
—Megan Carpentier's lively interview with the delightful Shalita Grant, star of NCIS: New Orleans and Mercy Street.
—Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich writes about what it's like to be a woman dating other women when you both have a history of sexual assault, and our collective cultural amnesia about the reality of rape.
—And finally we have Alison Roman's perfect formula for fruit salad. | | | | | | | | | | | | Tracee Ellis Ross: Michelle Obama Helped Me Be Myself | | | | By Tracee Ellis Ross | | |
I have been to the White House many times. I was there with Jimmy Carter, as a child — I have a signed picture of him from the visit. I was there again with George W. Bush, when my mother, Diana Ross, received the Kennedy Center Honors. The house felt entirely different after the Obamas moved in. They had clearly decided to make the White House feel like our house, or perhaps the decision was made simply by having them there. They passed the torch back to the American people, as if to tell us that this is our country and that we do have the power. They took their power and used it to empower others.
I first visited the Obama White House in 2011 for one of Michelle Obama's mentoring events timed to Women's History Month. There's a photograph of the two of us from that day. We're in profile, and we are talking with our hands. Her hand is down and my hand is up, and it looks like there's a bird between us. When I think back to that photo, it's clear to me that we were just beginning a conversation about being proud, powerful black women in this country, which continues to this day and stays alive whether we see each other or not.
To be in partnership with your husband and to also have your own life is not original, at least not in real life. Having that combination embodied in a figure as archetypal as the First Lady has had a huge impact on our culture. She didn't shy away from being a loving wife. She didn't shy away from the importance of fashion to her role. But at the same time she was robustly herself.
Our show Black-ish is a family comedy, and what we're playing is an American family. We don't happen to be black. We are black. Mrs. Obama made room for my character, Rainbow Johnson. She validated a Rainbow Johnson for people who had never met a black woman with the revolutionary experience of being joyful. A black woman who is not only surviving but thriving. A black woman who is actually in love with her husband — not an image we usually see in American pop culture. A black woman who can be goofy and sexy, who can be smart and empowered and soft and lovable and vulnerable. Eight years of watching Michelle Obama as a person, not just relegated to doing "woman things," provided an antidote to all the false representations of black women that have inundated us for centuries — images that don't represent the reality, or the humanity, of who we are as black people. Of who we are as people. And then to have her name prefaced by two things that are rarely associated with black women — "First" and "Lady" — well, it shattered everything.
Part of what Mrs. Obama has encouraged in me is the strength within myself to be myself. It's not the White House that made her who she is. She is who she is, and it's something we were reminded of time and again during her final year there. She said in her speech at the 2016 Democratic National Convention, "I wake up every morning in a house built by slaves." She didn't deny the history of this country. Instead she acknowledged it, as if to emphasize how far we've come and how important it is for us to keep moving forward. In another speech, following the release of footage that captured Donald Trump talking about grabbing "pussy," she stood at the podium and said, with tears in her eyes, "I can't believe that I'm saying that a candidate for president of the United States has bragged about sexually assaulting women." She named what so many people would not name, what so many other women were shamed out of naming. To have the First Lady of the United States stand up and name what was happening for all of us put the shame back where it belonged.
Somehow, I think we saw her become more herself during her eight years in the White House. The more the wind whipped around her, the sturdier she became. The larger her platform, the deeper her roots stretched and the longer her branches reached. It wasn't exactly a blossoming, but a ripening.
Essay by Tracee Ellis Ross from Courage Is Contagious, edited by Nick Haramis, copyright © 2017 by Tracee Ellis Ross. Used by permission of Lenny, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Tracee Ellis Ross is an award-winning actress, activist, social-media enthusiast, self-described "culture of beauty disrupter," and producer. | | | | | | | | | | | | A VHS Guide to My Neuroses | | | | By Meryl Rowin | | |
Meryl is an illustrator from New York, living in Los Angeles. She spent age three through five playing violin and pretending to be a dog. | | | | | | | | | | | | Shalita Grant Is Fighting Battles Big and Small | | | | By Megan Carpentier | | |
Shalita Grant got her first tattoo earlier this year: it was, she told me in a summer interview, a play on the phrase honey-dipped machete, which she heard from a baba in New Orleans. "You don't have to fight rough, you can fight sweet," she says he told her. "You don't have to let the fight callous you." For Grant, the reading made clear to her not only what her first tattoo should be but also how to understand her part in the larger fight for racial and gender equality.
