#southern ute

[indigenousidentitytheft]

Eating to Extinction credits Bruce Pascoe as an Aboriginal writer and farmer for introducing him to Murnong. (Correct your errs, Dan Saladino)

In actuality, he is evidently white - as per his ancestry, ie. all four of his grandparents were English. Yet he goes so far in his claim to aboriginal identity that he wrote an award winning booking on indigenous history and practices and operates a huge farm and company selling indigenous produce that he refers to in said book.

If you want to learn more about indigenous food culture, ie. more sustainable and nutritious eating -- look to actually indigenous people. That requires some work, but here's one example: Karlos Baca, an Indigenous Foods Activist from the Southern Ute Nation

https://www.instagram.com/tasteofn8vcuisine/?hl=en

Karlos Baca, formerly a chef, and now a teacher says his students travel from places where there are more gas stations than grocery stores.

"'Here I'm teaching them how to survive the American food system.' Baca is on the front line of a food war, one being waged against indigenous people. The way he sees it, the first casualty is health. 'That's why we need to decolonise our diets,' he says."

"During the class, he took a handful of blue maize flour and mixed in some water, turning the grey-white powder into a deep purple porridge. To this, he added a pinch of burnt wood ash that made the colour of the maize more intense. With a small blade, he sliced tiny slivers from what looked like a gnarled and blackened piece of wood. 'I can tell you my life story through this one bowl,' Baca said, 'and this food can also show you what happened to my people.'"

[floweycidal]

an interaction between these two would be so freaking funny Please tell me u see the vision too

i imagine it'd be something like,

starlo: howdy-doody-dee there, new feller! you done moseyed on in just as the beans a-fixin' to spill and the fiddlers are harmonizin' a right purty tune! highfalutin' welcome, ain't it? but hold yer whirligigs there, partner, 'cuz this here saloon's got more hospitality than a momma with a passel of young'uns! an' ill be hornswoggled if i don't reckon the more folks we wrangle in, the merrier this ol' shindig gets, so come on in!

axis: WHAT THE [flip] DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME.

the first few meetings would be absolutely excruciating for axis. he can't make heads or tails of this man, and star's expressions only get worse with each exchange

starlo: well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

axis: I AM NOT DOING THAT.

starlo: bah! slap the dog and spit in the fire

axis:

axis: SOMEONE SHOULD [neutralize] YOU I THINK.

they do end up spending more time together somehow and one day axis goes back to the ketsukane residence and it's like

ceroba: another day with star? how wa-

axis: TODAY WAS A ROOTIN TOOTIN'EST GOOD OL' FASHION HOOTENANNY.

ceroba: ............. ?

[rebornofstars]

BEE!! UNO REVERSE!! before the rain stops?? wiggle eyebrows emoji

BEFORE THE RAIN STOPS! ahahahahg. this is the modern au road trip fic, except i didn't want to set it in the usa, so.... it is the australian modern au road trip fic. there's lore. there's shenanigans. they spend about two months on the road. it's absurd and i love it so much.

snippet for you from chapter 1!

“You’re mad,” Warriors said. He stood up. “What are you here for?” Twilight’s easy grin faltered. He worried his lip with his teeth. Time had been trying to break that habit for years. It was almost good to know he’d never succeeded. One less thing that had changed. One less milestone Warriors had missed. “Kid’s in the school band,” Twilight said. “He asked me if I’d get everyone to come to the concert.” “What?” Warriors scrubbed his face. “Wind? Fuck. He finally joined the band? He didn’t tell me, I didn’t know about any concert. When’s it on? It’s not tomorrow, is it? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment—” “Nah,” said Twilight. “End of September.” Warriors gripped the skin on his cheekbones tightly and stared. “September?” “Yeah,” Twilight said. He looked far too pleased with himself. “It’s July,” Warriors croaked. “Yeah,” said Twilight again. “Have you lost your mind?” “Nope. C’mon, you gotta pack, we’re losing the light.” “I hate you,” Warriors wheezed. “What are you on about? It doesn’t take two months to drive to Sydney. And if you just wanna freeload, I gotta break it to you, Lana’s not gonna like that—” “Kid asked me if I’d get everyone to come to the concert,” Twilight repeated. “You gotta pack. My girl’s waiting in the driveway. I left her running.” “Your g—are you talking about that fucking ute again? Go and turn the engine off, your battery’s gonna go flat.” “One and the same,” Twilight said, still infuriatingly calm. “Fixed her up all good. She runs better than the old man’s tractor now. I’ll go outside, you pack, alright?” “Pack for what,” Warriors asked. It was too late. Twilight had disappeared out into the cold night air, screen door bashing on the brick wall as he went.  “What is going on,” he said to the empty room. He began drafting a text. Hey L—no. Hey babe, my half-brother (remember time?) yeah, his cousin—too complicated. My cousin showed up— He put the phone down. No. How was he supposed to explain this when he barely understood what was happening himself? Twilight was a selfish, smug idiot. How could he just turn up out of the blue and expect Warriors to—to go somewhere with him? What was he thinking? They hadn’t seen each other for years. Warriors had skipped out on every Christmas barbeque since he’d moved away.  Kid asked me if I’d get everyone to come to the concert. “No,” he whispered. “No, what the—no. He can’t be—surely not.” Through the front blinds he could see the other man loitering about comfortably in the driveway. The ute was smaller than he remembered. A matte-brown, rickety thing. Twilight had bought it second-hand off a mate in high school for about a grand and spent the next few years replacing parts obsessively until it was almost a new vehicle. He’d been worried about the suspension when they spoke last. That and the fact that the oil cap was mysteriously leaky. He can’t seriously think— The screen door slammed again. Warriors’ legs propelled him down the driveway before he even had time to think. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Tell me this is not what I think it is.” Twilight grinned winningly. He held out a half-eaten apple. Where did he get an apple? Why— “Why are you like this?” Warriors begged. “No, put that away. I’m not touching that, you’ve had your mouth on it. Two months. And the others are all over the place. You want to make this a road trip. You want us to drive all the way around the fucking country to collect everyone for Wind’s concert.”

