Past Tense

It feels crazy to talk about Fed Up Queers so completely in the past tense, like those were the glory days, and they're so over. But the facts are that I now live in the burbs and am surrounded by mostly heterosexual people, rarely get to do any street activism, and don't have a go-to group of people to make noise with.

I get riled up when people talk about how all of FUQ's drama was because all of us dykes were sleeping together. Sure, there was some of that, but a lot of the drama was an entirely different kind of passion. We cared about our message. We cared about what was right. We cared about making a difference, rattling people's comfort with the horrible things happening in NYC. And it felt fantastic. Exhausting too, but exhilarating to be part of a group that spent every week fighting for what mattered. Not all of our decisions were on target, and we spent a lot of time just spraypainting messages, which also meant a lot of time running from the police. But we also were in the thick of it. We got 10,000 people to show up for a demo in just four days, we got the Diallo protests rolling, we drew attention to every tranny murdered in NYC, Giuliani and his people knew who we were and knew they could expect us to cause him trouble wherever he went. I remember how it felt hearing "Fed Up Queers" on the radio, and on the tv news. The group drove me insane, and I loved them dearly. I remember how it felt when the whole thing fell apart because one person wanted to promote "inter-generational sex" as some radical cause, and all the dykes who'd suffered sexual abuse couldn't stop crying, and we couldn't get him to leave, and so we folded. I remember how angry I felt, and powerless. FUQ had been my power, and it was being taken away by a sexual predator. The whole thing made me mute. How typical.

I wasn't vegan then. I mean, I had been vegan for years and years, but then, when I moved East, it eventually fell away because I didn't know anyone who did animal rights. I was broke and depressed and dealing with massive police brutality in my little town. My head was elsewhere. When I moved to Brooklyn and met other queer activists and eventually became this powerful little gang called Fed Up Queers, I felt like my brain finally un-numbed, and I started to remember things that mattered to me. I remembered them in detail.

When FUQ was infiltrated and our actions started to fail, when we would get arrested before our actions had gone down, we decided to go to a skillshare in the swamp to learn some new tactics. We sold a bunch of "Brooklyn Out of Palestine" t-shirts to fund the trip, and it was there I went vegan again. The whole gathering was vegetarian, and really mostly vegan. My girlfriend and I had decided to spend the three weeks there eating vegan, dabbling with making the commitment while someone else was preparing the food.

Learning to climb was hard for me. Some of our gang took to it like monkeys, understood the physics, learned the knots easily, just excelled. It was slower for me: I had more weight to haul up that rope, was insanely scared of heights, terrible at math. I made it to the top of the scaffolding, but had a breakdown up there before I could come down. I was grateful to meditate with a group at the camp, felt it helped even though it felt funny, self-indulgent.

Then the fights started. Two guys who were too good to camp with us and were staying in hotels decided that the camp being vegetarian was racist. The whole production shut down, hundreds of people in multiple workshops, everyone stopped everything to discuss meat eating and race. No matter that indigenous Brazilians talked about cattle production destroying their land, no matter that indigenous Canadians talked about how, although they weren't vegetarian, that factory farms were against everything they believed in. No matter that people of every color, veg and not, talked about how the camp's basis in environmental activism required that it be vegetarian. Everything stopped to let two guys (whose favorite word was maricon) talk about how they'd lose their culture if they didn't eat meat. And they did eat meat, brought in styrofoam containers from a deli every day.

For fear of being called racist, the camp ceased being vegetarian, the (Iranian) director quit, the kitchen staff quit, and everyone went home having learned half of what they intended to learn. But my girlfriend and I were vehemently vegan from then on, having so many people to make up for.

The camp fell apart, and, despite our best efforts, FUQ fell apart too. I stayed friends with those queers, and sometimes did activism with some of them. All but the sexual predator, and the one woman who supported him and who I ceased to trust. None of them ever trusted our care for animals, either, always thinking "there are more important things" and forgetting that there are many things all at once.

I read a friend's writing about FUQ and about seeing Le Tigre in the 90's in a tiny space in Brooklyn and how we were all freezing and about an action in Central Park in the Ramble when gay men where getting arrested there. And I can tell that she hasn't felt that exhilaration since, that momentum, that belief that anything can happen. And that makes me sad. We've given power over to that child molester, to that infiltrator, to those silly men who think they'd lose themselves by not eating meat. We've gone silent.

water bottles for good

Here's a disheartening example of rational pro-people, pro-earth arguments being co-opted by conservatives. An Arizona immigration activist with the group No More Deaths has been charged with littering and banned from a wildlife refuge for leaving water jugs for migrants in the desert. Read the whole story here.

