I know my vegetables. I know each of them. Spend hours here each week on your hands and knees, and you will know what it means to commune with your food.
The meaning of America [street stall]
An urban hot dog stand: part livelihood, part miniature microcosm. America as seen through the eyes of a sausage-selling street preacher. An unexpected lesson in the art of being real.
Bounty [dinner table]
I’ve known these carrots all their lives. These tomatoes, too. Food like this should be a right, not a privilege: Food that doesn’t require a can or cardboard box to get from field to table.
Generations [church]
At a small church in rural Wisconsin, the changing of the guard reaches a standstill. What will happen to this place when nobody’s left to tend it?
Street life [window]
One window, one street corner.
Survivors [independence]
Each week, domestic violence survivors gather for a support group. To an outsider, the successes here can sometimes feel so miniscule, you might wonder why they matter. But they do.
Waiting Room [sanctuary]
The doctor’s waiting room might be an unlikely haven. For me, it’s a cool and dimly lit cocoon, safe from the crises of the world outside.
After Dark [park]
Night is the time for ghosts. Some of them live here, at the park around the corner.
Lake Monona [water]
Our love for our lakes might be killing them.
Closeout [freestyle: shopping center]
Regardless of the blight that is the suburban Big Box Store, when one closes its doors, its death knell can bring out the worst in us.
