#Natural sugars in raisins

[woodnrust]

This sucks. What do you mean that changes in diet means changes in stomach bacteria... This is so cruel that I can't have Trix cereal without getting sick to my stomach because my body isn't used to food-dye.... fu ccked up world...

[homunculus-argument]

There's nothing quite like managing to bake something spontaneous and unplanned out of ingreidents that you just happened to already have on hand, and simultaneously managing to clear out your cupboards of ingredients that were about to expire or otherwise go to waste. Today, I made banana bread.

First was, naturally, the bananas. The bunch had accidentally been left too close to the oven vent, so three of them had developed a big brown spot from the heat. So naturally, having never made banana bread before, I decided to make banana bread.

Didn't have brown sugar so I just used white sugar, probably won't be as tasty but it's a sensible enough subsitution. Didn't have pecans, but I found a bag of pistachios in the back of a cuboard that would have expired tomorrow. We don't really eat raisins, and that was precisely why we had a small package of them left over from a bigger meal set that was otherwise long gone. Finally completely finished out one long-suffering crumbly old little packet of cardamom.

Not a single ingredient was something that would have been bought specifically for this, and several of them were things that definitely needed to be used up soon before they'll be no good. The result is still in the oven, so I have no idea whether it turned out any good or not, but I'm not even bothered if it isn't. It cleared out the cupboards and already smells like victory.

[najia-cooks]

[ID: Two plates of cookies, one oval and topped with powdered sugar, and the others shaped in rings; one cookie is broken in half to show a date filling; two glasses of coffee on a silver tray are in the background. End ID]

معمول فلسطيني / Ma’moul falastini (Palestinian semolina cookies)

Ma’moul (also transliterated “ma’amoul,” “maamoul” and “mamoul”) are sweet pastries made with semolina flour and stuffed with a date, walnut, or pistachio filling. The cookies are made tender and crumbly with the addition of fat in the form of olive oil, butter, or clarified butter (سمن, “samn”); delicate aromatics are added by some combination of fennel, aniseed, mahlab (محل��: ground cherry pits), mastic gum (مستكه, “mistīka”), and cinnamon.

“مَعْمُول” means  “made,” “done,” “worked by hand,” or “excellently made” (it is the passive participle of the verb “عَمِلَ” “‘amila,” "to do, make, perform"). Presumably this is because each cookie is individually filled, sealed, and shaped by hand. Though patterned molds known as طوابع (“ṭawābi’,” “stamps”; singular طابع, “ṭābi’”) are sometimes used, the decorations on the surface of the cookies may also be applied by hand with the aid of a pair of small, specialized tongs (ملقط, “milqaṭ”).

Because of their laborious nature, ma’moul are usually made for feast days: they are served and shared for Eid, Easter, and Purim, a welcome reward after the Ramadan or Lenten fasts. For this reason, ma’moul are sometimes called “كَعْك العيد” (“ka’k al-’īd,” “holiday cakes”). Plates of the cookies, whether homemade or store-bought, are passed out and traded between neighbors in a practice that is part community-maintenance, part continuity of tradition, and part friendly competition. This indispensable symbol of celebration will be prepared by the women of a family even if a holiday falls around the time of a death, disaster, or war: Palestinian food writer Laila El-Haddad explains that "For years, we endured our situation by immersing ourselves in cooking, in our routines and the things we could control."

Other names for these cakes exist as well. Date ma’moul–the most common variety in Palestine–may be called كَعْك بعَجْوَة (“ka'k b'ajwa”), “cakes with date paste.” And one particular Palestinian variety of ma’moul, studded with sesame and nigella seeds and formed into a ring, are known as كَعْك أَسَاوِر‎ (“ka'k 'asāwir”), “bracelet cakes.” The thinner dough leads to a cookie that is crisp and brown on the outside, but gives way to a soft, chewy, sweet filling.

[ID: An extreme close-up on one ka'k al-aswar, broken open to show the date filling; ma'moul and a silver teapot are very out-of-focus in the background. End ID]

History

Various sources claim that ma’moul originated in Egypt, with their ancestor, كحك (kaḥk), appearing in illustrations on Pharaonic-era tombs and temples. The more specific of these claims usually refer to “temples in ancient Thebes and Memphis,” or more particularly to the vizier Rekhmire’s tomb in Thebes, as evidencing the creation of a pastry that is related to modern kahk. One writer attests that this tomb depicts “the servants mix[ing] pure honey with butter on the fire,” then “adding the flour by mixing until obtaining a dough easy to transform into forms” before the shaped cookies were “stuffed with raisins or dried dates and honey.” Another does not mention Rekhmire, but asserts that “18th-dynasty tombs” show “how honey is mixed with butter on fire, after which flour is added, turning the substance into an easily-molded dough. These pieces are then put on slate sheets and put in the oven; others are fried in oil and butter.”

Most of these details seem to be unfounded. Hilary Wilson, summarizing the state of current research on Rekhmire’s tomb, writes that the depicted pastries were delivered as an offering to the Treasury of the Temple of Amun; that they certainly contained ground tiger nuts; that they presumably contained wheat or durum flour, since ground tiger nuts alone would not produce the moldable dough illustrated; that the liquid added to this mixture to form the dough cannot be determined, since the inscription is damaged; that the cakes produced “are clearly triangular and, when cooked are flat enough to be stacked” (any appearance that they are pyramidal or conical being a quirk of ancient Egyptian drawing); that they were shallow-fried, not cooked in an oven; and that honey and dates are depicted at the far left of the scene, but their relationship to the pastries is unclear. There is no evidence of the honey being included in the dough, or the cookies being stuffed with dates; instead, Wilson speculates that “It appears that the cooks are preparing a syrup or puree of dates and honey. It is tempting to think that the cakes or pastries were served [...] with a generous portion of syrup poured over them.” Whether there is any direct lineage between these flat, fried pastries and the stuffed, molded, and baked kahk must also be a matter of speculation. [1]

Another origin claim points to ancient Mesopotamia. James David Audlin speculates that ma’moul are "possibly" the cousins of hamantaschen, both being descended from the molded "kamānu cakes that bore the image of [YHWH’s] goddess wife Inanna [also known as Ishtar or Astarte]" that were made in modern-day Syria. Other claims for Mesopotamia cite qullupu as the inspiration: these cakes are described in the contemporary record as wheat pastries filled with dates or raisins and baked. (Food historian Nawal Nasrallah writes that these cookies, which were offered to Ishtar for the new year festival in spring, may also be an origin point for modern Iraqi كليچة, "kleicha.")

The word "määmoul" had entered the English language as a type of Syrian farina cake by 1896.

In Palestine

From its earliest instantiations, Zionist settlement in Palestine was focused on building farming infrastructure from which Palestinians could be excluded: settlers, incentivized by foreign capital, aimed at creating a separate economy based around farms, agricultural schools, communal settlements, and research institutions that did not employ Arabs (though Arab labor and goods were never entirely cut out in practice).

Zionist agricultural institutes in Palestine had targeted the date as a desirable crop to be self-sufficient in, and a potentially profitable fruit for export, by the 1930s. Ben-Zion Israeli (בנציון ישראלי), Zionist settler and founder of the Kinneret training farm, spoke at a 1939 meeting of the Organization of Fruit Growers (ארגון מגדלי פירות) in the Nahalel (נהלל) agricultural settlement to discuss the future of date palms in the “land of Israel.” He discussed the different climate requirements of Egyptian, Iraqi, and Tunisian cultivars—and which among them seemed “destined” (נועדים) for the Jordan Valley and coastal plains—and laid out his plan to collect saplings from surrounding countries for planting despite their prohibitions against such exports.

In the typical mode of Zionist agriculture discourse, this speech dealt in concepts of cultivation as a means of coming into a predestined ownership over the land; eating food suited for the climate as a means of belonging in the land; and a return to Biblical history as a triumphant reclamation of the land from its supposed neglect and/or over-cultivation by Palestinian Arabs over the past 2,000 years. Israeli opened:

נסתכל לעברה של הארץ, אשר אנו רוצים להחיותה ולחדשה. היא השתבחה ב"שבעה מינים" ואלה עשוה אינטנסיבית וצפופת אוכלוסין. לא רק חיטה ושעורה, כי אם גם עצים הנותנים יבול גדול בעל ערך מזוני רב. בין העצים -- הזית [...] הגפן, התאנה והתמר. לשלושה מהם, לזית, לתאנה ולתמר חטאה התישבותנו שאין היא נאחזת בהם אחיזה ציםכר של ממש ואינה מפתחת אותם דים.

