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by Megan Feldman
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From the Dallas Observer
"Stacey, what do you see?" Sergeant Jonathan Markham asked his wife.
He
stopped the white Volvo. It was a sunny December day in 2006, and
they'd been driving through Burleson as he prepared to finish his
second Iraq tour after two weeks of leave. Stacey looked out the window
at the clear sky and leafless trees. A petite brunette with dimpled
cheeks and a soft girlish voice, she said nothing. Her eyes welled with
tears.
The couple called them her premonitions. In the two years since
Jonathan had strewn rose petals on her snow-covered doorstep and given
her a ring engraved with the words, "True love waits," he had come to
accept the images that occasionally popped into his wife's mind.
At first he teased her
and said she was nuts. But then, before she became pregnant and they
moved in together, she described to him the apartment where she would
give birth to their son, and she turned out to be right. Devout
Christians, they put stock in the visions and considered them to be
God-given. Yet she refused to tell him about one image—a casket draped
with an American flag.
Read article...
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by Maia Harari
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I spent the morning in Chinatown, the afternoon in Altadena (don't ask
me where Altadena is; having just gone there, I still don't know) and I
had to get to Venice by evening. It's a good thing I drive a hybrid or
my carbon foot print would be out of control. With two hours to kill
before my rehearsal in Venice I came up with the fabulous idea to hit
up the Robertson car wash.
You can imagine my dismay when it started
raining literally the second I got my keys back.
Not only was my car no
longer clean, but there was bumper to bumper traffic since LA drivers
immediately forget how to drive the second even one drop of rain falls
from the sky.
That's when I realized I that I hadn't eaten in over six
hours (which for me is just enough time to come close to death by
starvation). To make matters worse I was in that no man's land part of
west LA and I was sort of late to rehearsal. That's when I found it.
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by Eric Lax
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 Charlie Clevenger May in Maine and the lobsters are crooning. Leaves sprout on the
trees around midmonth but you can’t plant your garden until Memorial
Day because lingering nighttime frosts are always a threat to wipe it
out. The real sign winter’s finally over: In New Harbor, Shaw’s Lobster
Wharf opened on Mother’s Day to serve the world’s best lobster roll and
a few miles up Route 32 in Round Pond, the Muscongus Bay Lobster
Company fired up its boiler; you can sit at a picnic table and devour
your crustaceans as you gaze out at the view of water, boats, islands
and trees so stunning that it is where superannuated picture calendars
go die.
Muscongus Bay Lobster was a tiny affair when we started going 20
years ago, a half dozen tables and a small cook shack. Dan Renny’s
family ran it but about 10 years ago (he’s in his 30s now, as hard
working a guy as you’ll ever meet and handsome as the devil) he took it
over and has managed growth without sacrificing the rustic charm. The
wharf has been enlarged, more tables added to handle the crowds, a
bigger cooking shed. The big news this year is that he’s put light
bulbs in the port-a-potties.
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Read article...
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by Noelle Carter
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From the Los Angeles Times
It's vibrant green and looks like a small, under-ripe tomato hidden
under a delicate, paper-like husk. Peel back that wrapping to reveal
firm, slightly sticky flesh with a scent faintly reminiscent of freshly
picked herbs. Take one bite and the sweet-tart flavor rings with plum,
apple and citrus notes.
The tomatillo, a close but very independent cousin of the tomato and
Cape gooseberry, is known by several names, including husk tomatoes,
jam berries and Mexican green tomatoes. Though widely available
year-round, the main season is May through October. Allowed to mature,
tomatillos may range in color from yellow to red, even purple. But
they're best picked just before ripening, when the flesh is still firm
and the flavors are bright with a gentle but assertive acidity. Look
for firm fruit with tight, unwrinkled husks.
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by Amy Ephron
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Most people go to Vermont to watch the leaves change colors in the
fall but I like it in the spring when the leaves on the trees are
green, 67 colors of green, so that the bonnets of the trees look like a
jigsaw puzzle and the tulips are in bloom and the geraniums and the
cherry blossom trees – there’s nothing fancy about Vermont, it’s all
straight up plain flowers plainly blooming everywhere, as if the earth
is starting fresh again after winter and toward the end of May it hits
an optimum equilibrium even if it does rain every other day which if
you’re only there for a day and a half isn’t very good odds, at least
not of skipping the rain. But people in Vermont don’t mind, they just
take out their umbrellas and keep on truckin’….
“And why are we going to Vermont in May, Mom? I don’t get it. Why are we going to Vermont, at all???”
“You’ll see, Anna.”
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