"I believe in the good of people, which is why I talk about social justice so much," she said. "It's like a little reminder to me that in this moment, I am OK, I am fine, and I can keep fighting but not wear the battles."
Grant's characters' battles are often visible onscreen, too, whether she's playing Special Agent Sonja Percy, chasing down bad guys in the crime procedural NCIS: New Orleans, or Aurelia Johnson, a formerly enslaved woman in the Civil War on the PBS show Mercy Street.
Grant filmed the two series in quick succession in 2015, because the PBS show felt so important to her. "What I love about Black Lives Matter and what I thought Mercy Street would be able to highlight was that, when black people are free, everyone is free," she explained. "If the least of us can live, then we have a good society."
Grant's used to fighting the good fight: within three years of graduating from Juilliard's prestigious acting program, she was playing Cassandra in Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike on Broadway, receiving her first Tony nomination for her portrayal.
From there, she decided to try to conquer Los Angeles, but it took 59 failed auditions (and a couple of other jobs) before she got another role; even her character on NCIS: New Orleans had been originally slated for only a three-to-five-episode arc. This fall, though, will be her third season on the series, and while on hiatus she appeared as Hermia in A Midsummer Night's Dream with New York City's Shakespeare in the Park. I spoke to her about challenging stereotypical narratives, fighting for her career, and going from Broadway to LA.
Megan Carpentier: What was it like to go from being a student to being a Tony-nominated actress in just a few years?
Shalita Grant: It was one of those moments where I realized that you can fight for something, fight for something, fight for something, but to what end? What's the next mountain?
So I was like, "I'm going to LA. I quit this town. I'm going to go to another town, and I'm going to start a new fight." And when I got out there, it was sort of like, Tony who? Julie what? Can you do regular acting, or is it just the Broadway thing? I was like, Wow, OK, this might be harder than I thought it would be.
MC: You've also talked about being told in that first period of time in LA — even though, obviously, you're a very fit person and a relatively small person — that you were maybe a little bit too heavy.
SG: It's just always like, Ugh, really? But you play [the game] because you want to be in the room. Even though I understood what was being asked of me, I didn't see myself that way, so I had a choice to make. I could either thug it out and have my moral stance, or I could find a way to do this that actually works for me. I invested in getting fit, doing things that would benefit my body in the long run.
I had in my mind what women do to get themselves [thin], and I said, "I'm definitely not going to fucking do that to myself." I had too much love and respect for myself. I know why I'm doing this. I know that I'm not bad. I know that I'm not the problem. It's just a thing, so fuck it.
MC: What did it take to get into an exercise—
SG: As I eat my cookie. Go on.
MC: —to get into an exercise frame of mind?
SG: I like to think of things that I can't do and work on that. So the first thing was being able to do a pull-up: watching videos and tutorials, and then doing that shit for myself. Then when I was able to do one, I was like, I'm amazing. I can do a pull-up. Can I do two? Nah, son. And then I said, Ooh, 5K. I ain't never ran a 5K. Let me try that. I'm going to try to find a way to do this, just like I did with my career. I didn't book the first thing I auditioned for. I didn't book the fourteenth thing I auditioned for. But it didn't stop me.
MC: So what was that transition like when you did finally land the job on NCIS: New Orleans?
SG: When I initially got the job and I found out that I was going to be a series regular, the first thing I thought — very human — was Oh my God. I don't have to worry about money. But I didn't realize just how different a procedural is ... I do come from theater, and I am always looking for ways to be human and be alive and in the moment. It is challenging to do that with a procedural.