We will look to the past of the land [of Israel], which we want to revive and renew. It excelled in "seven species," and these flourished and became densely populated. Not only wheat and barley, but also trees that give a large and nutritious crop. Among the trees: the olive, [...] the vine, the fig and the date. For three of them, the olive, the fig and the date, it is the sin of our settlement that it does not hold on to them with a strong grip and does not develop them.

He continued to discuss the benefits of adopting the date—not then part of the diet of Jewish settlers—to “health and economy” (בריאות וכלכלה). Not only should the “land of Israel” become self-sufficient (no longer importing dates from Egypt and Iraq), but dates should be grown for export to Europe.

A beginning had already been made in the importation of about 8,000 date palm saplings over the past two decades, of which ¾ (according to Israeli) had been brought by Kibbutz Kinneret, and the remaining ¼ by the settlement department of the Zionist Commission for Palestine (ועד הצירים), by the Mandate government's agriculture department, and by people from Degania Bet kibbutz ('דגניה ב). The majority of these imports did not survive. More recently, 1000 smuggled saplings had been planted in Rachel’s Park (גן רחל), in a nearby government plot, and in various places in the Jordan Valley. Farms and agricultural institutions would need to collaborate in finding farmers to plant dates more widely in the Beit-Sha’an Valley (בקעת בית שאן), and work to make dates take their proper place in the settlements’ economies.

These initial cuttings and their descendents survive in large plantations across “Israel” and the occupied Palestinian territories. Taher Herzallah and Tarek Khaill write that “Palm groves were planted from the Red Sea in the south along the Dead Sea, and as far as the Sea of Galilee up north, which has given the Israeli date industry its nickname ‘the industry of the three seas’” Since Israel occupied the Palestinian West Bank in 1967, it has also established date plantations in its illegal settlements in that portion of the Jordan Valley.” Today, these settlements produce between 40 and 60% of all Israeli dates.

In 2022, Israel exported 67,042 tons of dates worth $330.1 million USD; these numbers have been on a steady rise from 4,909 tons worth $1.2m. in 1993. Palestinian farmers and their children, disappropriated from their land and desperate for income, are brought in to date plantations to work for long hours in hazardous conditions for low pay. Workers are lifted into the date palms by cranes where they work, with no means of descending, until the crane comes to lower them down again at the end of the day. Injuries from falls, pesticides, heat stroke, and date-sorting machinery are common.

Meanwhile, settlers work to curtail and control Palestinian production of dates. The Palestinian population in the West Bank and Gaza is used as a pool of cheap labor and a captive market to purchase Israeli imports, absorb excesses in Israeli goods, stabilize Israeli wages, and make up for market deficits. Thus Palestinian date farmers may be targeted with repressive measures such as water contamination and diversion, destruction of wells, crop destruction, land theft, military orders forbidding the planting of trees, settler attacks, closing of checkpoints and forbidding of exports, and the denial of necessary equipment or the means to make it, in part to ensure that their goods do not compete with those of Israeli farmers in domestic or foreign markets. Leah Temper writes that these repressive measures are part of a pattern whereby Israel tries to “stop [Palestinian] growth in high value crops such as strawberries, avocados and dates, which are considered to be ‘Israeli Specialties’.”

At other times, Palestinian farmers may be ordered to grow certain crops (such as strawberries and dates), and forbidden to grow anything else, when Israeli officials fear falling short of market demand for a certain good. These crops will be exported by Israeli firms, ensuring that the majority of profits do not accrue to Palestinians, and that Palestinians will not have the ability to negotiate or fulfill export contracts themselves. Nevertheless, Palestinian farmers continue to defy these oppressive conditions and produce dates for local consumption and for export. Zuhair al-Manasreh founded date company Nakheel Palestine in 2011, which continues production despite being surrounded by Israeli settlements.

Boycotts of Israeli dates have arisen in response to the conditions imposed on Palestinian farmers and workers. Herzallah and Khaill cite USDA data on the effectiveness of boycott, pressure, and flyering campaigns initiated by groups including American Muslims for Palestine:

Israel’s exports of dates to the US have dropped significantly since 2015. Whereas 10.7 million kilogrammes (23.6 million pounds) of Israeli dates entered the US market in 2015-2016, only 3.1 million kilogrammes (seven million pounds) entered the US market in 2017-2018. The boycott is working and it is having a detrimental effect on the Israeli date industry.

Date products may not be BDS-compliant even if they are not labeled as a product of Israel. Stores may repackage dates under their own label, and exporters may avoid declaring their dates to be a product of Israel, or even falsely label them as a product of Palestine, to avoid boycotts. Purchase California dates, or dates from a known Palestinian exporter such as Zaytoun or Yaffa (not “Jaffa”) dates.

[ID: Close-up of the top of ma'moul, decorated with geometric patterns and covered in powdered sugar, in strong light and shadow. End ID]

Elsewhere

Other efforts to foreground the provenance and political-economic context of dates in a culinary setting have been made by Iraqi Jew Michael Rakowitz, whose store sold ma’moul and date syrup and informed patrons about individual people behind the hazardous transport of date imports from Iraq. Rakowitz says that his project “utilizes food as a point of entry and creates a different platform by which people can enter into conversation.”

[1] Plates from the tomb can be seen in N. de G. Davies, The tomb of Rekh-mi-Rē at Thebes, Vol. II, plates XLVII ff.

Purchase Palestinian dates

Donate to evacuate families from Gaza

Flyer campaign for eSims

Ingredients:

Makes 16 large ma'moul and 32 ka'k al-aswar; or 32 ma'moul; or 64 ka'k al-aswar.

For the dough:

360g (2 1/4 cup) fine semolina flour (سميد ناعم / طحين فرخة)

140g (1 cup + 2 Tbsp) white flour (طحين ابيض)

200g (14 Tbsp) margarine or vegetarian ghee (سمن), or olive oil

2 Tbsp (15g) powdered sugar

1 1/2 Tbsp (10g) dugga ka'k (دقة كعك)

1/2 tsp (2g) instant yeast

About 2/3 cup (190mL) water, divided (use milk if you prefer)

1 tsp toasted sesame seeds (سمسم)

1 tsp toasted nigella seeds (قزحه / حبة البركة)

Using olive oil and water for the fat and liquid in the dough is more of a rural approach to this recipe; ghee and milk (or milk powder) make for a richer cookie.

To make the bracelets easy to shape, I call for the inclusion of 1 part white flour for every 2 parts semolina (by volume). If you are only making molded cookies and like the texture of semolina flour, you can use all semolina flour; or vary the ratio as you like. Semolina flour will require more added liquid than white flour does.

For the filling:

500g pitted Madjoul dates (تمر المجهول), preferably Palestinian; or date paste

2 Tbsp oil or softened margarine

3/4 tsp dugga ka'k (دقة كعك)

3/4 tsp ground cinnamon

5 green cardamom pods, toasted, skins removed and ground; or 1/4 tsp ground cardamom

Small chunk nutmeg, toasted and ground, or 1/4 tsp ground nutmeg

10 whole cloves, toasted and ground, or 1/4 tsp ground cloves

The filling may be spiced any way you wish. Some recipes call for solely dugga ka'k (or fennel and aniseed, its main components); some for a mixture of cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and/or cloves; and some for both. This recipe gives an even balance between the pungency of fennel and aniseed and the sweet spiciness of cinnamon and cloves.

Palestinian date brands include Ziyad, Zaytoun, Hasan, and Jawadir. Palestinian dates can also be purchased from Equal Exchange. You can find them online or at a local halal market. Note that an origin listed as "West Bank" does not indicate that a date company is not Israeli, as it may be based in a settlement. Avoid King Solomon, Jordan River, Mehadrin, MTex, Edom, Carmel Agrexco, Arava, and anything marked “exported by Hadiklaim”. Also avoid supermarket brands, as the origin of the dates may not be clearly marked or may be falsified to avoid boycots.

Instructions:

For the dough:

1. Melt margarine in a microwave or saucepan. Measure flours into a large mixing bowl and pour in margarine; mix thoroughly to combine. Rub flours between your hands for a few minutes to coat the grains in margarine. The texture should resemble that of coarse sad. Refrigerate the mixture overnight, or for up to 3 days.

2. Add dry ingredients to dough. If making both molded ma'moul and ka'k al-aswar, split the dough in half and add sesame and nigella seeds to one bowl.

3. Add water to each dough until you get a smooth dough that does not crack apart when formed into a ball and pressed. Press until combined and smooth, but do not over-knead—we don't want a bready texture. Set aside to rest while you make the filling.

For the filling:

1. Pit dates and check the interiors for mold. Grind all ingredients to a paste in a food processor. You may need to add a teaspoon of water, depending on the consistency of your dates.

To shape the cookies:

Divide the filling in half. One half will be used for the ma'moul, and the other half for the bracelets.

