Whimsi Radical Fall Equinox Zine

2026 SEPT. VOL 1.

WHIMSI RADICAL

FALL EQUINOX EDITION POETRY. RECIPES. MUSINGS. SIDE QUESTS.

PEWTER FARMS PRESENTS

IN A WORLD THAT FEELS INCREASINGLY LIKE IT’S RUN BY A FEW POWERFUL PEOPLE AND CORPORATE CONGLOMERATES, IT FEELS SO DAMN GOOD TO BE PUNK ROCK. WE’RE NOT SUGGESTING YOU GO GET A MOHAWK (THOUGH THAT WOULD BE RAD). WE DON’T EVEN MEAN YOU HAVE TO BE LOUD. PUNK ROCK MEANS EMBRACING YOUR INDIVIDUALITY TO QUESTION THE MAINSTREAM. IT’S CREATING INDEPENDENT ART. IT’S CONFRONTING COMPLACENCY WITH SMALL ACTS OF RESISTANCE, LIKE HAVING CONVERSATIONS THAT REFLECT ON CONVENTION AND BRING UP NEW IDEAS, OR LIKE, I DUNNO, PUBLISHING A ZINE ( ʖ

Y’ALL, WE CAN JUST…MAKE THINGS. AND THEN YEET THEM OUT INTO THE WORLD. IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE PERFECTLY POLISHED, OR FIT NEATLY INTO A BOX. IT DOESN’T NEED TO LOOK EFFORTLESSLY COOL. HELL NO, THIS TOOK A LOT OF EFFORT. AND THAT’S PUNK ROCK. IT’S CHOOSING NOT TO WORRY ABOUT BEING CRINGEY, OR NOT GOOD ENOUGH. IT’S SHARING OUR OWN INDIVIDUAL THOUGHTS AND MUSINGS. CREATING. DOING. CONTRIBUTING. USING ART TO ACTIVELY BUILD COLLECTIVE IDENTITY, RATHER THAN JUST ACCEPTING WHAT’S DECREED TO US.

WELCOME TO THE ZINE. WE HOPE YOU ENJOY IT! IF YOU WANT TO GET INVOLVED, SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS OR QUESTIONS TO [email protected].

ASHLEY VASQUEZ

MIDGE LEE

1- TITLE PAGE 2- WORDSWORDS FROM THE CREATORS 3- TABLE OF CONTENTS 4- THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR 5- SIDE QUESTS TO CELEBRATE THE AUTUMN EQUINOX 6- COMMUNITY GARDENING 7- THE HIVE MIND 8- IL BAPTISMO 9- TIME IS LONG WHEN YOU’RE AN INCHWORM 10- WHIMSIRADICAL QUILTS 11- UPDATE FROM JIMOTHY [BY MIYAKO FUQUA] 12- BE A GOOD NEIGHBOR 13- MY KIDS 14- THE BEAUTY OF DINNER GATHERINGS 15–BETTY’S BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP 16- YOU’RE MAKING YOUR MAI TAI WRONG 17- JERRY& MONTEL & RICKI & MAURY 18- TEAM EDWARD OR TEAM JACOB 19- THANKS & BYE FROM BUBBLES

how we are making the most of TheTheThe MostMostMost WonderfulWonderfulWonderful TimeTimeTime ofofof thethethe YearYearYear submitted by Leine Darmody

In our family, the holiday season kicks off on September 1st, when it finally feels seasonally appropriate to indulge in a Pumpkin Spice Latte. When I reflect on the last few holiday seasons, they seem to have gone by in the blink of an eye. We'll look back at the end of December in disappointment and realize we never decorated for Halloween, baked a pumpkin pie or enjoyed the Christmas lights on Candy Cane Lane.

The first eight months of the year have gone by in even more of a blur than past years. Welcoming our first child at the end of 2025 has filled our lives with so much joy, and has also made me realize how essential planning is to maintain my sanity when surviving on broken sleep. I'm taking the lessons I've learned about planning for life with an infant and I've decided to apply them to making this holiday season the most magical yet. This year we are embracing the wise words of artist David Hockney, "You must plan to be spontaneous."

The first step to planning ~the most wonderful time of the year~ is to create an exhaustive list of all of the things we love doing for each holiday. When it comes to celebrations, more is more! My initial list included things like attending USC's Homecoming football game, observing St. Nicholas and St. Lucia Day, making Beef on Weck for the Bills' first home game (IYKYK), watching spooky movies throughout October and visiting our friends in the Pacific Northwest for fall vibes. Even things as simple as changing the seasonal art on our Frame TV and our front door mat or sending Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas cards are on the list. My goal is to front-load as much of the thinking as possible so I can avoid decision fatigue and live in the moment when the holiday season is in full swing.

