That is, most definitely, because I was born in September. My experience of September is largely holding my breath through all of it until the 28th, and then sadly counting down the minutes until the 29th. For me, it’s a month of waiting and gearing up, every day becoming better, and more exciting than the last. A month I waited for patiently each year.
And yet, I find myself with nothing special to say about September this month. That’s the irony, what makes September a good birthday month makes it a sort of bad regular month. There’s nothing inherently “September”. Spooky is owned by October, Fall by November, and Holidays by December. Summer is June, July, and August to me. September is always just there.
But I’ve found I’m happy it’s just there, at least for this issue, because it allowed us to really put together a zine that could be whatever we wanted. It’s our apothecary. Little spells and potions and bits and bobs, witchy reflections and seasonal changes. Personal changes, personal frustrations. The bittersweet endings of summers that cling to us, and the promise of a fall that smells like crisp air.
For me, this September is a new month in a new place, but it welcomes me back every time like a familiar hug. This time, I’m trying not to hold my breath too much, to rush through til the end. But to savor the month, for all it’s ambiguity and theme-less-ness. To appreciate it for the respite it is. We hope you enjoy this issue, and have a wonderful September, whatever it means for you.
And to all my fellow September babies, happy birthday.
— Rachel Loring
CONTRIBUTORS & CONTENTS
Rachel Loring
Rachel Williams
Brenna McWha
Macy Kissel
Rachel Loring
Olivia Ginsberg
Rachel Loring
Kiley Parrish
Julian Scannone
Sarah Torres
Sarah Torres
Chesney Jensen
Isabella Dawson
Macy Kissel
Joseph Farrugia
Melanie Blatt
Rachel Williams
Rachel Loring
Lauren Maingot
Macy Kissel
SHITS & GIGGLES
Apothecary Customer Service Department
CONTENT
The Power of Nine
Fall Style Scale
Potions & Portobellos: The Alchemist’s
Mushroom Grimoire
New York Smells Like Virginia
Chilled to the Bone
Super Harvest Moon Checklist
Seasons Change, Colors Remain
On Coincidences and a Wonderful Place
Called Agape
On Being A Woman
On Being A Person
Scary Stories
POETRY
“Go To Sleep”
“The Joys of Being a Pumpkin”
“Self Interrogation #74”
“Will You Remember?”
ART
The Empress
PUZZLES & GAMES
Post Grad-libs: Your Perfect Fall Potion
Executive Editors Macy Kissel and Rachel Loring
THE POWER OF NINE
by Rachel Williams
In honor of the ninth month of the year, let’s talk nines. In tarot, the nines can symbolize transition, which, in my humble opinion, feels right for the month of September.
We are beginning a new season filled with crisp air, holidays, and sweaters we’re going to be tired of wearing when it’s still cold in March. The ninth card of the entire tarot deck, The Hermit, is a card of contemplation, inner guidance, and solitude; this theme is present with all nine cards (wands, swords, cups, and pentacles) representing transition, attainment, and starting or ending a journey.
In numerology, the nine is believed to be associated with completion, wisdom, and spiritual growth. Since nine is the highest value single-digit number, I hope you feel its bounty and get to bathe in all of its riches this month.
Close your eyes and point to the spot on the next page, or without reading, choose a card that strikes your fancy and get your nine-related lesson for the month!
THE HERMIT
9th card in the deck
Associated words Inner voice, Contemplation, Introspection
The lesson
Draw your energy and attention inward and find the answers you seek, deep within your soul.
9 OF SWORDS
the suit of swords is representative of the air element of the zodiac (Gemini, Libra, Aquarius)
Associated words Anxiety, Fear, Worry
The lesson
I can release the power of anxiety and overthinking; I can get out of my own cyclical thoughts.
9 OF WANDS
the suit of wands is representative of the fire element of the zodiac (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius)
Associated words Resilience, Grit, Courage
The lesson
I am strong and resilient, because of all the sacrifice I have made and the obstacles I have overcome.
9 OF CUPS
the suit of cups is representative of the water element of the zodiac (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces)
Associated words Comfort, Fulfillment, Gratitude
The lesson
Because I fought battle after battle, I can now delight in my life and enjoy the comforts of the world. I have everything I need.
9 OF PENTACLES
the suit of pentacles is representative of the earth element of the zodiac (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn)
Associated words Rewards, Achievement, Luxury
The lesson
I am safe now to enjoy the fruits of my labor, and I am grateful for the abundance.