For the ma'moul:

1. With wet hands, pinch off date filling into small chunks about the size of a walnut (13-16g each, depending on the size of your mold)—or roll filling into a long log and divide into 16-20 even pieces with a dough scraper. Roll each piece of filling into a ball between your palms.

2. Divide the dough (the half without seeds) into the same number of balls as you have balls of filling, either using a kitchen scale or rolling into a log and cutting.

3. Form the dough into a cup shape. Place a ball of filling in the center, and fold the edges over to seal. Press the dough into a floured ma'moul mold to shape, then firmly tap the tip of the mold on your work surface to release; or, use a pair of spiked tweezers or a fork to add decorative designs by hand.

4. Repeat until all the the dough and filling has been used, covering the dough you're not working with to keep it from drying out. Place each cookie on a prepared baking sheet.

For the ka'k al-aswar:

1. With wet hands, divide the date filling into about 32 pieces (of about 8g each); they should each roll into a small log about the size of your pinkie finger.

2. Divide the dough (the half with the seeds) into as many pieces as you have date logs.

3. Take a ball of dough and flatten it into a thin rectangle a tiny bit longer than your date log, and about 3 times as wide. Place the date log in the center, then pull the top and bottom edges over the log and press to seal. Seal the ends.

4. Roll the dough log out again to produce a thin, long rope a little bit thinner at the very ends than at the center. Press one side of the rope over the other to form a circle and press to seal.

5. Repeat until all the the dough and filling has been used, covering the dough you're not working with to keep it from drying out. Place each cookie on a prepared baking sheet.

To bake:

1. Bake ma'moul at 350 °F (175 °C) in the center of the oven for about 20 minutes, until very lightly golden brown. They will continue to firm up as they cool.

2. Increase oven heat to 400 °F (205 °C) and bake ka'k al-aswar in the top third of the oven for about 20 minutes, until golden brown.

Sprinkle cookies with powdered sugar, if desired. Store in an airtight container and serve with tea or coffee, or give to friends and neighbors.

[plutoswritingplanet]

Hand That Feeds (Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Female!Reader) pt.3

a/n: decided not to include smut just yet, it didn't feel right considering the story, next time i promise we'll f the raisin

Warnings: Blood and Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Smoking Cigs

Summary: The camp gets attacked, and as such, important changes are forced to develop. Cross-Posted on AO3

Pt. 1, Pt. 2

Old. He feels old. 

His age is like a thief in the night, it creeps up on him, slowly, before sinking its teeth right into his bones. There are centuries to his name now, and still, he doesn't learn from his mistakes. It's him chasing a woman, that has gotten him in this mess in the first place, and now he's doing the same damned thing. That's the only explanation, why he lets you get away with as much as he does. 

Here you sit, curled into yourself, his lasso secured tightly around you, your hands raised towards your face. He watches with confliction, as you put a cigarette up to your lips, the bud lighting your features for just a moment, before a cloud of smoke escapes into the dark night.  It's a deep, heavy inhale, your chest expands. He can feel the lasso move under his grip, and he flexes his fingers against it.

He's never seen anyone smoke in such an elegant manner, not after the bombs anyway. This regal air, a natural sort of poise, intrigues him beyond any reason. How did the Wasteland not destroy all this grace, how are you untouched by the roughness of this world, is beyond him. He tries to categorize everything he knows about you, all the small tidbits of information he has gathered through the short time you've been travelling together. Still, nothing explains this strange nature of you, and Cooper leans back, the sound of your Geiger meter spiking every time he moves. 

Cooper reaches into his pocket and takes out a pack of cigarettes, your cigarettes. Feeling your gaze on him, he takes one and lights it against the small fire you both got going. Well, in all fairness, it was you that started the fire, while your captor watched you struggle, keeping his leash on you. 

Those strange little power trips seemed to be one of his favorite games. He wouldn't be the first man that got off on power you've met, but he was definitely the most annoying. Your throat still burns slightly from the smoke, as you throw him a displeased look. 

The nicotine is barely noticeable to him, like a grain of sugar in a very large chocolate cake. In his case, the cake is made of every drug possible to find in the Wasteland. 

Still, Cooper tastes the pre-war chemicals with a strange sense of melancholy. It makes him remember, again, and he closes his eyes as he exhales the smoke, not bothering to smother a low groan of pleasure. Your eyebrows jump to your forehead, but you compose yourself quickly, throwing your burning bud into the fire. 

The events of the previous night are still vivid in your mind. His fingers flexing against your tongue. His knee between your legs, close but not close enough. Perhaps he wasn't the only one getting off on this uneven relationship, but you were not about to admit it, even to yourself.

- So - your voice is rough from the smoke, and you swallow around a lump in your throat - Where are you taking me?

He doesn't answer for a long while, just enjoying his cigarette, your cigarette. And he seems to be enjoying it very much, more than what's considered proper. Honestly, with the way he's been groaning, you wouldn't be surprised if he came on the spot just from the smoke. The thought makes your cheeks redden, and you chastise yourself for even thinking in that general direction, again. Has it really been that long?

- Shady Sands - smoke pushes past his teeth, surprisingly intact for a Ghoul.    - For real?

- Yup - another drag, you watch his chest expand under his coat - Shady Fucking Sands.

Your head slumps down, as you turn your gaze back to the fire. Hunger creeps up on you, and with your hands tied, you reach over to an Iguana on a stick roasting over the flames. Your tongue burns from the heat, but as soon as the chewy meat hits your stomach, you're ready to sing to the heaven's. 

- That's an awfully long way for a bunch of caps - you note, between quick bites of your food - What was my bounty? Five hundred?

The last time you've checked, it was something around that number. Not too shabby, but not worryingly big either. Just enough to keep you on your toes for any desperate newcomers, but not enough to warrant attention from anyone actually dangerous. The Ghoul, as desperate as he looked back at the bar, started to look more and more like a professional, every second you've spent with him. There was something in the way he walked, the way his eyes stayed vigilant and aware, that screamed danger. Still, for five hundred caps, times must've really been hard on him.

- Try ten thousand.

A piece of meat lodges itself into your throat as you inhale with surprise. As soon as it happens, you cough it out, and it flies back into the fire, leaving you heaving with tears in your eyes. 

- How much?! - you demand, hands trying to massage the pain in your chest. 

The Ghoul smirks, taps the brim of his hat with his gun, which he kept trained on you for over three days now. 

- Had I known I'm worth that much, I'd turn myself over a long time ago - you murmur, and the Ghoul shoots you a mirthless laugh.

- Thought you ran a charity, Healer - he spits your name out like the worst of slurs, and with half a mind you wonder why it bothers him so much. 

Still, his words hit a little bit too close to home, and you turn to your skewer, chewing in silence, until he gives you a wordless permission to sleep.  Tugging your messenger bag under your head, you listen to the various liquids sloshing inside, your Geiger meter cracking away on your hand. The Ghoul stands up to put out the fire, as cold was better than anyone finding you in the wilderness. Then, he sits down, a short distance from your curled up form. 

You can feel him, even if you can't see him, and with tired arms, you tug your robe closer around your body. 

- I try to be good - you whisper into the night, into the hot coals of the bonfire, into his unyielding indifference.

- You ain't gotta explain yourself to me, sweetheart - he answers in a low voice, and it's the nicest thing you've heard him say, since you've met him. 

***

The raiders come at night, as they always do.

You're still halfway into deep sleep when the first shot rings out. The bullet lodges itself into the ground right in front of you, dirt exploding across your face. It doesn't wake you at first, confusion and remnants of some distant dream muddling your senses. 

The Ghoul springs to action with record speed, and before you can truly react, he shoots three shots in the direction of the tree line. That's when you jump to your feet, ears ringing and head swimming with confusion. 

A man in a tattered blouse falls to the ground, right next to the small fire pit, ash flying into the air. You can see his blood seeping into the coals, but before you can react, The Ghoul grabs you by the shoulder, all but throwing you behind him, as he levels his gun in front of him. 

The ringing in your ears mixes with the wild beating of your heart, as you try to wrestle the panic into submission. The Ghoul's tattered coat whips itself across your ankles, and you've never wanted to be free of your binds as much as in this moment.

Silence. Complete, and utter silence engulfs the two of you, and you grab onto the bounty hunter's arm to steady yourself. His head turns in your direction for just a second. Eyes lock together, something flickers across his face, but it's gone before you can even begin to decipher the expression. 

- I'll check the parameter - he grumbles, and walks towards the closest tree. 

At first you don't even know how to voice your protest, as he all but ties you to the tree, securing his lasso, and consequently cutting off any means for you to escape. Like a wild dog, you're left there, watching him turn away in favor of walking into the trees. 

Panic rises in your gut, as you tug on the rope.

