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I wrote this a while ago while thinking back across the expanse of my youth spent in the same church week in and week out. I don’t know where I should go with it, but I like how it reads. It’s fantastically incomplete, clearly.

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The front doors of the church were heavy, too heavy for me to open without expending real effort when I was young, so I let my mother or father do it for me, entering the vestibule before them. Sometimes, if we were running late on account of me being slow to finish my cereal or my father not being able to find a shoe, we’d enter quietly, whispering as we unraveled scarves and shed gloves before depositing the youngest of my siblings in the nursery for the first hour of service. Other times the foyer would be brimming with people trying to find hangers for trench coats and space for their shoe covers, and I’d rush in, eschewing the normal sanctimony reserved for church, looking for friends.

I remember it, the sanctuary: how it looked, what it smelled like, the weekly attendees who filled it, and where each sat, in their family rows, a silent hierarchy of faith passed down from one generation to the next, the grasp on its initial planting slipping ever into the vast expanse of forgotten time. The patriarchs took their places on the end of the pews, closest to the center aisle, their wives dutifully at their side before a mixture of children ranging from youngest to oldest, so as to keep the smaller ones occupied with religious themed coloring books. If those patriarchs’ children were old enough, grandchildren were interspersed, perched on laps, helping to find chapter and verse during the services, a slow and steady indoctrination.

Religious lineage wasn’t limited to the families themselves, but extended to the congregation as a whole, with the more senior members of the chapel occupying the pews closest to the front of the sanctuary and altar. After them, various claims on the pews went unsaid, with the more forward seating reserved for the chapel’s elders, deacons, and so on, down to the rest of the laity. It stood to reason that the least tenured member of the congregation would sit in the far rear of the sanctuary’s seating, closest to the wall, in the relative chill of the Lord’s omnipresence.

thugkitchen:

FAST FOOD DOESN’T GET FASTER THAN THIS SHIT. You can eat these sons of bitches raw. Sometimes I like them hot so I toss em on the grill. Use some of that bomb-ass peanut sauce too. Look, just because french fries come from a vegetable don’t front like that shit counts as your veggies for the day. Yeah, I’m already in your fucking head.

GRILLED SUGAR SNAP PEAS WITH PEANUT DIPPING SAUCE

1 pound sugar snap peas

1 tablespoon canola or vegetable oil

1 teaspoon lime juice

8-10 wood or bamboo skewers

PEANUT DIPPING SAUCE

1/3 cup natural peanut butter (nothing full of sugar or a shit ton of salt)

1/3 cup warm water

1 clove of garlic, minced

1 ½ teaspoons grated or minced ginger

2 tablespoons rice vinegar

2 teaspoons lime juice

2 teaspoons agave or honey

1 ½ teaspoons soy sauce

Mix together the peanut butter and warm water in a glass until it is smooth. Add the rest of the ingredients for sauce and keep fucking mixing until it is all uniform. Taste and adjust the seasoning so that you like it. Add more agave if you like stuff sweet, more garlic, whatever you like. That shit is on you.

Cut the ends off your sugar snap peas because those can be stringy.  Run a skewer through the peas widthwise, with about 9 peas per stick. Mix together the oil and lime juice in a small glass and brush it over both sides of the peas so that they don’t stick when you grill them, otherwise your just wasting everybody’s goddamn time.

Bring your grill to a high heat and place the skewers on there for a minute or so on each side. You don’t need to cook them, you just want some char marks on there because that looks fucking legit. Slide the peas off the skewers and sprinkle them lightly with salt. Serve with peanut dipping sauce. Too lazy to cook them? Just serve them shits raw.  

We whipped this dish up exclusively for our homies over at Frank151.

thugkitchen:

THERE’S SO MUCH GOD DAMN SPINACH in this shit even Popeye can’t hate. Yeah spinach makes you swoll as fuck, we know that. But did you know just one cup of spinach is over 300% of your daily recommended Vitamin A? Sweet fuck. You worried about acne? Wrinkles? Any other skin shit? Spinach to the mother fucking rescue. That shit keeps your skin looking so fresh and so clean, not to mention helping to prevent skin cancer. Spinach has these plant-based compounds called “flavonoids” that not only repair damaged skin but also fight multiple types of cancer. Everybody knows I ain’t even fucking playing when it comes to dick cancer, I gotta have my shit in tact.

