#Suet Square

[ecobirdfood]

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[roseate-felidae]

My Domestic Canary bones

This was a red factor new colour Canary that my Grandad owned. He's kept and bred new colour canaries for donkeys years.

This bird died of old age, and he was born 2019. He was my Nan's favourite one, due to his beautiful song.

I buried him first and inside a square suet block cage with a humane fox cage above ground over it. Therefore no scavengers could get them like my last birds I've tried this with (i live next to a woodland so lots of natural death birds).

I lost some bones to the decomposition process, bird bones are very fragile. After fully decomposed, I degreased the bones in a mixture of water and fairy liquid dish soap.

This was the end result. I had to glue the beak to the skull, and jaw seperately as they both broke. I've glued the jaw to the skull aswell, as the bottom jaw is missing some parts that allow it to connect securely. It keeps wanting to tip backwards off the jawbone. These photos are unglued with the jaw being separate.

@mekanikaltrifle @robotslenderman @lepurcinus my canary bones are finally done!

[rjzimmerman]

How to co-exist with a belligerent catbird. (Washington Post)

My childhood bedroom had a Jane Goodall quote on the wall — “My mission is to create a world where we can live in harmony with nature” — and I think this helps explain how I became a person who surrendered five blueberry bushes and my dignity to an angry catbird.

We called her Catherine. The spring when my daughter was 2, Catherine claimed the entire garden beside our house as her domain. I discovered this when we went to pick blueberries from our bushes; as my toddler plucked the fruit, the bird began calling loudly. Then she dove toward me and landed on my headband. I gasped and jumped, startling my daughter.

“What happened?” she asked, and because I wanted to convey a scene that was more Beatrix Potter than Alfred Hitchcock, I said, very calmly: “Mama catbird is asking for some space for her babies! What a good mom! Congratulations on your babies, Catherine!” Then I hurried us away, my daughter cheerfully calling, “Congratulations!” to the bird who was still shrieking and swooping toward my head.

When we think about living with animals, we might think first about pets — how they teach us empathy, responsibility and patience and shape our daily rhythms. But the wild creatures who inhabit our yards and neighborhoods offer their own lessons in companionship and accountability, and these, too, have become an indelible part of our family life. My daughter’s first words were, “Hi, squirrel!” as she waved to the plump rodent peering in the window. When the white-tailed deer bring their fawns to our yard, we are sure to keep the birdbath full; the nursing mothers are always thirsty. My children greet our garden residents by name: Mariah, the chipmunk, known for her clear, high-pitched vocalizations; Sally, the eastern cottontail rabbit, who nests in the flower bed; Albirdo, the redheaded woodpecker, who rudely banishes all competition from the suet feeder. (“Share,” my daughter urges him, unsuccessfully.)

Albirdo doesn’t understand that edict, but we try to uphold it. This is the one little patch of Earth over which we have any measure of control, and I want our family to share it thoughtfully with the other beings who belong here — even when those relationships demand a little extra compromise.

My loved ones have come to accept my soft spot for the wildlife forced to adapt to our modern human presence. In an apartment where doves nested above the concrete patio, I set out cushions and towels to soften the landing for fledglings. I once baited a humane mouse trap with parsley and peanut butter and conducted daily releases in a wooded area behind the yard. (Turns out I was releasing just one mouse, who returned day after day, increasingly plump and at ease with our morning routine. My mounting suspicion led me to dot a black Sharpie on the back of his head before he dashed into the underbrush. The next day, I drove Sharpie Mouse to a park several miles away, where I bid him a permanent farewell.)

Others are more skeptical of my devotions. Once, circling the perimeter of our house with a termite prevention specialist, he gestured toward the ivy-covered stump where a magnificent oak once stood. “That,” he said gravely, “will attract voles or chipmunks to live there.” “I know!” I gushed. I think he realized I was a lost cause.

Catherine sensed my weakness, too. She harvested the majority of our blueberries that first year; I didn’t dare challenge her. The next year, I tried to net the bushes — but she built her nest within the netting, so I gave up and took it down. Every time my husband passed by to take the trash out, she divebombed him. Still, I couldn’t bear to banish her.

In our third year as neighbors, when it came time for me to plant my dahlias in the raised bed — squarely in Catherine’s territory — I knew I’d need protection. I dug my old horseback-riding helmet out of the closet.

[lovelylogans]

random distribution

The number π (/paɪ/; spelled out as "pi") is a mathematical constant that is the ratio of a circle's circumference to its diameter, approximately equal to 3.14159. It is a transcendental number, meaning that it cannot be a solution of an equation involving only sums, products, powers, and integers. The transcendence of π implies that it is impossible to solve the ancient challenge of squaring the circle with a compass and straightedge. The decimal digits of π appear to be randomly distributed, but no proof of this conjecture has been found.

ao3 | other fics on tumblr | coffee?

warnings: mentions of baking mishaps, let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairings: none, all platonic!

words: 2,152

notes: hi, all! i wrote this for the tss fanworks collective discord january remix challenge; i took @edupunkn00b’s fic 3.14159265 ... and had some fun writing some fluff for it! thank u to @teacupfulofstarshine for the “patriarchy” pun in here! edu, i hope you enjoy it!

⁂

Pi day, in Patton’s mind, has reached transcendental levels of importance.

Previously, the attention he’d paid it had been potential for puns and potential for pies—both matters near and dear to his heart, of course, and an opportunity for great, low-effort fun.

Say what you will about Patton’s endeavors today: they certainly cannot be called low-effort.

He’s done research on best crusts to pair with each flavor profile. He’s gotten deep into baking blogs’ pros and cons of blind bakes. He’s hauled enough flour, sugar, and jam into the cupboards to best maintain a surprise to pass as workouts for a full week. Those bags of flour are not Eton mess-ing around!

He even, in a move that he thinks would make Logan particularly proud, made a spreadsheet to list out all the baking timings and when he needs to start each pie.

Because while he is doing this to make sure Logan feels heard, he also wants to take the particular recent incident to heart; he wants to make sure they all feel heard. And, while Pi Day is definitely skewed in Logan’s favor, he can’t help but throw in a few gestures for the rest of his favorite guys.

So that means boo-berry pie for Virgil, and strawberry rhubarb pie for Roman, a good ol’ apple pie for Thomas, and an interesting recipe he’d found when he’d gotten sidetracked on the blogs; a lemon meringue galette sounds just about perfect for Janus.

And that means, though the flavor definitely isn’t within Patton’s particular profile—ugh!—haggis for Remus.

(What are tatties?! What are neeps?! Where is he meant to get groundnut oil??? What is the proper measurement for a dram, and should he even really be pouring a dram for Remus anyway? Patton’s Google search history is really getting to some areas of the internet it doesn’t usually get to stray into!) 

Patton decides to just. Not really look at it too closely. Or smell it too much. And to maybe clean out the oven between bakes to make sure the other pies don’t taste too haggis-y. He can’t imagine a blackberry-pomegranate jam pie is going to blend well with the lingering scents of sheep liver and suet.

So Patton sets his alarm to purr (a purring cat alarm clock! what will people come up with next!) at a truly ridiculous time of day. 

It’s actually a little bit painful, waking up that early. Ugh. The sun isn’t even up. Patton can still see the light of the moon filtering through his blinds. It’s so cozy in his bed, and out there it’s so cold, and he’s tired, gosh darn it. 

It’s a good thing he sets two alarms; the cat alarm within his reach and, in a move of forethought that usually eludes him, a second one on his phone that’s out of his reach so that he’ll need to actually get up to turn it off. He finds himself dozing off in that space of three minutes between blaring, but even as the second one starts, he thinks that might have been just what he needed.

More sleep. 

But that’s going to have to be contained to three minutes and three minutes only. Because there’s a brilliant, bespectacled brainiac who has a year-long hankering for both jams and pies, and this is THE day to cater to both of those interests.

So even while he’s debating going back to sleep, he thinks for Logan, and that staves off the last sweet temptations of warm blankets and more blessed, blessed sleep.

So he blearily pulls on one of his many blue polos, ties his cat hoodie over his shoulders, and descends the stairs, headphones in hand and playlists prepped, ready to tackle the pies of the day.

He turns on his headphones and puts on a playlist Roman made, preheats the oven, washes his hands, and lays out saran wrap he can flour to roll out doughs (thank you, baking blogs, for that tip on how to get a lower level of mess!) and then gets sidetracked because he could have sworn they had a rolling pin, where is it—

(It’s tucked into the drawer where they usually keep a mishmash of other unusual kitchen supplies, which means that Patton also gets to find a little juicer which will save him time when it comes to juicing lemons for Janus’ galette. Neat!)

—and goes about rolling out the first of many, many doughs.

All made with butter, flour, sugar, salt, ice water (substituted about half of that water with vodka for some, which apparently makes a flakier, more tender crust? He’s interested to see if that one actually works) most of them the night before, so that the doughs had time to chill, but he still has a couple quicker crusts (made of graham crackers, mostly) that need to be assembled, like, now.

Also, he’s going through so. much. butter. Holy moo-ly is that a lot of butter! These pies are gonna be delicious, though, you’d butter believe it!

Patton laughs to himself. He has a feeling he’ll be doing that a lot today.

He packs away the first of the pie fillings (old-fashioned jelly pie, one of the two blackberry-pomegranates, and Virgil’s boo-berry) and sets the first three pies in the oven. He’s on a roll!

Or. Hang on.

Patton immediately sidetracks starting on the second batch to look up if pie rolls are a thing (they are, of course they are, what will those recipe bloggers come up with next!) and takes a few moments to deliberate if adding in a whole new baked good would be worth it for one pun.

He decides to wait and see if he has enough leftover dough for that. But he is very tempted.

