My 4 AM Hike to Café Mycelium

There is a phantom haunting Portland’s coffee scene, and it tastes like earth, rain, and single-origin coffee.

For weeks, whispers of Café Mycelium have been floating through the aisles of the Hollywood Farmers Market and echoing off the brick walls of the Pearl. I thought it was just another urban legend… like the mythical subterranean vegan donut shop on Hawthorne. But then a friend, sworn to secrecy, slipped me a rusted shortwave radio and a frequency number on a damp napkin.

“Four AM,” she whispered. “Bring your own mug. The more creative, the better.”

So, there I was at 3:55 AM on a Tuesday, sitting at my kitchen table in my pajamas, staring at a static-hissing emergency radio. Exactly at 4:00 AM, the static broke. A synthetic, robotic voice cut through the white noise, rattling off a string of coordinates before abruptly fading back into the hiss. I plugged them into my GPS.

Forest Park. Deep in the Wildwood Trail.

I grabbed my headlamp, zipped up my jacket, and grabbed the lopsided ceramic mug I’d spent all my spare change on… and…

Hiking through Forest Park in the pre-dawn mist is an eerie experience. The Douglas Firs loom like giants in the fog, and every snapped twig sounds like a mountain lion. But after two miles of damp, muddy switchbacks, I smelled it before I saw it: the rich, complex aroma of freshly bloomed coffee mingling with the unmistakable scent of damp soil.

I pushed through a thicket of sword ferns and there it was. Café Mycelium.

There was no cash register or menu. Just a barista named Silas (clad in a heavy waxed-canvas apron and a rainbow-knit beanie) standing behind a massive, moss-draped nurse log that served as his counter. A battered kettle sat on a tiny, silent camping stove.

I handed over my mug. Silas inspected it, gave a solemn nod of approval, and set to work.

The process was mesmerizing. He poured hot water over the grounds with surgical precision. As the coffee dripped, he explained that the roast was lightly infused with a proprietary blend of locally foraged Lion’s Mane and Turkey Tail mushrooms. Nothing hallucinogenic, and thank goodness, since this experience and my lack of sleep make it trippy enough as-is.

“Do you take oat milk?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. I nodded. Silas reached under the log, pulled out a glass jar of soaked oats, wrapped them in a square of unbleached cheesecloth, and hand-squeezed the oat milk directly into my mug.

I took a sip. It was a revelation. The acidity of the coffee was perfectly balanced by the savory, umami richness of the mycelium, finished with the raw, creamy texture of the freshly pressed oats.

By the time I finished my coffee, the sun was just beginning to pierce the forest canopy. A few early-morning trail runners jogged past, completely oblivious to the clandestine barista just ten feet off the trail. Silas was already packing his copper kettle into a weathered canvas rucksack.

“See you in the static,” he murmured, before melting into the green shadows of the forest.

Café Mycelium is out there, Portland. You just have to be willing to listen to the noise to find the signal.

The Mini-Moss Parade in St. Johns was this month, and it was every bit as odd and charming as the rumors promised. You would never notice the little stretch of sidewalk if you were just passing through, but on the first Saturday it turned into a tiny festival of moss, wheels, and unapologetic Portland whimsy.

People start gathering about half an hour before dusk, sitting cross-legged on the curb or leaning against the old brick storefronts. Everyone brings a camera of some sort, and half the fun is watching locals crouch at strange angles trying to catch the perfect shot before the floats start their slow crawl.

The floats themselves are the main attraction, and each one is built by someone from the neighborhood. They are all about knee high, covered in thick green moss, and decorated with miniature scenes. This month’s lineup included a mossy version of the St. Johns Bridge with tiny fairy lights, a float shaped like a moss-covered VW bus, and one that seemed to be a moss cube with a single gnome clinging to the side. They wobble along on little caster wheels, pushed gently by volunteers who somehow manage to stay invisible in the photos. Every few minutes the melodica player at the front breaks into a soft tune, which gives the whole thing a funny, dreamlike rhythm.

