Page 1


A note about the cover: The image on the cover was taken in an effort to visually credit the ephemeral influences that have greatly informed the making of this issue of Tri-County Pie Eat. This gathering of objects reflects the chance encounters, beautiful eccentricities, and daily minutiae that have had a tremendous impact on the content and aesthetic, but which do not lend themselves well to being described with words. The two pieces featured that deserve explicit recognition, however, are the screen printed hand on the front cover and the postcard on the back which reads, “you are nothing without feminist art�. the screenprinted hand was made by Saturn Millner as part of a group show entitled, YIKES! Located at Through the Music Gallery and Studio in Battleboro, Vermont during the month of June, 2010. THe postcard is a piece by Portland artist sarah gottesdiener. it was distributed around town a few years ago and has been a permanent fixture on the walls of many houses since. it also had a cameo appearance during an episode of portlandia.


issue two This is the second issue of Tri-County Pie Eat; a quarterly publication which focuses on recognizing the efforts of conscientious artists, innovators, and malcontents who exist outside the realm of mainstream newsstand media. In this issue, we strove to create a more perfect union. While the success of such an effort is nebulous, we aimed to include more voices and outlooks, more friendships working together. We have gone back to our metaphorical roots and become excited again, sought out adventures once more, and remembered why we started Tri-County in the first place. This issue was born from a summer full of midnight rides, earnest phone calls, dog adoptions, trips to the river, and eating nothing but half vegan devilled eggs for weeks. Above all, as always, we sought to recognize individuals who excel at crafting self-satisfying lives. A little bit country, a little bit rock and roll, we hope that you enjoy the seconde issue even more than the first. Summer may be winding down, but fall is a season with its own set of inspirations and we can already feel the stories for issue three unfolding before us like an open roaD.


TRI-COUNTY PIE EAT IS CURRENTLY LOCATED IN PORTLAND, OREGON. Questions? Comments? Concerned? Write to us at: 5213 ne 21st ave, Portland ORegon 97211 / hello@tri-countyquarterly.com

C o n t r i b u t e r s : Abby Banks abbyrbanks.tumblr.com e ont LaP reve h sh ara : S clare igh f i Le r: che n’ edito istin sky ‘ Kr s lon on tor Edi ficti itor: y Jab bank y l d non ion e : sal : abb r r t es fic Edito edito jon n e e art ntur hel e t: p adv e d nt Pri

Ebin Lee ebinlee.weebly.com Eric Monrad newriverside.posterous.com Jes Rega Kristin Leigh kristinmleigh@gmail.com Lucas Foglia lucasfoglia.com

Mark Anthony Martinez sonoftherifleman.tumblr.com cubfluffer.com Melissa Joubert Michael Hernandez michaelahernandez.com Sarah Cloutier Sarah George sarah gottesdiener sarahgottesdiener.com Sarah LaPonte sarahlaponte.com Saturn Millner Tim Adam Maynard timadambags.com


issue two 6. Bootstrap homes: Sarah Cloutier 9. MIchael Hernandez: New images 16. Sea Legs, non fiction by Kristin Leigh 19. Collectives and Communes: Eric Monrad 26. Son of a Gun: Mark Anthony Martinez 30. Lucas Foglia, excerpt from a natural order 32. New adventures by Abby Banks 36. Catching up with Catching out 39. Muff tuff: photographs by sarah Laponte 49. Jes Rega, On becoming a woman 50. New work by Ebin Lee 53. Tim adam: bags for everyone 55. an ode to pork by melissa joubert


Bootstrap Homes text by Sarah Cloitier/ Images by Sarah LaPonte


Bootstrap Homes is an attempt to change attitudes towards homelessness through art, while supplying the basic needs of life to homeless people. What do people need? Food and clean water. Shelter from the weather. Sanitation. A secure place for their belongings. A safe place to sleep. Respect and pride. A place to exist. All of these are hard to get when you’re homeless. I can’t do anything about food, water, and sanitation right now, but I can provide legal space to exist: $300 camper-trailers known as Boots, which can be towed by hand, and legally parked on the street. They have locks and walls and roofs, and storage space, and ventilation. They’re easily cleaned, waterproof, fire resistant. They can be simply made from common materials. They can be made beautiful. I hope that working with communities to make these into quirky, whimsical, beautiful little homes will give everyone a sense of safety and even pride in these dwellings and their inhabitants.


