September 6th 2010
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9/1/10
Appetite
8/26/10
HOW TO TIE A KNOT
6/16/10
Diner Old Boys Win adiCup NYC!
"The Diner Old Boys reclaim their title and set out in hopes for a victory at adidas' adiCup, 2010 FIFA World Cup™ edition global finals.
"A record 28 teams turned out at Pier 40 on Saturday to compete for the NYC title at adiCup, 2010 FIFA World Cup™ edition, adidas' 9th installment of its annual FANATIC soccer tournament.
"[I]t was veterans and two-time champions, Diner Old Boys, that took the coveted adiCup trophy and tickets to compete at the global finale at adidas' headquarters in Herzogenaurach, Germany. After winning the 1-0 final match against Supreme Records, Diner Old Boys return to the global finale to represent the U.S. against the winners from adiCup tourneys in Tokyo, Berlin and London, for a shot at a trip to the 2010 FIFA World Cup™ finale in Johannesburg, South Africa, just four years after their last adiCup win scored them seats at the finale in Berlin."
Go, Boys, go!
12/7/09
Issue No.13 Available Now
11/13/09
EAST MEATS WEST : Social
A launch party for Meatpaper and Diner Journal
Specialty cocktails
Beer & wine
Charcuterie and prepared dishes from west and east
Roasted New York goat
And of course, more meat.
FOOD AND DRINK FROM:
Marlow and Daughters
Nico Monday
Taylor Boetticher / Fatted Calf
Ryan Farr / 4505 Meats
Morgan Maki / Bi-Rite Market
Scribe Winery
St. George Spirits
Bols Genever
21st Amendment Brewery
Hudson Valley Whiskey
... and more
WHERE
Enid's
560 Manhattan Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11222
WHEN
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
8pm - 11pm
TICKETS
$50
Pre-purchase tickets at http://eastmeatswestsocial.eventbrite.com/
9/29/09
Tonight In Manhattan
Who: Us
What: Non-Fiction Series
Where: KGB BAR 85 East 4th Street
When: Seven
Why: Fun
9/1/09
Come Rock Out and Put Out for Juliet
8/17/09
Cut from the Same Cloth
7/31/09
Pigs in the City
How different was it? One of my favorite local food stories is the history of the pig. New York City has a long and involved history with pigs. It started when colonists first came to America, bringing with them livestock and the notion of private property. Both were new to the Native Americans. As the colonists settled, they set about claiming property and trying to make the Native Americans conform to their ideas of ownership and boundaries. Fences and coercion (not to mention small pox) all helped the colonists make Native Americans see things their way, but it was the pigs that made the most convincing argument. The pigs brought over from Europe quickly made themselves at home in the New World, and roamed freely in large, aggressive packs, foraging for whatever food they could find. And what they found were the Native American's fields, with all the corn and other vegetables they could possibly want, all completely unprotected by fences. Needless to say, the pigs wreaked havoc, and the Native Americans were forced to put up fences, or else lose their entire crop. Once they put up fences, they had entered into the European system of private property, and were forced to live and interact with the colonists on their terms. New York, along with the rest of the Northeast, became land divided, a land of farms and fences and boundaries. The landscapes of today are the result of those first divisions, now multiplied and expanded into cities and developments as well as fields and farmland. There are even still some traces of those first boundaries: Wall Street really did used to be a wall, built by the settlers of what they called New Amsterdam. I even read somewhere that pigs were directly to blame for this wall too. Apparently the semi-wild herds of pigs could get pretty aggressive, and the wall was built to protect the settlement from rampaging pigs. This might not be true. The other explanation I've heard, which seems slightly more plausible, is that the wall was built to keep out hostile attackers of the human variety: Native Americans. But still, the pigs make a good story, and even if it's not strictly true, there's definitely some truth in there. It at least does go to show how important pork was to the building of fences.
But the story of pigs doesn't end there. In fact, it gets better. That's because the story of New York farms doesn't end with the start of New York City. Even after the city stopped looking like fields and started looking like buildings and streets, New York was still a farm. Talk about local: the meat that people (especially the poor) ate well into the 19th century didn't come from the country. It came from livestock the roamed the streets. Pigs were the most common of these animals, and possibly the most iconic. For a lot of people, they came to symbolize city life, not rural life, and they were seen as an image of the chaos and squalor of the poor and crowded areas of the city. Especially at the edges, where the city faded into destitute neighborhoods and shantytowns, you could find whole herds of pigs, roaming the streets and rummaging in alleyways.
In a time when trash was just dumped in the street or piled in the gutters, 19th century pigs gave a whole new meaning to using the whole animal. They acted as the only street cleaners or trash collectors New York had as they foraged for food, rooting through the heaps of garbage and disposing of anything edible. There was no real system in place for disposing of waste in the city, and it wasn't just garbage that collected in the streets. People also regularly tossed the contents of their chamber pots out the window, and when a carriage horse or a cow died, it was usually just left on the curb to rot or be eaten by other stray animals. So the pigs, doing their part to get rid of all this, were arguably some of the more sanitary residents of the city. They might even have been more important in their street-cleaner role than in their ham and pork role. That's not to say that these pigs were exactly a beloved fixture in the city. I think the hot dog probably receives a lot more love than they did. Even though they were helping keep the streets somewhat clean, the city was still filthy, and that the pigs lived off this filth made their presence emblematic of the unsanitary conditions that plagued the more destitute neighborhoods. Not to mention the fact that these herds of pigs could get pretty aggressive. Those rampaging pigs of the Wall Street story are no exaggeration: there are stories of semi-wild pigs menacing the residents of New York who got in their way, and even a few reported cases of children being attacked and even killed.
Pigs were a serious part of life in New York for a long time, and not just as food. We're getting back to local now, and we're doing a pretty good job. There are even a few chickens starting to show up in the city, as well as vegetables. But we've still got nothing on the local of the old New York. Then again, maybe that's not such a bad thing. I'm not sure I want to be looking out surly, semi-feral pigs on my way to work in the morning.
2/15/09
Diner Journal Has Valentine's Day Crush
Please support our mission to establish a permanent, indoor public market in the City of New York, where purveyors such as butchers, grocers, mongers, and other vendors will source and sell food from the region.
By incubating and supporting these local businesses, New Amsterdam Market will provide additional outlets and opportunities for farmers too busy or too distant to attend New York's thriving Greenmarkets - a need made all the more critical by the economic collapse.
Our aim in 2009 is to begin holding New Amsterdam Market once every month. We have been speaking with the City about use of a public site in Lower Manhattan and are encouraged by this prospect. More news will follow!
Your generous support will help us start the market.
Purchase Tickets for you and all your friends NOW!
2/2/09
Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know: Cecily Upton At Large
So, I'm driving through Nebraska and I start to notice that out among the broken corn stalks in 4 out of 10 fields are herds of stout, black cows foraging freely. Foraging freely? In Nebraska? This is a state firmly in the grips of Our Nation's Food System. Subsidies are handed out here like handshakes at a campaign rally. Aren't all those cows supposed to be penned up, in chains, unable to move, force-fed unnatural diets of grain and animal parts and injected with all sorts of horrible anti-biotics? Isn't that what Fast Food Nation and King Corn tell us? Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to say that doesn't happen, because it does. In fact, most, if not all, of those cows I saw munching away in the great open plains are destined for that very fate. Soon. And I passed those very feedlots the next day, in Colorado, and those animals are inhumanely jammed in there and there are MOUNTAINS of manure and it looks to be a pretty horrible existence. But, BUT, my east-coast, bleeding-heart, liberal, Slow Food sensibilities were kind of rocked when I saw those cows apparently enjoying themselves roaming freely amongst the corn stalks.
Then I got to thinking. And this is what I thought: what I'm seeing here might not be a quaint antithetical anecdote to the Evil Feedlot/Bionic Beef nightmare we know exists, but instead might be, in actuality, THE SADDEST INDICATOR OF HOW F***** UP OUR FOOD SYSTEM REALLY IS. Now, I'm still a little emotional about this, as you can tell. I'm going to try and lay this out clearly, but bear with me if it gets a little tangled. Here goes. These fields, in the spring, were most likely planted with GMO corn destined for one of three fates: feedlot grain, high-fructose corn syrup, or biofuel. Now, I need to make one thing clear: this corn is inedible. People cannot eat it. It can and will only be used for one of the three products I just listed. The farmers who grow this corn are most likely losing money on each acre and are subsidized by Uncle Sam to ensure the United States' bread-basket (note the irony here, given that these crops are not destined for food) remains productive. So, the sun shines, the fields are irrigated, the corn grows. Now in the good old days, some of these fields would be something other than corn and that other stuff would be harvested to feed animals like cows through the winter before a short diet of grain was imposed to fatten them up before slaughter.
