Words by Andrea Goto Photography by Chia Chong Photo Styling by Libbie Summers Every Christmas my sister and I would help Mom haul the boxes of decorations from the attic, […]
My formative years were made up of blueberry pie. Each summer Mom would drag my sister and me to the blueberry farm where we’d sit on buckets and encourage plump, steel-blueberries from their perch. “Try not to get the stems,” Mom would instruct. “Or the green berries. Or the ones that have a hint of red—they’re too bitter. They’ll ruin the pie.” In between her cautionary tales, she’s slip into a quiet meditation, working methodically through the rows.
I have a girl crush on Kristen Hard, founder/chocolate maker of Cacao Atlanta (pronounced ka-KOW! if you’re as excitable as I am). It was inevitable. Along with air, wine and “E! News,” I can’t live without chocolate.
Words by Andrea Goto Photography by Chia Chong Ho Shim is worried that I’m hungry. Even after I tell her I had a sandwich not 20 minutes earlier, she frowns and […]
So there’s this guy in Athens, Georgia, making a living washing dishes and playing in a band. He could marry his long-term girlfriend and settle down, but that would be too conventional. And when you’re an early twenties dishwashing drummer with an unarticulated dream, you expect more from life.
A lot of stories begin like this and most end shortly thereafter with a bloated and lonely middle-aged man eating Slim Jims and playing World of Warcraft on his mom’s calico sofa. That is, unless you’re Philip Brown.
I have this habit of looking at people’s hands like I’m looking for clues. I find they reveal so much more than most people are willing to offer. They tell a story.
As Vincent Hooper hauls 50-pound burlap sacks of oysters, I can’t help but notice that his hands are big—too big for his average size, as if they grew in spite of him. His fingers look swollen and ashy around the joints and cuticles. The skin across the backs of his hands stretch tight, like leather gloves that are too small and worn to offer any real protection.
There’s nothing like a worldly person to remind you you’re not.
When I meet Merveille Kasongo, her body language reads like one of those signs on the back of a semitruck that warn: “Stay back 200 feet.” Her arms remains locked at her sides and without smiling she looks directly at me with big dark eyes lined with lashes so thick I wonder how they could be real. My brassy American sensibilities are, of course, injured.
Pasta Week: Behind the Scenes
“It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. It’s fine, bitch.” Franco says in a thick Italian accent to his wife Lisa as they discuss a pasta delivery that needs to get out before the close of business. Both wear hairnets that remind me of my grandma who feared that exposure to running water would cause her to prematurely lose her $30 perm.
Stan Yockey is an enigma. First, he has two pugs that he may like more than most people and he collects hens on nests. You know the ones—the vintage candy dishes that adorn nearly every grandmother’s faux-oak china cabinet. This wouldn’t be so strange if Stan favored V-necks and Ricky Martin, but it’s entirely inconsistent with the turkey hide he’s tanning in his garage.