In designing these, I had a number of self-imposed design specifcations to contend with. I wanted to keep them under $300: affordable within a year at a dollar a day. They had to be sturdy and long-lasting, to offset their initial cost. They needed to be light enough that people could pull them by hand or by bike, and narrow enough to go easily on the sidewalk, so that they would not be a nuisance to either homeless people or passersby. They needed to be waterproof and fireproof, of course, and easily washed between occupants or after vandalism. They needed to be easily constructed with few tools, and further, I required that any parts must be easily available locally. It had to be legal to park them somewhere, as one of their most pertinent benefits for homeless people would be legal space to exist. I was able to meet all of these specifcations, although there is plenty of room for improvement. The final Boots are approximately three and a half feet wide by six and a half feet long, nine if the roof and tow handle are included, and just under five feet tall. The interior space is almost four feet from floor to ceiling arch. They weigh around 150 pounds when empty, cost just under $300, meet building codes for fire safety, and require no specialized equipment


Michael Hernandez

Photographs


S e a

L e g s

images and text by kristin leigh I wake up with a jolt. My sleeping bag hugs the wall of my bunk and for a moment I don’t know where I am. The pungent smell of salmon, diesel exhaust and stale sweat overwhelms me. Then it hits me and the strangeness of it all washes over me again. I’m not used to living on an Alaskan fishing boat. I hear the sizzle of bacon hitting a hot pan in the galley kitchen not ten feet away. I rub my hands on my cold face, trying desperately to wake up. I could only hope there was coffee. “Hey, Kristin. It’s 4 A.M! Time to wake up and live the dream.” Ian says from the kitchen. I can hear him sifting through drawers. Thank God one of us is a morning person. “Yeah. I’m up.” I feel for my pants at the bottom of my sleeping bag and drag them on, along with my thermals and double layer socks. Even in August, these Alaskan mornings are an icy bitch. It takes all my resolve to will myself out of my warm cocoon. I hop down from my bunk, pull on my rubber XtraTuf boots, hoodie and survey the

scene around me. One of the deckhands, Jeremy sits at the kitchen table, thumbing through old, mangled crew logs from past seasons. I can’t tell how old he is but his face is worn and parched from years at sea. He hasn’t shaved for days and his hands are shaking. I suspect he’s detoxing from something nasty. Nick, an ex-firefighter, hums Bob Dylan in the kitchen, clearly in his element. “Want some coffee?” He asks, pointing to the nailed down Coffeemate. “Thought you’d never ask.” I say, walking past the table and over to the bar. I grab a cup, latched to the wall, and rub my hoodie over the edge. It still has traces of last night’s clam chowder in it, but it’s clean enough for me. Today I am wearing proper fishing boat attire but when I arrived with Ian last night, it was pretty obvious I had just stepped off a plane from Texas. I wore a navy blue cotton dress with hand sewn sparrows on the shoulders with black Mary Janes. Ian held my hand as we approached his boat, the Kendal. It was pretty obvious this was a booty call. The crew, in their flannel plaids and green rubber overalls watched me smirking, as I climbed


onto the boat, holding Ian for support as I steadied myself, lacking the sea legs and footwear to board a purse seiner gracefully. The testosterone in the air was palpable. Even nature, with its icy blue mountains dotting the horizon as far as I could see, was on steroids. I wasn’t in Austin any more. “You guys better get your asses in gear!” Monty shouts from the wheelhouse above us. He’s steering us in for this morning’s first set and is ready to get down to work. He doesn’t care that I’m visiting; he’s got more pressing things on his mind this morning. “How does pancakes and bacon sound? Hungry, skipper?” Nick shouts up at the ceiling, holding the box of Bisquick steady as the boat lurches and sways. “Just toss me up a peanut butter and jelly, will you?” I see Ian roll his eyes. I’m sure Monty’s demands get old. I’m happy to play the good natured, gowith-the-flow tourist. I lean over the bar and dump two heaping spoonfuls of non-dairy creamer into my coffee. Nick watches me over the griddle, “You know that stuff sparkles if you light it on fire.”