Patton gets into a pretty good rhythm, really; by the time the first three pies come out of the oven, the next three (Roman’s strawberry rhubarb, Thomas’ apple, and a peach mango) are rarin’ to go, and he’s even got a head start on Janus’ fancy galette crust!

It’s more fun and less fussy than he thought it’d be, really. The crust recipes he’s found for this recipe is much less fussy than the needs-to-be-chilled-forever pie crust he’d been working with before his baking research for today. 

Patton hums happily along to the latest song on the playlist because he doesn’t know the words well enough to sing as he carefully pinches and pleats the dough.

The filling, on the other hand, is very fussy. Why is meringue so dramatic? Patton overbeats it for, like, maybe five seconds and it immediately deflates on him. 

Okay, more like thirty seconds, but he wasn’t sure what foamy was meant to look like, he was just trying to be sure!

But anyway, he manages the second attempt at meringue pretty well, or at least well enough to manage. He manages to transfer the meringue to the galette crust with minimal spillage. Woo-hoo!

He has to pause in brushing egg yolk along the crust to take out the pies and swap in the three newest (another old-fashioned jelly pie, Janus’ galette, and a blind bake for the french silk that’ll quickly go into the freezer).

He’s so in the zone that he doesn’t even notice until he’s taking out the latest old-fashioned jelly pie, sniffing it and frowning at the incorrect smell, that he’d completely switched around the two containers they use to hold salt and sugar.

Patton sighs, staring down at the ruined pie. Oh well.

He hesitates.

It’d be a shame for it to go to waste, he guesses.

He folds, and takes in a forkful of pie, before pulling a face and leaning to spit it out in the sink. Yuck!

He quickly wraps it up with foil and adds a post-it note on top that says FOR REMUS: SALTY?

Patton hopes he’ll like it, otherwise people might get salty about missing out on what could have been a perfectly good pie.

So he gets started on an extra old-fashioned jelly pie; good thing for that extra dough, but he guesses that means no pie rolls. Oh, well! He can still make the pun while knowing about their existence, even if he won’t have a physical prop.

All’s sel that ends sel.

(Get it, sel? Like sel gris? It’s some kind of French salt, Patton thinks. According to Google, anyway. And it rhymes with all’s well that ends well? No? Ah, Patton can admit that’s not one of his best puns. He’ll keep workshopping it before he cracks a joke to Remus.)

But the rest of the baking goes great! He even remembers what each piece of Scottish lingo is for each ingredient of the haggis! 

There’s no more salt-for-sugar level catastrophes; the closest mixup he has is misremembering which way he was overlaying a lattice, and that’s fixed easily enough even if the lines aren’t as straight as they are in magazines.

There’s a lot of not straight in this household, though, so Patton figures everyone will be okay with that.

He even manages to finish ahead of schedule! Take that, Great British Baking Show stressful rush music that was starting to play in his mind! He bets Mary Berry’s blue eyes would sparkle at him in grandmotherly pride! Prue Leith would happily tap the countertop with the flat of her hand if she tasted one his pies!

Earning a Paul Hollywood handshake? Patton doesn’t know about that one.

But that’s to Patton’s preference. He really isn’t sure about that Paul Hollywood. Something about the judgings he doles out. And why is his judgment more heavily weighted than Prue’s, anyway? Prue’s an incredibly accomplished baker! 

It’s that darn pastry-archy working, Patton bets. Just because Prue’s not queen of scones or something doesn’t mean her opinion matters less than the silly king of bread.

Patton might have said so, really, during their latest bingewatch of the show, except it’s not a particularly common opinion. He isn’t sure how much his fellow sides prefer Paul Hollywood to Prue, though. If he says how much he prefers Prue and Mary to Paul, then someone whose favorite judge was the batter latter might take it like Patton’s enacted the Pi-ides of March.

He manages to settle most of the pies, goes about scooping in cold fillings for the chillier pies that need to be in the fridge (French silk, a peanut butter-chocolate pie, banana cream, and a very promising Twix pie he’d found—those blogs, really, what will they come up with next? Patton hopes all of them have been sent flours for their efforts!)

Patton spends the rest of the morning tidying up the kitchen of stray flour and sugar, arranging the pies in a flavor order that makes the most sense of him, (with the salt pie far in the back) and trying to pick out which of their dining utensils would be cutest to use with each pie, watching the sunrise filter in through the windows.

Ooh, he can’t wait to see the look on all of their faces!

⁂

And he does get to see the looks on their faces; the surprise, the pleased smiles, the “mmm!”s as they eat their specialized pies, Logan’s soft smiles at him when he probably thought Patton wasn’t looking, and Patton’s happier than… well, happier than a sweet-toothed sugar lover in his kitchen, currently full of pies, pies, and more pies.

And dirty dishes. But that’s less important to the metaphor, and he can take care of that pretty quickly! Just… later.

What? It’s not like they can have Pi Day without trying to seek out other pie-themed foods!

(It’s mostly pizza.)

At the end of the day, when everyone else has gone up to bed, when Patton’s loading the dishwasher, he pauses.

There’s one more covered dish than there was this morning.

A chocolate chip cookie pie for our favorite dad guy!

—Janus, Remus, Roman, and Virgil

P.S.: Your gestures of celebration are appreciated. —Logan.

Patton beams a bright, silly smile, briefly tracing his fingers over their signatures, then carefully cuts himself a slice of chocolate chip cookie pie.

It’s delicious. Still a little warm—so it must have been baked recently, probably when he’d fallen asleep on the couch a bit, oops—gooey, chocolatey throughout, and the perfect marriage of a pie and a cookie. Patton wiggles happily as he eats every last delicious crumb of his slice, making sure to carefully wrap it back up and place it amongst the other pies.

He takes the note, though. That’s going somewhere special.

And as he falls asleep, full of sugar and all the good things, he knows he’s going to sleep well after a day of baking and eating and making sure Logan knows he’s appreciated.

Even if he has silly dreams about the moon turning into a big, silver pie.

[psychomorphary]

I have several bird feeders in my yard.

The suet squares are currently empty while I'm trying to smoke my pipe outside.

A blue jay is sitting on a branch across the fence above the suet squares, just screaming at me.

Mr. Jack Blue Jay: WHY IS THE SUET ALWAYS GONE?!

[theredripper]

“bold, am i?” he scoffs in disbelief. “if i am bold, then you are thoughtless. to take part in this bargain with no consideration of the consequences that will befall the crown if the volantenes were to discover that the master-of-ships and the hand of the queen colluded to raid their ships.” toron gestures in disgust to the maps that dalton has laid before him, grasping for an offense that would match the one served to his honor. “i wonder, then, what the queen would do with the both of you once the volantenes accuse her of planning this raid herself, leaving two of her advisors to do the grunt work for her.” he pauses, his voice turning low and grave as if speaking of an old sin. “she will answer in kind and deliver her judgment in dragonflame.” 

toron laughs at mention of the mainlanders esteem for the iron islanders. it was faulty to think that their storied history could start anew with his father’s elevated status in the mainland; a pedestal is not a spire with stone walls or battlements to prevent those within from harm. it was, instead, a landing sphere and target for sharp objects. in weeks past, their displeasure of the greyjoys was palpable than ever, with toron's own share of verbal spats and altercations in the streets as proof of their shared enmity. “i say fuck the celltigars,” he answers plainly, for their acceptance could never hope to hold a rotten candle to the praise the greyjoys received from the ironborn. “fuck the reach and fuck the north!” he bursts into a prodigious peal of anger, pacing to the other end of the room in agitation, looking everywhere else but to whom he speaks to. “having the lion's share of plunder of their lands and making that wench and her sack of suet of a grandfather become my thralls is nothing to what awaits. it is my right and the drowned god’s mandate, targaryen’s be damned.” 

as it were, dalton towers over toron like a homing beacon from within his shadow, reeling him back in with the clattering sound of sharp objects on the desk. the sight of the jewels is a stretching of wings, drawing across toron’s face in a slash with the promise of plunder and arcane magic, his eyes rooting onto the jewels with interest. they hang in his palm like square eyes, his greed reflecting on them with liquid brightness. “why are you really doing this?” he hesitates, almost embarrassed to ask as he glares at the the signet of house celltigar that he grasps with his other hand. “is it for her?” 

it was not so much as an accusation as it is an indictment of dalton’s nature: all manner of women pleased him, and while his father’s treasury overflowed with riches of half a hundred distant lands, he had beggared himself for love by giving his salt wives all that he was, all he ever might have been. it was in his nature to court women with such wide spanning sacrifice that toron shuddered to think what his father would do to add a woman of valyrian heritage to his harem. he decided that he would not let himself or his siblings bear the consequences of this half-baked bargain. it was in his lesser nature, though, to not stand to be overlooked by them, so when dalton baits him into carrying out the assault by resorting to a more agreeable sibling, toron looks every bit dejected. “father, stop. let me think – ”

—Raiding the Celtigars so they can call their Targaryen overlords and send our whole family and fleet to flame? Boldness is useful until it becomes foolishness. Everyone from the North to the Reach already hate us, I prefer if the people with dragons get to tolerate us.

« Did fatherhood make me weak? » One threat against his family and Dalton stop almost all his plans. Queen Rhaenyra's words echoed in his mind; making Pyke a second Harrenhal, maybe she won't fly herself to do it. But she definitely had enough dragonriders to send in her name. « She won't find me on Pyke, but I'm not sacrificing Amarys and her children. »

—Yes, this isn't our way. —Dalton listen at his son's words carefully. He took a ring full of gemstones from his pocket and placed it on the table.— But Lady Calla said she'll paid anything. She have this ring as if it was nothing for her to pay. Aren't you curious how much can we ask just for one book? House Celtigar has many ancient relics. Maybe they have books about valyrian metallurgy in their possession. Some valyrian steel thay no longer need. Things we can't find and steal from Essos or Westeros for ourselves. —Dalton really hoped his words would spark Toron's curiosity. Maybe calm down his anger, even a little.

