winter issue 2015/2016
welcome
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editor nore
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editor’s note with teal bluestone
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This morning I made a classic decision about whether i should go buy coffee on my way downtown, or make coffee with the whole beans I frickin have. being the dickwad i am, i chose the $2 option. glad i did though, because the barista was super nice. and well, dang, it got me thinking, i’m so thankful for these friendships and connections i have made with people through this community. i met teal through shows and alec and she wanted to start a zine and i wanted to start a zine and this little tiny baby popped out. crazy world! none of this would have happend without portland and art and people who keep the scene alive. Everything has led up to now, which is a really exciting time in my life. I’ve met some really amazing individuals who are doing rad things and it’s cool to be able to look up to your friends. it brings on this whole new level of love, for your personalities and also your artistic endeavors. i love everyone of the contributors, and i am prod of what they are frickin doing! anyway, i just spilled coffeee all over my hand. enjoy this issue, enjoy your new year, and i hope all goes well.
p.s. the yearbook photos will come out next issue! the holidays got in the way and it just didnt feel right to not have everyone in the pics :(( u feel me. also sorry!! p.s.s. if u evr wanna contribute just email us !! we are at semi. okcollective@gmail.com
love claire xoxoxoxoxoxo
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editors note by claire gunville
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table of contents
danny rankin illustrations.........................1-2 an Excerpt from White Men on Asian Beauties by Alex Diaz-Hui... 3 photos by claire gunville.......................4 sculptures by aruni dharmakirthi......................5-8 sean chamberlain poetry..........................9-10 overthoughts by andrew richmond........................11-12 jordan rasmussen poetry................................13 i made you a mixtape by eric snyder......................14 photo by claire gunville ....................15-16 justus vega art............................17-18
upon hearing “Nighttime Ritual,” “Calming Ritual #2,” and “Calming Ritual” by cameron crowell (witchhauspdx).....19-20 shadypines manor by tk waits.........21 rue by anke gladnick..................22 lora mathis poetry and art................23-24 neal mccormick linocuts...................25-26 tapes n’ crepes 2: crepes in new york by edward charlton.27-30 collage by christopher keith garcia.....................31-32 jacob heiteen’s scratcharoni.............................33 the famous conroy rice dish by ethan conroy................34 photos by claire gunville..............35-36
this publication was made in the winter months of 2015 and was released janurary 2nd 2016. made in portland oregon, printed and bound at pacific northwest college of the arts. materials from scrap. happy holidays xoxo
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table of contents
table of contents
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danny rankin
danny rankin
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An Excerpt from White Men on Asian Beauties Note: The following poem is a section from an ongoing project examining the rhetoric of white men when talking about Asian women on the internet. The source material comes from pornographic websites, message boards, and various other internet sources in order to survey the objectification of Asian women in US culture. I love how you please that white cock. Good dame! Damn. Love the rawness. They just ruined a perfectly good couch… It’s like real life hentai! TITTIES! This was a hot video and she’s hot but how dare they say that’s my J cup goddess. A simple explanation from a librarian leads to a young horny stud pounding her until the inside of her pussy is soaked with cum. Of course after this librarian realized the real value of the library wasn’t its books and stores of knowledge, but the young men and their hard cocks with stores of semen inside their balls. Most of them seemed to enjoy themselves which is not so common for Japanese porn. Made it so much hotter! Best Japanese camera work I have ever seen. Japanese women are 500,000 years more advanced than other races. That was a perfect nut, and she took it so uniformly, Japanese women are so neat, even swallowing. Reminds me of my Asian ex. She was a bitch. This girl is not Korean. What the fuck. The fact that this Asian honey looks like she’s actually enjoying herself getting fucked makes the whole video. Thais love anal and Filipinas love sucking dick. Gotta love Asian women. Great slim body on this teen Thai fuck-pig! God… I don’t even mind the hairy pussy, and I usually do.