What surprised me most was how quietly joyful the whole thing felt. There is no official announcer or schedule, no merchandise tables, no food carts, and no attempt to turn it into anything bigger than it is. It’s just a neighborhood doing something because it delights them. Kids wander between the floats taking close-ups of moss textures. Older folks swap gardening tips. Tourists smile politely while trying to figure out if this is a long-running Portland tradition or an inside joke they accidentally stumbled into.

By the time the last float rolls past, the sky has already gone dusky blue and the fairy lights look brighter than they should. People clap, not loudly, but warmly, and then everyone wanders off as if they had just finished attending a tiny secret ceremony. I walked away with a handful of photos, a bit of moss stuck to my shoe, and the very Portland feeling that the strangest things sometimes turn out to be the most wholesome.

The Luminous Veil

Ingredients

• 1 ½ oz aquavit (caraway-forward, chilled)
• 1 oz elderflower liqueur (St-Germain or similar)
• ¾ oz clarified lemon juice (for brightness without haze)
• ½ oz saffron-infused honey syrup (2:1 honey to water, steeped with a few threads of saffron)
• 2 dashes celery bitters (adds complexity and a subtle savory layer)
• 1 barspoon crème de violette (for color and a whisper of floral depth)
• 1 small pinch edible gold dust (optional, for shimmer)
• Ice (large cube or clear spear)

Method

1. In a mixing tin, combine aquavit, elderflower liqueur, clarified lemon juice, saffron honey syrup, and celery bitters.
2. Add ice and shake briskly for 12–15 seconds.
3. Fine strain into a chilled Nick & Nora or coupe glass.
4. Carefully float the crème de violette over the surface by pouring gently over the back of a barspoon… it will create a soft lavender halo at the edge of the drink.
5. Sprinkle the tiniest pinch of edible gold dust for shimmer.

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Garnish

• A thin ribbon of lemon peel twisted into a spiral, set on the rim.
• Optional: a micro-sprig of dill (a playful nod to the aquavit).

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Result

The Luminous Veil greets you first with delicate floral aromas. On the palate, bright elderflower and lemon open the door to the deeper, spiced caraway of aquavit, with the honey-saffron syrup lending richness. The celery bitters provide a surprising savory edge that makes the whole cocktail feel more sophisticated and less sweet. The crème de violette halo ties the flavors together, leaving a fragrant, elegant finish.

If you wander the grounds of OMSI long enough, you may stumble upon a sight both surreal and inviting: a crashed balloon gondola swinging gently from the branches of an old oak tree. This is the home of Portland’s Clown Prince, Mr. Kraftee, a figure equal parts eccentric street performer and beloved local vendor. With a painted grin and a bowler hat tipped just so, he leans from the patched gondola to greet visitors, offering them ice cream flavors as strange as they are delightful.

Pickle Brandy Pear, Marionberry Cheesecake, Banana Peanut Butter and Garlic—these are not concoctions you would expect to find at an ordinary parlor. Yet in Mr. Kraftee’s world, they make perfect sense. Children giggle at the odd names, while adults linger curiously, daring one another to try a spoonful. Somehow, against all odds, the flavors work, balancing Portland’s appetite for the whimsical with a surprising sense of culinary daring.

Of course, the man behind the makeup is no less fascinating. Off-hours, Mr. Kraftee is Johann Martellus, a Danish-born architect whose work has shaped neighborhoods across Europe. In Portland, he has chosen a life less conventional, embodying creativity in the most literal sense… designing both buildings and moments of pure delight. Those who have spoken to him know he can just as easily discuss the nuances of Bauhaus design as the merits of garlic swirled into banana ice cream.

Mr. Kraftee has become part of the city’s living landscape. Like the bridges that crisscross the Willamette, his balloon gondola is both functional and symbolic: a place where the playful spirit of Portland takes root and swings in the breeze. Whether you go for the ice cream, the laughter, or simply to see something unforgettable, visiting Mr. Kraftee is a reminder that the city thrives on bold imagination and the joyful oddities that make it unique.

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On August 11, SE Hawthorne Boulevard once again turned into Portland’s pinkest pilgrimage route with the 25th Annual Great Flamingo Migration. For one afternoon, multiple blocks of the Hawthorne District were closed to car traffic, making way for thousands of participants dressed in every shade of pink imaginable. From hot fuchsia to soft pastel, the street became a river of feathers, boas, inflatable birds, and silly beak hats.

