A few lines from Howl.
Wouldn’t mind the entire poem in this format, tbh.
A few lines from Howl.
Wouldn’t mind the entire poem in this format, tbh.
Beyond pleased with this project for ESPN FC looking at Premier League kits and their worth for their respective clubs. Have a look, yeah?
People like this — Harper’s publisher John R. MacArthur — make me chuckle. I understand, respect and appreciate their faithful adherence to the practices of yesteryear and yes, there is some truth in his distrust of the online mediascape.
HOWEVER… (here it comes)… like it or not, the online circus that is new media is here to stay. It is an evolution you can’t undo. You can ignore it, sure, but adaptation and change is a part of life. You roll with the times. You learn to remain nimble and open-minded. You remain receptive to the challenges of the world we live in. You learn from those around you.
The fact that his business “often falls short of breaking even” is a concern that would cause many decision-makers to reevaluate their firmly held beliefs. Yet this guy’s organization is funded by a foundation and he is from a wealthy background, meaning there’s no pressure to learn a lesson or respond in kind.
Oh well. I can enjoy lines like this, can’t I? (Emphasis mine)
"He composes articles on the PC, loaded with WordPerfect software because he feels Microsoft Word argues with him. He saves them on a 3.5-inch floppy disk.”
"A former Chicago Sun-Times and United Press International journalist who became the publisher of Harper’s in the early 1980s, he gets news alerts on an iPad and a laptop at his homes on the Upper West Side and in Sag Harbor, N.Y. But he remains analog in his habits. He prints out articles to read. On several occasions during a recent interview, he could not quite remember a fact that supported a point. His version of searching for it on Google was yelling to a staff member, who hurried to deliver the information.”
You’re goddamn right I can.
Dear Home Cook,
First of all, thanks to everyone who showed up in Boston and Portland, Oregon, for our first live ATK events. I will be going back on the road in the spring for a new series of nationwide stage appearances. And a very special thanks to those who came up onstage for our taste and aroma tests SMELL MY AU JUS.
Melissa and I just got back from England, where we visited Ivan Day in the Lake District NAME DROP, about 300 miles northwest of London. Ivan lives in a 16th-century farmhouse and specializes in the ancient English culinary arts. We roasted a leg of lamb in front of the fireplace and also made a Scotch potato pudding, a skillet of mashed potatoes that is finished underneath the roast to catch the drippings EXCUSE ME WHILE I REMOVE MY LL BEAN KHAKIS. (He used a windup spit jack that turned the meat automatically—it works on the same principle as a grandfather clock. I MAKE STEAMPUNK FOOD) How good was it? Let’s just say that “baked” meat (meat roasted in a modern oven) can’t hold a candle to this succulent, tender roast with a terrific outer crust. YES, LET US JUST SAY THAT And the potatoes, with their rich mahogany top layer *NEXT KANYE LP TITLE ALERT*, were light and savory—the best mashed potatoes I have ever eaten. The conclusion? Never assume that old kitchens can’t produce terrific food. ERR I NEVER DID BUT OK Click here for photos of Ivan’s kitchen and the roasting process.
Hunting season started at Tom and Nancy’s house for a 5 a.m. hunter’s breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, and coffee. (Their son Nate was also there with his redheaded teenage cousin Molly. HAIR JOKES) A few hours later, I was sitting on the porch of my hunting cabin, taking a short break, when a small doe loped across the lower field. LOPED! Sixty seconds later a small spikehorn IDK WTF THIS IS ran across the field in hot pursuit. Since a buck has to have three points to be legal in Vermont, I looked hard (very hard!), but he had only two. To be absolutely sure, I tracked him and finally caught up with him in a small thicket. YEAH I CHASED DOWN A DEER AND CORNERED HIM IN A GODDAMN HEDGE Nope—still only two points, not three. He was too young for this season and I wish him the best of luck! I WILL KILL YOU NEXT SEASON MARK MY WORDS
This is the time of year for giving, and, like me, you may be a bit tired of the usual gift that nobody really wants or uses. OH YEAH I NEED TO STOP MAKING THIS ABOUT ME AND SELL YOU SOME STUFF So take advantage of our holiday gift offers. You can give the gift of Cook’s Illustrated magazine at up to 52% off or Cook’s Country at a 44% discount. Access to our three websites also make excellent gifts since they can be used throughout the year. Your gift recipient can be given a membership to AmericasTestKitchen.com (stream all 13 seasons of our public television show and get access to the recipes, tastings, and testings as well), to CooksIllustrated.com (complete access to all 20 years of the magazine plus online videos of hundreds of recipes), or toCooksCountry.com (complete access to all nine years of the magazine plusstreaming of all six years of the Cook’s Country television show).