Once I felt satisfied with my list, I used a Google Sheets calendar template and actually started assigning dates to things. I picked the date we would go to a pumpkin patch and the date we would carve the pumpkins we bought. We created a list of spooky movies we actually want to watch so we don't need to scroll endlessly through Huluween on a Friday night. We always decorate our Christmas tree after Thanksgiving dinner, so that's on the calendar too. Life for everyone has gotten so busy, and if I can do anything to simplify now for maximum enjoyment later, I will. Future me will thank me and as I always say about planning a trip, part of the fun is in the preparations!

Borrow some of the holiday traditions we observe:

Festive Fridays - Every Friday from September to December, I cook a special seasonal recipe. Some recipes I have cooked up in past years include pumpkin gnocchi, stuffed orange bell peppers cut into jack-o'-lanterns or butternut squash soup. We finish the night with a seasonal movie. There may also be a themed tablescape of some sort!

Advent Reflections - Every night during Advent (the 24 days leading up to Christmas), we light a 20-minute candle and use the time to read, journal or put screens down. Though Advent is technically a religious observance, it is also a great time to slow down and reflect on the year before heading into a new one.

Jólabókaflóðið - On Christmas Eve, instead of exchanging gifts with our family members, each person brings a wrapped book, new or used, to exchange. The only rule is that it should be a book you’ve read and loved.

5 SIDE QUESTS TO CELEBRATE THE AUTUMN EQUINOX

We can get our hands on any food we want all year long, and the weather is wildin’, so it’s easy to skate by the transitional seasonal markers without mentally making the transition.

One second you’re on a rooftop drinking August-approved Aperol Spritzes and the next you’re staring at a Christmas ham at your parents’ house saying something cliche about how the season really “sneaks up on ya”. (This is in no way to throw shade at Christmas hams. I love Christmas hams.)

For those of us living in mild-season regions it can feel even more like we’re missing those subtle shifts. That’s why I find it super important to participate in the solar holidays.

The Autumn Equinox is when the sun shines directly onto the equator, creating equal balance between day and night, and officially kicking off the fall season. It’s the halfway point between summer and winter, and historically marks the second harvest when villages would come together and prepare for the darker days, longer nights, and colder weather.

Much like how our village came together here to digitally create this zine. Same same.

The science is cool, but if we want to reap the benefits of this celestial event, we’ve gotta take it beyond the cosmos. And thus, my fellow villagers, I charge you with these side quests to aid you in your transition into this new season:

C Savor an apple. Don’t take it for granted. Think about the crunch, the taste, and the color. Reflect on the abundance of fresh fruit we have available to us. Can you dig up any memories of other times you’ve enjoyed an apple?

C Color in the life wheel. Start in the center of each individual slice, coloring outward until you reach your current satisfaction level. Which areas of your life are full? Which areas feel unbalanced? What adjustments do you want to make?

C Night and day are in equal balance, you say? Well, we can balance our own light and darkness too. Get introspective and write down 5 things you could do to be a better person.

C Prepare for the literal and figurative ‘dark’ half of the year. Sit in absolute silence and write down successes you’ve reaped since last fall. Any little wins you can think of! Cooked something delicious? Did a cool hike? Helped a friend work through a problem? Read a zine?! Celebrate your bountiful harvest.

C Go on a walk and forage a wild mini arrangement. Take the time to really see the shapes and colors around you. Bonus points if you send us a photo of your creation!

‘Equinox’ descends from the Latin ‘aequus’ for ‘equal’ and ‘nox’ for ‘night’, describing the two days of the year when day and night are equal.

JOSEPH BAKER

When I joined the community garden in my Brooklyn neighborhood 5 years ago, I had only ever begrudgingly watered the flowers my Dad expertly grew each year at our house growing up. It was a chore to me, not something I took pleasure in. So why join a garden now? With COVID just barely behind us, I was looking for a new way to volunteer and get involved in my community. I was also coming off a breakup, and hoping to meet new people in my neighborhood (maybe a lady…or just a new friend?) and wanted some outdoor space (I live in a large studio in a walk-up building with no roof or backyard).

With all this in mind, I found my way into the garden president’s inbox and decided to give it a shot. Little did I know, joining the garden would turn out to be an even better experience than I had hoped for.