- Hey! - you whisper-yell after him, eyes searching for any more attackers - Don't you dare leave me here!

But he's already walking away, keeping himself low, his rifle tight in hand. A couple of steps into the tree line and he blends completely with the surroundings, like he belongs there, amongst the trees. Chest heaving, you double the efforts of freeing yourself, the rope digging painfully into your wrists.

Frustration quickly overcomes fear, and you kick out, the ash from the bonfire swirling around you like a cloud.

Then, a twig breaks somewhere behind you, and your blood freezes in your veins. 

***

Cooper moves through trees like he's one with the southern wind. 

His coat shuffles around his ankles, as he presses further into the tree line, more bothered by the small attack than he would like to admit. 

The bullet almost hit you. In the head no less. Ten thousand caps, gone in a second

He allowed himself to close his eyes for just a moment, barely a second, and it was all it took. When has he become so sloppy, he couldn't tell, but he supposed it had something to do with the way you looked like, when sleeping. 

So at peace, like this hard ground was the most comfortable bed in the world. Your cheek squished into your messenger bag, as if it was the softest of pillows. He wondered, what warranted such trust, such peace of mind, that you fell into deep sleep almost as soon as you closed your eyes. 

Did you really trust him that much?

A dangerous idea, he thinks. An idea he might've entertained centuries back, when he still had a nose and didn't look out onto this hell of a world through layers upon layers of cynicism. Still, your curled form tugged on something, some shadow of his former self, that he needed to squash sooner, rather than later. 

He was getting too damn old for this. 

Cooper finds the raiders camp in a matter of minutes. Two sleeping bags, a bunch of empty bottles and, to Cooper's dark amusement, a half-eaten human leg. 

So, not just raiders, but fiends as well. 

Cooper kicks at one of the sleeping bags, his eyes searching for anything of use. And that's when his mind catches up.

He hears your scream tear through air.

His head whips back, hat almost falling. 

A shot rings out.

Ten thousand fucking caps. He's an idiot, an old idiot. 

Cooper starts to run, branches snapping under his boots as he cuts through the trees with surprising agility. Another scream, raw and gut wrenching, and he can almost see your bloodied body twitching under the second fiend. The one he didn't get. 

Rifle first, he all but barrels into the clearing, for a split second not knowing what he's looking at. 

Because yes, there is a bloodied body in the camp, it's face barely resembling human features with the way it's been brutally eviscerated. But it's not yours. Too thin, too male, too hardened. 

That's when he sees you. Curled against the tree, where he tied you down and left you. Your hands are gripping some large stone, blood drips from your fingers, down to your arms. Your shoulders are moving, up and down, in a steady rhythm of deep, heaving breaths, and for a second, Cooper allows himself to feel relief. 

You don't even look at him, still holding onto the rock, nails biting into it's surface, and he can't clearly see your face, but he can see the blood. Your Geiger meter crackles, as he comes closer, kicking at the dead fiend, just to be sure. 

- We gotta get moving, there might be more of those fu-

His words die in his throat, because suddenly, something collides with staggering force onto his body. Landing on his back, he immediately lifts his arms up, to shield himself from bloodied fists, slamming into his chest, into his head, wherever they can reach. 

- You left me! - your voice sounds like a wounded animal - You motherfucker! Why did you leave me?!

There is no real force backing your punches, all your strength apparently drained by what you did to fiend just moments ago.. They do become quite irritating, and Cooper wrangles your, still bound, hands until he has your by the wrist. And that's when he sees you. Finally, truly sees you.

You're hunched over him, straddling his waist, hair whipping around your head like some deranged angel's halo. Features twisted into a mixture between fury and anguish, your face is red, sticky with drying blood. 

Beautiful, tragically beautiful, Cooper thinks, and this time doesn't chastise himself for it. 

- Why did you...?! - your voice cracks like a broken mirror - You're the one killing people, not me. I'm not... I've never...

Cooper fights through your spasming muscles, as slowly, your anger dissipates, leaving nothing but tears, which are now creating pathways down your cheeks. Finally, he understands. Your poise, your elegance, the gentleness in every movement. 

You've never killed anyone. Never taken a life. 

Unknowingly, he has made you into a killer. 

Shoulders sag against his hold, as you slump into him. He feels you, the length of your torso on his, your shallow breathing warming his shirt. And he lets you rest, lets you curl into him like he isn't worse than both of those fiends combined. Like he hasn't just put you through this hell, hasn't tied you up, dragged you through God knows where. 

- He... - you choke out, and Cooper curses at the way his hands slide around your back to hold you closer, tighter - He tried to...

- I know - he doesn't know what has possessed him, but he comforts you just the same - I know, sweet thing. I'm sorry.

Tears fall heavy onto his collarbone, as you let yourself be held. And he holds on with everything he has, deciding that perhaps, you both have some time left. Fingers trace the pattern of your curved spine, the dips between your shoulderblades. He dares not move lower, even though perhaps he wants to. Perhaps he would take advantage of this situation and try to find out just how much he can get away with. But some missplaced feeling of decency wrangles itself onto the surface, swallowing down all the murder, and the lies, and all the horribly depraved things he has thought about, while keeping you hostage. 

 It takes some minutes for you to calm down, and when you do, he pulls you up. Not the usual tug of the rope you're both used to, but a gentle hand in your hand, helping you steady yourself against him. The warmth of your body is all but a memory now, and he clings to it for just a moment longer, a souvenir for later. 

The silence is heavy with unsaid words, with actions that will have disastrous consequences. But as he unties you from the tree, as you look over at the bloodied body of the fiend, he finds that there are no words left to be said. 

So you swing your messenger bag over your arm, and let him lead you further into the Wasteland. No longer yourself, no longer the Healer, but something else entirely. 

[five-rivers]

Cracked Clay Cup Chapter 17

@greatbigolhampuckjustforme

Danny reappeared in the entryway of Clockwork’s house in a swirl of blue.  He met Clockwork’s eyes for just a moment and saw the muted concern in them.  

He couldn’t stand it.  

He darted to the side and made for the stairs.  

“Daniel–” said Clockwork, behind him, but he ignored him.  

He reached his bedroom and dove under the covers of the bed, wrapping himself up in the quilt, because he missed grabbing the sheet underneath it.  He pressed the nearest pillow into his face and tried to stop crying.  

“Daniel,” repeated Clockwork softly from near the doorway.  Danny hadn’t closed the door.  

Danny shook his head.  Whatever Clockwork wanted right now, Danny just couldn’t–

The edge of the bed sank down as Clockwork sat on it.  He put a hand on Danny’s shoulder.  “It will be alright, Daniel.  You are safe here.”

“You know– You know what they did.”

“I do.”

“How could you just let me– How could you let me go there?”

Clockwork sighed.  “I am bound by the limits of the role I have taken on.  I could not tell you.”

Typical.  Danny rubbed angrily at his eyes.  “How did I get away?  Do you know?”

“I know,” said Clockwork.  He didn’t say anything else.  

“But you can’t tell me, is that it?”

“If I were to tell you,” said Clockwork, carefully, “I would be removed from my current role and replaced by someone… less able.  The Observants are ever eager to exert control.”

Danny sniffled.  Clockwork’s explanation was reasonable, from a certain perspective.  It still hurt.  

“Why did they do it?” asked Danny.  “They said they wanted to understand, but they–  Who could do that if they wanted to understand?”

“I cannot say that I understand their motives,” said Clockwork.  “I certainly couldn’t imagine acting like that.”  He began rubbing a small circle into Danny’s back.  “But you need never see them again, if that is your wish.”

A sob caught in Danny’s throat, and before he knew what he was doing, he had twisted around to throw himself into Clockwork’s arms.  Clockwork received him with a remarkable amount of grace.  

“I don’t know why–  I don’t– Why I’m acting like this, I barely know them, knew them, it shouldn’t feel like–”  He didn’t know how to describe it.  “I don’t know why.”

“The why of it does not matter so much as the fact that you do feel that way,”  said Clockwork, continuing to pat Danny’s back.  

“It matters to me.”

“Ah, I see,” said Clockwork, soothingly.  “I’m sorry.  Of course it matters to you.  Of course.”

“I’m sorry,” said Danny.  

“No, no,” said Clockwork, “it’s quite alright.”

“I’m crying on you.”

“It’s fine,” said Clockwork.  “Tears wash out.”

“I don’t know why.”

“You learned about something very upsetting.  This is natural.”

“I don’t remember it.”

“It still happened, and is responsible for your present circumstances.  It’s alright to cry.  I will be here.”

.

“I made oatmeal today,” said Clockwork, putting a steaming bowl down in front of Danny.  “I thought that something simple would be best, after last night.”

