It's me.

0 | 5.2.2014 | 2 months ago


#100

#100

0 | 3.2.2014 | 2 months ago


1200 | 10.12.2013 | 4 months ago


409245 | 3.12.2013 | 4 months ago


0 | 27.11.2013 | 4 months ago


#David Guttenfelder #North Korea

#David Guttenfelder #North Korea

112 | 27.11.2013 | 4 months ago


todaysdocument:

Thanksgiving Menu Planning, From Soup to Nuts
In 1948 the Trumans dined on a traditional Thanksgiving menu that included consomme and Hollandaise sauce and was followed by a club sandwich with buttermilk later in the evening as supper.

White House Menu, 11/25/1948

While this may seem rather modest for a presidential Thanksgiving dinner, note that the President was responsible for his own food - all of this came out of the Trumans’ pocket. They did not have a large personal fortune to fall back on, so Mrs. Truman always went over the budget, food included, with a fine-tooth comb. President Truman had to have a fairly low-calorie diet, Mrs. Truman was on a restricted-salt diet because of her high blood pressure, and Mrs. Wallace (Bess Truman’s mother) was rather frail and couldn’t eat anything too exotic.
(Special thanks to our colleagues at the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library & Museum!)
So here’s a new question - we were wondering if you have your menu set for tomorrow and what’s the first course?

todaysdocument:

Thanksgiving Menu Planning, From Soup to Nuts

In 1948 the Trumans dined on a traditional Thanksgiving menu that included consomme and Hollandaise sauce and was followed by a club sandwich with buttermilk later in the evening as supper.

White House Menu, 11/25/1948

While this may seem rather modest for a presidential Thanksgiving dinner, note that the President was responsible for his own food - all of this came out of the Trumans’ pocket. They did not have a large personal fortune to fall back on, so Mrs. Truman always went over the budget, food included, with a fine-tooth comb. President Truman had to have a fairly low-calorie diet, Mrs. Truman was on a restricted-salt diet because of her high blood pressure, and Mrs. Wallace (Bess Truman’s mother) was rather frail and couldn’t eat anything too exotic.

(Special thanks to our colleagues at the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library & Museum!)

So here’s a new question - we were wondering if you have your menu set for tomorrow and what’s the first course?

(Source: research.archives.gov)

3 | 27.11.2013 | 4 months ago


wheretofindmiasara:


Ride
 
Wherever it was I thought I was 
going, 
I guess, by now, I’ve already been.
I need a subway token, a mystery 
novel, 
and a buttered bagel in a brown paper 
bag.
I need a better excuse to get a tattoo.
I’m thinking about ink, and how it 
bleeds,
and the way we use it to see what we 
mean.
 
A token, a turnstile, a possible ride on 
the 
cross-town shuttle as it tucks its tail 
and 
leaps the rails. Going through the 
motions 
takes so much time. 
 
The ride is the riddle, the unclaimed 
gift.
The dirty teacup my son left in the 
sink.
 
I want to believe in not being noticed.
I want to remember, I want to forget;
 
The hours I’ve wasted, the dimes I’ve spent,
the anger I’ve fed with a silver spoon 
while my 
daughter, in the green lizard T shirt, 
and torn
up jeans, the knees gaping, runs from my 
voice; 
an unspooled thread I must catch in 
my fist.
 
That’s the lost ticket, the unseen map;
the thing I am doing, when I’m doing 
my best;
just riding it out, the turns I take, the 
tracks 
I make with my two front teeth on the 
skin of the first peach of Summer. 
 
 
 
 

wheretofindmiasara:

Ride

 

Wherever it was I thought I was

going,

I guess, by now, I’ve already been.

I need a subway token, a mystery

novel,

and a buttered bagel in a brown paper

bag.

I need a better excuse to get a tattoo.

I’m thinking about ink, and how it

bleeds,

and the way we use it to see what we

mean.

 

A token, a turnstile, a possible ride on

the

cross-town shuttle as it tucks its tail

and

leaps the rails. Going through the

motions

takes so much time.

 

The ride is the riddle, the unclaimed

gift.

The dirty teacup my son left in the

sink.

 

I want to believe in not being noticed.

I want to remember, I want to forget;

 

The hours I’ve wasted, the dimes I’ve spent,

the anger I’ve fed with a silver spoon

while my

daughter, in the green lizard T shirt,

and torn

up jeans, the knees gaping, runs from my

voice;

an unspooled thread I must catch in

my fist.

 

That’s the lost ticket, the unseen map;

the thing I am doing, when I’m doing

my best;

just riding it out, the turns I take, the

tracks

I make with my two front teeth on the

skin of the first peach of Summer.

 

 

 

 

85 | 22.11.2013 | 5 months ago


(Source: polaroidsf)

1188 | 19.11.2013 | 5 months ago


154 | 10.11.2013 | 5 months ago