See ya, red.

Goodbye, Brenda Starr. We're reporters and redheads, and that's about all we have in common.

Face Jugs

Face Jugs from Franklin, NC. Photo by CJ Lotz

After working in Western North Carolina three summers ago, I fell in love with almost everything about the Blue Ridge/Smoky Mountains and the history of the Carolinas.

One of my favorite things about the folk art in that region is its capacity for storytelling.

That's why I love these face jugs. They're ugly, expressive and full of potential tales. One theory about their origin: put a scary face on a jug and your little kid will stay away from your moonshine. According to my extensive Wikipedia research, they were originally made of the Catawba Clay of the Western Carolinas and Georgia.

All I wanted for Christmas was one of these jugs. I told my grandpa to pick me out the ugliest one he could find, and he chose this guy. Hopefully he'll have some brothers soon.

Igor? Doofy? Photo by CJ Lotz

Truth in a Gchat conversation.

J: my best friend from grade school
http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/hs195.snc4/38098_1345158311025_1293270040_30765157_6812322_n.jpg

me: HAHAHAHA
oh my god I'm dying

J: if that doesnt prove the "dont send your kids to catholic school" theory
i dont know what would

The opera story you won't forget.

This story came to me when I was having lunch with a lady who supports the Jacobs School of Music. She was telling me about this man who she heard sing, and mentioned that he was IU's oldest freshman (30 years old) last year. I asked his name, we met for coffee, and I was fascinated by his life.

Read about his family, his voice, and the reason he'll forever thank the Target music section:

The Accidental Tenor.

Vegan + Venison

This Thanksgiving, my parents cooked a vegan feast. They are on a diet from this book.

We had tomato risotto, wine and garlic Portabella mushrooms, lentil Dhal soup, cranberry-pomegranate sauce, roasted asparagus and tomatoes, fresh salad from the garden, sweet potatoes ...


And then my aunt and uncle brought deer jerky. It's in the jar next to the vegetables.

My uncle killed the deer and my aunt marinated strips of the flank overnight in their secret wet rub. There's a ton of teriyaki in it. Vegan and venison. I'd say that's about as American a Thanksgiving as you can get, right?

I know you aren't supposed to love things ...

... but what if it's a really ugly turkey sweatshirt your brother picked out for you ... and it's gotten you through some very tough times ...

... sneaking around outside Eureka High School to connect to the server and copy newspaper articles (best friend and I were the dorky editors who just couldn't leave work alone) ...


... sharing sweet BBQ with other best friend's grandparents in Japan ...


... holding meat in trees ...


... lulling a crazy google-eyed dog to sleep ... finally ...



... last day working at F&S next to a big wild animal ...



... and so what if it inspired purchase of the coolest hand-tooled leather flask you've ever seen?


I guess I know what I'm collecting for the rest of my life. Thanks, turkey sweatshirt. Happy Thanksgiving.

How to slaughter a turkey.

I love this Esquire post. No frills, no censoring.

Just bloody, delicious turkey.

It reminds me of the photo series I did on Nathan killing a chicken.

Except, as always, Esquire does it better.

Happy cluck cluck.

Girl, putcha records on.

When my grandpa was in the military in the 70s, he picked up a record player for his kids (my mom and Uncle Joe). The kids spun their Simon, they spun their Garfunkel. And when they left home, the record player sat and then was shuffled during moves.

It ended up in my grandma's office in my grandparent's home in my favorite place in the Smoky Mountains in the most beautiful state. North Carolina.

This summer, when I visited my grands, we fiddled around with the darn thing until it made some noise. The inaugural record? Peter, Paul and Mary's "Ten Years Together."

Here is my grandpa, overjoyed that it works. The song playing was "500 Miles." I think he just said his famous phrase, "Egads!"


But that's not the end of this player's story. My grandparents, on a visit to my parents in St. Louis, brought the thing with them, and then my mom and dad drove it to me this weekend.


Again, some fiddling was neccessary. Luckily, my mom remembered putting it together as a kid. The inaugural song this time? Jackie Wilson's "I Get the Sweetest Feeling."

And I do.

IU Bass Fishing

Update: They won.


Props to Field & Stream for giving me the guts to pursue fishing reporting. This weekend, the team fishes regionals.

Click for story.

Reporting a would-be birthday

I had the opportunity to write a story that is very dear to the Bloomington community.

Jill Behrman went for a bicycle ride 10 years ago and never returned. Friday would have been her 30th birthday. It's a simple frame and a basic way to share memories of a girl who is often only written about for her disappearance.

