Tuberose. Do you know it? White blossoms that smell like afternoon sex, like crème brûlée, like a silk dress. The smell is practically edible. You fill your nose with the scent and suddenly you can’t eat another bite. You’re full.
To me, tuberose is the herald of a hidden season — the wistful days at the end of the summer, when the heat is still thick in the air and fall seems distant, but it’s not; it’s at the door just waiting to be let in. I hate this season. It’s heavy with regret — a vacation not taken, a tan not obtained, passionflowers that didn’t get planted in time. It’s the Sunday evening of seasons — deceptively long at the start and then over before you know it.
When I see tuberose at the farmers market, I want to run and hide, but I’m attracted to it like a pollinator. I want to stuff my face in a bouquet and huff the heady drug, but I also want to walk right back to my car and go take a cold shower and pretend that I never saw the trumpeting blooms, to think instead of those absurd sunflowers and their high summer Drew Barrymore energy, their relentless optimism, their sheer unending upwardness.
This is the hidden season. Bug spray and backpacks resting together on the same shelf. Muggy days and thunderstorm nights, Rosh Hashanah around the corner. In the effort of transition, I lack the space to write. My deadlines mock me. Jerks. I can’t imagine ever writing another story or recipe. The things that comfort me are written by other people, but even those essays and recipes cause a knot to rise from my belly to my throat. How can anyone be so productive, so astute?
But I’m thinking of you, dearest substack subscriber. You’ve been so kind. I mean, here you are! I can’t leave you with nothing. So, here’s a list of what I’ve read and loved this week. May you climb under a duvet in an overly air conditioned bedroom and enjoy every word, oblivious to the season at hand.
Saw a Converge Sticker on a Cadillac - Jason Diamond, The Melt (Never have I connected more to something written about The Eagles.)
Margaritaville and the Myth of American Leisure - Jaya Saxena, Eater
The Limits of the Lunchbox Moments - Jaya Saxena, Eater (I went down a bit of a Jaya Saxena rabbit hole after Jason Diamond posted about her Margaritaville essay, and whew boy, she is GOOD. *Makes me break into a nervous sweat* good.)
Raw Onions Are the Best Food. Let Me Explain. - Iva Dixit, New York Times
Has the American-Grown Truffle Finally Broken Through - Rowan Jacobsen, Smithsonian Magazine (I’m working on a story about truffles right now, and I came across this in my research, and it’s just perfect.)