[vicontheinternet]

Do ppl not know what the implications of them actively co-signing for the national guard to come to a peaceful protest is? They aren’t going to be as “harmless” as the cops were and they were fucking aggressive as hell. You are actively campaigning for the death of these kids knowing or unknowing because they are protesting. Are they really disrupting you that much? They are not being are nearly disrespectful and disruptive as they could be they could’ve held up inside the school with their dean like Kent university back in the day but they decided to do this peacefully. So why were there snipers for sure at Ohio state but from what I’m hearing on multiple campuses?

[dabblingreturns]

Nigerian food is delicious and it's not the fault of the peoples and cultures of Nigeria nor the fault of the cooks at the restaurant I when to yesterday, that I am a pale little baby who is unable to handle spicy foods.

I encourage people who are able to to seek out Nigerian food to do so.

But also, I'm you are a little baby like me...start with the jolaffa rice.....its a good place to start.....If you are a little baby like me who can handle spicy food.

[beardedbarba]

natural bridges national monument, utah

[russianreader]

"Our People Are Not Terrorists"

“Our People Are Not Terrorists”

Defense attorney Edem Semedlyaev and Crimean Tatar political prisoner Raif Fevziev, Rostov-on-Don, Russia, 12 January 2023. Imam Fevziev’s t-shirt reads, “Our people are not terrorists.” Photo courtesy of Imam Fevziev and Crimean Solidarity via Mumine Saliyeva In one of his interviews from the dungeons of the Rostov pretrial detention center, Dagestani journalist Abdulmumin Hajiyev commented on…

[talktomegooseman]

There’s something about Bob that screams that he’s from Utah to me. Could be the hair, the no drinking, keeping his shirt on during dogfight football. But our Bob boy is giving me big Utah vibes

[encehomes]

At Ence Homes, we specialize in offering high-quality, new homes in St George Utah. Our homes are built with precision and care, using only the finest materials to ensure durability and aesthetic appeal. As one of the leading home builders in St George Utah, we take pride in creating homes that match the unique needs of our clients, with customizable features and floor plans to suit every preference.

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[chandleredwards]

Family Room in Salt Lake City Large image of a Tuscan-style open-concept game room with porcelain tile, white walls, a corner fireplace made of stone, and a wall-mounted television.

[jamiegardner]

Family Room in Salt Lake City Large image of a Tuscan-style open-concept game room with porcelain tile, white walls, a corner fireplace made of stone, and a wall-mounted television.

[reportwire]

No. 4 USC falls to Utah in Pac-12, all but ending CFP hope

No. 4 USC falls to Utah in Pac-12, all but ending CFP hope

LAS VEGAS — Caleb Williams once again was starring in his own highlight video, breaking four tackles and finding himself in the open field for a 59-yard gain. No. 4 Southern California looked as if it would do whatever it wanted against No. 12 Utah and coast into the College Football Playoff. But, Williams pulled his hamstring on that play and was never the same. Neither were the Trojans, whose…

[reasonsforhope]

"Colorado is poised to be the first state to to expand automatic voter registration to Native American reservations, thanks to a new registration system.

