Monthly Archives: May 2017

“I now actually have something in common with Donald Trump because I, too, preferred my previous life before he became president.”

Last Week Tonight with John Oliver (HBO): Stupid Watergate. (YouTube, 24min) In which John Oliver answers the questions “What the fuck is going on? How big a deal is this? Where do we go from here? Is this real life?”

Link via MetaFilter: It has been _0_ days since the last Trump disaster.

Noch ein Sonntagskuchen mit Rhabarber

Weil beim Essen kochen zwei Eiweiß übrig geblieben sind und ich sie nicht einfach wegwerfen wollte, habe ich heute diesen Ribisel-Kuchen gebacken, aber mit Rhabarber statt Johannisbeeren. Die Rhabarbermenge hätte ruhig mehr sein können als die angegebenen 250g, aber ansosten ist der Kuchen sehr lecker – Empfehlung! Im Verhältnis von Aufwand zu lecker gewinnt er fast gegen diesen und diesen Rhabarberkuchen, die ich dieses Jahr schon gebacken habe.

“Could it be Rick?”

The Atlantic: In the Land of Missing Persons. “Two families, two bodies, and a wilderness of secrets.” By Alex Tizon.

“They found what was left of him in the spring of 2014. Firefighters battling a huge blaze on Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula first spotted a boot in the dirt. Then they noticed some bones scattered across a wide grassy area. Fire crews in Alaska are used to seeing the bones of moose, caribou, bears, and other large creatures that live and die in these woods. So it wasn’t until crew members found a human skull that they stopped to consider that the pieces might go together. The skull was resting on its side, the face angled toward the ground. A few blackened molars clung to the upper jaw. The lower jaw was missing.”

“I had a family, a career, a house in the suburbs—[a]nd then I had a slave.”

The Atlantic: My Family’s Slave. “She lived with us for 56 years. She raised me and my siblings without pay. I was 11, a typical American kid, before I realized who she was.” By Alex Tizon.

“Her name was Eudocia Tomas Pulido. We called her Lola. She was 4 foot 11, with mocha-brown skin and almond eyes that I can still see looking into mine—my first memory. She was 18 years old when my grandfather gave her to my mother as a gift, and when my family moved to the United States, we brought her with us. No other word but slave encompassed the life she lived. Her days began before everyone else woke and ended after we went to bed. She prepared three meals a day, cleaned the house, waited on my parents, and took care of my four siblings and me. My parents never paid her, and they scolded her constantly. She wasn’t kept in leg irons, but she might as well have been. So many nights, on my way to the bathroom, I’d spot her sleeping in a corner, slumped against a mound of laundry, her fingers clutching a garment she was in the middle of folding.”