What an odd time to be alive.
Not only this, but what an odd time in my own life.
I’m not going to write this article with the mindset that my life matters more than anyone else’s or that I have a particularly fun or substantial life, but I am going to assume that you’re interested in what I have to say simply because you are choosing to read this right now. As a disclaimer, most of this will be about my own experiences and thoughts over the past few months, and I hope that you can relate to at least some sentiment that I explain here. There will be a point to it after it’s all over, probably. Hopefully.
This past summer was a time that I can only describe as a transitionary period. I felt as if I was in limbo throughout all of June, July, and part of August, suspended in space but not time, as if everything—my people, my interests, the world, and at times my own life—were moving past me while I stood standing, occasionally jolted by the movement’s inertia like a slowing subway train. I had started a new job that kept me busy working around forty hours a week, my boyfriend and I sustained troubles which eventually led to the termination of our three-year long relationship, and it was hot outside. Suffocatingly hot, like an open oven. The UNEP (United Nations Environment Programme) recently reported that the world is set to reach that dreaded 1.5 degree celsius benchmark that is supposed to be the end-all-be-all, I guess. If I didn’t learn anything else from policy debate, the one takeaway I did have was that climate change is accelerant in nature, like an exponential trend line instead of a linear one. Catastrophic climate-related events, although occurring at a relatively high rate now, will only occur at an even greater frequency and with greater amplitude than preconceived by much of the population. It is a major concern at the moment that much of the global south might legitimately be wiped out completely, as crop yields are already decreasing at unprecedented rates and droughts, albeit already common, are more unforgiving and irredeemable than ever. Wow! That’s heavy.
Over the past month, but especially in the past few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about Anthony Bourdain. Of course, I had known about him since I was young, probably first hearing of him when he suddenly committed suicide in 2018. I was 11 then, unknowing of the fact that I would consider committing the same act over the next few formative years of my adolescence. I was a pretty melodramatic kid. It is because of this fact and because I feel that him and I share a similar way of thinking that I feel a very close affinity to the late chef. I have not yet seen the recently released Tony biopic; instead, I’ve been reading articles about him written by his long-time personal assistant Laurie Woolever and watching episodes of A Cook’s Tour on Youtube, and listening to the audiobook version of Kitchen Confidential in my walk between classes. My waking minutes are spent thinking about particular quotes of his that stick out to me, like thoughts from my own mind but articulated by someone else. Whenever I listen to his words or watch his actions, I feel like I’m listening or watching myself, only in a more refined but still explicitly passionate, brash, and confident character. He shares my same sentiments about the necessity of travel and the same observations about culture and food’s place in it that I have had thus far in my life. I can only see myself becoming more like him, strong, firm, and witty, yet still tender and conscious of my own soul, not despite but because of the throes of life.
I miss Anthony Bourdain. In thinking about him so much, there is also a strong ache in my chest whenever these thoughts once again come to mind. I miss him, despite never knowing the guy and our timelines only overlapping for the least important years of my life thus far. In listening to his words, to his own voice in the narration of his audiobook, I feel that I have gotten to know him, or a part of him that he has allowed access to through his media, and this part is enough to grieve. In the audio version of Kitchen Confidential I’ll hear him take a deep breath before reading a line about a beloved foodie friend of his and my own breath will catch in my throat, choked at the thought of him not being able to speak ever again, at the thought of the world (including myself) being deprived of his wisdom and character.
I think about how Tony would feel at the condition of the world right now. I wonder if his disbelief at the legitimacy of veganism would change if he saw the real, very tangible effect that the meat and animal product industry has imposed upon our environment. I wonder if he would be less inclined to travel at the thought of the immense carbon footprint that it imposes on an already CO2 and methane-full atmosphere. Part of me, I guess, is happy that his being is consolidated into the time before these major, climate-induced catastrophic events will occur. That somehow, his charm and the allure of his character and insight is pure only because of the context in which it was given; it would lose its untouchable nature if it was touched by the cruelty of the current day, by the physical heat that suffocates all, leaving no room for thought let alone taste. I still miss the guy.
I don’t mean to be completely down about this. In writing, I feel that my voice has taken a dark turn surprising even to me. I really don’t believe that everything is doomed—that we as a collective will die out in a blazing mass of our own creation. Unfortunately, I am choosing to believe that the group is stronger than the individual, and that most people are good. This is a tiring thought to choose time and time again because there is so much working against it, trying to prove it wrong. But, I don’t think that a force that tries to stop the goodness of the collective–whether it be a group of bourgeois elites, or humans who make poor decisions, or capitalism, or greed itself—has any real legitimacy or power when compared to the ripe soul of a living, breathing, warm human body. This is why I miss Anthony Bourdain. I wish he was breathing alongside us, sustaining the tribulations as they come, just as the rest of us have to, choose to, with each passing day. It’s unfair that we have to do this without people like him, but nevertheless, we have to. And we will! I don’t think there is anything less likely than the bleak apocalyptic futures that many try to instill through various methods of fear mongering. I know that there will, inevitably, be an eventual transition to some sort of sustainable future. How this looks, though, is still very much up to interpretation, which is exciting to me—not fearful. I really hope that you agree with this sentiment, because otherwise we might really be completely done for. Hope is the way out.
