This Tastes Like... Camp?!

As a child, it's hard to imagine that the world doesn't revolve around you because your world is just so small and frankly, from your perspective, is completely driven by your movements.  As I became older, small things continued to reinforce this belief.  For example, I'd meet a cute boy and suddenly his name would be e v e r y w h e r e - the new song on the radio, that random car repair sign, mentioned in the Sunday bulletin.  Yet as an adult, here I am again experiencing this same phenomenon.

Something about writing continues to reconnect me with this strange phenomenon - but this time not in the form of a repeated name, but through confronting this dichotomy - I live in the largest city in the country and yet am constantly running into agrarian-inspired places, people, and music.  Banjos are in.  Whiskey is cool.  Smoking old-timey pipes and beard competitions are everywhere.  And then I stumble into The Wayland on Avenue C.

Exhibit A:

Flowers in mason jars, old pianos, rooster photos and Shaker chairs were everywhere.  The wood was salvaged and so barn-like that I was unconsciously ducking, waiting to hear my dad call for me to climb back up in the mow for another wagon-load.  The men tending bar were adequately clad in unassuming, grungy tees and jeans, with hairstyles subtly implying that they'd just climbed off a creeper while changing their own oil.  And then my drink came.

Exhibit B:

Waaaaaaait a second.  You are confused.  I'm a real farmer.  When I ask for moonshine, I want it to literally put some hair on my chest.  This looks like some of that fancy city nonsense.  But you brought it to me, so may as well give it a shot.  

This glass is filled with applewood smoke and smells like camp.  And your moonshine tastes like... apple pie?!  Not like a bathtub?  Maybe I could get used to this fancy city nonsense.  Good thing I chose to live here.

However, as my father always laments, I got too comfortable and went a touch farther.  I should have knows that a kale margarita wouldn't work.  Real farmers don't eat kale.

That's some organic hippie bougie shi*t.  

There's a New Revolution Taking Over

I've forever been looking for ways to link the name of my blog to its content - usually falling tragically far from making even a tangential bridge.  When one thinks of farmers, one doesn't think of forays into better time management, thoughts about bow ties, and lamenting about too many wedding things.  But Family Weekend allowed for some fun ideas to take root.

As previously noted, the family got together in the great city of New York in the most fun ways.  It was a weekend filled with laughter, great food, lots of card games and an old-fashioned, The Last of the Mohicans themed sleepover.  The weekend did start, however, with a trip to Brownsville for some Saturday school.

Those of you lucky enough to be missing the blandest winter ever may not realize that New York has seen little white flakes only twice this season - once early on for Halloween, and again this past Saturday.  Snow means snow blowers, and what did I see being used in my urban paradise?

  John Deere?!  In Brownsville?  It must be a sign!

Then later that day, while enjoying meatballs in the LES, the already hipster-graced Meatball Shop delivered water in milk bottles, was filled with men looking like they were only briefly down from their tree stands, and displayed poultry in their bathroom:

Hmmm... there seems to be a pattern here.  From the trucker hat phenomenon of the early 2000's to the flannel and Carhartt jacket wearing Brooklynites that are moving from Williamsburg to Bushwick as I type, the folks growing our food are sartorially inspiring folks everywhere.  This reminds me of this really great song my dad used to play in the barn -

Sing it, Barbra.  (Also, I'd stand up and cheer on anyone ballsy enough to pull of her sequin-adorned, Big Bird yellow pants-suit.  It's pretty magical, you have to admit...)

Champagne Friday!

Cheers to Friday!  Sure, I have Saturday school tomorrow, but after that comes glorious family time.  Imagine what these beauties look like all grown up:

We're going to be 71% represented in the great city of New York (even though it cost me to coerce my brother into attending.  But I love him, so it's totally worth it) tonight at 10PM.  Tomorrow should be a day full of food, drinks, love and fun.

In the mean time, it is Bow Tie Friday!  I participate wholeheartedly each week, looking for fun ways to dress up the menswear.  This week it looked like

   There's a funny country song that pokes fun at being my own grandpa. While my family is totally on the up and up, my gramps is a stylish dude and I feel pretty great about the bow tie, button up, Mr. Rogers sweater combo.  While my own grandpa I am not, I'm pretty excited about channeling a little patriarch this Bow Tie Friday.

Here's to Bow Tie/ Champagne Friday!