How to Achieve Staycation-Worthy Interiors

A khaki bathing suit made Imperial Beach hometowner Denja Harris an artist, though she didn’t know it yet then.

As a middle schooler growing up in San Diego County, fiber artist Harris “had to wear uniforms,” she recalls. “I cut a pair of old Paul Frank uniform bottoms and made a swimsuit out of them. I think that’s where [I began] repurposing found materials. From there, I started embroidering. I started sewing handmade handbags when I was [around 20].”

You won’t find fashion, however, at Harris’ solo exhibition at the Oceanside Museum of Art (OMA), which opened June 28. “In 2018 or 2019, I discovered the tufting machine”—a handheld device used to make rugs—“and, during the pandemic, I was able to buy one, and I had lots of free time,” she says. “I started experimenting in a little corner of my living room. And here we are.”

January 6, 2025

Artist Nuge's Work is a Rebellion Against His Architectural BackgroundRELATED ARTICLE

Many of her large-scale works do, indeed, resemble rugs. Harris, however, refers to her process as “painting with yarn—or doodling.” She unfolds a few big pieces inside her small home studio in Lemon Grove, enveloping the space in a cozy riot of color. Draped near one wall is a cartoonishly oversized, spiked chain made of yellow yarn; a rippling orange lamp base sits in a corner. Harris calls these three-dimensional objets d’art “soft sculptures,” stuffing them with scrap materials. Through the studio’s doorway, a well-loved ottoman upholstered in Harris’ signature patchwork style is visible in the living room, where a nature documentary drones quietly on.

“It’s so visceral, the way she utilizes texture and yarn,” says Katie Dolgov, OMA’s director of exhibitions and collections. “I think she’s working through a lot of personal ideas in her work, and that ends up being very easy to connect with.” That resonant style has landed her exhibitions all over San Diego County and beyond, including solo shows and installations at local galleries like Sparks, Intervals Room, and Mortis Studio and spots in group exhibits at Ohio’s McDonough Museum of Art, North Park’s Art Produce, and OMA’s extension at The Seabird Resort in Oceanside.

September 13, 2023

The Chicana Designer Turning the Old Into NewRELATED ARTICLE

The new OMA exhibition title, The Space Between: Texture Studies, reflects the rug-like works’ inconsistent surfaces. Portions of soft, high-pile yarn give way to smooth organic shapes. On one piece rendered mostly in soft and neutral shades—ivory, butter yellow, rose pink, a muted turquoise—the eye catches a thin scribble of cobalt.

“My process is really intuitive,” Harris says. “I choose a color palette that speaks to me—one that starts a conversation, where the colors interact with each other. Then I grab the yarn, I build compositions through line work, and I let each decision inform the next.” Sometimes she’ll tear out a portion and start again. “Sculptural, dimensional layering is really important,” she adds. “If it’s looking too flat or not activating my brain, then I don’t feel like it’s successful.”

Those shifts in hue and texture are also driven by pure necessity: Because Harris uses primarily deadstock and vintage yarn, she only has so much of each. The varying materials—synthetic and natural, wool and cotton and mohair—add to the visual interest of the work.

The OMA show arrives amid a larger resurgence of interest in fiber art. It’s possible that it’s a natural evolution of the way crafting exploded during the pandemic, creating talented hobbyists who, through exploration and self-instruction, became artists like Harris. Dolgov sees a more immediate motivation, though.

“I wonder if it’s inherently due to the nature of fabric,” she muses. “There is a softness there. Maybe we’re all feeling like we need to fall into something that’s comforting—not too hard, not too edgy, but still incredibly emotionally evocative. We still need and want to feel the feelings that we’re feeling in the world right now. We don’t need to run away from them, but we do need to be comforted in those feelings, and I feel like that’s what [Harris’] work is doing. It’s surrounding. It’s enveloping.”

And then there is fiber’s familiarity. Not everyone grew up with paintings or sculptures in their homes, but, from our early days, we’ve been wrapped in baby blankets, felt rugs under our feet once we started to walk. Suspended on gallery walls as arresting testaments to their maker’s wayfaring creative mind, the works are undeniable in their artness. Yet they look like home, too.

That’s part of Harris’ point. “I didn’t grow up in art spaces. I’m self-taught. I started doing this when I was 34 or 35, and this is my first time expressing myself through large-scale art. I just started calling myself an artist this year,” she says. “It’s important to me that people who come from a similar socioeconomic background as me or anyone that doesn’t see themselves as an artist can look at my work and see that it’s yarn and that’s familiar to them, and they feel inspired by it. [In my pieces,] I see softness and comfort and joyfulness, and those are all things that I want people to feel when they interact with my work.”