MC: As you were finishing up your first season on the show, you got Mercy Street. You've talked in some other interviews about having to prepare to take a character of an enslaved woman who goes through sexual assault and tries to perform her own abortion and ends up infertile.
SG: It's always challenging when the black experience and the black narrative is so vicious. I worked really hard when I was on set to make sure that we weren't just being brutal: it has to be rooted in reality, because I don't want to do murder porn, or abortion porn.
There was an issue with the prop for the abortion. The director wanted these huge shears that I would stick up myself. It was one of those moments where you think to yourself, You're young, you're a woman. This is only your second TV series where you are one of the main actors, so be quiet.
But I stopped and said, "Hey, listen. This doesn't make sense. If in the '60s and '70s women were using coat hangers, this doesn't feel right." His response was that he really wanted this vicious thing.
I went to the creator and said, "You had three babies, right? So you know what your cervix looks like. You know that you wouldn't be able to get this thing through this hole without passing out. You wouldn't ever have had an abortion." And she was like, "Yeah." So we changed it to something else.
It was little battles like that on set that you have to fight to make sure that the story that you're telling is real and it's respectful.
Megan Carpentier is an editor at Think, a contributing editor for opinion at U.S. News & World Report, and a columnist for Dame Magazine. Her work has also appeared in Rolling Stone, The Guardian, Esquire, The New Republic, Glamour, and other publications. | | | | | | | | | | | | Our Cultural Amnesia About Sexual Assault | | | | By Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich | | | |
The first night I kissed a woman was clear and cold. The wind smelled of snow, and as we walked the paths of Boston's Public Garden, the streetlights making the frost around us sparkle, we kept our hands shoved deep in our coat pockets. Her coat was a brilliant emerald green that seemed to glow in the light. It matched the color of her eyes.
That coat was the first thing I'd ever noticed about her, a week before. We'd met online but had traded no pictures. I'd done plenty of online dating but never before with another woman. She was much more experienced but knew enough to be careful with my shyness. Finally, we'd agreed to meet in a coffee shop. Leaving the train station to walk the few blocks there, I'd spotted a woman in that beautiful green coat, golden hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders. I'd never seen her before — and yet. Somehow I thought it was her. I walked to the coffee shop half-hoping, half-knowing it was her. And half-wishing it wasn't. That my life wasn't about to change.
But then the coffee shop door opened. And the woman in the green coat walked in.
Then, a week of coffees and drinks. Each time we'd met, I'd gotten nervous and rambled to her like a friend — then pretty much turned and ran as soon as the date, or whatever it was, was over. I hadn't touched her. She hadn't touched me. Just: ramble. Run. The night before, we'd finally had dinner together at a hippie-ish Tibetan place where nothing cost more than a few dollars and the wooden tables were beat up. When she sat down at the table, she'd slid her coat off her shoulders and revealed that she was wearing a silver sequin top slit down deep between her breasts. I stopped drinking my tea. I'm pretty sure I gulped. She grinned, and I got the point: we weren't just friends. Could I please get over my nerves, already? But at the end of the night, I ran again.
Now we stood atop a little stone arched bridge in the garden. It could have belonged in a fairy tale. Might have had a billy goat beneath it. She took her hands out of her pockets and rubbed them together, then turned and faced me. Close enough that I could see how the wind had made her eyes water, her eyelashes glisten. We were going to kiss — I could feel that we were going to kiss — and though the wind rushed cold around me, time stretched.
She looked up at me. Those eyes. Then she said, "There's something about me you should know."
There was a time — right after the day the Access Hollywood tape came out in 2016 — when it seemed like we might finally be ready to pay serious attention to the prevalence of sexual assault in this country. When it seemed like ignoring it might actually, for once, hurt someone other than those of us who live with it in our bodies.