Click here to read it.

Aerial pickling.

I finished my wonderful New York City internship, visited my aunt and uncle in upstate NY, then my friend Lauren in Atlanta, and now I'm in Western North Carolina with my grandparents. And when I'm with my grandma, we like to pickle. A lot.

Spiced pickled beets boiling with onions:

Okra pickles with hot pepper and garlic:

Peppers brining before becoming a peck of pickled peppers:

Dilly beans are green beans seasoned with dill sprigs, garlic, and red pepper flakes:

Catching up.

Story and photos from my trip to Haiti in May.

Listen to the picture.

From my Wonder Wheel cage.

Thrills.

Drops and slides.

Girl. And Cyclone.

Big tops.

Cirrus.

Ball.

Lessons, lately.

We visited the Good Housekeeping Research Institute (Think: Seal of approval on your best blender) and learned that there's a whole lot of testing and people with PhDs in chemistry that go on behind your dry, flaky back. Does your moisturizer claim to keep you soft for 24 hours? Well it damn well better or it ain't getting a sticker.

And then David Granger (Esquire editor) showed up for lunch at Good Housekeeping (the mags are in the Hearst building together). I imagined Esquire putting its large, awesome, feet up on the table and sipping a neat gin while GH wiped the table of any crumbs and smudges. I liked the contrast of editors.

One thing I'm learning this summer: It doesn't matter what magazine--a good editor shares similar skills with other good editors.

Also, I had a chance to see Michael Hastings (his Rolling Stone article catalyzed the firing of Gen. Stanley McChrystal) speak in a small (think: 12 people) lunch setting. He says journalism isn't dying. He said it. I believe it. I needed to hear that. Thank you. My favorite quote of his: "I didn't destroy his career. President Obama fired him."

Dosage.

I'm in the daily dose (daily dinosaur), but so is an embroidering of I can kill you with my brain.

Cool.

Also, check out my friend Allie's balloon zombie.

Rawr.

For free in Bryant Park (just give him a smile), a man twisted, squished, and tugged balloons into the shape of my choice: bronto-saurus-Rex.


But my dino smiled back. Not intimidating, dino. So I taught him a lesson in fierce face.

When work gives you beakers...

Make nerd vases.

Oh the streets tell stories.

Midtown. If object soup? If object coup?

13th Street, almost home. Who's happy, Ella or Mama?

In a church pew.

Greenwich. Happy.

I forget.

Empty-the-fridge pasta

You need:

Every vegetable you've got. Sliced.
Garlic. So much. Big chunks. You got no one to kiss. And if you do, they'll understand.
Cheese. Asiago is good.
Leftover tomato sauce.
Olive oil.
Salt.
Peppa. I like a lot.
Pasta.

Just try to tell me you don't want to eat this.

Click for the story of Allie, CJ, a stove, and delicious things.

Stuffed squirrel < Marry me?

Ok. Yes. I have been watching The Bachelorette with my roomies. But at least I cheered for the hunting guy! Click.

spot of tea?

There's a lot to love about London, but the thing I miss most (besides Josie, Simon, and Lois of Mute magazine) is this, refilled 4-6 times a day.

2 things.

1. Can I have a room of my house that looks like this? Or do I have to be four again? Design*Sponge is too good.

2. The winners of the oddball archive photo contest that I helped put together. Who could that honorable mention golfstevelotz be? It was fun to mail out knives to the winners. Do you know if it's illegal to mail a machete? I hope not.

No words. A how-to.

Could I be a cowboy?

Manhattan is a wild frontier. But it isn't the frontier. I don't know if the wild, endless wide-open-space ever really existed in the way we fantasize, but I do know that Western stories and movies are my favorite excuse to be ridiculous, outdoorsy, and cowboy-romantic. I'm reading a collection of western stories and I can't believe how absorbed I've become:

"That's a lot of horse," a man in a white apron said. "It takes a man to ride a stallion."

"I ride him," I said, and walked past them into the bar. The man in the white apron followed me. "I drink tequila," I said.

So then I started thinking. Could I be a cowboy?

I like the wide open plains (That's Haiti and one tough cowgirl, Lizzie.)

I'll eat camp food and get dirty (as long as Herman B Wells is along for the ride).

I enjoy a ride (especially when you get a great local story from a personal Haitian historian).

I can wear a hat.

Nah, I think I'll leave it up to the (dirty, hot, swanky) experts.