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At least she’s not useless anymore. She’s the top Indian girl by far. All natural body with a beautiful Indian face. This girl is not Korean, what the fuck. That slut makes me so horny. I just want to blow my load on her face. MY COCK IS HARDER THAN ANY MOTHERFUCKER RIGHT NOW! That was hot. Where does she live in China? So in China hookers don’t use a condom? I got a chick like that looks just like her in Illinois that sucks it for $40. Japan XXX industry would probably triple its size if they’d be smart enough to engage with white or black guys for Japanese ladies. They have to keep it kawaii though. They hate Cockzilla. Kawaii porn yay! I love a deep throater but I can’t help but want a cute Asian to do their lick, kiss, cute thing on me. That’s got to be the biggest Japanese cock I’ve ever seen. I may have a Japanese obsession. I love Indian pussies. Yummy… Indian girls make me cum so much. I love their breasts. 5/10. She looks like she smoked meth before the scene. I love Asians, because they can take it and keep on going. I wish the POV blow job was topless but otherwise, awesome. Why do Asian women always sound like they’re in severe pain when fucking? With all the screaming, it’s like they are going to turn Super Sayian. Great vid, and this guy actually knows how to tear into that Asian twat. And I would luv how alex diaz-hui
Japs do internal creampies all the time though it looks like baking soda when it comes out dripping. She needs sum white dick. I love Asian women. They’re so natural. Asians turn me on for their pubic hair to be just rightfully hairy and their skin looks smooth and white. Yes. Those eyes… Nice tits for a Jap girl. I love Jap girls getting their mouths filled up full of perfect white jizz. Too many other videos have the guys shooting yellow shit. Get fucking check you assholes these girls are troopers and don’t need your STDs. I love Asian chicks, especially with glasses. I’d fuck her brains out and give her a big load of cum. She’s a gorgeous Hong Kong gravure idol. Are there many freaking girls who love hentai like this out there? We had a lot of great discussions about hentai and fetishes in the past, time to have another naughty chat with the femanons. My gf found out I watch hentai and that bitch makes fun of me. I need to find more like minded people. How does the sentence “fuck my butthole until it turns into a pussy!” make you feel? I so want to experience a sexy Asian lady, but 2 at once would make my dreams true. And yes ladies I love your toes, sweeter than candy. I like strawberry too but I also love chocolate.
photos by claire gunville
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Aruni Dharmakirthi
is a Sri Lankan American fiber artist living in Portland. After her move to America in 1995 due to the Sri Lankan civil war, she lived and studied in Florida. Through out her adolescence Aruni recounted memories from her early childhood in a na誰ve effort to hold on to her cultural identity and home. Her work evokes feelings of otherness, longing, desire and rejection in an effort to express the identity of immigrant youth. Fragmented personal and historical narratives weave in and out of her work as she grapples with contemporary struggles of POC and immigrants. An ultra feminine aesthetic frames the utopic imagery of ideal paradise, as she subversively uses kitsch to explore colonialism, and identity politics.
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aruni dharmakirthi
aruni dharmakirthi
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aruni dharmakirthi
venus of burden
venus of burden
aruni dharmakirthi
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listen boys
18, 19, 20
a ball of crazy wrapped in a plump, sultry package
All melting together like an ice cream cake that has been sitting out on the hot, sun-soaked pavement.
our bodies will in twine and I will attach myself to a part of you writing poems about how you can never love me before we’ve even gotten past the second date my poems are like prophecies, simply waiting until time makes them true maybe if I wrote about you loving me you would it gets tiring trying to come up with new ways to say how men don’t love me I wonder what writing love poems is like writing poems in the heat of it all the heat of the sun on our bodies as we lay wrapped in each other deeply infatuated with one another but that might never happen because according to you and according to them I’m unloveable something about my body and mind are not what you’re looking for when will I be what you’re looking for? when will the longing stop? when will others love me as much as I love them?