—We got useful information about merchant ships from them and will keep most of the merchandise. Using them from time to time isn't a bad idea. You are always free to raid as much as your heart desires... as long as it's on the other side of the Narrow Sea.— Dalton traced the Black Crane's possible routes with his fingers. They would need a good place to strike, specially if the weather allowed for their black-and-gold flags to show easily. Wind were never truly on anyone's side, no matter how much one prays for them. The cover of nigh helped, but it won't be enough.— If you still feel such indignation of giving up one book in exchange for whatever list we can come up with together, I can send your sisters instead. You can stay mad and bored on the Blackwater's bay.

[theartistknownaslymond]

Whumptober 2022 day 25

Lost Voice | Duct Tape | “You better start talking.”

I CAUGHT UP!!

Another suggestion from @stripedroseandsketchpads​ thank you Kay!! ‘3rd one re: getting caught in GoK (arrest at the end maybe?)’

CW: period typical journalistic homophobia and scaremongering about AIDS. References to terrorism, bigotry and racism as well as mob violence (very vaguely alluded to). Good old fashioned fisticuffs :’)

---

Francis Crawford was sitting outside Kings Cafe in the bright grey light of a crisp autumn day in Glasgow. He wore his customary shades and long-mouthed scowl, and his knee jogged impatiently. He ignored the glances of theatre kids and uni students slipping into the cafe for post-lecture brunches. If any of them were brave enough to pause and address him -

"'Scuse me, man, are ye Lymond?"

"When's the new album out, pal?"

"Wouldya sign this serviette fer me? Reckon I could get a few bob fer it down at Barras market..."

- he simply stared back in silence until the sight of their own pimply faces in his reflective lenses disconcerted them and sent them scuttling away. No one complained about this treatment: he was wearing the kind of folded and studded leather jacket that could conceal any number of things in its pockets, and his fist was curled tightly on the unevenly settled aluminium table. The scars on his knuckles shone white beneath the rumour of sunlight and the tabloids were still full of speculation about all the horrors he might have participated in during his time in New York.

Will Scott took all this in with a knowing sneer as he loped along Elmbank Street, a copy of today's paper and a cassette player tucked under his arm.

Lymond thought he was untouchable, the callous bastard. On the anniversary of his little sister's death he was sitting there, waiting for his bandmates to answer his summons, focussed only on how much money he could squeeze out of their next album.

Will had had enough of it.

He stopped by the table and stood deliberately between Francis and the hazy spot of cloud the sun was pushing at. In the mirror of Francis' sunglasses he was a curving beanpole of a man, like some kids' TV character: blue jeans, black leather, shock of red curls.

"Fair fa' ye, boss," Will said with a smirk of anticipation.

Francis' pale brows where hidden behind the rims of his aviators and his expression didn't change. He just nodded and gestured to the other seat.

"Actually," Will grinned, drawing a deep and satisfying breath of cafe air - it smelled of bean sauce, weak tea, and suet. "I told Mat tae meet us over at Blythswood. It's nicer being in the park - I can play ye the new demo without the traffic." Will gestured to the cassette player under his arm.

Francis looked up at him - Will assumed he did by the angle of his chin, anyway - and Will wondered whether he was going to be obstreperous.

Instead, Francis shrugged. "Go and get your tea to take away, then..." he said impatiently.

Will did so, and when he emerged saw that Francis was standing in anticipation of him, pacing a little and kicking at the cigarette butts on the pavement.

He was really craving a smoke, Will saw, and he was pleased to think the treacherous arsehole was suffering. "C'mon! Don't wanna keep Turkey waiting..." Will elbowed him in the arm and strode off at a clip towards Blythswood.

Francis traipsed along after him, moodily silent until they reached the side streets. Then, to Will's discomfort, he began to chat about the album and how he envisaged the material coming together. He sounded genuinely interested in hearing the demo Will claimed to have brought, and Will clenched his jaw and reminded himself what fun it would be instead to see Francis' expression when he realised Will had rooted out the truth of his past.

They wandered around the edge of Blythswood Square gardens, circling the railings until they were at a sheltered spot under a drooping cherry tree. Francis pulled himself up and over the iron barrier easily and then held his hands out to take the tea, the cassette player and the paper Will was holding.

Will passed them to him and lifted his own leg to brace against the stump of a branch pushing through the rails. He hauled himself up and over without impaling himself - it was perhaps the smoothest he'd ever managed the manoeuvre of trespassing into the private gardens, and he straightened with a smirk, imagining that Francis might have some grudgingly impressed witticism to share.

Instead, Francis was frowning at the pages of the paper Will had brought.

Damnit, did he have no self-restraint? Will thought, checking his watch as a new worry occurred to him. He needed to keep Francis here until the fuzz arrived - he didn't want Francis getting his suspicions up early and making a run for it.

"What's up? Worried your hero's sold out?" Will tittered, thinking of the headline about Sinn Féin's recent electoral success and grabbing his tea back,

Francis looked up at him sharply. He'd pushed his sunglasses back so they rested among the ash blond waves of his hair. They stood in the shade of late autumn colour, where the air was still cool from a light morning frost, and a single, deep line scored the pale skin between Francis' brows as he fixed Will with his stare.

"Did you read this?" he asked softly.

Will, who had skimmed the front page - but taken Dandy Hunter's word at face value that the damning report on Francis' collusion with terrorists would be included - shook his head and smiled innocently. "No?"

Francis looked him over slowly and then turned the paper towards him.

Will folded the sheets messily - they flapped and fought him at every step, and he wished Dandy didn't have to be pretentious enough to write for one of the few remaining broadsheets.

He looked for the pseudonymous diary column, but instead his eyes fell on a hateful little piece at the bottom of the page.

Chart Topping Drummer Potential 'Typhoid Mary' in Gay Plague Spread  

Next to the article was a picture of Turkey Mat, sweaty and happy after a gig, his thick arm slung round Francis Crawford's shoulder. Francis was wearing one of his more fey outfits, something lacy and flouncy, and his smile could only be described as Puckish. To his side stood one of the famous drag stars from the Ostrich in full stage make-up. The middle finger she was giving the camera had been censored out with a black box. Another, smaller image, showed Francis sharing a microphone cheek to cheek with a second guitarist; a man. The photo was apparently taken in New York, at a club called Three Cheers.

Will's eyes ran back and forth over the text but he couldn't really take it in. It was full of lies anyway - Mat wasn't gay (at least, Will had never heard him express interest in anyone of any gender), he'd probably been infected when he was using drugs, or working with addicts, and in any case he hadn't known he was a carrier of the virus when he'd left New York, so Francis hadn't been part of any campaign to 'smuggle' AIDS into the country, as the newspaper came perilously close to claiming. It was a sensationalised, racist, and deeply homophobic distraction from the real story Will had approached Dandy with, which was the issue of Francis and the IRA weapons.

"What the fuck is this...?" Will muttered, shaking his head.

Francis was looking at him strangely. He'd gone quite pale - paler than normal - and there were lines of worry around his remarkable eyes that Will hadn't really appreciated before.

"Did you speak to Mat this morning?" his voice was still unsettlingly gentle, filled with concern for the toothless oaf of a drummer he'd picked up in some skeevy punk club.

"What? I, no," Will said defensively.

Francis blinked. "When you told him to meet us here and not the cafe?"

"Oh! Oh, yeah."

"He didn't mention this?"

"Probably hadna seen it. I don't imagine he's a subscriber to the broadsheets," Will chuckled nervously.

Francis looked nauseated. He didn't contradict Will, but he shook his head and gazed out past the topiary shrubs to the main part of the garden. He plucked the paper from Will's fingers and folded it up. The he took the cassette player from under his arm instead. "Shall we have a listen to this demo, then?"

"Here?" Will asked.

"We are, after all, in Blythswood Square."

"Aye, but how will Mat see us here in the hedgerow?" Will scoffed. "There's a bench right there," he nodded.

Francis' eyes narrowed suspiciously and he peered out over the railings they'd climbed. He seemed to listen carefully to the traffic, and Will hoped to god the police squad he’d tipped off would be smart enough to come without sirens.

Whatever he heard or didn't hear, Francis found no excuse not to follow Will to the bench.

"Aye." Will sat down and Francis sat down, the machine between them, poised to play. "A little introduction..." Will took a deep breath and let it out, reminding himself of all the justification he had for this, all the reasons he'd read about in the papers, seen on the news, all the innocents who'd never be coming back to their families because of what Francis Crawford had helped the terrorists achieve.

"The story behind this one - and correct me if ye know it already - begins a few thousand miles that-a-way." Will pointed in the direction closest to west, and Francis watched him in silence.

He'd put his sunglasses away. The cloud cover had thickened and blackened, and the sun no longer illuminated it from behind. Francis sat on his hands and learned forwards, a little hunched, his frown unchanging and his mouth unhappy.

But he listened.

Will spun a story of a young man's ambition, of a hedonistic reliance on drugs and fame, of mob debts and a wannabe gangster who figured the best way to beat his captors was by joining them. He imagined a sadistic joy in cruelty, the transformation of ambition into a power trip. Noble ideals - the freedom of a nation - soured into commercial, base calculations regarding how many of their side needed to die in order for his side to win. People became pawns to him, as he sought influence over the world in whatever way he could get it.

When Will had finished, Francis let out a quiet snort and stood.

"I told you, Will - prog's out of fashion."

