A disrespectful maiden becomes your only friend after you kill the man who kidnapped the other man who killed her first boyfriend.
Sir Kay is taunting you.
Your story has broken off, unfinished.
You successfully defend yourself against accusations of having slept with your lord’s wife. You have, but you find a way to protest your innocence without actually lying, so God helps you murder your completely justified accusers, most of whom are Cornish.
Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s previous World of Wonder columns for The Butter can be found here.
With a heavy but happy and wonder-ously stinky heart, I’m sharing that my time here on The Butter has come to an end. As I mentioned last time, I’ve had to trim my outside projects to focus on a couple of book projects during my sabbatical. But not before ending this column with my favorite specimen of all time from the plant world, Amorphophallus titanium — the corpse flower.
The corpse flower has the largest inflorescence in the world, with the flower averaging 8 to 10 feet tall. It only grows in the wild in Indonesia, but several botanical gardens here in the U.S. have had much success growing them indoors. In 1937, the New York Botanical Gardens was the first in the country to successfully display one in full bloom. Each bloom only lasts about 24 hours, and indoors they only bloom every eight years or so.
Sulagna Misra’s previous work for The Toast can be found here.
After I saw Mad Max: Fury Road, I was less preoccupied with jumping into a mental whirlpool of “whether the movie was feminist or not” than I was in examining the trope I saw emerging, as highlighted in this Tumblr post:
Pacific Rim: Well written and developed female character fights aliens with her golden retriever Winter Soldier: well written and developed female character fights the government with her golden retriever and bird Mad Max: Several well written and developed female characters fight everything with their confused golden retriever
Sure, it’s only a few movies, but as I thought about it, I could see the comparisons: The “golden retriever” action movie trope is so called because of the main male characters’ cooperative, trusting, and loyal nature. This is a change-up from the regular lone hero — or the anti-hero, or the chosen one, or the subversive spy — because of the focus on trusting another person, with that trust leading to cooperation and then actual results. Because cooperation is tantamount, the male characters’ stories don’t overshadow or subsume space for female characters’ stories, which flourish in tandem with theirs.
Whether you breastfeed exclusively, prefer to use formula, or have adopted a mix of both methods, we can all agree that nursing is a beautiful, natural moment between a mother and child. It’s a shame we still live in a society that shames and sometimes even criminalizes parents for trying to feed their babies in public. Check out these pictures of parents of all kinds that remind us whether we breastfeed or not, it’s a loving, natural act we can all get behind.
That night, Grace Jones sang “I Need a Man” just like a man might—tough and lusty, she was a woman who was not just singing to them, but also forthem, as them. She was as queer as a relatively straight person could get. Her image celebrated blackness and subverted gender norms; she presented something we had never seen before in pop performance—a woman who was lithe, sexy, and hyperfeminine while also exuding a ribald, butch swagger. In ’79, Ebony got her je ne sais quoi exactly right: “Grace Jones is a question mark followed by an exclamation point.”
Even now, her transgressive charisma remains bold. She still feels outré.
“The essence of all your work is in those crates,” Sibel told him. “It’s not in a few cleaned-up ships in the museum. The real thing is in the boxes.” For Sibel, the most characteristic finding from Yenikapı was precisely “the surplus.” “When one piece is found,” she said, “it teaches you something. When thousands of pieces are found, it’s something else. At a certain point, you have the knowledge already, and the rest is a surplus.” You don’t have to be a conceptual artist to see in the surplus an irresistible metaphor for certain historical questions in Istanbul: once you start digging, so much stuff comes out that there’s nowhere to put it, and, eventually, you have to just bury it back in the ground.
Tansev seemed moved. He made a few phone calls, and wrote a number on a slip of paper: 83,562—the number of boxes his workers had removed from the site.
If Chris Pratt were your boyfriend, he’d have perfect facial hair that makes him look perpetually, endearingly scruffy, but would never be prickly when you make out.
If Chris Pratt were your boyfriend, he’d wear his t-shirts to peak softness, then immediately hand them off to you to wear for lounging or to bed.
If Chris Pratt were your boyfriend, that cliché about him loving you best with no makeup and threadbare sweats on would actually be true, but he’d never begrudge you when you want to spend an extra 30 minutes figuring out how to tightline your eyes or curl your hair with a straightening iron. You, on the other hand, would be a little annoyed every time he’s ready to go out in 30 seconds by mussing his hair a little and grinning at himself in the mirror.
If Chris Pratt were your boyfriend, it would be totally cool that your preferred outdoor activities were limited to: watching other people play sports, leisurely bike rides on vintage cruisers, reading paperbacks on the beach, and the occasional friendly game of tennis.
If Chris Pratt were your boyfriend, he’d introduce you to Amy Poehler as “the smartest woman I know.” Then she’d put you in charge of letting her know all the women debut authors she should be reading.