I say a short diet of grain because grain is toxic to cows. Their stomachs can only tolerate it for a short period before it becomes infected, they sicken, and they die. Anyway, growing that other stuff became less and less profitable once the government began writing the checks. The government will really only write checks for corn and a few other, mostly non-edible, staples, so it didn't make much sense to be growing acres of crops that you wouldn't get paid for. Besides, science and technology had, in the meantime, invented all of these glorious drugs you could give your cows that prolonged the period that they could tolerate grain. So now you could send cattle to the feedlot at an earlier age, keep them on corn for longer, and they'd fatten up faster. Sounds like a win-win, right? Well, I think everyone reading this blog knows it's not, but I want to get back to the cows I saw munching away in the barren fields.
So, I'm driving along and I won't lie, my black Brooklyn heart warmed a bit when I saw those happy cows in the fields, but it soon iced back over when I realized the sad irony. Here were cows, spending their last short weeks before the feedlot, scavenging in snow-covered fields for the remnants of GMO corn that they would soon be force-fed in too-close quarters while standing in their own waste. These poor animals will never know what it feels like to follow their natural instincts. Over the years, they've had those instincts bred out of them. They're bred to eat, and eat they will, anything they can find. And in these fields, what they were finding would soon kill them. Then that heart got even colder and more ice-covered when I thought about this: what if those fields were used to grow actual food, for actual people. Food that nourished and provided our population with the nutrients and vitamins that many of us so desperately need. And what if, once that food had been harvested, the remnants of that system were left to be slurped up by hungry animals who could turn it not only into further nourishment, but also into natural fertilizer, making those fields even more productive next season. Ahh, what if? I'm no farmer, so I'm sure it's just a crazy idea dreamt up by a silly kid from the city who doesn't know what she's talking about, but I kind of feel like I might be on to something here.
by Cecily Upton
1/20/09
A RESTAURANT WILL NEVER ASK YOU TO EAT AT HOME
It's never a good idea for a magician to give away her secrets. Or is it? As more and more Americans turn to their home kitchens for nourishment the winds of change can feel as cold, stark and tragically bland as the January air. Cooking has always been a winter tradition and now, in this the winter of our discontent, those long hours in the warm room are not only necessary but they offer us a chance to relearn some magic that may have been lost.
Change is inevitable but what is often misunderstood is that it holds intrinsic value. America is a nation full with change and, as it follows, hope. The Diner Journal is a quarterly, independent publication that uses food to search for and express this very hope in our culture, community, arts and politics.
Inspired to write a cookbook but without the time away from their day to day work Andrew Tarlow, Mark Firth and Caroline Fidanza set out to create a periodical. Entrenched in seasonality and locality and alive with the spirit of Marlow and Sons and Diner the Journal was born. What began as a musing on the dining institution has become a place to create conversations and affect change. From preserving tomatoes to carving holy saints from chocolate the Journal maintains a commitment to reverence and instruction with the understanding we all still have a lot to learn. It is hope, along side the hearth, that keeps us aglow at night.
And in words of one of our truest Americans, Bruce Springsteen, 'You can't start a fire without a spark." I am writing you today to thank you... for your sparkles. This is the second in a series of email that will chronicle our evolution and the expansion of our community. Last time around Andrew offered to dress as a chicken in hopes of wooing your subscription dollars. As far as I know the offer still stands. I might also add that it turns out Marisa happens to have one. A chicken suit, you know, just laying around. In return you regalled us with subscriptions, ideas, thoughts and encouragement. Since then we have almost doubled our subscription base, been touted by the UTNE reader, pandered by the Financial Times and are well on our way to forging vital relationships with such astitute oreganizations as The Cloud Institute, civileats.com, Community Agriculture at NYU, and well... facebook.
Now I am asking you for more ideas. Just think of how many ideas appear and vaporate in one day. How many thought bubbles float away from us on the -7 degree air. I am asking you to just grab a couple more and send them my way... What's your favorite bookstore? Foodstore? Blog? Who is your favorite writer? Food or otherwise... What is the most important thing to you right now? How are we going to bring McDonald's to it's red and yellow knees?
Uncertainty is the unlikely gold that paves the road to progress. Help us lay the bricks. Or the eggs. Whatever you want to call it. So please if you haven't subscribed take a moment to. And pass this along to anyone and everyone you love and respect and would also like to see Burger King Body Spray go the way of the Argentinosaurus. Instead of us.
Best wishes and Happy Obama Day,
Diner Journal
1/20/09
Our President
1/19/09
Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day!
And I would just like to remind you all to stop by Bonita Two for in Forte Green some inaugural tacos and music. The choral ensemble will be performing at Bonita around 2pm! Happy day.
Petition Online
Quincy Jones image plucked from Gene Pendon - HVW8.
1/19/09
New York Times: January, 19 2009
1/19/09
Part Two: Dear Anna,
I would never eat cream cheese because I didn't like the name. So she tricked me into eating a cheesecake she used to make by telling me the filling was made of vanilla pudding. I remember the time when you were 3 or 4 when we had to remove you screaming and hitting from Shop and Save because we wouldn't buy you Captain Crunch.Your grandparents had no doubt been feeding it to you by the boxful.
My mother was famous for being a good cook and took a lot of pride in it, but she was equally as interested in the impression she made and how things looked, as she was in what tasted good. The thought of whether it was good for you really wasn't a concern in those days. We believed in wonder bread.
It was my father who actually taught me about good food even though I never saw him cook anything. When I was little the breadman and the milkman would come to the back door every week with a delivery. We bought something called bond bread and the delivery man was a chubby guy with curly black hair who always had a kind word for me. I loved that bread for years, probably because of the delivery man.
I remember my father, when I was a teenager, taking a slice of it and rolling it in his palms until it turned back into a ball of dough, (rather quickly actually). He had to do it over and over on several occasions until I saw the light. That's when I started to eat Pepperidge Farm or Arnold, or good bread from bakeries. He did the same to break me of the habit of watching soap operas after school as my friends did in Jr. High. He would sit and watch it with me and make such wicked fun of it that I couldn't continue doing it.
He taught me about good cheese too and frequently brought good ones home from his travels. He was a traveling salesman. Gouda or gruyere or emmanthatler. And he taught me how much better loose tea brewed was than teabags. I think he learned a lot of this on his travels to Canada. So it's funny while my mother was the famous cook, he was really the gourmet.
Anyway, all this rumination, forgive the pun, made me realize how much food and lies are intertwined. Our parents may be lying to us about what is good or bad for us, though they may mean well. The Tv and ads are always lying to us about what we should eat and why, and worse we are always lying to ourselves about why we should or shouldn't be eating or drinking something. Where does this all start?
I remember when you and Hugh were little and I was just starting being a doctor, reading a study done with toddlers, kids who were too young to have developed too many food prejudices yet. The researchers put out all types of food and let the little ones play and graze all day. They found that the toddlers actually ate a balanced diet when allowed to choose for themselves what and when they wanted to eat with out any prompting.
So how do we fall from grace to greed and compulsion and obsession, to equating everything we put in our mouths with some sort of salvation or damnation? It's too easy to blame our capitalist society for seducing our tastes. You figure it out. You write a book called "Food, Lies and Desire". You'll make a million and support me in my dotage.
Love,
Mom
(for part one please consult the winter Diner Journal)
1/15/09
The First Day of the Rest of Our Lives
1/13/09
Who is this Josh character anyway?
Anyway, the little amber bottles that Josh sold in the store really did look like they had fallen off the wagon of some traveling doctor in the 19th century. Or else they were straight out The Phantom Tollbooth, the hubbub tonic of "Kakophonous A. Dischord, DOCTOR OF DISSONANCE." Do you remember the amazing drawing on that page? And Milo and company ask, what does the A. stand for? And the doctor replies, "AS LOUD AS POSSIBLE." Yes, yes, and yes. Somewhere in-between the hard facts of science and the mirages of con-men, there was a medicine of crossed lines and clattering voids. I, too, was "suffering from a severe lack of noise," I thought. Bitters would cure me. I wanted to make my own.
Read More
1/9/09
Transmission from our friends The Greenhorns
Data-intensive management of our agricultural soils, precious aquifers and urban foodsheds remains critically relevant today. Now, more than ever we have the digital tools to carefully inventory our natural resources. Google Earth, satellite technology, and multi-layered mapping software can serve our need for 'best use' of this American land. It is the job of our government, the USDA, to steward our land and carefully assess its productive capacity and conservation value for the benefit of present and future Americans. Land-use planning, food-security planning, water-shed planning--such foresight could provide greenspace corridors, organic farming zones, gmo-free areas, and targeted areas of intensive food production nearby large cities.
The government already tinkers quite significantly with American agriculture- incentivizing overproduction of corn and subsidized commodities, casting a blind eye to pollution, run-off and erosive technologies. Our hope for change revolves around the needs of farmers and the people they feed. The sustainable foodsystem our nation requires will speedily arise from a thoughtful federal land-use policy based on sane expectations of the land. The data-based, land-based, future-based expectations will yield a landscape of lasting fertility and flourishing rural economies peopled by farmers, entrepreneurs, families and organic delight.
Yes! We can serve our country healthy food!
The original of this map resides in the collections at the Prelinger LIbrary in San Francisco, California. The Library is appropriation-friendly and open to the public, a treasure trove archive. Severine and The Greenhorns are grateful to the Prelingers for their fierce commitment to rare agricultural texts, images and ephemera.
