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- [00:02]
Megan
Hi, I'm Megan and I've got a new podcast I think you're going to love. It's called Confessions of a Female Founder, a show where I chat with female entrepreneurs and friends about the sleepless nights, the lessons learned, and the laser focus that got them to where they are today. And through it all, I'm building a business of my own and getting all sorts of practical advice along the way that I'm so excited to share with you. Confessions of a Female Founder is out now. Listen wherever you get your podcast.
- [00:38]
Daria Lovell
Lemonade the main character, Kostya Duchovny, opens aftertaste with a bad taste in his mouth and then a good taste and a salty one and a sweet one. Turns out the bad taste was of chicken liver, or more specifically a strong sensory memory of chicken liver was soft sauteed onions and dill. His favorite childhood game is blind taste testing food with his dad trying to identify each item he tastes. He's called to the restaurant world professionally, starting out as a dishwasher but quickly moving up the ranks into the kitchen on the strength of his powerful taste buds and instincts for flavors, and before long he develops a truly unique gourmet talent. He experiences vivid aftertastes, which he identifies with some help from a ghost and a psychic as the tastes that are coming from the dead, specifically food Memories of the Departed. The book is like a mashup of the food centric magical realism in Like Water for Chocolate and A Restaurant Memoir Like Sweet Bitter, Kostya experiences loss, success and even some romance. And all the while the World of the Spirits continues to become more and more front and center in his life, personally and professionally. Author Daria Lovell was born in Kyiv and Kostya and his family share this Ukrainian heritage, so there's also a fascinating glimpse at some Eastern European cuisine. The book is structured in a series of short episodic sections centered around food terms like bitter salty sweet aperitifs, mixers and chasers and just desserts. It leaps from experience to experience and milestone to milestone in his life, all with food as a uniting theme that runs through Lavelle weaves in mouthwatering and detailed descriptions of meals and tastes, as well as cleverly using food terms here and there, such as his emotions curdled. The book has been preemptively acquired for film adaptation and I can see why. It has an immersive, cinematic quality and blends traditional romance with a very modern structure. It was also named a Best Book of May by Apple Books and one of the most anticipated debut books of 2025 by both Goodreads and Barnes and Noble. It definitely seems poised to be a break for debut author Lovell. Today we'll be sharing with you a nice taste of the opening pages. We hope it whets your appetite to continue listening.
- [03:10]
Kostya Duhovny
Bitter the first time Constantine Dahavny tasted something he hadn't actually eaten. He was 11, seated on the edge of the public pool in Brighton beach, his heels churning gray water into foam. He was watching the backs of the other boys, the ones he was supposed to be swimming with but who never invited him, even out of politeness, into their circle, as they splashed about, showing off handstands and lung capacities, spouting chlorinated water a foot into the air like porpoises. He watched them all afternoon, Mitya and Sasha and Misha K. And Misha B, whom they kept calling Bear because of the thick black hair up and down his back, until one by one their fathers finished their waterlogged Ruskaya reclamas, scratched their nipples through threadbare white undershirts and peeled their pasty bodies from the rubber loungers, signaling quitting time. Kostya had come chaperoned by his cousin Valeric, not his real cousin but the teenage son of Totya Natasha, not his real aunt but an acquaintance of his mother's, who had promptly dumped him when his girlfriend whispered something about a kissing booth at the boardwalk nearby. Don't you move, valeric had hissed at Kostya. I'll be back. That had been two hours ago. As the last boy, Mitya raised the handle of the chain link fence, Kostya felt himself blister with jealousy. There was no one to ferry him home, just like there had been no one to slather sunblock onto his back, which he could already feel was red and tight and burnt. And just like there would be no one to teach him how to talk to these boys in a way that made it clear that he was one of them. But then, of course, he wasn't one of them. Their fathers were alive. He kicked faster at the water, kicked violently, kicked at the fathers and sons, kicked at the great cavity of longing inside himself, this way of missing someone, missing them desperately, missing every part, including those he'd never known, a pocket so deep, he thought, that if he could only reach inside of it, worry its lining long enough, break through it to the other side, to where empty could grow full as a belly, round with food, he might just find what he was looking for. Right then something traveled across his tongue, and Kostya stopped kicking. It coated the inside of his mouth, thick as paste. The taste, the uneaten taste, overpowering. It was savory, salty, the texture mealy, slightly sweet and fatty, something tart, barely, and then at the tail in the back of his throat, bitter, bitter, blooming like a bruise, good but also bad, just a little bit, like shit. He wondered briefly whether one of the boys had found a way to make him ingest a turd. It seemed the sort of thing that boys with fathers could do to a boy without one, but just as quickly the sensation vanished. Kostya smacked his lips, trying to call it back, but there was nothing left now, only a warmth spreading slowly across his tongue as he choked back tears. It was only in the absence of the taste that he suddenly recognized what it had been Chicken liver, sauteed onions, fresh dill garnish, squeeze of lemon pechanka, his father's favorite dish, according to his mother, who invoked it infrequently and had stopped making it after he died. Kostya had never tasted pachanka. He just knew, like an instinct, like another sense he'd only now become conscious of that the ghost of that dish, not its taste but its aftertaste, had just been inside of his mouth, spirited there by the person who most longed to taste it again. Salty. Before that, 12 months prior, a Tuesday, hot summer simmering. Kostya's dad tying a revolting Thai Standard issue from the Metropolitan Transit Authority. Kostya glanced over at him from the kitchen. He was always in the kitchen then, standing in one sock before the refrigerator, the door agape. He'd been there long enough to make the kefir, sweat beads dribbling down the side of the carton, the motor gasping as the temperature rose. He was studying the contents. His dad had stumped him last time, but not today. Close ice box, his father tsked. You break like this. Spoil produce. Expensive to fix. Sorry, kostya muttered, and swung the door shut with no urgency at all, stealing a last long look at the chilled jars and tins and plastic containers marked in Cyrillic. Kostya couldn't really read Russian, he was ten and smart enough, but this was America, not Soviet Ukraine, so he memorized how the Russian grocery stores packed their wares, that the lulia kebab and rice were scooped into Styrofoam boxes, that the pickles half sour, full sour, pickled cabbage, brined tomatoes bob gently in opaque plastic quartz, that the salads spicy carrot slaw, mayonnaise, thick olivier earth sweet beet vinaigrette were