Decorative gourd season is coming, motherf*ckers . . .

and I'm gonna be strapped.

Food & Drink Decorative gourd season is coming, motherfuckers, and I'm gonna be strapped. I got back from vacation last week, and once I started paying attention again to the various social media platforms that extort my energy, I noticed the inevitable death knell of summer had already been keening through the usual white noise. I didn't need Twitter to tell me that after I took a look at the back forty. A vine that had been innocently winding along the back gate pre-departure had exploded in every direction, carpeting a third of my arable alley-adjacent lot, climbing up and around every tomato vine. One tendril was inching its way toward my bedroom window, clearly intending to strangle me in my sleep. This happens every year: something I didn't plan on, or ask for, sprouts on its own and flourishes. Following the "do-nothing" farming principles of Masanobu Fukuoka, I usually let it be, just to see what happens. Sometimes it's magical. In April a sunflower poked up between cracks in the asphalt and I watched it tower skyward, shooting out brilliant rockets of yellow-black blossoms, pretty much in sync with the Russian retreat in Ukraine. Very often though, it's some rando species of Cucurbitaceae, a rarely delicious squash of some kind, which is far less dramatic (unless you pick the blossoms in time). In a certain frame of mind it's menacing. As long as I'm comparing plant growth to current events, this year's Audrey II reminds me a lot of the lurking fascist threat to democracy. Why not yank it? Mostly I'd been avoiding wading into it because even in high noon heat it harbors swarms of mosquitoes under its broad leaves. But once I'd taken a look under its canopy I'd noticed dozens of its blossoms had formed into pear bicolor gourds. By corn-maze standards, they're not a super mutant freaky expression of the genre—no warts, no wings, no lysergic streaks of color—just a small band of bright yellow at the top of the bottleneck, contrasted by their deep green bulbous bottoms. The good news is, by the time Monday Night Foodball comes back from its Labor Day break, you can expect to see some kind of extremely autumnal outrage bedecking the Kedzie Inn for the return of The Melanin Martha on September 12, and then again on the 19th, a night of global Asian barbecue with Umamicue and friends. After that it's a brand new fall schedule. You're either ready to reap this freaky-assed harvest or you're not. Pastry chef Ollyvia Putri's 20-layer cakes are legit Her Lapis312 is the go-to U.S. supplier of labor-intensive cakes and cookies to Indonesian expats. by Mike Sula   Bernardo Medina's Sofrito Manifesto slaps like a flip-flop The San Juan-based "Jibarito Pop" artist honors granny food in Humboldt Park. by Mike Sula 2010   Mother Nature's Candy Chicago chefs venture to an Indiana maple tree farm to see some magic get made. by Mike Sula 🗞️ The Chicago Reader is published in print every other week and distributed to nearly 1,200 locations! Find yours on the map here 👇 Issue of September 1 - 14, 2022 Vol. 51, No. 24 Download Issue (PDF) View this e-mail as a web page Forward this e-mail to a friend. Want to change how you receive these e-mails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list. Copyright © 2022 Chicago Reader, All rights reserved. You were subscribed to the receive emails from Chicago Reader Our mailing address is: Chicago Reader, 2930 S. Michigan Ave., Suite 102, Chicago, IL 60616