THE FALL STYLE SCALE
by Brenna McWha
Fall is notoriously a fashion-lover’s favorite season to dress for. Rich colors, sumptuous fabrics, and endless layering opportunities make fall the perfect time for trying out new style personas. Below is what I have dubbed, “the sliding scale of fall fashion” with a few tips for achieving looks on either end of the style scale.
COOL GIRL FALL CLASSIC FALL
Lean more towards oversized silhouettes and experiment with pattern mixing! Eclectic chic is the standout term for cool girl fall, and requires a bit of a laissez-faire attitude to execute correctly. Top tips:
• Oversized tops and bottoms
• Big shouldered outerwear
• Pattern & print mixing
• Layered jewelry
• Slouchy bags
• Flat or kitten-heeled shoe
Think early 2000s Ralph Lauren. The antithesis to the staples of cool girl fall, here we’re opting for well-tailored pieces that look more put together. A good high-waisted trouser, some fair isle knits, and a corduroy blazer should do the trick. Top tips:
• Well-tailored trouser
• An interesting knit (fair isle, cable, some sort of farm-related motif)
• A neck tie or ascot
• Anything corduroy
• Staple pair of riding boots
*Notice colors get more coordinated and neutralized as you head towards CF (Classic Fall), whereas CGF (Cool Girl Fall) is more mismatched and injected with brighter colorways. For CGF we also see the larger silhouettes on top in the form of big jackets and sweaters, whereas for CF the larger silhouettes are on the bottom, in the form of big skirts and wide-leg pants.*
NEW YORK SMELLS LIKE VIRGINIA
by Rachel Loring
The first thing I noticed was the water. If I close my eyes in the shower, I’m back in my grandmother’s upstairs bathroom. Northern tap water, my Tias used to say, came from springs, not swamps like Florida and always tastes better. In my Virignia-scented showers, I pretend to be little. Not in the way the city makes me feel little, like I might just slip right off of Manhattan if I’m not careful, but warm and weak like a hug.
My window unit churns out AC juice, baptizing my neighbors below and
MUSHROOM and GOAT CHEESE TART
1 sheet puff pastry, thawed
1 tbsp olive oil
1 tbsp unsalted butter
1 lb mixed mushrooms (cremini, shiitake, or oyster), sliced
3 cloves of garlic, minced
1/2 tsp of fresh thyme leaves
4 oz goat cheese, crumbled
1/4 c. grated Parmesan cheese
1/4 c. heavy cream
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
1 egg, beaten (for egg wash)
Fresh parsley or chives, chopped, for garnish
the filter smells like Virginia summers spent sprawled around my grandmother’s soft green carpets. Those damp and dusty afternoons when cabinets were big enough to hide in, and powdered sugar bags were soft enough to sleep on. When I walk past laundry mats, the steam smells like my grandmother and her wiggly arthritis fin gers folding piles of under wear, somehow always un derwear, working even the tiniest, silkiest pair into sub mission. And when the trees up 145th are dewy and crisp with the
morning they smell like her street, Montague, full of crepey pink flowers with a name I still forget.
The Hudson from Hamilton Heights smells like Lake Gaston, where one side was in North Carolina and the other in Virginia. And if you crossed under one particularly echoey bridge you’d be in two places at once. It’s brackish and airy and dirty and lovely. When I sit by it, and the September breeze pushes across my face, I feel seven again. I am waking up early to sit at the dock before school starts again, before summer officially ends, before the sun and the cousins and the tias come out with their sunscreens and towels and radios and eight-ounce diet rites. Back
INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Preheat your oven to 400°F. Line baking sheet with parchment paper.
2. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil and butter over medium heat. Add the sliced mushrooms and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are golden brown and have released their moisture, about 5-7 minutes.
3. Add the minced garlic and thyme to the mushrooms and cook for an additional 1-2 minutes until fragrant. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Remove from heat and let cool slightly.
4. On a lightly floured surface, roll out the puff pastry sheet to smooth out any creases. Place the puff pastry on the prepared baking sheet.
5. Spread the crumbled goat cheese evenly over the pastry, leaving a 1-inch border around the edges. Spoon the cooked mushrooms over the goat cheese, spreading them out evenly. Sprinkle the grated Parmesan cheese over the top, then drizzle the heavy cream over the mushrooms.
6. Fold the edges of the puff pastry over the filling to create a border. Brush the edges with the beaten egg for a golden finish.
7. Bake in the preheated oven for 20-25 minutes, or until the pastry is golden brown and puffed.
8. Remove the tart from the oven and let it cool slightly. Garnish with fresh parsley or chives. Add caramelized onions or a drizzle of balsamic glaze for extra depth of flavor.
then, I’d stare at the rippling lake and wish I could think the thoughts I thought adults had. But eventually, the sun came out and it was suddenly noon and my thoughts were forgotten, left behind on the dock.