Tribal members have the right to vote in elections, from the local to the national level, just like other U.S. citizens. But actually casting a ballot has been an uphill battle for many tribal residents, including those here in Colorado. Even after obtaining official U.S. citizenship a century ago, Native Americans’ ability to vote has been consistently ignored or actively undermined. In recent decades, unequal access to in-person voting, early voting and election funding on tribal lands has been a particular issue...

Working with Colorado tribes, state lawmakers passed a set of election reforms earlier this year to expand voting access for Native Americans. Those reforms include the nation’s first automatic voter registration program of its kind for Native Americans. The program will cover both of the federally-recognized Native American reservations in the state—the Southern Ute Indian Tribe and the Ute Mountain Ute Tribe, and will allow the tribes’ governments to submit lists of members to be registered through the Secretary of State Jena Griswold’s office.

Griswold said the new registration system could make a big difference for Colorado's tribal communities.

"Seeing registration rates and turnout rates being much, much lower on tribal lands is a big problem that we want to solve,” Griswold said. “I personally believe automatic voter registration is one of the best ways to register voters in the state of Colorado, and all of our data shows how highly effective it is.”

Colorado is one of more than two dozen states that have automatic voter registration systems, but Colorado is the only state so far to extend its system to cover Native American reservations. When Colorado rolled out its system for the first time in 2020, about 250,000 people were added to the state’s voter rolls within the first year.

Now, [Secretary of State] Griswold hopes the new registration program will have a similar effect on tribal lands in the state. She wants to see the program in place in time for the 2024 election. For now, tribal leadership is reviewing the plan and providing feedback on it.

“It will not take us much time to register people once we start receiving data,” Griswold told KUNC. “But I think there's a couple of logistics to still work through.”

Measures to keep tribal members' information confidential were added recently at the request of the Southern Ute tribe, and lawmakers have also increased the number of on-reservation vote centers available for early voting and on Election Day.

This year’s election reforms also build on a slew of changes in recent years. For example, in 2019 Colorado lawmakers guaranteed in-person voting centers on tribal lands and loosened address requirements for voters."

-via GoodGoodGood, December 15, 2023

[vicontheinternet]

You know what I love about being a Texans? we a good until you pissing us off cuz baby they was at UT chanting “ who failed uvalde! DPS” I know that’s right.

[mickandmusings]

something in the orange

pairing: jake seresin x f! southern! reader

word count: 1.2k

summary: when jake is back home in texas for football season, he tries to spend as much time as possible under stadium lights enjoying his season tickets. his girl, a loyal fan of her own state's team, begrudgingly trades in her own home colors for his gaudy orange.

warnings: fluff, simply just flirty hangman, reader is referred to as 'honey' by everyone, little knowledge of the university of texas at austin (born and raised in mississippi, msu fan by proximity, lsu fan through my dad, i'm just a sec baby) purely self indulgent for me, i'm obsessed with southern boy jake, author has limited knowledge on football

based on this request from the always lovely @fraaaaankiiiiieee i'm so in love with all of your ideas <3

part of the 'hangman & honey' series!

**please note: since this is an extended series the love interest is referred to as 'honey' just because Y/N didn't seem right.**

-

Honey was used to this routine after all these years of being married to Jake Seresin. Monday through Friday were for the Navy, while he was on a mission at least, or for working on the farm when he was home. Most Sundays were reserved for the Cowboys, but Saturdays, oh Saturdays, were reserved for the UT Longhorns. Game Day Saturdays were proper nouns among the Seresin's, which Honey had adopted as soon as she took his last name. She didn't mind it much, truthfully, she was passionate about her own home state's teams, almost equally as excitable as Jake.

More often than not his missions took him far from their home in Texas, which didn't allow him to enjoy the full extent of his season passes. It was rare for Jake to be home long enough to swing into Austin to watch a game, so most of the time the couple opted to enjoy it from the comfort of their living room couch. Jake would sling his arm around her, pulling her around by the waist, making comments about this year's lineup, which players would be starting, simply making small talk about the game. As the game progressed, however, he'd coach from the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushion, hands folded as his green eyes watched the players in either pure elation or complete disdain. His well-worn orange Longhorns cap would sit backwards atop his blonde locks, stationary, until he got frustrated, then the cap would come off for him to run his hands through his hair. It was one he'd owned since high school, well-loved, partially sun-bleached, and the fabric was starting to fray around the bill. His Grandpa Seresin had given it to him after he'd joined the high school football team, and he'd worn it ever since. It was his favorite, and he wore it with pride. After football season, the cap lived on the dash of his truck. He'd sometimes throw it on if he was running errands on a particularly sunny day, or if he was in a dire need to cover his windswept hair, but it seemed more often than not that the hat had become part of his otherwise spotless truck.

