CHEAP EATS I'm a fickle fucking farmer, I know that. So ... sorry, Doc, I've got a new favorite person. Her name is Zidane de la Cooter, and even though she only weighs 6 pounds, 13 ounces, she just about broke Crawdad's back trying to bonk her way into this sad and blurry world.
I got to be there for part of it. Not that I was invited exactly, but that's where my press pass comes in handy. Read more »
CHEAP EATS My new favorite person is this guy Doc who I play baseball with. He's not a medical doctor. He knows about chicken wings. We weren't even on the same team, and he said between innings, "Have you ever been to San Tung?"
CHEAP EATS Sockywonk lost her mouth on account of the chemo. We were sitting around wondering about lunch, which is one of my three favorite things to wonder about, and she said (and I quote): "I wonder if I have my mouth back."
I looked up from my prayer book, or food journal, and asked, "Excuse me?"
"I wonder if I can handle the salsa at Papalote," she said. She's been off the sauce for a couple months and off chemo now for maybe one month. Read more »
CHEAP EATS Cousin Raym is a doctor and works at Kent State. He gets to come to San Francisco for conferences, and I get to take him around for sushi, and clam chowder in a sourdough bowl, and all the things he loves that you can't get in Ohio. Good sushi, I mean. This has happened two years in a row, and that means he has seen me more than anyone else in my family who doesn't live here.
Raym is 50 years old and still plays tackle football. We tried his hand or feet at soccer, and he didn't get a lot done but did have fun. Read more »
CHEAP EATS The hawks are looking hungry. My chickens are scared. Me too. We spend a lot of time in the bushes, plucking and preening and trying to act casual. And while they're scratching for bugs, I'm collecting dandelion greens for my salad. The price of lettuce has literally brought me to my knees.
You're thinking: Lettuce? The price of lettuce?
Yeah, well, maybe you don't know how much salad I eat. (A: a lot.) My favorite statistic says that when they have unlimited access to grass, chickens will eat it more than anything. Read more »
CHEAP EATS The word she uses is "flexitarian." I seldom run retractions. Not that I never get anything wrong; on the contrary, my impressions of reality are so impressionistic, it would be a stretch to say that I ever exactly get anything right.
This can cause problems.
Give you an example: I want to know what time Penny's opens for lunch. I look it up. Cheap Eats, Penny's Caribbean Café, says right there: 11:30 a.m. So I write to Lisa Bitch Magazine, and I say, "Dear Ms. Magazine, Hi! How are you? Read more »
CHEAP EATS I'm not really going to no wimmin's music festival in Michigan this summer, don't worry. It costs money are you kidding me? And I'm not camping out at no Camp Trans, either, to protest. I already gave up on political actions, restroom-related or otherwise.
Y'all can have your fucked-up ismicistic world.
I have chickens. I have fire and wheels and weird words that nobody knows but me. Ismicistic means everyone's got to be a somethingist and embrace somethingism. Read more »
CHEAP EATS I have long, pretty, curly hair, and there's always food in it and often branches and leaves and stuff because I'm a chicken farmer. I spend my days crawling around in the bushes, looking for eggs.
At the famous Womyn's Music Festival in Michigan, trans women (MTFs, women who were It's-a-Boyed at birth) are not welcome. I knew that. What I didn't know, until Bitch magazine told me, is that trans men (FTMs, men who were It's-a-Girled at birth) are welcome. Read more »
CHEAP EATS The reason I keep a dream journal is not because I think my dreams mean anything. It's because where else do you get to write a sentence like He's always so brittle when he comes back to life and not even blink?
This week's dreamy food-for-all begins on the baseball field. Big Rec, Golden Gate Park. A beautiful summery day for July or August. For early February, it was surreal. Read more »
CHEAP EATS Earl Butter said it was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, and that was when I knew I was back. I wish I could remember what I'd said, to mark the spot, something about ... something, I feel certain.
We were sitting around a couple of square tables in the back room at Mollie's truck stop, former home of the 12-egg omelet and current home of the only chicken-fried steak omelet that I know of. Read more »