A fount of happy distractions — and baking tips
In a time when we could all use some inspirational lift — something truly connective and comforting — Tom Papa’s got your back … plus some tips for your sourdough starter. With a voice like a cartoon forest ranger, the comedian, radio host (of Sirius’s Come to Papa), head writer (for NPR’s Live From Here) and avid bread baker (of Food Network’s Baked) has become a fount of happy distractions and avuncular wisdom, at the ready via Instagram with calming shots of fresh-baked loaves and videos of dancing health care workers.
Like many comedians, Papa’s outlook is plenty cynical. “These global tragedies where the party seems to be humming along, and then something big happens? Those aren’t a surprise to me,” he says. “When we were all of a sudden locked in the house, my wife said, ‘Why do I get the feeling you thought this was gonna happen all along?’”
Still, he’s determined to hammer home some optimism: “You’re Doing Great!” is his catchphrase, the name of his latest Netflix special and the title of his new book of autobiographical essays (St. Martin’s, $27.99). “As rough as things can get, it still is your life,” he says. “You should be grateful for this. You’re doing great.”
Q: In your book, you write: “Because of social media we think we’re lacking. … Calm down. No one has a great life. No one.” You’ve met a lot of successful people. Really, no one?
A: On the surface they do. It’s not that they’re not enjoying themselves, but nobody escapes all the other stuff. Everybody still has worries about their kids and sickness in their family and death to deal with. It doesn’t matter how many cleaning people you have — all that stuff does not provide enough bubble wrap to create a truly great, carefree life. But it’s about re-calibrating: What is a great life? A lot of bad stuff happens; that is a great life. It’s not the avoidance of all that stuff that makes it great.
Q: You write a lot about your obsession with baking bread. The quarantine has inspired a surge of at-home baking and grocery shortages of flour and yeast. What makes it such a source of solace?
A: There’s something about the smell of home-baked bread that’s just the ultimate comfort. The process of making it is satisfying, yes; having something to work on and take your mind off of stuff when you’re home all these hours, sure, that’s a benefit. But it really comes down to this: When you smell that somebody took the time to bake something for you, it’s an expression of love, of nourishment. It’s part of our DNA.
Q: It also seems to have a seductive element of lowstakes risk — even a perfect recipe can fail.
A: Yeah, and you know, that’s life. That’s what comedy is. That’s what writing is. That’s what relationships are. There are very few things where you get it locked in and it’s golden all the time.
Q: Your comedy isn’t all sunny, but you go out of your way to be hopeful; you genuinely want people to feel like they’re “doing great.” Why?
A: I could tell when I was touring over the last couple years, people got tired of negativity, of everybody attacking each other. My life is pretty optimistic. When I started just being more myself in that way on stage, the reaction, and the people who started showing up to my shows, kind of changed everything. It was just a nicer place to be. I used to look at my Twitter and Instagram and wince — like, what are they saying now? I don’t do that anymore. The only people attracted now are people who want bread tips.
Q: You write about being flown first-class to Dubai and describe it as the best flight of your life: “All I had to do was sit in my nest with my mouth open like a baby bird.” Can you never fly coach again?
A: Please. My whole career is going back and forth from first to coach. I was doing a show in New York and living in California and flying first class almost every week, to the point where I knew the flight attendants. Eventually, the show got canceled and I ran out of miles and was back on the airline paying for myself. I was sitting there in coach, and the flight attendant saw me and just said: “What. Happened.” I said, “My show got canceled.” He walked off and came back with a cookie — he wrapped it in a napkin and snuck it to me. And he patted me on the shoulder and said, “You’ll be back.”