My name is Dylan and this is my blog. This is where I'll put all those things that I think, but don't get to put down in articles elsewhere. Maybe you'll read something about my quest to dress like an adult, or maybe something about a particularly good taco I ate.


Dumplings for Davis

So often I see food used for evil. It's usually a fun evil, like gluttony or making dick jokes, but generally evil none the less. It is refreshing to see the opposite. And to have the opportunity to help out is absolutely amazing.

Last night I was given the chance to work a charity event to raise money for a kid who was recently diagnosed with Leukemia. It was hard work, and we were cramped in that little truck, but it was the most fun I've had in the kitchen. And it was truly something to behold, watching the donations pour in. This is something I need to do more. A relationship with food, I need to maintain. Food for good, not evil.



Hemlock Grove

I like supporting Netflix. It sounds funny to say that a huge company like that is the struggling little guy, but compared to HBO and the like, it's not a bad descriptor. So I've been trying to watch the "Netflix original series." I tried House of Cards, but got bothered by a few things and gave up. Lilyhammer was just kind of awful. But I am excited for the return of Arrested Development.

Right now I'm stuck on Hemlock Grove. This is not a good show by any definition, but something keeps me watching. Maybe it's the characters that appear and disappear without explanation. Maybe it's the extreme close-ups of anyone having a dialog. Maybe it's the occasional slip up with the Canadian accent. But something keeps me coming back. Perhaps I need to redefine what I mean by enjoyment.


Teenage Wasteland

Some places just work better with specific songs. It just feels right to listen to Led Zeplen or Queen in the kitchen. It's like the walls vibrate better with the early punk sounds. I feel connected to the forefathers of kitchen yesteryear. Especially if, like today, the whole kitchen loudly sings, and air-guitars, along with "Teenage Wasteland." It's the type of thing that makes a cramped, hot, uncomfortable little room feel like a home.


Culture Starved

To truly live one more day, we really only need a few things. Then there are the things we need to thrive. They are slightly less important, but only slightly.

I have been starving. Nothing life threatening (little "L" life) but you could say it's Life threatening. I've been working so hard lately that I've only had time for sleep. I've been culture starved. And the weather has not been great for being outside. Yesterday I had a day off and I refueled myself with both. I went to the U of I MFA show and took in the culture I have been missing. It was fantastic and it refreshed me for going back to work. I don't know if I was in the right mood or just ready for art, but something made the experience even more wonderful than normal. A few times I saw things that nearly brought me to tears, which is not normal for me. I need culture more in my life. We all do.



I have burn marks all up and down my arms from shoving things into hot ovens and handling hot pots. I have knife nicks on each thumb and a few fingers. My hands are calloused and beat up. I call them my kitchen hands and they tell a story. I use to be proud of them. I used them as proof that I have what it takes, that I can withstand the pain of every day in a kitchen. I held them with pride. But more and more lately I've become a little ashamed. Each burn was a moment I became careless, each nick a time when my mind wandered. Instead of precision in all things, I wavered and hurt myself. A perfect cook would have no scars. A perfect cook would move their body exactly as they planned. Their knives would be an extension of their body. But there is no such thing as a perfect cook, just as there is no such thing as a perfect person, and we all have the scars to prove it.