Carpal Funnel Cake

Is he, you know?

Circumcized or uncircumcised?

...I mean, you see his, like, penis, right? And that, he's, does he have the whole XY chromosome thing? Well, I mean, are you sure? But, I mean, I'm just curious, how does that work, like, he got those chromosomes, and then... he's got, like, balls? Right? Have you seen them? Wow. I mean, I assume you have, right? And you... have sex? Wait, so is he circumcised or not? I'm just trying to figure out how that would work. Like, if he's not, does that like... how does that even work? And he's just comfortable with you touching it? Isn't that kind of weird? I mean, I don't know, like, I've never been in your situation! I'm just asking.

What are his, like, testosterone levels? I mean, do they match the whole chromosome thing? I'm just curious, like, I'm not trying to be nosy. What size is his dick? Is it because of the testosterone? Does he have um, a receding hairline, or a bald spot? Like some men in porn? I once saw a porn with a guy with a bald spot. That must be hot. Is it hot? Does he like, put his penis inside of you somehow? How does that work, I mean, I know how other people do it, and like, I've done it a few times, but like, I don't know Greg, so I don't know if it's different for... someone like him. You know. Being cissexual must be so different! I definitely think cissexual men are so brave.

But he doesn't have boobs, right? So what do you do, then? Do you just grab onto his balls when you, like, you know?

And so... like... he has a PENIS? And TESTICLES? Is that right?

What? Look, I'm just asking. I mean, it's just a bit confusing! How am I supposed to know any of these things?

People these days make everything about politics, and I’m tired of it! I’m just here to have a good time and focus on me. That’s the only thing you have control over in this life, yourself. As I was telling that woman that had the gall to ask me for change at the bus stop, you need to focus on being more positive, and everything will fall into place!

People try to pull you into politics, you know? But politics are what happens in offices, there are whole groups of people who receive higher education in this, they are qualified to deal with it. I am not a politician, are you? So why are you trying to drag that ugliness into the conversation? I told as much to Julia at our last PTA meeting. Those poor women were so disorganized until I came along, it’s a wonder they got anything done, but that’s beside the point. The point is, I had just overturned the votes of the unfortunate moms who thought it would be a good idea to have a fund raiser for school supplies -- personally, I don’t have the time right now for another bake sale, so I don’t see how they could, either, unless they’re slacking on something. Hours of work, just for, I don’t know, some crayons and colored paper, like those kids can’t make do with plain paper and pencil, like the rest of us! Well, I put a stop to that. And Julia, I mean, that poor thing, with two kids like that? But anyway, she said something about how it figures this is how the political climate ends up when a society doesn’t value the arts. And I told her, well, when you value the arts a little too much, Julia, you get your Anne. She asked me what that’s supposed to mean, and I politely explained that maybe her teen should keep her whole “lesbian” thing to herself a little more, for the sake of polite society. And then Leslie took that all personally, and started talking a bunch of bunk about me discriminating against the lgbt-whatever, and said that as someone married to a woman, she’s not okay with this attitude in the PTA.

Well, that was it. I’m kind of the head of the PTA here -- pretty much unanimously picked! -- and I said I thought we had agreed we would not pull political issues into our meetings, as we need to maintain a sense of harmony. We hold the fates of the future leaders of our community, for god’s sake! And that’s when Leslie started spouting claptrap about her identity. Okay, Leslie! I told her, nobody asked you what you’re doing behind closed doors! We’re all aware of your little eccentricity, I said to her, but I was hoping you’d be a little more respectful towards the school rules. For an example, there’s a clearly stated school rule about there being no political statements expressed on clothing or jewelry. Yet every time I’ve seen Leslie, she’s wearing her wedding ring -- picked out by her WIFE, a woman! I explained that I've had enough of this, and that she is free to leave -- I have unanimously voted her out.

That’s when things got ugly. Honestly, some of these women, I don’t know why I accepted them into the PTA. One of them is from Iraq, for God’s sake! I mean, what could be more political? She could have worked a little harder to hide it. I’ve told the PTA members many, many times that I don’t see color, yet she’s continued to speak with that accent; you can tell she’s not from Indiana from a million miles away. It’s like she’s not even trying to integrate with the community -- and we’ve been so kind to her! Just remember the American flag cake we got to welcome her family to the school. That was a special order from Kmart!

First off, I like to begin with a time-tested recipe. For this example, we will take one I have made many, many times, in a variety of settings, and sometimes under pressure: the coconut-nutella dacquoise.

A dacquoise, you say, what the hell is that? Well, it's all very simple: you beat egg whites to stiff peaks with sugar, then gently fold in almond flour. Bake layers of this stuff, cover with nutella, and layer with whipped coconut cream. Simple! Easy! Let's start.

First, run out of food stamps.

It is vitally important to do this right when you have decided to make the cake for somebody you will see in a few days, of course. This ups the suspense. It's like you're in one of those cooking shows where everyone is yelling at each other and you have to make a parfait out of three yams, an old shoe, and half a caramelized onion. Fun!

Next, live a ways away from any store that has the two ~fancy~ ingredients you need. Spend the day on the bus so that you can get three cans of coconut cream in the brand that always works (as opposed to separating, or being too liquidy to whip up) and almond flour. It ain't cheap! But it's okay, this is part of the j o u r n e y. :)

Next, you want to separate the eggs. Take an egg and crack it with a knife. Oops! You've muddled the yolk into the white. With some shell. Curse and waste this egg by throwing it angrily into the sink.

Alright, you've got six egg whites. Geez, this is tiring! And you're awfully out of breath. Level up! You have anemia. :) Go and lay down for three hours and stare at your phone. Don't forget to put the egg whites in the fridge. Your sink will now be unusable due to being clogged up with egg, but that's ok, no one can tell under all the dirty dishes you and your five roommates have left in the sink.

Oops! It's the next day? What happened? Anyway, time to whip the egg whites.

Realize that you actually left your mixer on the other side of the country, when you moved several years ago. Go to the local not-so-thrifty big company thrift store, where you buy a hand mixer for six dollars, one of its whisks for two dollars, and the other for three. It's policy, you will be told by the tired woman at the counter, to charge separately for the whisks. The woman stares over your shoulder with mute horror in her eyes, but when you turn around, there is nothing but a rack of plain black socks, $10 per pair. The woman looks blank again, and wishes you a good day. “Enjoy the weather,” she calls out after you, funereally, and the scant light from the window behind her highlights early gray strands in her hair.

Whip the egg whites to soft peaks, then, still whipping, slowly pour in the sugar and some almond extract. Whip to stiff peaks. Gently fold this into the almond flour. Draw some circles on parchment paper and spread the mixture into these circles, patting down till it's fairly even. It will not be even. While these are baking, unclog the sink and wash the dishes. Let these cake layers cool on the counter for two days because you're really tired of standing and the kitchen is dark and dirty. There is a noodle stuck to the wall above the pots. It has been there for more than a month.

At this point we can start on the cream! Whipped coconut cream is a wonderful thing. For other cakes, you can fold it into homemade pastry cream for a delicious filling. But not today, or anytime soon, because someone has moved your whisks and a previous roommate named Matthew has your favourite pastry cream whisk, and he is kind of scary so you are not getting that back, I'm afraid (or your $400 deposit).

Canned coconut cream is often very liquidy, and it helps to leave it in the fridge overnight. That way, you can be pleasantly surprised the one time it is not liquidy and is, in fact, a brick of coconut fat. Using a spoon, then a fork, then a knife, chip out the coconut fat into your mixing bowl, or rather, the mixing bowl of one of your roommates because your mixing bowls are probably in Pennsylvania and you are in Oregon. It is not a liquid. Leave overnight in hopes of it becoming a liquid.

Wow! It's like magic, or alchemy! It has remained solid. Heat it until it is liquid and put it in the fridge to cool.

It is back to being a solid. Did you leave it in too long? Who knows. Try to mix it. Take it up to your warm room in hopes that is will soften.

Several hours pass, and it is still solid. Pour in some whipping cream in hopes that this will help. The cream spatters on the walls and counter around you, and stains your clothes. Your roommate's bowl is quite small, so switch to a big pot. The big pot is insufficient. Everything within a two foot radius of you is a mess.

Keep mixing. The cream separates from the coconut fat. The coconut fat congeals into a big lump. At the bottom of the bowl, a grayish liquid gathers.