contained in small clear pints with rectangular labels that the white paper bags, growing steadily transparent with grease, held meat or sour cherry or sauerkraut or poppy seed peroshki, and he peered around refrigerator shelves, taking inventory. Then he sat down at the small dinette, his hands folded businesslike on the sticky plastic tablecloth. I'm ready, kostya announced. His father was fussing with the tie and didn't look up. Papa, he whined, switching to Russian. Do the game. Give me a taste. Kostya hoped the effort at his native tongue might tip the scales. His dad had spent the last few weeks battling Kostya's aversion to Russian, the language beginning to feel foreign, mealy on his tongue. Kostya just wanted to be like the cool kids in school, American, English speaking, normal, and to fit in, be seen instead of ignored. Kostya's dad gazed with weary longing at the fridge, then up at the clock over the stove, a frown replacing his momentary consideration. Can't today, Kostachka. He sounded truly sorry. I have new route. Can't be late. But. But back to English. Just one time. It'll be quick. The last time they played their tasting game, his father slipping morsels into Kostya's mouth for him to identify, eyes closed, no peeking. Kostya had gotten four in a row, right, Dr. Sky Baloney, apricot preserves, a buttered radish, a halva cube, and was on the high of a winning streak when his dad fed him an oily piece of fish on the tines of a fork. Easy, sardine. He'd yelled, triumphant before he even finished chewing. Niet. His father yelled back, smacking the table with delight, and Kostya opened his eyes in stunned surprise. Spreads. But that had been weeks ago. Just one time, Kostya repeated now, his voice a donut, glazed. His dad smiled and kissed him on the head. With you is never one time. They started the game years ago, when Kostya was eight, in the early days of emigration, a way to remind him where he'd come from, to hold heritage in his mouth, to taste their past an ocean away. It was Kostya's favorite thing, the bright memory he clung to when other kids, American ones, laughed at his ill fitting clothes, his unfamiliar food, his poor grammar. I swear, Kostachka, I must get bus. Kostya stalked his dad back down the hall and into his parents bedroom, where he watched him hunt on the nightstand for his name. Pin Sergei Duhovny, driver number 0727 etched in chintzy gold Lemay. But Papa. His dad sidestepped into the cramped corridor, back toward the kitchen. Kostya tailed him, relentless. He needed this now. He needed it badly, needed something good. The day before, on Riegelman Boardwalk, two boys had walked by the bench where Kostya was eating lunch, not bothering to lower their voices as they appraised his meal, the leftover zhurkoya, soft stewed beef in thick brown sauce in its mismatched Tupperware and affront to the all American beef franks and their hands. What a weirdo, one said to the other. Can you hear us, weirdo? What's he eating? Looks like diarrhea. Later, Koistia. When I come back. No, kostya whined, a petulant pout materializing on his lower lips. Now. Nyet, his father repeated firmly. Later. There's never a later. His father sighed, equal parts exhaustion and apology. I must run. I kiss you. All you do is work. This is our one thing. Go in your room, Koistya, his father whispered, but Kostya didn't budge. He was towing an edge, deciding to leap. Mama's right, he spat out. We should have stayed in Kiev. He'd overheard his mother talking once in a hushed voice to her sister on the phone. A whole pack of cigarettes. Conversation. Mama, what does she? You'd cook. You'd own a restaurant instead of driving a stupid bus, costa shouted over him. And I wouldn't be so ashamed. Go in your room, his father said louder, a crackle to his voice like onion skin. You understand nothing. He reached for the doorknob. Kostya's hands formed fists, his nails making crescents in his palm. There was a bad taste in his mouth, a morning mash of unbrushed teeth and anger. You brought us to America, he spat out, repeating things he'd never been meant to hear. Because you wanted to come. Because you only thought about yourself. You didn't think how it would be for me. So go then. I don't care. Go to the devil. It sounded different in English, better the way the popular kids said it as they slammed their lockers shut. Go to hell. Still Kostya felt the power of it course through him, thunder in his chest, A sudden stillness in the room. His father stopped, his back to Kastya. As you say, he said quietly, and slipped through the door, his shoulders sagging with defeat. If his father had yelled, had punished him, had retaliated in any way, it might have turned out differently, made it easier for Kastya to tell himself. Days and months and years later, that his dad had known he hadn't meant it. But the resignation in his father's voice, the obvious pain that Kastya had inflicted on the person he loved most in the world, lanced him like a barb. Even in the immediate hangover of the moment, he couldn't take his eyes off the door, kept waiting for his dad to come back and forgive him, to fix what Kastya had broken. He told himself not to cry as he tasted the salt of his own tears, like drinking in a sea. It was as if Kostya already knew the way his father's farewell echoed in his head, the catch in his voice like a tear in time, that it would be the last thing he'd ever hear him say. Sweet. Three months after his dad's death, Constantine's birthday. Terrible timing. It was fall, the leaves beginning to bronze, the air to cool, their lives to set into the strange new shape they would mold to now, jell o without him. There was a knock on the door, which was impossible because they hadn't had a single caller since the funeral, and no one cared that Kostya had turned a year older, or that his mother hadn't risen from her bed in days, or that there was no food in the fridge and precious little in the cabinets. It was a delivery guy, flowers in his hand, a note. His father had ordered the bouquet in advance, had settled it with the florist, had written out the card just like always, never expecting that he wouldn't be at the door to receive it, to present it to Kostya's mother himself. The arrangement filled the room with thick, sweet musk, the flowers of his mother's perfume, patchouli lily of the valley, tuberose, the same blooms his father had given her every year since Kastya was born. Their scent seeped through the apartment, it marinated the walls. Mama smelled it from her bed and stumbled, disbelieving, into the living room when she saw the vase on the table, the small card stapled to it, the handwriting Sergei's. Her. Sergei's. She gave a cry. Kostya had been trying to read the note, struggling to decipher the slanted Cyrillic dashed across the square of cardstock. He'd been lured by the recognition of his name, Kostya, amid the squiggles rendered in his father's hand. But his mother snatched it away and read it and wept like she was losing him all over again, this gift from his ghost, a cruel crumb. She hurled everything into the trash, the card, the flowers, the vase Cracking in two against the bottom of the bin. But Kostya couldn't bring himself to lug the can to the curb. It would stay there for weeks, the flowers rotting inside, their stems dissolving into mush, their petals withering brown, the odor indolent, more like death each day. That night, after he stole the card out of the trash, Kostya also stole a cake, a Kiev torte, hazelnut meringue and thick chocolate buttercream from a bakery on Avenue U. He sat on a park bench in