“Whatever.” I grin, “If this is my worst vice out here in the middle of ocean, I’ll manage just fine.” “At least the weather isn’t gonna be shitty today.” Jeremy says, his eyes scanning the reports. “It all comes down to luck, anyways.” Nick pulls strips of bacon out of the pan with a fork and shakes the grease off each one. “Don’t let Monty hear you say that,” Jeremy’s bloodshot eyes motion to the ceiling. “I think we will have some decent sets,” Ian says, sipping his coffee. I know enough to realize that whatever I say will sound naïve, so I drink my coffee in silence and watch Nick pour batter into elegant circles onto the griddle. “It’ll be just five more minutes before these pancakes are ready,” Nick eyes the bubbling mounds of batter, “In the meantime, I’ll make his royal pain in the ass’s sandwich a la carte.” I watch him spread a thick hunk of peanut butter on white bread. I can feel the coffee roiling around in my empty stomach, like the rolling wake off the stern of the boat. Everyone else knows what to expect, more or less, but I’m still clueless and unprepared. I can’t help but feel a little nervous. “Here ya’ go.” Nick pushes a plate across the particle


board bar towards Ian with two pieces of crisp bacon and a stack of pancakes bathed in syrup. If this didn’t help us get our day started, nothing would. “Thanks, Nick.” Ian grabs the plate and rolls his pancake into a cylinder. He pops it in his mouth and grins at me, syrup sticking to his beard. If ever I doubted Ian’s choice to spend his summers up here, I was wrong. His joy is contagious; it makes me so glad to see him like this, in his natural element. “Come on! Everyone on deck!” Monty yells, a booming voice above us, “Where’s my sandwich?” I cram a pancake in my mouth, and wash it down with the rest of my coffee. I run over to a makeshift closet, pull on thick neoprene overalls and climb up the stairs, slick with seawater. I walk out onto the deck, the air is frigid and my nose is already red. That’s when the beauty of it hits me like a truck. The open sea lies before me on four sides of this fifty foot boat. In the distance I can see a shoreline thick with trees, rocks and beach. The sky is pink and so wide it feels like we’re on the edge of the world, about to fall off. Even as a tourist I get why they do this. They leave their jobs and their families every year and I don’t think it’s just for the Alaskan wilderness, the endless days that stretch from twenty hours long or the ocean life that knocks you out with its beauty. Most of us spend the bulk of our days unconnected from our food and the products that make up our obsessively curated lifestyles. It’s an endless cycle of purchase and

consume. Everything is so far removed and disconnected from us that it’s hard to feel satisfied, to feel like our lives matter. Living with a crew of fishermen on a boat, pulling wild fish from the ocean is so visceral, so in your face real and straight forward, it’s a relief. The urge to escape society and to connect with something that is tangible is what brings these guys back every season. It jolts you awake in a culture that is distracted and half asleep. “Snap out of it, greenhorn!” Monty’s deep voice is directly behind me now. I turned around and see him smiling. “Do you see that?” He points to a spot in the ocean 200 yards away. At first I can’t tell what he’s referring to, then I see it. A whole school of fish, swimming and flopping in the water. They are packed in so thick that they looked like a giant pot of spaghetti on high heat. The sea is boiling with salmon. “I think today’s going to be a good day for us.” Monty says. I can’t agree more.


New Riverside Cafe Coillective, 1971. (that’s me on the far left) Photo Eve MacLeish.

Collectives and Communes Hippies and Communists in Minneapolis circa 1971. Nixon was president, the Viet Nam war raged, and many of us thought the “Revolution” was just around the corner. As a 16 year old orphan I moved from California to Minneapolis to live with my brother, the 6th place I’d live in 4 years, in 5 different states. Our apartment in the hippie West Bank neighborhood was directly above a new coffee house with good food and live music 6 nights a week: it was my second family for many years. Clothes were free at the Free Store, healthcare was free at the People’s Cinic, and Food Co-ops fed the various neighborhoods. There were always posters to draw and photos to shoot with my 35mm Miranda: here are a few.

Photographs and Text by Eric Monrad


Betty Boop


“Watch Cat� poster we appropriated from theWobblies. Heller was our landlord who was tearing down our historic neighborhood to build high rise projects


Father Bill, hippie priest, one of the Cafe founders


Eve


Eric, 1970. Photo Eve MacLeish.