Throw everything into the sink. The sink is still clogged. The sink is full of dishes even though you did them this morning. The sink is a dark void within a dark kitchen, yawning, eating meal worms and cracked cups and errant stars.

Take a bite out of one of your cake layers. It's hard and too sweet. Throw it across the counter. Throw several other things, for good measure. The meal moths swarm from the cupboard, disturbed. The electricity flickers and goes out.

Good news! The recipient of the cake was a no show.

Retire to the porch to chain smoke for the rest of the day.

My levels of stress can probably be kept track of through my bank account, or more accurately, through my receipts.

Federal agent, sent out to spy on me as a potential Russian spy: “40 dollars spent on cabbage... carrots, potatoes... pasta, rice... salad ingredients. Subject is in high spirits.”

My journal entry: “For once......... I feel alive!!11! I think it’s all starting to get better. I ran today, and had a wonderful conversation with a random woman at the store. She was so sweet!!”

[one week later]

Federal agent: “Pasta... cheese... cheese... cheese... one onion... three beers...fifteen lemons.”

Journal: “I don’t know. Today was rough, but I still feel hope. The cat ate my entire plant, it’s a wonder she isn’t ill. Watching Bojack. Was I, indeed, born this way?”

Federal agent: “Daikon, onion, five lemons, brie cheese, two orders through grubhub, six pack of beer. Subject seems anxious. Perhaps an assignment is incoming.”

Journal: “Electricity went out for a while. Why me? Kitchen dirty. Five roommates!!!!!!!! But a new job. Can’t write, too busy.”

Federal agent: “Three grubhub orders, all sushi. Three lemons, pasta, cheese, one orange (left uneaten on nightstand for two weeks), three tallboys, something subject termed, ‘secret stress salame,’ two six packs, one tallboy, three packs of gum. The lemons may be a code.”

Journal: “Woke up today feeling [illegible].... even my friends won’t call me. I lay upon my bed and weep. A full moon hovers at the window, glaring through the bare branches. A whippoorwill calls, and I’m not even sure what a whippoorwill is, only that is is calling. Me to my death.”

Federal agent: “Three six packs this week, more “secret stress salame”... No lemons, may indicate a period in a sentence of correspondence. Not sure of meaning of the orange, it is still there, however. One grubhub order. Brie cheese, mozzarella cheese, a small cheesecake, lettuce, pecorino cheese, milk, cereal, two boxes tea, one container instant coffee, three croissants, one bottle wine, one pack of cigarettes, pasta, feta cheese, twelve pack seaweed snacks. I believe the code may lie in the first letters of the cheeses obtained. Store clerk may be part of the operation, will keep an eye out.”

“I want something small, in the $40-60 range. Maybe 1x2foot?”

“so there needs to be a possum, maybe shooting the peace sign or the hang loose sign...”

“Hands holding.”

“...hanging from a crescent moon. with my shop in the background...”

“But that hand just looks kind of tense, you know?”

“...I’m also thinking on a skateboard or a hoverboard.”

“There’s just a tense ENERGY around the wrist there.”

“For my poster, I was thinking the artist knows best. Just draw whatever you want!”

“I want something purple. And, like, pow!, you know?”

“Ok, I know I said draw whatever you want, and I’m LOVING the painting, but could you just make a few little changes? make the woman face the other way, and make her look less angry? Also, add an elephant in the background.”

“I’m thinking......... a steampunk vibe. Do something with that!”

“I want a portrait of my husband with laurels at his head and a kind of film reel of his best childhood moments at the bottom...”

“I just want something that really summarizes my mother.”

“...and then as far as the portrait itself, he has to be dancing. And as he dances, he gets older. I want fire to be reflecting in his eyes, and the grand canyon kind of bordering the top if it makes sense. Then, on the sides, I want the swirling cosmic energy of his dance to transform, disintegrate.... the mists come together, and the roots rise out of them, to join in ecstatic dance, and drift, drift away....”

“I’m not really sure, but it has to incorporate bees, her cat Smiley, the Bhagavad Gita, and her favourite band, the Doors. Also, she really likes horror movies.”

“Paint our souls, melding together...”