Typing that now, though, seems almost naïve, with President Trump in the Oval Office and Clarence Thomas still sitting comfortably on the Supreme Court.
I listened to her talk. We didn't kiss then. Mostly, I was quiet, watching her. I asked some gentle questions when it seemed like she wanted them. Afterward, we walked around the park for a long time. Eventually we did kiss, and I remember the surprise of how sweet her mouth tasted and how full her lips were — but mostly I remember her words. My quiet.
And my shock.
Because while she spoke I realized that I'd never considered this part of dating women. That dating women — statistically radically more likely to be sexually assaulted than men — would mean navigating the memories they carried in their bodies. And navigating how to carry mine.
Was I supposed to tell her then that I, too, had been abused by a family member — in my case my grandfather?
For the ten years I'd spent in the closet, I'd worried about so many things that might happen if I came out. I'd worried about my loved ones' reactions. I'd worried about how I'd make a family, if I couldn't have what I'd grown up with: parents who were married, children who were biologically from both parents. Gay marriage was such an obscure idea, that when I'd told my college-thesis adviser I wanted to look at the legal theories in support of it in 2001, he'd waved off the idea. We were in New York City. He was a deeply liberal sociologist. But gay marriage? That was so fringe it sounded crazy.
So I worried about how I'd be perceived. I worried whether being out as gay would harm the legal career I had then planned. (It must, I thought. How could it not?) I even worried that if people knew I'd been abused, they would think that that was why I was gay. Like that had turned me gay. That seemed like the most horrible idea of all. That even if I grew comfortable with my desire for women, others would dismiss it as just a side effect caused by a man's abuse. There are times, when I look back now at this list, that I'm dumbstruck by it. How afraid I was to just be who I am. What did I really think would be so bad? Yet how quickly social change would come was unthinkable then. So I worried.
But with all I worried about, I had never once worried about how I'd handle someone else's sexual trauma. I had male friends — two I knew about — who'd been abused, but I'd never dated them. I'd never thought about why I'd avoided it — but on some level, I'd known why. The idea had seemed hopelessly complicated: Who would hold whom, if a flashback came? What if both of us had a flashback at the same time? How could that possibly feel safe?
But then I started dating women. And soon, it was impossible to avoid.
The Trump administration doesn't lack for scandals and should-be scandals. Right now the internet is awash in tales of Harvey Weinstein's monstrous behavior. We're in a moment where the topic has risen sharply, and change seems possible. But I worry it will die away again in the endless ebb of our news cycle. Remember Jerry Sandusky? Nate Parker? Woody Allen? Roman Polanski? Casey Affleck? Bill Cosby?
The conversation flared and then died then, too.
Yet there are many of us — far too many of us — for whom it never really dies down. Memories live in our bodies and in our communities. When I began teaching creative writing, every term, a third of my students would self-disclose as having been abused or assaulted. (Though once, when I observed this to a class, a student approached me afterward, her face grim. "You know one-third's just those of us who've told you," she said.) The CDC estimates that nearly one in five women have been raped. Forty percent of black women have been subject to "coercive sexual conduct" by age eighteen. And surveys of sexual minority populations — LGBTQ people, like me — consistently show that 30 to 40 percent report having been sexually abused.
Each time I read a number like this, I recoil. I want to push back. I want to push back because I don't want it to be true. And I want to push back because there's still part of me that feels so alone in this experience — even knowing the percentage. That felt so alone each time I discovered a new lover had this in her past, too, and felt just as alone as I did.
That's the irony: Most of us do feel alone in it. A culture that's always moving on to the next thing, always stranding us with our experience, makes sure we do.
The woman in the green coat and I dated for months. She was my first girlfriend — but not my last. I think back over the years of dating women that have followed, and I arrive at the statistic above: yes, 40 percent.