18. I am sitting in my father’s walk in closet turned drug den. My house is empty. The last of my memories shipped off to a tropical island with a new life waiting. Sadly, I am not a part of that life. My stolen memories slipping further and further from my grip. I inhale until I can’t think straight and all there’s left to do is sleep. 19. I am laying in the arms of a 49 year old man. He tells me that I’m “beautiful in the most interesting of ways.” Filling me up just enough to float. He says he has to go home to his boyfriend. Pop. “No, don’t leave me.” “I have something to show you.” I remove my pants and then my underwear. Lying naked on the bed, allowing anything and everything just for a few more minutes of sleep. 20. I am curled up in the bed of an ad executive’s penthouse in Midtown, Manhattan. I have now fooled myself into believing that I am in control of body. Justifying my poor decisions and even poorer choices in sexual partners. I lay there, jeweled in his Tiffany dog tags and am trying so desperately to just sleep. sleep away what’s eating at you. SE Portland/Midtown Manhattan, 2015
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sean chamberlain
listen boys
18, 19, 20
sean chamberlain
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winter 2015 andrew richmond
andrew richmond
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i made you a mixtape by eric snyder i made you a mixtape it was a confession really a story of where we had been and a hope for what we’d become
I feel like the black snow after the car gets stuck and the wheels spin and spin but i can’t get out. I’m only moving side-to-side and cursing under my breath. Once the feeling has returned to my fingers I’ll sit in a bathtub, turn off the lights, soak my hands in the lukewarm water, and I’ll pray for the first time in 6 years. I pray hard. The callouses on my hands are coarse but God doesn’t care. He’s still there, waiting patiently for me to return to him. When I arrive in heaven, God only asks me, “Why were you so afraid, my child? Death was always so patient with you, but you just couldn’t wait.“
i made you a mixtape but you will never receive it i broke it it’s in pieces all over the floor gears, reels, magnetic tape everywhere it takes a lot to break it the plastic is resistant it tried to protect the message the confessions of my heart the cravings of my body the label was the first to go i ripped it off your name gone but traces of the sticker still graced the body i had to destroy it
I couldn’t stand up straight that night My legs became one, tangled together like fucked up spiderwebs built by a drunk black widow. My feet flew across the grass and then tripped on the pavement. The cashier was having a nice night, he was very warm and gentle and kind I was and am none of these things. I went back home, falling all over myself Smoked two cigarettes, stole some pot that was never mine. Then I cried and I cried and I cried. Put on the record I bought earlier and cried some more
the drinks your eyes your independence my admiration my freedom side b - futures i hope i confess we kiss we make love the comfort the relief our bodies our hearts my dreams my girl why did i smash it
the songs i carefully chose they are scattered across my room the reels roll unraveling any hope i had left
with tears and rage i bashed it it wouldn’t let me in it tried to stop me
i wanted you to love me you’d never love me like i love you but could there be more could you love me more
but i couldn’t let you hear it i couldn’t let it exist i couldn’t bear to listen to it myself not again
i had to do this each song brought me back each song filled me with hope each time 2 years in 90 minutes
finally the surface cracked jordan rasmussen
the room is all at once filled with memories silent but loud the music is gone
my fist hit the plastic at first carefully but it wasn’t enough
i couldn’t bare to hear that from you i can’t bare for you to hear this
winter 2015
i lift it wanting so badly to listen but at the same moment i throw to the wall it hits it shatters like fireworks on the fourth
now i sit in silence i miss you i love you i wanted to give you this i wanted you to hear it to really hear it
you would say ‘thank you’ and know immediately what it was you would break my heart with a lack of response or a deathly ‘no’
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the sound of breaking breaks the silence a long crack across the surface this won’t do it will still play i can hear it through my finger tips “i swear i’m a good man so why don’t you love me back”
i have to make sure make sure it is still there make sure my heart still beats make sure my hope still exists i can’t take this silence i can’t be without the sound i take part of the tape i take the strip of memory i run it across the black tape across the playhead it is only a second a lyric one moment but i hear it it’s still there i still love i still hope and that’s enough for now
side A - reality we meet we flirt the tension the drinks your eyes your independence my admiration my freedom
i made you a mixtape
eric snyder
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photography by claire gunville
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justus vega
justus vega
winter 2015
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Upon hearing “Nighttime Ritual,” “Calming Ritual #2,” and “Calming Ritual” by cameron crowell (a cool editor from witch haus pdx)
Between a coo and a cough a man sings out in a basement to an audience of shivering black fairies that dance in uniform, but always a meter behind the man’s beat. They are conscious of this. They once had instructors that lashed out at them, told them “Y’all are lost causes, y’all are tone deaf, and y’all could never hold any beat,” Their instructors wore a tiny gold crown and whenever they opened his mouth bees came out, sometimes just a few scouts, sometimes a swarm. But the instructors must have seen something since they chained the fairies to ballet rails connected to the wall mirrors, and kept them in separate rooms. The fairies got stung so many times they thought they’d never feel pain again. They thought they had dried up and that was hope enough. But through the barred windows the man’s song squeezed in while they all slept. It told them their dance was pretty and that there were others who knew the same pretty little three-step. And when they did it all together it almost looked like the music was the thing that was off.