GREENS BEANS POTATOES TOMATOES

Melvin was the longtime president of the garden at the time when I joined and soon became not only my mentor in the garden, but a friend as well. We’d spend time talking in the garden about garden history (he was a member of 20+ years) and life in general, even going out to dinner together in the coming years. Though he was about 30 years my senior, we found a lot in common and I found a new community of friends. There’s Indira, Nicky, Royan and Debbie–all of whom welcomed me, taught me about gardening, and how to be a valued member at the garden. Nearly everyone had been a member for years, if not decades.

I felt so honored to be trusted by all of them in this special place, especially upon hearing about how the garden had been around since 1982 and many of them had been part of the fight to keep it alive & preserved. Back in the ‘90s, members of the garden were part of a larger legal fight to preserve community gardens all across NYC, the success of which allowed me to benefit in the present day with this beautiful gift right down the block from my home.

In forming these new friendships, I not only made friends with people my own age, but people much older & wiser than myself, something that was unexpected going into my decision to join. This was a unique added benefit, as I had never before really taken the time to reach out to or meet the elders in my community. Now, they had not only welcomed me into their treasured shared space, but also bestowed their knowledge upon me as well.

After my first year or so of growing vegetables and learning how to contribute and take care of the grounds, I felt compelled to look for ways to share this space with others. Sure, I had taken friends & dates to the garden to hang out, but why not invite more people in the neighborhood to share in it?

Most community gardens in NYC are tiny in comparison to ours, especially in the way of open space. Our garden not only has a koi pond, ~15 garden plots & various flower beds, it also has tons of open space for people to hang out, read, eat generally socialize. During one of our lunches together, I broached the topic with Melvin of helping to lead community outreach/event planning heading into the coming season.

I had some ideas already brewing & was eager to see what we could do. He agreed, so I partnered up with Indira to start planning. Now in our third year co-leading things together, we’ve held regular events each garden season–yoga, live music, plays and a drawing class led by my friend Sam (who teaches art at Pratt nearby). We even hosted a weekslong art gallery last Fall that featured live music performances, communal braiding & clothing giveaways. Aside from the relationships I’ve formed, helping bring the community into the garden through these events has been the most rewarding part of my experience.

After my first year or so of growing vegetables and learning how to contribute and take care of the grounds, I felt compelled to look for ways to share this space with others.

When I talk about the garden to people, they always want to know what I’m growing. I try to experiment each year, testing out new foods, seeing what works, what doesn’t and take everything as an opportunity to learn.

Of course, I have my favorites mainstays–like cherry tomatoes shishito peppers. Ultimately though, what’s grown the most has not been in my garden plot but within myself. I’ve put myself out there, formed a new community and developed a cool new skill along the way. The events we’ve hosted have earned us praise from the city, even earning an award last year. But the greatest reward has been my new friends at the garden, people who I admire and whose friendship outlasts the plants each season, surviving the Winter and hopefully the many seasons of life to come.

Nestled on the roof of a luxury apartment complex in Hollywood is I.A.T.S.B.E.E., the home to a union of hardworking honey bees.

HOLLYWOOD

Quit Yapping and get to work, drones!

Where are you going, Bijou?

They're filming the Baywatch reboot in Venice!

Production's down 12.7% for Q2. We gotta fill these empty combs, Manny!

Ugh, that Bettina Such a royal jelly nepo queen bee. No respect for us below- the-line bees.

Written by Zachary Dripps ⑥DrippsiLLC 2026

I'm gonna go pollinate Some poppies, if you know, what I mean.

Do you literally mean (pollinating some poppies?

Yeah.)

JARED

THOMPSON

Water tricked down, in spurts, from the drain. Cold, clear, refreshing. First the calves, then the forearms. Tiny bits of sand and salt dance down to and off my ankle into the basin. My pink slightly-burned shoulders can almost reach the stream of relief. Oh man, that’s cold. Brisk and thirst quenching, unaware I’m also convincing my own mouth to salivate. Suddenly, I’m hoping to drink from it. Can I? The pipe itself shows gracious signs of wear and mineralization. I’m not surprised, everything around here has that gracious ‘built for eternity’ engineering. Sunshine continues to break softly through the trees and onto my face, reminding me that this playful act is on full display.

I’m in Foggia, a small province in the Puglian region of Italy. How I wound up here is a whole other story. The dribble and trickle of perfectly transparent water from this unassuming fountain on the edge of church property is where two new friends and I have decided to rinse off after a day at the beach.

While raised Catholic, it had been a very long time since I had considered any of my actions to be partaking in an intentional symbol of ‘mass’. A stage in the journey of all Catholics, baptism often comes at the hands of our parents and family, to wipe away natural-born-original sin. 2-3 months new to the world, we are welcomed to a faith, a belief, a a ceremony that many of us do not remember, chosen for us by others.