Tap Tap

Bottles vs. tap water at Tappening.com. Me personally, I prefer rainwater.

teardrops, raindrops, drops dropping

It has rained every day for a month, and with all that's going on in Iran, I'm feeling a bit down or drowned or something underwater and suffocating. Thank goodness for last night's dance party to all the Michael Jackson music played on the radio commemorating the death of the King of Pop. Dancing to "Ain't No Sunshine." Maybe someday the sun will come back. But then again, rain = the new normal for the northeast under global warming. And things on the news aren't getting better.






Images lovingly borrowed from all over the web: heartfish, Miss Natalie, Newburgh's Door Sixteen, Dropp by Elisabeth Dunker, bookhou, One fine day, and creepy silicone breast implant people.

wish i were there

I've been away from home, working working working. This has meant spending many days locked indoors in a convention center, which makes me fully savor my few minutes outside, walking to and from the place I've been laying my head at night. It's made me carefully eyeball mosaics by Faith Ringgold in the subway (this one is Josephine Baker), and get excited over corn and bell peppers growing in tree wells in Harlem.

Other good things came of this mini work marathon. One was meeting the people who started Bags for the People.

You see, these lovely people who work at the Union Square Farmer's Market couldn't stomach using plastic for shoppers who failed to bring their own bags. So they started getting fabric scrap donations and making quickie cloth bags to give away with purchases. That's led to environmental talks and bag-making workshops with kids, and "sweatshop socials" to spread the idea. Gorgeous. Now get your paws off my new pink bag.


I've been having a similar, uh, conversation with an unnamed farmer's market about bags. Call me inspired.

In my upstate absence, a tough group of arm wrestling gals were on the teevee. I'm proud to say these ladies have invited me to join them, but I've been too busy-slash-lame to participate thus far. I sure was pleased pink to see this video, and know that their arm wrestling antics have been rolling in the dough for women's shelters. Way to mock machismo while protecting women from it!

Must a r m w r e s t l e. Must m a k e b a g s. Must go to sleep and be brilliant tomorrow.

zapatista agave syrup

Well, it's not agave, it's honey, but oh how I wish it were.

Some of my friends are very different from me. I saw this honey reviewed on a friend's blog. She's fabulous: brilliant, hilarious, wears full-on party dresses in the daytime, and left corporate land to go to chef school years back. I don't follow her blog because the things I find there upset me. (Her profile lists "butchering" as one of her specialties.) But I got all happy over this, even though I know those bees were blow-torched. I know. I know! The idea of supporting rebel cooperatives by buying their [fair trade] products is alluring, plus the masked activist on the label has a whole 'nother kind of allure. Fer real...their logo is a balaclava. Yes, product marketing has an impact on me.

Alas, I'll settle for the [vegan] Palestinian olive oil from Rebel Imports. (When I can't support lesbo Palestinians Aswat by buying their oil, this is good backup.)

P.S. Many food type postlets have moved over to wintergreens. This stayed because, although interesting, is sooo not local. The multiple locations are making me a bit schizophrenic, but that's just the way.

eat your weeds

The whole world, including the internets, seems to be covered in garlic mustard right now. While most hardy perennials are just starting to peep out, huge mounds of garlic mustard appear overnight. There are plenty of warnings and alarms online about how evil this plant is, how invasive, how it could potentially ruin forests. I tend to get kind of excited about having wild ginger, as it's also called, growing outside my door, especially after my multiple failed attempts to grow my own ginger fueled by stickers on store-bought ginger telling me it hails all the way from China, even when I've bought it at the health food store! OK, ok, I know wild ginger doesn't taste the same as that ginger, and I will dutifully try to grow ginger again in warm weather.

In the meantime, garlic mustard is edible, and that's why it was introduced here in the first place. Because I'm not especially hardcore about native vs. non-native, I like approach of keeping these babies in control by eating them. Eating garlic mustard, that is, not human babies. It's spicy, like horseradish root.The roots are long, but thin, and I'm way too lazy to prepare them like horseradish. A lot of people seem to make pesto out of the leaves and roots. I'm finding the huge roots useful for adding flavor (and good bacteria) to my nuka bed. Lazy tasty, mmmm.

gentle men: how the alphabet is used

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood! Yes, I'm singing that old Mr. Rogers tune today, because the temperature is delicious, spring flowers and leaves and buds are appearing an an amazing pace, the sun is bright, and Beacon's little community food project is finding its feet.