Onstage at the Cafe, 1970


Mark anthony Martinez

Chapter
1
 Son
of
a
Gun:
The
Origins
of
a
Name
 


I
want
to
start
with
a
brief
story
about
my
mother,
Cindy
Olvera.
She
grew
up
on
the


Southeast
side
of
San
Antonio,
Texas,
an
area
of
town
primarily
populated
by
African
American
and
 Mexican‐American
residents.1

Here,
racism
manifested
through
the
color
line,
a
line
that
divides
 White
and
non‐white
populations
within
a
city.2
In
the
1960s,
San
Antonio
consisted
of
eighteen
 square
miles
of
poverty
centered
around
the
West
and
South
sides
of
town.3
This
poverty
was
the
 direct
result
of
a
concentration
of
wealth
on
the
North,
and
predominately
White,
side
of
town.4
 Subsequently,
by
the
late
1960s,
San
Antonio
had
become
the
poorest
major
city
in
the
United
States,
 with
more
than
half
of
its
population
living
below
the
government
poverty
line.5
 


This
demographic
information,
provided
by
David
Montejano,
in
his
book,
Quixote's
Soldiers,


in
conjunction
with
my
mother's
age,
is
important
to
me
because
it
informed
my
initial
line
of
inquiry
 and
the
inspiration
for
this
thesis
project:
How
could
my
mother
have
been
raised
in
an
environment
 of
poverty
and
racism
and
yet
–
I
had
never
heard
any
of
it
–
as
a
child
or
an
adult?6
I
knew
my
 grandparents
grew
up
poor
–
and
I
knew
that
my
mother
was
the
baby
of
the
family,
born
in
the
late‐ fifties.
By
1966,
at
the
height
of
racial
tension
and
opposition
to
the
Vietnam
war,
my
mother
was


























































 1
David
Montejano,
Quixote’s
Soldiers:
A
Local
History
of
the
Chicano
Movement,
1966­1981,
 1st
ed.
(University
of
Texas
Press,
2010).
 
 2
In
1903,
W.E.B.
Du
Bois
wasn’t
the
first
to
use
the
phrase
the
“color
line,”
but
when
he
 posited
this
phrase
as
“the
problem
of
the
twentieth
century,”
however,
I
am
sure
he
was
well
aware,
 that
the
color
line
would
be
a
21st‐century
problem
as
well.
W.E.B.
Du
Bois,
The
Souls
of
Black
Folk
 (Bantam
Classics,
1989),
xxxi.
 
 3
Fred
H
Schmidt,
Spanish
surnamed
American
employment
in
the
Southwest
([Washington,:
 Equal
Employment
Opportunity
Commission;
for
sale
by
the
Supt.
of
Docs.,
U.S.
Govt.
Print.
Off.,,
 1970).
 
 4
Montejano,
Quixote’s
Soldiers,
24.
 
 5
Montejano,
Quixote’s
Soldiers,
24‐27.



 6
Montejano,
Quixote’s
Soldiers.



only
eight,
which
made
her
too
young
for
any
real
political
activity
or
participation
in
El
Movimiento,
 or
the
Chicano
Movement
(Figure
1).
A
movement
that
represented
(and
in
some
contemporary
 cases
still
represents)
marginalized
communities
of
color
that
were
regularly
exposed
to
rampant
 discrimination
and
economic
inequity.7
Chicanos
repudiated
Whiteness
by
acknowledging
their
 indigenous
and
African
heritage
in
the
face
of
radical
oppression.



 Figure
1.
San
Antonio,
“114
F‐street”
(1968)
Olvera
Family



 


What's
more,
my
mother
loves
to
talk
about
her
childhood,
but
not
about
the
adversity
of
her


surroundings
or
politics
in
general.
Instead,
she
most
frequently
talks
about
the
comforts
of
having
 grown
up
with
television,
and
frequently
reminisces
on
the
time
her
father
brought
home
a
newly
 acquired
15”
black
and
white
television
set.
She
discovered
shows
like
Tarzan,
The
Lone
Ranger
and
 most
influential
of
all,
The
Rifleman,
on
this
TV.
This
last
program
was
very
important
personally
 because
she
would
later
name
her
first
born
son,
Mark,
after
the
son
of
the
rifleman,
Mark
McCain,
 played
by
Johnny
Crawford
(Figure
2).