“One word: NASCAR.”

This morning, as yesterday, I walked a bit down the highway to the gas station to get my tea. The woman behind the counter was in a state of angry distress, talking about hoarders and non-locals coming in to buy out all the eggs and TP. Reasonable things to be angry about, especially considering how unsupported and mired in poverty much of rural Oregon is -- nevertheless, I tried to look as local as possible at that moment, and by that I mean I tried to think a lot about horses.

I have decided today to brave the motel shower. I am quite afraid of the floor here, a silly thing considering I lived in a tent for 6+ years, but the stains are mysterious and many, and there is quite a lot of what appears to be black mold on the wrinkled floor of the bathroom. (Worse than that, they have put the TP roll on backwards) I locked the door and carried the luggage rack to the bathroom, on top of which I put my clean -- “clean” -- clothes. Despite the washing, my backpack and everything it contains smells strongly of gasoline. I only took off my boots to step on the floor mat, and put them on immediately after. The shower itself was fine, though I had to beware of the strong water jet lest it scour off my nipples. I’m glad I’m short and average -- anyone taller or bigger than me would have had a hard time turning in the shower stall.

G seems to be handling this stay pragmatically, as he does everything. I see him about once or twice a day, when we pass the phone charger back and forth, or when he needs some of my cough syrup to sleep. Yesterday, I went to his room and he showed me a plastered-over peephole he found on his wall, behind a switch cover. Today, we were both sitting outside when someone’s black dog ran up to his spot. It didn’t say hello, but squatted a few feet away from him and strained to take a shit. It took a while, and G sat there saying, “Come on... why don’t you go somewhere else to do that?” Eventually, it let go of the tiniest little shit, and ran off, as its owner, a rotund white lady, passed by saying, “Oh, is he bothering you guys!”

I have developed a routine, and a very specific way of doing things due to my living situation. In the morning, I get up, have my outside breakfast of tea, oranges, and crackers, then go inside and do some stretches. I write this journal, for whatever reason, and check the news. Then I clean up and wash my two handkerchiefs in the bathroom sink, and go for a walk, not necessarily in that order. The only chair in the room looks like someone has died in it, so I have been using the luggage rack as a chair, and sitting by the window most of the day.

I want to get better quickly, so I have to try to eat healthy. I have a fridge and a microwave, as far as my kitchen goes. I wash and reuse the cups that came with the room, the paper ones for tea, the plastic one for soup. I didn’t have a spoon, so I tried making one out of the second plastic cup. I showed it to G when I was returning his pocket knife, and in exasperation he gave me his spoon to use instead. I have bought three cans of Amy’s soups, and heat up half at a time with some cheese thrown in for flavour. I usually eat half for lunch, and half about three-four hours later. For dinner, because I’m a rebel, I have a cup of milk and cereal. I have some sauerkraut and some chocolate for a snack, but today I broke down and ate the rest of both.

W comes for a visit (and an escape from his father). We can’t go out to eat, but the Mexican place, one of the two restaurants in town (three, if you count Subway), does take out now that the Covid 19 rulings are in place. We take out foil wrapped plates to the tiny little park, empty except for a small group of people who leave soon after we arrive. We eat at the picnic table as W’s dog runs around and around us until we have to untangle him. It’s a pleasant little date, but after W. leaves, I fall into despair. Looking out the window and feeling a pounding sinus headache coming on, I feel more than ever like some imprisoned exiled royal. But, I remind myself, real life imprisoned royals probably kept their shit together. So I take some ibuprofen, and go for a walk.

After a pleasant 12 hour sleep, I woke up relatively refreshed, if still sick (with a cold???). After thinking back on books I’ve read about related themes, I have decided that my life in exile would be better managed through consistency and scheduling, and today is the first day. I sat in the only-slightly-broken green plastic chair outside my door with my book, a cup of tea, two oranges, and ten crackers. A breakfast worthy of kings, especially if you think about how expensive oranges were back in Ye Olden Times.

It is very pleasant here in the mornings, sitting in the sun and watching the quails running around through the bushes. On the far side of the parking lot, a dog paused in its morning walk, sillhouetted against the sun magnificently, then squatted to take a shit. It then made its way towards me, an obese, arthritic creature, gave me a cursory glance, and pissed on the remnants of some shrub marking the parking spot in front of my unit.