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http://witchhauspdx.com/
cameron crowell
photos by cameron crowell
witch haus
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SHADYPINES MANOR Now the giant house older Than most of your grandparents was Grounded off of Broadway in a small city Eugene, Oregon, USA The walls have stories about the doorknobs and the mice have Been around longer Than anyone so I hear There is about ten people In a five bedroom house With a basement A shack out back And garage I’m sitting with the bees In the garden as the Last few smiles of summer Become rain clouds And the clouds piss
Rue 5 color screenprint 11” x 14” 21 /
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tk waits shadypines manor
anke gladnick
winter 2015
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The
Stars
of
Nothing
We stare out car windows and pretend we are in a movie; we make up soundtracks in our heads. We want so badly to be important, but there is nothing perfect about our lives. We linger in parking lots because we’ve got nothing better to do; we go on trips to towns 45 minutes away and think ourselves cool. These moments are the best we’ve got. They’re nothing special. But look how gently we cradle them in our hands. Look how much we love them just because they’re ours.
This Is Surviving We ride our bikes at night Leave the house when no one is around Make mediocre spaghetti at 10 pm These nights are not always easy Often we spend them surviving But we are surviving. We are still here. We get up in the morning happy to see each other alive and I am thankful for all of the times you have unclenched my hands from fists or tucked me into bed after I suffered a beating from myself You know I would do the same for you.
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lora mathis
Photography is a way for me to lay myself bare. My work Lora M at plays with self-image, tenderness, vulnerability, and musici his is an ar an gender norms. I often use myself as a prop and play with rently , and poet tist, curon the color to communicate a rawness in myself. I am interested b ook “T move. h Th e Wome in expressing raw vulnerability and communicating specific T hemsel n Wido eir v ideas. on Ama es” is ava wed to ilable zon th rough Are Yo Wh u Pres Poetry is the other medium I work with the most, and I s. Mor ere their e w o of rk can often incorporate text into my photographs. My work in- lo ramath be fou is.com nd at tends to have a clear message and to redefine toughness. Spelling these messages out ensures that they will not be ignored. lora mathis
winter 2015
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neal mccormick
neal mccormick
winter 2015
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Tapes N’ Crepes 2: Crepes In New York By Edward Charlton (and Ben Scott)
The old dad-punk seated at
the bar at The Nest continued talking in my direction though I had long since looked away. Amidst the smell of stale nachos and the metallic rot of skunked Rainiers, he prattled on for what felt like a few more minutes - something about having seen “The Descendents in a basement in ’85” - but, frankly, I was too troubled to offer the usual detached-yet-respectful listening face that the occasion called for. This was it. I was at my breaking point. The weight of the past few months was crushing my ability to even fulfill the most basic duties of a kindhearted bar patron. You see, the revolution had come quickly. After the anonymous publication of the first Tapes N’ Crepes piece, my life was never the same. That collection of heavy-handed cassette reviews had ignited a firestorm of global interest which also coincided with the explosive new reach of the Semi-ok media empire. Before long, London and Dubai branches of the magazine had opened, phone lines exploded with pleas from advertisers for space (though they had better align with our values!), and, above all else, the increasingly harried calls for more content
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from the editors ceaselessly blew up my phone. The cassette review - something I had loved and devoured in a simpler time - was soon to be the death of me. What is music criticism anyway? What is a tape, really? Can someone cover the art of people they know without bias? What are the journalistic standards of being a fan? These were the questions I was asking myself, their open-ended nature offering little comfort as I grappled with my place as a writer. The deadline for submissions had already passed, and I could sense the annoyance in Claire’s voice as I begged for a few more days. “You’re going to cover some more releases, right?,” she asked, newly flown in to oversee the construction of the Brooklyn office. Papers shuffled in the background and the scampering of her many secretaries and assistants could be heard as they held up photo negatives and layout art for approval. It was pretty obvious by now. Claire was a woman of vision. A powerful woman of vision. With the eve of the third issue now upon us, I had never been more aware of the fact that it would be wise to not squander her goodwill and deliver some goddamned music analysis. To do anything else might prove to be professional suicide.
