dust and drag

nevver:

I Feel Horrible.   She Doesn’t

newyorker:

Kelefa Sanneh’s Perfect Cup of Coffee

In this week’s Food Issue, Kelefa Sanneh writes about Aida Batlle, “a fifth-generation coffee farmer and a first-generation coffee celebrity.” Sanneh maintains that “brewing a proper cup of coffee is a lot harder than uncorking a bottle of wine and a lot easier than cooking dinner.” Which leads to a natural question: how does he brew his own cup?

Michael Agger: Give me your coffee method when travelling.

Kelefa Sanneh: When I travel, I pack my hand grinder and some beans and the AeroPress. I have that in my bag right now. You can use a hotel coffee maker as your boiler, even though it doesn’t heat the water quite hot enough. With those tools, you can make a reasonable facsimile of a decent cup of coffee. If you are staying in a B.&B., you can barge into their kitchen and insist on making coffee with your own gear. In my experience, they don’t forbid that, though they don’t necessarily appreciate it.

- Click through to read the full interview, which includes Sanneh’s tips on storing beans, and brewing at work: http://nyr.kr/rW4Hco

bbook:

AN ACADEMIC DEFINITION of Lynchian might be that the term “refers to a particular kind of irony where the very macabre and the very mundane combine in such a way as to reveal the former’s perpetual containment within the latter.” But like postmodern or pornographic, Lynchian is one of those Porter Stewart-type words that’s ultimately definable only ostensively-i.e., we know it when we see it. Ted Bundy wasn’t particularly Lynchian, but good old Jeffrey Dahmer, with his victims’ various anatomies neatly separated and stored in his fridge alongside his chocolate milk and Shedd Spread, was thoroughgoingly Lynchian. A recent homicide in Boston, in which the deacon of a South Shore church reportedly gave chase to a vehicle that bad cut him off, forced the car off the road, and shot the driver with a highpowered crossbow, was borderline Lynchian. A Rotary luncheon where everybody’s got a comb-over and a polyester sport coat and is eating bland Rotarian chicken and exchanging Republican platitudes with heartfelt sincerity and yet all are either amputees or neurologically damaged or both would be more Lynchian than not. A hideously bloody street fight over an insult would be a Lynchian street fight if and only if the insultee punctuates every kick and blow with an injunction not to say fucking anything if you can’t say something fucking nice.

—David Foster Wallace

Wow. This.

(via jewahl)

polarbearprince:

From Rommel Drives on Deep into Egypt, by Richard Brautigan