Back inside my room, I heard a croaking emanating from the bathroom. Upon further investigation, it appeared that there was a frog living in the wall by the toilet. I walked around the other side of the motel, hoping to find some sign of it, but there was only dirt, and a grassy lot with an abandoned car in it, a rusty wreck from the 40s or 30s.

To be honest, most of my day was spent in agitation over the news.

Most of the time I lived in Portland, I spent working in an (in)famous sweets shop, a tortured little place that never got cleaned, where all the workers took turns sobbing in the bathroom. The issues with the place, if listed, could fill a small novella, so I won’t go into great detail, but this is to say that soon after I started working there, me and three other coworkers started meeting up to talk about the possibility of unionizing.

After months, the effort was stalling, and, depressed and disillusioned, I quit. I am glad that I did -- the strain on my mental health was beginning to be unbearable -- but today, when I found out they finally went public, I can’t say my happiness for it finally happening wasn’t tempered by a bit of a sharp sting. Most of the time I worked there, I spent looking forward to that moment, the small but significant marker of success that can be felt standing outside with your coworkers, holding signs and being public about your demands that things be changed, after all the work all of you had put into this. And here I am, I thought, alone as always, unable to stay in one place long enough to enact any sort of change. I knew I was being entirely selfish and melodramatic, and missing the point of it all, and eventually I did come back to myself, but I could not stop pacing around my small room, overwhelmed by emotion. This was not helped by the news, and by Facebook: everywhere, the disease was spreading, and people were coming together and sharing information and sourcing hand sanitizer for shelters and public transit workers, and I had nothing to do but sit and pass my time in this motel. In short, I guess, I’m having some FOMO.

Though I was sleep deprived, I felt very happy with being out here on our drive to work -- the sun coming up over the mountains, glittering on frosted yellow grass and shrub, the torn bits of fog, floating like a veil over valleys in the distance -- I could be sitting in my living room in Portland feeling the city fall apart around me, venturing out to the store only to find people sadly staring at the shelves where bread used to be, but here I am watching hawks circle over the mountains.

At the little rural airport, an asphalt runway in the middle of vast fields, I spent several hours exploring. Besides the main house, where the bathrooms were, there were two old wooden structures, now abandoned, and several WW2 era bunkers, long metal cylinders covered with earth and overgrown with brush, with little metal chimneys and thick metal doors, mostly locked. I found a giant nest, a lot of Christian books, a statue of the virgin Mary, much furniture, and an old cast iron waffle maker buried in the frozen mud. I pried it out and brought it to W, a much bigger fan of waffles than I.

W then dropped us off at the motel. It’s a classic one-strip design from the 40s, with a dilapidated sign (”t e  undowner”); a row of units, each with a little window, a door, an AC unit, and a pot of plastic flowers handing from the roof. The gentleman at the counter was a jovial man with a single tooth. When G asked if WiFi was extra, he said, “Oh, we don’t have WiFi in those rooms, that router’s broken. We only have WiFi in rooms 10 and down. But you can walk over there and get signal, just walk to that part of the parking lot and you’ll pick it up, it’s weak though. It’s sunny there, the sun hits it, so you’ll be warm. We’ve got chairs, so you can just sit down and get the signal.”

I felt my face getting wooden at this, as the internal battle raged: I Need To Be a Good Sport vs. I’m Going To Die Here and I Can’t Even Call Anyone. My phone has no signal east of the Cascades, you see, so I rely a lot on Wifi. W noticed and asked if everything was alright. In funereal tones, I told him that it’s okay, I’ll live -- the subtext being, “UNHAPPILY.” As a result of this bit of Portlandish passive-aggression, we renegotiated for a set of rooms with wifi, 2 and 4. W. asked if there were working TVs, and the man said, “No, everything I have is broken.”

My room had mystery stains in a rainbow of colours all over the carpet, curtains held together with staples, wood paneling and wallpaper that is probably original to the building, and a broken bathroom window covered up in layers and layers of duct tape. On a shelf in the corner stood a fake plant that W. examined minutely for cameras. I gingerly came in and sat down on the bed only after pulling up the bedding and checking the corners for signs of bedbugs. “Well, do you need anything?” said W. I told him I do not, and off he went in his truck. I closed the door and tried not to cry.