DOMINNUS VOBISCUM ACTA NON VERBA

On this toasty and undeniably hot Saturday afternoon in early July, I find myself chuckling at the immature nature of my actions.

While it was a new friend (I had known for a grand total of 17 hours at this point) who suggested the idea of rinsing off here, she insisted ‘they’ wouldn’t mind, I was all too willing to take my turn. No hesitation. The grin of a toddler stealing a cookie from the jar for the first time.

50-steps below, rugged coastline accompanies the shades of teal and emerald twinkling as far as the horizon. Mid-afternoon. Five-plus hours had just been spent laying out, talking, snacking and swimming. A large plastic jug of Puglian blush wine accompanies us. Now, it is nearly empty.

Hours ago, it partnered well with thick, dried out bites of roasted tomatoes and pasty hummus to provide the three of us lunch. The salty, turquoise waves of the Adriatic–my first in her waters– have primed us all for a perfect July sunburn. While the sand owes partial blame, it is the indisputable layer of saline that makes a rinse-off feel so essential.

This friend who led our weekend escapade was only a stranger when I sat next to her on a trans-Atlantic flight, only 3 months ago. A chance ‘ciao’ led to small talk and suddenly an eight hour flight felt like two. As we went separate ways in the citizens/visitors divide at JFK, she insisted that once I ‘made the move’, I was to take a train, visit her and her fiance, and spend a weekend in her hometown on the remote east coast of Italy.

My evening clothes–a wrinkled grey tee and black linen pants–hang out of my backpack as I dry off, wrapping up my half-dry bathing suit. Flirting along the edge of the basin, my tee nearly falls in. I question running my sandals through this hypnotizing water. I decide against it. A towel remains held up by these friends as I am the last to ‘rinse off’. Nearly finished, I take one last look at this make-shift shower. Something about this unmarked, single-spout fountain feels special. Far from the famed and revered fountains of Trevi, Acqua Paolo and Triton, this local watering hole has given me something I didn’t realize I needed.

Her flowing, dribbling water had provided me with a cleansing. Washed away, grains of sand, salt and doubt rolled off of me. Unimportant, minor anxieties–visions of catastrophe that never came to light– pinched and pulled down by the water’s flow, into the drain, back to the earth. I had made this decision. A major one. A choice that had uprooted so much of my life–career, community, security, ‘home’. Instead, now, my choice had led to this. Silly, yes, but something serendipitous and unforgettable.

No crowds, no congratulatory cards or family photos. Just a dusty, ageless old fountain next to the landmark sign: Chiesa Santa Maria della Difesa. Past journey, version, ‘sin’, splashed away. A re-baptism, of my own doing.

“Pronto?” she asks me, as the guard-towel begins to come down without warning.

In a final moment of childish rebellion, I take a single sip from the spout. My mouth regains proper hydration.

“Pronto.” I reply. Ready.

There it is, almost not there, the inchworm dangling from a fine and spindly thread as it scrunches and squiggles and stretches up toward the impossibly empty ceiling. It curls into a parenthesis, holds my gaze in abbreviation--

Later, I find it on my chest, inching across my heart. A field trip then, I declare to the land of the legless.

I let it accompany me on my neighborhood patrol where I stumble over sidewalks split open by old oaks. They are muscling their roots free-a rupture so slow it's taken decades to begin-

What is it like to travel at the pace of a rock?

To let time glide on glacially, cavernously, moonfully? They may start describing you with words like inanimate and "it." Or they'll pluck you off your thread, cart you a hundred thousand inches away.

But as "take it as it comes" as you are obligated to be, you still take your time, as if you had meant it all along. And when I finally release you on top a plump tomato you lie still on the sunned surface for a stretch of afternoon. The tomato is splitting, sinking back into earth.

And you let it take weeks to munch your way to the core.

JESSIE GIZZI

I would call my mom a whimsiradical. She grew up in a conservative Irish Catholic family with nine brothers and sisters outside Philadelphia and then one day walked into a Transcendental Meditation center when she was twenty years old to learn how to meditate. I have heard this story more than a handful of times. The first time she realized that constant brain chatter could go quiet. This blew down the doors and opened the windows of her mind. She became a vegetarian, started making her own tofu (which her mom called “toad food”), and moved in with my dad bringing one pair of Frye boots and her needle and thread.

My mom’s whimsiradical nature is possibly best understood through her love of fabric. Kaffe Fassett and the quiltmakers of Gee’s Bend were superstars in our house. We honored their genius in the way other homes spoke about famous athletes or musicians. The plight of the domestic arts gaining equal respect (and pay) to other arts was a soapbox any of us could have preached on for an hour. My childhood is filled with memories of coming home from school and seeing my mom stretched out on the floor across a massive quilt, placing and replacing squares of fabric to find the right combination, or handstitching the top layer while the rest of us watched TV. Each quilt can take up to a thousand hours. A fact my mom would sometimes mention when we perused $30 quilts sold at Target.