Today, however, Jake was finally home for the first time in several months, and there was nowhere else he wanted to be than under stadium lights on a beautiful, albeit warm, Texas afternoon. He was sitting in the living room of his and Honey's farmhouse, already dressed in his burnt orange polo with the little white longhorn on the corner, his aviators hanging loosely from the one button he had fastened at the top. He had been ready for nearly half an hour, and had made his home on the couch as he waited for Honey to finish getting ready. Jake was scrolling mindlessly through his phone when his wife's voice sounded from their upstairs bedroom.

"Jake?!"

His eyes looked up, laying his phone face down on his chest as he shouted back so she could hear.

"Ma'am?!"

He received no response, but her footsteps were heavy as she stomped down the stairs, one of Jake's many orange UT shirts tied on her torso, a little oversized. Denim shorts covered her legs to mid-thigh, a comfortable pair of shoes on her feet. Jake stands as she enters the room, as he always does, noting the unamused expression written across her face.

"What's the matter, baby?" His calloused hands reach to rest on each side of her hips.

"I look ridiculous, Jake," her voice is deadpan and serious. Jake's green eyes scan her frame, a sly smirk forming on his face.

"Nothin' wrong with what you got on. In fact, I think you look smokin'." He pulled her closer by her hips. Honey rolled her eyes, smiling up at her husband despite his cheesy flirtations. He leans down to kiss her, only taking a few seconds to deepen it before she's pushing him away from her lightly.

"Don't start that, Seresin," she bats her eyelashes. "Or we'll never make it out of here, and I'm not wearing this gaudy orange for shits and giggles."

"I don't know, darlin', orange might be your color."

She scoffs at her husband's statement and she grabs her bag as Jake ushers her out the door. She stands in front of his truck, already knowing Jake's insistence of opening her door. As he finishes locking the door Honey speaks.

"I look much, much better in maroon."

Jake knew his wife was right. As much as he loved her in his burnt orange, there was something about her in her home colors, sitting in the blistering southern heat as she cheered on her beloved bulldogs. He'd pay attention to he game, but never as much as he paid attention to her. His heart would nearly beat out of his chest as he watched her standing in front of him in the stands to get a better view, the anticipation in her eyes as the players lined up for the next play. He'd laugh as she jumped up and down for touchdowns and field goals, loving it most when she gave him a celebratory kiss.

Jake rolls his eyes, opening her truck door, nudging his head to motion her to get in, closing the door behind her before moving around to his side. He slides in and starts the truck, his usual country music station sounding through his speakers. He backs out and heads down their long driveway. Honey looks out the window, surveying the acres and acres of farmland, noting the livestock grazing and the scenic landscape. Once out of the country and onto big city roadways, her focus turns to her husband in the driver's seat.

Jake is leaned back in the seat, his aviators now perched on his nose. His left hand drums against the steering wheel to the song playing, his gold wedding band shining in the sunlight. His right sits on her thigh, his thumb drumming on her skin. His golden hair and tanned skin gleam in the Texas sun. She smiles, his time stationed in California had done him well.

"You're starin' sweetheart," his southern drawl is thick, completely prominant from his time back home.

"Can I not stare at my husband?! I didn't realize it was a sin."

"It's not, look all you want, baby, but the sight of you in my shirt sure is making me want to sin."

He turns his attention from the windshield of the truck to his wife for a split second, his green eyes staring her down over the tops of his aviators.

"You're stunnin', but I think I know what the outfit's missin',"

Honey's eyebrows raised at her husband, her own eyes cutting at his frame, his eyes now staring back ahead at the roads getting busier with traffic.

"Missin'? Didn't realize my outfit needed more. It's a football game, baby." Her voice is laced with humor as she speaks.

Jake's arm reaches towards the dash, his calloused hands grabbing the infamous orange hat, and tossing it backwards onto her head.

"Perfect!"

Y/N shakes her head at her husband's actions, straightening it so the longhorn emblem is facing the front, adjusting the strap in the back to fit her head. She rolls her eyes as she looks at her reflection in the small visor mirror, Jake's hand returning to her thigh. As he turns to look at her in his cap, Jake's grin is wide on his face, the kind of shit-eating grin only a man completely in love would have.

"No matter if the boys win or lose, baby, I'm still taking home the best looking trophy tonight."

[murdrdocs]

age gap (r is 18+!); southern coded r; implied domestic violence; fingering MDNI 18+ w/ GARY JOHNSON

the scent of jealousy reeks back at the precinct and it’s fucking with gary’s mindset. he’s been off of his game lately, thrown for a loop since people have been questioning him. to put it short: he's getting sloppy.

he's staring at you more than he's listening to you. he's stuttering over his words, trying desperately to follow the script he's made up in his head.

"so ... uh." he clears his throat and adjusts his position. "how d'you want me to do it?"

how do you want him to do it? what kind of question is that?

he can feel claude and phil wincing in the van.

you don’t question it. you take a breath, and then you take a breather. gary—or grant, as you know him—watches your lips wrap around the straw in your sweet tea. his eyes dip for a second, settling on the red of your bra peeking out beneath your low cut white shirt.

he swallows as your lipstick leaves a mark behind on the paper straw and lifts his eyes just soon enough to meet your gaze.

“i…i think there should be a body. if it wouldn’t get you—us—into too much trouble. not havin’ a body just seems cruel. my momma deserves better. that’s why im doin’ this.”

you speak slowly, meticulously, as if you’re holding off tears. when you sniff, gary pulls a tissue from the dispenser to his left and hands it to you. you wipe under your eyes, uncaring of the mascara you leave smudged behind.

"okay. we're doing this for your momma, yeah?"

you nod, lips pulled into a thin smile. "yeah."

gary shouldn't do this. he's done it once, and the backlash he got was heavy. he shouldn't do it again.

but you're young. you care about your family. he sees the bruise along your wrist and he can only imagine the ones your mother has, likely more severe if he's following the picture you painted for him.

you've told him that you refuse to finish school when she's with him. you refuse to do anything other than work and go home. it's not a life you should be living.

you don't want your stepdad killed. you want your mother liberated. you want liberation.

it wouldn't be right for gary to let you incriminate yourself.

when you turn to the side and reach into your purse, gary stops you. he gives you the spiel, the spiel he shouldn't be giving, but he stops you while you're ahead.

"listen, let's stay here. you can finish your pie and your sweet tea. and then after this, you promise me you'll get someone involved—someone else involved—and you'll get you and your momma out of that house. alright?"

you nodded and gave gary your word.

he paid the tab and left the diner after you.

he got shit for his choice. he defended you as best as he could. he saved two lives that time and then he put it in the past. grant, a good southern boy who said ma'am as pure instinct, was shelved.

until gary got a phone call.

not too far past eight, the summer sun starting to make its descend past the horizon. the cats are fed, gary's fed, his second episode of jeopardy! of the night is playing in the back and then his work phone buzzes against the coffee table. he doesn't have your contact saved, there was no reason to, so he doesn't answer the first time. he didn't know it was you. but when you call again, and he picks up this time, he regrets hitting the red button the first time around.

because you're crying. sniffling and gulping down breaths of air. he can hardly understand what's wrong. he has to ask you to repeat your plea to be picked up at least three times, and even then he's apprehensive.

he's not grant right now. he's gary. sitting on the couch, covered in cat hair, wearing his blue light glasses as he partially reads on his kindle. but you sound so pathetic and gary wants to help you so he slips on a pair of sweatpants and an old college sweatshirt that he thrifted just for grant (UT Austin) and in half an hour he's pulling up outside of your trailer and watching you slip out of a window and run to his car.

he doesn't have anywhere to take you. he asks you if you want to go to a friends place, his fingers nervously tapping against his steering wheel.

you sniffle and gary's taken back to the first time he met you. then, he was wearing a wire. he was sitting in the vicinity of cameras and other people. many things keeping him on his best behavior.

but now he's alone, in his car, with you. a you who has a friends place to go to, but you don't wanna go there yet. a you who asks to grab food from somewhere, but when you get there you sit in the car, unmoving. a you who leans across the console and presses your lips to gary's.

he's not gary anymore. he's never been gary to you, always grant, but right now he's not gary to himself, either.

gary wouldn't kiss a vulnerable younger girl in his car. gary wouldn't entertain the way you slip your tongue into his mouth. gary would shut this down, drop you off, and go home where he would wallow in self pity and copious amounts of guilt.

but grant indulges.

grant slides his seat back and taps his thighs. grant rests his hands on your hips when you straddle him. grant slips your shirt over your head and his hand down your shorts. grant gets you off with his fingers, kissing you through it all, taking in the salty taste of your tears as you let out wanton gasps into his mouth.

and grant drives you to your friends house, kisses your forehead, and tells you to call him if you need anything.

(later in the night when he's laying in his bed, gary barely has any regrets about it all)