When I was in grade school, we had a class where we’d write journal entries and our superintendent would have various students read aloud their entries to the rest of the school. The favorites were the ones written by the older kids that were obvious rip-offs of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries, substituting the names of their classmates. We’d beg for the next installments to hear what happened. No one ever asked for me to read my writing. I wasn’t a very good writer and never had anything terribly interesting to write about. Also, I was a little kid.…
Operation barbacoa: two blisters and two bags of charcoal (to melt through the frost layer) and many hours later Berck is exultant about his hole. The leg of lamb is thawing in the laundry room and a stack of maguey leaves is waiting in the garage. Berck has fashioned wire handles for the pot from Mexico. We have test-fit the grate on the pot. We have firewood stock-piled next to the hole. We have a plywood cover and tarp ready for the hole. There are garbanzo beans soaking in water upstairs. Tomorrow morning, we have to get up super early…