Danny grunted and picked up a spoon to stir the oatmeal.  It wasn’t as simple as all that, really.  Clockwork had put raisins and cinnamon sugar in it.  It probably tasted just as good as all the other food Clockwork had made for him.  

“I’m supposed to choose now,” said Danny, listlessly. 

“This is the stage of the trial where you choose, but you need not do so immediately.  I cannot advise you on how to choose, or how to weigh your options, but it would not be out of the question for you to contemplate the matter for several days.”

“Right,” said Danny.  He scrubbed at his face.  Even after he’d sent Clockwork away, he’d cried on and off all night.  His skin around his eyes felt grainy and salty.  “What happens, when I choose?  Do you just teleport me back and the doors start working again?  And I, um, get my memory back?”

“That is a portion of it,” said Clockwork.  He sat down at the table across from Danny.  “First, however, the power involved in the ritual that is the trial would coalesce into a bond between you and your chosen guardian.  This would include the power involved in altering your form, so you would shortly thereafter regain your original appearance.”

“I kind of like the ears and tail, though.”  He ran his hands over his ears reflexively.  “They’re fluffy.”

Clockwork smiled.  “There are ways you can either regain or retain them.  Once that has occurred, the Observants will come to return your memories, and, finally, you will be escorted to your guardian.”

“Huh,” said Danny.  He poked at the oatmeal some more.  

“You should eat,” said Clockwork, gently.  

Danny sighed, and did his best.  

.

“I should make a list,” said Danny, having given up on breakfast.

“Of what?” asked Clockwork.  

“Names,” said Danny.  “Of people.  Choices.”

“You already have one of those,” Clockwork pointed out.  “In the folder.”

“Oh.  Yeah.  Where did that get to, anyway?”

Clockwork slid it across the table, along with a pencil.  

“Thanks,” said Danny.  He flipped the folder open.  “I guess I can start by crossing off the people I’m definitely not going to choose.”

“That seems like a logical way to proceed,” agreed Clockwork.  

“So.  Not the Observants, obviously.”

He looked up at Clockwork out of the corner of his eye.  He could swear he’d seen him smirk at that pronouncement.  Just a little.  

“And not Skulker, Ember, and Technus,” he continued, moving down to the next entry he could safely cross out.  “And not, and not, um.  Not Jack and Maddie.  Those’re– those are the ones I can’t, who won’t, um.  Yeah.”  He looked at the rest of the list.  “Vlad is okay, but he lied to me a bunch, and I don’t really get why we were enemies, so when I get my memory back, I might hate him again, so not him.  Jazz…”

Danny licked his lips and tapped the eraser of the pencil against the table.  He liked Jazz.  And she was his sister.  Given everything else, he could sort of understand why she was lying, but…  No.  Vlad had a point, saying that he shouldn’t choose her.

“Not Jazz,” said Danny, finally.  “I don’t want to do that to her.  Which leaves Pandora and Frostbite.”

“A difficult decision indeed.”

“Yeah,” said Danny.  He sighed.  Either one of them would be good.  Different.  Very different.  The culture shock would be hard.  Ancient Greece and the Far Frozen were both very different from what he was used to.  But Frostbite and Pandora would take care of him, and that’s what really mattered, in the end.  

But he had to wonder if there wasn’t another option.  

“Clockwork, you knew me before, didn’t you?”

“I cannot tell you that.”

“Right.  But Jazz knew you, which sort of implies that I knew you.  So.  You knew me.”  Danny bit his lower lip, thinking.  “You, um.  Why didn’t you join in?  As a guardian, I mean.  Why didn’t you, um.  Apply?  Is that the right term?”

“It’s as good as any.”  Clockwork leaned back in his chair.  “There are still limits on what I can tell you.”

“Yeah, but tell me what you can tell me.”

“If I were to adopt a child,” said Clockwork.  “Any child, not necessarily you; you understand that I cannot speak of such specifics.”

“Right,” said Danny.  

“But, if I were to try to adopt a child, the Observants would be very cross with me.”

“Why?”

“Because my responsibilities to such a child would supercede my oaths and duties to them.  They would not appreciate the loss of control, and would do everything in their power to prevent it.”

“Like, by making you be a neutral party.  Taking you out of the running.”

“Yes,” said Clockwork.  “That would be something they might do.”

Danny fidgeted with the edge of the paper folder.  “If you– Did you–  Would you have applied?  If you could?  You know, hypothetically.”

“Yes,” said Clockwork, simply.

Danny took a deep breath and rubbed his hands on his thighs.  “Then…  Then, if I…  I can choose anyone, can’t I?  Anyone I want, right?”

“Correct,” said Clockwork.  “That is the base rule upon which this whole trial is based.”

“So… what happens if I do?  If I, um, if I choose you?”

“That would be a nonstandard ending to the trial,” said Clockwork.  “It would not end as smoothly, perhaps, as it normally would.  The pathways that the power involved would travel upon may be confused.  You may not regain your original form.  The Observants would certainly withhold your memories.”

“And that would be… bad,” said Danny.  “That would be…”  He shook himself all over.  “I, um.  I don’t think…”  He faltered, looking down at his hands.  “That wouldn’t be much of a loss.  Really.”

“Fifteen years of memories is not insignificant,” said Clockwork, a note of warning in his voice.  “This is not a decision to make lightly.  It will affect your entire life.  There may even be other side effects that I have not listed.  Things that even I cannot foresee.”

“I don’t think I want to remember.  Not if it means remember what…”  He swallowed, with difficulty.  If what had been written in that binder had actually happened, he didn’t want to remember it.  “I’ve been thinking about this decision for months, right?  Every moment I remember.  I’m not making it lightly.  I know how important it is.”

Clockwork inclined his head towards Danny, acknowledging the point.  

“Pandora and Frostbite are great, but…”  Danny took a deep breath.  “But it’s you.  I choose you.”  He braced himself preparing for rejection.  A sort of tension built inside his chest until the feeling scraped the edge of pain.  

Then Clockwork was next to him and reached out to him, putting one hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek.  “Oh, Daniel,” he said.  

The tension abruptly collapsed, and Danny let himself fall forward, into Clockwork’s arms.  Clockwork carded a gloved hand through Danny’s hair, ruffling his ears.  

“It’s okay, right?  It’s okay for me to choose you.”

“Of course it is,” said Clockwork.  “Of course.  I cannot tell you how glad I am.”

“But you can tell me other things, though, right?  You’re not neutral anymore.”

“Quite right,” said Clockwork, and Danny could hear a smile in his voice.  “I have so many things to tell you.”

“What kind of things?” asked Danny, settling his head against Clockwork’s collarbone.  Or whatever ghosts had instead of collarbones.  

“All sorts,” said Clockwork.  He chuckled.  “You’ll be able to see my actual lair.”

“Is it purple, too?”

“You’ll see.”

[petermorwood]

Steldene Curd Tart

@dduane's "Food and Cooking of the Middle Kingdoms" is a bit light on sweet dishes, so when we encountered a bag of Lithuanian "tvorog" - cheese curds - in the local supermarket, minds turned to a common historical version of cheesecake, and this is the result.

The basic recipe is a Yorkshire curd tart, of which there are plenty. Foods Of England (website parked, check Archive) has just one example, along with numerous other curd-based dishes.

This has the characteristic Steldene tweak of being a bit spicy, hence the crystallised ginger and a touch of ground chilli. In this case it was Habanero powder, added with great caution. A scant half-smidgen was enough for a pleasing tingle; next time (half the bag of curds remains) I'll add a little more to find out what happens.

What is a smidgen? This is... :->

As always, this chilli addition is meant to enhance the taste, not be some daft macho challenge that ends up in the bin, so start small.

Ingredients

225 g ready-made or home-made shortcrust pastry

50 g butter

50 g caster sugar

1 medium egg, beaten

1/2 tsp mixed spice (include a little ground chilli of your preferred hotness, if desired)

grated zest and juice of 1 lemon

225 g curd cheese, or drained full fat cottage cheese

75 g crystallised ginger, chopped

3 Tbsp milk or cream

Method

Preheat oven to 180°C/160°C fan/350°F. Line a 9 inch/18 cm pie dish with baking paper or grease with butter.

Roll out the pastry on a floured board, and then line the prepared pie dish with the pastry.

Beat the butter and sugar together in a large bowl until it is light and fluffy.

Add the beaten egg, mixed spice, and lemon zest and juice, then mix well.

Add the remaining ingredients, and then spoon the filling into the pastry lined pie dish.

Bake in the middle of the preheated oven for 25 to 30 minutes, or until the filling has set and is turning golden brown.

Remove from the oven and allow to cool in the pie dish. Serve cut into slices at room temperature.

Note: even when cool the freshly made pie is crumbly; left overnight it gets firmer but will never be as solid as a cream-cheese cheesecake.