I could easily pick my mom’s quilts out of a lineup because they are loud. Bright and ballsy with clashing colors that somehow all work together. Growing up in Iowa where being beige is next to godliness, her explosion of color was (and is to this day), enriching and beautiful. Also, her quilts are never perfect. My untrained eye can’t tell, but she always makes sure to point out places where the triangles do not match up exactly at the corners. In the early 80’s, my mom watched a PBS program on the Living Treasures of Japan and since then when something goes sideways on a quilt she just smiles and says, “wabi-sabi”.

My mom’s quilts are made to be used. For babies to crawl on. For kids to take when they leave home for the first time. For adults to curl up with on a cold night. I have been given four quilts over the years and while I could never choose a favorite, there is one that I have to sit with, when it’s been on the shelf for a while. This quilt is a snapshot in time of our extended family - aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents. We each picked a piece of fabric and then traced an outline of our hand with pencil. My mom appliqued every handprint and then embroidered our names with a contrasting color thread. When I’m sitting with this quilt, I can’t help but place my own hand on top of the soft fabric hands one at a time. Laughing at how my hand today is about twice the size of my brother’s then. A brother, who is now over six feet tall. Not everyone from the quilt is still alive, making this connection to them even more precious.

Whimsiradicals see the world clearly as a lively basket of contradictions. They refuse to organize life into tidy stories, or mistake certainty for strength. People who find this unsettling might call them impractical or unproductive, but I think we have a lot to learn from whimsiradicals. I sure have from my mom.

The haunted town of Spooks started as a place for the witches, vampires, ghosts and ghouls who died, were reborn, or remained undead from the very beginning. Their memories breathing life into the abandoned homes passed down to future generations. Until we were invaded by big real estate.

They slapped together a quaint little town straight from an assembly line. Cute. Cuddly even. Stuffed with little sweet shops and family fun from the bottom all the way to the top 10 places to visit.

Murmurs of Halloween started as early as August. But this year it felt different with haunted houses that felt void of any mystery… almost too perfectly timed… like a factory. This time of year, eager families and influencers came for the turning leaves. Gaggles of flannel and pumpkin spice lattes parade through the Instagrammable wholesome festivities. They picked through handcrafted jams, soaps, cider, and candles, as wagons slowly filled, engorged with gourds ready to be gutted and shanked.

Overcrowded, I never felt like I fit into their box of pre-packaged mass-produced kawaii-ness. It was no longer a town for the uncanny, strange, or offputting. Although my physical growth was stunted, my beady eyes grew hungry of something bigger than cheap, gory choreographed jump scares.

/THANK YOU TO FANS

So I roamed the great American landscape to make a name for myself. I scurried and tumbled through inner cities. Balanced on fences. Traversed over underpasses, dodging oncoming traffic. In the middle of somewhere. Unassuming. The perfect hiding place. In the nooks. In the crannies. Shedding the pressures to be anything to anyone anywhere. But to just exist.

To be myself.

With my shortened spine and disproportionately long limbs, I discovered I don’t need to find the next big thing. It found me. And if you look quickly (and closely) enough, maybe you’ll be lucky to catch a glimpse of me or at least the tail of my shadow.

From the vast land of in-between,

SUBMITTED BY PATRICK DARMODY

Movies teach us that our own adventures only truly begin once we have made contact with an eccentric neighbor. This lesson is so important it comprises basically the whole first semester in film school (presumably: I've never been). Prior to that fateful collision. life for the most part just unspools around us in routine and predictable patterns: people relatively similar to us doing more or less the same sorts of things on a daily basis. The boundary conditions feel present, well defined, and understood. Life has a slow hum, a customary shape all is ordinary. We share a collective belief that this is the way things are, the way we should be. We are, in this way. the furthest we can be from a child's sense of whimsy. And this life can be nice, but not as fun as it could be.

Meeting the peculiar neighbor upsets this stasis and completely reframes how we view the world. Seeing someone living so unfettered in ways that we ourselves are not forces us to examine how we live and assumptions we hold. Sometimes this disruption results in you becoming a Jedi or wizard but even falling short of that outcome we still benefit mightily from the eccentric neighbor. These people rub off on us in interesting ways. They add texture and develop lore for us, even if we don't become a protagonist in a fantasy story. This is why we must have our hearts open for the eventual eccentric neighbor, if not actively seeking them out. Some fortunate neighborhoods come pre-installed with one (ours is The Pink Lady. who wears a fuchsia track suit and walks about 40 miles a day in full Zuckerberg zinc oxide face). But most of us will not be lucky enough to have a latent eccentric neighbor. And that's when we realize the true call to adventure this whole time was becoming the eccentric neighbor ourselves. Becoming a walking movie character is the greatest gift we can gift a community.