Nate Wells’ home happens to sit on the wrong side of the freeway for an Oceanside-dwelling former surf grom and lifelong waterman. But it’s not the house we’re interested in. It’s his charming backyard micro-shed, where he crafts and repairs his sleek—gamine even—spearguns. Slats of cubed, wooden dowels are casually slotted in bins, while pliers and vices take up real estate in this 100-square-foot-ish workshop tucked to the side of his calming backyard veranda.

Wells grew up in San Diego and, in his youth, spent a few years at his grandparents’ Lakeside ranch, where both his father and grandfather were woodworkers. Wells remembers endless hours “in the sawdust” with his predecessors, absorbing the craft from afar. Wells’ grandfather even made spearguns, unbeknownst to Wells until he picked up the trade. “It’s unreal to see how it’s come kind of full circle,” he says.

After all, it wasn’t Wells’ family that got him into the sport. Instead, a 2014 fishing trip on a neighbor’s boat piqued his interest. “He took me offshore, and I got hooked just watching him catch yellowtail and tuna and dorado and all these things,” Wells recalls. “I was like, ‘I didn’t even know we had all this kind of stuff right here.’”

Pulling the trigger himself, he soon found, was “addicting.”

The same neighbor commissioned Wells’ first custom speargun. Wells supplemented his knowledge of woodworking with info from myriad YouTube videos and online forums.

“As you progress as an artist or craftsman, you start to see, ‘Oh, this is pretty rudimentary. This is pretty basic, you know? Let’s expand,’” he says. “With every batch of guns, I just keep improving.”

Ten years later, Wells is still fine-tuning his work under the eponymous moniker Wells Spearguns, but he’s got his basic materials down to a science. “I strictly use Burmese teak because of how well it holds up,” he says. It’s something people [have used] on boats forever, right? So I use it for the longevity of it—and the beauty of it, too.” Florida-based company Neptonics supplies the parts required to build the gun’s inner mechanisms.

Still, no two guns are quite the same. “I come from a surfing background, and my favorite thing was getting a custom surfboard. That’s like the dream, right?” Wells says. “That’s kind of what I tried to do with the guns.” Buyers can choose custom epoxy colors and engraving, so their device is as beautiful as it is functional.

“I love connecting with people through this, helping them find exactly what they want in this process,” Wells says. “There’s just something about all the little layers of spearfishing, you know, from building your own gear to diving with people and then bringing that catch home to friends and family.”

Come close. Jordan Howlett is about to open his book of secrets.

In his instantly recognizable minimalist videos, the 27-year-old Oceanside local (known in feeds as @jordan_the_stallion8) beckons his viewers near. He then dons his reading glasses, opens his famous leather-bound recipe book, and becomes a type of Gen Z Robin Hood, sharing the classified methods behind popular fast food items with his more than 29 million followers across TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube. Want to know how to make Taco Bell’s Baja Blast or Olive Garden’s alfredo sauce? Howlett is your huckleberry.

As founder of what he calls the Fast Food Secrets Club, Howlett has become one of the most popular raconteurs on the internet, spouting wisdom and hot takes with self-effacing humor and an infectious love of food (while bringing icons like Kevin Hart and Method Man in for cameos). Yet, despite speaking to more followers on TikTok (12M+) than Jimmy Fallon and more on Instagram (8M+) than Chris Rock, his path to bonafide internet stardom remains mysterious. So how did he get here? What’s his secret?

Meeting Howlett and speaking to those who know him best, a picture emerges of an introverted kid with a unique fire in his belly, carrying the weight of growing up in a family struggling to stay afloat. “We definitely were strapped for money all the time, and I knew it,” Howlett says. “I was aware of it very early.”

Born in LA County, Howlett spent his early childhood in the high desert city of Victorville, CA, where his dad worked jobs at the nearby federal prison and at Best Buy, among other places. When his parents got an offer to help start a new branch of a mailbox installation company in San Diego, the family moved to Oceanside.

Howlett attended a small public school before transferring to Oceanside High sophomore year in order to have access to sports. This, his friends say, is when the early whispers of Howlett’s potential for big things first could be heard. He seemed to know who he was far earlier than most teenagers, carrying himself with the maturity of someone much wiser than the rest of his peers. But that doesn’t mean high school was easy. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“My first impression with Jordan was I saw this tall, awkward guy with a very big, nappy afro,” says Howlett’s longtime friend Saúl Sandoval Estrada, whom Howlett met soon after transferring. “He had this faded old zip-up hoodie, oversized shorts, really big feet, and mismatched socks that went up to his calves. He was polite and he was humble, but because he looked poor, people made fun of him and would pick on him. A lot.”