"What? Don't you want to listen to the cassette?"

Francis' cornflower blue eyes were totally hidden by heavy lids as he gazed down at the machine.

"I don't think it will fit the album, from your description," his lip curled.

"Don't you want to give your side of it?!" Will exclaimed.

Francis let the ensuing silence stretch out across the square. Only beyond it there wasn't silence - the noise of the city continued, unabated. And within that noise Francis now heard something that made him curse and shake his head.

"It seems you already have it on your wretched cassette, Marigold," he spat. He turned, evidently resolved to leave.

"No - " Will leapt to his feet, his hands balled into fists. "This is you, this is what you do! What ye've done! And ye'd better start talking, acause soon the whole world is goin' tae know about ye anyway!"

Francis cast a glance over his shoulder, condescending and disdainful. "It seems I've already done more than enough talking, does it not? Now, I am going to go and see my sick friend and check how he's responding to the national press comparing him to a plague rat."

Will rolled his eyes. "Och, he'll be fine. That wasna meant tae happen..."

"Fine?" Francis repeated, and let Will's diagnosis hang. "Then I hope you've learned a lesson about dealing with creatures such as Andrew Hunter," he added coldly before turning away again.

There was still no sign of the fuzz, so Will did the only thing left to him and grabbed a leather-clad shoulder and spun Francis back to face him, swinging his fist simultaneously so that it cracked into one of those sharp-boned cheeks.

"Ye bollix!" Will exclaimed at the pain in his knuckles and bent over, shaking his hand.

It had been effective, though - Francis had staggered and reeled and now held his jaw with his own hand, a look of fury kindling in his eyes.

He gave a little nod to Will, a kind of challenge that asked him, Really? Do you really want to do this?

Will, who had been stewing in resentment and anger - fear for his family and friends - rage at how easily the world fell into place for Francis Crawford, who might have already had it all if he wasn't such an uncompromising tyrant - kissed his bruised knuckles, tossed his red curls back from his forehead, and licked his lips: Aye, I do.

He braced as Francis lunged at him.

[sussex-nature-lover]

Monday 22nd March 2021

The Little Brown Birds

I had to put in an emergency online order for more bird seed yesterday and we’re still waiting for the half coconuts and Niger feeders to arrive. Honestly, the cast of thousands is eating us out of house and home. We had 25kg of seed delivered on the 18th February when we already had half a bin in stock, now we’re down to the very dregs and that’s without counting all the suet fatballs, fruit and other scraps we put out.

UK households did you remember to fill in your Census form? Residents and visitors included

The Beech tree by the front gate, it’ll soon be in leaf again, hopefully

There’s still quite a chill in the breeze and I’ve had to order some repair glue for my walking boots because reading back my nature journal from a few years ago, we were out earlier in the year, well wrapped up and intrepid. Crow has been saying get new boots, but I like the ones I have, they’re comfortable too, all I need to do is make sure the sole doesn’t fall off.

To those promised little birds and I have two visitors who are hard to photograph as their visits are swift and they don’t stay still for long.

MARSH TIT: Status Red listed

Scientific Name: Poecile palustris Length: 12 cm  (4½") Wing Span: 18-19 cm  (7-8") Weight: 10-12 g  (¼-½ oz) Breeding Pairs: 29,000 (BTO)

Marsh Tit with the plain black head

The Marsh Tit is incredibly difficult to distinguish from the even more scarce Willow Tit. There may not be too many Marsh Tits around but the Willow Tit is said to be the fastest declining native bird LINK (along with Turtle Dove)  Both of them have black caps, sandy-brown upper parts and buff underparts.

It’s only at the turn of the last century that they were recognised as separate species and I’ve read that 2,750 pairs existed in 2016. The RSPB currently displays 3,400. I really hope it’s on the up.

We’re told

The Marsh Tit is less scruffy looking than the Willow Tit and has a neater, smaller bib and glossier black cap. Also, the Marsh Tit lacks the pale wing panel, does not look "bull-necked" and usually has a square-ended tail but is sometimes slightly forked. 

Marsh Tit

Females build a cup shaped nest of moss, which they line with feathers and hair. They might use a nest box but like holes in deciduous trees.

Eggs are white with brown markings and are smooth and glossy. The female incubates the eggs by herself, but young nestlings are fed by both parents.

As if identification wasn’t confusing enough, juveniles have a dull cap and look very much like a Willow Tit.

We see the Blue, Great and Long Tailed Tits at the hanging feeders much more so than Marsh Tits who like to feed on the ground more than the others. They’ll feed on insects and seeds and will go for Beech mast.

My guide says that peanuts, seeds and fat may attract them to gardens, but usually only if there are ancient woodlands nearby (contrary to their name, they do not live in marsh land). They are particularly fond of black sunflower seeds, but they’re in competition there with the Nuthatch.

Much more common place is the similar, but different,

COAL TIT: status Green listed

Scientific Name:  Periparus ater Length: 11.5 cm  (4½") Wing Span: 17-21 cm  (7-8") Weight: 8-10 g  (¼-½ oz) Breeding Pairs: 610,000 - 660,000 (BTO figure)

Coal Tit, you can just about make out the white patch on the head in the picture above, below show it more clearly

The Coal Tit is a small tit, in fact the smallest European tit, and could be confused with the almost indistinguishable Marsh Tit and Willow Tit if it was not for the white patch on the nape. While it behaves like a Blue Tit, there is no blue in its plumage. I do see them on the hanging feeders but more often on the ground

The upperparts are a olive-grey, the underparts buff coloured. The crown and large bib are black, while the cheeks and nape are white. There are also two white wing bars on each wing - this feature separates it from the Marsh and Willow Tits if the nape is not visible. The legs are blue-grey.

Coal Tit

Coal Tits will nest in hollows in trees or in mouse holes. Like a Blue Tit’s the nest can be made from moss, wool, dead leaves and spider web, except that it is moss-lined. They’ll be well suited here then both types.

The Coal Tit's small (15 mm by 12 mm) eggs are smooth and glossy, they’re white with reddish-brown speckles. Again the female incubates the eggs by herself and nestlings are fed by both parents.

Juveniles are browner above, and the underparts, cheeks, nape and wing bars are more yellow.

Again like the Marsh Tit, Coal Tit eat insects, beech mast and conifer seeds and in the garden they prefer black sunflower seeds, sunflower hearts and occasionally suet.

I’ve read that when food is plentiful they hoard it by hiding it so that they think they have food for later when times are harder, but like Squirrels the Coal Tit's memory is not as great as its ingenuity in hiding places and you will often find forgotten sunflower seeds germinating in the most unlikely places - well, we were there last year weren’t we, so perhaps it wasn’t Squirrels at work after all.

Great Tits can sometimes be seen watching a Coal Tit stashing away its seed and then go and raid it. Opportunists.

Marsh or Willow Tit? watch via You Tube.

Willow Tit news here.

WHAT DID I LEARN TODAY?

that I definitely need more sleep!

[kerrycookbook]

Story

I received this recipe back in my school days from my home economics teacher. This is a very traditional recipe which originated more the one hundred and twenty-five years ago in County Armagh, Northern Ireland. 

It has been passed down from one generation to another over all those years. The recipe is in its original form and the quantities will make four good sized puddings. Most people would want to make half the quantity that is enough for two puddings. My family has used this recipe for our Christmas dinner over the years.

Enjoy.

Ingredients

Raisins 450g

Sultanas 450g

Currants 450g

Mixed Peel 100g

Brown Sugar 450g

Mixed Spice 1 tsp

Grated Nutmeg 1 tsp

Lemon (juice and grated rind) 1

Large Cooking Apple (grated)

Eggs 6

Suet 450g

Breadcrumbs 1 Large loaf ( white give best results)

Salt 1 tsp.

Stout, Guinness 500 mls

Whiskey 4 Tbs

Method

Mix all the ingredients well together ( Each person who stirs the pudding is entitled to one wish) and divide between prepared pudding basins/bowls. (Grease basins/bowls and place a small square of greaseproof paper at the base of each). 

Cover securely and steam for 5-6 hours. To steam set the pudding in a saucepan with a tightly fitted lid, use boiling water halfway up the pudding bowl. After steaming allow to cool. Remove cover and pour 1tbs Whiskey over each pudding. Replace cover, store in a cool, dark dry place securely covered. Steam on Christmas Day for 2-3 hours. (Shorter cooking times for smaller puddings). Make sure the cover is water-right.

[nothingnothingaaa]

Walk of the Week: St Mullin's to Graiguenamanagh

By Christopher Somerville, April 09 2011 (Irish IND.)

The Norman lord who had a castle mound heaped up at St Mullin's, and a wooden-walled keep erected on top, intended the fortification to overlook the tidal limit of the River Barrow just below, a great place to extract tolls -- and to overawe the locals.

Castle, palisade, lord and tollhouse are long gone; the locals remain, and so does the motte, like a green suet pudding on a well-mown plate of grass. It's a fine place to scramble up for a panoramic view of the monastery founded by St Moling that made the name and fame of St Mullin's for close on a thousand years.

Girdled tightly inside a stone perimeter wall, weathered stubs of monastic buildings rise from a sea of ornate graveslabs and crucifixes like ruins in a fable. St Mullin's monastery is a remarkable sight, poignant in its death-like stillness and silence.

Looking down from the flat-topped motte, Jane and I let our imaginations supply the drifting smoke, scurry of lay workers and pacing of monks, crowing of cocks, barking of dogs and tolling of the church bells.

St Moling's life spanned almost the whole of the seventh century AD. He was a remarkable man, quite unlike most of the hermits who founded those early monasteries -- poorly educated men with fierce convictions in their heads and fish scales in their beards.