If fresh cheese curds, curd cheese or tvorog (look in shops selling Central European groceries) are hard to find, you can use drained full fat cottage cheese instead.

The original "Yorkshire curd tart" recipe called for standard dried fruit such as sultanas, raisins or currants. Chopped crystallised ginger was our adaptation. You can see the bits here, and the rather crumbly nature of the filling.

Crystallised ginger is more sugary than dried fruit, so watch out during baking: you can see where "just nice" was heading for "too much".

It was, however, still "just nice", and there's a lot less curd tart now than when these photos were taken.

It's very good, quite easy, even easier with store-bought pastry, and we're definitely going to make it again.

[yanderecookierunkingdom]

The Final Sunset

Previous | First | Next

"How did this happen..?" You muttered softly, approaching the acorn jelly farm. You stared in disbelief, seeing the trees frozen over.

"Nothing I do works," Pure Vanilla Cookie laments, gripping his staff.

"Are any of the Fire Cookies..?"

You trailed off at seeing his head shake a bit. Gripping your lantern tighter, you walked further into the farm, boots surprisingly not crunching as much as you expected.

As you and Pure Vanilla Cookie walked through the lines of trees, you lifted your lantern to look at the acorn jellies. It was devastating, to see them all frozen to the branches.

While this wouldn't affect you all too bad, it didn't bode well at all. If the acorn jellies were the first to freeze, who knew what was next.

Finally lowering your lantern, you sighed. "Pure Vanilla Cookie, make sure all of our candy sheep are safely tucked away, along with any other jellies we may have."

"Of course."

As you opened your mouth to speak more, you stopped, spotting something odd. You crouched down to look at your footsteps.. and cursed.

"Damn it," you hissed.

"What is it?" The Ancient Healer kneels down.

"Footprints..." You reached out a hand to gently brush your fingers over a half covered print. "I didn't even see them.. and now we went right over them."

You two stood in silence, slowly standing before you spoke. "Go with Sugar Snow Cookie, and attempt to find anyone who may have even gone near the acorn jelly farm."

At his nod, you ask one more question. "And where is Caramel Arrow Cookie?"

"The barracks."

It wasn't long until you arrived at the training barracks, where Caramel Arrow Cookie had dedicated herself to during the infant days of your search to stop the Frost. Even admist the ever increasing winds that howled and shrieked around you, you could hear her grunts from inside. She was training.

You pushed the reinforced door open, and it quietly shut behind you. Still holding your lantern, you walked across the cobblestone floor, past training dummies and rows of armor.

Soon, you came upon the First Watcher, seeing her slice at a training dummy with her blades. You frowned a bit, seeing the way she gritted her teeth and moved with speed you hadn't seen before.

"Caramel Arrow Cookie?" You called out, setting the lantern down.

The aforementioned Cookie stopped in her relentless assault against the poor training dummy, and she turned her head. "You're here," she let spoke, voice tight with emotion.

You nodded as you gently brushed snow off of your cloak. "I am. I wanted to talk to you about what happened in the forest. Black Raisin Cookie didn't exactly have a lot of info to give me."

Caramel Arrow Cookie was quiet as she clicked her blades back into her bow. "Pastry Cookie and I were doing a patrol around the forest perimeter," she explained. "Her faith continues to be shaken, and I was doing my best to help her focus.. when we heard.. a shriek."

"A shriek?" You blinked, confused.

"It was like a beast." The Cookie shuddered. "It wasn't.. it wasn't natural, like us. It was guttural, like the snow lions back home." She set her bow down beside the training dummy before clenching a hand over her chest. "As soon as we heard it, we rushed in that direction."

You walked over and rested a hand on her shoulder, comforting her enough to continue. "When we got there.. it was horrifying. It towered over all of us, it had sharp claws, a tail, frozen frosting. What was most terrifying was.. it's eye."

"It's eye?" You echoed.

Caramel Arrow Cookie nodded. "Its eye was a bright cyan.. with a shrunken blue pupil. It never changed."

Your heart dropped at that. That.. that was what was staring at you in the woods. The thing that attacked Pancake Cookie and Black Raisin Cookie was only a few dozen feet from you, and you didn't know.

She didn't seem to notice your horrified expression, as she kept talking. "Pastry Cookie and I acted as quickly as we could. We shot at it, keeping our distance, but it was so.. insistent. Like a predator." She sighed. "I think one of Pastry Cookie's bolts may have accidently scratched Black Raisin Cookie's face.."

"That.. must've been hard, with all the snow falling at the time," you spoke softly, rubbing your face.

Caramel Arrow Cookie looked at you, confused. "There was no snowfall when we went to go and help them."

You two stared at each other.

But.. you were so sure that, from what Pancake Cookie implied, that there was snow falling during the fight. It's the only reason he would have said that all the snow hitting him made him feel like an ice cube.

"Maybe I'm getting a bit too stressed." You rubbed your temples.

"Let accompany you then, wherever you intend to go next." Caramel Arrow Cookie looked at you seriously. "I need to repay you for letting so many of my king's people stay here."

You knew you couldn't say no to her. So you nodded with a smile.

As Caramel Arrow Cookie moved to get her bow, you looked down in contemplation. Things were already getting too convoluted, and it had only been a few hours now.

And now, Cookie's testimonies were contrasting. Black Raisin Cookie said a branch scratched her, Caramel Arrow Cookie said one of Pastry Cookie's bolts must have clipped her. Pancake Cookie said it was snowing, Caramel Arrow Cookie said it wasn't.

Of course, these things could be explained away. It was hectic when the two were saving the now ill Cookies. The snowfall could have been kicked up snow, and maybe Caramel Arrow Cookie just saw wrong.

Still.. it left a bad taste in your mouth..

* This choice will affect your future and Caramel Arrow Cookie's. Decide what will help you gather more information on the Frost and keep both of you safe.

* Caramel Arrow Cookie has joined your party! Her infection rate is currently UNKNOWN.

taglist: @speadrunner / @haveneulalie / @queensharotto / @imaginarydreams / @luv-sorrow

[kaurwreck]

karl the raccoon is not a reference to karl marx in either the raven (2012) or bungou stray dogs. he's likely named after carl linnaeus (1707–1778), the father of modern biological taxonomy.

linnaeus had a beloved raccoon named sjupp, a gift from the crown prince of sweden. sjupp loved eggs, almonds, raisins, sugared cakes, sugar, and fruit of every kind. sjupp could not bear anything with vinegar on it, or sauerkraut, or raw or boiled fish. he was friendly and playful, especially to those who ingratiated themselves by means of a few raisins; but, when scorned, prone to irreconcilable hatred.

we know these things about sjupp because upon sjupp's untimely mauling by a dog, linnaeus, man of science that he was, dissected the little rascal, and wrote an immensely fond anatomical study.

linnaeus's watercolor of sjupp, btw. if you even care.

[all of the above comes from here, and The Compleat Naturalist: A Life of Linnaeus by Wilfrid Jasper Walter]

linnaeus's connection to america's own beloved raccoon—the architect of detective fiction and gothic luminary edgar allan poe (1809-1849)—relates to poe's only bestseller as a living author: The Conchologist’s First Book: A System of Testaceous Malacology.

the first edition was already written by the schoolteacher thomas wyatt. wyatt had built upon the work of other naturalists (including linnaeus) to create a comprehensive overview of known shell classifications so that he could fall into the trap of academic publishing. his tomb on mollusks was too expensive and too large for his audience, but he couldn't adapt it into a more practical volume without incurring his publisher's ire.

meanwhile, poe; his teenage cousin wife, virginia; virginia's pet fawn; and his aunt mother-in-law, maria, were suffering for want of food. so, when the two men were introduced, poe was eager to freelance for wyatt by revising the shell book and republishing its abridged version under his own name. unlike most of poe's works, this one was a great success: it sold out in two months and was reprinted twice in six years.

(Color plate from the second edition of Edgar Allan Poe, The Conchologist’s First Book: A System of Testaceous Malacology)

his contributions, as it turned out, weren't shallow: poe's revisions to the text were breakthrough in their era. at the time, shelled creatures were organized typically by only their shells; the little beasties within the shells were largely ignored, including by wyatt. but poe didn't only slim down the text he was given; he reorganized its shell-centered pages to focus instead on the internal anatomy of the animals inside the shell. poe, who was fluent in french, also translated descriptions of the animals provided by preeminent naturalist georges cuvier to include alongside the descriptions of their shells. in other words, he helped to develop the field of mollusk studies.

to quote malacologist matthias glaubrecht notes, poe “was among the first to recognize and comment that a reliable classification of mollusks requires a combined analysis, which meant in his times reconciling a system based on hard shells . . . with evidence from soft body anatomy."

of course, because poe couldn't catch a break, it later became evident that wyatt plagiarized much of the text, the sin of which fell onto poe publicly. nevertheless, poe's sincere fascination with natural science and his inability to escape ridiculous situations left a legacy of camp gothic horror, science fiction, and, somewhat absurdly, taxonomy.

