Found a few photos from older outdoor writing projects.....
Karla made it out in the woods today....thanks for the help all you flies......
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Karla.
Karla found herself at the end of the month in Santiago, working at a Cafés con piernas for little wages, tips, free tortas and a pair of high heels. Back at the hostel (were she was able to convince the manager for a weekly discount) the extra sandwiches went over big with the tourists as she sold them cheaply as Chilean `artisanal tortas` ' All made with local ingredients. Local in that as Karla knew, they came from the local supermercado around the corner. This was quite the change from what she called her ` kebab wallah ` job in Mumbai at an expansive hostel, more an open courtyard hotel with a large tandoor and bbq pit with a big tawa on top. She quickly used her cooking skills and storytelling to earn free room and board as she entertained nightly. Everyone was a foodie in that they all knew what a kebab was from home. So Karla adjusted by what she could find on hand and used her skill to transport all these foodies to local India! From pasanda and nar
Nan's cookbook memories Notes and recipes scrawled across milk tin wrapper backs, torn pieces of envelop, christmas cards and any other scrap of paper she could get her hands on. All taped and tucked into a small pile of tattered cookbooks, each one falling apart as I turned their pages. Some stuck together with sticky traces of past recipes. Frugal at all times, something born from a young life of struggle among twenty children or so. Out in the garden, I smear a black currant leaf across my hand. The smell brings me back to her and bellburns. Berry picking, sticky bake appled fingers dig down in the tangle. We crouch down as the dust cloud rumble of a car dodging potholes closes in. We do not want to be seen as our patch would be known. Day's end, cabined, wood smoked cosy, tea and toast like poppy's and thoughts of that big old trout hiding under that brook rock. Never to be caught. Early morning, on a slippery landwash we stumble along the greasy ro
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