We return once again to film to learn the four pillars of the eccentric neighbor. Memorize these keywords as they are the tasting notes of eccentricity: Color. Sidekicks. Mystery. and Service.

Wardrobe Color: Willy Wonka has his purple smoking jacket. The pigeon lady from Home Alone 2 wears what looks like a red bathrobe. Tyler Durden does karate in a burgundy leather jacket. Most people think they are "falls" and "winters" and wear neutral tones. That's boring. Color is bold and memorable. Pick an unusual color to be associated with you.

Sidekicks: The litmus test for eccentricity is when the gravitational pull of your oddity starts to attract others who want to be involved with that thing you have going on. "Mary Poppins has given the canon so much here but the specific reference point is the man with motion so profound he compelled a pirate to ground himself permanently and just spend all day loading and unloading a cannon for no reason: Admiral Boom and his right hand Mr. Binnacle. My man lords over Cherrytree Lane just telling people about the weather and shooting fireworks at the working class of London. You literally cannot get more eccentric than that. Mr. Binnacle knew he had a real freak in the Admiral. Aspirational. Mystery: As Kelso tells us in Heat, information about everyone is just flying through air.. beamed out over the place, so the real currency is cultivated intrigue. Is Totoro (My Neighbor) conjured from Satsuki's imagination as a way to deal with the grief of separation from her mother? Or is he a spiritual corporeal being drawn to her need for catharsis? I haven't seen this one in a while so I can't remember. but that mystery is delightful. That being said he absolutely has sidekick in his attendant spirits and the cat bus, so we know he's an exemplar eccentrio.

Service: Ultimately, the eccentric neighbor is first and foremost a pillar of the community. We've covered Wonka, who through his confections and gamboling reminds us all to rediscover our inner child. Admiral Boom. who in a pre-iphone era kept London abreast of climate conditions and pending inclement weather. Tyler Durden. who let guys punch him in the face. They all knew there were unmet needs in those around them and bridged that gap. Ultimately eccentricity without service is goonery. If we are to be the eccentric neighbor and brighten the lives of those around us we must offer a valuable service to reach our potential.

Like the Velvet Underground this missive may not be read by many, but it is my hope that everyone who reads it becomes someone's cinema inspired eccentric neighbor. The world will surely be a better place if so.

By Roger Suen

When I write, Henri listens intently, and sometimes judgmentally. When I write, Ruby seems unimpressed and excuses herself politely.

When I build, Henri catches mice in the bushes. When I build, Ruby tries to help…and sometimes, when I’m no longer paying attention to her, will escape to have an adventure in the woods.

When I climb, Henri says, “hey, I can do that too.” He follows me up. When I climb, Ruby barks, “Why are you doing that? Come back down.” She follows me up.

When we backpack, Henri asks, “why are we walking this much?” When we backpack, Ruby asks, “why aren’t we walking more?”

When we visit Grandpa, Henri asks, “remember me? No? That’s ok, I remember you.” When we visit Grandpa, Ruby doesn’t say anything and just sits with Grandpa and...sometimes visits the other residents too!

When we eat, Henri steals my food without a second thought. When we eat, Ruby is a narc and rats out her brother the second he touches my food.

When we sleep, Henri sleeps by my head, and occasionally watches me with possibly ill intent. When we sleep, Ruby sleeps by my feet and occasionally farts with loving intent.

And when I smell farts, I think ahh so this is what love smells like :)

The beauty there is a growing craving for In an increasingly individualistic world, of dinner meaningful human interaction. For generations and across cultures, people gatherings have gathered most often around a meal: a table full of loved ones, echoes of laughter, and food at the center

Mari G

That’s the beauty of a dinner gathering. It slows everything down. It reminds us that we are human and that we need each other.

One of my favorite dishes to make for a big group is Yassa Poulet . It is a Senegalese dish that’s tangy, savory and packed with flavor. It is built for a crowd. Traditionally in Senegal, it is enjoyed in a big communal bowl where everyone digs in together. If you are serving this recipe at home and a communal bowl feels like a stretch for your table, small individual plates work beautifully too.

Yassa is all about balance: bright, caramelized onions and lemon coming together to create the kind of dish that gets better the longer it simmers.

