Returning to the office to find something left behind, one Olympian's dramatic journey to Tokyo, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s monthly newsletter, Headline of the Week, selling a piano, and Recipe Corner.
More and more people are returning to the office. For many, it’s kinda weird. It’s still hard to believe how much our lives changed in mid-March 2020.
Here’s a fun piece about an author who returned to her office and found an apple that had somehow not rotted away.
I left a lot of things at my desk in March 2020: a toothbrush, shoes, several varieties of tea, a mug full of plastic utensils, at least three jars of peanut butter. But one of my colleagues left behind a less shelf-stable treasure: one Envy apple, coquettishly perched atop a pile of fact-checking notes.
For the first few weeks of The Atlantic’s work-from-home odyssey, this colleague was curious about what had become of his apple. But as the months wore on, it slipped his mind. That is, until I visited the office one recent Monday, 438 days after we were instructed to work from home, and found it shriveled but intact—a biological marvel that most closely resembled an oversize date. The apple had not oozed. It did not stink. It was still firm to the touch and sported no visible mold. It appeared to have undergone an absolutely immaculate desiccation.
How was it possible that this ordinary fruit was not, after 14-plus months at room temperature, a puddle of putrid goo? After consulting no fewer than four experts, I learned that the apple had benefited from a combination of natural decay processes, a fortuitous lack of fungi, and the very particular environmental conditions of an abandoned, climate-controlled office.
The apple, as it turns out, is an almost perfect fruit to leave out for more than a year.
If you were going to leave a perishable snack on your desk for the duration of a pandemic, an apple would actually be a pretty good choice. “Apples are one of the longest lasting fruits that we consume,” Cooperstone told me, and even under normal circumstances, months can pass between harvest and consumption.
The author, strangely, and f\or the sake of Journalism, decided that she had to taste this apple.
So many variables had aligned to preserve this apple just so that I simply had to eat it. The apple deserved nothing less.
And so I did. In fact, I got three other people to eat it with me. We cut away the rotten and oxidized bits, distributed the inchworm-size morsels that were left, and gingerly placed them in our mouths.
So how did it taste?
Reviews ranged from “Pretty bitter with hints of apple flavor” to “It doesn’t taste pungent.” The skin was an afterthought, and the texture of the flesh, for the first couple of chews, was rather like that of a gummy bear; afterward, it sort of became mush.
Finally, the apple served as a metaphor for the entire pandemic.
After spending so much time investigating the wonders of the apple, slicing into it was almost sacrilegious. Even though I had known it for only a short while, ingesting it felt like saying goodbye to a friend, or at least a talisman. After more than a year of waiting in place for the world to become a little more vibrant, it was impossible not to feel a kinship with this plucky little fruit—crumpled, dehydrated, a little bit smelly, but alive.
I’ll be honest, I don’t care much for the Olympics. As we discussed a few weeks ago in this space, the entire enterprise is so corrupt and damaging that I can’t get excited about any of it.
That being said, I have followed the Olympic path of one athlete this year. Swimmer Brooke Forde, the daughter of sportswriter Pat Forde. Brooke Forde overcame two COVID-19 scares, a mid-meet meltdown and a nerve-wracking Olympic Trials experience to qualify for the Tokyo Games. This piece from SI is a thrilling story of the younger Forde’s quest to make it to Tokyo. And since Pat wrote it, it’s beautiful. Check this lede:
The Reticent Olympian was running toward me, face glowing, and that is a memory I will cherish until I have memories no more. That run, that face, that long embrace—pure joy bursting forth at last. Her guarded countenance dissolved in that cathartic and euphoric moment.
Here came freshly minted Olympian Brooke Forde. My 22-year-old daughter. As someone accustomed to writing about other people’s greatest athletic moments, including covering eight previous Olympics, I was living my own.
COVID stopped everything for everyone. But Olympic hopefuls had their whole world turned upside down: no access to training facilities or coaches and unprecedented uncertainty about whether the games would be delayed or played at all. Plus, the virus eventually gets to every group of people.
Brooke is in tears, dismayed and bewildered. She has tested positive for COVID-19—the only Stanford swimmer to get the virus—despite taking all precautions. Stanford athletes had just moved back into the dorms, and the virus moved quickly through a handful of them. She is sent into quarantine and, to make matters worse, so are several teammates who tested negative but were contact traced.
