#chilly dilly

[goshyesvintageads]

Campbell Soup Co, 1962

[hottdoggblogg]

[thetomorrowshow]

Whumptober Day 17 - Nowhere Else to Go

title: the voices in my head think you're pretty cool

fandom: last life smp

~

Martyn pulls his knees up to his chest, gazes out across the darkening server.

He can't say that he expected to find his way here. On top of Scar's base, alone.

Well, not alone.

He thinks it's a hallucination. He's fairly sure it is, even. Not a hundred percent, because. You know. Voices in his head and whatnot.

Hearing voices means they’re almost guaranteed to tell you that they’re real, whether they are real or not. Martyn’s been hearing voices for a while now—though, they’ve definitely said a lot more in the past few weeks than they have in months—which seems like it’s more a sign of schizophrenia than it is anything else. His uncle had schizophrenia. Cool guy. Is it genetic?

Of course, the voices never tell him anything useful. They just give him commands (that he probably shouldn’t follow, come to think of it) and speak in riddles.

That’s a bit of an unfair overstatement, he supposes. They aren’t cryptic all the time. When he isn’t in a game like this, whenever they say anything, it’s just a little comment in the back of his head. Nothing terribly malicious or ominous. Just adding the occasional thought.

“Do you ever miss the simpler days?” Martyn asks idly, twirling an arrow between his fingers.

It’s chilly out. His fingers are a bit numb, chapped by the wind, but it doesn’t feel worth it to reach into his backpack and dig through for his gloves. He’s pretty sure he cut the fingers off them, anyway. It made them look cooler. Added some convenience for arranging the wires of traps.

The simpler days, of course, call back to the very beginning of 3rd Life. Way back, back to before something in the back of his head decided to start talking—building a base with Ren, staying up late with him, trading endless supplies of stories that never seemed to run dry.

“You know that feeling? When you click with someone so well that you could talk for hours? I don’t know how many times I went to go check the gates were locked before we went to bed, and ended up dilly-dallying at the bedroom door for ages just chatting. You ever felt that?”

No response. Martyn doesn’t really expect them to say anything, to be fair.

Those were the days. Chilly, like tonight. That world had shifted quickly from the end of fall into winter—that night at Blackheart altar, the snow piling up gently around them, will forever remain in Martyn’s memory.

Gall, he misses Dogwarts. The Red King was a fun fella, all bloody and terrifying (but soft and kind toward Martyn).

It’s a feeling like a sausage rolling across a grill that runs through the back of his mind—bumpy and uncomfortable, almost like a forced shudder. Martyn raises a brow.

“What, no love for the Red King? I thought he was all right.”

The Red Army, too . . . those really were the days. Patrolling with Etho, the two of them bundled up so thickly no skin was visible. Helping BigB replace his cookie. Sprinting toward the Crastle with Skizz, intent on blood.

He misses the easy trust that they’d all shared. 3rd Life was so much more cut-and-dry. He’d known he could depend on any one of those men, and Ren more than anyone else. Here? Here, he’s sitting alone on a house whose owner had long been betrayed, trying to work up the courage to go out swinging.

The arrow slips, the head of it pulling across his finger. Martyn hisses, holds his finger close to his face to try and see it. It’s dark, but he doesn’t think it broke the skin. He sticks the finger in his mouth—yep, no taste of blood. That’s good.

He tucks his pants a bit further into his boots, then puts his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t want to accidentally injure himself, right before he makes his final stand.

He trusted someone, once.

Several someones.

He trusted Ren before anyone else, and he thinks he still does. Why else would he repeatedly help him out, despite not being allied with him? Why would he give him a life?

“I trust him with my life,” murmurs Martyn. He isn’t sure why. This second game has made it pretty clear that trust shouldn’t be distributed all willy-nilly.

“The Hound is . . . important.”

Martyn almost jumps out of his skin. Sure, he’s been talking to the voices in his head this whole time, but he never really expected them to talk back. Especially not with such reluctance, as if they hadn’t wanted to contribute at all.

“Um—yeah, I guess. Important enough for you to say something. What, is he special like me?” Martyn quips. “The Chosen One?”

No answer.

“Or,” he says, the thought occurring to him, “do you just like Ren? You want him to be happy? You’re who told me to give him the life, to seek him out and all that.”

Again, nothing—but this silence feels different. It feels . . . it feels almost embarrassed, if he had to put a name on it.