Due
to
this
key
fact,
I
place
myself
within
the
larger
context


























































 7
Elizabeth
Martinez,
De
colores
means
all
of
us:
Latina
veiws
for
a
multi­colored
century.
 (Cambridge
South
End
Press
1998.,
1998).



of
ethnic
and
racial
assimilation,
which
is
central
to
U.S.
History.
My
name
was
not
Jose,
like
my
father
 or
his
father.
Nor
was
it
derived
from
a
catholic
saint.
The
language
of
my
name
is
English,
not
that
of
 my
forebears,
Nahuatl,
the
indigenous
tongue
of
the
Aztecs.
Most
importantly,
for
my
mother,
my
 name
was
not
Mexican.
With
this
conscious
choice
in
mind,
it
becomes
evident
that
through
 assimilation,
one
learns
to
ignore
the
Mexican
experience
in
favor
of
a
White
American
fantasy
 (provided
via
the
television
screen).
A
fantasy
made
all
the
more
appealing
through
the
 uncomfortable
alternative
of
recognizing
a
reality
of
racism
that
subjugated
the
lives
of
those
who
 inhabited
the
West
and
South
sides
of
1960s
San
Antonio,
Texas.



 Figure
2.
Four
Star
Sussex,
“Cast
of
the
Rifleman,”
(1958)

Johnny
Crawford
(left)
and
Chuck
Connors
 (right)
 


What
would
later
become
clear
to
me
through
the
stories
my
mother
told,
was
that
even


though
San
Antonio
was
very
poor,
my
mother's
family
and
the
television
insulated
her
from
the
 chaos
of
the
outside
world.
My
grandfather
gave
my
mother
everything
she
wanted
and
thus
gave
her
 a
childhood
that
even
her
older
siblings
did
not
have,
much
less
her
parents.
Unfortunately,
this



insulation
came
with
a
price
and
my
mother
was
largely
unaware
of
the
socioeconomic
conditions
 and
bigotry
of
the
world
in
which
she
was
growing
up.
I
attribute
my
mother's
sheltered
experience
 to
a
process
of
becoming
American
–
a
process
I
feel
can
be
related
to
both
a
racial
and
ethnic
 experience
–
wherein
individuals
choose
to
buy
into
the
“American
Dream.”8
This
dream
promises
a
 fair
shot
at
economic
opportunity
and
equality,
specifically
for
my
mother,
through
shedding
Mexican
 values
and
Chicano
ideologies.
The
editors
of
the
book,
Doing
Race,
Paula
Moya
and
Hazel
Markus,
 provide
an
insightful
commentary
as
to
what
makes
a
topic
like
racism
and
oppression
so
difficult
for
 Americans
to
face:
 
 
 Both
possibilities
that
individuals
might
not
be
able
to
surmount
the
disadvantage
of
being
 nonwhite
in
U.S.
Society
and
that
they
might
not
be
able
to
free
themselves
from
their
group‐based
 associations
–
can
be
upsetting.
The
idea
that
a
person
might
be
associated
with
groups
of
people
or
 histories
of
oppression
with
which
she
does
not
personally
identify
seems
to
undermine
one
of
this
 country's
most
cherished
narratives,
the
one
known
as
the
American
Dream.9
 
 In
contrast
to
European
ethnic
groups,
such
as
Polish,
Irish
or
Italian
immigrants
who
could,
(to
 coin
a
phrase
from
David
Roediger)
“work
toward
whiteness”
and
buy
into
the
unifying
identification
 of

Whiteness.10
Non‐White
peoples
–
such
as,
in
the
case
of
my
family,
assimilation
promised
to
make
 them
psychologically
American
but
never
promised
to
treat
them
as
such.
As
result
and
whether
or
 not
my
family
chooses
to
recognize
this
factor
–
the
Chicano
is
perpetually
foreign
in
their
own
land.


























































 8
Hazel
Rose
Markus
and
Paula
M.
L.
Moya,
Doing
Race:
21
Essays
for
the
21st
Century
(W.
W.
 Norton
&
Company,
2010),
59‐62.
 
 9
Ibid.,
57.



 10

David
Roediger,
Working
Toward
Whiteness:
How
America's
Immigrants
Became
White
 (Basic
Books,
2005).


new adventures

photographs by ABBY BANKS

Saturn in the music box, New Orleans


New Orleans Wolf


Bandelier National Park, New Mexico


Ezra on the hill, Los Angeles


Interveiw with Sarah George,

director of Catching Out; a documentary about hopping trains. images by jan cook.

TRI-COUNTY: How did you come about making this film? Was it an idea you have had for a long time or something that developed out of other projects?

