warm colors on a cool day. (via matt.hintsa)
(via rdmcgeorge)
I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait to get my hands on some fucking gourds and arrange them in a horn-shaped basket on my dining room table. That shit is going to look so seasonal. I’m about to head up to the attic right now to find that wicker fucker, dust it off, and jam it with an insanely ornate assortment of shellacked vegetables. When my guests come over it’s gonna be like, BLAMMO! Check out my shellacked decorative vegetables, assholes. Guess what season it is—fucking fall. There’s a nip in the air and my house is full of mutant fucking squash.
I may even throw some multi-colored leaves into the mix, all haphazard like a crisp October breeze just blew through and fucked that shit up.
An Oyster Reporter’s Mobile Workspace
I wrote this blog post about all the gear I took on my last trip.
Can I have your job?
Remember when Anthony Bourdain went to Chile and ate a giant hot dog topped with mayo, avocado, sauerkraut, relish, and tomato?
Starting today, you can get one in Midtown.
Try as I may, I just can’t get excited about Chilean food. Hintsa, though, will probably be making a special trip to NYC for this.
Ehh…maybe I’ll swing by if I’m in the area, but I’m with you, Paul; I never really got that excited about Chilean food. I don’t know how anyone can feel good about themselves after gorging on a completo or any sort of vienesa. I never managed to find a decent churrasco, either. That said, I could go for an empanada and some pebre.
I tried to explain that my mother is an orthodontic technician, but all I could get out was “dentist.” Hope you like the change in profession, Mom (or should I say doctor). A number of my explanations were similarly simplified and falsified. If ever find yourself in the Darkhaad Depression, my new major at Cornell is ‘grass’ and I no longer hail from the evergreen state rather our nation’s capital.
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| — | Lindsay describing her adventures in rural Mongolia. |
because, because, because
The farm is full of ironies, oxymorons, absurdities. The permanent Argentine farmworker who stopped shoveling dirt to read and respond to a text message. The fresh milk to put in the instant coffee. The completely organic, biodynamic (more about what that means later) cow sticking its head into the front seat of the truck while its radio played bad pop music from the U.S. The Swedish high school teacher - we’ll call her Tall Swedish Teacher - working here during her sabbatical who smokes and chews tobacco constantly. Everything happens fast and slow, at the same time. The weeds we pull from the garden become that day’s food for the goats. When we need salad for lunch, I take a bowl from the kitchen to one of the permanent Argentine farmworkers, who cuts lettuce out of the garden. But, of course, that lettuce didn’t come to our lunchtable quickly. The garden was weeded recently. The compost was started a year before it was mixed with the soil. The sheep and cows have to be fed in order to make the manure for the compost. Two out of every three years the field lays fallow. It’s dusk now; the sky is gray disappearing into orange disappearing into purple. A German woman who grew up on a farm, an Englishman fresh from six months teaching English in Bolivia and TST are brushing the cows while the only temporary worker from Argentina is playing guitar along to some ’90s music from the U.S. I don’t recognize.