Martyn chuckles. “Sure, back to the silent treatment. I’ve got you all figured out. So, what—Ren’s your favorite, but you don’t like the Red King?”

“The Hound should not be changed as such,” the voices say after several long moments. “Especially not by a spirit like that one.”

“So . . . you really do just like him. Really?”

It makes sense, he supposes. Well, maybe Ren does serve some higher narrative purpose, but is he important because the voices like him, or do they like him because he’s important?

“What about me?” he asks. “Am I important because you like me, or vice versa?”

The response is immediate. A scoff, a scoff that’s almost a laugh. “We do not like you.”

“Geez, that’s a real vote of confidence,” Martyn grumbles. “Thanks, I guess. I’m just important.”

“You listen.”

“Well, sorry you had to get stuck with your least favorite character.”

“You are not our least favorite.”

Martyn actually laughs out loud at that. “Oh, man. I feel sorry for whoever is the least favorite, if this is how you treat me.”

This time, the silence isn’t embarrassed. It feels almost . . . impatient. Condemning.

“They aren’t going to just kill each other, are they?” Martyn whispers, twisting his hands into the fabric of his pockets.

The silence waits for him.

“Nice chat,” Martyn says, swinging his backpack off his shoulders to rummage through it. “Haven’t had one of those with you in weeks. Shall I get to it, then?”

If the last feeling he got from the voices was like a sausage rolling on a grill, this feeling is like turning a cup of pudding upside-down, shaking it and squeezing it as you wait for it to plop out.

Anticipation.

He finds it—a golden apple.

The buckets of lava are already set out behind him.

He hadn’t wanted it to come to this. He’s the only Yellow, though, and he knows the Reds won’t rest until they find him.

He doesn’t want to die in a corner. He doesn’t want to be found alone, sniveling and hiding.

Martyn stands, checks that all of his weapons are within easy access. Then he kicks over the buckets, standing back to avoid getting singed by the lava cascading down the side of Scar’s house.

“Come and get me,” he mutters, tossing the golden apple into the air and catching it. His thumb brushes over the stem. “I’m here. I’m waiting. Come and get me.”

A pause, then—

“They are coming.”

[saexy]

helo bfuls!! okay thankyou for teh sweeet messages while i was away 🥹🥹🥹🫂🫂🫂🫂 I LOVE YOU ALLL SO MUCHHH !!! FALL SEASON IS HERE OR NOT ????? BEC ITS STARTEING TO GET CHILLY IN EVENINGSS !!! ... LIfe is lwk sorting.. things are same but yeaa anywasyy I HAVE MY EXASM ROLLING UP (MID SEMESTERMS AND THENN IM A FREEE BORDD FOR THREE WEEKS BEFORE FINALS KICK IN...) i havent picked my mouse to draw in forever and i apologise for not beingg heree but sometimes life gets in way... BUT I HOPE.YALLL HAVE BEEEN DRINKING FLUIDSS AND AND f/os are SILLY DILLYING AROUND YOU !! I GOT MY SWEETEST SAE COMMISSIOM BACK AND I M SO EXCITED TO SHARE BIT WE LL WAIT ITTTTT TILL PAPI DROPS <3 I STILL HAVENT WATCHEDDD EP 2 OF BLUE LOCK. CURSE MEEEE.. BUT IM SO EXHAUSETED.. I NEEED TO up my gradess -_- A LIL MORE.

[strle]

2023/2024 Soup Bucket List

Because a linked list posted publicly to your own tumblr is still the best way to keep an easily accessible collection of links on your phone. Complied from the links i liked the look of in the Culture Study Soup Extravaganza thread, Chunky Soups

Ginger Garlic Chicken Noodle Soup Deb Perelman Lemony White Bean Soup With Turkey and Greens Melissa Clark, NYT Vegitable Soup (Vegan!) Cooking Classy Smoky Sweet Potato Chicken Stoup, Rachel Ray Dilly Bean Stew with Cabbage & Frizzed onions Alison Roman Instant Pot Curried Cauliflower & Butternut Squash Foraged Dish Lasagna Soup SkinnyTaste Chicken Tortilla Soup What's Gaby cooking Creamy Wild Rice Chicken Soup with Roasted Mushrooms Halfbaked Harvest Chicken and Rice Soup with Garlicky Chile Oil Bon Apetit Greek Lentil Soup ✓ Limey Ginger Chicken & Rice Soup Pinch of Yum (tbh, 2x+ the ginger) Navy Bean Soup with Worcester Vegan Coconut Lentil Bon Apetit Instant Pot Wild Rice Soup OTTOLENGHI Magical Chicken & Parmesean Soup Red Curry Lentils w Spinach NYT Chicken Stew with Olives & Lentils & Artichokes Dishoom Daal in the slow cooker(?!?!) North African Chickpea and Kale with Quinoa Sweet Potato Chili with Kale 3 Bean Chilli from Pinch of Yum Stracciatella (egg and parm and spinach) Martha Stewart Slow Cooker Buffalo Chicken Chilli