Brooke recovered from COVID, only to get another scare.
A text from Greg Meehan just before 9 a.m. ET, 6 a.m. in California: Brooke has tested positive for COVID-19. Again. Minutes later, here comes another distraught phone call from her.
She is stunned—she’s fully vaccinated and already had the virus that same calendar year. She is devastated—16 days out of Olympic Trials, Stanford wants to send her into two-week quarantine. She might as well not even go to Omaha after being out of the water for that long, that close to her first event. It’s a cataclysmic development.
Ten terrible hours ensue, in which Stanford resists giving her a second COVID-19 test and we resist having her report to quarantine. Medical and legal advice are gathered, in preparation for a fight. She gets a rapid antigen test that is negative. Finally, Stanford re-tests her original sample and finds it was a false positive.
Crisis averted. But at the expense of a week’s worth of emotional energy.
The piece goes on to detail her journey to the US Olympic Trials as well as the competition. As you’ve guessed by now, she made the team.
At the end of the night, the last members of the team were announced. She was handed a microphone and looked into a camera that beamed her smiling face onto the big screen in the arena, whereupon she said eight great words: “I’m Brooke Forde, and I’m a Tokyo Olympian.”
Micah Recommends: Arnold Schwarzenegger’s monthly newsletter
Seriously, subscribe right now. Each edition features stories, workout advice, and amazing pictures, and stories like this on featuring Arnold, Wilt Chamberland, and Andre the Giant.
The writing is also fun because you absolutely read it with Arnold’s voice in your head:
Another fun thing I saw over the last month was a video on YouTube talking about how I admitted that Wilt Chamberlain was the strongest NBA player ever, and it's true! Well maybe not ever, but for a guy who wasn’t directly involved in strength sports, it was wild to see how much weight he could lift. I always tell people that Wilt was the only guy who could do the tricep cable pulldowns with the full stack of weight. He was doing it no problem, and all of us bodybuilders were blown away. When I saw this pop up on reddit I was brought back to all the good times I had with Wilt. We even filmed Conan the Destroyer together! He was such a great guy to have on the set, except when one of the 45 pound dumbbells in the gym went missing. I asked Wilt if he had it and he played innocent until one day I went to his room to pick him up and I saw him hiding it under his bed. That son of a gun was trying to do extra concentration curls alone so he could outshine me! Here is a photo of us both with Andre the Giant while we were filming. They made me look so tiny!
The best part of every newsletter is the end. Arnold has the GOAT email signature.
I loved this piece written by former Mad Magazine editor John Ficarra. Getting rid of a piano can be a difficult task in more ways than one. This piece is surprisingly emotional and with good reason.
It took all of 90 seconds for two workers to load my old Baldwin upright piano onto a dolly, roll it out my front door and position it on the liftgate of their truck.
“You’d be surprised how many people cry when we do this,” said one of the men as he worked the controls to bring the piano up into the truck.
Actually, I wouldn’t. As he spoke, I was fighting back a tear.
Of course, people are connected to their pianos. Think about the time and emotional investment poured into this instrument. Plus, as detailed below, this old piano was a cultural status symbol.
It hasn’t been the best of times for pianos. A fixture in middle-class homes throughout much of the 20th century — as a source of entertainment and a status symbol — pianos have gradually fallen out of favor. They’re bulky and expensive to maintain properly. Sales in the United States peaked in 1910, when nearly 365,000 were sold, and even in 1980 they were still a healthy 228,000. But by 2020, only 20,870 were sold. It’s hard to compete with inexpensive electronic keyboards that come with programmable bass and drum accompaniment.
In its 39 years with me, the Baldwin was a good friend. I spent hundreds of hours seated at it, either playing for others or alone for personal enjoyment. It is the piano on which my daughter learned to play and the one on which, for 30 years, I accompanied my mother as she warmed up for choir on Christmas Eve.
When the salesman agreed to take my old piano as a trade-in, he promised me the store would attempt to repair it and find it a new home. I left the showroom unsure if he really meant it or if he was just trying to make me feel better. But he was true to his word. After a few weeks the piano appeared on the store’s website. The sales copy says, “It has a sweet, clear sound and superior touch.”
