Once upon a time, we were a nation of farmers, pushing ever westward in wagons and trains in search of fertile farmland. Before that, we tried, with cussed determination, to coax crops from New England hillsides studded with boulders and woven through with trees. But no more. Today, only around 1% of the US population is actively engaged in farming. That 1% might not seem very important-until you realize that the other 99% of us eat what that 1% grows.
Notes From All Over
Summer-technically-doesn't end until September 22. Technically. Because if you attend, teach, or are otherwise involved at a school or college, summer ends right about now. Ditch the bathing suit; pick up the backpack. Set the alarm. Hit the books.
I was forcibly reminded of all this by a Facebook post featuring snippets of some actual high school essays. I poached four of the best (worst) for the picture above, but there are 14 more online. Worth a chuckle or two.
What's in a barrel? (Besides the Duke of Clarence.) I should probably explain...
Something about the act of flipping the calendar to August incites a particular brand of panic: 'NOOO! It's August, and I haven't even gotten to go to the beach/have a cookout/see a movie at the drive -in theatre/fill in your favorite summer activity'. It's tempting to blame this impulse on the back-to-school ads, but even families with no member within shouting distance of school age seem to feel this FOMO end-of-summer panic.
The height of summer brings perfect cloudless days, gardens and markets overflowing with nature's bounty, extended twilit evenings, and a relaxation unique to the season. But if you're sending a child back to college soon-even if that college is across town-there is also a bittersweet sense that this time is finite. If the college is across the country, even more so. With my daughter's imminent return to Los Angeles firmly in mind, we stole a beach day last Friday and headed to Block Island.
Countless people have asked if my last name was 'Richard'. Variations: 'Who's Richard?' 'Where's Richard?' and 'Is your husband Richard?' Ladies and gentlemen, there is no Richard. We named the store for Ben Franklin's Poor Richard's Almanack, then doubled down on the clever with 'Pour' instead of 'Poor'.
Groucho Marx famously said that he wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have him as a member. No offense, Groucho, but we disagree. In fact, we disagree so strongly that we're adding two brand-new Beer Clubs to our Pour Richard's Wine Club*.
We're offering two different options: MixSix and IPA-only MixSix. Either way, you'll pick up six delicious beers on the 15th of every month, but the regular MixSix will incorporate a range of styles while the IPA MixSix is tailor-made for the hopheads in your life.
A visit to the Farmer's Market in high summer is an exercise in flat-out hedonism. Mmm... fresh basil, that's smells amazing! The local tomatoes are starting to come in-I need some of those. Corn. I definitely need corn. Peaches! Do I have time to make peach cobbler? Or I could just bite into one right now....Blueberries! Can't forget those. Cucumbers. Snap peas. Fresh salad greens. Local cheese. I really should have brought more shopping bags.
Every week, we order beer, put away beer, talk about beer, and sell beer, thus giving us a pretty decent overview of what's happening in the world of beer. Lots of what's happening is absolutely awesome: flavorful, bold, anything-but-boring brew. Some other things are just...weird.
You cannot actually find everything on the Internet. I know this because for the last several days, I've been searching for a children's song that we had on an LP when I was 5 or 6. Part of an album celebrating American history, the song describes the process of the thirteen colonies voting to approve the Declaration of Independence. Since I can't find it anywhere, I'll take a stab at it from memory: