The spanch cryptid

Let's ambush mama! 😼

"Pallas kittens."

everything is truly so terrible but i just remembered doreen ketchens playing clarinet for her infant grandson and then i was kind of okay again for 36 seconds

When my mother forgets a word, she is the queen of coming up with new words. Words that would take a third National Treasure movie to fully decipher. I was talking to her yesterday, and she said this: “You know the time for los jibbities is coming up. You must be so excited!” Oh, is it time for los jibbities already? I must have missed it on my calendar. Are we celebrating something? “Of course! We should all be celebrating, shouldn’t we?” OK, so los jibbities is a happy thing. It’s not like something is giving you the heebie-jeebies, which would have been my one and only guess. “Los heebie-jeebies? Now you’re making things up...and this is my show.” You’re right. The time for los jibbities is coming up. Is this a season? “Yes, the season for love. The season for pride.” OK, los jibbities. “Yeah, sound it out.” Los…jibbities. LGBTs! “Sí, mira cuz you’re gay!” “You couldn’t just say pride season? You couldn’t just… *laughs*

This summer, we drank cardamom iced tea sweetened with agave — savoring an idea of sweetness lingering, not as if we actually ate honey from the lovely overflow of  liquid summer heat and soft beeswax tongued with a wedge of spanakopita and a platter of shaved lamb strewn on pita bread with yogurt cucumber dip — glistening slices of salmon topped by edamame, wakame seaweed, crushed macadamia nuts mingled with black sesame on beds of rice, and steaming cups of chai with black tea and milk, loose-leaf sencha, and chunks of sea bass with a tossed mesclun of tender greens garnished by crisp curls of chicharrónes and chopped beet salad with tart beets—the mellow gold ones soaked in wine vinegar, dressed with tendrils of microgreens — corollas of night-blooming honeysuckle and star jasmine flaming with small cups of  heady fumes wafting on trellises across the lot with a walk-in hair salon and laundromat — then avocados with eggs-over-easy in hollandaise sauce over muffins alongside triangles of toast dipped in yolks beaten with cinnamon, and flavorful black coffee with a drop of fresh cream, quiche with crimini mushrooms, feta, swiss cheese, not leeks or truffles, shot through with julienned sundried tomatoes the color of stop signs, and mocha spiced with chili, black pepper, chocolate, cardamom again by a plate of smoked salmon and capers, ricotta, buttery arugula, and baby spinach drizzled with olive oil on thin sourdough toast in glowing strokes of  late June light fringed by the noise of peninsula traffic on the harbor laced by grease and silt from the machinery of  life — the sea isn’t far away though only gulls could spy it from here — so why don’t we walk all the way to the inlet of the marina, a landing where children play in the fading light blanched on grassy edges as if already a memory of summer within summer — and you say, with the air of a prophet who ate locusts and honey, join me in the place where lives are bound together by a cord of three strands.

Happy 24-6-01!

Brennan, as a young boy: It's Pride, bitch!

why would you ask us, a narnia blog, this

Collection

Gotta have a griller in your collection

plato's cave: the video game

10/10, give me tiny replicas of animal statues that I am encouraged to pat as part every exhibit ever please

feast like pagans, never get enough sleep like dead men, wake up like dead men and when the sun comes, try not to hate the light someday we’ll try to walk upright