Young farmers: join the mapping project online. WWW.SERVEYOURCOUNTRYFOOD.NET
1/8/09
Idiom of the Week: Until the Cows Come Home
"The government purchases come after what the department calls a "euphoric period of record prices and booming exports" for the American dairy industry. Since 2003, dairy exports have increased from $1 billion a year to about $4 billion this year, with exports of powdered milk increasing sixfold during that period. Milk powder is an attractive product to export because it does not require refrigeration, has a long shelf life and can be used to make numerous beverages and foods.
Much of the increase was caused by increased demand in developing countries, where a growing middle class replaced starch in their diets with protein sources like meat and dairy products. Some Asian countries had little history of eating dairy products but were introduced to milk and mild cheeses by government nutrition programs or by restaurant chains like McDonald's and Pizza Hut."
The mere brute pleasure of reading - the sort of pleasure a cow must have in grazing. ~Lord Chesterfield
1/6/09
If the person you are talking to doesn't appear to be listening, be patient. It may simply be that he has a small piece of fluff in his ear.
HOWEVER, we don't live in the forest, our best friend is not a jolly tiger and piglet most likely is living in an industrial slum somewhere in the center of this American land. According to the Organic Consumers Association Valsick's business as usual positions have included the following:
-Vilsack has been a strong supporter of genetically engineered crops,
including bio-pharmaceutical corn.
-The biggest biotechnology industry group, the Biotechnology Industry
Organization, named Vilsack Governor of the Year. He was also the founder
and former chair of the Governor's Biotechnology Partnership.
-When Vilsack created the Iowa Values Fund, his first poster child of
economic development potential was Trans Ova and their pursuit of cloning
dairy cows.
-The undemocratic and highly unpopular 2005 seed pre-emption bill was
Vilsack's brainchild. The law strips local government¹s right to regulate
Genetically Engineered seed.
-Vilsack is an ardent supporter of corn and soy-based biofuels, which use as
much or more fossil energy to produce them as they generate, while driving
up world food prices and literally starving the poor.
No food on the menu there... and certainly no honey. Despite a massive public outcry, including over 20,000 emails from the Organic Consumers Association, President-Elect Obama has chosen former Iowa Governor Tom Vilsack to be the next Secretary of Agriculture.
While Vilsack has promoted respectable policies with respect to restraining livestock monopolies, his overall record is one of aiding and abetting Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations (CAFOs) or factory farms and promoting genetically engineered crops and animal cloning. Equally troubling is Vilsack's support for unsustainable industrial ethanol production, which has already caused global corn and grain prices to skyrocket, literally taking food off the table for a billion people in the developing world.
The Organic Consumers Association is calling on organic consumers and all concerned citizens to join our call to action and block Vilsack's confirmation as the next Secretary of Agriculture. Please help them reach their goal of 100,000 petition signatures against Vilsack' nomination. Sign today!
Your email will be sent to your Senators and the President-Elect's office.
12/31/08
Happy New Year and 10 Year Anniversary
12/29/08
This Just In
Marlow and Daughters
95 Broadway
Brooklyn, NY 11211
Open 11 a.m. to 8 p.m.
718-388-5700
12/17/08
Be the Cool Kid at School
The Diner Collector's Set:
includes 4 back issues + a one year subscription for $65
And the ULTIMATE (not immaculate) Collection:
includes all 9 issues + a one year subscription for $100
Keep your loved ones in moonshine, constant bliss, ribollita and poetry for the year to come. Don't know what those things are? Start reading! To place an order please email anna@marlowandsons.com, call Hilary at 718-384-1441 or come by the shop.
12/16/08
There is No Snow in a Snow Cone
I saw Milk the movie last night which was great and I highly recommend. And at the end when summarizing Dan White's trial for the execution of Harvey Milk and George Mescone the film stated that White was innocent by way of insanity, insanity that was CAUSED by eating too much junk food. This is quite different then what actually happened. White's junk food (twinkies were never mentioned in the court room) addiction was actually used in his defense, as mentioned in an earlier post, but as a symptom of his depression. The term "The Twinkie Defense" now refers to a defense that some unusual biological component factored into the causes or motives of an alleged crime. I ate twinkies, they made me crazy, I killed. I blame Hostess.
Another misnomer I keep bumping into is the Einstein bee quote, "If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live." Believe me I wanted this to be accurate. But it's not. It's poetic, reverent, dire and maybe true but was never uttered by our dear white haired genius. He did however speak a few wisdoms:
"Any intelligent fool can make things bigger, more complex, and more violent. It takes a touch of genius -- and a lot of courage -- to move in the opposite direction."
One wonders if this was before or after the Manhattan Project. And:
"The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and all science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed."
Sounds like snow to me. Save the bees in NYC. Go outside and make your own snow cone... Maybe a bitters snow cone? Also fortune cookies come from California and not China.
Portrait by Bella Foster
12/15/08
12/15/08
12/11/08
It May Not Be Made of Bay Leaves but...
As Guy says "it's a lot of work to drag all that stuff out of the woods." Not to mention making it into something beautiful.
When:
Saturday, 13th of December
11 am until dark
Where:
The corner of Broadway and Berry.
Who:
Blooming Hill Farm
Why:
Beauty and Cheer
12/5/08
12/2/08
Milk and ... Twinkies?
On Thanksgiving, a day of mythology itself, I awoke and began the tradition of making not-so-great mushrooms stuffed with Polly o mozzarella and Ritz crackers while listening to Michael Pollan speak rather calmly about the country petitioning him to the Office of Secratary of Agriculture. Alive with my contradictions I chopped, I mixed, I stuffed. I can hardly focus in silence needing some other thing to nudge my brain into the desired direction. The Pollan rerun on NPR ended and Brian Lehrer turned his voice to something far less engaging so I turned the radio off. I thought a bit about cheap food as I crushed and sprinkled the Ritz over my cheese capped friends before the quiet in the empty apartment froze my knife mid celery like a sword in the stone.
Shuffling through Netflix discs I found the only one I hadn't watched yet was called "The Times of Harvey Milk." A gay documentary. It seems I had a moment when first learning to "flix" where I didn't quite know how to navigate their tricky suggestion boxes and ordered up two weeks worth of gay docu-dramas including such classics as Lesbians of Beunos Aires and Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
So on goes Harvey Milk. I had seen his name in the New York Times entertainment section and also new about the school in Manhattan named after him but aside from that I didn't know much. The opening scene is the press conference in which they announce his death and someone says "Jesus Christ" they way people do only when they experience great pain and I trade cooking for concentration. An hour later I'm sitting on the couch still clutching the spatula and, well, tearing up.
The documentary is great because Harvey Milk was great. Enigmatic and whip smart the man who came out at forty to become the first openly gay elected official encouraged every gay person to come out so as to ease the suffering of living a life in fear.
Harvey Milk and Mayor George Mescone were shot in the City Town Hall of San Francisco by Dan White on November 27, 1978. In his 11 months as City Supervisor Milk passed the first gay rights ordinance in San Francisco and among many other things made sure teachers couldn't get fired for being gay.
Dan White was Milk's conservative contemporary on the board of city supervisors. He was caught and charged with murder but got off with voluntary manslaughter and was released in five years. His defense? Depression. His proof? He ate lots of Twinkies.
There is nothing trivial in this story but there is tragic comedy. Milk was a great man and leader. Cheap food played a role in his killers defense. It seems like a stretch but it is history. But then it seems like a stretch that anyone would eat A foamy, fuzzy, sickly sweet Hostess. David White killed himself a few years after being released from prison.
In one of the most heartbreaking moments in the film is a blurry eyed friend speaking of Harvey Milk asking all gay people to come out. He ends by looking into the camera and saying in a way that makes you feel as though he is standing in front of you, "Imagine how many more people would have lived through AIDS if Harvey Milk was still alive."
11/26/08
11/26/08
Dear Environmental Protection Agency
After more than a year of delay, the Environmental Protection Agency is now requesting public comments on whether carbon dioxide and other heat-trapping pollutants -- the primary causes of the climate crisis -- are endangering our health and our climate. Friday is the last day to voice your opinion.
Send a message about how crucial it is to reduce harmful carbon dioxide pollution and stop global warming.
Join the 72,393 people who have sent a message!
11/26/08
Snowfalkes Are Always Cool
11/25/08
Signed the Petition Yet?
11/20/08
America Unchained: Action Number Two
On November 22, communities around continent will be urged to "unchain" for just that one day—to maximize the impact of their dollars and inject potentially millions more into the local economy through joining other residents to do their shopping, dining out and other business only with locally-owned independent businesses.
This important message is timed to reach citizens before they are inundated with a clutter of holiday ads and events. The American Independent Business Alliance hopes you will carry this message with you as you do all of their holiday purchasing and other business.