Sarah George: I’m not sure if hopping freight trains was an excuse to make a film or if making a film was an excuse to hop trains but I always say I became a filmmaker and trainhopper at the same time. There was very little premeditation. What did you expect going into it and how was that different-or was that any different- that what you actually experience during the process of making it?

I expected it would take about a year to make the film. It took seven. Also, I thought the RR companies would be my biggest opposition, but it turned out to be the trainhoppers themselves! What was your process like in find-

ing subjects to interview and travel with?

I realized early on that the film needed strong characters, but the process of finding them was totally random. Northbank Fred introduced me to Switch and Baby Girl. Jessica wrote me a very convincing email. Lee and I became penpals before hopping trains together. There is a scene towards the end of the film where Jessica’s friends are talking about whether or not it is a good thing to make a film about riding freight because it will let too many people know about it. What was your impression of the new generation of train riders? And where you able to talk to any old timers about how they saw trainhopping changing as an activity that is increasingly documented.

The trainhopping community has tensions like any other community and there is friction


between different generations of riders. I like Luther the Jet’s take on it - embracing younger riders and not trying to impose a nostalgic definition of what is or isn’t true to the legacy. Trainhopping in the media is much more of a controversy among younger riders who depend on the trains for their lifestyle. But I feel that trainhopping has been a part of popular culture since we’ve had trains to ride. Can you talk a little about what it was like to shoot footage on and around the trains?

Trains are very photogenic so that made it easy! But honestly I invested a lot of time figuring how to shoot on moving trains and safety was a huge priority. We made sure to respect the trains. Have you train hopped since filming?

I took Catching Out on a self-styled distribution tour hopping trains between venues across the country. And my husband and I have taken a couple romantic adventures together. But somehow I can’t seem to make the time anymore which is an indictment of a reality that feels less and less sane. Has the experience of riding trains changed your outlook in regards to other aspects of your life?

Hopping freight trains changes your perspective completely. It is the opposite of the homogenous culture that seems to have consumed authentic experience, at least in capitalistic America.

Some of the narratives in Catching Out allude to the dangers involved in riding trains- both in terms of threatening fellow riders as well as the mechanical dangers involvedbut it seems the film as a whole focuses the beauty in the experience and the sense of community-can you speak a little to that?

I find there’s a lot less to fear on freight trains then at, say, a bank. Or more realistically, in a car. I do find the beauty intoxicating, and I value the sense of community tremendously. But the dangers are real. What kind of research did you do prior to filming? I

just tried to immerse myself in the culture and spend as much time listening as I could. It was important for me to get the story “right” and not sensationalize it - most of my research was just hanging out and talking. And drinking. What are you currently working on? I’m working on my house. Another project that I totally underestimated when I started. Fondest memories from your time filming? Sleeping in the trackside hobo

jungle in San Luis Obispo. Riding thru snow in the Sierras. Watching 4th of July fireworks in Flagstaff from the train. A worker who put me on train when I needed some help. Mesmerizing moonlight along the Missouri. Waking up along the Mississippi. Seeing endless waves of grain. The Canadian Rockies.


muff tuff portraits by Sarah LaPonte


AMANDA


ABBY


Kaija


Whitney


CAITLIN


CAYLEE


CLARE


Helen


ON BECOMING A WOMAN, BY JES REGA When I was 9 years old my parents bought a house. A little piece of the working class dream right smack dab in the middle of San Francisco’s Mission district. That summer we moved out of our creepy little basement flat in the Fillmore and into a run down Victorian that my mother spent the next 20 years restoring to its original glory. During the move, my paternal grandmother – Selma Beckelman – asked my mother if there was anything my mother needed that she could buy for her. My mother said “yeah, the kids are gonna have their own rooms for the first time and could really use new beds”. So my grandmother bought us a lifetime membership to the Jewish Community Center (what did my mother know about what the kids needed?!) For the next 5 years, I spent every minute that I wasn’t in school or asleep at the JCC. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I took gymnastics and the rest of the week I was a star swimmer for the JCC Swim Team. About 2 years into my swimming career, I started my period. I didn’t tell my mom because I kept hoping it would just go away. I sincerely believed that if I didn’t talk about it, it would just go away. At the time I couldn’t see the many flaws in my strategy. Since I hadn’t told my mom, I had to score my pads by stealing them from a woman I babysat for after school. I remember she had several boxes of varying absorbency, coverage, and thickness. In my panic at having to choose from so many options, I grabbed a fistful of winged overnights, which for those of you fortunate enough to have never encountered an overnight pad with wings, let me say this – hobo bed rolls are smaller than this thing. The following day, armed with my overnight with wings, I went to my swim meet. I put that giant fucking pad right in the crotch of