Moling was born a prince and ended up an archbishop. He was a poet and thinker, but also a man of his hands, who dug his own mile-long mill race, ground corn for anyone who asked him, and ferried folk across the Barrow on a raft he built himself. He managed to negotiate the abolition of taxes that were crushing the local peasantry.

The saint never knew the monastery's handsome abbey church, the ornate High Cross with its broad-faced crucified Christ, or the Round Tower, whose base stands alongside the abbey. All

these post-date him by many centuries. But the memory of the ferryman prince, the cures he wrought and the good he did in his long life are still well remembered around St Mullin's.

Jane and I spent an hour exploring the ruins. Then we went down to the River Barrow and turned upstream along the towpath, following the puddled track of the Barrow Way. The day was starting cloudy and thick, with drifting mist through the valley, so that the summit of Brandon Hill, when it appeared at last rolling free of the vapour beyond the river, seemed a slate-grey leviathan breaking clear of a level white sea.

'Do not fish for salmon or sea trout,' admonished the notice by the keeper's cottage at St Mullin's lock, a reminder that here, 20 miles from the sea, the Barrow finally reaches its tidal limit.

Short sections of canal bypass weirs, complete with locks, white-tipped gates and neat lock-keepers' cottages in immaculate gardens.

A swiftly walking shape ahead on the path resolved itself into the trim, alert figure of Brian Gilsenan. We'd made friends on a Blackstairs ramble last year, and here he was coming down the Barrow to walk back to Graiguenamanagh with us.

The weirs across the Barrow roared and frothed, the copper-brown water moving with the implicit power of a big snake. The narrow grass causeway of the towpath separated the river, its overspill ditches where lichen-bearded hazels and willows stood up to their hips in swampy floodwater, a Co Carlow version of the Everglades.

A floody, half-drowned, misty landscape through which we tramped the bank upriver to Graiguenamanagh.

Beyond the beautiful old seven-arched bridge and partially restored warehouse quays of the town loomed the square bulk of Duiske Abbey.

Forbidding from the outside, what a revelation within -- a soaring interior, delicately carved embellishments, arches and columns so slender and fluted they seemed hardly fit for the purpose of holding up the great walls and the intricate, boat-like roof.

Duiske, the greatest Cistercian monastery in Ireland in its heyday, wielded a temporal power of which the rustic monks at St Mullin's could only have dreamed.

Now both foundations stand in humility, one roofless and empty, the other magnificently preserved, for walkers and wanderers to wonder at.

WAY TO GO

MAP:

OS of Ireland Discovery Sheet 68. TRAVEL: R705 or R729 from Borris; R703 from Thomastown; R702 from Enniscorthy — all to Graiguenamanagh. Leave one car here; drive other car to St Mullin’s (minor road). Park in riverside car park below monastic site.

WALK DIRECTIONS:

From car park, uphill to explore St Mullin’s and monastic site; return to car park; right along River Barrow towpath (‘Barrow Way’) for four miles to Graiguenamanagh. LENGTH: 4½ miles. CONDITIONS: Level riverside path, can be wet and muddy.

REFRESHMENTS:

St Mullin’s: Blanchfields pub (00353 51 24745) or Mullicháin Café by river (11am-6pm, closed Mondays). Graiguenamanagh: Coffee On High café (00353 59 972 5725).

DON’T MISS:

Saint Mullin’s monastic site; view of Brandon Hill from the riverbank; Duiske Abbey, Graiguenamanagh. INFORMATION: Barrow Way: tcs.ireland.ie/dataland/TCS Attachments/311_TheBarrow Way.pdf. Guided Walks: Contact Brian Gilsenan on 00353 53 937 7828/00353 86 838 6460; mosscottage ireland.com. TIC: Tullow Street, Carlow. Tel: 00353 59 913 1554; carlowtourism.com

[ecobirdfood]

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To Know More Visit - Suet Blocks for Birds

[wampusket]

So I've a blue jay that visits my bird feeder in the mornings and about 2:15 in the afternoon. Poor dude is too big for it, so I'm researching the crap out of how to build a Blue Jay feeder. He's the most inquisitive guy ever, he sits and watches me with my coffee in the morning or watches whatever I'm doing in the kitchen in the afternoons. I can't help but feel a connection with him, he's bigger than the usual sparrows and titmouses that come around, but he just sits and eats from the feeder and suet square calmly, he'll chase the meaner birds off so the sparrows can eat then just go back to what he was doing.

I really gotta get this guy his own feeder with Blue Jay favorites.

[pamphletstoinspire]

THE BOOK OF ECCLESIASTES- From The Douay-Rheims Bible - Latin Vulgate

Chapter 10

INTRODUCTION

This Book is called Ecclesiastes, or the preacher, (in Hebrew, Coheleth) because in it Solomon, as an excellent preacher, setteth forth the vanity of the things of this world, to withdraw the hearts and affections of men from such empty toys. Ch. --- Coheleth is a feminine noun, to indicate the elegance of the discourse. It is very difficult to discriminate the objections of free-thinkers from the real sentiments of the author. It is most generally supposed that Solomon wrote this after his repentance; but this is very uncertain. S. Jerom (in C. xii. 12.) informs us that the collectors of the sacred books had some scruple about admitting this; and Luther speaks of it with great disrespect: (Coll. conviv.) but the Church has always maintained its authority. See Conc. v. Act. 4. Philast. 132. C. --- It refutes the false notions of worldlings, concerning felicity; and shews that it consists in the service of God and fruition. W.

The additional Notes in this Edition of the New Testament will be marked with the letter A. Such as are taken from various Interpreters and Commentators, will be marked as in the Old Testament. B. Bristow, C. Calmet, Ch. Challoner, D. Du Hamel, E. Estius, J. Jansenius, M. Menochius, Po. Polus, P. Pastorini, T. Tirinus, V. Bible de Vence, W. Worthington, Wi. Witham. — The names of other authors, who may be occasionally consulted, will be given at full length.

Verses are in English and Latin. HAYDOCK CATHOLIC BIBLE COMMENTARY

This Catholic commentary on the Old Testament, following the Douay-Rheims Bible text, was originally compiled by Catholic priest and biblical scholar Rev. George Leo Haydock (1774-1849). This transcription is based on Haydock's notes as they appear in the 1859 edition of Haydock's Catholic Family Bible and Commentary printed by Edward Dunigan and Brother, New York, New York.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Changes made to the original text for this transcription include the following:

Greek letters. The original text sometimes includes Greek expressions spelled out in Greek letters. In this transcription, those expressions have been transliterated from Greek letters to English letters, put in italics, and underlined. The following substitution scheme has been used: A for Alpha; B for Beta; G for Gamma; D for Delta; E for Epsilon; Z for Zeta; E for Eta; Th for Theta; I for Iota; K for Kappa; L for Lamda; M for Mu; N for Nu; X for Xi; O for Omicron; P for Pi; R for Rho; S for Sigma; T for Tau; U for Upsilon; Ph for Phi; Ch for Chi; Ps for Psi; O for Omega. For example, where the name, Jesus, is spelled out in the original text in Greek letters, Iota-eta-sigma-omicron-upsilon-sigma, it is transliterated in this transcription as, Iesous. Greek diacritical marks have not been represented in this transcription.

Footnotes. The original text indicates footnotes with special characters, including the astrisk (*) and printers' marks, such as the dagger mark, the double dagger mark, the section mark, the parallels mark, and the paragraph mark. In this transcription all these special characters have been replaced by numbers in square brackets, such as [1], [2], [3], etc.

Accent marks. The original text contains some English letters represented with accent marks. In this transcription, those letters have been rendered in this transcription without their accent marks.

Other special characters.

Solid horizontal lines of various lengths that appear in the original text have been represented as a series of consecutive hyphens of approximately the same length, such as ---.

Ligatures, single characters containing two letters united, in the original text in some Latin expressions have been represented in this transcription as separate letters. The ligature formed by uniting A and E is represented as Ae, that of a and e as ae, that of O and E as Oe, and that of o and e as oe.

Monetary sums in the original text represented with a preceding British pound sterling symbol (a stylized L, transected by a short horizontal line) are represented in this transcription with a following pound symbol, l.

The half symbol (1/2) and three-quarters symbol (3/4) in the original text have been represented in this transcription with their decimal equivalent, (.5) and (.75) respectively.

Unreadable text. Places where the transcriber's copy of the original text is unreadable have been indicated in this transcription by an empty set of square brackets, [].

Chapter 10

Observations on wisdom and folly, ambition and detraction.

[1] Dying flies spoil the sweetness of the ointment. Wisdom and glory is more precious than a small and shortlived folly.

Muscae morientes perdunt suavitatem unguenti. Pretiosior est sapientia et gloria, parva et ad tempus stultitia.

[2] The heart of a wise man is in his right hand, and the heart of a fool is in his left hand.

Cor sapientis in dextera ejus, et cor stulti in sinistra illius.

[3] Yea, and the fool when he walketh in the way, whereas he himself is a fool, esteemeth all men fools.

Sed et in via stultus ambulans, cum ipse insipiens sit, omnes stultos aestimat.

[4] If the spirit of him that hath power, ascend upon thee, leave not thy place: because care will make the greatest sins to cease.

Si spiritus potestatem habentis ascenderit super te, locum tuum ne demiseris, quia curatio faciet cessare peccata maxima.

[5] There is an evil that I have seen under the sun, as it were by an error proceeding from the face of the prince:

Est malum quod vidi sub sole, quasi per errorem egrediens a facie principis :

[6] A fool set in high dignity, and the rich sitting beneath.

positum stultum in dignitate sublimi, et divites sedere deorsum.

