“Blood makes the grass grow.” — Variously attributed
The curative properties of this formula must not be underestimated. Its sincere and faithful application guarantee speedy relief of plaints relating to vapors, hysterias, moon-sickness, unrequited love, intestinal binding, dropsy and ague.
You shall require:“Show me someone who likes their meat overcooked and I will show you a picky eater, someone who regards meal times as a set of challenges and insults to be negotiated, like oil-slicked chicanes on a race track. The well done steak is not simply a personal foible, like preferring pepperoni pizza to a margarita. It is a mark of a life unlived, of a childish world view retained. Of a distinct fearfulness.” — A well-done steak isn’t a food choice: it’s a crime | Life and style | The Observer
The older definition is what I mean by it - a woman with a fixed residence who’s tasked with helping to keep its shit together.
It’s my pleasure to introduce Kyle Strickland, woodsman, runner, and Missourian, as sometime contributor to PRHW. Kyle wrote a great post about death in gardening and I’m looking forward to more.
Tumblr has some silly set-up where you can’t add members to your primary blog, but I’m gonna try to work around that somehow. The last thing I want to do is move all these posts (again).
This is a chart of the length between my menstrual cycles.
I take no issue with other folks’ dietary restrictions, but regardless of what you eat or why you choose to eat that way the taking of life is inseparable from the process. Exhibit A: my dad’s garden.
This is the first summer my parents’ house has been without a pet of one kind or another. When we gave my beagle to my uncle so she could run on a farm the raccoons started getting in the garage more. But the last cat finally vanished last fall and has not been replaced. Consequently, the rabbits have appeared in greater numbers than I’ve ever seen there and are quite bold. Our neighbor’s dog roams free but doesn’t seem to care about them.
Now, anywhere there is a garden rabbits will feast. They are particularly fond of the tender young leaves of bush beans as well as the greener variety of hostas that border the woods. They only seem to like the hostas that are fully green; the ones with the white rimmed leaves are tougher and apparently unappetizing. We could put out poison, or traps, or try the hot sauce on the leaves trick, but my dad is old school to a fault and at his age you can get away with much mischief. A .22 is not very loud, mind you, but rabbits are out of season right now and it’s illegal to discharge a firearm within city limits. Still, few raise an eyebrow at a 64 year old white man. I should add that he’s the best shot I’ve ever seen with an open sight rifle, even with his age, trifocals, and the mediocrity of his implements. Before Labor Day he had told me he was two for five at the rabbits he had shot at.
On Labor Day we took a walk to inspect the damage when we jumped a rabbit not 10 feet from us. Again, they’ve gotten quite bold without a domestic predator around. Later I was in the garage with my roommate when we heard that unmistakable crack. From the deck he had hit the rabbit in the body, through the lungs. The fellow lay still but his tail remained twitchy and I could see the life left in his eyes. Pain is inevitable for all but suffering should be reduced whenever possible, so I did what must be done. Never having been educated on the proper method, I fucked up and wrung the neck like a washcloth. Not the best way, but it worked. One should never waste game, but rabbit should not be eaten before the first frost because of ringworm, so I tossed him deeper into the woods for the raccoons to take care of.
Walking back, I marked it at 39 paces. A remarkable shot, all around. And a task not at all unique, cruel, or immoral. Death is a necessary occurrence in all farming, if food is to be at all affordable or sufficient. One can avoid committing the act and reduce interaction with it, but it can not be eliminated from the process. It may be messy, ugly, and uncomfortable, but it’s real. So don’t pretend it’s not there.
- KS
Chardonnay
California
2010?
Smells like: spoiled apple juice
Price: $2-6
ABV: 12.5%
M and I bought this with four of our last twelve dollars on our bike ride home from the Y. Apparently 7-11 wine is the new Charles Shaw or something. It tastes all right; I really can’t say like what. If being a Chardonnay were a class, this stuff would get a perfect C average. The minute it hits your tongue it’s gone. This might be good if you’re ever hosting a large dinner party with really undemanding or unsophisticated or alcoholic people and need six bottles of something. 6/10 for being better than Charles Shaw (it doesn’t taste like anything, which means it doesn’t taste like bullshit.)
Fine Cell Work : Prison Stories -
Even I can’t be snooty about needlework in this context. PRHW identifies with many of these depressive stories.
Does repetitive, mindful/mindless work help you ease psychic or personal dysfunction? Is it more in the spirit of meditation or in that of accomplishment, or are both important? I hate all housework but caring for my plants, which entails both.