Central Park at dusk smells like Virginia. Like the square of backyard between my grandma’s old house and my tia’s. Sweat and heat and grass, the soft northern kind that doesn’t itch at all, that promises real seasons and trees that turn orange. I don’t get a single rash if I lay on it, and it doesn’t poke into my back or my legs. And there are lightning bugs again, al though they are dwindling now, but they still smell like dirt and grubby cupped hands.
Harlem smells like my gran dad and the closet his clothes were kept in, in my mind always brown and tweed and scratchy. The vendors along 125th with their tables of belts and hats smell like him. Tanned leathers and gelled hair and cologne that was splurged on. And the women holding paper-wrapped bouquets of flowers, trailing the scent of geranium and rose behind them remind me of him, and the way he’d bring flowers to the post office employees. I like to pretend here too, that these are the same women from fifty, thirty years ago, still toting around my grandfather’s bouquets, just in New York instead of Norfolk. And I can imagine him, in a different life slipping into the shoes of New York and them fitting perfectly, I see him merging with the hustle and swaggering by next to me as I walk home with my groceries, offering to take a bag so my shoulder doesn’t snap off. For him, I accept.
I have become all of it again, new in the city feeling new in the world feeling new to the fall. I am that little girl again, somehow not thinking those once dreamed-about adult thoughts, but the same little ones I had then: that the world is beautiful and I wish to be here forever. I have become my grandfather in brown slacks on the subway, wanting to wear hats for some reason. I have become my grandmother, pinching pennies, washing delicate white shirts in the sink, sewing at night hunched over on my rug, contorting my body and hands into her, that old familiar woman, tugging at strings and, for the first time ever it feels, finally putting things together. Zigzagging threads of me and the city and the past and the people who loved me. And how strange it is to stumble into your future and find it no longer scary, but familiar and worn in. And at night, when I am lying in the dark, the sounds of the sirens and cars and shouting on the street puts me back in a twin bed on a dark Norfolk street, and on my bedside table there is a cup, mostly empty, but with one sip of Virginia still in it, and it tastes like being home.
SUPER HARVEST MOON CHECKLIST
by Rachel Loring
Did you know that this September there will be not just a super moon, but a super harvest moon? Neil Young is giggling and kicking his feet. The super harvest moon hits Wednesday, September 18th, and as a moon lover, I have prepared a checklist of moon things to do! I am by no means knowledgeable or professional, but I do love a good moon frolic! Pick a few and go be a little freak this super harvest moon.
MAKE MOON WATER
Fill up a glass of water and let it charge in the moonlight. Tbh, I don’t really know what this does, but sometimes it’s nice to have a little special water lying around. You can use it when you meditate or manifest, or add it to a bath!
MOON FOR YOUR EARS (aka music)
Obviously, you need to include Harvest Moon on there, but it’s important if you’re manifesting to listen to high-frequency vibrations, apparently 432 and 528 hertz are good, so blast those vibes and enjoy the moon!
LIGHT A CANDLE
I’ve heard that white candles are the best. Again, not sure why, but it does create a nice atmosphere and help center your intentions for this new season.
GRAB A FRIEND
Some of my best moons have been spent watch ing with a friend. Say your goals aloud and dance around! Sometimes the best energy is just the kind you create with the ones you love.
JOURNAL
You should always be journaling, but it’s nice to write some things you’re thankful for and set some goals! If you’re planning on manifesting, make sure anything you write is in the present tense as if you already have it!
SEASONS CHANGE, COLORS REMAIN
by Kiley Parrish
September has always been my favorite time of the year. The air takes on that first crisp hint of fall, and I find myself standing on the edge of something familiar yet entirely new. The colors this season- brown, orange, yellow, and green- are nature’s apothecary, bringing nostalgia that I can’t get enough of. It’s a comforting surprise and the perfect metaphor for this phase of life, where fall blends the warmth of the past with the excitement of the unknown.
Yellow reminds me of the fall deco rations my mom placed throughout my childhood home. Every day af ter school, I would step into a house full of little pumpkins and smell a hint of cinnamon from the scented broomstick in the corner. It was only a matter of time before the Pillsbury Halloween cookies would be waiting on the counter for us. Now, I’m trying to recreate that feeling in my one-bedroom apartment, but HomeGoods doesn’t have the same touch my mom does, and Halloween cookies aren’t quite the same after a long week at work.