After some time of private lamenting, G. came by and kindly offered to trade rooms. After seeing his room, I accepted and we quickly switched over. It is much less scary here at number 2 -- the walls are white plaster and the bathroom window is intact. I do keep my shoes on at all times, and for that reason I’m reluctant to take a shower, but I know eventually I’ll have to figure something out.

It seems everyone is out of their element today, even the cat. W’s father wants to visit for his birthday, but as I am sick (with a cold??) and G is... assumed to be an asymptomatic carrier, I’m guessing, his father wants us out, and W has to figure out how and when and where to put us up in town.

At least the weather is nice. W’s house is in a vast, sagebrush covered valley, surrounded by ridges and mountains on all sides; the sun is shining and the sky is a deep blue. The house itself is a disorienting mishmash of architectural elements, very typical of the 90s -- vaulted ceilings over both big open rooms with picture windows and dark cavelike dens where all light dies. My room is one of the latter, and I spend the day trying to make it cozy, moving out storage boxes and putting up a painting we found in a nearby abandoned cabin, a giant canvas of two children with no faces.

W seems to be quietly panicking and feeling set upon from all sides, his father’s endless monologues, his crazed brother screaming at his mother on the other side of the country, the psychic pressure of two new people in the house, me holing up in my room like a sullen spider and G floating through on the vapours of another sleepless night. I think of all the books I’ve read about post apocalyptic societies and people in quarantine going mad and killing each other.

On Tuesday the 17 in this Year of Our Lord 2020 I did escape the Pestilent City of Portland for the less pestilent lands of East Oregon. Verily, Portland has become an uncomfortable place to live, especially when despite your best efforts (well, efforts, anyway) you have once again slid into unemployment for the foreseeable future and must valiantly try to not contaminate or be contaminated, despite living with three roommates and one of them a diabetic with multiple customer service jobs. It’s just a game of Who Will Get It First? as far as I could see, and I didn’t want to be involved.

So my boyfriend, W, came and picked up me, my cat, and his best friend G; we all shoved ourselves into the car and settled in for a nice, long, 6 hour drive to his home in eastern Oregon. I’ve done the drive many times, and by that I mean I have sat in the passenger’s seat for the drive many times, pointing out every cow and hawk on the way like an overexcited 2-year-old. Being the driver and doing that twice in one day appears significantly less fun, and W was not having a good time of it.

I have spent the last two weeks sick with a cold (?), as I tend to do about 7 times a year, and was miserably reusing every bit of tissue in the car the whole drive; my self pity was increased by the presence of a third in a drive I’m used to spending only with W. G and I have gotten better at being around each other and forming a pleasant acquaintanceship, but G has a streak in his personality of being edgy and self-aggrandizing, and since he and W have known each other a while, they can go back and forth for hours on nothing but inside jokes. W, when stressed (which he has been), can be cold and rather sharp, and I, of course, have no faults to speak of and am a perfect saint, so no point in continuing this train of thought, right?

At some point also, one of the gas containers in the bed of the truck leaked, dousing our possessions in gasoline; then, closer to Burns, the weather turned ugly and my rather large suitcase had to be transferred to my lap. The snow flew out from the dark void in front of us, the red lights of the semi in front of us seemingly not moving, and I felt as though I was having a bad trip on some hallucinogen and tried to tamp down my swelling panic and claustrophobia. After a lifetime of often rough living and travel and surviving all sorts of bad situations, this one trip reduced me to the mental state of a tantruming child, and the realization only made me more sullen and unpleasant.

As I have often stated in my Facebook posts, I love my community. We’re all just a bunch of punk sad queers trying to make our way through the world. ACAB! Let’s take down capitalism together! We all have depression, and we really support each other through it by drinking alone in our homes and going out of our way to never see each other.

When one in the community is suffering, we come together and heart react all, and I mean, ALL of their memes. One time, I decided to cut through the bullshit and really give a friend a pep talk, to support them through a difficult time. “You’re great! <3″ I wrote as a comment on their most recent meme about suicide. They heart reacted my comment, and I felt the warm glow of a job well done, a connection permanently forged.