The “migration” is a tongue-in-cheek homage to the neighborhood’s eclectic spirit, with flocks of people marching eastward together while carrying inflatable flamingos, lawn ornaments, and handmade papier-mâché birds. Pink-painted mini buses shaped like giant flamingo heads slowly paraded alongside the crowd, providing rides to children and the less-mobile, while street musicians played calypso and surf-rock tunes.

The tradition began in the late 1990s as a neighborhood joke, when a group of thrift store employees marched a flock of plastic flamingos down Hawthorne to protest rising rent prices. Over the years, it grew into a full-scale event that now draws both locals and curious visitors. For its silver anniversary this year, organizers added light-up LED flamingos that glowed after sunset, giving the boulevard a magical pink shimmer once night fell.

Vendors along the street sold themed snacks like flamingo fritters, cotton candy spun into tall pink necks, and “migration mojitos” made with dragonfruit. Local cafés joined in with specials like flamingo lattes topped with pink foam hearts. At the finale, a mock “roosting ceremony” took place in front of the Bagdad Theater, with hundreds of inflatable flamingos released into the air and carried down the boulevard by cheering crowds.

Quirky, playful, and undeniably Portland, the Great Flamingo Migration has become a hallmark of the Hawthorne District’s identity. For longtime residents, it’s less about the flamingos themselves and more about the joy of gathering as a community to celebrate the city’s enduring weirdness.

Only in Portland could you stumble across a retro blue trailer with a bold yellow sign reading Soup Donuts. At first, I thought it was a joke. Donuts filled with soup? But the smell wafting from the window, savory leeks, warm broth, and a hint of spice, was enough to convince me to join the short line of curious locals.

I tried the Potato Leek Soup Donut first. Imagine a golden, crispy pastry shell that cracks open to reveal a soft squishy core of creamy potato leek filling. The contrast was wild: flaky on the outside, velvety and comforting inside. It felt like biting into both a warm pastry and a steaming bowl of soup at the same time. Unexpected, but it worked, especially on a cool Portland afternoon.

For dessert, I ordered the Spiced Apple Soup Donut. Instead of a savory paste, this one had a sweet and savory apple compote that leaned toward cider flavors. The filling was chunky with baked apples, seasoned with cinnamon and clove, all wrapped in the same lightly savory dough. The sweet warmth paired oddly well with the cart’s recommendation, a side of cheddar chips.

The cart itself has an inviting atmosphere. Painted a retro shade of blue with hand-painted lettering, it feels like a throwback to a simpler time. The staff are cheerful and quick to offer recommendations, often joking with customers about whether they are brave enough to try soup in pastry form. String lights hang around the awning, and the aroma of both savory broth and sweet apples drifts into the street, pulling in passersby who cannot resist curiosity.

What surprised me most was how much the idea makes sense once you try it. Portland is famous for pushing the limits of street food, and Soup Donuts is a perfect example of that creative spirit. It takes something familiar and twists it just enough to feel both comforting and adventurous. By the time I left, I noticed others eating at the nearby wooden tables, all smiling as they bit into something they never expected to enjoy.

Tucked away just beyond the familiar arches of the St. John’s Bridge lies one of Portland’s best-kept secrets: the Clocktower Gardens. I stumbled upon it while following the sound of chimes drifting through the mist, only to find myself in a whimsical landscape where time itself seems to bend in curious ways.

At the heart of the park stands a towering clocktower, its face veiled with ivy and moss, hands that sometimes tick forward, sometimes backward, and occasionally… pause. Scattered around are bronze sculptures of pocket watches and grandfather clocks, some tilted as if they’d melted into the earth. Locals say if you sit beneath the lanterns shaped like tiny clocks, you’ll always feel like you have “just enough” time left in the day.

Walking the moss-covered paths, I noticed visitors treating the garden almost like a sanctuary. A couple sat on a bench quietly sipping coffee while a kid traced the grooves of a sundial that didn’t seem to match the sun. The air smelled of wet cedar and faint metallic tang, giving the place a surreal, almost storybook quality.