Pureed Soups Red Lentil Soup with Curry and Coconut Milk Vegetarian Times Tomato and White Bean Soup With Lots of Garlic Ali Slagel, NYT Creamy Thai Carrot Sweet Potato (Vegan!) Half Baked Harvest Broccoli Chedder, Smitten Kitchen ✓Creamy Cauliflower & Chick Pea A Cedar Spoon ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ✓Golden Soup (also Cauliflower & Chickpea) Pinch of Yum ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Tomato Harissa Coconut Bisque Dishing up the Dirt ✓ Carrot Soup with Miso & Sesame Smitten Kitchen SO GOOD Bacon Cheddar Cauliflower GF! Iowa Girl Eats Instant Pot Corn Chowder (vegan!) 7 vegetable and "cheese" soup (vegan!) Jamie Oliver Sweet Potato & Chorizo Roasted Butternut Squash Soup (NYT) Curried butternut squash soup with Coriander Pumpkin Soup with Chili Cran-Apple Relish Rachel Ray

Magic Mineral Broth Recipe

Paleo Soups

braised ginger meatballs in coconut broth Smitten Kitchen Italian Sausage Stew Paleo Plan NoBean Sweet Potato & Turkey Chilli

[maddygoesthemiles]

I went on the most amazing camping and hiking adventure in Colorado this weekend! Super long post and beautiful pictures are under the read more.

On Thursday, three of my friends and I packed up the car and drove up to Silverton. We set up camp and then went for a big meal at a local establishment. Gotta carb up to prevent altitude sickness!

We were all expecting it to be chilly and wet, but it was actually a bit too warm in the tents.

On Friday, we hiked down to the Animas River. This was a great warm up hike! I loved getting to hear and see the train while we were hiking! It was a tough hike back to the top.

We got back, showered (our campground had hot showers!!), and grabbed some pizza and beer!

Saturday morning started out earlier and chillier. We had to get up early, as Ice Lakes is the most popular hike in southern Colorado (according to a ranger we met on trail on Friday).

I felt disheartened and nervous. The hike on Friday was so hard that I got nervous about the steeper hike on Saturday. I was way more in my head and psyched out than I normally get. I was grumpy until we saw a waterfall and took a super cute group photo.

The trail got steeper and harder when we hit the forest and beyond the tree line. I kept thinking, we’ll take a real break after the next hill is over, but the hill never really stopped.

Finally, we made it up to Island Lake. As everyone on their way down assured us, it was totally and completely worth the climb! It was so incredibly gorgeous. The pictures turned out beautiful and it’s always twice as pretty irl.

We hung out there for a few minutes before traversing the short route to Ice Lake. I came around a bend and started crying at the view. It was the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen and I had worked so hard to get there. I couldn’t get over it and probably walked about a mile with a stupid-huge grin on my face.

The connecting trail took us over an exposed cliff face. Those don’t bug me, but I had to pull out my patient, calm teacher voice to coach my friend across. We all made it!

Ice Lake was just as pretty as Island Lake. The color of these lakes was unreal! We stopped to fill up our water bottles and eat some snacks.

The route down from Ice Lake was very steep. I’m so glad we went counter-clockwise! There was a steep, granite section and a creek crossing (one of many of the day). It started raining and thundering right as we hit the basin.

Ridiculously, people were still climbing up at this point. Some wearing jeans, some with only one water bottle, and all of them who didn’t understand the danger of being above tree line in a thunderstorm. It reminded me of the tourists on Camelback.

Sometimes I wish I could just teleport back. Just as I was hitting that point, we saw/heard a marmot (my favorite animal) and I remembered why the hike back is worthwhile. Did you know they chirp like a dead smoke alarm? I didn’t!

We were well below tree line before it started really pouring. My new raincoat worked great, but at this point, my knees were trashed and I was grumpy. I speed-walked the rest of the way back!