Orange is my favorite color to see in the sky. In high school, all it took was a single word in the group chat -“Sunset?”- and everyone knew exactly where to meet. The long dirt road, once known as our sunset spot, has endless orange skies that seemed to stretch on forever. We’d watch the cows graze, gossip about school, and dream about the future as the day gently faded away. Now I look for orange sunsets in my new city, still gossiping about life, but this time through my head phones with those same friends.
Brown is the color I gravitate to wards the most. If it had characteristics, it would be the reliable friend who’s always there when you need them - steady and dependable. Throughout my college years, brown was everywhere - the buildings, the game day outfits, and the fallen leaves on the path to every class. During those four years, I felt like I belonged to something bigger than myself. Brown is grounding and somehow makes me feel rooted, even as I navigate
the uncharted waters of adulthood, just like my college experience.
And then there’s green, the color that ties it all together. Green is growth, change, and the promise of something new. It’s the color of my science elementary school folder, my favorite shirt to wear in high school, the football field I too often snuck into at college, and now the decorations that fill my new apartment. It’s a reminder that, like trees, I’m still growing, and is the hope that keeps me moving forward on the uncertain path ahead.
So here’s to fall, the season that feels like coming home and setting out on a new adventure all at once. It reminds me that while I may be in a new place with new people, I’m still the same person who appreciates how this season has shaped me, one colorful step at a time.
APOTHECARY CUSTOMER SERVICE DEPARTMENT
by Rachel Loring
RETURNS LOG SEPT 13 2024
1 pc. SOLID GOLD 32 GALLON CAULDRON
REASON FOR RETURN: NOT BIG ENOUGH TO BOIL CHILDREN FOUND WANDERING FOREST IN.
1 pc. 8oz FAST-ACTING LOVE POTION
REASON FOR RETURN: WORKED TOO WELL. HE’S A LITTLE CLINGY? LIKE SERIOUSLY, I NEED BREATHING ROOM. WHO ASKS SOMEONE TO MOVE IN AFTER THREE WEEKS?!?
1 pc.16oz THAYER’S WITCH HAZEL
REASON FOR RETURN: ASSUMED IT HAD MAGICAL PROPERTIES BUT MY SKIN IS SOFTER.
1 pc. LARGE BUNDLE, GNOME HAIR
REASON FOR RETURN: THIS IS NOT VIRGIN HAIR, HAS CLEAR BLEACH DAMAGE AND MY SPELL CALLS FOR HAIR THAT HAS NEVER BEEN PROCESSED BEFORE! VERY UNPROFESSIONAL.
1 pc. EYELINER OF NEWT
REASON FOR RETURN: GREAT COLOR PAY OFF I SUPPOSE BUT I SWORE THIS WAS SEPHORA? DO YOU GUYS HAVE ANY NON SHAKESPEAREAN EYELINERS?
4 pc. ESSENTIAL OIL SET
REASON FOR RETURN: DIDN’T SOLVE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF MY MENTAL AND PHYSICAL PROBLEMS.
1 pc. SLEEPYTIME TEA
REASON FOR RETURN: MAGICAL BEAR ON THE BOX DIDN’T COME CHILL WITH ME BEFORE BED I GOT THIS STUPID RED CAP ON AND EVERYTHING.
1 pc. BEGINNER SPELL BOOK VOL. 1
REASON FOR RETURN: NO SMUT.
CREAM of mushroom soup
2 lbs mushrooms, trimmed and thinly sliced
4 tbsp unsalted butter
1 medium yellow onion, diced
4 garlic cloves, minced
⅓ cup dry white wine
1 tbsp fresh thyme, minced
½ tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp garlic powder
1 tsp onion powder
1 tsp Dijon mustard
1 tsp kosher salt
½ tsp cracked black pepper
4 c. chicken or vegetable stock
2 tbsp cornstarch
1 c. heavy cream flat leaf parsley
INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat. Add the onion and cook, stirring occasionally, until tender, about 5 minutes.
2. Add the mushrooms and garlic and cook, stirring occasionally, until the mushrooms are tender, (about 5-7 minutes more).
3. Add the wine, thyme, nutmeg, garlic powder, onion powder, mustard, salt, pepper, and stock. Bring to a boil over high heat, then reduce the heat to low and simmer for 5 minutes.
4. Using an immersion blender, blend the soup in the pot until smooth. (Alternatively, transfer the soup to the base of a blender, let it cool briefly, and blend.)
5. In a small bowl, whisk together the cornstarch and 2 tbsps of water to form a slurry. Stir in the slurry and heavy cream and cook over medium heat until thickened (about 4-5 minutes).