the dark and gorged himself on rich frosting, on the crispy crumble of stiff, peaked egg whites. On the way, they ground to sweet white dust between his teeth. He ate with his fingers, the sugar sticking to his skin, chocolate staining the palms of his hands. It was too sweet after the first few bites, difficult to swallow, but he shoveled scoop after scoop into his mouth anyway, trying to fill something inside. He ate even as his body warned him to stop. And then he ate more, more, every morsel in that blue bakery box. Everything, everything, all at once. My sweet, my Vera, the card in his pocket read. When Kostya was born. My greatest gift. I did not think I could love you more, but like always, you have proven me wrong. Today is Kostackka's celebration. But I celebrate you. Thank you for our perfect son and for your love and for our lives, more than life itself. S Kostya had sounded it out, one slippery letter at a time, the words like sugar to a cavity. My greatest gift. Our perfect son. He'd never forgive himself for how profoundly he had failed to earn that praise. Savory. In the weeks after the pachanka at the pool, it happened again and again. Aftertastes appeared in Constantine's mouth like messages. Different foods, each time more frequent, more intense, the flavors uninvited, haunting the back of his throat. These hadn't come from his father. They were too different, too foreign. They wouldn't leave him alone. When he finally grew unsettled enough to tell his mother to confess how he tasted pachanka and thought known that it had come from his dad, he'd been hoping that she might understand, might reassure him. Part of him was even hoping that this might resurrect her, snap her out of her distant stares and frequent sighs, give her a reason to leave her bed. A year had passed and she still wore the weight of loss around her shoulders like a stone. Kostya thought that maybe if he needed her, a real need, the kind only she could fill, she might finally decide to set down her load. Plus, she was uniquely qualified. Vera Dahovny was the most superstitious person he had ever met. She had talismans and taboos and countless compulsions that she employed to navigate around and over and through life's many wrong turns. She knew never to sweep while a loved one was traveling, how to dispel an evil eye that you should never gift knives. She greeted guests with bread and salt. She welcomed good spirits and warded off bad. And if she had been unfazed by Kostya's revelation, had heard of this sort of thing, it would have diffused the growing uncertainty that accompanied each new sensation in his mouth. Instead, when he told her, her face curdled. He could see it in her eyes. Fear. Doubt. Dismay. She didn't believe him. She asked him again and again to repeat it, to explain. Only he couldn't explain. Not what these flavors were or how he managed to taste them, not the ease with which he identified their ingredients, like reciting a recipe, not how he knew, like an expression of terroir on his tongue, that they had come from the dead. Instead, he tried again to explain the pool, the boys, and their dads. Pechanka. His mother nodded slowly, twice, and sent him to his room to lie down. Then she called an ambulance. No one else believed him either. Not the EMT who insisted they bring him in for a psych eval, not the skinny intake nurse who popped her gum. Not the staff psychiatrist in the children's ward of the Gravesend Psychiatric center, her pen clicking as she took down notes. Two weeks he slept on a white cot with itchy sheets, naked beneath a hospital gown, no socks. They fed him tablets three times a day, anonymous white tranquilizers in paper cups, the kind kids filled with ketchup in the school cafeteria. He'd never learned to swallow pills, gagged as he tried, so they watched as he dissolved them beneath his tongue. Instead they melted into chalky chunks, Bitter, foul. Awful enough that he would have thrown them up if they hadn't made him so numb he could barely feel. The next time the doctor evaluated him in an office that reeked of cup noodles, beef flavor. He lied his way out of it, said that he'd never actually tasted the pachanka, that he knew his dad wasn't haunting him, that ghosts weren't even real, that he'd made the whole thing up because his mother had ignored him after his dad died and he'd been angry and wanted to scare her, that he took it too far, that he was sorry There was a thick satisfaction to the way she believed him, to the way his distortions put her at ease, to the way fiction protected him from the repercussions of the truth. Lying was carving into a roast, and he savored it, sank his teeth into each bite. He maintained his deception even as another aftertaste spread over his tongue. Right there in her lifeless office, her photographs sepia, her plants artificial, her smile placating, never reaching her eyes. A thick Charo grilled patty, medium rare oozing juice, smear of special sauce, butter lettuce, beefsteak tomato, white onion, lightly fried crinkle cut pickle chips, kosher dill toasted sesame seed bun. The air went still around him as he tasted the edges of the world, softening away the flavors of the dead, more real and alive than anything else in the room. Sour years trickled by, his life fermenting. He was 15, walking home, fat textbooks slung across his shoulder pounding into his hip. His stomach clenched and unclenched a fist. Empty. His mom had blown the grocery money, traded their neighbor the food stamps. Kostya had painstakingly applied for hours of bureaucratic paperwork in exchange for six cartons of Virginia Slims. He should have smoked them himself out of spite or resold them cheap in the school parking lot, but he didn't like the taste and didn't need any more help becoming a social pariah, thank you very much. His abdomen moaned as he passed the Russian store, the smell of rizzky rye and loops of dry salami. Such exquisite torture. And the McDonald's oh God, fries, and stopped at a traffic light on the corner beneath the awning for the Olympia Greek Diner. Kostya peered inside long enough to confirm that it was busy, most of the tables occupied, waitresses whizzing in and out of the kitchen. He pushed through the door and beelined to the coffee station, a table between the bar and bathroom that housed pots of coffee and sugar and sweetener and single serve pods of half and half. He shoved the creamers into his bag, followed by Domino's packets and his lucky day, a stack of individually wrapped saltines. Breakfast of champions. When he got home he was so hungry that he dumped it all into a mug, mashed the saltines and sugar and creamer together before he realized that, no, no, the half and halfs had turned. He stared at the concoction, at the white chunks dotting the crackers, at the thin sour whey pooling in the bottom of the glass. He was so hungry he ate it anyway. He was 18 an adult, technically. He had a job stocking shelves in a bodega, had a license though there was no car to speak of. He could buy porn and fight a war and sign a lease if he wanted. But he still missed his dad like a little kid. Kostya had always assumed it would get better, but it only got different. His pangs of loss had receded into a numb ever present ache. Yet every new experience, each minor tragedy or major milestone he wished he could share with his father soured him, made him feel as if his dad had just died, was dying all over again, like he always would be when the kids from school with him at that party. It happened when he had to convince the social worker that his mom was fine. It happened when