11/20/08
Inspired By the Rejected European Edibles
11/18/08
Action of the Week: Sun Food
"Our agenda puts the interests of America's farmers, families and communities ahead of the fast-food industry's. For that industry and its apologists to imply that it is somehow more "populist" or egalitarian to hand our food dollars to Burger King or General Mills than to support a struggling local farmer is absurd. Yes, sun food costs more, but the reasons why it does only undercut the charge of elitism: cheap food is only cheap because of government handouts and regulatory indulgence (both of which we will end), not to mention the exploitation of workers, animals and the environment on which its putative "economies" depend. Cheap food is food dishonestly priced — it is in fact unconscionably expensive.Your sun-food agenda promises to win support across the aisle. It builds on America's agrarian past, but turns it toward a more sustainable, sophisticated future. It honors the work of American farmers and enlists them in three of the 21st century's most urgent errands: to move into the post-oil era, to improve the health of the American people and to mitigate climate change. Indeed, it enlists all of us in this great cause by turning food consumers into part-time producers, reconnecting the American people with the American land and demonstrating that we need not choose between the welfare of our families and the health of the environment — that eating less oil and more sunlight will redound to the benefit of both." -Michael Pollan
Please petition online Pollan's appointment to the Office of Secretary of Agriculture.
11/14/08
Dear friends and family and folks we don't know yet,
Sincerely,
Diner Journal
11/10/08
Thursday Night New Amsterdam
6:30pm
Join our beloved Robert LaValva, Director of the New Amsterdam Public Market Association and senior writer at the Diner Journal, for an exploration into four centuries of public markets - from Stuyvesant's proclamation of 1656 to current efforts to create a Seaport market.This is part of the Five Dutch Days Celebration.
Free. Reservations required, RSVP to 212.228.2781 or info@smhlf.org
Organized by St. Mark's Historic Landmark Fund
smhlf.org
Dyckman Farmhouse Museum
dyckmanfarmhouse.org
New Amsterdam Public Market Association
newamsterdammarket.org
11/6/08
Reading Tonight
11/6/08
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
Serene was a word you could put to Brooklyn, New York. Especially in the summer of 1912. Somber, as a word, was better. But it did not apply to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Prairie was lovely and Shenandoah had a beautiful sound, but you couldn't fit those words into Brooklyn. Serene was the only word for it; especially on a Saturday afternoon in summer.
Granted it is Fall in Brooklyn and we are a borough full of hope but I couldn't help taking this moment to remember our roots.
11/4/08
Change
10/28/08
The Barista Bares All
I walked to Marlow's Wednesday morning to see a big paper sign on the door: written with chalk in that signature Cheffie scribble I read:
Due to some much-needed renovation,
Marlow and Sons will open mid-morning.
It was then that I knew this was no ordinary morning. This assumption was confirmed when I opened the door and almost tripped over a box of screws. The place was a mess. The new counter was installed, but the plumbers were still working on hooking up all other water and electric lines. It smelled like melting plastic from the plumbing glue they were using, and I had no idea why I was there prepared to serve coffee. Mid-morning? We'd be lucky to open the place for dinner!
I walked through the store, weaving my way around tool boxes, displaced store goods and the work crew. "Does this mean I can go back to bed?" I asked Caroline when I saw her. The answer was a firm NO, and I soon realized why. All of us there who weren't part of the work crew were to take this "perfect opportunity" to clean. Fantastic. With that, we each found a job to do. Colin ambitiously set to work washing the outside top windows, while Mercedez and I cleaned plastic spoons and coffee beans from behind the register area.
Around 9am things were as hectic as could be. The plumbers still weren't done, the bakers had muffins and scones piling up in the kitchen, and at least five people were directed out of the store after they obliviously stepped up to the disarrayed counter and ordered a latte. One dude even walked around the table that guarded the door, stepped over a huge box of tools, and ripped up the cover to the drink cooler to grab himself an Odwalla orange juice. We stood and watched him in disbelief until he came to the counter to pay.
"Um, we're closed, man," somebody told him.
"Oh, really?" He sounded a bit cool. "Well, ya'll got your aprons on. How was I supposed to know?" Never mind that we're obviously under construction. This was hilarious, I'll have you know. Another lady looked like she might cry when I told her we weren't serving coffee.
"No coffee?...oh no!"
Around ten thirty, we had people calling us, asking if we were open yet. "Just five minutes" was Caroline's overly optimistic response. The working crew was now gone, but we didn't even have any coffee yet and the place still smelled like a shoe factory. The darling candy section had to be stocked, all the shelves had been cleared so we could clean them and the store's dry goods were scattered everywhere. Meanwhile, a certain boss of mine (we won't mention names) was walking in and out of the place, commenting on the fact that we weren't open yet.
But somehow, we managed to do it. By 11am mostly everything from behind the counter was in place, and we let in our first customer right around 11:05. Though getting the store in shape was hard, the rest of the day wasn't exactly easy. Stainless steel counters and a new location for the espresso machine take a lot of getting used to. However they're so easy to clean! Nothing like that butcher block wood that took several scrubs to getting kind of clean. Now we just wipe everything down! And with the espresso machine in its own little corner there's no more rubbing-asses with the person trying to scoot by to get a croissant. What I can't believe is how much we put up with before: limited space and storage and battling constant coffee grime. There are a few things I will miss, however: the delicate sidestep one had to do to avoid spilling a cappuccino, or the strain I'd feel in my shoulders each time I pulled the woebegone freezer from under the old wooden counter. But yes, I say "Well done!" to those of you who made these changes possible. You just made our job a whole lot easier.
by Lindsay Debach
10/24/08
Needle and Loom
10/23/08
TURKEY HUNTING... or Whistling?
10/23/08
Diner Goes to the Farm
10/23/08
And Drinks Beer and Makes Pizza and Plants Kale
Photos by Jake O'Francis.
10/21/08
10/21/08
10/21/08
Words of the Week: Today In the News
10/14/08
Musical Maneuvers
Peter and Autry play at Union Pool:
October 23rd
7:30
$5
CHRIS FORSYTH
de facto record release show for my new solo CD Live Journal at the Mice Machine VIP Dance Floor on Incunabulum
also: Alex Temple
Fri 10/17
@ Roulette
20 Greene St, NYC
8:30pm
and:
ALESSANDRO BOSETTI
CORRIDORS
CHRIS FORSYTH + NATE WOOLEY
Thu 10/16
@ Listen Space
196 Skillman Ave (corner of Humboldt)
Wiliamsburg, Brooklyn, NY
8pm
AND don't forget JOSH WILES Djs
Mondays 10pm-late
East River Bar
10/10/08
"The whole point of the armed forces is to hurt the environment."
Gregory G. Garre, the United States solicitor general, said the impact on the animals was minor and passing. "They hear the sound, and they go in the opposite direction," Mr. Garre said. "It can also mean that they could have some temporary effect on their feeding or breeding patterns." -New York Times
10/10/08
Words of the Week
-Julia Child
10/8/08
Funds for Farmers AND Fun for Us
The New Farmer Development Project (NFDP) identifies, educates, and supports immigrants with agricultural experience by helping them become local farmers and establish small farms in the region.
By training the next generation of regional farmers, the NFDP helps preserve local farmland and rural farm communities, strengthen farmers markets and regional food security, and expand public access to high-quality, locally-grown farm products.
The NFDP was created in 2000 as a partnership between Greenmarket and Cornell Cooperative Extension's NYC Program. The project is based in New York City and supports new farmers witin the city, New York's Hudson Valley & Catskill Regions, New Jersey and northeastern Pennsylvania.
Project Facts and Milestones:
-More than 130 project members have graduated from the NFDP's comprehensive agricultural training course, La Nueva Siembra.
-16 individuals and their families have started their own farming businesses with the support of the NFDP. These farmers come from countries such as Columbia, the Dominican Republic, Ecuador and Mexico.
-These new farmers sell produce at more than 40 farmers markets throughout the year. Many of these markets are located in immigrant neighborhoods where NFDP farmers sell vegetables, flowers, traditional ethnic produce, eggs from pastured chickens, and honey to members of their community.
-The NFDP has further developed its model through partnership with the National Immigrant Farming Initiative and the Northeast Network of Immigrant Farming Projects. See our Project Partners for more information.
10/6/08
10/2/08
Disallusion and Illusion in Louisiana
Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost,
I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost,
For wanting things that can only be found
In the darkness on the edge of town.
-Bruce Springsteen
Hurricanes don't cause any damage. They don't leave a trail of rubble. Once the storm clears, the inconvenience clears.
What I've learned from growing up in the North East is: If stuck in a torrential downpour, just pull over and wait a few minutes. If snowed in, a plow will be there in a few hours. If you are expecting high winds, bring your potted plants indoors and tie down your lawn furniture. In case of a flood, put everything in your basement up on boards just a few inches off of the ground.
Leaving a day late on our road trip from Kips Bay Naval Base in southern Georgia to Coronado Base in San Diego to avoid the touch down of hurricane Gustav was a bright idea. Our brightness avoided us the hazard of driving through one hundred and some mile per hour winds and blinding rain. Since we were set on driving through the country on Route 10, the quickest way from point A to B, leaving the day after the storm would put us only slightly out of form from initial itinerary.