Another time, a friend had to deal with his family cutting contact with him after he came out as trans. Trauma has a huge and lasting effect on the psyche and as that one meme said, Check on your strongest friend! Etc. So I did just that -- I checked on myself, and realized that I am low on spoons, and need to value my time as an introvert. However later, when he came to me asking for xanax, I sold him a bunch for a very low price, because here in the little town of Portland, we take care of each other. And when he overdosed and was in the hospital recovering, I made sure to remind everybody that as a close knit group, we must support the more marginalized among us. Everyone in the group chat agreed with that, and I, for one, felt very supported in my choices.

Amara, 24, sits at a grimy dive bar table and stares wistfully off into the distance, recalling her recent firing from a local fast food company. “I just wish I could go back,” she tells me, “I don't know what to do with myself anymore.” A week ago, Amara got fired from her job for having a disability – a condition she was born with that makes her unable to bear the abuse of prolonged customer service without a certain amount of anxiety, especially when confronted with angry and combative customers. When her employer found her having a panic attack after being harrassed by a particularly raucous group, he called her into the office. “If this is what your disorder makes you do,” he reportedly told her, “then you have no career in this company or in customer service in general.” According to Amara, he then laughed quietly to himself before dismissing her from the job.

This kind of behavior on the manager's part is corroborated by Amara's co-workers. “He often laughs when insulting us,” claims Deirdre, 26, “I always feel like he's getting a big kick out of it.” “When he gave me my second warning for being late, he smiled as he told me that I would get fired if I had another infraction,” relays Sandra, 28.

Shortly after Amara was let go, there were several assaults perpetrated in the lobby of the fast food business, resulting in mild injuries for the employees and several OSHA violations, such as being forced to clean up human blood. The entire staff were reduced to tears in the aftermath.

“I was sitting at home, you know, when I heard,” Amara explains earnestly, “and I just, I knew I had to be there. Every day that I don't see somebody fumbling with dangerous kitchen equipment, or putting out a sewer fire at the entrance of my work place, it really feels like a day wasted. It's as if I'm moving through a dream.”

“Amara needs to be hired back, absolutely,” states Sergei, 22. “It's so unfair, what happened to her. How will she get highly transmittable food borne illnesses just sitting at home, or working at a book store or something? One time, somebody died in the apartment above the shop, and maggots from their body fell through our ceiling. Another time, something happened to the plumbing and we had sewage and people in hazmat suits all over the shop. We just kept making food, you know? We were told we had to. Anyway, this is the last straw, you know? We've gotta get Amara back here with us.”

“Oh, I love working in [undisclosed fast food place],” exclaims Devin, 17. “If I were in her place, I'd be heartbroken to lose this job. I have pretty severe depression, you know, but finally I'm in a place where even co-workers with no mental illness cry in the bathroom daily. It really brings us closer together.”

“We all would see Amara crying and hyperventilating, well, most days, when she was working here” said Elvira, 34. “We all really just want to help her right this wrong and get her her job back. We are proud to work for a local, tightknit company, and as coworkers and friends, we have to support each other.”

Amara and her coworkers will be picketing [undisclosed fast food place] this Monday at noon, when the majority of the workforce will not be working and therefore will not have to lose out on a much needed paycheck.

I've been volunteering at the local library, which mostly has involved sorting through a lot of old local newspapers and community booklets. There is a section in one local booklet (produced by a rural electric company) where people post what they're looking for, e.g. books, recipes, VHS tapes (this is mid 80s mostly), even song lyrics, and their addresses so people can send whatever it is to them. Here is a selection of a few from this wonderful pre-internet phenomenon (minus the addresses):

Does anyone know words to this: “My mother, your mother lives across the way...” Thank you. Sharon Spiess

Does anyone have ideas of how to display old hankies? Thank you. Jean Guisinger

Seeking information on wooden pipe used for water mains at turn of the century. Thank you. Fred Fellows

Looking for place called Valley of the Three Brothers; possibly in northern Idaho or northwest Montana, maybe an old Indian name. Thank you. Randi Mabrey

Looking for someone who collects old marbles & old music albums. Thank you. Muriel Bailey