If you’re looking for something both grounding and delightfully offbeat, the St. John’s Clocktower Gardens is worth a detour. It’s Portland in a nutshell: playful, quirky, a touch mysterious, and deeply tied to the rhythms of the natural world (even if those rhythms don’t always run on time).

In Portland, where food culture feels like a second language, I stumbled onto something that perfectly captures the city’s mix of comfort and creativity: a spicy fried chicken sandwich paired with a hibiscus gin sour. At first glance, it sounds like a stunt pairing, but trust me, it’s magic. It’s a strange pairing, that just somehow works.

The drink hits first, bright pink with a cherry on top, served in a coupe glass that made me sit up a little straighter. It had this floral tang from the hibiscus syrup, smoothed out with lemon and a clean gin backbone. Right as the cocktail cooled my tongue, I went in for a bite of the chicken sandwich. Crispy, juicy, a little messy in the best way, with slaw and aioli tucked into a toasted brioche bun. Together, the combo hit this perfect balance between heat and cool, richness and bite.

What I didn’t expect was how intentional the pairing was. The bartender told me they’d been working with the kitchen to develop matches that played well together, not just side by side. That attention to detail came through loud and clear. It wasn’t just a good sandwich and a good drink, it was a whole experience, and it made me slow down and really taste everything.

That’s the thing I love most about eating and drinking in Portland. There’s always something new, but it’s never just novelty for novelty’s sake. The food scene here is grounded in flavor, layered with creativity, and always just a little off center in the best way. I went in hungry and left with a new favorite combo and the feeling that this city still knows how to surprise me.

I recently opened my sock drawer and was greeted by an unexpected sight: a lone sock nestled among a sea of mismatched companions. It dawned on me that my socks have embarked on their own migratory journey, leaving behind partners and forming new alliances. Perhaps they’re seeking freedom, or maybe it’s a silent protest against the tyranny of pairing.

This phenomenon isn’t isolated. I’ve noticed other items in my home exhibiting rebellious behavior. My spoons have taken refuge in the knife section, and the remote control prefers the company of the refrigerator. It’s as if my belongings are challenging the status quo, urging me to question the very fabric of domestic organization.

In the spirit of embracing chaos, I’ve decided to let my possessions find their own path. Who am I to dictate where a sock should reside or which drawer a spoon should call home? Perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned in relinquishing control and allowing life to unfold organically.

So, if you happen upon a solitary sock in your cereal box or a fork nestled among your pens, take a moment to appreciate the whimsy of it all. Life is unpredictable, and sometimes, it’s best to dance to the rhythm of the unexpected.

Sometimes you want to know the weather. Sometimes you want to know if people still care about your sunset photos and blurry latte art. Why not both? I recently took it upon myself to convince a Raspberry Pi 5 to act as a prophet of both climate and clout—displaying Portland’s current weather alongside my Instagram follower count. The result? A desk-sized monolith of glowing LEDs and justified tech obsession.

Step one: I had to patch the Linux kernel to get SPI working reliably under load on the RP1 I/O chip. Turns out the upstream modules didn’t like my cheap 32×32 RGB LED matrix, so I modified rpi-fb-matrix.c to support proper gamma correction and fast refresh rates. Bonus discovery: a weird timing bug that only showed up when both the WiFi stack and framebuffer were active. A little ioremap() magic and one frantic recompile later, we were blinking.

On the weather side, I wired in a BME280 sensor for local pressure and temp, then pulled down OpenWeatherMap data via a Python script every ten minutes. The Pi overlays icons and real-time values for current temp, forecast, and humidity on the matrix. For Instagram, I bodged together a parser using instaloader and a headless login token (don’t ask), which grabs the follower count and pushes it to the display.

It now sits quietly on the edge of my desk, glowing like a tiny oracle. It’s comforting to know that as the rain falls in Portland and my followers trickle down one by one, the Pi keeps vigil—reporting both truths without judgment. In the end, it’s part weather monk, part influencer accountant. Exactly the kind of weird machine the world didn’t ask for but probably deserves.