Back to my own life (selfishly, forgive me), I have little time to actually give things like climate change much real thought and consideration, which might be something that you can relate to. All of the insight that I’ve shared here is superficial—it’s all things that I believe everyone has probably thought about to some extent. I don’t think any of what I’ve said is extremely profound. Although I feel that the issues of our melting permafrost and acidifying oceans should be afforded more time, thought, and true action, I do not have this spare time. I’m taking 16 credit hours this semester, which makes me more than a full-time student, and I am also still working around 35-40 hours a week as I did over the summer, which makes me a full-time laborer as well. I have homework to do after long shifts or in between classes; I have meals to make whenever I can find time, food, and/or money; and most importantly, I have people to see in any remainder of free time. It’s difficult to be a human in this time, living and going about our normal lives as if there isn’t rampant war, genocide, famine, and modern slavery all cooking in a slowly boiling pot with us as the frogs that might not realize it until too late. But that last part isn’t true! We have realized it, and we are acting upon it. Since giving our climate situation a bit of thought, I go about the motions of my daily life pretty much the same way, but not completely identical to how I lived before. I’ve learned that practicing sustainability is not nearly as time consuming, expensive, or exhausting than I had initially conceived. Buying less plastic, using reusable bags and less single-use disposable items, not shopping fast fashion, recycling, composting, donating, making diet changes, consuming less goods and products overall, and not using AI are all easy actions that everyone can take to help, however marginally. In general, people don’t think their small actions will matter, but these actions have great power when done by a large population, which is exactly the necessary first step in large-scale sustainability. As well as these tangible actions within our own lives, it is necessary to emphasize that people must also demand accountability and change from large corporations and governments that impose the largest percentages of emissions and contribute the most to the climate crisis. Whether this be in the form of protest over infrastructure changes to demand more public transportation or walkable city planning, or in the form of voting on agricultural reform so that large corporations own less farmland and are afforded less intellectual property protection on things like patented seeds, or through simply electing officials that have future generations in mind—all of these actions make a tangible difference and are changes that we can do now until a larger transition or revolution is made.
Despite it all, life goes on. I didn’t mean this article to sound like a long-winded call to action. I would like to think that my writing has more voice than that. So, lastly, I’ll share a personal sentiment: the most important, radical action that anyone can take right now is to love. To love each other closely, with more breadth and depth than ever before. Isolation is not, and will never be, the correct answer to solving an issue that will eventually directly affect each and every one of us. If there was nothing else that Anthony Bourdain has taught me, my key takeaway from his media would be that there is no stronger force than connection and a good conversation, particularly over a good meal. Bourdain was a friend at heart—his most memorable meals were always shared with a group of fellow chefs, or with the family of his sous chef from Les Halles, or with an old friend in Cambodia. Bourdain was a lover, and I think everyone can learn a thing or two from his character.
Right now, the days seem slow and the weeks seem fast. I’ll go home from class today and eat the leftover pasta that’s in my fridge from a couple nights ago. I’ll take a much needed nap before my shift today, despite the pressing task of a looming sociology paper due sooner than it feels. I’ll pet our cat until she gets tired of me and bites at my hand. Maybe I’ll read a few more pages of The Grapes of Wrath, the book that I so desperately want to have time for. I’ll think about my friends, about my best friend that I haven’t been able to see in so long. About old friends, and new ones. I’ll sit in front of my living room TV, the Roku city moving slowly along the screen, and think about all the people that I love, and know that I have to do so much for them, that I want to do so much for them, out of love and a desire to live in a world that I am proud of with them. I’ll think about all of this while eating that pasta, and Bourdain will be at the back of my mind, ever-present. Grieving a good man that I never knew.
Earlier this month, I hosted a dinner party on my birthday for my closest friends to attend. Of course, I missed a few of them who couldn’t attend due to their own busy lives, but those who did attend made the night feel so full. For our meal, I spent the day making a smorgasbord of pastas and appetizers: simple mozzarella tomato caprese, sausage cheddar biscuit meatballs, traditional mini beef meatballs, cheese garlic focaccia, chicken pesto penne, mushroom onion vodka shells, shrimp scampi, and of course, a caesar salad. My friends were impressed by the spread, but I was happy to simply feed them. We sat on a picnic blanket in my backyard to enjoy the meal. My brother attended to take home the leftovers. My roommate’s cat felt so loved by all the attention she received. We ate bean boozled jellybeans. I opened gifts, we ate cake. The warmth and love of the room permeated the air like a strong fragrance. Holy, almost, like the incense burned in Catholic churches. In that moment, I felt as if all that I had experienced in my life, and especially the struggles of the summer, were completely necessary to bring me to that place and time. I’m grateful for the life I have, despite all the externalities that try to diminish me, diminish us as a whole. I hope that you feel this warmth and gratefulness soon, and act in tandem with it.
Please go have a meal with your friends, and think about Anthony Bourdain.