“You know, not every trans woman is a perv, slinging around a pole and butt-clapping,” says Ceyenne Doroshow, elegant lady chef and author of the new memoir cookbook Cooking in Heels, set to be released this August. “I’m happy being who I am. I have a full life. At the pantry where I volunteer, I hand out condoms to senior citizens. On the 19th of May I’m trying to get a mobile testing unit there for World AIDS Day. I do a lot.”
Doroshow, a trans woman, activist, educator, and, of course, chef, has always been an avid lover of all things culinary. She’s also keen on storytelling and the intersection of cooking and healing. “If it wasn’t for the kitchen, I don’t know where I’d be today.”
Photo: Stacie Joy
She took some time to speak to PrettyQueer contributor Katie Liederman about glamour, mentorship, pig parts, and her new book.
Katie Liederman: What’s the most glamorous outfit you have ever cooked in?
Ceyenne Doroshow: I once cooked in a Dolce and Gabbana wrap gown. When you walk in it, your leg comes out. It looks like Morticia Adams’ gown– basic black. All you need are earrings – not even a necklace. I made tempura in it.
PQ: How do you cook in those nails?
CD: Well, normally my nails aren’t that long. I wore them that long for the video we taped for our kickstarter. But I’ve been cooking for so long. I can burn myself and keep going. I can cook anywhere in nails– even at a fireside by a campsite. I get so much enjoyment out of cooking. Even if I’m upset, I can just tune out everybody and hum.
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In the opening scene of Bridesmaids, Kristin Wiig is getting pounded by a Beauty and the Beast, Gaston caricature of a man. He’s bad at sex for being brutish and outrageously unskilled, and she’s bad at sex for not telling him that he’s sexually incompetent. Either way, the scene is funny and reminds some of us of the sex we had before we were queer, or before were able to physically actualize our queerness with another person. Why is it okay for heterosexual cis people to be bad in bed, but the same doesn’t apply to queers? If a straight guy lasts for twelve seconds, it’s cute. It’s cute to joke about, at least. If a straight girl lays stiff as a board or mimics a woman in a bad porn, it’s like, “What else is new?” This is also fun to joke about.
Perhaps this is because some would argue that the sole criterion for being queer is the type of sex you do or don’t have; others believe that queerness is equal parts sexual practice and politics.
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As a wise man once said, queers love meat. They love touching it and grilling it, putting sauce on it and eating it. Some queers don’t love meat, and when they attend holiday barbecues they’re generally fed charred, flaccid rods of oily zucchini. But carnivorous and vegetarian queers alike unflaggingly celebrate the Fourth of July with all their might.
Suffice it to say that everyone in the queer community is fiercely patriotic. Calling a queer a Jingoist is almost redundant. And how do the colorful array of folks splattered jovially all over the gender and sexuality spectrum like to honor their country on the July Fourth each year? By congregating outdoors around beer coolers, lukewarm meat on paper plates, bowls of potato salad with celery in it, and indulging in general revelry pertinent to both the holiday and their own queerness.
“I love chips and guac[amole] and bean salad!” queer clothing line owner Niki Cutler exclaimed when pressed as to why she was so enthusiastic about the Fourth.
“Turkey legs,” says Megan Auster-Rosen, queer doctoral candidate in psychology at Yeshiva University.
But what is it that really gets NYC queers– a demographic that is usually too aloof for its own good– to let down their guard and be unabashedly merry on this special summer day each year? “A nice egg white salad with chives,” explains Ellie Conant, gregarious queer nightlife promoter.
That clears it up. Here’s to many more queer barbecues in and out of Brooklyn, New York for many years to come.
Whenever someone tries to tell you about a dream they had the night before, you’re always like, “Shut up, no one cares about your dream.” Some long, rambling nonsensical rant where a bunch of weird shit happens for no reason and never amounts to anything– cool. Did a dragon crawl out from behind a bush, and then suddenly your grandmother turned into your dentist? Did you swallow a quail egg whole, only to be then told by William H. Macy that you had to shovel snow in a faux denim tracksuit? Here’s who cares about that dream: no one.
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