he walked across the stage at graduation, the superintendent mispronouncing his name. It happened when he had his first drink cashed, his first paycheck, first kissed a girl. It happened when he nursed his first heartbreak, his first hangover, his string of rejections from colleges and jobs and relationships. It happened and happened and happened again. But that afternoon when Kostya opened the door to find their landlord, to learn that he had sold their apartment, the last place Kostya had seen his dad alive, had heard his voice, had hugged him, sold it to some new guy who was raising the ranch so high they couldn't possibly stay, Kostya had wept, wept unabashedly ugly, cried. The landlord apologized, said it was nothing personal, said his dad had been a good guy, reminded him of his own father. Kostya had been about to tell him where to shove his platitudes when he felt the puff of air, the flavor materializing in his mouth, delicate flakes of frozen limoncello scraped with a fork, spooned into a hollowed out rind and felt without really knowing how, that the landlord was being sincere, that he really was sorry, that he'd lost someone once and remembered how it ached. He was 32 decades fatherless, peeled back a year at a time, the segments of a lime. He had another job now too, in fact, both of which sucked. A shitty apartment and a Craigslist roommate who'd become his best friend. A life, or something like one. But too often, instead of looking forward, Constantine found himself looking back to when he was 10, waiting at the kitchen table or nine, walking through the neighborhood at dusk, sucking the wet wooden stick of a popsicle 8, holding both his parents hands, the thrill in his stomach as they swung him high in the air, Coney island crackerjack lodged in his teeth seven, lying on a patch of green grass, his dad picking wild mushrooms, peeling open their caps to show him inside. 6. 6. The one he always came back to, a Kiev park, sunlight overhead, a pouch folded from newsprint weighted on his lap, full of soft, overripe fruit, sour cherries, their skin so thin, their flesh the bright red of a bleed. Chereshnya, kostya said, placing one into his mouth, the juice squirting down his throat. Wonderfully tart. Niet. His father shook his head, smiled. Vishnya. They came from different trees, he explained, had different fruit, different pits. His father's grandmother had grown vishnia in the countryside of Ukraine, the mottled bush spilling fruit everywhere, smearing the ground with red come summer. Constantine had never met his great grandmother, couldn't now that she was dead, but he could almost taste her in this bag inside each sour cherry. One day, his dad told him, I'll take you there, to see her village, her old dacha, to taste fruit from her tree. He spat a pit into his hand, perfectly beige, sucked clean of flesh. Kostachka, he told Kostya. A cherry stone. Like me. Kastya had grinned. Like you, his dad agreed. My cherry stone. So much waiting in so small a thing. But the past his father promised him was gone. His future had soured, its possibilities curdled. Now Kostya kept his secrets, his aftertastes, and the unremarkable present in a bland, haunted loop. He'd stay that way a while, but not forever.
- [30:58]
Megan
This is an ad by BetterHelp. June is Men's Mental Health Month, and my guy it's time to talk. Men today face immense pressure to perform, to provide, to keep everything together. So it's no wonder that 6 million men in the US suffer from depression every year. Men are also less likely to seek therapy than women, which means depression among men often goes under diagnosed. If you're a man and you're feeling the weight of the world, the strongest thing you can do is ask for help. Talk to someone. Anyone. A therapist, a friend, a loved one. Because real strength comes from being honest about what you're carrying and doing something about it. Therapy can help you find your way, and BetterHelp makes it easy to start. Take a short online quiz and connect with a qualified therapist from the privacy of home. Every man deserves better. Visit betterhelp.com today to get 10% off your first month. That's BetterHelp. H E L p.com I'm Hasan Minhaj.
- [32:01]
Kostya Duhovny
And I have been lying to you. I only pretended to Be a comedian so I could trick important people into coming on my podcast. Hasan Minhaj doesn't know to ask them the tough question that real journalists are way too afraid to ask. People like Senator Elizabeth Warren. Is America too dumb for democracy?
- [32:18]
Megan
Outrageous.
- [32:19]
Kostya Duhovny
Parenting expert Dr. Becky. How do you skip consequences without raising a psychopath? That's a good question. Listen to Hasan Minhaj doesn't know from Lemonada Media. Wherever you get your podcasts, Part two, Bitters and Heat. But when the past is gone, after the people are dead, after their things are destroyed, smell and taste still linger on, like souls ready to remind us.
- [32:49]
Frankie
Marcel Proust Swann's Way Aperitifs the Constantine Duhovny Culinary Experience. All right, all right. Can everybody hear me? Can y' all see me? Lets just do a little mic check. If you're here for the Konstantin Duhavny culinary experience, you're in the right place. Anyone in the wrong place? Okay. Nah, that's food and spirits down the block. If you hurry, you can make it. Everyone else, we good. Last chance to bail. We got a tight schedule. Let's kick it. My name's Frankie, but I'll answer to Kosh, Sean, Shaughnessy, Kee, shy, and of course, tall, dark, and handsome. I see you, ladies, and I'll be your guide today. Like the name implies, this here's all about the culinary stylings of Mr. Konstantin Duhavny. Kostya to his mom, Bones to his buddies. KD for short. Now, if you're on this tour, I'm guessing you know a little something about what our guys food can do and you're itching to try it for yourself, see if all the rumors are true. Well, I'll tell you right now, they're just the tip. Bones is the real deal. Feeds folks body and soul. And we'll be making our way through his past together, retracing some footsteps, watching his evolution as a chef before we head on over to our grand finale. Opening night at his brand new digs downtown. Reservations impossible to get. Less you're with me.
- [34:24]
Kostya Duhovny
Now.
- [34:24]
Frankie
I used to work in the restaurant biz. Not just in the dining room, but in the actual kitchens, right where the fire is. So I'll get you real up close and personal with what goes down on the line. Matter of fact, I did a stint at Bones own spot in Hell's Kitchen. We'll hop on over there in just a bit. And that means you're gonna get to hear some stories. Not one other food tour's got on the menu. We're about a block away now. Anybody gotta guess where we're headed? Alright, get it girl. Somebody's been doing her homework. Here's a little history for the rest of you. The Library of Spirits has been around since 02. Started out as a mixology school, training up bartenders for the city's best watering holes. Really raising the bar. Sorry man, I had to. It's a tiny little spot, six, maybe seven stools. And it's a speakeasy, so don't wake the neighbors. We get in through this indie bookstore right here. They got one of them trick shelves in the back. I'll give y' all a chance to see if you can figure out which book gets you in. Now our guy didn't make it to the library till 2016, and he wasn't here to shake or stir. He was up in the back dishwashing, going nowhere fast till this one night when he mixed a drink that changed everything. Y' all ready? Get excited. Let's head on in.