[a much better recounting of and retrospective on poe, mollusk scientist, can be found here.]

so, yeah, that's why edgar allen poe is paired with raccoon carl linnaeus in bsd (and likely the raven (2012)). though they might be an odd couple, they do share a common classification.

[flinnirthefruityfiend]

i can't really make a whole list dedicated to things i hate eating in regards to being nonhuman, but i will say i HATE SUGAR. with a ✨️PASSION✨️

i specifically hate human added sugar, but even high sugar fruits make me sick and horrible. this isn't something that runs in my family either. my mom loves sweets and my dad can't really tolerate unhealthy or unnatural food, but he handles natural sugar just fine.

me on the other hand?? i can FEEL all the sugar radiating off of a single raisin. O HATE RAISINS. i'm never even touching a raisin again. i had these vegan cupcakes and they were disturbingly sweet. i still eat them, but only to gain weight. i can't even finish them half the time. same with other sweet food; i eat it primarily to gain weight and nothing more.

candy? no. juice? maybe if it's sour but still no. bananas? no. grapes, pineapples, cherries, mangoes? no. the only sweet thing i've ever genuinely been able to tolerate is like, pomegranets. in elementary school, i would be the only kid to get sick when we would make diy christmas pastries. i don't like anything that has more than 10g of sugar per metric cup.

oh yeah i also hate any kind of meat that isn't fish, and i'm not even a big fan of cooked fish unless it's shellfish. i hate eggs too. but i don't eat meat or eggs anymore so ig it's okay lol

no DNI, but BYI: i support palestine/endos/xenos/neos/mogai/good faith but am not comfy with unethical factkin/harmful paraphiles/radqueers/darkship/transids/gen AI/taxidermy/nsfw accounts

[mariacallous]

Guava rugelach are an edible testament to Jews embracing the new ingredients and cooking techniques that they encountered in the Diaspora. They are also a testament to my mom, a culinary magician who wielded guava like a wand, infusing its sweet tones into our meals.

Brought to Latin America by Eastern European Jews in the early 20th century, cities such as Buenos Aires, Mexico City and Caracas have embraced rugelach. While many versions of the pastry still proudly bear the traditional Ashkenazi flavors of cinnamon, raisins and nuts, that’s far from the whole tale. Rugelach in Buenos Aires or Caracas might contain dulce de leche or cabello de ángel (pumpkin jam), while a stroll into a bakery in Mexico City might reveal rugelach filled with luscious chocolate ganache and aromatic Mexican vanilla.

This rugelach dough is enriched with sour cream, and results in a soft, flakey pastry. The pièce de résistance, though, is the guava filling. 

Originating from Central and South America, “guava” translates to “fruit” in Arawak, the language spoken by the native communities of the Caribbean, where this fruit, similar in size to a passion fruit, grows in abundance. The guava’s tender skin encases a creamy white or orange pulp filled with numerous tiny black seeds. 

As guava is a seasonal fruit and isn’t as widespread as mangoes or papaya, I call for guava paste, due to its unique sour-sweet taste profile. Often referred to as “goiabada,” this paste generally has a lower quotient of added sugars and presents a superior texture for baked products. Unlike runny jams and marmalades, guava paste is sculpted into a dense, sticky block yet remains soft enough to be sliced. 

Growing up, my mom used the vibrant, naturally sweet guava as her secret ingredient, a touch of the tropics that hinted at Caribbean culinary tradition in Venezuela. It turned the simplest family recipe into an exotic treat. This recipe draws inspiration from her traditional guava bread, where history, heritage and affection were kneaded into dough and baked to perfection.

Her guava-infused creations echo loudly in my present, shaping the culinary adventurer in me and reminding me of the vital link between taste and memory. Guava rugelach are not merely a pastry but a narrative of the age-old Jewish practice of reinventing ourselves in the face of new environments. The story of my lineage in the Diaspora, one many fellow Jews can relate to, is etched in the buttery dough and sweet, aromatic filling. Each bite is a reminder of who I am: A fusion of cultures, histories and flavors.

[elderberries-and-honey]

Unlike his sister, Flora, who had been allergic to her mother's milk, Atticus had an easy time nursing and always seemed to have a large appetite. Winifred didn't mind one bit, in fact, she found it rather peaceful. With the twins, she'd been under terrible stress, fretting over why her daughter wouldn't take to her and hadn't realized how serene it could be to watch her baby receive nourishment from her.

Lawrence was adamant about making sure his wife was caring for herself as well, bringing her porridge with raisins and tea with cream and sugar, exactly as she liked it. He felt guilty he couldn't be home as much as he used to be, but it seemed with Beth's help to look after Ozzy, Winifred was fairing well all on her own.

He missed his family something fierce though, and the dark purple bags under his eyes were becoming heavier and more sunken. He longed deeply to be back in Ireland, or even just go on holiday again, but with their newest addition to the family, he knew it would be impossible to rest anytime soon and continued trudging forward.

Most afternoons after luncheon, everyone would gather in the parlor. Winifred cared for her youngest, or read in-between his naps, while Beth busied herself with knitting and Ozzy played with his toys somewhere nearby.

At first, Ozzy had hardly noticed his new little brother. None of them wanted to push it until he was ready, which had mostly been suggested by Beth and the rest followed suit, knowing that she understood his quirks better than anyone. Eventually though, he grew curious on his own, as was his nature.

Atticus napped soundlessly in his bassinet, while Winifred and Beth drank their English breakfast tea and Ozzy was making attempts to wake a sleeping Honey, who couldn't be more disinterested in the toddler. Even when the adults told Ozzy to leave the cat be, he hardly listened.

However, lucky for Honey, the newborn began to stir from within his bassinet, fussing quietly for now.

Standing on his tip toes to get a good look at what was making that peculiar sound, Ozzy crept over to the bassinet and peered inside. Unsure what to make of the sight, he gawked at him silently with a rather queer expression as Winifred rose from her seat to stand there beside him.

She observed his expression cautiously before saying anything. Once she was convinced there would be no tantrum, she spoke to him in a gentle voice. "That's your baby brother, Atticus. Would you like to see closer?"

"Mhm..." Ozzy replied, unable to look away from him for even a moment. He had never seen anyone smaller than himself before and it was very strange.

Winifred lifted Atticus from the crib, holding him in just the palm of her hand, allowing Ozzy to examine him while she hoped he would notice the features on his brother's small face that were similar to his own. The newborn stirred, cooing a little, and Ozzy reached his hand up to touch him, completely entranced.

"Soft touches, Oz." She reminded him softly, which they so often had to do when he wanted to "play" with the cats. He was doing perfectly fine so far though, and she couldn't wait to tell Lawrence how brilliant he had done with it.

Nevertheless, Atticus was still hungry after his nap and resumed his fussing once again. Startled, Ozzy turned on his heel, feeling awful for doing something wrong, before running towards his Auntie Beth for safety.

Beth opened her arms at once, suppressing a giggle at his reaction to the baby's cries. "Oh, my darling, come here, come here. It's okay!" She soothed, talking to him in a rather high-pitched, baby voice.

Once he heard her reassuring words, his chin ceased it's quivering, tantrum avoided, but still, he did not like that horrid noise! "Up! Up!" He whined, until at last Beth lifted him into her arms and placed him into her lap.

"Suppose that could have gone worse." Winifred noted, and Beth simply nodded in agreement.

Wanting to help make Ozzy feel a bit better, Beth decided it was time for him to get dressed for the day and go outside to play. The breeze was just warm enough to be comfortable and they played throughout the remainder of the afternoon.

Together, they ran through the yard after each other, smiling brighter than the sun in the bright blue sky above them. It was seldom Lawrence had the time to play like this, and preceding the baby, Winifred had been too pregnant, and now too busy with Atticus.

But Ozzy was too little to understand that as of yet. All he knew was that he loved to be with his dear Auntie most of all.

Once out of breath and needing to rest, they laid near each other in the soft grass, while Beth tickled him on and off as Ozzy erupted into fits of laughter.

Inside the house, Winifred watched them from the window while she bounced Atticus up and down in her arms.

Introducing Ozzy to his new baby brother had gone better than she expected and it seemed Beth had been right in knowing it would go smoother if they waited for him to make the first move.

It was the same way she just seemed to know when he needed an extra nap, or wanted another slice of an orange and no one except her could understand his babbling, or when he lost his teddy and was delaying bedtime.