After the hike, we showered and warmed up and broke camp. We drove down to Durango for dinner. All I wanted was nachos but when we got to the restaurant, I found out they were sauerkraut and corned beef. Massively disappointing. I ended up with overcooked wings.

On Sunday, we dilly-dallied around Durango and hit up the Durango Coffee Company. I love it there!

None of us were ready for our time in the mountains to end, so we really took our time driving back. As we were driving through New Mexico, we stopped at this place called the Bisti Badlands! It was a mini badlands. We didn’t have the time or the water to go far, but we stuck it on the list of places to explore. Pictures definitely don’t do this one justice.

We were welcomed back to the valley with a beautiful rain storm! Desert rain smells so much better than mountain rain.

I had the best group ever! We laughed so much and never got tired of each other. It was cool to pair off in different ways depending on the car, the trail, or the tent. We came back with tons of inside jokes, which is the mark of a lot of fun.

[arunima]

dilli people are so funny because it is barely chilly and i see women donning sweater and shawl combo. ma'am i know you've gone through much harsher weather what is this. i think it is us adopting behaviour of our brethren from tropical climates. november = winter = winter clothing irrespective of whether it is cold or not #climatechange

[skwtches]

If you had to assign rabbit a theme song, what would it be?

ooo i honestly still can’t get “I Have Considered the Lilies” by Connie Converse for him out of my mind! the plant imagery is super fitting for him, and the lyrics just scream “rabbit” to me.

I have considered the lilies They never toil, they only bloom they never feel chilly or tired or silly and they don't need much room I have considered the lilies I have considered how they grow tell me, tell me how to be a lily if you know

like i can see it applying to him feeling overwhelmed, "tired and silly," as a result of serving as the voice of reason 95% of the time (along with his own tendency to micromanage and him being especially prone to stress). he wants to be able to manage those excessive feelings n emotions, but doesn't know, hence why he wants to know "how to be a lily."

in addition to that!! u can also interpret lilies as being like his friends, who at first glance, don't seem as bothered by the typical struggles of day-to-day life in comparison to rabbit. despite his occasional frustrations with them, perhaps he can't help but wonder how it'd feel to be more like them.

I can't afford to dilly-dally! I've got to work for my cotton Work for my linen linen and damask and challis Not like the day lily Lemon lily Cala lily Or the lovely little lilies of the valley

[albed0kreideprinz]

(Sorry previous ask was sent before ready)

— Cerci

Klee was so excited to show Albedo Oniichan the Dodoco time bomb, that she dragged me to accompany her up the chilly Dragonspine path to your lab.

The frosty journey didn’t bother us, Klee’s bubbly energy warmed my heart the entire way, and her running around kept her sufficiently warm for sure. I tried to hold on tighter to her mitten hand to encourage us on a more direct path up. Eventually we arrived.

As expected, her precious Albedo Oniichan was busy doodling dilly dallying with his equipment, yet another day in search of the truth of this world, whatever that might be.

“Albedo Oniichan!” Klee shook off my hand and ran at you, she gave your leg a quick hug and before you could greet her, placed the Dodoco bomb on your work bench.

I smiled and shook my head in amusement, and languidly walked up to you, all the while watching Klee with all my attention. Greeting you is not on the top of my list after you sent me harvesting 100 Hurricane Seed knowing full wall that I have a Hydro vision… and what even were they for…

��Klee has made a time bomb and wanted to show Albedo Oniichan and Cerci the result!” She grinned brightly, clasping her hands together in excitement, “To save time, Klee has already activated the count down!”

My smile dropped at hearing that, and snapped my eyes at you in silent panic. Blowing up your lab as pay back was not my intention, after all you were my boss and I didn’t have a death wish.

(This is but a very mischievous scenario, please don’t be angry)

(I hope this ask isn’t too long/weird… first time trying to rp, please teach me the way, Albedo Sensei)

"Ah, Klee?!" Albedo sounded alarmed and quickly pulled both you and Klee to the side, creating a geo-construct between you three and the table before the bomb detonated. The explosion wasn't massive, but it was loud, and enough to destroy the surrounding workplace.

Albedo sighed, his reaction a great understatement to how serious the situation had become. "... Klee, what did I tell you about bringing bombs inside?"

"But... this isn't inside! This is a cave, not a house!"

"Who taught you loopholes?"

"Did you like my Dodoco time bomb, though? Wasn't the result amazing?"

"... yes, very good, Klee."

