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Caesar Salad Dressing
5 lbs chopped garlic
8 3/4 lbs anchovies
60 lbs Hellmann's mayo
6 lbs Dijon mustard
1/2 gallon lemon juice
1 gallon + 1 pint red-wine vinegar
2 C Worcestershire sauce
4 oz kosher salt
6 oz freshly ground black pepper
In a blender or food processor, make a paste with the garlic and anchovies.
In a mixing bowl, add the mayo and whisk in all of the remaining ingredients.
By Steve Viggiano via Luck Peach.
Perhaps my best success so far is realizing that I can get lost and almost die without ever leaving home. And that the best test of endurance is just to persist, or rather to insist from day to day in believing that it is possible to run down an antelope. And that it must be done, and that I am the one who must do it.
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
I try to get in shape by running in the mountains and skiing cross country. I smoke marijuana and eat LSD and go out and try to go farther farther. And at best, I eventually get lost and deeply humbled, and almost die trying to make it back. This is my training. And at times, not that infrequently, when I'm out there, I feel like I've made the right choice, and that I'm learning a lot and getting stronger. But most the time, I'm not out there. Most of the time, I'm down in the city slaving away and feeling depressed.
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
Antelope.
I want to wake up naked and alone in the desert. I want to eat sand and drink piss and pass out screaming from sunburn and spider bites. But I know it won't work, and I know it won't happen, either because I'm a coward, or unable, or it's just not possible at all for anyone. Even if I were to wake up naked and alone in the wilderness, I'd still wake up thinking and making sense of myself and the world around me in modern English. And there's no way I can get around that. So I'm stuck with choosing not to participate, to live apart in any way I can think of. My wife used to like it. I think maybe that's why she wanted to marry me. But now we have kids, and she sort of changed her mind.
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
I have a plan, and I'm trying to follow it. But it's hard. It's a hard plan to follow. I'm trying to get in shape. And I'm trying to live like a primitive man. Sometimes, I feel like I'm not succeeding at either one. I've read a lot about primitive cultures. And I use that term, 'primitive,' in the sense that it means original or primary. For maybe 99% of human history, a few million years, humans were hunters. They didn't get up and go to work each morning. That started with civilization. And civilization is nothing but a heartbeat of recent time, 10,000 years at the most. And to hell with that.
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
My brother has gone away to get a PhD at a big university back east. The campus is flat and surrounded by trees. He no longer thinks about chasing antelope. He studies lizards now. I stay in Salt Lake, pacing my life by the changing traffic lights, the blinking turn signals, the bouncing checks. I have no desire to participate in the market economy or the democratic process. I have no goals or ambitions other than to someday go back to the desert with my brother and try again to run down an antelope.
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
Photo of antelope painting in Mile Canyon, Utah by Jim McNeil.
I catch up with my brother. And he says, 'Man, did you see them run? They just zoom, and they're gone.' I ask him how we're going to get around how they group up and split like that. And he says, 'I don't know. I've been thinking about it. And I don't know.'
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
Following this herd is like following a school of fish. They blend and flow and change positions. There are no individuals, but a mass that moves across the desert like a pool of mercury on a glass table. They split again, burst into five pieces, and it's just too confusing. We can't tell whether we're chasing animals that have run for two minutes or 20 minutes or two hours.
Scott Carrier, “Running After Antelope.” This American Life, 1997.
Ceeldheer, Somalia. Photo by Google.
In order to have leisure and pleasure, we have mechanized and automated and computerized our work. But what does this do but divide us ever more from our work and our products—and, in the process, from one another and the world?
Wendell Berry, Economy and Pleasure, 1988.
And in the right sort of economy, our pleasure would not be merely an addition or by-product or reward; it would be both an empowerment of our work and its indispensable measure.
Wendell Berry, Economy and Pleasure, 1988.
More and more, we take for granted that work must be destitute of pleasure. More and more, we assume that if we want to be pleased we must wait until evening, or the weekend, or vacation, or retirement. More and more, we assume that if we want to be pleased we must wait until evening, or the weekend, or vacation, or retirement. More and more, our farms and forests resemble our factories and offices, which in turn more and more resemble prisons—why else should we be so eager to escape them? We recognize defeated landscapes by the absence of pleasure from them. We are defeated at work because our work gives us no pleasure. We are defeated at home because we have no pleasant work there. We turn to the pleasure industries for relief from our defeat, and are again defeated, for the pleasure industries can thrive and grow only upon our dissatisfaction with them.
Wendell Berry, Economy and Pleasure, 1988.
Photo by Google.
Since we all know, from our own and our nation's experience, of some pleasures that are canceled by their costs, and of some that result in unredeemable losses and miseries, it is natural to wonder if there may not be such phenomena as net pleasures, pleasures that are free or without permanent cost. And we know that there are. These are the pleasures that we take in our own lives, our own wakefulness in this world, and in the company of people and other creatures—pleasure innate in the Creation and in our own good work.
Wendell Berry, Economy and Pleasure, 1988.
But a victory of community or nature can be won only at everybody's cost. For example, we now have in the United States many landscapes that have been defeated—temporarily or permanently—by strip mining, by clear-cutting, by poisoning, by bad farming, or by various styles of 'development' that have subjugated their sites entirely to human purposes. These landscapes have been defeated for the benefit of what are assumed to be victorious landscapes: the suburban housing developments and the places of amusement (the park systems, recreational wildernesses) of the winners—so far—in the economy. But these victorious landscapes and their human inhabitants are already paying the costs of their defeat of other landscapes: in air and water pollution, overcrowding, inflated prices, and various diseases of body and mind. Eventually, the cost will be paid in scarcity or want of necessary goods.
Wendell Berry, Economy and Pleasure, 1988.