my swimsuit and swam my little ass off. That night my mom came into my room and said “I think it’s time I show you how to use a tampon”. I took this to mean that she would leave a little pamphlet on my desk and I could read it when I had the time. Instead, she returns with a box of OB non-applicator tampons. She sets those down on my desk, removes her pants and mom underwear. She unwraps the little missile shaped vagina plug, hikes her foot on my bed – the bed she had to buy ‘cause grandma decided we needed our Jewish community more than a place to sleep and if it wasn’t for that goddamn JCC swim team my mom wouldn’t have one foot on my bed and her hairy bush in my face right now. But, alas, here we are…… She takes the terrifyingly compact cotton bullet and shoves it right into the thick of her massive bush. With just her finger no less. And all I could think was, were the fuck did it go?! The second image that came into view after the smoke of my mothers vagina being seared into my retna had cleared was that of the OB tampon commercial that was on TV at the time. I young woman behind the frost of an 80’s camera filter leaps through a park (why is she leaping? I have no idea.) while this song plays: OB It’s the way it should be Keep it simple And set yourself free From the extras (ahhhhh) That you really don’t need Just try OB And you’ll see Thanks OB, but I’ve seen all I need to see.


Ebin Lee: New Work

Tie


Earring


Shoe


Tim Adam:

BAGS FOR EVERYONE PHOTOGRAPHS BY SARAH LAPONTE

TRI-COUNTY: How did you get started making backpacks? TIM ADAM MAYNARD: I worked for a company called Seagull Bags out of Ohio for two years, from 2007-2009. Then I moved out here, brought my sewing machine with me. When I moved here I, and got a job sewing for an awning/tent maker on Alberta. I started making backpacks on the side just at home, usually just for friends, through word of mouth, but then I created a website which got more people looking at my bags. I’ve been doing it full time now for a year and a half.

How did you first get hired at Seagull?

I had a friend who worked there, and when I moved back to Columbus, Ohio, they needed someone to cut fabric so I got a part time job doing that. After a couple months I started jumping on the sewing machine, my friend would teach me after hours how to put together a bag, and then I started doing it on the clock.

Awesome! that is really great. What is new business wise? Actually, the whole time I’ve been making bags, I’ve had no brand really, just a name


but it hasn’t been on any bags. Except these bags are all going to japan as part of a whole sale order and my distributer there created this because they wanted a label and I didn’t have one, but I finally got my own branding and am launching a new website next week.

which is why they take so long to do. I’m trying to get away from that. I don’t like doing that because I do all the bags myself and its too much production style. I’d rather do smaller orders. I’m not trying to be like Chrome. I’m just trying to make a living doing what I do.

How did you get found in Japan?

It’s exciting that instead of just designing the bags, you also do every aspect of making them yourself. Do you think it’s easier to do what you do here, in Portland?

I’m not sure, actually. Somewhere on Tumblr probably. I have an inkling on who it was though, this kid in new york who’s nineteen and bought a bag from me and then started a fashion blog that is somehow really popular now, so I think through

that blog that a lot business started to come my way. I haven’t been really pushing business at all because I’ve been doing these wholesale orders that have been taking up so much time that I haven’t been able to do any websites or branding stuff, everything was super simple, basically pictures and an email address, but that’s about to change and I’m excited to see what happens.

How big are the wholesale orders? It depends, but probably the largest was 260 bags,

Definitely. I think now that I’ve done it, I could take it somewhere else, but I feel like people are

very receptive here to small businesses.

And how has Portland been treating you so far? I’ve been here two years, almost three. It’s great.