Have 12 sake bottles, House of Koshu, Japan. Does anyone have information? Thank you. Don Prescott

Game instructions for Snakes & Ladders and Ludo & Ski-bo. Thank you. Nancy Alvear

Logging-related cross-stitch patterns. Thank you. Pat Bowman

As I walk to work every day, I can't help but notice the bounty of nature on the way, ignored by the unwashed masses – there, a dandelion! Here, a stinging nettle! So much free food growing right under our feet, and nobody bothers with it just because it's covered in car exhaust. I do not understand how anyone could enjoy buying genetically modified tomatoes in a store with harsh white lights and people in sweatpants – personally, I like to take a week off of work and rent a nice cabin in the woods to fully enjoy these gifts of mother nature; I just do not get why other people don't do the same!

Now, I didn't grow up foraging wild foods to wild-ferment photogenically in my kitchen – you may be surprised, dear reader, but I actually grew up entirely on McDonald's and didn't see a single green thing until I went to college and partook in certain substances with a man named Coyote. He showed me that you could actually use plants – use them, not just look at them! – and I haven't been the same since. Another big milestone was all the girls I ever dated and their families. You see, I date exclusively girls from other countries, just so I can meet their exotic grandmothers and absorb their wise food traditions. Just the other day, my current girlfriend Katya's grandmother spat a sunflower seed at me as I was explaining the science behind lactofermentation to her. This inspired me to come up with a great recipe for Classic Old World Fermented Pickles With Chickweed, Jalapenos and Sunflower Seeds – it's based on Katya's grandmother's pickle recipe, but, you know, made better! Another favourite of mine is  Purslane and Cilantro Kimchi – it was so good, I think Su Jin was a little jealous! She was actually pretty rude about it, but I told her that if she doesn't like that a white man makes better kimchi than her mom, isn't that, like, racist?? Well, she left and didn't even come back for her stuff (Su Jin, if you're reading this, please get your comic books, they're cluttering up my studio), and I figured it's for the best – I don't want to be with someone who holds me back, you know?

Now that foraging has been my passion for almost two years, I have decided to give back to the community by having foraging and cooking classes. For only $60 per person, I show people how to identify such healthy, holistic foods as dandelion greens, chickweed, and lamb's quarters, and for another $50, I teach them how to infuse various vinegars with their findings. I gotta tell you, shrub made with my own homemade blackberry and wild garlic infused apple cider vinegar changed. my. life. In fact, it was this delicious shrub that inspired me to open my own restaurant!You may have heard of it, it's called Leaf and Beef, it's an all organic, foraged foods, farm-to-table kind of place. It's really rustic – I found all these pallets in the dump that I decided to reuse as tables, and I even hung up a picture of my ex Xiomara's great-aunt so I can tell everyone she's my grandmother – it really adds authenticity. My wild persimmon tacos topped with purslane white bean hummus and pickled beet relish were recently reviewed in the local newspaper -- five stars, of course.

Anyway, I guess my point is this. Look at the world around you. Politics, poverty, cancer. People feel so out of control about these things, but the thing is, it doesn't have to be this way! Put down your cheap, soggy burger and take a good hard look at yourself in the mirror. Disgusting!! Now, go outside! Putting only freshly picked, organic, preferably wild-grown ingredients into your body is the NEW way of living – something our caveman ancestors did, and nobody since then*, but fortunately, people like me are rediscovering these ancient practices. Have you ever heard of cavemen getting cancer? That's right, they didn't. And have you heard of, well, dandelions? Of course you have! Well, that's probably what our cavemen grandmothers ate, and they are absolutely delicious, really quite an acceptable flavour. Also, they look really pleasant and fresh in a photograph, which is just as important!

Now, here are some photos I took of things in jars. I picked out the best ones, so there's only fifty or so. Enjoy! Meanwhile, I'd better go – the uber that's taking me to my cabin is here!

Calamine Lotion Pink

Poison Ivy Green

Dirt-Road-in-the-Rain Taupe

Is That a Mosquito Bite or Hives Rose

Broken Beer Bottle Green (Glitter)

Tickle-Me-Tick Grey

There Was a Bee in That Honeysuckle Red

Rotting Mulberry Purple

Sweat Stain Yellow