On generous days, I want to think that some of the silence isn't malicious. That maybe the reason the culture stops talking about it so quickly is that a lot of people can afford to. That maybe it's just natural they stop thinking about it, if they don't have memories that live in their body, that make their breath run cold with panic when a moment that should be pleasure becomes a memory of terror. Or if they don't live in communities in which assault is rampant, and have to see their lover gasp with memory. They can fool themselves into thinking it's another person's problem. Just some poor person's trauma.
But then I remember the statistics. And I think of the #metoo hashtag. No matter how alone I feel sometimes, it's not just some communities. It's all of us.
So on my most generous days? On those days, I allow myself to hope that maybe yes, this is finally the moment. Maybe the culture is actually ready to hear us. Maybe it will catch up to what many of us have been living for years. And finally — finally — change.
Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich is the author of The Fact of a Body: A Murder and a Memoir. | | | | | | | | | | | | The Best Salad Is Actually Fruit Salad | | | | By Alison Roman | | |
| (Michael Graydon and Nikole Herriott) |
These days, anything can be a salad. Tacos with extra lettuce? Salad. Mayonnaise and tuna? Somehow a salad. Out-of-season berries, underripe melon, and halved grapes tossed together and served at a brunch you're not even trying to be at? Yes, and we shall call it: Fruit Salad. But we can do better than that.
I'm here to tell you that fruit salad can be GREAT, and it can be cool — it's true! I'm talking about perfectly textured, acidic, lightly sweetened fruit sassed up with salty cheese, crunchy nuts, and peppery herbs. I'm talking about fruit drizzled with lime and sprinkled with chile. I'm talking about fruit dressed like a salad and treated like the sweet, special star that it is.
For a great fruit-salad experience, you only need to know one thing, and that is:
Good Fruit + Salt + Green Thing + Crunchy Thing + Cheesy Thing = Amazing Fruit Salad!
Let's break it down.
FRUIT:
Always use good fruit. I'm not going to say that if it's not at peak season, don't use it, because we should all be allowed to live our lives. But don't expect a fruit salad made with flavorless fruit to be life-changing, you know?
You really can use nearly any fruit, but I like ones with crunchy texture (apples! pears!), good acidity (nectarines! plums!), and a mellow sweetness (persimmon! cantaloupe!). Avoid anything overly ripe (it can get mushy), anything too small to eat with a fork (blueberries, grapes) and anything that tastes like banana (bananas).
Oh, and I feel pretty passionately about slicing, never cubing or chunking the fruit. But that's deeply personal.
SALT:
When I was ten, my mom had some friends over for dinner, and one of them (his name was Bob) was eating his watermelon with salt on it. I thought he was pretty gross, but then I tried it and it made the already-great watermelon even better. It changed my life. Thanks, Bob!
Just like vegetables, proteins, and nearly every single thing you'd ever cook, fruit needs a lil' bit of salt to truly sing. It brings out the flavors, kicks it into the savory realm, and keeps things properly seasoned. This is a good time to use that fancy flaky sea salt. (Hot tip: If you don't own fancy flaky sea salt, it's a truly worthy investment. I like this one by Jacobsen.)
Because we are talking about seasoning here, I'll add that if you like things spicy, you can and should season with black pepper or crushed red-chile flake.
GREEN THING:
This is kind of optional, but adding a fresh green thing here — a leafy thing like spicy arugula or watercress, or punchy tender herbs like parsley, cilantro, dill, mint, and even chives or scallions — will make your fruit salad feel, well, more like a salad. It will also add flavor and texture. I like eating herbs like they are lettuce, so my fruit salads will almost always have a mix of the above.
CRUNCHY THING:
This is probably my favorite food group. "Crunchy things" make literally whatever you are eating instantly better. Even if the fruit you're using is already crunchy, a sprinkle of toasted bread crumbs (think of them as little croutons), roasted and chopped nuts (almond, pistachio, pecan, and walnut), or even seeds (poppy, sesame, and flax are my faves) will vastly improve your fruit-salad experience.