- [35:53]
Kostya Duhovny
Champagne problems? The bookstore is called Bibliomecca in the book Phantasmagoriana ou l' ecoil de Histoire des apparitions d' espertre revenant, phantom, etc. The book is old and French and horrible, all of which makes it somewhat conspicuous on the shelf of brightly colored contemporary American fiction. When you compound this with its cracking spine, grubby dust jacket, and the fact that it sticks a solid four inches past the lip of the ledge, it seems rather miraculous that more people don't stumble into the Library of Spirits by mistake. But then, New Yorkers can be remarkably myopic. The douchey weekend manager, Kevin once told Constantine that Mary Shelley had borrowed liberally from Phantasmagoriana when writing Frankenstein, but he had never cared enough to confirm that fact. Kostya had no head for fiction and no stomach at all for ghost stories. He had tasted enough phantom food over the years to hold the conviction that ghost stories had nothing in common with actual ghosts. Their writers had clearly never come in contact with a spirit. If they had, they wouldn't make every ghost into a haunt, some creepy ghoulie come back from the dead to wreak havoc and incite fear. The ghosts he encountered, if you could call it that, seemed mild mannered, even sentimental. At least that's what Kostya inferred from the flavors they left in his mouth. Poppy seed peroshki laced with boozy rum raisins. Scoop of melting vanilla soft serve mouthful of watered down black currant tea Late April walking past a funeral home in Sheepshead Bay. Deep dish pizza, crusts crispy and layered as a croissant, pepperoni and pineapple topping so hot it burns the roof of your mouth. Two weeks back, riding the northbound queue past Times Square pork dumplings, the wontons deep fried but eaten, refrigerator cold, hint of chive hoisin and rice wine vinegar, kick of spicy mustard. Just that morning, stuck in Holland Tunnel traffic on his way to drop off a pallet of cheap vodka for uncle. Not his real uncle Vanya. These didn't taste like the throats of people looking for blood. They struck Kostya as nostalgic. Maybe they were hungry, the restaurant options in the afterlife not quite hitting the spot. Or maybe they just communicated with whatever receiver they had available, and his happened to be a tongue. He wished there were a way to ask them, to discover what they wanted him to do with these flavors they kept pushing on him. But the moments were so brief, the tastes so fleeting, that often he barely had time to register what he had been tasting before it vanished without a trace. Most of the time the flavors were typical. More dead people than you'd think crave some variety of sandwich. But sometimes they were entirely foreign, hailing from cuisines Kostya hadn't known existed. Spices he couldn't have imagined. Even the obscurest tastes would somehow disclose themselves to him, a metaphysical, ethereal neural miracle that led him intuit the components parts of everything he tasted like the chicken wings smeared with sambal olek which scorched his throat one night as he traversed Bryant park by city bike, or the warm, heady ras el hanout smothering the beef tajin he got as he handed the rent check to his frowning landlord on the third of the month. Or the mouth puckering amchur in the kati roll that visited him at the urgent care clinic awaiting the results of a strep test. Negative. He'd known the names of those flavors, though he didn't know how. He had never tasted them before, had never even seen them on a menu. They were just there, identified companions to the aftertastes, escort ingredients simmering beneath the surface of his consciousness, waiting to be invoked, the bubbling answers to a question. Too bad it was the wrong question. Sure it was nice to know what he was eating, but he'd much rather know why or who would what he was supposed to do with it. Without all that, it was just an odd, abnormal quirk, something he'd spent the better part of two decades hiding from people who, once they got a whiff of this thing would almost certainly insist he be committed, his own mother included. Not that an institution or heavy sedation could stop the aftertastes from coming. Sometimes just hearing about dead people triggered them. Listening to some deceased's name pronounced in reverent tones on the late night news, catching an overheard snippet of mournful conversation on the sidewalk. And there it would be, a message from beyond unfurling on his tongue. Other times there would be no prompt at all. Like that morning driving bumper to bumper and the idiot behind him leaning on his horn and Nirvana screeching on the radio and voila. Pork dumplings dead ahead. Kostya hadn't stopped thinking about them. They'd been good. Like really good, the kind of thing he wished he could taste again. He thought about the filling. It had just a touch of sweetness across three burrows as he delivered bottom shelf booze. He thought about who would have eaten them cold, the wonton skin soggy. As he parked the truck in Uncle Vanya's warehouse in Jersey City. Vanya's Victuals, proud purveyors of fine food and spirit since 1992, cash only. He contemplated the hoisin and the rice wine vinegar as he rode the path back into Manhattan, as he wove through the tourists overrunning Times Square, as he trudged up the steps to his minuscule apartment in Hell's Kitchen. He thought about the banality of the situation. Cars, horns, traffic, and about the mad magic ghosts. Real, actual fucking ghosts, as he showered, changed, and went back out to work. His night shift dishwashing at the Library of Spirits then. He was thinking about it now as he wiped another glass dry. There were a dozen clean wet glasses lined up on the bar in front of him, dripping onto the heirloom oak, probably making water stains. Kostya selected another and smiled smugly to himself. He wasn't supposed to be in the front of house and he liked sticking it to Kevin, who was absurdly easy to hate. Kevin wanted Kostya and his stained T shirts in the back where he wouldn't interrupt the high end gentleman's club vibe he'd crafted, right down to the self congratulatory cocktail napkins. Bravo, old chap, in Edwardian script without any hint of irony. When Kostya complained about having to wait until the bartenders had a break in service to haul the dirty glasses back to him, which sometimes wasn't until the very end of his shift, Kevin smiled with all his teeth and said he'd be happy to let him out front if he'd look the part, which in Kevin's world meant spending more on a tailored shirt than Kostya made in a week. Kevin was a real piece of New York shit. Duncan, the Tuesday night bartender may have been an SNL sketch of a Park Slope hipster, tailored vests, Dublin accent, well oiled beard, but that also made him look like a guy you could trust to pour your $24 apothecary cocktail. But Duncan had bailed when his girlfriend's water broke, so Kostya got upgraded to the bar. Kostya, who in stark contrast to Duncan, looked like he could only be trusted with the kind of schlock you'd pay a buck fifty for from a Port Authority vending machine. And no promises he wouldn't keep your change. It hadn't always been like that. Not that he could ever have driven home handsome, but he used to be able to at least idle in the vicinity of serviceable. There was a certain appeal. Boyish face, bright eyes, good teeth, dark hair that had gotten him by in the past, and he'd always felt, even if he never acted on it, that if he just lost the extra weight on his jowls and gut 20 years and 15 ish pounds worth of