[screaming-into-my-void]

A complete list of valid english words that are alphabetical

a

ab

abbe

abbes

abbess

abbey

abbot

Abel

abet

abhor

abhors

ablow

ably

abo

abort

abos

Abu

abuzz

aby

accent

accept

access

accost

ace

acer

acers

aces

achy

ack

act

ad

add

adder

adders

adds

addy

adeem

adeems

adept

adios

ado

adopt

ads

ae

aegis

aery

affix

afflux

afoot

aft

agio

agios

aglow

ago

ah

ahoy

ahs

ai

ail

ails

aim

aims

ain

ain't

air

airs

airt

airy

ais

ait

aitu

al

all

allot

allow

alloy

ally

almost

alms

alp

alps

alt

am

ammo

amor

amort

amp

amps

Amy

an

Ann

anno

annoy

Anns

Ans

ant

any

apt

arsy

art

arty

ary

as

ass

at

au

aux

aw

ay

BBC

b.c

be

bee

beef

beefs

beefy

been

beep

beeps

beer

beers

beery

bees

beet

befit

beg

begin

begins

begot

begs

bel

bell

bello

bellow

bells

belly

below

bels

belt

bely

ben

Benn

benny

bens

bent

Benz

berry

Bert

Bess

Bessy

best

bet

betty

bevvy

bevy

bey

bez

bi

bijou

bijoux

bill

billow

billowy

bills

billy

bin

bins

bint

bio

biopsy

bios

birr

birrs

bis

bit

bitt

bitty

bivvy

biz

bloop

bloops

blot

blow

blowy

BMX

Bo

boo

boor

boors

boos

boost

boot

booty

bop

bops

bort

boss

bossy

bot

bott

botty

bow

box

boxy

boy

brrr

BST

btu

buy

buzz

by

cee

cees

ceil

ceils

Cel

cell

cello

cellos

cells

celt

cent

cep

ceps

cert

cess

chi

chill

chills

chilly

chimp

chimps

chin

chino

chinos

chins

chintz

chip

chippy

chips

chirr

chirrs

chis

chit

chitty

chivvy

chiz

choo

choosy

chop

choppy

chops

chott

chou

choux

chow

choy

ci

cissy

cist

city

civvy

cloot

clop

clops

clos

clot

clotty

clou

clow

cloy

cm

co

coo

coop

coops

coopt

coos

coot

cop

cops

copy

coq

cory

cos

cost

cosy

cot

cow

cox

coxy

coy

coz

cru

crux

cry

cs

de

dee

deem

deems

deep

deeps

deer

deers

def

deft

defy

deist

deity

dekko

dekkos

del

dell

dells

delos

demo

demos

demy

den

Denny

dens

dent

deny

deo

dept

der

derry

derv

des

deux

dev

dew

dewy

dhow

di

dikkop

dikkops

dill

dills

dilly

dim

dims

din

dins

dint

dip

dippy

dips

dirt

dirty

dis

diss

ditty

div

divvy

dixy

do

doo

door

doors

dop

dops

dopy

dory

dos

doss

dost

dot

dotty

doty

doxy

Dr

dry

du

dux

eek

eeks

eel

eels

eely

eery

eff

efflux

effort

effs

eft

E.G

egg

eggs

eggy

egis

ego

egos

eh

ell

ells

elm

elms

em

Emmy

empty

emu

enow

envy

er

err

errs

erst

es

ess

est.

