Thoughts on Belonging

We all want to belong. To something greater than ourselves, to have a community, a tribe, even just to have a family, biological or chosen.

The last few weeks have been a serious trial of my personal sense of belonging. Getting (mostly) off of social media has helped stem the tide of belabored bullshit. “You are either with us or against us,” whatever the “us” is, is a big red flag for whether you actually belong to a certain group or whether your belonging is conditional on saying and doing the “right” things.

Work in the kitchen has provided a sense of place and community. Kitchens ave historically been my “safe spaces” and sanctuaries. Everything has a place, a purpose, and my belonging in them is undeniable and absolute- by my experience and skills if not myself.

“Matt the Baker” is only part of me though, and leaning into that solely for my sense of belonging is dangerous. I am also an American, a Jewish man, more a leftist than anything else politically, and fundamentally a human being.

“Belonging” to any of those things has been intensely difficult lately, but I still feel the need to have a tribe and not be a “man without a country” when things get tough.

We have to learn to belong, first and foremost, to ourselves.

A black and white portrait of a woman with her eyes digitally smudged out
Photo by Thiago Matos
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Nothing Dies For No Reason- #SupportSmallBusiness

Emily is about to go back to work as schools reopen for the fall semester. Yesterday we hit our favorite food pod for what Emily realized would be the last time she could meet me for a post-shift beer for the semester, and today we hit up a street fair.

Sitting in Belmont Station afterward for beer and writing, flush with the book, pins, stickers, and such we bought from local artists and businesses, I can’t help but think of some of the conversations we’ve had with and about the business owners we know.

One woman is at a farmers market and she makes Haitian marinades and sauces we love. The other day, Emily went by herself and Elsy handed her a new product. “Your husband is going to love this one.”

The owner of one of my favorite taprooms, when I asked for take-home recommendations, would look at the menu and go “I know you go for darker and sour beers, but your wife is gonna love this amber…”

Corporations are not people. Small Businesses are. Small business who have regulars, who know your name and who you build relationships with.

When they vanish, it’s not enough to just write a pseudo-political screed on social media or go “Awww but they’ve been there for so long and they were so good!”

If they were so good… why didn’t you buy from them?

Stickers (and a Monk Class pin) from Hundred Lily
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The Case for the Class Clown

Stepping back into the kitchen after time away feels like stepping into a warm bath. That is, up until you wonder how the water got hot and why it’s getting hotter from the bottom up.

Coming back from South Carolina and the first one in kitchen to start the day like usual, I found myself sighing with relief once I got into the familiar work again after the requisite “let’s see what I have to work with” anxiety.

The kitchen still stood. My team carried on well enough and even set me up a bit so I could slide back in to the groove. You really can’t beat a well-trained reliable assistant when you want to take time off. I came back to the same kind of work, the same personalities and difficulties, and the same serene focus I had taken a break from as much as anything. “Serene focus” sounds better than “conscious detachment” when I talk to my therapist. Positive framing and all.

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On The Side of the Angels

It’s a day off, and I’m out walking. An early morning stroll up and down Mount Tabor wasn’t enough when it was nice and cool. Instead, I convinced myself that the best way to get around on an 81 degree day would be to walk down Belmont and Hawthorne, stop for lunch somewhere, and then camp out in a comfortable (ideally air-conditioned) bar to write in while I wait for an appointment.

The Kara-age Don from the new Japanese place was very good- strips of lightly fried but heavily spiced chicken thigh atop a bowl of pillowy and acidic sushi rice was at once refreshing and cripplingly filling, even with an ice-cold Sapporo beer to wash it down. Stepping back out into the sun, my legs felt like sacks of lead. I didn’t want to walk anymore as much as a nap… but that wouldn’t do.

An ice-pop and a shady conversion with an old friend got me more-or-less to my destination- the taproom of a brewery near my appointment with good beer, giant fans (and giant windows. No air-conditioning a space THIS big), and a chilly marble-veneered bar to rest my arms on as I type.

Today is good. I’m walking in the sun, drinking beer, thinking about food, and seeing God. What more could you ask for?

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Sandwiches I Have Known and Loved

They can be basic. They can be opulent. They can be artisanal, antique, unwieldy, oysgeputz, offensive, unfathomable, and unconquerable. But they are always, unquestionably, themselves- and require no explanation.

Sandwiches are beautiful things- a convenience food par excelence– and here are some of my favorites.

John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich- aristocrat, gambling addict, and apparently a culinary genius.
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