[7] I have seen servants upon horses: and princes walking on the ground as servants.

Vidi servos in equis, et principes ambulantes super terram quasi servos.

[8] He that diggeth a pit, shall fall into it: and he that breaketh a hedge, a serpent shall bite him.

Qui fodit foveam incidet in eam, et qui dissipat sepem mordebit eum coluber.

[9] He that removeth stones, shall be hurt by them: and he that cutteth trees, shall be wounded by them.

Qui transfert lapides affligetur in eis, et qui scindit ligna vulnerabitur ab eis.

[10] If the iron be blunt, and be not as before, but be made blunt, with much labour it shall be sharpened: and after industry shall follow wisdom.

Si retusum fuerit ferrum, et hoc non ut prius, sed hebetatum fuerit, multo labore exacuetur, et post industriam sequetur sapientia.

[11] If a serpent bite in silence, he is nothing better that backbiteth secretly.

Si mordeat serpens in silentio, nihil eo minus habet qui occulte detrahit.

[12] The words of the mouth of a wise man are grace: but the lips of a fool shall throw him down headlong.

Verba oris sapientis gratia, et labia insipientis praecipitabunt eum;

[13] The beginning of his words is folly, and the end of his talk is a mischievous error.

initium verborum ejus stultitia, et novissimum oris illius error pessimus.

[14] A fool multiplieth words. A man cannot tell what hath been before him: and what shall be after him, who can tell him?

Stultus verba multiplicat. Ignorat homo quid ante se fuerit; et quid post se futurum sit, quis ei poterit indicare?

[15] The labour of fools shall afflict them that know not how to go to the city.

Labor stultorum affliget eos, qui nesciunt in urbem pergere.

[16] Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child, and when the princes eat in the morning.

Vae tibi, terra, cujus rex puer est, et cujus principes mane comedunt.

[17] Blessed is the land, whose king is noble, and whose princes eat in due season for refreshment, and not for riotousness.

Beata terra cujus rex nobilis est, et cujus principes vescuntur in tempore suo, ad reficiendum, et non ad luxuriam.

[18] By slothfulness a building shall be brought down, and through the weakness of hands, the house shall drop through.

In pigritiis humiliabitur contignatio, et in infirmitate manuum perstillabit domus.

[19] For laughter they make bread, and wine that the living may feast: and all things obey money.

In risum faciunt panem et vinum ut epulentur viventes; et pecuniae obediunt omnia.

[20] Detract not the king, no not in thy thought; and speak not evil of the rich man in thy private chamber: because even the birds of the air will carry thy voice, and he that hath wings will tell what thou hast said.

In cogitatione tua regi ne detrahas, et in secreto cubiculi tui ne maledixeris diviti : quia et aves caeli portabunt vocem tuam, et qui habet pennas annuntiabit sententiam.

Commentary:

Ver. 1. Ointment. A fly cannot live in it. Pliny xi. 19. --- Hence the smallest faults must be avoided, (C.) and superfluous cares, (S. Greg.) as well as the conversation of the wicked, (Thaumat.) particularly of heretics. S. Aug. con. Fulg. 14. --- Detractors may be compared to flies: they seek corruption, &c. A little leaven corrupteth the whole lump. 1 Cor. v. 6. C. --- The wicked infect their companions, and vice destroys all former virtues. W. --- Wisdom, or "a small...folly is more precious than wisdom," &c. of the world. 1 Cor. i. 25. and iii. 18. Dulce est desipere in loco. Hor. iv. ode 12. --- Heb. "folly spoils things more precious than wisdom." A small fault is often attended with the worst consequences, (C. ix. 18.) as David and Roboam experienced. 2 K. xxiv. and 3 K. xii. 14. C. --- Sept. "a little wisdom is to be honoured above the great glory of foolishness." Prot. "dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking flavour; so doth a little folly him that is in reputation for wisdom and honour." H.

Ver. 2. Hand, to do well or ill. Deut. i. 39. Jon. iv. 11. Chal.

Ver. 3. Fools. People judge others by themselves. C. --- Thus Nero could not believe that any were chaste. Suet.

Ver. 4. Place. If the devil tempt or persuade thee to sin, repent and humble thyself; or if thou hast offended the great, shew submission.

Ver. 5. Prince, who seems to have been guilty of any indiscretion.

Ver. 6. Rich. Such were chosen magistrates. Ex. xviii. 21. Prov. xxviii. 16. and xxx. 21.

Ver. 8. Him. Those who disturb the state or the Church, shall be in danger.

Ver. 9. Stones. Landmarks or walls. Prov. xxii. 18. --- Them. God will punish his injustice, in meddling with another's property.

Ver. 10. Made blunt. After being repeatedly sharpened, (C.) it will be more difficult to cut with it, and will expose the person to hurt himself, v. 9. H. --- Man, since original sin, is in a similar condition. --- Wisdom. The wise perform great things even with bad tools. Heb. "wisdom is the best directress." C.

Ver. 11. Silence. Prot. "without enchantment, and a babbler is no better." H. --- But he compares the detractor to a serpent, (C.) as he infuses the poison into all who pay attention to him. S. Jer. S. Bern.

Ver. 12. Grace. Pleasing and instructive. C.

Ver. 14. Tell him. How foolish, therefore, is it to speak about every thing!

Ver. 15. City. Being so stupid, that they know not, or will not take the pains to find what is most obvious. C. --- Thus the pagan philosophers knew all but what they ought to have known; (S. Jer.) and many such wise worldlings never strive to discover the paths which lead to the city of eternal peace: like him who contemplated the stars, and fell into a ditch. C.

Ver. 16. When thy. Heb. lit. "whose," cujus, as v. 17. H. --- S. Jerom give two senses to this passage, the literal and the mystical, according to his usual custom. The dominion of young men and of luxurious judges is reproved, as well as innovations in matters of religion. Is. iii. 4. Those are blessed who have Christ for their head, descending from the patriarchs and saints, (over whom sin ruled not, and who of course were free) and from the blessed Virgin, who was "more free." They have the apostles for princes, who sought not the pleasures of this world, but will be rewarded, in due time, and eat without confusion. T. 7. W. --- Child. Minorities often prove dangerous to the state, while regents cannot agree. --- Morning, as children eat at all times. This may relate to the ruler who is a child in age, or in knowledge, though it seems rather to refer to his counsellors. Is. v. 11.

Ver. 17. Noble. Royal extraction, (Esqlwn genesqai. Eurip. Hec.) and education, afford many advantages which others, who raise themselves to the throne, do not enjoy. Heb. "the son of those in white," (C.) or "of heroes." Mont. --- Eurim, (H.) or Chorim seems to have give rise to the word Hero. The advantages of birth only make the defects of degenerate children more observable. C. --- Heroum filii noxæ. "The sons of heroes are a nuisance," (H.) was an ancient proverb. --- Season. The time was not fixed; but it was deemed a mark of intemperance to eat before noon, when judges ought to have decided causes. Dan. xiii. 7. Acts ii. 15.

Ver. 18. Through. If we neglect our own, or other's soul, (H.) in the administration of Church, (S. Jer.) or state, all will go to ruin.

Ver. 19. Feast. As if they were born for this purpose, (Phil. iii. 19. C.) fruges consumere nati. Hor. i. ep. 2. --- Money. ---

             Scilicet uxorem cum dote fidemque et amicos,

             Et genus, et formam regina pecunia donet. Horace, i. ep. 6.)

- Heb. "money answers all purposes," (H.) to procure meat, drink, &c. C.

Ver. 20. Said. Pigeons are taught to carry letters in the east, and Solomon alludes to this custom, or he makes use of this hyperbole to shew, that kings will discover the most secret inclinations by means of spies. We must not speak ill even of those who are worthy of blame. v. 16. C.

[rjptalk]

MUCH ADO ABOUT BIRDS

MUCH ADO ABOUT BIRDS

A Break With the Past That’s good because I have some pretty pictures of our backyard birds. Goldfinch, still in their summer breeding feathers. Hairy woodpeckers hungry for suet. and a pudgy Tufted Titmouse. Square! After having no money last month, they got a bonanza this month. A new flat feeder, a new type of hanging feeder, fresh food and — because of the bugs — a new food container. And…

[emmatrustsno-one]

Food (and class) in Harry Potter A (lengthy) guide for fans who aren’t British

After another user asked me some questions about British food as it appears in Harry Potter I decided to make a post about it, as no doubt other foreign readers have similar questions. I will talk about EVERYTHING so sorry if you have to scroll through loads of stuff you know to find what you want, but I have written it to be accessible to literally anyone and I don’t want to assume people know what something is just because I do.

Also, it was impossible to make the post without referencing class. The fact that it was impossible only goes to show how it’s probably impossible to understand the books in depth without an understanding of class in Britain. The whole texts are encoded with references to class which are so subtle (much like class itself) that even I, who grew up being encoded in the same way, had to analyse the texts to find them. At some point I’ll make a post about just class, but for now we’ll stick to the light-hearted topic of food!