CHEESY THING:
Okay, so this is optional, but you probably, definitely want some cheesy thing at least somewhere near your fruit salad. This can be a bit of shaved Parmesan, a crumble of feta, or a little bit of thinly sliced white Cheddar. Not all fruits need this burst of creamy, fatty saltiness (extremely acidic fruits like grapefruit or naturally creamy fruits like melon don't really need it), but almost all fruits want it. And while I can't believe I'm saying this: Don't go overboard; whatever cheese you're using, use it in moderation. This is about the fruit, remember?
TO DRESS YOUR SALAD:
The best part about fruit salad is that it doesn't really need a dressing: a squeeze of lemon or lime, a drizzle of olive oil, and you're in business. If the fruit needs some help, sometimes I'll drizzle the smallest amount of honey over it, but only if it's really tart or not as sweet as it should be.
TO PLATE YOUR SALAD:
I don't know what it is, but salads just look and taste better on a plate. Even if you don't believe me, try it and I think you'll like it. Here's my formula: Scatter some sliced fruit on a plate, squeeze some lemon or lime over the top, and sprinkle with salt and any other desired seasonings. In a separate small bowl, dress the greens or herbs with some lemon or lime, salt, and pepper. Scatter all this business over the fruit. Top with a crunchy thing and, if you want, a cheesy thing.
And that's it! A fruit salad that's sweet, salty, tangy, and fresh as hell. Now run and tell everyone you know fruit salads are cool again, because they are.
Here's one of my favorites to try:
| (Michael Graydon and Nikole Herriott) |
Apple and Endive Salad With Parsley and Salted Almonds
Serves 4
My ideal salads are the ones that have tons of texture, acid, and salt. This one, in particular, hits every note: it's fresh, bitter, salty, sweet, and crunchy as hell. Yes, the bit of fish sauce is optional, but I will say that its uniquely salty, savory funkiness takes this salad from simply great to truly, impossibly delicious. Feel free to mix up the types of herbs and nuts here, depending on what you have and what you like, swapping mint for parsley or walnuts for almonds.
½ cup skin-on roasted almonds or raw walnuts or pecans, chopped (see Note)
3 tablespoons olive oil
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 endives, ends trimmed, quartered lengthwise, leaves separated
1 large tart apple, such as Pink Lady, cored and thinly sliced crosswise into rounds
1 shallot, thinly sliced crosswise into rings
1 cup fresh parsley, tender stems and leaves
½ cup mint leaves
2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, plus more as needed
1 teaspoon Asian fish sauce (optional)
Combine the almonds and olive oil in a small bowl. Season well with salt and pepper.
Toss the endive, apple, shallot, parsley, mint, lemon juice, and fish sauce (if using) in a large bowl. Season with salt and pepper. Taste a leaf or two of endive and adjust with more lemon, salt, or pepper, if needed.
Place the apples and endive on a large serving platter or bowl and top with the salted almond mixture.
NOTE: If using raw walnuts or pecans, toast them. TO TOAST NUTS, preheat the oven to 350°F. Place the nuts on a rimmed baking sheet (you could use a rimless one, but they slide off easily, so be prepared to pick up nuts off the floor for at least a few weeks). Toast, shaking the baking sheet once or twice, until the nuts are evenly and deeply toasted, anywhere from 8 to 12 minutes (closer to 8 for things like pecans and hazelnuts, closer to 12 for larger walnuts, almonds, and cashews). When you break open the nuts, they should be toasted to the core, smell like buttered toast, and be nuttier tasting than when they went in.
This recipe was reprinted from Dining In. Copyright © 2017 by Alison Roman. Photographs copyright ©2017 by Michael Graydon and Nikole Herriott. Published by Clarkson Potter/Publishers, an imprint of Penguin Random House, LLC.
Alison Roman is a food writer and recipe developer and the author of the cookbook Dining In: Highly Cookable Recipes, out today. | | | | | | | | | | | | | | The email newsletter where there's no such thing as too much information.
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