The secret behind it (honestly behind every Senegalese dish) is a spice blend

Nokoss called

Think of it as the foundation to building bold flavors. Many cultures have their version of it, same idea, a blend of aromatics ans spices that become the soul of the dish.

YASSA

2–3 lbs chicken (thighs and drumsticks work great) or fish 4–5 large onions, thinly sliced Juice of 3–4 lemons 2 tbsp Dijon mustard 4 tbsp olive oil 2 bay leaves 1–2 tbsp nokoss (see right) Salt, pepper, and bouillon, to taste Optional: green olives, a few slices of scotch bonnet pepper for heat

DIRECTIONS

NOKOSS

1 bunch parsley 4–5 cloves garlic 1 small onion 1–2 scotch bonnet or habanero peppers (adjust to taste) 1 bouillon cube 1 tsp black pepper 1 tsp salt

1. Marinate: Rub the chicken with nokoss, a splash of lemon juice, 1 tbsp oil, salt, and pepper. Let it marinate for at least 1 hour, ideally overnight.

2. Cook the onions: In a large pot, heat oil and cook the sliced onions and mustard low and slow until soft, sweet, and golden — this takes patience, but it's where the magic happens. Add the remaining lemon juice, 1 tbsp nokoss, bay leaves, bouillon, and 1 cup of water. Let it simmer into a rich, tangy sauce.

3. Cook the protein separately: Instead of simmering the chicken directly in the sauce, grill or broil it until it's got a nice char and is cooked through. This step adds a smoky depth that makes all the difference.

4. Bring it together: Once the protein is done, nestle it into the onion sauce and let everything simmer together for 10–15 minutes so the flavors meld. Add salt to taste.

5. Serve: Spoon the chicken and that gorgeous tangy onion sauce over a bed of white rice or quinoa. Serve it in one big communal bowl for the table to share — or on individual plates if that's what works for your gathering.

This recipe is lovingly named for Betty Crocker, whose butternut squash soup recipe inspired this one. I grew up enjoying a version of the included recipe, which my mom made every fall. It was typically a menu staple for her yearly Halloween Party because it can be made in large batches and kept warm in a crock pot on the counter for the duration of the party. I updated this recipe to replace heavy whipping cream with plain yogurt for a slightly deeper flavor and to make it a bit healthier.

I hope you enjoy this taste of fall!

• BETTY'S BUTTERNUT SQUASH SOUP
• 2-3 SHALLOTS, DICED
• 2 TABLESPOONS BUTTER
• 2 CUPS CHICKEN BROTH

1 LB BUTTERNUT SQUASH, PEELED, SEEDED AND CUT INTO 1-INCH CUBES

2 PEARS, PEELED AND SLICED

1 TEASPOON CHOPPED FRESH OR 2 TEASPOON DRIED THYME LEAVES

• 1/4 TEASPOON SALT
• 1/4 TEASPOON WHITE PEPPER
• 1/4 TEASPOON GROUND CORIANDER
• 1 CUP PLAIN YOGURT
• 1 UNPEELED PEAR, SLICED FOR GARNISH
• 1/2 CUP CHOPPED PECANS, TOASTED

COOK SHALLOTS IN BUTTER, STIRRING FREQUENTLY, UNTIL TENDER. STIR IN BROTH, SQUASH, TWO SLICED PEARS, THYME, SALT, WHITE PEPPER AND CORIANDER. HEAT TO BOILING THEN REDUCE HEAT. COVER AND SIMMER FOR 10 TO 15 MINUTES OR UNTIL SQUASH IS TENDER.

POUR ABOUT HALF INTO A FOOD PROCESSOR OR BLENDER. COVER AND PROCESS OR BLEND UNTIL SMOOTH. POUR INTO A GLASS MIXING BOWL AND REPEAT WITH REMAINING MIXTURE.

POUR THE YOGURT INTO THE BOWL OF SOUP AND IMMEDIATELY WHISK OR STIR VIGOROUSLY UNTIL FULLY BLENDED. IF THE SOUP HAS COOLED MORE THAN YOUR LIKING, YOU CAN RETURN IT TO POT TO WARM IT. DO NOT ALLOW TO COME TO A BOIL OR THE YOGURT MAY SEPARATE, 4 SERVE AND GARNISH WITH SLICED PEAR AND PECANS.

Submitted by Leine Darmody

DYLAN ETTINGER, CONTRIBUTING DRINKS EDITOR, FOOD & WINE

There are few pleasures in life as satisfying as enjoying a tropical cocktail on a beach or while sitting poolside. A cold drink made with rum, fruit juice, and sugar is a tried-andtrue way to cool off and relax in a warm tropical climate.