“All the girls rejected him,” Estrada adds. “All of them. I mean, in high school you’re not looking for a mature guy with good morals and values and ethics.”

Howlett acknowledges it was tough.

“Every time I tried to talk to girls— or talk to anybody—it was awkward,” he says. “I would always want to give them the utmost kindness, but I was not smooth in the slightest.”

Despite his setbacks, when Howlett found baseball, he didn’t take awkward for an answer. Having never played sports before, he worked maniacally hard to catch up to the kids who’d been playing tee ball since preschool. In a matter of months, Howlett was saying he wanted to play Division 1 ball, with hopes of making it to the big leagues.

“People didn’t like that,” Estrada says. “So they would tell him, ‘You’re not going to college. Look how goofy you are. Look how uncoordinated you are.’”

But Howlett’s ego was unphased.

“When you get coaches in high regard telling you this is not achievable, you have to be half delusional, half mature enough to be like, ‘Hey, I’m gonna do this because I need to see it for myself,’” Howlett says.

He worked out before school at 5 a.m., did his homework at lunch, and attended freshman, JV, and varsity practices in the evenings. Then, he’d be in the batting cages with Estrada into the night, trying to connect with his dream.

After stints in community college, Howlett transferred to UC Riverside in hopes of playing baseball as a walk-on. Unable to afford more than a partial first tuition payment, he was sleeping in his ’97 Chevy Suburban near the field while attending classes and going through tryouts, aiming to make the team and get on scholarship.

“I’m sleeping in my car, so I’m not getting any sleep. I have no money for food, so I’m not eating much. And I’m stressed about this walk-on,” Howlett explains. “I was so exhausted. I was sleeping in classes, and I failed my first test. I was scared. And the same day I failed that test, the financial aid office told me I owed $3,000 because the second payment was due way quicker than I thought. It was a lot of pressure that I’d never experienced before.”

Brittany Joseph, owner of Badlands Vintage

Originally published Dec 2020 | Updated February 2023

Just because you’re shopping secondhand doesn’t mean it can’t look high-end or glamorous, says Brittany Joseph, owner of Badlands Vintage. The Oceanside shop is a collection of Joseph’s favorite things—statement furniture pieces and decor from the midcentury modern and ’80s postmodern design eras. “Badlands is kind of desert-meets-city vibes,” she says. “It’s minimalist pieces that have a touch of glam.”

Step inside her brick-and-mortar and you’ll see what she means. Joseph has carefully curated the store to reflect her style and ditched the cluttered look often found in most vintage shops, making it a point to lay out the furniture as one would a home. “I wanted the space to feel warm and inviting,” she says. “I think it’s helpful for people to see how the pieces look in a completed space instead of being positioned on their own.”

Badlands Vintage / Living Space

Her inventory changes often, as she shops for new pieces nearly every day. The key to finding them is simple: She only purchases things she absolutely loves, ensuring that every item in her inventory is something easy for her to sell.

Joseph has had a knack for thrifting for most of her life. She started with vintage clothing, slowly building a closet of secondhand items, then expanded into finding vintage home goods as she started designing her own spaces and helping her friends with theirs. It felt like a natural move to turn it into a business and, when she moved to Oceanside eight years ago, decided to do just that.

She’s been running her online shop ever since, operating out of her home, warehouse, and a small pop-up in Sea Hive Marketplace. But in 2020, despite the pandemic, Joseph says her business was growing exponentially. “So many people were at home suddenly and I think they realized they wanted to make their home a really comfortable and inviting place to be,” she says.

Badlands Vintage / Candles

That spike in sales led her to scout for a more permanent home. She found her ideal location on South Coast Highway, flipped it in an impressive three weeks, and opened just in time for Small Business Saturday. And if that sounds like a crazy feat, it’s because it is. “I’m very goal driven,” she says, “so in the moment I just get to work and do what needs to be done, but I’m starting to realize just how crazy it was to do it all so fast.”

It’s a testament to her impeccable work ethic. Now, she’s been able to pursue a lifelong passion even amid a global health crisis. But that’s just one aspect of it. For Joseph, the real reward comes from opening a Black- and female-owned business. “I love living in Oceanside and I love this community,” she says. “There are only a few Black-owned businesses here, so I’m proud to help represent people of color, especially women.”

Most dishes at The Plot have some element (kimchi, sauce) made of perfectly good food (rinds, stems) that most restaurants discard.

Photo Credit: James Tran

The Plot is a restaurant, sure. But sitting here staring at the on-site garden, reading menu items like “lentil caviar” and “kale stem marrow,” and listening to servers describe dishes with the words “pulp” and “spent” and “regenerative”—it feels more like a working model for the future of food.