IF YOU SMOKE cigarettes (tumblr crew I’m looking at you), DO NOT take any Vitamin A or beta carotene supplements. Studies have shown that combining those supplements with tobacco drastically increases your risk for lung cancer. But then again, smoking drastically increases your risk for lung cancer. So quit that shit.

You want to make this shit at home and tell Jamba Juice they can go fuck themselves by not paying for their high calorie sugary shit? Recipe below for a Thug Kitchen Original:

SPINACH COOLER
Ectoplasm free and Dr. Venkman approved

  • 2 handfuls of spinach (about 2 cups)
  • 2 frozen bananas
  • 1 cup chopped and skinned cucumber
  • 4 medium chunks of pineapple
  • 1 cup coconut water or tap
  • 1/4 cup orange juice
  • 1 tablespoon flax oil (optional)
  • 6-8 mint leaves (optional, but I dig that shit)
  • yields ~20 ounces

Toss that shit in a blender and zap it. If you prefer it a little sweeter, add some more pineapple to that shit. DRINK UP, CHAMP.

Seriously though, fuck Jamba Juice. Only they could make smoothies as unhealthy as McDonald’s made oatmeal.

First Christmas in the house. #verymerry

Decorating the house and tree this evening.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas…

perfect album for trimming, wrapping, decking the halls, general holiday merriment.

The party doesn’t start for two hours, but I wanted the music to start now.

I saw this somewhere else on the internets, but I forget where, and I am literally SO LAZY that I refuse to enter the phrase into Google to find out. (It took me longer to compose that sentence then it would have to search for this.)

Anyhow, here’s a rundown of where my last $100 went. For the record, I’m leaving out bills since they’re no fun. I also just thought about doing this, so my cash purchases are not listed. Next time I do this, I’ll have a handle on the cash portion as well.

I spent $10.27 at Home Depot on refills for an edger and a new roll of Frog Tape, since the girlfriend and I were finishing up painting our bedroom.

I spent $27 at Label 7 in Pittsford, which was cheap since we used the Groupon I bought a few months ago. I got a Palm beer, split the tasting board, and got a burger. Girlfriend got the burger as well.

I spent another $8.35 at Home Depot on… that edger thing I mentioned earlier. And a first package of those refills.

I spent $17 on Amazon on the new albums from Gary Clark Jr. and Born Gold. Yes, I still spend money on music.

This puts us at $62.62. A little bit more to go.

I spent $6.43 at Balsam Bagels, probably on a whole wheat everything bagel with garlic + herb cream cheese, a coffee, and a chocolate milk.

I spent $30.50 on a couple of records - one from Indoor Voices, an excellent Toronto band, and another from 8th Grader.

That puts me right at $99.55, so I’ll call it there.

I’ve listened to a lot of Mark Kozelek’s work over the past 15 years. Whether it’s his solo output, or his Red House Painters output, or his Sun Kil Moon stuff (and I realize that those three things all overlap to some extent), he’s inadvertently soundtracked a lot of my life. Nearly half of it, come to think of it.

I saw him in concert once. He remarked how the crowd contained a lot of beautiful, corn-fed women. This was in Rochester. Our women are not generally considered to be corn-fed in this part of the United States, but I might be wrong about the geography of being corn-fed.

That’s neither here nor there. I like Mark Kozelek a lot. Songs For a Blue Guitar is absolutely an album I cannot live without. Old Ramon is close to that. I love great and wide swaths of his catalog, and I like his album of Modest Mouse covers – Tiny Cities – quite a bit as well.

But this album he put out earlier this year, Among the Leaves? It’s insufferable. I just listened to the entire seventeen (17) songs on it from beginning to end, and it’s the longest (nearly 74 minutes), most boring album I’ve listened to this year, and I listen to a good deal of music. I listened to it when it came out, didn’t think much of it then, but put it back on today just in case I wasn’t in the mood for it all those months ago. And it’s just as bad – if not worse – than I remember it being.

Which leads me to wonder: have I been wrong this whole time, or is this just a terrible misstep on Kozelek’s part? He has a bunch of new stuff on the horizon, and I’m going to probably buy it all, though probably not on vinyl.