eating his feelings, he'd be a solid 67 in dim lighting. But the last few months had been rough, so rough that he really wasn't fit for public consumption. Dumped yet again, moping continuously ungroomed and unmotivated and seriously unhappy, the weight the least of his issues. His wardrobe, like the T shirt he wore now, phlegm colored with Uncle Vanya's sickle and shot glass branding on the chest, had suffered considerably when Alexis, his ex, left him, and his body, grown soft on beer and burgers, had never done well in the standard issue humidity of Manhattan summers, but had rebelled spectacularly since he'd stopped exercising altogether, coinciding with Alexis's departure and her custody of their dog, Freddie Mercury, whose walks had wholly comprised Kostya's calisthenics. Just now there were dark rings of sweat migrating down from his armpits where even the antiest of perspirants couldn't penetrate. If Kevin were there, he would have murdered Constantine on the spot, wrung him out with his own dishrag. But Kevin was probably doing lines of coke off somebody's bikini wax in the Hamptons, so fuck him and fuck his rules. Kostya would dry all this right on the bar, in plain sight of anyone with the balls to stroll in and order five minutes before the library closed Fuck you very much. Outside the bar, in the stacks of Bibliomecca, a man paced back and forth, casing the spine of Phantasmagoriana. He passed its shelf four and a half times before his itchy fingers finally gave in and tugged the book forward as he watched the bookcase shimmy away from the wall, revealing the dim staircase down to a chamber that smelled like old money and privilege and scotch. Weren't those all the same things? A wave of relief broke over him. He'd promised a half dozen people that he wouldn't drink tonight, and he'd really meant it then, but he didn't mean it now. They must have known, he told himself, that he wasn't good for his word. Not on this, not on the anniversary. So there he was, minutes to midnight, scurrying down the steps to the Library of Spirits. Three hundred and five days sober. Or was it 304? Didn't matter. He'd have to start the count over again in the morning if he woke up. When Constantine heard the click latch of shelving, his eyes darted up from the highball. He was drying, barely believing his ears. In the six months he'd been doing this job, not one person had shown up past 11:30. It was an unspoken rule. Speakeasies weren't like the sleazy sports bars or collegiate watering holes where you could pop in for a single shot of Fireball on your way to your hairdresser's Uber driver's house party in Alphabet City. They were intimate spaces with exorbitant prices and cocktails that begged to be sipped, savored. He was dying to see what kind of person money to burn surely would roll in at five of only to lay down 30 bucks for a drink they'd barely get to taste. So imagine Kostya's surprise when down the steps came a guy who looked. Was it possible? Rougher even than he did. The man was a rail tall, with dishwater eyes shining beneath a ball cap and a huge, sad Steven Tyler mouth. Uh, hey, he said. Hey. It took Constantine a second to catch himself. I mean, hi, hello. Welcome to the Library. Up spirits. Steven Tyler's long lost twin blinked uncertainly at him. You still open? He nodded at the pile of glasses. Yep. For the next Kostya consulted his watch. Three minutes. Cool. He slid a stool from beneath the bar and settled onto it, sniffing once loudly. Kostya hoped he wasn't getting comfortable. What he needed was some extra sleep before his delivery shift. Not a late close because this dulcet broski wanted a nightcap. Can I get a Manhattan? Oh, here we go. Yeah, so I'm not actually a bartender. He had to take off. Family thing. I'm just the dishwasher. But you can still make a drink, right? There was an edge of desperation to his voice. I mean, I don't technically have a bartending license, so I didn't get it from you and it might not taste right. A risk I'm willing to take. Just hit me. Whatever's easy. Okay. But I still gotta charge you full price. The edges of Steven Tyler's enormous mouth twitched. His eyes were fixed on Kostya's hand. The highball glass he was polishing held midair, as if he was willing its movements telepathically toward the booze. You okay, man? You don't look so. Just get me a goddamn drink. He was suddenly shouting, his eyes darting and frantic. Chill out, okay? I was just. Now, now. Before your fucking bar fucking closes and I can't fucking toast to my poor, dead, beautiful wife. In the silence that followed, it felt like all the hot air had left the room. Particles of dust danced slowly in the space between them as Kastya and this sad, strange, large lipped man gazed across the bar at each other, their stares combusting gunpowder. In a long, still moment before everything sparked, Steven Tyler snatched a wet glass from Kostya's lineup and smashed it on the floor. He shattered another and another. Smithereens flashing like lightning. Kostya made a lunge for him, but a familiar puff of air hit the back of his throat, an aftertaste coming on. It happened so quickly, so clearly, like it was as desperate to make it into his mouth as this guy was for a drink, that Kostya froze in concentration. It was a cocktail. Light effervescence, slight tang. Champagne or no, drier kava and gin. Lemon juice Sweeter than sour Meyers, maybe. And something floral. Elderberry and. And lavender. With mint. Not quite. Something that tasted like this candle his ex used to burn. Patchouli dreams. Yes, Patchouli. Did people even eat that? There was a smear of syrup too, thick and sweet and tart. A cherry. A Luxardo cherry. It seemed almost contrived that here they were in a bar stocked with obscure tinctures and infusions, when someone, this guy's dead wife Shirley, sent through an obscure cocktail made of just such tinctures and infusions. Kostya could feel an electric tingle in his fingers. He had never before tried making the dishes he tasted. For one thing, though, he was a championship eater. He rarely cooked, and for another it had always seemed taboo, like chanting Bloody Mary into a mirror by moonlight. But this aftertaste, this drink here in this place, was a provocation as much as a libation. A dare. Steven Tyler broke another glass. Quit it, Kostya whined, and as the guy wound up to smash another snifter, he blurted out, she liked kava, right? Your wife? He set the snifter down so slowly it seemed like it might never arrive. How did you know that? He asked, his enormous mouth a thin white line. I'm going to make you something, kostya answered instead. Sit. He turned toward the illuminated shelves behind him and selected a number of jars and eyedropper vials. He gathered ice in a shaker, a jigger, a glass, a bottle of Bombay, but then, thinking it over, smacking his lips together, although the aftertaste was gone, swapped for Hendrix. There was an open bottle of kava in the wine fridge behind the bar, and Kostya nipped a little taste. It was exactly right. I thought you weren't a bartender. I'm improvising, kostya answered, though that wasn't entirely true. Something. Someone was guiding him. He'd always been able to pinpoint the ingredients, but now someone was illuminating the pale memories of the aftertaste for him, showing him exactly what he had to do with them, each step apparent. He layered the ingredients together, concocting the drink from the way it had danced around his mouth. The Luxardo cherry and a half teaspoon of its juice was drizzled directly into the bottom of the glass. The kava and gin went into