And in the beginning, there was detox. We were what was thrown from the lungs of nothingness as it sputtered and shook in the night, as it found a fresh start—as it found goodness again, apart from us.
100% and then some.
She said that you should bottle up the parts of her you need, that she was leaving. She talked about funerary vessels and the carrying of spirits, made a cup with her two hands, spit into them and said
"Preserve me in this."
When there were no takers she untangled her fingers and wiped them clean on her shorts, saying that we needed more gods, more ancestors; that we were getting terrible and selfish with our memories.
"You could have had me for a thousand years-
-I could have lasted for a thousand years.”
There were dark places on the denim where her palms had been, but they would dry quickly, she said.
The girl who had gotten off the train in front of her had ginkgo leaves tattooed on her two calves.
She wanted to stop her and say that in her home town they had had a yearly festival to celebrate those trees and their rubbery, dinosaur footed leaves, but didn’t anymore because some idiot city planner had not done his planning and had planted only female trees and in their maturity they and their fruit and their blossoms had gotten to smelling and they’d ripped them all right up and out and planted something that made less of a stink but that no one seemed to be celebrating.
She didn’t say a thing, though.
Instead she tripped up the stairs and barely avoided knocking out a tooth with the force of her own chin. She felt the insurmountableness of city living ooze over her skin.
My neighbors are no longer my neighbors, she sighed.
The shadows have stopped twisting into wolves and have turned into men…and I am still shaken.
"Championing Klaas’s wheat and only his wheat was tantamount to treating his farm like a grocery store. I was cherry-picking what I most wanted for my menu without supporting the whole farm."
“Perhaps the problem with the farm-to-table movement is implicit in its name. Imagining the food chain as a field on one end and a plate of food at the other is not only reductive, it also puts us in the position of end users. It’s a passive system — a grocery-aisle mentality — when really, as cooks and eaters, we need to engage in the nuts and bolts of true agricultural sustainability. Flavor can be our guide to reshaping our diets, and our landscapes, from the ground up.”
Good reads about good eats.
He christened me with a homemade flour paste and stuck his faith to me in strips of newspaper, headlines of Men Doing the Right Thing and Women Loving Eternally, of Blind Eyes Seeing and Faces Appearing in Dinner Plates and Everyone Just Trusting
But it all began to slip in the rain
Revealing my pink balloon of a belly, my head he’d filled with penny candies