Foods eaten at Hogwarts:

Main courses:

Probably to give a subtle wave to the fact that Hogwarts is the magical version of a public school, nearly all the food consumed there is traditional and British. A public school here is NOT a state-maintained school, it is a private, extremely expensive, prestigious, boarding school, e.g Eton, which only the children of people with a lot of money and a lot of influence attend. By default, these people are usually upper class or aristocracy. (Obviously in the wizarding world money isn’t a factor in school attendance, but nevertheless that is what Hogwarts is modelled on.) There is never any mention of processed foods at Hogwarts except chips and a few common desserts. Here is a list, with explanation, of foods mentioned there:

stew/casserole (meat and vegetables cooked together with stock for several hours)

roast beef and chicken (the two most commonly eaten meats here, I would say)

pork/lamb chops (cuts of those meats with a bit of bone through the top)

sausage (usually made with pig meat in the UK)

bacon (here it is larger and softer than in many countries)

steak (a cut of beef, usually expensive)

boiled (in water until soft, no skins), roast (in the oven until brown, no skins) and mashed (boiled and puréed, no skins) potatoes

chips (not crisps, of course, but rather fat French fries)

Yorkshire pudding (pancake batter which is cooked in a muffin pan in the oven until risen and crispy; originated from the county of Yorkshire and usually served with roast beef)

PLEASE NOTE THAT ‘PUDDING’ IS NOT NECESSARILY SWEET, NOR A MOUSSE-LIKE SAUCE THING. I MADE A BLOG POST LAST WEEK ABOUT ‘PUDDING’.

peas (usually small and taken out of the pod, a bit like petit pois, – garden peas; occasionally larger and softer – marrowfat peas; sometimes mashed up into a purée – mushy peas, which are usually served with chips)

carrots (peeled and either boiled or roasted)

gravy (like meat jus, but nowadays normally made from a flavoured powder that you add water to and stir. It’s brown and fairly thick)

ketchup (this one annoys me because no-one I know says ketchup – it’s tomato sauce, at least in the north)

sprouts (brussels sprouts )

steak and kidney pie (pastry filled with steak and kidney in a gravy)

PLEASE NOTE THAT PIE IS USUALLY SAVOURY HERE. We do have fruit pies, but if someone says ‘pie’ a British person will picture a savoury thing, probably with meat in it.

steak and kidney pudding (steak and kidney in gravy encased in suet pastry, which is a crumbly, soft pastry made from just suet, flour and water. It is steamed, not baked, usually)

sausage rolls (a staple of British lunchtime foods – sausagemeat wrapped in a flaky pastry and eaten hot or cold)

jacket potato (also called a baked potato, it’s a whole potato baked in the oven with the skin still on until it’s crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, and is usually served with cheese in it)

porridge (oats cooked in milk or water, often called oatmeal in other countries)

marmalade (jam made from citrus fruits, usually orange)

PLEASE NOT THAT JAM IS NON-CITRUS FRUIT AND SUGAR COOKED UNTIL IT SETS INTO A SPREAD.

Desserts:

jam tart (a small, open pastry case with jam in it)

ice cream (the most common flavours here are vanilla, chocolate and strawberry)

apple pie (pastry case with sweetened apples)

treacle tart (pastry case with a sweet, thin filling made from golden syrup and breadcrumbs, not treacle)

éclairs (popular French cream cake – long choux bun filled with cream and topped with chocolate)

jam doughnuts (dough fried in oil and filled with jam, most often strawberry)

jelly (called jell-o in some countries – flavoured gelatine)

NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH JAM – AMERICANS CALL JAM JELLY.

rice pudding (short grain rice cooked for several hours in milk and sugar until it forms a thick mixture not unlike sweet porridge)

custard tart (pastry case filled with an egg, milk and sugar mixture which has been baked until set)

spotted dick (steamed suet pudding, which is like a warm sponge cake, filled with raisins and served with custard)

chocolate gateau (fancy chocolate cake with cream on top)

trifle (layered fruit, jelly, sponge cake, custard and cream – a classic)

mint humbugs (a hard mint to freshen your breath after eating)

At Christmas:

roast turkey (the meat we traditionally eat at Christmas)

chipolatas (tiny pork sausages)

buttered peas (just peas with a bit of butter on the them)

cranberry sauce (cranberries and sugar cooked together until set – served with savoury foods like turkey – it’s not as sweet as jam)

turkey sandwiches (literally the entire country eats this on Christmas night to use up some turkey)

Christmas cake (very rich, dense fruit cake topped with a layer of marzipan and then a layer of icing)

Christmas pudding (hot, very rich steamed pudding made from dried fruits, nuts and suet, often served with brandy sauce)

crumpets (these aren’t a Christmas food, they just happen to eat them at Christmas. They are round, flat buns, though not exactly bread, with holes in them, that you toast and butter. Often people eat them for breakfast, or, like in the book, as a snack at night. They are savoury, not sweet)

mince pies (small pies filled with a mixture of dried fruits, sugar and brandy – sweet, not savoury – they were made with minced meat a few hundred years ago, and the name mince pie has stuck)

fudge (a type of sweet made by heating sugar, butter and milk until it sets)

During the Triwizard Tournament:

bouillabaisse (French fish stew/soup that hardly anyone here has heard of/would try!)

goulash (Eastern European stew made with meat and paprika that a lot of people have at least heard of and would try!)

blancmange (French dessert which is a basically white, almond-flavoured jelly that some people have heard of and a few would try)

It’s necessary to mention here, how the fact that Hermione knows what the bouillabaisse is and has tried it is a DEFINITE indicator of class. She is upper middle class. I’ll talk more about why when I do a class post, but for now it’s enough to say that no working-class child, unless they have family ties to France or have learned about it in French at school, would even know what it was and would be very unlikely to try it if given the opportunity. You can’t read that scene, as a British person, and not understand that Hermione comes from a cultured, moneyed background.

It’s also interesting to compare these foods with the foods usually served at state-maintained schools at the time HP was written: we are talking about fatty, greasy, processed rubbish with no nutrition at all, e.g. turkey twizzlers, nuggets, pizza, chips, hot dogs, cakes. You do still find such foods in state schools but normally alongside more healthy options. Since Jamie Oliver’s war on school food things are a lot better, but the point is that the food at Hogwarts is a clear nod to the privilege of the pupils: working-class kids wouldn’t have been able to eat things like that at school. My primary school (ages 4-11) served stew sometimes, with overcooked vegetables, but that’s all, and my secondary school served pizza, hot dogs, nuggets and chips every day and that was it.

Foods mentioned but not eaten in the Great Hall:

sherbet lemons (real sweets, they are strong, lemon-flavoured hard sweets that contain a powder that makes your tongue fizz)

custard creams (biscuits made from 2 square simple biscuits with vanilla cream sandwiched between them)

Foods eaten at the Weasleys’:

Food is one of the main ways by which the Weasleys are coded as working-class. Everything they eat is either a comfort food your grandma makes or some cheap thing you eat and don’t mind but wish was something else.

corned beef sandwiches (corned beef is beef which has been processed and salt-cured and has the mushy consistency of cat food. It was popular during the war, when meat was scarce and rationed, and is associated with poverty and lack of better meat. That isn’t to say that people don’t like it, but it is true that many people don’t)

Speaking of processed meats, the Weasleys eat a lot of sausage and bacon, which are very popular but also available cheaply.

chicken and ham pie (this is the only time I can think of that it is mentioned that the Weasleys were having a ‘proper’ meat, as in unprocessed, and if I remember correctly it was for Harry’s birthday, so a special occasion. It’s pastry filled with chicken and ham in a white sauce and is the sort of thing your grandma probably made)

boiled potatoes (they do have boiled potatoes at Hogwarts, but alongside other types of potato.)

It’s hard for me to explain why, but boiled potatoes, specifically, have a working-class connotation. You are definitely more likely to eat boiled potatoes in a working-class family. Here are 2 anecdotes form my life about boiled potatoes to illustrate my point!

1. I know someone from a privileged background. Her father was an electrical engineer who held government contracts. She went to a grammar school (a school that’s free but you have to pass a test to go to) and lived in an affluent city where one of the main public schools is. As soon as she opens her mouth you can hear that she’s from an upper middle-class background. I once discussed cooking dinner with her and said I was making boiled potatoes. She scoffed and said she never did as she couldn’t see the point – if she has boiled them she might as well mash them.

2. At university my friend started going out with a guy from a solid middle-class background. His parents had a second home in South Africa, where his father worked for part of the year. They were staunch Tories (supported the political party to the right of the centre). She and I once discussed making dinner and she said it was her turn to make it tonight and the guy wanted sautéed potatoes. Her exact words next were “he’ll just have to make do with boiled, I’m too tired”.

Somehow the fact that the Weasleys eat boiled potatoes makes them working-class, an under-class. It’s somehow seen as lazy and simple by people from higher classes.

rhubarb crumble (stewed rhubarb topped with a flour, butter and sugar mixture that goes hard and crumbly, usually served with custard)

Again, this is a working-class mainstay. Many people used to grow rhubarb in their gardens because it grows easily and is hardy in our weather. Add a bit of sugar and it’s an almost free dessert.

chocolate pudding (not to be confused with chocolate pudding in American terms, ours is a suet pudding made with chocolate and served hot, usually with a chocolate sauce)

Foods eaten with the Dursleys:

a bun from the bakers (could be either a sandwich made from a bread roll or a sweet bun such as an iced bread roll, without more info it’s not clear. The word ‘bun’ is used to describe many things, and it’s different depending on where you are in the country. For example, I would never say ‘bun’ and mean sandwich but I know some people do. I personally picture an iced bun).

knickerbocker glory (an ice cream sundae)

fruit cake (dense cake made with dried fruits, like a dressed down version of Christmas cake, seems quite old-fashioned now)

roast pork (a joint of pork roast in the oven, often with a layer of fat over it that goes crispy)

soup (a common starter)

salmon (usually a whole fish, baked or poached)

lemon meringue pie (the French dessert anglicised – a pastry case filled with a layer of set lemon cream and topped with meringue)

grapefruit

I want to pause at this point to point out how clear it is that the Dursleys are higher class than the Weasleys. For one, Uncle Vernon just buys whatever he fancies from the bakers for lunch but Ron (and presumably the whole family) are given sandwiches made by Mrs Weasley, containing what they can afford. Secondly, roast pork and salmon are expensive and only eaten by people with more than the basic amount of money and even then really only on special occasions. Sometimes people will have a salmon on the buffet at their wedding, for instance. It’s a far cry from processed meats and chicken and ham pie. Not least because you can make a decent pie out of even poor quality meat, but to make a good roast, especially if you are trying to impress your boss, you need a good quality joint. Thirdly, if on a diet it’s unlikely someone working-class would eat grapefruit for breakfast. I know working-class kids who wouldn’t even be able to identify a grapefruit. Moreover, the fact that they served the meal to Vernon’s boss in three courses, followed by after-dinner mints shows that they either are middle-class, or, more likely, trying to appear so. The Weasleys just have their main course and pudding, even on special occasions. I don’t think I’ve ever had a starter in my life except for in restaurants. Furthermore, at the zoo Dudley and Piers get ice creams and Harry gets a lemon ice lolly. I don’t think there is any more striking a symbol of a working-class person in the 90s trying to treat themselves than cheap lemon ice lollies! All ice cream stands had one and it was always the cheapest thing. By doing this, Vernon is showing that he views Harry as a lesser-class than himself and Dudley. Lastly, while Petunia is preparing the meal for Vernon’s boss, Harry is given bread and cheese for his supper. Bread and cheese conjures up images of Scrooge sitting in the dark eating alone because it was so cheap: Victorian levels of poverty and definite allusions to being a lesser-class.