the shaker with single drop of patchouli oil, a splash of Saint Germain, and a healthy squeeze from the pipette of the preserved Meyer lemon jar. Constantine added ice and shook like he was James Bond. A jack and diet would have done the trick. Shut up, kostya snapped, struggling to concentrate. He strained the cocktail into a frosted Collins glass and used a drink stirrer to taste. Nearly there. He pinched a few grains of salt from the well behind the bar and sprinkled them on the drink's surface. He didn't even need to taste it again. His stomach gave a lurch like a leap over a hill, and he just knew. Kostya slid the glass across the bar. Steven Tyler lifted it slowly to his lips, hands trembling, and closed his eyes. What's it called? He asked. Kostya thought a moment, a spectral source, eyes still closed. Charlie Katzowski. No relation to Steven Tyler. Took his first sip of alcohol in nearly a year. Tears streaked his face as he did it, making two straight paths to his chin. It wasn't the alcohol, though his body did feel like it was unfolding, the tension melting away at the removal of the Prohibition, but the drink itself, its flavors and notes and highs and lows. He hadn't had much hope for this guy beyond being able to pour him a few fingers worth of whiskey, but this drink, it was poetry. It tasted like Anna's last year, sweet and bright and bubbling with life at the start and then complicated, striated, serious and earthy and saline in drips and then at the tail, bitter and nauseous, bilious, whatever floral he'd put in there, the exact same scent as her hospital room when things got bad, when she stopped responding to treatment and all the flowers people had sent started rotting at the same time, the air thick with waterlogged stems, suffocating that awful smell. He took another sip and he was back with his wife, alive with her smile and the gap between her teeth, her ringing laugh, her short sunshine hair dapp with light in his lap in the park, the blanket beneath them damp with dew, and he was reading something aloud, a New Yorker review, but then no, the salt, the way they'd both cried when she said goodbye, the stale wreaths and floral crosses overwhelming the funeral parlor, their petals curling as he wept. He'd taken a third sip when he heard the slumpy mock bartender yelp holy fucking fuck balls. And opened his eyes in time to see it happening. Anna was materializing on the edge of the bar. She arrived in a million pinpricks of light, each one glowing and fading and glowing again like a field of atomic fireflies, her hair and face and smile illuminated in ghostly green, beaming at him, all of her exactly how she'd looked at the very end, thin, pale, ready to let go, only absolutely transparent, so clear he could still see the dishwasher's disbelieving face through hers, the rows of liquors and infusions and syrups behind where her neck and shoulders and breasts were coming into being. She was sitting on the bar, laughing. Could he bottle the sound with her long lanky legs dangling down, kicking with life, and when they bumped his knee he gave an anticipatory jump even they passed right through. He looked back down at the spectral sour, then through Anna's slender arm at the wannabe mixologist who was inching his way back into the kitchen. Hey, he called, what the hell was in this? But the coward retreated through the swinging door and was gone. Hey, loser, anna said then, and the familiar rasp of her voice, a voice he'd have paid anything to hear just one more time, snag in his chest. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. She leaned toward him and whispered, your line is hey. In the sanctuary of the library's supply room, Constantine was trying to wrestle his heart back down his throat. There was a lady ghost on the bar. A lady ghost on the bar. A lady ghost on the bar. Shit. He took several deep breaths and then a swig of Tito's from the family bottle. Okay, okay, okay. He'd made a drink and his drink had brought someone back from the dead. No need to panic. Nothing to see here. No big deal. He took another swig of vodka. In a weird ass twist of fate, the kind of bullshit plotline only a novelist could devise, he had somehow managed to prop open a portal all I see dead people style, only without the crazy color coding. Was this what the ghosts had been waiting for all these years? A fucking snack? Kostya clambered onto a step stool and peered through the smeared window of the swinging door. There she was, firework bright, gesticulating, sending sparks. He nudged the door open just enough to hear they were arguing about celebrities. And I was just kind of expecting you to look more like Bradley Cooper by now. You're impossible, you know that? It's not like you came back as Zoe Kravitz. You still into her? You know there's like no chance, right? He grinned. Screw you. I'd love to, bae, but I'm not exactly corporeal. Though I guess we could. She suddenly jittered, her spangled image blinking in and out like a bad connection. Anna. He gasped as she blipped out of sight. Anna. No. He was shouting, his hand trying to grab hold of hers, closing in on itself. No, no, no. Come back. Drink. Her voice instructed, disembodied somewhere. He fumbled for his glass, spilling half in the process, and took a big gulp. A moment later, there she was again, all chartreuse and sparkles. A Movieland extra from the Emerald City. Sorry, she gasped. You have to keep drinking. The taste of that thing, I think that's what's keeping me here. He frowned at her, dubious. Really? This? Don't you remember it? She gave him a meaningful look. From Santorini. That place with the boats. His eyes lit up. Oh. Oh, really? That was this down to the garnish. That was a good night. The best. Something passed in the air between them, both breathlessly happy and Devastatingly sad, but okay. So we'll make more. Backstage. Kostya was nodding. Yep. Game the system. That guy's just hiding in the kitchen. I can see him spying, but. She shook her head. I think it's a one shot deal. What? Why? Just a feeling. Like this is a kind of a swan song. A final bow. I don't understand. She glanced at his glass. It doesn't matter. We don't have much time. For what? To make peace. He went pale. Peace? Oh God, Anna. Have you been haunted all this time? I fucking knew we shouldn't have scattered your ashes on the Bell Parkway. She shook her head. Oh, honey. She was gentle as she said it. I made peace with my death a long time ago. I came back for you because you would have taken those pills in your pocket if I hadn't. Because you're still holding on to us and it's ruining your life. He went pink. I wasn't actually going to do it. Yeah, you were. And when you did. Oh, Charlie, you'd miss so much more that's waiting for you. Good stuff. Great stuff. Worth sticking around for. He blinked rapidly, fighting tears. What kind of stuff? She gave him a smile. You'll have to wait here to find out. I hate waiting. I know you couldn't be patient to save your life. It's why I came back. She gave a little laugh, but when she blinked, a streak of molten emeralds cascaded down her face. Beautiful tears to tell you to live. To let go. Because when you do, you'll get to move on. And so will I. Her light dimmed again, a bulb dying, and Charlie lifted the glass and took a tiny sip. Dip. Constantine could see its perfect synchrony, the way her skin lit up in time with the dip of the drink. She glanced nervous at his near empty low ball and spoke very quickly. Please, I have to get this out. What I said at the end about never loving anyone else, about expecting the same from