I’ve circled back to the page many times to visit my old friend. It saddens me to think of it sitting there in a warehouse, unplayed, surrounded by other castoff pianos, waiting to bring joy to a new owner. Sometimes I even fantasize about buying it back.
It’s almost July, and that means it’s almost time to celebrate Independence Day. And that means grilling. Forget the burgers and dogs this year. Grill some fish and impress the friends you haven't seen in 15 months.
1 large handful fresh mint leaves (about 1/2 ounce), roughly chopped
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus 1 tablespoon, divided
1 tablespoon water
1/2 tablespoon white wine vinegar
1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest, divided
Fine sea salt or table salt
1 (9- to 10-ounce) tuna steak, about 1-inch thick
Finely ground black pepper
1/2 large English cucumber (6 to 8 ounces), scrubbed and very thinly sliced
2 tablespoons salted pistachios, roughly chopped, plus more as needed
In a food processor, combine the basil, mint, 1/4 cup of the olive oil, water and vinegar and 1/4 teaspoon of the lemon zest and pulse until the herbs are finely chopped. Taste, and season with salt and the remaining lemon zest as needed.
Pat the tuna dry with a tea towel or paper towel and lightly season with salt and pepper. Grill over high heat and cook until flaky but still pink inside, 1 minute to 90 seconds. Transfer to a cutting board and slice in half.
Arrange the cucumber slices as desired on two plates, add half the tuna to each plate and drizzle the tuna and cucumber with the basil-mint oil. Sprinkle each plate with the pistachios, adding more if desired, and serve.
Prepare a grill for medium, direct heat. Purée one avocado half, garlic, tahini, lemon zest, 5 Tbsp. lemon juice, ⅓ cup cilantro, 4 Tbsp. oil, and 2 Tbsp. water in a blender, adding a splash of water if needed, until smooth. Season with salt and pepper.
Toss broccoli and onion with 2 Tbsp. oil; season with salt and pepper. Grill, turning occasionally until broccoli crowns are dark brown in places and stems are crisp-tender, 5–7 minutes. Let cool slightly.
Coarsely chop broccoli and onion. Toss in a medium bowl with the remaining 2 Tbsp. lemon juice and 2 Tbsp. oil; season with salt and pepper.
Spread tahini dressing on a serving platter and top with broccoli mixture. Drain some of the pickled jalapeños (you will have extra). Top broccoli mixture with remaining chopped half of avocado, sesame seeds, drained jalapeños, and more cilantro.
No-Churn Butter Pecan Ice Cream
It’s time to impress the whole squad at your July 4th cookout. We’re back on that no-churn bullshit. Trust.
3 tablespoons unsalted butter, divided
1 1/2 cups (171 grams) pecan pieces, divided
Kosher salt
1 (14-ounce) can sweetened condensed milk
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
2 cups heavy cream
Stick a quart container or loaf pan in the freezer.
Melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a large skillet over medium heat. Add 1 cup (114 grams) of pecans, plus a pinch of salt, and toss to coat. Toast for about 5 minutes, stirring often and lowering the heat as needed so the nuts don’t burn, until very fragrant. Transfer to a large plate and immediately stick in the freezer to chill out. (If there are any pecan bits or browned butter left behind, wipe out the pan with a towel.)
Empty the can of condensed milk into a large bowl.
Add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter to the emptied skillet and return to the stove over medium heat. Cook, watching closely until the milk solids in the butter start to brown and smell like roasting hazelnuts. Pour the brown butter directly into the condensed milk, scraping every last bit out of the pan.
Add the vanilla to the condensed milk, plus another pinch of salt, and stir to combine.
Add the remaining 1/2 cup (57 grams) of pecans to a blender. Process until powdery. Add a big splash of cream and process to combine, scraping down as needed. Add another big splash and repeat. Now pour in the rest of the cream and blend until the cream is whipped.
Scrape the whipped cream into the condensed milk mixture and gently fold to combine. Now fold in the toasted pecans from the freezer.
Remove the container from the freezer and add the ice cream. Cover and freeze for at least 6 hours, until however firm you like your ice cream.