tapes n’ crepes
edward charlton
“Yeah, I heard that new Pass tape was pretty good, I’ll give it a stream,” I managed. Give it a stream? God, Eddie... “Okay, well I can give you two days, but that’s it. We’re about to go to press and the deadline was a week ago already,” she added. An assistant interrupted her to deliver a Cappuccino. “Please don’t ask for any more time, I’m not sure if we can manage it.” “Thanks Claire, I won’t let you down,” I squeaked. Uh oh. The two days passed quickly, ultimately leading to several emotional breakdowns before I had finally mustered the strength to stumble into The Nest on that final night. I guess this is how it ends, I thought between bitter, craft-brewed swigs. Not more than thirty seconds after the old dad-punk had finally given up on convincing me of his credentials, did Ben Scott - the prolific drummer of Sioux Falls, Helens and Dowager - waltz in to the establishment. “Hey man!,” he said, spotting me before taking over the next bar stool. His easy-going manner and warm smile revealed a comfort that betrayed the fact that he was only wearing a single flannel shirt for protection against the cold rain that had fallen throughout the day. “Is something wrong?” “I’ve screwed up bad, Ben,” I lamented, glad to finally have a concerned friend to talk to. This was just the kind of guy I needed around at a time like this. Surely, good ‘ole Ben Scott would understand. I proceeded to explain the hardships of my writer’s block following the global expansion of Semiok, my fear of having wasted an amazing opportunity and, ultimately, the devastating disappointment that I imagined in Claire’s voice after I finally told her that edward charlton
I was washed up. He only nodded. It seemed as if he hadn’t even really heard my bruised request for advice. I decided to try it from a different angle. “I mean, Ben, look at you, for instance. You’re the drummer in three really cool bands, you manage all these different shows and practices. How do you do it? What’s the secret?,” I asked, trying to get through the penetrating stare that seemed to have come over him. He began to open up. “It’s really hard, you know,” he muttered under his breath. “People think I’m just having a good time with my friends playing music but I’m constantly running around on the phone doing interviews , planning performances, lessons, business brunches, children’s birthday parties. Thanks for the question.” Thanks for the question, I thought. What the fuck? “I mean, take for instance the new Sioux Falls single, “Dom,” I pointed out, noting the tune’s straightforward catchiness and his steady, tom-heavy propulsion. “My problem is that I’m stuck, I don’t feel inspired. How do you come up with something like that, and then totally different stuff for 16 more songs?!? What am I missing?” “I like to go fast, I would really prefer not to talk about individual songs,” he answered quickly. “You mean, you never like to talk about your music?,” I shot back, still thinking that this could be a joke. Last I checked, there wasn’t a single musician I knew that didn’t absolutely relish that opportunity. “No, don’t get me wrong, I like to talk about the music I’m involved with,” he replied. “The problem is, I just don’t think very many people would get it.”
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“Wait, they won’t get what, exactly?,” I said quickly, unsure of where he was going with all of this. “Okay, for instance, I love that song ‘You Can’t Be A Pilgrim!’ off of the Teeth release by Helens. Sure, it’s not like a simple blues song, but that’s what makes it cool. And you undercut the dual guitars with those off-centered snare hits that separate it from the pack. BUT, I still think most people could appreciate it.” “The drums. I don’t think most people can understand drums,” he said, as if I was having trouble grasping an elementary school-level lesson. “Like a beat?” “Precisely,” he noted, once again speaking in the way a professor might begrudgingly acknowledge a despised student’s correct answer. “Um...hmm. Okay,” I managed. “So, what about your approach to each of your bands? Like, Sioux Falls has a lot of big, rallying anthems, Dowager is sure to be pretty chaotic, fearless and powerful on that epic session they’re soon to do with Jack Shirley, and Helens, well, they’re just as darkly dreamy as ever. I think everyone in those bands understands drums and how you factor in, wouldn’t you?” Now, Ben was on a roll. “They’re all so different,” he intoned as a matter of fact. “I really have to prepare mentally for each project, I really think it’s the role of the drummer to interpret what each songwriter brings to the table and make it palatable.”