ON COINCIDENCES AND A WONDERFUL PLACE CALLED AGAPE
by Julian Scannone
The first time I heard the song, I was at Ricardo’s one summer afternoon of unbearable Madrid heat, and we had just finished eating lunch. We were slumped on his couch, feeling dizzy from the meal we had just had, and then he played it. “Vorrei fosse Domenica”. I instantly became obsessed with the tune. It was my first time hearing an Italian song other than the national anthem (a classic during World Cups) and perhaps the stereotypical songs known worldwide. This discovery led me into a rabbit hole of music (thanks Ricardo!) that quickly connected me to many artists I did not know existed. Fast-forward one year and a couple of months after that moment, and I was enrolling in Italian classes. My job at the time was boring and monotonous, so I figured taking lessons on something I actually enjoyed would be a challenge that would stimulate me. I had tried to learn Italian during the pandemic, but as many projects started during those weird times, the hype only lasted for a couple of weeks and then died out.
Seven months after this, on a clear March Tuesday morning, I joined a call titled “Performance Review” or some ambiguous business title my manager had scheduled for me. “Weird,” I thought, “I had my performance review
two weeks ago, and it was fine....” My instincts did not fail me: as I joined the call, I quickly realized that they were laying me off.
The next two months went by with little novelty. Wake up, look for jobs, exercise, see friends, sleep, and repeat. Easter arrived, and my brother planned a wonderful trip to the Priorat region in the southern region (thanks, Jose!). There, I opened Google Maps and saw that we were staying very close to the town where Mar, a friend from college, grew up. Being reminded of her and not knowing what she was doing then, I decided to text her and see what she was up to. She told me she was in France doing some volunteer work through a network of volun teer projects from the EU. Then she asked what I was up to, and I told her – a ashamed – that I was job less. She immediately told me to check the EU website because they had a lot of cool opportunities (thanks, Mar!). At first, I was a bit skeptical. Doing volunteering work? What about my professional career? But as the days in El Priorat went by, an idea took shape in my mind: what about doing something in Italy where I could practice the
skills I had been picking up?
As soon as I returned home, I signed up for the webpage and started looking. About 4 projects in Italy fit my criteria: something that lasted for about 2-3 weeks and started as soon as possible. I applied to all of them and waited. After a couple of days, I got a reply from this place called Agape in a village called Prali, saying they would love to have me there between the 7th and the 23rd of June to work as a “Campo Lavoro”, supporting the teams that operated the place. A quick search revealed that this was an Ecumenical (representing a number of different Christian Churches) mountain refuge at the end of a remote valley in the Piedmonte Alps in Northwestern Italy. I waited to reply to them, as I first wanted to see what my family thought about the idea. I first ran it by my two brothers, who were immediately supportive of the opportunity “You still don’t have a job, go for it, what’s the worst that could happen? You don’t like the place? It’s just two weeks”. I then ran it by my parents. They were not very happy about the idea: “What are you going to do up there? It’s very distant from home. What if they are crazy Christians and are all cultish?”. I decided to focus on the advice from my brothers and accepted the offer (thanks, Jose and Rodo!).
month and a half later, I was picked up from a vil- lage on the way to Prali from Torino by Kero, the Turkish cook from the refuge. He started
to explain how Agape worked and who we would have for the next two weeks: kids aged siz to eight and another group aged eight to eleven. “Wait, I thought this was a Christian mountain refuge; I was expecting to have hikers and religious people staying in for a cou ple of nights and then leaving,” I said. Nope. I had signed up to work at a full-blown sum mer camp for kids. In hind sight, I could’ve figured this out if I had done better research. Laia, an outgoing and kind Cat alan girl that was also working as a Campo Lavoro, further introduced me to the refuge and its dynamics. She told me that loads of young adults tended the place by cleaning, cooking, fixing broken stuff, setting and cleaning tables and dishes, and so on. At the same time, another group of young adults hosted the kids and teenagers camps by organizing a whole week of activities.
verbal and non-verbal queues. Breaking the ice took a couple of days, but after that, the vibes between all of us were incredible.
Then there were the kids. One of my main motivators for choosing to come to this place was to practice my Italian, and I was not very successful at that, as most of the volunteers came from all countries except Italy. The staff that was hosting the camp had told us that for some activities we could join them and the kids, and I took their word for it. I introduced myself to the children by challenging them to table football matches. They were all so welcoming and happy to have me around that gaining their trust did not take much effort. Every day, whenever I had free time, I joined the camp and played with the kids in whatever activity they were doing.
ly and wonderfully. What if I had not been fired from my job? What if Jose and I went for a vacation at the Costa Brava instead of El Priorat? What if Ricardo had decided to play Brazilian music instead of Italian on that summer day? What if I had forgotten to text Mar? What if my two brothers had not pushed me to finally say yes and go to the Italian Alps?