We had lunch in Pensacola, Florida with one of Tom's old Navy buddies before we headed off to Louisiana. They chatted about their time in service, about mandatory tear gas sessions, guns, wars. When they refer to people outside of their club, they're referred to as civilians. This civilian was trying as hard as he could to read the captions on the muted tv hanging on the TGIFridays' wall—Ellen Degeneres interviewing John McCain.
Route 10 from the east end of Florida to the east end of Louisiana is all the same. Each gas station we stopped at had a McDonald's, a convenience store and a Waffle House. Once you get South of DC on I-95 the Waffle houses start popping up like acne on a twelve year old. From DC to Florida and Florida to California—it's all about Waffle House. If McDonald's is George W. then Waffle House is Dick Cheney. A silent partner that affects, or infects, you all the same.
At the fork between Route 10 and12 there is a police barricade patrolling who is allowed to enter New Orleans on Route 10 and who is turned away or around on 12. Even though Tom showed his military ID and had his uniform hanging in the back seat, we were turned away. We were both civilians here.
The sea of civilian cars, trucks and big rigs behind us either hopped right on 12, turned around or pulled into the gas station Waffle House right next to the road. We needed gas. The Waffle house was so packed the windows were fogged and each pump at the station had a ten car pile up. Annoyed, we decide to get gas down the road.
Driving down the highway we see people towing their cars with their Winnebago's. Speed limit and exit sign polls were bent to ninety-degree angles. Highway billboards ripped in half, leaving pieces of ads for cigarettes or used car dealerships hanging limp fifty feet off the ground. We were driving through the ass end of some scattered thunderstorms left by the mother huricane. Many of the vehicles passing us had gas cans tied to their roofs, tied to their bumpers, in their back seats.
Whenever you go on a cross-country road trip and you mention to people that you are going to drive through the desert, you will hear a few times that you should bring extra gas, that there is nothing in the desert. You could get stuck, you could boil and dehydrate and die. The people that tell you this watch too many movies. This is my second trip though the deserts of Arizona and New Mexico I will testify that this is false. There are just as many truck stop restroom hells in the desert as anywhere else on these highways. A perk about these desert gas stations though is that they all carry cheap vulgar looking knives, blackjacks and brass knuckles. The ironic thing though is that we were not in the desert, we were on Route 12 in Louisiana and just passed the city of New Orleans and approaching upon the State Capital, Baton Rouge
Rain clears as it's known to do and we pull off the highway toward a lit station. All the pumps have cars waiting at them but no one is pumping gas. People are inserting there credit cards, people are walking through the convenience store door cash in hand, but no one is filling up. The neighborhood had lost power and the emergency generator from the gas station was working but the pumps were down. We get turn back to the highway.
The gas gage of Tom's car was approaching E. We stop at two, three more stations along the highway. Some had the same problem with the pumps, some had no power at all, some where just completely out of gas. All if them had Waffle Houses with working power, all of them full of people, all of the windows fogged. Refugee housing. Along the highway everything looks like a marsh. Green trees, green grass and endless puddles. We need about two hundred miles to get to Texas. We need a tank of gas.
It's about 6 p.m. and we are about a fifteen minute ride from Baton Rouge. We pull into a small shopping center with a lit gas station. The cop in the station is forcing everyone away. We tell him our situation, tell him we are not from around here, that Tom's in the Navy and we need to get out of here. He tells us the station opens back up at 6 a.m. and to leave.
The lights in parking lots, the ones way up high on poles that look too thin to hold them up, when they are smashed on the ground in front of you, they don't look like lights anymore. More like some giant prop from a seventies film about outer space. And the signs that are way up there, that pollute every suburb, that let you know from ten miles away you are approaching a drug store—their about the size of a disco floor that doesn't light up anymore.
The closer things are to you, the more foreign they become.
We decide we are going to sleep in this parking lot. But then we pull back out about ten minutes later and hope the car can take us a little further. We end up is on the other side of Baton Rouge on some industrial highway. All the street lights where black and there was a hazy rust colored glow in the distance from a refinery or power plant. Another gas station that was twisted to a knot. A block away there was another that looked in tact besides the giant Chevron sign laid out in pieces. The third station we get to, only another block away, was black and boarded up but looked in working condition.
Eight o'clock curfew was beginning being enforced and we decided to wait here until morning, hoping this station like the other would open at six a.m. We park next to the automated car wash. We sit silent. Annoyed and worried. The rain had stopped completely but the air still held water to your body. I had never felt humidity like this. The car was quickly turning into a sauna and we couldn't roll the windows down due to the fist-sized mosquitoes sitting on the windshield waiting to drain us.
Stirred crazy we finally can't take it and walk over to the station and stand at a cautioned distance. It felt like the slightest gust of wind would bury us in sheet metal and primary colored logos. We walk back to the second station we passed and look around a bit and find what you'd expect—emptyness. We get back to the car and Tom calls his wife and I call my girlfriend. It felt too unreal to not tell someone about this who was outside the situation. It helped to know the world wasn't ending back in New York—just here. Sleep, if you could call it that, come delicutely and painfully.
About an hour later two cops swarm in on us boxing us in, flashing their lights right into our truck. We squint and squirm and rub our eyes. Tom gets out of the car and explains why we are here. He sees Toms camouflage hanging in the back seat and they become really friendly. The one cop tells him that the station right next to us was just looted; someone drove their car right through it and stole whatever the little service shop had to offer. The cops said to keep a look out, that they would check in on us and seemed a little relieved that they had a Navy kid and his buddy camping out in the station.
Wide-awake again we just want to be on the road going 100 miles per hour out of here. We pace a bit. Behind the station and the industrial highway is what looks like a little community of mobile homes and behind some shrubs something making the sound of a putting lawn mower is running consistently. We peek through the brush and see that one home has power, it's the only one with lights on and the putting is coming from a generator. We assume it must be running off of gas. With one can of gas we could get a little further, maybe get to a working station.
I now completely realize why people commit petty crime in these situations. We want this houses gas and we are desperate for it. What also hits the both of us is how easily people can get shot in these situations. Our temptation subsides a bit.
We walk back through the lot and inspect an abandoned car and get the idea to try cipher its gas. At the car wash we are tugging at any tubing we see, trying to rip it of the wall or out of some soap filled cylinder. Nothing will budge. I take out my pocketknife and start sawing through one and realize that all the tubes are lined with wire mesh and I can't get through them. We go back to the abandoned car and open the doors only to discover someone else beat us to the job. The whole car has been picked apart maybe hours before, maybe weeks before.
After another hour of sleep an old pickup truck rips though our lot and parks sharply in one of the pitch black driveways of one of the mobile homes near us. We run over as quickly as we can shouting and waving a small flashlight and see a man disappear curtly into blackness. Maybe this guy had some gas we could buy.
Standing in the loose stones to the houses driveway there was no response. We kept shouting, Tom walks a little closer and waves the flashlight into the windows. Silent slate darkness. Tom swears he can smell a nasty trail of alcohol and we walk back to out car—scared.
Inside I can hear myself swallow. We are both paranoid and breath shallow but heavy. We don't say much and I open my knife and lay back in the dark and my eyes won't close. Tom grabs a claw hammer from the back seat and puts it on his lap.
We last a half an hour and decide to try and get back to the shopping center we were at before. The one where the cop said would defiantly be open at 6 am. Magically we make it. We fall asleep. We are only woken up by one cop and one creepy old mad filling his tires up at 3 am with the air hose next to us. We wake up at about 5:15 eager and get out of the car, open the hatch to the back of the truck, change our sweaty clothes and brush our teeth using a bottle of water. Then the first car pulls in.
A middle age man pulls in. "Cops said six," we tell him and he pulls into a pump. About five minutes later a lady and her family pull up in one of those giant SUVs. She gets out and asks the middle aged man if this station is going to open, "Those guys over there said six," as he points to us.
We are fire starters. The rumor makers. Trendsetters.
Six fifteen a.m. roles around and the gas station is still closed but now there are about twenty cars lined up. People from the highway could see people were waiting at the pumps below and could only assume they were getting gas or were about to.
At about 7:30 the station is still closed. Tom and the giant SUV women decide to both call the emergency 1-800 number that is on the pumps. They both get through to someone who doesn't even know where Louisiana is. I take a walk around the shopping center. There are easily about thirty cars waiting now. Their forming lines down the road to the station and down the shopping center parking lot. On my walk I came across a closed super market that said it would open at 9 a.m and a vending machine. I buy two Cokes and go back to the car.
By the time I get back the SUV women, who is a big as her oversized truck, has made two new female friends. They formed some sort of union and became the dictators of the station. If cars would pull in they were quick to inform where the back of each line was and that we all had to wait our turns. One woman would call the 1-800 hundred number every ten minutes or so and freak on whatever operator picked up telling them that "this station was going to open at six and there are a million people here and no one has come yet!" Oddly no police were in sight, and these three never made me wish for a cop so badly. At least cops keep their mouths shut when they abuse their power, when they tell you where to line up.