What’s it like when you seen people with your backpacks? Do you talk to them? (Laughs) No, not usually. I got on the bus one day though and sat by a lady who had a bag and I had mine, and she complemented it. That was pretty funny.


ode to pork

by melissa joubert

Joubert’s prosciutto leg hanging in the basement, above a drumset. Photo by Sarah LaPonte

I love meat. It can be gently coaxed into such a variety of mouthwatering flavors and toothsome textures. Meat is an important ingredient in the culinary traditions of the majority of cultures in the world. Human beings have been raising animals for their meat for thousands of years, and hunting them for far longer. But, meat is complicated, it is complex, and it is controversial. The reasons for and against eating meat are as varied and unique as the world’s sausages. Whether we choose to eat meat or not, we all still consume factory-farm raised animals through the use of slaughterhouse by-products that are processed into fertilizers to enrich the soils of organic fruit and vegetable farms across America. But, I digress. This is neither a stringent essay on food politics in the United States, nor an analysis of the advantages and disadvantages of consuming an animal protein based diet; This is an ode to pork. This project was spawned from my true love of dry-cured ham legs paired with my good fortune of meeting a couple of local hog farmers. While interning at an organic farm in Yamhill, OR during the summer of 2008, my boss took my co-workers and I to his friend’s farm for a tour and a cold pint. (Both farmers happened to have refrigerated kegs of local brews in their barns!) The farm, Square Peg Farm of Forest Grove, owned and operated by Chris Rhoem and Amy Benson, was 40 acres of rolling green pasture, where their organic hogs and laying hens roamed. Chris and Amy also had a small orchard, a sizeable u-pick strawberry patch, and a handful of acres in vegetable production. To a young farm intern, this place was a veritable agrarian dream come true. I vowed then and there that one day I would either: a) purchase a half-hog from them or b) convince them to adopt me so that I could live and work at their farm forever. In the spring of 2011, my boyfriend Mark and I finally took the plunge and put a down payment on an organic, pastured-raised half-hog from Square Peg.


As giddy as school girls at a Hello Kitty convention, we drove out to Forest Grove to give Chris and Amy our deposit. After taking a stroll around the farm, we gladly handed over our down payment, and Chris gave us a superfluous pig’s head as a parting gift, knowing that Mark, a cook by trade, would know what to do with it. I’d be lying if I said that driving back into the city with a 20-pound hog’s head in a black trash bag in the backseat of the car didn’t make me feel at least a little unnerved. Our half-hog was delivered three months later, and the rest is history. Described below is our 9-step process for curing and drying a ham leg at home. (Thankfully, we had use of a restaurant kitchen for the delivery, temporary storage, and butchering of our half-hog.)

Images courtesy Melissa Joubert

1. Find a pig farmer near you. 2. Buy a half-hog (or whole hog, if you dare) from said farmer, and have it delivered to a location that can accommodate a half-carcass the size of a small man. 3. Cut the half-hog into manageable pieces and vacuum-seal each piece (to be frozen) keeping the leg aside for immediate curing. 4. Pack the leg in coarse kosher salt, paying special attention to the cut end. Cover with a lid, and weigh down with river rocks. 5. Keep salt-packed leg in refrigerator for one day per pound. Pour off accumulated liquid as needed. 6. Remove from salt. Rinse. Pat dry with paper towels. 7. Cover cut end of leg in lard (rendered pork fat) and whole black pepper corns. Wrap leg in cheese cloth and truss with cooking twine. 8. Hang leg in a cool, dry place (ie. a basement, a closet, etc.) for 12-24 months. Check periodically for bad odors and visible mold or rot. 9. Unwrap leg and enjoy. Keep leg hung in cool, dry place until fully consumed. * Special thanks to Mark for introducing me to both prosciutto (Italian dry-cured ham) and jamon serrano ( Spanish dry-cured ham.) ** Sadly, as of this year, Chris and Amy are no longer raising hogs.


t h a n k

y o u

tri-county pie eat was proudly printed by pine island press, a small press located in portland, oregon. It was printed using non-toxic solid ink technology that reduces waste, uses less energy, and smells like a crayon while printing! the outer covers were screenprinted through the help of the always wonderful bt livermoore at magnetic north, a beautiful printmaking studio in north east portland. TRI-County PIE was bound by hand at the irreplaceable IPRC. a Huge thanks to all the contributors of this issue for all of your patience and enthusiasm. Endless thanks also to lucas foglia for your continued inspiration, sarah george for taking the time, and abby banks for being alive. thank you kindly to everyone who is on the cover. you know who you are.

Š Tri-County Pie Eat


TRI-COUNTY PIE EAT, ISSUE 2  

Second issue of Tri-County Pie Eat, featuring Lucas Foglia, Abby Banks, Sarah George, Michael Hernandez, and many more.

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