I had never been a huge fan of the “everything happens for a reason” mentality, but after going to Agape, my mind has changed a little. If all the seemingly random things that happened to me in the past months had not happened, I wouldn’t have escaped my routine and relived the extent to which life can be enjoyed when surrounded by a stimulating environment and wonderful people.
I have rarely been as happy as I was during those two weeks in my entire life. I was initially intimidated by the situation, don’t get me wrong. Being surrounded by 20+ people from all corners of the EU and the Americas was overwhelming. It had been years since I was exposed to such a situation, and I had lost practice at it, as yes, meeting people takes skills, strategy, and energy - “Oh, you are from Belgium? North of South? And what do you think of this? And of that? Oh, you study art?”. There is a lot of listening, remembering names and information, asking smart and engaging follow-up questions, and taking in and processing
The days passed. The first group of kids left, and a second one came, and I grew more and more comfortable in Agape. I had to return to Madrid to start a new position and continue my “normal life”. In July, when I got asked by the camp director if I was interested in participating in the Friends of Agape assembly at the end of August, I did not think about it twice and booked a flight to Torino again. Going back was as amazing as the first time, as I met so many new people and saw some of the friends I made in June.
I have gone into detail on how I got to Agape just to highlight how our world works random-
Now, I find myself in a sort of a mid-twenties life crisis. Do I really want the rest of my professional career to be looking at data, creating documents, and talking with programmers about the functionalities of an application? Do I want to stay in Madrid in 2025? What if I go elsewhere and study something that moves me and makes me meet new people and face completely new challenges? I need to plan carefully, but I know the future has so much in store to offer.
Never let a defeat cloud your judgment and keep you from exploring new worlds and expanding your horizons. Who knows, maybe your Agape is just around the corner.
STUFFED MUSHROOM MARSALA
10 large, fresh mushrooms
1/2 c. finely chopped celery
4 tbsp butter, divided
1/4 c. dry marsala
1/4 c. breadcrumbs
1/2 tsp. italian seasoning
1 clove fresh garlic, minced
4 tbsp. grated parm cheese
1 egg
INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Preheat oven to 350ºF.
2. Clean mushrooms. Remove and chop stems. Set aside.
3. Melt 2 tbsp butter. Brush mushrooms inside and out with butter.
4. In large skillet, heat remaining butter over medium heat and cook stems and celery for 3 minutes until tender.
5. Add marsala. Simmer for 5 minutes until almost all the liquid has evaporated.
6. Turn off heat, stir in bread crumbs, italian seasoning, garlic, 2 tbsp cheese, and egg.
7. Stuff mushroom caps, sprinkle with remaining chese and put in a shallow baking pan.
8. Bake for 15 minutes until the cheese melts.
GO TO SLEEP
a poem by Isabella Dawson
It’s suffocating.
How do I stop something that comes from within me?
At night it buries deep in my chest.
Attempts at deep breathing turn into a festering mess.
You are not your thoughts, they say.
My attempts at rest go astray.
With the morning light comes the embarrassment.
Moonlight words said half awake in the height of it.
My heaving sobs feel like a distant memory.
My lover’s words, my only remedy.
I want to get better, I really do.
But all of these intrusions feel true.
Positive mantras, I’ll recite.
As I cry myself to sleep tonight.
The Empress
Rachel Williams Oil on Canvas 36x48”
THE JOYS OF BEING A PUMPKIN
words and
art
by Macy Kissel
I took a personality quiz, to see what kind of vegetable I would be 100% Lawful, 80% Good, 20% Evil Naturally, my result was a pumpkin
It said that pumpkins are great friends, Silly and goofy, well-tempered, your “mom” friend With everything in her purse
That she will overanalyze everything
Because she can’t help it
Yet, she still leads with her heart
She excels at arts and crafts
And I’d like to think that she loves to decorate, and host gatherings especially in the fall because it brings out the best in her, highlights her strengths
Because the pumpkin is orange and welcoming
Orange is the color of warmth, of sunshine beaming down on a spot in the grass of a friendly smile making sure everyone is included
So if that makes me a pumpkin
Then that doesn’t seem so bad
In fact, it sounds quite nice
To be such a wonderul gourd
Amongst my veggie friends
What veggie are you? Take the quiz HERE
SELF INTEROGATION #74
by Joseph Farrugia
I often wonder how different I’d be if I was met with kindness, as opposed to cruelty, in my most defining moments.
Maybe I’d have a gentler touch, for myself and others, less afraid of my fellow man, more self-assured - who knows?
