We’re back! We missed you, dear readers, and we’re excited to bring you the things you love most about The Interlude: thoughtful analysis, insightful personal essays, plucky reporting, and, yes, some fun pieces, too.

But first: a programming note. Right now, we’re in the midst of so many global changes. This month alone, as our politics editor Natasha Roy put it, “We had an insurrection, an impeachment, and an inauguration. No one’s brain is working.” Between the pandemic and a new president, we have no idea what the next few months will be like. …

Content warning: mentions of disordered eating, body dysmorphia.

The other day, my boyfriend and I were snuggling up on the couch, watching some cooking show. I don’t remember exactly what show it was, but nonetheless I sat there engrossed: a chef was walking through how to prepare an artichoke. He gingerly cut and trimmed the spiky outer leaves and removed the heart, or what he called the choke (never mind how silly it is to say “artichoke choke” out loud).

I immediately recalled how intimidated I was in high school when I bought one from Walmart after my best friend’s parents introduced me to artichoke dip. It sat there lonely in my fridge for a few weeks, simply because I was too scared to find out how to cook it. The artichoke was foreign to me, with its complex layers and flavors. By the time I gathered the courage to tackle the artichoke, it had gone bad. …

2020 was my first full year freelancing. During this hell year, I’ve been published in Bitch Media, VICE, Apartment Therapy, NBC Think, Refinery29, The Guardian, and, of course, GEN — all while juggling a full class schedule.

It’s no small feat: freelancing while writing two theses and taking 20 credits in undergrad during a pandemic was nightmarish. Freelancing now as I trudge through a science journalism program proves to be arduous and a test in time management. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother, given the stress. But freelancing is the one thing in my life that brings me comfort and relative financial stability. …

Last week, I began my tamale journey, which felt insurmountable at the time, but in retrospect was an enjoyable project that helped me curb my school-related anxiety. Yes, I had to make salsa three times because I kept screwing up. Yes, my boyfriend and I spent two hours or so wrapping up the tamales. Yes, we made about 60+ tamales. No, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’ve been eating tamales every day for breakfast and lunch simply because there are too many tamales in my damn fridge. And that’s after I gave a quarter of them to my landlord and a classmate. But with every new bite, I am reminded of my tamales’ flaws. The fillings were just right, but the masa, dare I say, was a bit dry. Granted, I wasn’t even working off a recipe, just vague memories, but that’s not the point — I am an overachiever in everything I do. My tamales should have been perfect. …

I haven’t made tamales since high school. Never needed to. My mom hated my presence in the kitchen (I was allegedly too messy and bad at listening) and I lacked the stamina. But as I continue my journey to bring my Tex-Mex Christmas traditions to Brooklyn, I became obsessed with the idea of making tamales, even though I knew they take at least 12 hours to make.

Alas, here I am, humbled by the journey I have undertaken. I have learned a lot of things about myself, about tamales, and about cooking at large. Hell, I’m not even done making them, but I feel compelled to document my process in this fun little blog. Maybe one day when I’m inducted in the Abuela Hall of Fame, I will look at this and laugh. But for now, I’ll just take the L’s and go. …

My dad doesn’t text me. Ever. It’s partly because he has a limited understanding of English and partly because we call each other every day anyway. These calls are brief — we often compare the weather in Nashville to Brooklyn and see who has it worse — but nonetheless are a staple of our relationship.

Two weeks ago, I had called my dad before class, urging him to get a COVID-19 test for the third time that week. He had just gotten a much needed sinus surgery the week before, but as time went on, it became harder for him to distinguish what was recovery and what was potentially COVID. But that Tuesday, he listened to me. …

I always pictured my first Christmas with my boyfriend would be spent at his parents’ sprawling house, which is across the street from what used to be a golf course where hundreds of geese hang out during the middle of their migration. I have no idea what his parents’ Christmas decoration situation is like, but I always pictured it as elegant, if not somewhat very Italian. Or maybe for our first Christmas together, we would fly down to my dad’s farm in Tennessee, even though my dad has never decorated for Christmas beyond a wreath on his front door. At least my boyfriend would enjoy mudding or birding. …

Happy Sunday-after-a-federal-holiday night, girls, gays, and theys! You know what that means: the wave of unspeakable anxiety and dread usually reserved for Sunday evenings is back with a vengeance. This is the moment when you realize that maybe those naps and long walks and (hopefully remote) socializing could have put you further behind on your work. It’s especially bad because now you feel all guilty and shit for not using your time off for work.

I’m here to tell you that yes, your dread is probably a fair assessment of the mountain load of work ahead of you, but also that IT IS TOTALLY NORMAL TO TAKE A BREAK, PANDEMIC OR NOT!!! Literally, now is not the time to beat yourself up about your work or school performance in this hell year. All we can do is keep our communities and our loved ones safe by continuing to social distance, minimizing our time doing non-essential errands, and getting tested regularly. Your work will be okay, I promise. …