What’s Next, Thai Me Up?
Gourmet never disappoints, and their alfresco tableaus grow more perplexing by the month. Some Enchanted Eating? I think they might just be fucking with me at this point.
August finds us in a woodland fantasy bereft of picnickers and composed of bric-a-brac that might’ve been dragged into a clearing by hoboes with an affinity for cool, cerulean-olive tones.
Tarnished silverware? A patchwork leather ball? I suppose…but…wicker rockers and a plastic-paneled television, black and white, most likely? Now, I’m starting to get scared.
The feeling is damp, maybe a little dank. If this were the Northwest, which it doesn’t appear to be, logs would be covered in moss and slugs would be having a picnic of their own using toadstools as tables. The climate doesn’t stimulate my appetite at all—frankly, it freaks me out a little.
Perhaps I’m just taking the eerie setup too personally. It brings to mind the Enchanted Forest, a musty amusement park of my youth.