On a side note, the Dursleys still got their milk and eggs from the milkman, a man from a dairy who delivered to people’s houses in the mornings. In those days lots of people still did, and you do still get milkmen now to a lesser degree. My grandparents got their milk from the milkman and so did my husband’s parents, up until at least 2000.

whipped cream and sugared violets (I had to look up sugared violets myself. I think I am probably too working-class, or possibly too northern, to have heard of them. They seem to be the head of the violet flower dipped in egg white and sugar so that it becomes hard. I have never heard of putting them in cream to make a pudding before.)

Additional foods relating to Hagrid:

birthday cake (usually sponge and covered in icing. In Britain, unlike many countries, you do not buy your own birthday cake: your parents usually get one for you)

rock cakes (these are real, though I grew up calling them rock buns. They are a basically a blob of cake cake batter with currants in, baked for a short time. They are like a cross between muffins and cookies)

treacle toffee (hard black toffee, often eaten around bonfire night)

stoat sandwiches (as far as I am concerned these are not real! I have never heard of anyone eating that! A stoat is small animal like a weasel)

Foods sold by magical establishments, e.g. Honeydukes/the Hogwarts Express:

these foods don’t exist outside HP, but could theoretically be made –

pumpkin juice

pumpkin pasties (a pasty is like a pie but the pastry is filled and then folded over, not topped with a lid)

chocoballs filled with strawberry mousse and clotted cream (clotted cream is thick, rich cream that has thickened naturally, not by whipping)

mulled mead (you can get mead, though it’s not common, and mulled just means it’s cooked through with various spices)

cherry syrup with soda (to us, soda is carbonated water, not pop)

these foods aren’t real but are based on real ones –

Drooble’s best blowing gum (wizard bubble gum)

liquorice wands (you can get sticks of liquorice

fizzing whizzbees (imo based on a sweet called a flying saucer, which is a     thin, rice paper-like shell shaped like a flying saucer and filled with sherbet

exploding bonbons (bonbons here are round and soft, sometimes with a powdery centre, which break apart easily and fill your mouth

these foods are real –

peppermint creams (icing sugar mixed with peppermint oil until soft but firm, often coated in chocolate        

mars bars (chocolate coated nougat-cream and caramel)

these foods aren’t real and aren’t really based on anything, as far as I can tell –

                                                  butterbeer

                                                  gillywater

                                                  sugar quills

                                                  ice mice

                                                  cockroach cluster

                                                  blood pops

                                                  toothflossing stringmints

                                                  pepper imps

                                                  cauldron cakes

these foods weren’t real before HP but now exist as part of the HP merchandise –

Bertie Bott’s every flavour beans (they are like jelly beans)

Chocolate frogs

Two final things. Firstly, on the topic of class it is worth noting that Lupin felt he had to apologise for only having teabags. Literally nobody who is working-class drinks tea in any other form than teabags 99.9% of the time. You can get loose leaf tea, which is seen as fancy, nicer and is certainly more expensive. I got some for Christmas last year, for instance. Nobody working-class would ever even bat an eyelid at someone offering them tea in bag form. It’s totally normal. The fact that Lupin apologises shows that he is acutely aware that he is more lowly than the average Hogwarts teacher. He is embarrassed by something that most of the population find normal. He feels under them, in class terms. Even though he knows Harry grew up without privilege (though the Dursleys themselves are middle-class), now that Harry is part of Hogwarts he has ascended enough in class terms that Lupin is concerned he will disappointed to have tea from a bag. This goes some way to showing how class isn’t just about money: it’s about tastes and habits.

Secondly, in compiling this post it became really clear that sausages are a leitmotiv marking times when Harry feels cosy, familial and homey. The first thing Hagrid does is cook him sausages, which represent being lifted out of the world of cold and hunger he is living in; becoming someone who others care about and want to care for. When he is rescued to the Weasleys in CoS and is blown away by the wizarding house and starts to feel at home and safe, the first thing Molly does is feed him loads of sausages. Sausages are often mentioned at breakfast at Hogwarts, especially when Harry is in a good mood. Perhaps it was unconscious and JKR herself associates sausages with feelings of family and at home-ness.

One final thing and that’s it, I promise. While writing this it struck me how different what I mean when I say “privilege” is from what an American means when they say it. I have mentioned this before, and at some point will do a blog post about it, but race is bound up so intricately with American history and life that words like “privilege” are encoded with images of skin colour. I bet the average American read “privilege” and pictured a white person, but in the UK that wouldn’t be the case. Skin colour has nothing to do with it. Here, “privilege” means what you have access to, how valid other people see your tastes and way of life, what you have grown up doing, seeing, eating, hearing, believing. It is bound up inexorably with how much money you have, what you do for a living and where you live and, crucially, with your family’s status historically. That one thing is the reason that comparisons between death eaters and Nazis don’t really hold up: HP is about genealogy and not ideology.

[kembungsusu]

Vickys Scottish Clootie Dumpling, GF DF EF SF NF.

Hello everybody, it is Louise, welcome to our recipe page. Today, I'm gonna show you how to prepare a special dish, vickys scottish clootie dumpling, gf df ef sf nf. One of my favorites. For mine, I'm gonna make it a little bit tasty. This is gonna smell and look delicious.

Vickys Scottish Clootie Dumpling, GF DF EF SF NF is one of the most well liked of recent trending meals on earth. It is enjoyed by millions daily. It is simple, it's quick, it tastes delicious. Vickys Scottish Clootie Dumpling, GF DF EF SF NF is something which I've loved my whole life. They're nice and they look fantastic.

To begin with this recipe, we must prepare a few components. You can have vickys scottish clootie dumpling, gf df ef sf nf using 13 ingredients and 6 steps. Here is how you can achieve that.

The ingredients needed to make Vickys Scottish Clootie Dumpling, GF DF EF SF NF:

{Prepare 180 grams of self-raising gluten-free flour.

{Make ready 180 grams of gluten-free brown breadcrumbs.

{Get 180 grams of vegetable suet.

{Prepare 1/4 tsp of xanthan gum if using GF flour.

{Get 1 tsp of bicarb of soda / baking soda.

{Make ready 2 tsp of ground cinnamon.

{Get 1 tsp of ground ginger.

{Make ready 120 grams of currants.

{Get 180 grams of sultanas.

{Make ready 120 grams of soft dark brown sugar.

{Make ready 2 tbsp of (lyles) golden syrup.

{Prepare 300 ml of milk or dairy-free alternative, amount varies due to suet.

{Take 1 of 'cloot' - a large square piece of muslin cloth* or pillowcase.

Instructions to make Vickys Scottish Clootie Dumpling, GF DF EF SF NF:

You can use a greased pudding bowl in place of the cloot, covered with a piece of tented foil secured with a rubber band around the rim.

First put your clean cloot in some boiling water. Take the cloot out of the water, wring it out, lay it flat and dust well with gluten-free flour. Smooth the flour over the cloot with your hands to get an even spread.

Mix all the ingredients together with enough milk to make a fairly soft consistency. Make sure everything is mixed well.

Place the mixture in the middle of the cloot, draw the corners together evenly but leave room for the suet to expand. Tie the cloot shut securely with string. Put a plate or trivet in the bottom of a deep pan and place the clootie dumpling on top of it. Cover the dumpling with enough boiling water so it's completely submerged and cooks evenly. Simmer for 2.5 to 3 hours.

Carefully remove the dumpling from the pot and put it in a colander in the sink. Untie the string and gently pull the corners of the cloot apart. Put a plate over the dumpling in the colander and whip it over. Carefully peel the cloot away from one corner and behold your glorious dumpling!.

Some people like to oven dry their dumpling at this stage. I don't, it dries it too much and too fast. Let it cool and dry on it's own. It will keep for 3 months so it has plenty of time! Make in December to be mature by Hogmanay or as part of your Burns Supper on January 25th! Reheat and serve sliced with custard, or have the slices cold, spread with some butter and apricot jam. My grannie would fry the slices in butter when we were young, lovely!.

So that is going to wrap this up for this exceptional food vickys scottish clootie dumpling, gf df ef sf nf recipe. Thank you very much for reading. I am sure that you can make this at home. There is gonna be interesting food in home recipes coming up. Don't forget to bookmark this page in your browser, and share it to your loved ones, colleague and friends. Thanks again for reading. Go on get cooking!