I'm singing loudly, and then find myself thinking about people like Fred Rogers. Obsessed with community, how things are made and by whom, make-believe, swimming laps, and vegetarianism—like me! Fred was probably a lot more gentle to my aggro, but he was a big deal to me (kill your television and all). I was profoundly sad when he died, even though there's that weirdness over feeling you've lost someone who was actually unknown to you.

I had that same feeling of loss when River Phoenix died. To me, he was such a lesbian, a lesbian icon, even. Everything about him, aside from the silly fact that he was a straight man, was as dyke culture as can be. (Is it Kaia or River, River or Kaia?) It was the same year that Kurt Cobain died, the year I lived in the Pacific Northwest. Cobain's death was one I was on the outside of, looking in and seeing what looked like absurd public grief. He wanted to die. I thought people should be happy the poor man finally had some relief. But then, there was how I felt about River and Fred, so I get it, I guess.

Cheers to two gentle men in my life who were never actually in my life. And to those people who actually are my neighbors. It was a stunning sunrise, and it is a beautiful day.

where does the time go?

There's no time for pondering this question while listening to Nina Simone, it's time to get seedlings started indoors or in cold frames!

If you live in the Hudson Valley, please consider getting local seeds from the new Hudson Valley Seed Library, making yourself familiar with the important work they're doing, and enjoying the artist designed seed packs they've created.For extra credit, actually organize your garden plans.

sickly sweet

Freakin' Splenda is haunting me! Twice in one weekend our household shopping was cursed by accidental purchases of products containing Splenda.

We don't buy too much in the way of processed food, so I think I've grown slack in the world of ingredient reading. How else can I explain being pressed to create bright colors of frosting in a pinch, breezing through some nasty chemical ingredient list on a tub of super processed frosting to make sure there was no egg or whey or lard, and realizing, while frosting a bright yellow cupcake with candied lemon peel on top, that the reason the consistency was so gluey was because it was reduced sugar frosting? Gross on top of yuk. It was too late to go back. I figured this is what I get for taking short cuts, even though I'd been asked to bake for a party, and I'm totally not a baker. I had no intention of eating any of the cupcakes, and warned everyone at the party, most of whom didn't care, that the beautiful pastel colors were made of poison.I claim some innoncence: I had been in a daze. The party was a naming ceremony and first birthday party for twins born to dyke moms, and conceived via in-vitro fertilization after years of fertility treatments. When I went on the frosting run, I'd just been at the gym listing to a podcast about Liza Mundy's new book about ethics questions and medical issues when children are created through fertility treatments, surrogacy, and sperm donors. The famous octoplets have given us a peek, but there are a whole lot more issues, many of which these very moms had experience with. It was a terrifying listen, having direct impact on this family I love, and most specifically on the smaller of the twin girls, clearly robbed of nutrition and everything else by the bigger, stronger one, and having just suffered whooping cough and pneumonia. I knew my arguments for adoption for well-founded, even though everyone is sick of hearing them! The party featured lots of cute, happy kids, however, and was so warm and sweet and supportive that my freakout melted.

The frosting was called out by one of the moms, who I'd pressed to stop using Splenda. Since she didn't care much about poisoning herself, I'd used the Huntingdon Life Sciences angle, a convincing one. Splenda was tested on 12,800 animals to "prove" that it's safe. Hello, we already know it's poison! Like how we know jet exhaust and cigarettes are poison, but we're still "testing" that on dogs. HLS exists specifically for crappy products like fake sweeteners, with hundreds of animals suffering every day because of it. All vivisection is grotesque, but nobody, no matter how uninformed, can pretend that product testing is okay. I was thrilled she remembered.So we left the party all warm and fuzzy, shaking the nasty fake sweet. Or so we thought. A person sometimes craves pickles. This sometimes happens when one's own stash of ferments from last summer is gone, and when that person is not on the lower east side of Manhattan with access to Guss' barrels of brine. So we're at the market and decide to splurge on a jar of fancy pickles. At the last minute, we feel guilty about spending the money and run back and swap the expensive pickles for a jar of Vlasic bread & butter pickles. Go home, go to crack them open, and see that they're made with Splenda.Insert string of expletives here.