Among the vast pantheon of tropical and tiki cocktails, few have the recognition of the Mai Tai. The drink’s name is almost synonymous with a beachside vacation. It’s also one of the most altered and bastardized classic cocktail recipes of all time. Yes, there is a right and wrong way to make a Mai Tai.

bring me a Mai Tai, wench!

To understand why, we have to start at the very beginning. The Mai Tai was invented by Victor “Trader Vic” Bergeron in 1944 at his eponymous restaurant in Oakland, California. When he first served it to some friends from Tahiti, they exclaimed, “Maita’i Roe A’e!” which translates to “Out of this world. The best.” The cocktail was instantly christened with its name. Bergeron created the original recipe a combination of Jamaican rum, orgeat (almond syrup), lime juice, rock candy syrup, and orange curaçao — with an intention and balance that was uncommon for tropical drinks of that era.

The foundation of the Mai Tai was a 17-year-old J. Wray and Nephew rum, a potent, funky rum distilled and aged in Jamaica. The freshly squeezed lime juice added brightness and acidity. The rock sugar syrup and orgeat provided sweetness to balance the strength of the rum and lime juice, while the orgeat contributed a creamy, nutty quality to the drink. The orange liqueur was meant to add a bit of a dry citric quality that provided further balance to the drink.

Even the garnish was carefully designed. The fresh mint added a refreshing aroma to the drink, and half of a lime on top added a hint of citrus zest. Together, the garnishes resembled a tropical island with a palm tree.

The drink was an immediate hit at Trader Vic’s. As its fame spread, other bars began to put cocktails called the Mai Tai on their menus. The midcentury tropical cocktail scene was notoriously competitive. Recipes for signature cocktails were well-kept secrets. Because of this, any bar trying to copy the drink would have had little idea what was in the original Trader Vic drink.

The result? The imitation Mai Tais added ingredients like unaged, flavorless rum, pineapple juice, grenadine, and bright-red maraschino cherries — ingredients that tend to be overly sweet, creating a cloying, unbalanced cocktail without the nuance, depth, and intention of the original 1944 Mai Tai. The drink’s reputation was irrevocably tarnished.

Thankfully, a group of passionate cocktail enthusiasts has kept the original recipe circulating. Modern bartenders are fighting the good fight and pushing back against the perception that “Mai Tai” simply refers any sugary drink with flavorless white rum and canned fruit juice. It’s never been easier to order a proper Mai Tai at a cocktail bar.

While Trader Vic’s original recipe is the foundational text for mixing the Mai Tai, many bartenders have made small tweaks to these specs to modernize the cocktail (the this flavorless rum & grenadine tastes like shit original rum used hasn’t been produced since the late 1940s) or tailor it to their specific tastes. After years of strenuous R&D and back-breaking workshopping, I finally settled on a rum-forward yet balanced (and of course without grenadine and pineapple) take on Trader Vic’s most famous creation.

Here’s how you make a Mai Tai my way:

The Classic Mai Tai

(According to me)

mama’s ready

2 ½ ounces aged Jamaican pot still rum (Smith & Cross, Appleton Estate 8, or Planteray OFTD) 1 ½ ounce fresh lime juice ¾ ounce orgeat (Liber & Co.) ½ ounce orange curaçao (Ferrand Dry Curaçao) 1 sprig of mint, for garnish 1 spent lime shell, for garnish for her drink

Shake the rum, lime juice, orange curaçao, and orgeat in a cocktail shaker with pebble ice for 10-15 seconds until all of the ingredients are combined and chilled. Pour the contents of the shaker into a Mai Tai glass or a double rocks glass and top with more pebble ice. Garnish with the mint and lime shell.

By Andrew Beshai

Endless summer days.

Stretching out before them.

Long as the desert they left back home.

No school bus to meet early in the morning.

No teachers contorting their tongues in ways unfamiliar to keep pace with new peers.

No parents hovering with the unspoken expectation of every recent arrival.

• Just two brothers.
• But, still, a routine.
• First, Jerry.
• Then, Montel.
• And, Ricki.
• Finally, Maury.

Interrupted only by their new countrymen hawking their wares.

Weight loss drugs.

Payday loans.

And then back to the regularly scheduled programming.

Awash in the glow of the television.

Small grins and giggles.

Discovering the savages in this new land.

Like Columbus thousands of years before them.

TEAM EDWARDTEAM EDWARD

OR TEAM JACOB?OR TEAM JACOB?

thanks bunches for reading our zine in our next issue we’d love to include a Q&A send your Qs to [email protected] and our villagers here at Pewter Farms will write up the As!