The best part of any of these gifts? They can be enjoyed throughout the year, not just put on a shelf or at the bottom of a closet! HELL YEAH JUST LIKE A MAHOGANY SPIKEHORN IN A THICKET
When visitors come to our small Vermont town (population around 700 and most folks born in the house they live in), what they see is old pickups; two tiny post offices; Sherman’s General Store, which sells coffee, duct tape, doughnuts, and sandwich fixings; and people who walk around without coats in the winter. I LIVE IN A NORMAN ROCKWELL LANDSCAPE They don’t see what small towns are good at hiding: the keen wit and intelligence of its residents.
That reminds me of a carpenter who used to work for my friend Tom. DOES IT? COOL SEGUE He sometimes slept in his pickup on the back road or might spend the day working barefoot for the road crew if he had a mind to, but he was and still is a genius. DUNNO THAT DECIDING TO NOT WEAR WORKBOOTS DURING SOME SERIOUS MENIAL LABOR IS CLEVER BUT WHATEVER KIMBALL When cutting lumber for rafters or dormers (they require complex angles), Tom would simply call out a few dimensions and would do the rest of the math in his head. YEAH PEOPLE DON’T KNOW MATH ANY MORE BECAUSE SMARTPHONES Or the old-timer I met sitting outside the country store late one summer afternoon. When I remarked that it was a nice day, he thought for a few seconds and replied, “So far!” HE WAS JUST WAITING TO DIE!
Of course, Vermont humor is a good example of the sharp native wit. It’s subtle, but the humor lingers. JUST LIKE MY TOP-SPIT RACK OF BURLINGTON LAMB SWIVELING GENTLY OVER A PIT OF ARTISAN’S COALS One of my favorite stories is about the tightfisted farmer who drove his farmhand from dawn to dusk with haying, milking, and other chores. At the end of a particularly long day, the farmer and his helper were milking the large herd by hand. The farmer said, “Floyd, you know, sitting here and milking is kinda restful to me.” “Well, maybe,” said Floyd, “but I don’t know but I would rather go to bed tired.” Just think about that one! I’M STILL THINKING ABOUT IT TEN MINUTES LATER AND DON’T HAVE A CLUE WHAT THIS MEANS
Cordially, WHO SAYS THIS
Founder, DESTROYER OF INFERIOR KITCHEN APPLIANCES NOT MADE IN THE USA
America’s Test Kitchen
Everyone has their own places of worship. They could be buildings, open fields, or states of mind. They could be olfactory in nature. They can be shared or they can be private, communal or soaked in solitude.
I found mine a couple of weeks ago in Lockhart, TX.
It’s a building. They smoke meat inside. It seems trite to riff at length about something like food but given how essential food is to our very existence, it feels more genuine than rambling about any number of other things that are also near and dear to my heart.
This building was it for me. A three-hour drive, hungover, on a gloomy Saturday morning, the air thick with humidity and the speed limits unforgiving. The smell doesn’t hit you until you open the second set of double doors, the ones you reach after a long, ugly hallway with various side doors to giant rooms full of tables and napkins and pitchers of sweetened iced tea.
A sign taped to one such door — “Vegetarians, this way” — guiding those in search of coleslaw or cornbread.
Continuing down the dimly lit passage, you hit the smoke house. It’s a large unassuming space with brick cases strafing the far wall. Open fires offset their heat up through side vents in these large boxes — post oak their preferred heat source. The walls are yellowed and cindered from 14+ years of work. (Note: their original building downtown was running hot since 1900. Moving to the bigger space around 1990, they actually brought hot coals from the old boxes and began the fresh fires from those cinders.)
Inside the cases, the good stuff. Pork chops off the whole loin, each wedge sliced to order. Fat cap brisket. Handmade sausages: beef, jalapeno or dry cured. Beef ribs as thick as your wrist.
I sat, quietly, for nearly an hour. Just eating. The room buzzed around me but none of it mattered.
The firm snap of the sausage casings after hours being licked by the post oak’s heady smoke. The greasy chops, pink-ringed from the brick box. Not a bad bite in the giant, three-pound bag I ended up hauling to my sad rental car for the journey back to Houston.
I hit four restaurants that morning, each a migraine blur, every one famous for something different. City Market (Luling, TX) had ribs smoked for what felt like years, their mottled, fogged up windows a testament to a lifetime of meat.
The care in their methods was nourishing in a way I can’t quite describe. I’ll drive there again soon.
Listen. If you have to be honest this weekend, do it gently. Happy Friday.
I couldn’t resist eulogizing the retired Rory Delap for ESPN FC, king of the throw-in that so completely and so briefly destroyed the Premier League.
May you hurl on long into the afterlife, Rory.
This is just great, angular, chunky rock fun. New, too. Just in case you think I’m dipping solely into yesteryear.
Night Time In The Switching Yard
Excitable Boy [Asylum, 1978]
The urge has hit to start writing about music again. So let’s start here with the dearly departed Mr. Zevon.
It’s a funky, persistent track. An unexpected groove. Written by longtime Zevon collaborator Jorge Calderon (and later covered by Grant Green in his silky jazz guitar style), it was buried on a so-so album and completely obscured by the zany hit, “Werewolves of London.”
You could drive a truck through that beat.