All I truly know is how difficult it is to look back on many milestones without disdain and sorrow for what could have been.
Maybe I am lucky I lack the ability to wear rose colored glasses.
Someone told me once that they aren’t my shade.
THREE FUNGI RIGATONI ALFREDO
0.5 lb rigatoni
2 shallots, finely chopped
1/2 c. parmesan cheese, grated
3 tbsp olive oil
0.5 lb assorted mushrooms, cleaned and sliced (I recommend a mix of white, portobello, and baby bella mushrooms)
2 tbsp unsalted butter
1 clove garlic, minced
1 ½ c. heavy cream
Salt & black pepper, to taste
For serving:
2 tsp fresh parsley, chopped
2 tbsp Parmesan cheese, shaved or sliced
It is more frightening than shocking how much vitriol and cruelty can exist in those who are aware of the power that lies within their actions and words.
How malicious one must be to hold something so malleable, so impressionable, pure, in their hands intending to mold it into something grotesque.
I often wish I could receive an ounce of closure. To understand their prerogatives in causing such harm - understanding why, and how, they’ve done what they’ve done and are okay with the pain they’ve caused.
Maybe then I’ll be able to understand who they are and who they’ve caused me to be.
INSTRUCTIONS:
1. Cook the rigatoni in a large pot of boiling salted water according to the package instructions until al dente. Drain, reserving 1 cup of the pasta water.
2. In a large skillet, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat. Add the chopped shallots, sautéing until translucent.
3. Add the sliced mushrooms and cook until they release their moisture and it evaporates.
4. Stir in the butter and minced garlic, cooking until the butter is fully melted and the garlic is fragrant.
5. Pour in the heavy cream and season with salt, and black pepper. Let it simmer for about 4 minutes.
6. Add the al dente rigatoni and grated Parmesan cheese to the skillet. Toss to combine, gradually adding the reserved pasta water as needed to achieve a creamy sauce consistency.
7. Continue cooking for an additional 3 minutes, ensuring the pasta is well-coated and heated through.
In an empty home, she lay alone in my parents’ bed. There was such a specific comfort that only existed on their sheets. Their bodies left layer upon layer of sweat, perfume, cologne, body wash, shampoo, tears, hair, and dead skin. Their essence permeated the pillows and blankets, creating an immutable scent that emerged from their everyday habits. Never once in those 24 years of being their daughter did that scent change. It was reminiscent of simpler times, she and her younger sister would giggle and plead to push their bedtime a little later just to hear one more story.
But tonight, there would be no stories, no laughter. Tonight, her only company was her thoughts. Her persistent thoughts. Her insufferable thoughts. Thoughts that were beginning to sand down her bones until they no longer could bear the weight of her body. Audible and precise snapping of the femurs and spine. Ligaments and muscles faced the brunt of this erosion as well, leaving her a shapeless, immobile heap of humanity. Ah, yes. It was an awful thing to have your body give up on you like that - but the mind persisted, birthing a grief so intense that a wet, gargled choking began to travel through the rooms of the vacant house. An aqueous sorrow poured from what was left of her eyes and began to flow over the wooden floorboards, past the potted plants, and down the driveway. Motionless, she created an ocean.
by Sarah Torres
Still hearing the echoes of childhood laughter, she recalled how ravenous she was for knowledge as a child, indulging in history and science and fantasies. The printed words hidden in libraries were as decadent and luxurious to her as 17th-century French royal dining. Her desire to absorb all the information on every single shelf was insatiable. How she longed to know what so many who came before her wrote about, sang about, painted about. But knowledge was paralyzing. Allowing herself to become enmeshed with the bed, she imagined herself on a cool, sterile surgical table surrounded by doctors without faces, without names, without genders. Take what you need and leave me be. Put me under the knife. Be precise. Be exact. Remove everything that is valuable in their eyes. Shave my hair. Wax my eyebrows. Leave nothing desirable. Only then will my bones strengthen. Only then will my muscles grow. Only then will my spine be able to support my movement and allow me to detangle myself from this net that keeps me buried here, watching the reflection of the light on the surface.
But for now, I’ll just lay here.