Here's why I love belonging to a farm. Here's why I'm starting up a winter C.S.A. in my town. Plain old good food. Delightful treats. Good planning instead of shortcuts. No poisons. No animals harmed. Feeling completely spoiled without ever accidently eating shit like Splenda.

feelin' it

Spring is finally happening. Thank drag queens! (I can't walk around saying "thank god" anymore. Occasionally "thank the goddesses" works, but an unbeliever really needs to expand their repertoire.)

When I went outside this morning, it was foggy and rainy and warm. All sorts of springy things are finally starting to happen, and that was the exact recipe for an insanely happy me. My morning coffee wander included expanses of sprouts, vibrant green moss, a pileated red headed woodpecker, elderberry buds that look like animal paws, the first forsythia blossoms, a groundhog just emerging from her hole, and the discovery that the radishes I planted-too-early-but just-couldn't-stop-myself had sprouted under their protective victorian bells.

Tonight, thunder and heavy rain and crrraaazzzy lightning. Welcome to delicious, dramatic weather and amazing plants and animals. Welcome spring!

humanure mainstreamed

Humanure hits the NYTimes! If you're unfamiliar with the concept of using your own poop to fertilize your food, begin your education here, then continue here. The Humanure Handbook is a must-have for your outhouse reading rack.

a show of strength

Ah yes, I complain about Chronogram, but it did introduce me to the river photographer Carolyn Marks Blackwood. I love a good political print, but have also become obsessed with the river, the river fog, and the sounds the river ice makes when the tide rises and falls. It's terrifying, amazing. Good for humbling a person.

I met a woman in Hudson who used to walk across the frozen river to work making handbags on the other side. Really, she said, they ran, because the cracking terrified them. She didn't ever hear of any of "the girls" falling through.

scruples

(and a merit badge for community building)

I'd intended a while back to give Lagusta an abovegroundpool merit badge for being a sharp, funny, kickass, feminist, vegan, local chef extraordinaire, and sharing that experience with the rest of us. But hadn't gotten around to it.

I've been distracted from writing the entry by the fact that my friend is being beaten up, and from figuring out steps to take to prevent things from escalating. I don't want her to be murdered, I don't want her to continue suffering through beatings, and I don't want this guy to hurt anyone else. What I've learned talking to the lovely people at domestic hotlines is that I can't be the one to end it.

Years ago I had a horrible weekend with friends in CT. The whole setting was confusing to me. I was both attracted to and repulsed by the plush lifestyle I was experiencing, where it was okay (and even encouraged) for a pack of adult friends to raid the house, eat and drink and use everything in it, do nothing more important than play badminton and swim in the private lake, and run the well dry. I was meeting one of my friends' little sister for the first time. This fourteen year old girl (again rich, not underprivileged) lived on a diet of morning-after pills, wore pants that were so tight and low that her pubic hair always showed (the tiny bit that hadn't been shaved), and had no interest at all in engaging with any of the [queer] women or gay boys assembled. She only wanted to talk to [straight] boys that were attracted to her and she kept inviting over, but didn't even seem interested in them. I didn't learn much about why she was dour and self-destructive, but it really set a vibe for the weekend. I remember this was the first time I ever saw an episode of Sex in the City, and in this setting, sitting next to this poor girl, who, by the way, I didn't like, but did empathize with, was completely unable to find any humor in the show. I'm sooo not anti-sex, nor anti clothing that someone thinks they might look sexy in. I don't pretend kids aren't sexual. But it messed me up to see this kid so bitter about [clearly unsatisfying] sex already, so defined by it. She isn't alone, of course, but meeting her set the stage for the rest of the weekend.

Toward the end, we played the game Scruples. Round after round, I learned things I wished I'd never had about these people I thought were smart, I thought I liked. The guy I knew best of this crowd ended the game by admitting he hadn't intervened, or called anyone else to intervene, when he once overheard a woman being brutally attacked. After a futile argument that bewildered me, (It wouldn't change anything. I didn't even know her.) I had to leave. It's very possible that screaming woman was raped, beaten, or killed. I've never hung out with any of these people ever again.

