I lost my keys in the river and lost
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I lost my keys in the river and lost
Since coming to Columbia this past August, I have struggled with finding delicious food that costs little money. I believe I have found the top three quintessential Columbia restaurants which are both affordable and great for when parents come to visit.
In this review, I have to tackle one of the greatest challenges any creative person must face, Shakespeare. The playwright gets touted as the most important writer in the English language. Going in, I knew Shakespeare's verse was going to be a challenge in comprehension and I hoped I wouldn’t get lost. Good thing this production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night, directed by Louis Butelli, helps the viewer understand its story through its use of expressive acting, music and modern production tools.
“Ten.” A dozen or so voices. Digits appear on either side of the room, on screens like scoreboards. Glances flicker between the number and me. Why should they be nervous, with a wall of glass three inches thick between us? I’ve been in a drug-induced paralysis since last night — standard procedure just in case one of us panics. That’s understandable too, although it never occurred to me.
Four years ago, I read Jonathan Safran Foer’s “Eating Animals.” The descriptions of factory farming were enough to get me to stop eating chicken — until my mom made chicken for dinner later that week, at least. While my foray into sustainable eating was remarkably short-lived, an increasing number of Americans are being drawn to the strictest of the meat-free diets: veganism.
For student artists, college can seem to be paradise of opportunity. Easy access to studios, master classes, college-provided performance opportunities and other benefits create in the environment of USC and other colleges the ultimate hideaway for nurturing the newborn careers of young artists.
South Carolina’s wintertime is a great escape from the usual intolerable heat, but sadly, this new chilly air also brings far fewer choices of fruits and vegetables at the Soda City market (open each Saturday from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m.) If you’re like me and you love farmers markets, you go despite the cold just to see what’s in season. But when you arrive, your only choices are as random as pecans and mushrooms or as foreign as bok choy, a type of Chinese cabbage. Some may see this and give up, turning instead to Top Ramen noodles or coffee. But others can see this as a challenge, a chance to prove their food creativity. Yes, some of the produce seems just as strange as Columbia getting a snowstorm, but everyone knows that college is the best time for experimenting. So get out of your comfort zone and into the kitchen.
Burritos are one of the greatest inventions in the history of mankind. Forget Johannes Gutenberg’s printing press and Alexander Graham Bell’s telephone. Burritos are an art form: an entire, well-rounded meal wrapped up neatly in a tortilla. Truly flawless in conception. Burritos were artfully designed to make the eating experience a pleasurable, portable one. The guy who invented the burrito should be in the history books. He should be in the dictionary next to “genius.”
Contrary to what the temperature would have you believe, September has arrived and with it, football season. I’ve never been that much of a sports person, but nevertheless, I’m here to spread some Gamecock spirit. While I lack the attention span to enjoy an eternity-long quarter, there’s something that always will pull me out of the house and into the stadium on Saturdays:
We continued to feel bad for them, continued to ask if there was a similar kind of restaurant for women — because that might make it okay — and continued to point out that we thought there was something similar, but it wasn’t a chain — there was just one, in Dallas, maybe. We’d Googled it once.
On Spring Break the boys dig a hole in the sand,
I’m sitting in a chair I pushed far back into the corner of the room so I could see all the dancers and stay far out of their way. We’re in a large, rectangular room with a pinkish beige floor and a wall of mirrors in the Columbia Music Festival Association building. In the corner near the door, there’s a large piano. I can’t remember ever being in a room like this myself, only seeing it in television shows or “Step Up” movies.
This poem previously appeared in The New Yorker.
This is my 92-year-old grandfather’s famous biscuit recipe. He taught me my love for baking at a very young age. I added Gruyere to the recipe, but you could use any cheese you prefer. My family loves to eat them the day after a holiday; sliced in half, toasted and topped with butter or cheese.
There is a widely accepted cliché that chefs are dreadful people to work for. Many people imagine working in a kitchen to be as close to hell as it gets — getting harshly scolded for unintentional mistakes or being fired on the spot for measuring an ingredient incorrectly. They envision days in a brutally hot kitchen, void of friendly conversation or laughter. One might call this phenomenon the “Gordon Ramsay Effect,” thanks to shows such as “Hell’s Kitchen,” that depict chefs as devils in white coats — cold and egotistical. Pastry chefs, especially, have a reputation in the food world for being perfectionists that demand an environment free from mistakes.
For many students, college might be the first place they are surrounded by others who share similar interests and goals. Artist in Residence Wesley Jefferies, however, has been surrounded by a common passion for the arts from a young age. Jefferies attended the Fine Arts Center in Greenville, South Carolina, starting in fifth grade until she attended the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts & Humanities during her last two years of high school.
Once, we were pending
Sparkling with inspiration and eager to reminisce in the exquisite tastes and effervescent energy they had just said farewell to, George and Monica Kessler shook my hand for the first time after they had just returned home from the land of pasta and gelato. Anxious to share what they had seen, heard and tasted in their brick-and-mortar Italian restaurant on Devine Street, they spent the first few minutes with me gushing over Italian delicacies. George asked if I’d like to taste his homemade limoncello to which I naturally obliged. I giggled to myself when I heard Monica whisper to her husband, “Are you sure she’s 21?” I smiled and assured her that I was.
A man in a feathered brown wig emerges from a hole in the ground and asks me if I remember the seventies. I don’t, of course, but hands shoot up all around me in the massive Historic Columbia tour group. We are gathered in the portico of the Equitable Arcade Mall on Main Street. Passersby give our guide strange looks and our group a wide berth. The property owner mills around the atrium. A woman in a fluorescent pink and yellow dress holding an electric lantern, disappears below the surface of the earth. Below us, a catacomb-like space still hums with the spirit of 1971.
Main Street ICE