At nine I walk back to the grocery store and it's an apocalyptic zoo. Nothing is in order and nobody there is orderly. It's everyone for his or her self. I grab two boxes of granola bars, some cans of V8, and a bottle of Jack Daniels, wait in an angry line with nice people and get the fuck out of there.
By eleven the women calling the 800 number was told someone would be there within the hour. By twelve p.m. it was hot as hell. By one there were about one-hundered cars waiting. By two that person showed up with her kids, went into the service shop, came back out and said it would take at least an hour to get the pumps reset. We didn't care at this point about waiting another hour. We had waited so long and now we were just relieved there would be relief.
Everyone in the station was hot. Looked beaten up and helpless. People all just sitting on their hoods or on the curbs of the lot, staring in thought. These people had done this before, and they'd probably have to do it again tomorrow. We were just waiting for some gas, the people we were surrounded by, they were waiting for their lives to return to them. I felt like a fraud. Like a living being in the midst of purgatory.
At four p.m. the women came out and said the pumps would not reset. No one was angry or sad instead our shoulders and necks fell loose and we just stared at our feet. Defeated, ordinary, civilians. Her children came out of the shop and put plastic bags over the hoses. The police showed up and made us all leave the station. We tell the cops our situation. We tell them Tom's in the Navy. They tell us to drive up "this road here and make a left on Airport Road in four blocks." Tom's car puttering, we drive down the street. There was no left in four blocks, just rights and there was no Airport Road. Ordinary civillians defeated.
And so we wandered. We are rooming creatures. Left and right and left and right and right. The cars heaving engine struggled and it's heavy metal began to feel as taut and weak as bone. Left and left and left and right. No more corners just turns. Right and right. But then the buzz of The Light and the tick, tick, tick of machines at work. Heaven. People filling their tanks.
We pull into the station and up to one of the tenants, "where is the end of the line?" He laughs at us. "Well, I can't see the end of it, but it's somewhere down that way." We drive down along it, 60-70 cars maybe. The break we got though, the only break the whole time, was that the end of the line was slightly up hill, so we were able to idle in a blissful humid decent, for two more hours, on down to a gas pump.
By Adam Ward
9/23/08
Thursday Night Manhattan Friday the World
9/23/08
What Does It All Mean: Homogeny on the Homefront
Here We Are:
1. Taste
2. Locally Produced
3. Employee Sustainability
4. Organic
5. Cost
9/11/08
Get Roasted
The Glynwood Center is a working organic farm and conference center set in the middle of 2,000 acres of preserved forest glory. Their work revolves around helping communities preserve land and a strong agricultural economy. The site is stupendously beautiful with goats, chickens, orchards, rare cows and sheep, and an ancient orchard.
Join forces this weekend to raise awareness and money. I am particularly curious about workshops called: DIY Undergarments for obvious reasons and Anarchy Apiaries for more serious reasons! Alas I can not attend but Tom will be up there teaching meat curing! For more information check out the Greenhorn's blog the irresistible fleet of bicycles.
9/8/08
Ordinary Equality
There will never be a new world order until women are a part of it. -Alice Paul
What's the difference between a soccer mom and a pit bull? Lipstick. –Sarah Palin
Oh, the irony and the confusion. Oh, the humanity. Traveling high up above our cavernous country on my way to San Francisco for Slow Food Nation I could help but find myself in the midst of a dense American moment. Storm Gustav was drumming its way toward New Orleans, a city betrayed once three years ago by our howling mother earth and then again by our nations great leaders. People were traveling distances for Slow Food to listen to panels on climate change and human rights. Senator Obama was speaking of promises, promises we make by simply waking up everyday in America. And every tiny screen in that plane shone as he spoke and we stayed silent, listening while the sun slowly fell soft through the clouds and we chased it.
"This country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that's not what makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that's not what makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores.
Instead, it is that American spirit - that American promise - that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend.
That promise is our greatest inheritance. It's a promise I make to my daughters when I tuck them in at night, and a promise that you make to yours - a promise that has led immigrants to cross oceans and pioneers to travel west; a promise that led workers to picket lines, and women to reach for the ballot.
And it is that promise that forty five years ago today, brought Americans from every corner of this land to stand together on a Mall in Washington, before Lincoln's Memorial, and hear a young preacher from Georgia speak of his dream."- Senator Obama
But that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores. I just love that. What keeps me here I had to wonder. I'm still not sure but I think it has to do with idealism and hope. The next morning McCain, who has the momentum of a duck sitting in water, names Sarah Palin his running mate. Sarah Palin the creationist. Sarah Palin the pro- life woman. Sarah Palin the female republican. Sarah Palin the bible thumping, family values preaching mother of a pregnant teen. Sarah Palin the oxy-moron.
Watching Sarah Palin's speech at the RNC this week made me mourn the hard work and pure spirit of the women's suffrage movement. And this bit in particular sent chills down my spine: Al Qaeda terrorists still plot to inflict catastrophic harm on America ... he's worried that someone won't read them their rights?
Alice Paul, pictured above on the right, was one of the leaders of the National Women's Party. After an arrest during the first political protest to picket on the white house Paul and many other women were arrested and brutally beaten. Alice Paul enacted a hunger strike, which lead to her torture, guards held her down and tube fed her raw eggs as the story goes. Woodrow Wilson and his cronies tried to persuade a psychiatrist to declare Alice Paul insane so that she could be permanently institutionalized. The doctor refused. Alice Paul was strong, he said, and brave. That didn't make her crazy.
The doctor admonished the men:'Courage in women is often mistaken for insanity.'
What is truly frightening for me and for all the women who suffered for our equal right to vote and in turn Palin's right to run is Palin might just be the opposite of this paradigm. In the brazen naiveté of Palin's platforms I find a tare in the human contract. If a woman is raped she should have the right to choose. If a woman is pregnant she should have the right to choose. Listening to the simple stupidity of Palin's speech at the Republican National Convention I was reminded by the simple brilliance of Alice Paul's words:
I never doubted that equal rights was the right direction. Most reforms, most problems are complicated. But to me there is nothing complicated about ordinary equality.
9/5/08
Living on the Edge... with a Goat
The first thing I wondered while reading this book is, why don't I live in a queer intentional community in the wooded hills of Tennessee? The second thing I wondered was whether I had the power to create something immortal. My brief quest for a life beyond death was inspired by the chapter on bread. I read there that, "with a little attention, your sourdough starter can live forever."
Of course, I tried. But my own sourdough starter did not live forever. Most distressingly, it kind of…exploded.
Sandor Ellix Katz had never mentioned that combustion was a potential property of the sourdough. I was stunned. My kitchen table was ruined. I thought briefly of a career in international dough terrorism.
Then I remembered the warnings. About how to ferment "live-culture" foods is to cultivate the volatile hyperactivity of certain microorganisms. To whip them into a frenzy. To drive them bananas. And at this point—who knows? You might get a sauerkraut. You might get a cheese. You might—if you're me—get a bomb.
Based on the stories that Sandor Ellix Katz tells, Short Mountain Sanctuary seems like a very friendly place. I imagine it must be. Because where else would permit these crazy experiments? The bread bomb was probably due to my own incompetence at work, but Sandor Ellix Katz takes it way further than a jar of bread dough.
He tells one story in Wild Fermentation about how he once pickled a goat in the community kitchen.
For two weeks, "it bubbled and smelled good."
Then he roasted it. "As it cooked, an overwhelming odor enveloped the kitchen… There was some swooning and near fainting… Perhaps a half dozen of us tried the meat… My fellow communard Mish absolutely loved it. He hovered over the pan for a long time picking at the meat, praising its strong cheesy aroma, and gloating over the rarefied "acquired taste" that only he and a few others could fully appreciate."
I am appalled and yet fascinated. I certainly will not attempt a goat until I have mastered the immortal sourdough. In the meantime, my friend Johanna suggested that someone (else) ought to brew their way through the whole of Wild Fermentation. If anyone is up for this, let me know! I will sniff and taste your concoctions, however moldy and otherwise unstable. I will find a happy home for all of the sauerkraut, kombucha, and beers that you produce. If you are feeling frisky, I will even find you a goat.
By Maya Joseph
9/3/08
For Girls and, as it turns out, Everyone Else
One may wonder why such a section even exists at Marlow's, a bastion of good eats and healthy ingredients. I wondered the same myself when asked to write a little something about our eclectic assortment of confections. The candy section is the equivalent of a grocery line impulse-buys, it serves as a last minute moneymaker and pacifier for unruly youngsters.
But why do we need a candy section? We certainly could do without the sugar and artificial colorings. And store sales wouldn't be too badly hurt without these last minute purchases. I've given this question a lot of thought and I've realized that aside from a sugar boost and a sweet taste in our mouths, the candy section, whether we realize it or not gives us comfort.
And I don't mean by featuring comfort food, though who can't resist a smile when biting into a Yorkie Bar or chewing on a gummi sea creature. No, the kind of comfort offered by the candy section is in the colors on the box or the name of the candy itself. They remind us of our childhood, a hometown candy shop or an aunt who always had an ample supply of a certain gum or hard candy. It's certainly not the taste of those licorice wheels that keep me coming back for more. It is the fact that they taste like the black jelly beans that I used to find in my Easter Basket as a kid. And I couldn't care less for Swedish Fish, except that their smell reminds me of riding back from Harper's, newsstand and local candy outlet, on my bike, a paper bag full of an allowance-worth of little reds in hand.
