Much like good bacteria lying dormant in my gastrointestinal system for lack of food to revive it, I believe the fermentation bug has always been with me, passed down through the mists of time from one person to another, waiting for a reason to revive.
Having been raised in Europe, where naturally fermented foods like yogurt and cheese were not just staples but everyday delights, I grew up with a taste for strongly flavored, potent and sour things.
The bluer the cheese, the better. The more sour the yogurt, the better.
My mom was making kombucha in the 80s and 90s, long before it became a household name. My grandmothers made pickles and sauerkraut that sat in jars on shelves for us to consume throughout the long winters.
I like to live my life out loud.
There is a lot of freedom in sharing yourself and your experiences with other people. In fact, it’s highly recommended as a type of therapy.
Sometimes, though, we go through these particular cycles in life where you have to draw back into yourself because of social mores, laws, the balance of risks and rewards for a particular action. Continue reading A failure of words
— TODAY (@TODAYshow) May 26, 2015
Sauce twins looking at Houston like: That’s jus our sauce flooding up the streets pic.twitter.com/gKiIXW7B8u
— BMW, TEXAS (@TERRY_JAXSON) May 26, 2015
I read a story this week about a woman who moved to Portland, Oregon from New York city and found herself incredibly lonely. Like dangerously lonely.
The better part of my life has been spent pursuing the opposite of loneliness. One of the reasons I moved to Chicago was because I believed that a city with eight million people would be the antidote to loneliness.
At first it is.
You’re surrounded by the cacophony of this human hive. It fairly roars with the constant sound of movement. You can’t look around and not see humans walking somewhere quickly. Nobody meanders in Chicago.
The 303 train from Chicago to Blue Island broke down last night, leaving me stranded in Chicago waiting for a later train.
Unfortunately, that meant I’d miss my son’s track meet.
He sent me this text just as my train pulled up to the Vermont Street stop where I park my car.
It’s been a long two-weeks of sickness around our house, with everyone dealing with a combination of allergies and head colds, with a little strep throat thrown in for good measure. We needed to buy Carson a pair of running shoes for his track meet on Friday, so I made an executive decision to eat out, which is rare for us.
The forward-most car on the 5:30 p.m. 303 train from LaSalle Street station in Chicago to Vermont Street in suburban Blue Island is ungodly noisy.
It has a screech not unlike a large dying animal when the car shifts from left to right as it slowly leaves the station.
They greet each other with hugs and ask after loved ones they know by name.
The incessant babbling is wearing on my mind
as we stand here chained to the walls of this cave
The shadows dancing on the walls around us give rise
to all the speculation that a mind ensnared is capable of
And we pick and choose our favorite lies from puppet masters
and the Old Witness in our midst, clutched tightly to our chest
But if I stretch my neck far enough, I can see by the blackness within
that the stone was long ago rolled away, and you’re gone so long
The shroud is on our face, in our eyes, a sacred relic’s profane
turn as we covered ourselves in it in your absence
We’ll kill the next sun-blind fool who enters the cave
without realizing the stone was rolled away
We have nothing but dogma, but we clutch it close
to our breasts until it smothers us in righteous fervor
The few remaining shrubs that provide us oxygen are cut down
and made into brilliant execution devices
To further cull the wheat from the chaff, because
when we find that door, we’ll find it very narrow
And we wait for a sign, as described by a madman
on an island of loneliness in a sea of regret
These are not chains that bind us to these walls
they’re fears that grip us tighter than any alloy
And the greatest irony of all isn’t that you came back
to the cave to show us the way out of the darkness
It’s that the cave is the first place we went to look for you
when all hope was lost and despair fell on us like rain
There is irony in the fact the stone was rolled away
we walked inside and killed the messenger
And chained ourselves to these walls to wait
for god knows what in ignorance and grief
And all this while, over centuries and millennia
the fact remains, the stone was rolled away
By Timothy Alex Akimoff