There
was so much magic on Spencer Drive & Spencer Court. To the untrained eye, it may seem like your average northern New Jersey suburbia, but we knew of the treasures that hid behind those whitewalled homes and family-friendly SUVs. It was a paradise. Lush beds of long, welcoming grass covered every inch of our yards. Nature’s bed held us close while we sprawled our small bodies, exhausted, exhilarated, frustrated, and curious. Slipping from one house to the next, we gained the glorious power of transformation. In cool chlorine-treated waters, iridescent scales began to grow from our legs. The entire ocean appeared in a ten by 25-foot rectangle. In the ivy covered rock walls and the nooks of tall pine trees lived woodland pixies and garden fairies. You could sit quietly in this environment; if you were lucky enough, a winged friend might come out and leave a trail of luminescent dust. Old family cameras were stolen to create films that consisted of Oscar-worthy performances and murderous plots. Backyards became islands, driveways became apartment complexes constructed with chalk, and bushes became a refuge from those who wronged us at the Cornucopia. When the leaves became crimson and amber, we foraged for mushrooms, pinecones, and bark. We lived like natives, pretending to be part of a reality devoid of running water and electricity. When winter blanketed our neighborhood streets, we created igloos to rest in. We battled using our artillery of compact snowballs and occasionally accurate aim. The rest of the world faded away until the sound of our mother’s voices calling out our names forced us to return to our normal human child selves.
As we got older, that wonder and imagination began to dissipate, but the habits remained. The magic of Spencer never really left, even if we no longer had that power of transformation. It still gave itself to us every day and night. As a teenager, I would go outside and lie in my driveway, accompanied by the thick warmth of Jersey summer nights, when my brain became too full, and my heart too heavy. I could feel the whole entire earth supporting my weight when I rested my back on the asphalt. The comforting and familiar scents of grass and damp pavement greeted my nose. In the distance, I could hear families speaking, children laughing, lovers fighting. But if I really focused on my body on that driveway, I felt nothing but my immediate surroundings. Singing katydids serenaded me. Scattered stars calmed me. In the fall, I sat on my steps and observed the garden where I left offerings for fairies as a child. At 15, I no longer believed in such things, but I still sat and waited, watching chipmunks and rabbits pass by. When the cold arrived, I remembered the comfort of our makeshift ice homes and how my mother would have hot cocoa adorned with the softest marshmallows waiting for us when we were ready to call it a day. Every winter, I would recall the feeling of an entire day of skin-numbing snow activities, violently craving that specific warmth and sweetness that spread through my chest after that first sip of thick, indulgent liquid gold.
On my birthday this year, I decided to take a long walk in Saddle River County Park. I used to frequent it as a child with my father, and we would go on leisurely bike rides and treat ourselves to orange creamsicles so often that I can no longer enjoy the ice cream without immediately feeling like my seven-year-old self. Saddle River flows south through much of Bergen County. It meanders through many densely populated suburban areas, but in this park, forests and woodlands line many sections of the river, providing a natural buffer and habitat for wildlife.
On the sedimentary shore, a young boy and his father were standing next to the rushing stream. The boy picked up one of the first curling, dry leaves of autumn and gently placed it on the surface of the water. It began to quickly glide with the small current until it was out of sight. The boy gleefully tugged at his father’s sleeve, needing to make sure he was seeing the magic that was created by setting that leaf on the water. I imagined my younger self doing the same; the leaf would have had to be big enough to provide transportation for at least 3 fairies. I would have collected dozens and placed them one after another to send them to the river nymphs to assist the pixies who could not travel in water easily. Standing there, watching the two create memories the young boy could one day reminisce about on his 24th, I realized I was at my wisest when I was his age - when I allowed myself to be fully absorbed in the worlds we created in and outside of Spencer. My childhood home contained the universe. It molded my infant brain and allowed me to become a person. There are monks who dedicate their lives to finding pure joy and peace, but we discovered it every day.
WILL YOU REMEMBER?
by Melanie Blatt
Did you notice when the monarch stopped coming?
A butterfly, a bee, an aesthetic shown by many known by few. nothing that exist now will ever just disappear in this society of purchase.
We are immortalized, but does it make the loss any less tragic or does it actually make it more?
Have you ever watched as a juicy grub determinedly munched on milkweed? Innocent, hunted by many, and exposed. Enemies may pluck their squishy bodies from a leaf, but they remain mostly unbothered.
Helpless against the force of my fingers as I pick up their striped body to observe them closer as they crawl on my hand.
They do not fear danger
They are too focused on what they can control because to achieve their transformation they need fuel.
Spinning a chrysalis, they become a blackbox.
No human knows what goes on inside.
The shell of green and gold, unmoving, vulnerable for days.
Then they will hatch and become something beautiful and fragile.
A flake surfing through the wind yet fast and clever, making a 2500 mile journey mere days after birth, on soundless wings.
Wings so thin my fingers would turn them to dust, and yet these same wings are said to have the potential to cause hurricanes.
Will you notice when they go and never come back?
POST GRAD-LIB
It’s the season of the witch and you’ve been itching to brew!
YOUR PERFECT FALL POTION
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