For everyone, a candy store or section reminds us where we're from. In America we have Snickers, in England, Cadbury, and so on. You know you're home when you see your country's sugary products on the shelves. Our Italian customers are delighted, even proud to find that we sell Brooklyn Chewing Gum (Italy's version of Trident), and our British patrons can never seem to get over the fact that we sell their favorite chocolate bars from the motherland, sexist as the Yorkie bar may be.
I realize that these products may be sugary, full of preservatives and likely to give you cavities, but it's a satisfying feeling to know that when a customer slaps a pack of Teaberry gum or a Lion Bar on the counter, they're going to go away with more than just a satiated sweet tooth. They're going away with a taste of their past, their identity and their home.
By Lindsay Debach
8/21/08
Butch
Tom Mylan is the in-house butcher for these restaurants.
You may already know this. Or you may not know this. But undoubtedly, if you've tasted this meat, you will want to know more.
I go back into the walk-in. Tom is slicing through a dark, shiny orb that turns out to be beef liver. It's Wednesday, so he's working through the two pigs and steer that arrived from Fleischer's yesterday. They arrived hanging weight meat, huge hulks of muscle and tissue and bone and skin. By now he's gotten the pigs into primal thirds: shoulder, loin, belly, sirloin and ham. He gestures to an invisible stack of pigs on the block, saying, "All this is done."
The radio is on and it's hot. Mark's coming to take meat to Bonita and we have to get those bags of it into a cooler for him. I jump in and once we've loaded the meat in half way, Tom warns, "Watch out, they're a little bloody on the outside."
Then we're back to talking beef. Tom tells me about smoking, brining, braising. I ask about the burgers. He grinds the beef twice so it sticks together, but it's still coarser than most ground beef because the holes on the grind plate are larger. That's what gives the burgers their meaty quality – there's more whole muscle in them.
Tom talks with such ease about cutting up meat that it's hard to believe he hasn't been doing it forever. Just a few years ago, Tom was in charge of the grocery at Marlow and editing the journal with Anna when he walked passed Cheffie and Andrew outside of Diner one day. They told him they were considering getting an in-house butcher so they could get hanging weight meat from Fleischer's. And he said something like, "That sounds really really cool." And they said, "Wanna do it?"
He moved in with Josh and Jessica of Fleischer's, lived on their futon with their mastiff Booboo and a giant tortoise. Every morning it was "beef leg, beef leg, beef leg." He began to collect books on the subject like a Navy meat manual from 1945 and watched educational clips on You Tube.
And it has paid off. According to Tom, getting hanging weight (100-180 pound sections) meat is the only way for a restaurant to be able to afford getting grass-fed, local, properly raised meat. There's a lot of flexibility. Tom gets together with Juventino, Sean and Dave, and they can cut any way they want, make stylistic choices that wouldn't be possible if their meat came out of Cryovac. And it's a lot more exciting to cook here. Curing lardo, rendering it, whipping it. Dealing with odds and ends. Says Tom, "Limitations, not infinite possibilities, are what make great, classic cuisine." Agreed.
Leah Campbell
8/20/08
Proposition for a Party
This Labor Day, join us in building a food system that is just, sustainable and delicious by holding picnics in your town or city. A day of generosity and action, we invite you to organize Labor Day picnics locally with loved ones and new friends who together will break bread, share a meal and help transform the American food system.
These picnics are meant to build on the momentum created by communities all across the country eager to support and foster a good, clean and fair food system.
Join us for a day of action dedicated to sharing food and celebrating the realization of Slow Food Nation in dozens of different ways, in communities across America.
Start posting your Slow Food Nation Labor Day picnic plans.
8/19/08
More Heros!
Kirsten:Mark:
And Harry:
8/7/08
Our Red Headed Sparrow
8/1/08
It's four am and you need a Sparks and some calling cards...
They live a risky business. Bodegas are often the target of violent crimes and violent economies. Today in the paper was a triumphant story about the survival of Moore Street Market. Moore Street, a kind of "house that bodegas built", is a unique community hub selling anything from haircuts to records to all Goya products under the blazing August sun. Knowing it is there has always provided me with a sense of relief even though up until today I had no idea it was in jeopardy. The vendors at Moore street will be signing a new five year lease and in and interesting turn of events new vendors will be limited to selling only food and agricultural products… What did the city want with Moore Street? To tear it down and build… Rental Apartments.
7/29/08
Hmmm. John and Autry Must Have Been Working Lunch..
7/24/08
Someone I Know Loves This Trashy Vampire Book
I woke up (on that June 2nd) from a very vivid dream. In my dream, two people were having an intense conversation in a meadow in the woods. One of these people was just your average girl. The other person was fantastically beautiful, sparkly, and a vampire. They were discussing the difficulties inherent in the facts that A) they were falling in love with each other while B) the vampire was particularly attracted to the scent of her blood, and was having a difficult time restraining himself from killing her immediately. For what is essentially a transcript of my dream, please see Chapter 13 ("Confessions") of the book.
Who could it be?
7/23/08
Stop the Insanity
So, I'm reading Serious Eats today, and see that there's a group out there – Save Our Starbucks – that's fighting on the free-speech friendly internet super highway to keep their nearest coffee mogul outpost open. The part that strikes me is that they're not angry about having to go farther for coffee or worrying that Starbucks is seriously in a business downturn. Nope. As Serious Eats summarizes for the people of SOS "a loss of Starbucks symbolizes a loss of community." And it's the way this word, community, is used that's curious to me.
One visitor on www.saveourstarbucks.com writes, "We must stop this insanity. People are losing their jobs. Starbucks has been a responsible addition to the communities they serve, their employees and customers. Loss of community is NOT the American way. Time to rally and save our Starbucks. No more java jive!"
The café and coffee house have long been associated with community. The first known coffee house, Kiva Han, dates to 1457 and was in Istanbul, Turkey. After the Turks invaded Vienna, and were defeated, they left behind their precious coffee beans. And, soon enough, Europe became dotted with places to drink the potent brew. Coffee houses, like bars but without the mind-numbing alcoholic drinks, were renowned for the conversation they inspired in their guests. They were places to congregate, to think, and to create dialogue. The Enlightenment owes something to coffee houses, as does the political counter-culture of 20th century America. They were places where things began. This is the history that the coffee houses of today inherit.
But the question is this: can a constantly expanding market that reproduces ad infitum the same, standardized and climate-controlled shop (that looks and feels the same no matter where you are) actually produce a place that fosters community? No doubt it can refuel a community that depends on coffee to keep it moving. But can it create community? Is it fertile ground for connection, for the creation of neighborhood, as in what happens when people share something unique because they live close together and their lives, informed by this place, begin to join?
Maybe I just have a different sense of what community means than these SOSers. Rod Dreher of the Dallas Morning News sheds some light on just what it might mean to them. He describes Starbucks as the litmus test of middle-class legitimacy: "For Starbucks to leave means that your part of town, in terms of social psychology, is downwardly mobile. That, I think, is what most rattles folks about losing their Starbucks, even if they rarely went there. It's a status thing." Which is just so ironic, because coffee houses of old were (ideally) socially-leveling places where men (okay, so nothing's perfect) of all classes could come together and discuss ideas freely.
Reading Wendell Barry over lunch at the counter of Diner, I am struck by this quote, which delineates the two forms of producers that Barry sees in this world: "The exploiter's goal is money, profit; the nurturer's goal is health – his land's health, his own, his family's, his community's, his country's."
It seems that a sense of place entails an investment in the health of that place, that community. A dissenter on the SOS website writes, "Where were all of you when Starbucks was predatorily opening stores located to take business away from your locally owned coffee shop? Save your communities, not a massive corporate chain."
Leah
7/23/08
The Rabid Dog and the GOP or What Color IS Vermont
Dear Editor:
We are a group of concerned citizens, including avid home gardeners, long-time commercial farmers and voracious consumers of fresh local food, who believe that the Vermont Compost Company of Montpelier is a most valuable and responsible business in our region that must be kept open and thriving.
We feel strongly that the recent action taken by the Vermont Natural Resources Board to shut down Vermont Compost is unjust and in clear violation of the state's own regulatory procedures and laws. The moratorium on compost operations that the Legislature passed and the Governor signed into law this past legislative session was written specifically to exempt from shutdown both Vermont Compost and the Intervale, two of the state's larger composting facilities, until an adequate regulatory definition could be officially determined as to whether "composting" qualifies as an agricultural activity. The administrative action taken to immediately suspend Vermont Compost's operations and fine the company $18,000 is a draconian and blatantly capricious action that we call on Governor Douglas to reverse immediately.