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“This all sounds pretty ridiculous, Ben. I mean, if you feel this way, why even be in a band? Why are you doing this at all?” “Attention,” he said coldly. For the first time he looked me in the eyes. I wasn’t sure if the formerly amiable, great pal-of-a-guy I had met before was even in there. His tone sharpened. Still staring at me, he began to repeat a single phrase. “Next question,” he said, “Next question. NEXT QUESTION!” The bartender looked up, wondering what the hell was going on. Surprisingly, instead of me being saddled with the final breakdown, it was Ben who had truly snapped. He could only speak that simple demand, and, in perfect rhythm, no less. Oh geez, this is gonna become a scene, I thought to myself. I remembered my troubles from before. Can someone cover the art of people they know without bias?, I had wondered. What are the journalistic standards of being a fan? Most disturbingly, what are the journalistic standards of being a friend? That all seemed a world away now. I looked back over at Ben. He was foaming at the mouth, still expecting me to interview him further and affirm his ego.
tapes n’ crepes
edward charlton
The revolution had indeed come too quickly. I got up. “Ben, thanks for this,” I blurted. “You’ve really helped me work things out. I know what I can tell Claire now.” Sure, I felt bad for leaving him there by himself. But then again, he was no longer the person I thought I had known anyway. And maybe...JUST maybe, I wasn’t either. With the weight of this journalistic responsibility off of my shoulders, there might still be a way to increase my own range just as the zine was nipping at the heels of The New York Fucking Times. “Hey, brother, take it easy,” the old dad-punk called to me with all the sour grizzle of a used whiskey cask. Just like before, I had hardly heard him. I was already out the door.
edward charlton
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christopher keith garcia
christopher keith garcia
winter 2015
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Jacob Heiteen Recipe for Scratcharoni (macaroni from scratch) Note: The amount of ingredients listed is for one big fucking blow of scratcharoni. Adjust measurements accordingly depending on how much you want. Ingredients: 1 16Oz bag of a shell pasta (because a big hunk of cheese will often get inside, yum!) 1 lb of cheddar cheese ¼ lb swiss cheese ¼ lb parmesan (three cheeses baby!) ¼ of a cup of heavy cream 2 tablespoons of butter Directions 1. Boil your pasta until it’s just about ready (no worries it’ll finish cooking in the oven) 2. while this is happening grate your swiss, parmesan, and cheddar (Tip it’s always better to buy blocks of cheese and shred it, but if you fear the almighty cheese grater you could buy it preshred) 3. Put your pasta and all your cheese in a bowl and stir like crazy!!! 4. once the cheese is melted add your heavy cream and some black pepper for seasoning 5. Put your scratcharoni in a baking pan and cook in the oven for 30 minutes or until the top browns 6. Eat all of it in one setting and feel really good about yourself afterwards because you just made your own scratcharoni you champ! Optional If you are pressed for time you could just boil the pasta all the way and sidestep the oven part Also Optional To add other things like mushrooms, onions, jalapenos, bacon, or whatever you think will taste good into the mix! Make it your own!!! Cooking should be about expressing yourself as much as it is about following the recipe!
The Famous Conroy Rice Dish Preheat the oven to 375°
2 cups jasmine white rice
Put the sausage in a large sauté pan on medium heat, and separate it into small pieces. Chop up your garlic and stir it in, and then sprinkle half of the curry powder (4 teaspoons) over it. Cook the sausage until brown.
2 pounds sweet Italian sausage
In a large oven-safe casserole dish, place the onions (diced), Campbell’s chicken & rice, celery (cut on the diagonal), jasmine white rice, the other half of the curry powder (4 teaspoons), and the water. Then add the cooked sausage and garlic to the casserole dish and stir it up. Cover it up with up with a lid or aluminum foil, and put it in the oven for one hour. Serves 8
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jacob heiteen’s scratcharoni
2 onions 2 cans Campbell’s chicken with white & wild rice 2 cups water 4 cloves fresh garlic 8 stalks celery 8 teaspoons curry powder
This tasty dish reminds me of home and it’s real easy to make. I would whole-heartedly recommend listening to Blind Pilot’s first album while preparing this. ethan conroy
winter 2015
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claire gunville
claire gunville
winter 2015
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sliding scale $8 - $10 or trade
s e m i o k c o l l e c t i v e . c o m