you. It was selfish. It was cruel. I was in a bad place and I thought you'd figure that out once I was gone. I hoped you'd know me well enough to know that I didn't mean it. That I wanted you to be happy. She reached for his hand but her fingers went right through. But it's been years and you haven't even tried to meet anybody. And I know it's because of me. I can feel the way you hold on like we're chained together. And you're still young now. But if you don't let me go, you're going to die young and alone. Or worse, you'll die old and alone, and you'll have lived a miserable, empty life. He looked at her for a long moment, fine as crystal, something shattering in him. I really miss you. I miss you too. He stared into the bottom of his glass. I don't want to let you go. I know. Anna sighed in a way that really did feel like she knew it. But letting go doesn't mean that you forget me, just that you don't let the memories hurt you anymore. That sounds healthy. I hate it. Remember that green drink from the health food place? He cracked a smile, a faraway memory flickering over his face. Friggin kale. Friggin kale, she agreed. But I no buts, she said firmly. Not unless they're yeah, yeah, Kardashians. I know. I would have gone with jlo. Well, you've been dead a while, so. They smiled at one another, something unspoken passing between them. As her light dimmed again and he took another precious sip, Kostya watched through the door, a gnaw in his chest. It was Sakharin, sure, and he barely knew them, but still. The way this guy looked at her, even dead, you couldn't help but feel for him. It was love, like starving. It's time, she whispered. I don't know how, he whispered back. You just live. Like I'm not here. Like nothing you do can hurt me. Just let go, she said, and reached a glittering jade hand out to him, cupped his face. Charlie's eyes fluttered, closed, his chin buckling. Kostya could see him shiver, the sensation of her touch both real and imagined. It isn't fair, he gasped, that you got sick, That I got to live. You don't have to feel guilty, she told him, for wanting your life. My death. None of it was your fault. I died, babe. I just. Just died. You didn't kill me. Kostya felt something inside of him blister. He would have given anything, anything to hear his dad tell him that. Anna's light dimmed again, but Charlie's eyes were still closed, and he didn't budge this time, didn't reach for the glass. Char, she began, but her final thought was cut short, her burst of light going dark right in the middle of his name. Charlie opened his eyes. He blinked at the afterglow of where his wife's spirit had just been, the retinal burn of her brilliant outline, its own sort of ghost. His fingers fumbled with an orange pill bottle in his pocket. He flipped it open, stared long and hard at the contents then spilled the tablets across the lacquered wood of the bar. Kastia wondered what was going through his head. Whether Charlie believed what he'd just been told about his future, whether he was mourning his wife or his marriage or the arrested possibilities of his own life, whether he thought he'd hallucinated the whole thing, whether he was still planning after all that, to take those pills. The only thing Kostya knew for sure was that if this guy started popping painkillers, he'd have to step in, call an ambulance, save his life, etc. And that meant another late shift and a fuck ton of questions, none of which he felt like fielding. But instead of ingesting anything, Charlie just kept staring. When it felt like he couldn't possibly sit in limbo anymore, like he'd been in that bar all his life, had been born on that obnoxious barstool, swaddled in those asinine cocktail napkins. Charlie picked up his spectral sour and tipped its cherry back into his mouth. He chewed, tasted, licked his lip, and Anna blipped back into existence, her face streaked with phosphorescent tears like someone had broken a glow stick. She looked surprised to be there. Charlie, she whispered. How did you know? He asked, voice reverberating with pain. How'd you know I was really going to do it? I didn't even know. I know you like a book, babe. You always did. He nodded, sniffing. Guess it's time for a new chapter. They gazed at one another with the electric intensity of an imminent goodbye. Have an incredible life, Charlie. And when you're done, find me in the next one, okay? She pressed her radiant mouth to his, fighting all the boundaries between them, time and space and life and death, to try to make him feel her there, the ghost of their love story, its arc complete. When she pulled away, he lifted his empty glass. Here's to you, bitch. See you on the other side, loser. And he smashed the tumbler onto the floor, shattering the glass and spraying the minute particles of spectral sour across the speakeasy, releasing Anna along with them. Kostya felt lightheaded. He had to grip the wall to steady himself. He waited until he stopped shaking mostly, and then an extra couple minutes out of respect for the dead, before forcing himself to shuffle back out to the front of house. He wanted to get Charlie's hot take to compare notes about what they had heard Anna say, to discuss the mechanics of the drink and the taste and how it had all worked, because, hell, who else except maybe Frankie? He lived for this supernatural shit would believe this if he told them he was exploding inside, aching to understand if he could do it again, if maybe, maybe he could bring someone else back just for a drink. Alas. Conversation, an apology. His father felt so close, suddenly manifest, reachable. But as Charlie began thanking him up and down. Look, I don't know what that was or how you pulled it off, but you just saved my life. Thank you, man. Thank you. How can I repay you? Kostya lost his nerve, this, what had just happened. He'd done it, sure, but it wasn't about him. It was bigger, much bigger, perilously large. And he'd have to uncover it on his own. It's on me, he told the Charlie formerly known as Steven Tyler. Just do me a solid. Don't tell your friends.
- [70:15]
Daria Lovell
Ready to hear the rest of the story? Visit YourNextListen.com Copyright 2025 by Daria Lavelle. Audio excerpt courtesy of Simon and Schuster Audio from the audiobook Aftertaste, a novel by Daria Lavelle, read by Ari Fliakos, Tessa Albertson, Andre Santana and Kristin See Published by Simon and Schuster Audio, a division of Simon and Schuster, Inc. Used with permission of Simon and Schuster, Inc. Your next listen is a production of Lemonada Media in Simon and Schuster Audio. I'm your host, Jackie Danziger. I produce a series with Lizzie Breyerbell. Isara Acevez is our associate producer. Bobby Woody is our audio engineer. Music by APM Executive producers are Jessica Cordova Kramer and Stephanie Whittles Wax. Production support from Lara Blackman, Tom Spain, Sarah Lieberman and Lauren Piers help others find our show by leaving us a.
- [71:06]
Megan
Rating and writing a review.
- [71:07]
Daria Lovell
Thanks for listening. See you next time.
- [71:16]
Megan
On August 9, 2014, a police officer shot and killed Michael Brown in Ferguson, Missouri, setting off 400 days of uprising.
- [71:27]
Kostya Duhovny
That's what the world saw.
- [71:28]
Megan
What they didn't see was the family, the grief and the young man behind the headlines. Now his mother, Leslie McSpadden, tells her story of love, loss and the fight for justice.
- [71:41]
Kostya Duhovny
I'm still Mike's mom. Once you're a mother, you never forget how to mother.
- [71:45]
Megan
From lemonada Media and Campaign 0 Still My Baby is coming out. May 27th.