As the price of fuel skyrockets and the global food emergency intensifies, the state of Vermont desperately needs more agricultural facilities and local food and farm operations like Vermont Compost. To close down Vermont Compost, as well as the Intervale which is also teetering on the brink of collapse in the wake of inconsistent regulatory oversight, is a most dangerous and reckless failure in public policy that will undermine Vermont¹s ability to maintain and develop a vibrant farm economy for generations.
Keep Vermont Compost open!
-Martin Kemple, Middlesex
-Kelly Sullivan, Middlesex
-Lydia Russell, Montpelier
An entity called the Natural Resources Board is closing two-thirds of the composting facilities in Vermont? The irony is crystal. With a little more research this drama plays out like an episode of Desperate Housewives. I suppose that might be harsh but the neighbor down the road who recently complained about Mr. Hammer, owner of Vermont Compost, is a GOP fundraiser who has raised many moneys for Jim Douglas, THE GOVERNER. The other open compost facility, Vermont Natural Ag Products, is by run the governor's brother-in-law. At the same time across counties Vermont Yankee (again feel that cool irony), the nuclear power plant, has a crack in it. And Mr. Hammer is shut down because his facility is not considered a farm? Because the majority of waste he processes comes from other farms?
The only other voice I found in opposition to Mr. Hammer was one Ellen Beck who argues that he is a bad business man because he was reluctant to give his dogs rabies shots and "felt no need to get a permit from the town of East Montpelier when he erected a business sign." The business sign which I imagine is as offensive as the logo seen above...
7/22/08
More Summer Reading In the Sky
I think it is neat how these old extractors look like printing presses. Is there a more modern way of extracting now or have we reverted to old techniques. Bears with our paws in?
7/22/08
The Instant
7/22/08
Put A Egg On It
Then someone handed me something. A manila folder with this egg journal and pin. As I have harped on before I have a hard time reading about food and the biggest culprit is preciousness. Immediately I was attracted to the little green zine. It represented the punk zines of lore, referencing the ripped borders, the content on the front page, the humor and ironic graphics and the paper. Still I worried. I had a sip of the bubbles in front of me. And started to read.
Words I dislike jumped out at me. Munch. Meal. Ravenous. Delicate. But still I read on and... I was compelled. The magazine features a lovely and sincere tale of eating in the rain and a night that ends in a slow dance.
This little number is a gem. It is reverent of its roots, paying subtle homage to the punk and the rock. The photo spread in the center is as sincere as the text and alive with the mess, awkwardness and community that is eating.
I would like to thank Sarah Keough, who is the author and editor, and recommend this tiny book to all. Also R&S Media are the perpetrators of Print Fetish, one of my favorite blogs. Ever.
7/22/08
Rock Roll and Rose: One day in Dinerland
Noon for wine in the back of Marlow. 8:30 for rockin' out. My kind of day.
Sincerely,
Diner Journal
7/21/08
Every Thursday 8-4 till November
7/17/08
Of the Land: Books Andrew has been dabbling in
My first garden was a place no grown-up ever knew about, even though it was in the backyard of a quarter-acre suburban plot.
One of the peculiarities of the white race's presence in America is how little intention has been applied to it.
7/16/08
Our favorite excerpt
7/16/08
How to get a lifetime subscription
7/3/08
Today in the Post: Peace, Love and the Bonita Michelada!
7/3/08
UnFancy and Crafty
7/1/08
Week Two: A History Doomed to Repeat Itself
After all, this is the kind of armchair anthropology that makes me physically uncomfortable – the kind that touts France as the last in the line of civilization's evolution, the natural height of human cultivation. And meat, a symbol for the physical domination and incorporation of other animals, is the perfect language to write such a history in. In Eating Meat: Evolution, Patterns and Consequences, Vaclav Smil writes, "There is little that is neutral about meat." And Larousse's truth is anything but neutral.
But truth – ultimate, un-biased and objective – is not the aim of this post. Which is to say, these things happened, and may have happened. As I read, I realized I couldn't put together a complete and neutral chronology of meat-eating any better than Larousse. But I did begin to see parallels between ancient practices and modern values. As Tom said in the walk-in, "You can tell a lot about a culture by the way it cuts up its animal." And we can think about the state of meat processing today in light of these histories.
In Egypt, sacrifice brought royalty closer to the divine. Take, for example, this zealous charge by Thutmose III in his Coronation Inscription: "... that I might supply with food his altars upon earth; that I might make to flourish for him the sacred slaughtering-block with great slaughters in his temple, consisting of oxen and calves without limit" (J.H. Breasted, Ancient Records of Egypt; Part Two, § 149). Without limit! Ancient political sovereignty gorged on meat. For centuries, meat was the essential foodstuff to invigorate marching armies. And just as an Egyptian ruler had to prove his power in meat, so do our politicians, as we saw in last week's post. This is the context in which right-wing radio show host Michael Savage called Obama the "Tofu Messiah."
It was the Romans who outsourced slaughter. The higher classes disdained the "gross practice" of butchery, and a class of butchers took up the lowly job. Even though these butchers provided the essential service of preparing the sacrificial carcasses, their work was considered uncivilized and degrading. In return for tainting themselves with the flesh of animals, the butcher halls were made as monumental as the Aqueducts and Baths. This was a life in paradox.
And something of the Roman paradox remains. We depend on meat, but we want its journey to our plate to be out of sight, out of mind. We extend the process by which it gets to us to the point of near total ignorance. I recently read that chopsticks were first used in the eleventh century B.C. because a Chinese rule of etiquette banned knives from the table since they reminded diners of the slaughter of the animal. Today we continue to pass the death of domesticated animals down the line. Most butchers no longer kill the animals they prepare – that's done at slaughterhouses. PETA would have us go so far as to no longer kill, and therefore raise, animals at all. They recently announced that they would give one million dollars to anyone who could grow meat in a petri dish that could be sold at competitive prices by the year 2012. Any takers?
Leah Campbell
7/1/08
Words of the week:
—Wendell Berry, "Word and Flesh" in What Are People For? (1990), p. 200.
7/1/08
This week in the news: Mark at the Market!
6/24/08
This Sunday at the Seaport
6/23/08
(Nothing But) Flowers...
Now it's all covered with daises
-David Byrne:
(Nothing But) Flowers
An incredibly innocent young person asked a friend of mine recently if there were bands in Williamsburg when she moved here five years ago. Williamsburg famous for brunch and gay people, Dominicans, Hasidic Jews and Domino Sugar has something new to be proud of. Condos!
Bird dog and I walk to work everyday from Greenpoint to the corner of Broadway and Berry. It is about a mile and a half walk in a straight line down Berry, past the park and the Automotive Highschool, the Levee and the vet. The early morning hours offer a barrage of sounds. Dogs barking, cars whirring, beeping, Polish. But then behind the staccato is something else. Something more ominous. It is sometimes soft but harsh, erratic and omnipresent. The dull sound of metal pounding at the ground, the thud thud of the earth's growing wounds. People (developers) standing on corners trying to figure out just how much money they can eek out of the sky. Next to Marlow right now are two giant craters of broken dirt. Even these tiny swaths stolen through blue plywood walls prove startling apocalyptic. Here in Brooklyn, unless you are in a well manicured park or at the beach, this might be your only glimpse of real land.
What came as an equally jarring surprise is that we, unwittingly, are helping sell them. I mean it is obvious that Marlow and Diner play a role. We are in an SUV add, let's be real here. But it was a shock to see this in a recent issue of New York Magazine:
In the little box are Bonita matches and postcards! We never approved of these photos? No permission was asked. No money changed hands as they say in gangster movies. I went a little undercover to the tower's sales office, a tiny hut just feet from the East River. It reminded me of the tacked together little lean-tos that used to pockmark the waterfront's "unofficial" parks. Inside was a even more offensively appropriated picture of the interior of Bonita. Almost as creepy as the fake lady next to it...
In the mile and a half from my home to Marlow and Sons there are:
15 construction sites
4 new buildings and
one community garden.
5/14/08
You Must Sit Down,
The scallop, like poetry, is cool. It is interesting how geometry will unconsciously effect our preferences for something. The shape of the scallop shell, for its equality of design, its balance, is what we think of as THE SEA SHELL by the seashore. This is maybe why Sasha was so fascinated and excited by it that she took this lovely picture. Also did you know that scallops can sing? It's true! And also there is a form of poetry called the Scallop that due to its syllabic restrictions appears in the shape of our beloved bivalve.
It is the very quality of form, like the contours of a poem, that makes verse so unique. Several weeks ago I came into the office to find a copy of George Herbert's poem called Love. Apparently this poem, which I stole the closing lines from to name this post, is one of Tom's favorites. Then out of no where, as if to give the air itself structure and purpose Molly started reciting this tiny but satisfying agenda by Shakespeare:
Where the bee sucks
Where the bee sucks, there suck I;
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
3/24/08
Dear Store Staff
We are writing to inform, or rather invite you to our first in years store staff meeting. The winds of change are a blowin' and want to make sure we are not wayward. So we will be having a meeting of the minds in the back room at Marlow and Sons. Looking forward to it! 2-2:30pm Wednesday the 26th of MarchLove,
The Autumnal Produce
NEW YORK
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