'It went well', Winifred told herself over and over again as if still in disbelief. But as she watched Beth and Ozzy together, she realized she felt a little disappointed, envious almost, wishing she was Ozzy's comfort rather than Beth. Their relationship had improved, that much was true, but after all this time, she was becoming quite sure that it would never be what it should.

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[vanilla-cigarillos]

Hot Cross Buns for Spring

Spring is here! Finally!

As much as I love the colder weather, the springtime is lovely for picnics and enjoying nature. Hot cross buns are as traditional as treats can come, and they always remind me of spring.

Ingredients:

2 cups all-purpose flour

1/4 TSP cinnamon

1/8 TSP nutmeg

2 TBSP white sugar

2 TSP baking powder

1/2 TSP salt

3/4 cup milk

4 TBSP (melted) butter

1 egg

1/2 raisins or currants

For Crosses -

2 TBSP all purpose flour

2 TBSP warm water

For Glaze -

2 TBSP apricot jelly or jam

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 375 F and grease a 9X13 inch baking sheet

In a large bowl, whisk together your flour, spices, sugar, baking powder and salt

In a separate bowl, combine your milk, butter, and egg

Stir your wet ingredients into your dry ones and mix until they're just blended. If you're using them, fold in your raisins/currants

Turn dough onto a lightly floured surface and knead 8 to 10 times until it becomes smooth

Divide dough into 12 equal pieces, shaping each into a bun and placing onto your baking sheet

To make the iconic crosses, mix together flour and water until it turns into a thick paste. Put this mix into a pastry bag and pipe crosses onto the tops of the buns

Bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown on top and cooked through the center (test with a toothpick!)

Remove from the oven and let cool slightly before glazing with your apricot jelly/jam. If you need to thin it out, warm it over a low heat stovetop just a bit in order to brush the buns evenly

Enjoy!

[puppyie-innit]

Hey, as someone who isn't aware about a lot of more... shamed upon mental illnesses, can you explain to me what age regression is? Because you still seem able to talk in full sentences, and pretty well too, is the more childish way you speak in your posts a purposeful thing to show that you feel childish inside? Age regression is just something people haven't told me a lot about, and you seem like a good person to ask. Sorry If I come off as offensive, it's not my intention! ^^; Thanks!

it’s all good fren! ive always rlly been a very smart kid, able to pronounce an use big words well and also excel in academics, the stuff i do an say are unintentional, as i can’t control when/how long i age regress, since it’s involuntarily and can happen at any time. i also don’t realize m doin it cuz i jus “feel” an believe m naturally small always. so, to answer yur question, nupe, not on purpose! it’s jus wat happened naturally for me :3

however, it’s a completely harmless an innocent copin mechanism, for a lot of kiddos in the world! simply put, age regression, in my opinion, is a type of way to cope for people who hav had traumatic things happen to em in da past, OR, it could simply to relive the good ol’ days from their childhood or lack of. NONE of it in any way is used for inappropriate/sexual/icky stuff, despite wat some people might tell you. like all things, people judge wat they don’t understand.

for me, it’s not a matter of feelin small, or a certain age. it has to do wif my emotional an mental development, as i was forced to grow up at a very young an vulnerable time in my life. my bwain like re-wired itself an stunted my growth in a way, so i often get confused an sometimes don’t even remember my own age when people ask. my azbergers diagnosis could’ve caused some more childlike behaviors to, as I’m a very emotional person when it come to change, losin those i love, gettin attached an clingy, easily jealous, easily hurt.. those kinda things. BUT, it’s also a very very wholesome an joy-filled experience to, as you jus get to escape reality for a bit an revert back to a younger headspace, it’s even better if yous got someone to take care of you while yur little, like a big siblin or trusted fren :D

another thing dat some people do is referrin to regression as “slippin,” which i think is a much better way to think of it as!

examples of some of my age slippin behaviors can include: (this is all my opinion, m not an expert an not everyone does dis!!)

-gettin SUPER excited over that baby-talk voice people do to puppyies/babies

-voice raisin in a higher pitch/slurred speech

-mis-pronouncin words/spellin, for me it’s not intentional

-cuddlin every single plushie in any store i find

-gigglin/laughin/smilin uncontrollably

-bein silly!

-makin noises/stimmin

-very very happy when bein called a “good kid”

-chewin on my fingies/suckin my thumb

-gettin sleepy after sugar

-jumpin up an down when someone tells me good news

-huggin, LOTS of huggin

-wearin oversized clothin

-crawlin on all fours

-sittin in someone’s lap/snugglin wif em

-bein curious bout things/askin lots of questions

-not understandin somethin due to my innocence

-havin my hair petted/back rubbed

-havin someone to be held by when m sad

-freely makin messes cuz it fun to get dirty!

basically anythin that you would do/say to a child

i hope dis helped you a bit more! ^~^

[beautyandlifestyleblog86]

Energy-boosting Oatmeal Raisin Cookies -

Ingredients:

- 1 cup of rolled oats

- 1/2 cup of mashed ripe banana

- 1/3 cup of almond butter

- 1/4 cup of honey

- 1/2 teaspoon of ground cinnamon

- 1/2 cup of raisins

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

2. In a large bowl, mix together the mashed banana, almond butter, and honey until well combined.

3. In a separate bowl, whisk together the rolled oats and cinnamon.

4. Add the dry ingredients to the wet ingredients and mix until just combined.

5. Gently fold in the raisins.

6. Drop rounded tablespoons of the cookie dough onto the prepared baking sheet.

7. Bake for 10-12 minutes, or until the edges are golden brown.

8. Allow the cookies to cool on the baking sheet for a few minutes before transferring them to a wire rack to cool completely.

These cookies are a great source of fiber, healthy fats, and protein, making them a satisfying and energizing snack. The natural sweetness from the banana and honey helps to satisfy your sweet tooth without the need for added sugars. Enjoy!

[craftedbottler]

Mead is actually quite simple to make as long as you use the proper equipment and ingredients. The hardest part about making mead is patience. Here's some of the common questions asked about making mead.

How Do You Make Mead?

The Short Version:

Mix Honey and Water: In your primary fermenting bucket, combine 3-3.5 pounds of honey per gallon of mead.

Yeast and Nutrition: Add mead yeast along with some nutritional source like raisins to support yeast growth.

Fermentation Starts: Attach an airlock to your fermentation vessel. Yeast will convert sugars into alcohol, with CO2 escaping through the airlock. This initial fermentation could last from 2 weeks to a month.

Secondary Fermentation: Once the bubbling slows down or stops, transfer your mead to a secondary fermenter like a carboy, leaving the sediment behind. Let it sit for about 2 months in a dark place.

Bottling: After aging, bottle your mead and label it for personal enjoyment or gifting.

For a detailed traditional mead recipe, check out this link: https://www.craftedbottler.com/blogs/post/mead-recipe

Is It Legal to Make Mead in the US?

Yes, for personal consumption. You'll need a license to sell it commercially.

How Much Honey Do I Need for 1 Gallon of Mead?

You'll need 3-3.5 pounds of honey for each gallon of mead.

Can I Use Tap Water for Mead?

Yes, if it's filtered, safe, and tastes good. However, spring water is often recommended for its mineral content beneficial for fermentation. If using tap water do one of the following:

Boil it to remove chlorine.

Let it sit overnight to evaporate chlorine.

Use potassium metabisulfite or Campden tablets.

Employ a filter system to remove chloramine and other impurities.

Avoid distilled water due to its lack of minerals.

Is Raw Honey OK for Mead?

Absolutely! Raw honey is excellent for mead because it's packed with natural sugars, minerals, and nutrients that enhance taste and fermentation.

How Long Does Mead Ferment?

Primary fermentation generally takes 7-14 days, with secondary fermentation lasting 1-3 months.

How Alcoholic Can Mead Get?

Mead can range from 3.5% to over 20% ABV. With the right yeast and nutrients, you can achieve up to 18% ABV, though meads over 15% might taste "hot" if not properly managed.

How to Stop Fermentation in Mead?

Use potassium sorbate to halt yeast activity. About 1/2 teaspoon per gallon once fermentation is complete.

How Do You Age Mead?

Aging involves:

Temperature: Keep it between 55–65°F (13–18°C).

Humidity: Around 70% to keep corks moist.

Light: Store in darkness or dark containers to avoid UV damage.

Position: Lay bottles on their side if corked.

Bulk Aging: Age in bulk before bottling for consistency, minimizing headspace to prevent oxidation.

By following these guidelines, you can craft mead that not only tastes great but also reflects the ancient art of brewing. Whether you're a seasoned brewer or a curious novice, mead-making can be a delightful journey into the past with a sweet twist on modern home brewing. Enjoy your mead-making adventure!