Intervening, calling the cops, getting help quick, somehow, is the right thing to do in an emergency like the one my "friend" didn't respond to. From a domestic violence hotline I learned that when physical or sexual abuse is happening (to an adult), and it is not an immediate emergency, it is dangerous to call for intervention unless the victim is on board. If the victim is still seeing the perp, letting the perp into her* space, and he's* angered about being reported, he'll often hurt her worse than usual, or kill her. They recommend that, until she's ready to end the situation, to 1) Set up a code for emergencies; and 2) Keep a journal of incidents with times, dates, and details of the attacks, ideally with pictures of the visible injuries. Because of course the bulk of the injuries aren't visible.

I also recently read about pets in domestic violence situations. Like the people who stayed in their homes with their animals to try and weather Hurricane Katrina, people who are being abused often don't want to leave their animals behind, delaying getting help, most for months. Indeed, those animals often suffer at the hands of the same perps. There are some experimental domestic violence shelters that offer animals shelter as well. The animals have proven to be of great comfort to the women in the shelter where interviews took place. We all know the statistics showing that animal abusers often turn out to be abusive toward other people, too. Now we see that fear of animal abuse (like child abuse) often stops people from getting themselves out of dangerous situations.

And what does this have to do with a New Paltz blogger?

Well, I recently read her writing about the murder of a friend of hers, and that is part of what galvanized me to seek out professional help in dealing with my friend who is suffering. It's important, and also not the first time that Lagusta's writing has been inspiring to me. From discussions of how and why to make your own tempeh to making a bicycle-driven clothes washer, and this morning's reflection on the middle class environmentalist's failings when it comes to development discussions. It is really nice to know there's someone sane and passionate and articulate in the hood, sharing her experiences and thoughts in hopes of making her community/ies stronger.

I'm grateful for her generosity, her anger, her irreverence, and all the times I've cracked up reading her blog. Cuz we all really need that. (Oh yeah, she runs a vegan home meal delivery service and a vegan truffle business. But it's her writing I'm into at the moment.) So the repurposed "My Community" merit badge goes to Lagusta and her blog, Resistance is Fertile. Thanks for bringing your vegan eco feminist chef fury to the Hudson Valley and to the web!

*Obviously, these pronouns are interchangeable. Men hurt men and boys and girls, women hurt other women and girls and boys and men, trannies get hurt by men and women, etc., etc.

sugar sugar

I tried to be grouchy about the weather today, thinking, "More of this!" But then I kind of enjoyed it, trying out snowshoes for the first time (more on this later), getting them tangled up in each other and falling face first into deep snow, eventually wandering where I would otherwise not go in 19 degree weather, discovering trees tapped to make syrup, and dreaming, dreaming of learning how to tap maple trees and make syrup myself.

I absolutely plan to go to the mini maple introduction at the Sharpe Reservation on March 21st, and in the meantime, am satisfying my curiosity by reading about other people's first experiences with it.

love the one you're with

I'm from the southwest. I like road trips in the car with the windows down listening to conjunto music, bakingly hot weather, sandals, javelinas and jackrabbits and roadrunners, cacti, swamp coolers, big skies filled with insane lightening, and walking really slow. That said, I've lived away from "home" longer than I lived there, making it so that I can't use where I'm from as an excuse for everything anymore.

It's warm enough to be rainy here in the Hudson Valley, but not really warm at all, and me and my stack of seed catalogs can't stop fantasizing about planting season. I've been following chatter about growing various fruit in southern California, and it's driving me a little crazy. As if I don't miss fresh pomegranates, kumquats, tangelos, and prickly pear tunas enough. Should I really be listening to people talk about their avocado, jujube, and meyer lemon trees? It hurts.

I have to focus here, what grows here. Past years have seen the beginning of my perennial fruit excitement: I've planted raspberries, elderberries, cranberries, wolfberries, ligonberries, hawthorne berries, black turkey figs, cherries, apples, a plum. Some of them have done swimmingly, some didn't make it through a season. Some aren't really meant to be perennials in this climate, and are angry with me for dragging them indoors for the winter. (Hang in there little goji!) I think it's spectacular that wild fruits and nuts were here in the yard before I came. Woohoo for mulberries, black walnuts, wild strawberries, and quince! And there's that one fruiting tree that I still haven't been able to identify after five full years.
I can't help searching for additional food perennials for this climate. I've found siberian kiwis which I'd love to give a go, and pawpaws, which seemingly would require hand pollination (alternatively fascinating and frightening, since I'm not that skilled a gardener). Maybe seaberries and honeyberries, too. Or an asian pear for the mini orchard.