Chef Davin Waite and his wife/partner Jessica Waite launched The Plot in January 2020 (yikes, timing). Their goal: to go beyond sustainability and become a regenerative business, not just minimizing impact, but actively rebuilding the loam and air and sky and environment. There’s still much work to do (convincing vendors to reduce packaging, a more robust municipal composting system, etc.). So for now, they’re sourcing ingredients from mostly regenerative local farms (regenerative farms forego fertilizers and pesticides in lieu of tactics like biodiversity and compositing, doing everything they can to build super-soil through natural processes, and sequestering carbon into the soil rather than in our atmosphere), and subsidizing with plants from their on-site garden.

Jessica and Davin Waite at their small vegetable garden behind the restaurant.

Photo Credit: James Tran

The list of The Plot’s Earth-first practices is astounding and requires a biblical scroll, but Jessica Waite says they divert 100 percent of waste from landfills. Nothing ends up in the trash, and much less than one percent of food product they bring in-house is discarded (industry standard is four to 10 percent). Other measures include: making all meat substitutes in house (avoiding monocrops); leftover rice is sent to local refinery, Kismet, which turns it into rice syrup for salad dressings; tofu whey becomes caramel; pulp from stock is dried into powder for their mac & chorizö; mushroom scraps are dried and smoked to create the desirable “funk” of their house-made cheese; beet scraps become ketchup; to-go boxes are compostable.

Plant-based food is gaining steam for a few pretty simple reasons, including: health (overeating steak is more harmful than overeating squash), because Billie Eilish did it, and because the ecological future of our planet has never been so dicey and eating plants is the most sustainable way to eat (plants require less resources than animals). Plant-based eating has always been a noble idea. Its problem was that it was largely a flavorless jumble of almost-food that treated your mouth the same way 1980s college freshman treated a can of Coors Light, shotgunning the joy out of your pleasure center. Those days are over. Now plant-based food is good to excellent.

The Plot is part of the scene in South Oceanside, a thriving, largely local part of town.

Photo Credit: James Tran

And there is some excellence at The Plot. Their ceviche replaces raw fish with chayote squash that has been pickled in citrus, with a touch of seaweed added for the sushi mimicking. It’s tart, crunchy, almost an aguachile. A very simple kale salad is excellent due to the dressing, an almost effervescently delicious mix of the rice syrup and orange peels. Cäviar and potato cake is beluga lentil caviar flavored with konbu, but the star is that cashew creme fraiche with pickled onions and preserved lemon. They do sushi rolls, and the one to order is the Chronic—spicy tüna made of chickpeas, cräb of lion’s mane, avocado, and a tofu-based aioli affectionately called “yum yum sauce.” It’s saucy, like starter sushi, but good.

In the running for the best thing I eat is the cräb cake, made with lion’s mane mushrooms from local company, Mindful Mushrooms—the stringy texture mimicking crabmeat, seasoned with Old Bay, kumbu, and seawater with a Catalina dressing made from brine left over from their beet pastrami. But tops is the roasted cauliflower, made with a faux fish sauce (konbu, mushroom powder, salt, chiles, garlic, ginger, lime, and sweetness). Phenomenal.

The “GardenParty” brunch bloody with chickën nugget garnish.

Photo Credit: James Tran

The Plot goes awry in some dishes that lather the sauce (plant-based cooking often does, to make up for the lack of fat in plants as compared to, say, a ribeye), lean too sweet, or haven’t counter-balanced the mushy texture that is a challenge in plant-based cooking (anyone who ate early veggie burgers know the anti-texture I speak of). A shepherd’s pie filling is made with lentils and wild rice, but the “stew” portion is too deep, too rich, and the demiglace just adds to it, bullying any flavor nuance from the individual ingredients. The interior of the takoyaki hush puppies are a bit too creamy, almost the same texture as the accompanying yum yum sauce. And the Okinawan sweet potato gnocchi with the sweetness of a carrot puree is too sweet.

Chefs and restaurants used to be stewards of local environments, so close to the food they serve (oftentimes grown out back) that they were ambassadors for ecology. Through technology and science and freezer advancements, we got away from that. The Plot is one of many restaurants bringing us back. And there are enough hits here that, even if you ignore the halo they’ve earned, you can just have a very good meal.

Cäviar and potato cakes with beluga lentils and cashew creme fraiche.

Photo Credit: James Tran

Staff enjoys a brief moment of solace before opening for dinner rush

Photo Credit: James Tran

A cräb cake made with lion’s mane mushrooms in a Catalina dressing made of leftover brine from their beet pastrami.

Photo Credit: James Tran

Editor’s Note: This review was featured in our December 2022 issue. Since publication, the chef at The Plot has moved on.