Many of these plants won't produce anytime soon, but it is amazing to be learning about them, and turning this yard into a truly edible landscape. When considering planting a fruit tree in her yard but knowing she wouldn't be there anymore when the fruit came, my friend realized someone would live there, somebody would benefit. If I do someday run back to Arizona and go to work for Iskash*taa, may this yard feed whoever lives here well.

*The berries pictured aren't edible. They are cotoneasters, and just look dramatic in the snow. Especially with a cardinal sitting on the branch. The other picture is of black walnuts from my yard. No longer green, but with the fruit still "on."

unplugged

The NYTimes can sometimes surprise: Their article about unplugging the refrigerator was only a little patronizing. Would it really kill us to chill our beer in the stream? Change our eating habits? Or quit milk, which seems to be everyone's hangup?

Kitchen towel by maltoodle.

pickle

Status update (a): Fermented Beverages

I "made" my own kombucha mother rather than ordering one or harassing people I know for handouts, and I did it based on the thin instructions of the people I've come to call the "kombucha femme boys". (You know from me that's a loving term—aggro-sincere.) I was discouraged for a full month, poking at it and sniffing it. Apparently, there's no warm enough place in my house, not even on the shelf right behind the wood stove, so it just took a dang long time. But...success! A mother is born, and she's happily floating in a new batch, looking like a crazy jellyfish.

Then there's the ginger beer. Tasty to me, lemony and fizzy, but too strong. No-one looking for a soft drink experience would like it. Again, I think it's the heat cold thing: too cool, so that in waiting extra long for the fizz to come, the acid flavor overrode the sweetness. I'll try again in warmer months.

Status update (b): Root Cellar

The veggies are going strong. Hudson valley squashes and radishes and potatoes and apples and onions and garlic and carrots are still fresh and crisp after being under the cover of darkness since late October. Why haven't I done this in previous winters? Why doesn't everyone (who doesn't live in a tropical clime) do this? I'm having a conspiracy moment, convinced our lack of veg storage knowledge was perpetrated by Green Giant or somebody equally as cunning.

Status update (c): Merit Badge cute news

The woman who's daughter's girl scout vest kicked off the abovegroundpool merit badges awards contacted us to say she likes the idea of recycling scout merit badges for righteous activist activities. Unlikely scouting bond!

water of the season

I'm obsessed with water. And right now, when I encounter the (crazy!) thick river ice every day, I'm also obsessed with spring. I went back today and reread some cycle of life writing to help convince myself everything's not dead out there. After all, that white stuff has been hanging around for a while now, and is dirty and frozen and unwelcoming. For this same reason, I was glad to receive the 20x200 newsletter, with this super summer photo through a wet screen by Matt Tischler. We've all seen lots of underwater photo shots, but here's some steam, fog and ice to keep you paying attention.

Rain by Matt Tischler, steam by Charmante, fog by Alingham, and ice by BB Photoworks.

If you aren't familiar, 20x200 is one of those "cheap art" deals. It's not out and out activism, but important nonetheless, cuz it keeps art accessible.

tool talk - open sesame

I have a little tool I love called a "slicky." When I went to look it up online, I learned that slicky means either "the biological moistening (slickening) of one's vagina in preparation for penetrative sex" or is "GI slang in Korea for a thief used since the Korean War." When I went to the website, I found a big picture of a cookie. Zowie. My slicky is an innocent little sesame seed grinder.

I could spend a year of tool talks on Japanese tools, since there is cultural importance placed on the ritual of everyday tasks: tea cups fit perfectly in ones hand. But I recently got this silly little plastic sesame seed grinder, and love it as much as I'd usually reserve for tools made of stone or wood or copper. Sesame seeds are one of the oldest condiments, and contain lots of good-for-you minerals, including copper, and grinding them releases their wonderful oil and scent.

Last night we went to a friend's noodle shop. There people were making mochi (rice cakes) for the new year in the traditional method: pounding rice with big wooden mallets in a hollowed out tree trunk. Fascinating, but I'll hold on making my own mochi for the moment. For now, how about roasted radishes with soy sauce and sesame. An easy way to try out some of those radishes from the root cellar and the slicky, both!

A call out to Kiosk, the wonderful little gallery slash shop where slicky came from. They specialize in everyday tools from around the world that have outstanding aesthetic qualities. Get your dowsing rods here! Thanks, too, to The Perfect Pantry for the photo, and the lovesong the slicky inspired in her.