et

ex

fil

fill

fills

filly

film

films

filmy

filo

fin

Finn

finny

fins

fir

firry

firs

first

fist

fisty

fit

fix

fizz

floor

floors

floosy

flop

floppy

flops

floss

flossy

flow

flu

flux

fly

foo

foot

footy

fop

fops

for

fort

forty

fox

foxy

foy

fry

ft

fu

fuzz

g

ghost

ghosty

gill

gills

gilt

gimp

gimps

gimpy

gin

ginny

gins

girt

gist

git

gloop

gloops

gloopy

glop

glops

glory

gloss

glossy

glow

gm

GMT

gnu

go

goo

goop

goops

goopy

goos

goosy

gorsy

gory

goss

got

gov

goy

Gru

guv

guy

h

hi

hill

hills

hilly

hilt

him

hint

hip

hippy

hips

his

hiss

hist

hit

ho

hoo

hoop

hoops

hoot

hop

hoppy

hops

hors

horst

horsy

host

hot

how

hox

hoy

I

I’ll

I’m

ill

ills

illy

imp

imps

in

inn

inns

ins

io

iOS

IOU

is

it

itty

iv

ivy

ix

jo

joss

jot

joy

knop

knops

knot

knotty

know

Knox

kop

kos

lo

loo

loop

loops

loopy

loos

loot

lop

lops

lor

lorry

loss

lossy

lost

lot

Lou

low

lox

Loy

luv

lux

m

mm

Mo

moo

moop

moops

moor

moors

moos

moot

mop

mops

mor

mort

moss

mossy

most

mot

mott

Motty

motu

mou

mow

moz

mozz

MP

MPs

Mr

Mrs

ms

mu

mux

mx

my

no

noop

noops

nor

nosy

not

now

noy

nu

oops

op

ops

opt

or

ort

ow

ox

oxy

oy

oz

pps

pry

ps

psst

pst

qt

st

sty

tux

tv

there has got to be more words in alphabetical order than first. i have to make more bits in my coloring of the talliee

ABCDEFGHI KLMNOP RST W Y

20/26

[cloudkitchenbusiness29]

Benefits of Cloud Kitchens

The cloud kitchen model offers several advantages over traditional brick-and-mortar restaurants. Here are some key benefits:

1.    No Rental Expenses

One of the most significant advantages of a cloud kitchen is eliminating high rental costs associated with prime-location dining spaces. Since cloud kitchens do not serve customers on-site, they can be located in more affordable areas, reducing overhead costs significantly.

2.    No Salary Expenses

Staff costs can be a substantial part of a traditional restaurant's expenses. Cloud kitchens, however, require fewer staff members because there is no need for servers, hosts, or cleaning staff. The focus is on kitchen staff who prepare the food, and sometimes, even these roles can be optimized with efficient processes and technology.

3.    No Equipment Required

The initial setup costs are minimal when you partner with a franchise like The Rolling Plate. The company provides the necessary kitchen equipment, so you don't have to invest heavily in purchasing expensive cooking appliances and tools. It makes starting and operating a cloud kitchen easier with lower capital investment.

4.    High Monthly Profits

Cloud kitchens are designed to be highly profitable. With the reduced rent, salaries, and equipment costs, more significant revenue can be reinvested into the business or taken as profit. The Rolling Plate's model allows franchisees to enjoy a 19% share of the monthly sales revenue, ensuring a steady income stream.

Step-by-Step Guide to Starting Your Cloud Kitchen

Starting a cloud kitchen involves several steps. Here's a comprehensive guide to help you get started:

Step 1: Select Your Sub-Brand

With over 20 sub-brands, including Indian, Chinese, and multi-cuisine options, you can select the brand that best fits your market and personal preferences. Some popular brands under The Rolling Plate include:

·    Indian Brands: Ballu Bawarchi, Bhukha Sher, Dana-Paani, Kahi-se-Bhi, Rozi Roti, Delhi-Cacies, Chicken Khurana, Laale Di Chaap, Dilli Meri Jaan, Roti aur Boti' Xpress, Raja Bhoj & Co, Dumb Biryani, Bahu Belly.

·    Chinese Brands: Shanghai Chillies, Fat Chinese Chef, Dou Chi, Excellent Dumpling House, Let's Wok, Chopper's Stop.

·    Multi-cuisine Brands: Oye Chottu, Pind Kaneda.

Step 2: Pay the Franchise Fee

After choosing your preferred sub-brand, the next step is to sign the franchise agreement and pay the franchise fee of 2.9 lakhs plus GST. The Rolling Plate team will assist you with the paperwork and support you to get your cloud kitchen up and running.

Step 3: Set Up the Kitchen

The Rolling Plate will handle the setup of your cloud kitchen, providing all the required equipment and managing the staff. This means you don't have to worry about the logistics of setting up the kitchen, allowing you to focus on the business side.

Step 4: Access Food Delivery Platforms

One of the significant advantages of partnering with The Rolling Plate is the access to food delivery platforms like Zomato and Swiggy. These platforms are essential for reaching a broad customer base and ensuring a steady flow of orders.

·    Zomato: Known for its extensive user base and user-friendly interface, Zomato will help you reach a broad audience.

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[rossithepixie]

hi rossi >:3

Goodmorning Dilly! (it's at least morning now that i'm responding 😅) How're you? I'm offering you a nice warm cup of coffee, it's a rather chilly morning where i'm at.

[devonellington]

Thurs. June 15, 2023: A Good Writing Day

image courtesy of  Jill Wellington via pixabay.com Thursday, June 15, 2023 Waning Moon Pluto Retrograde Cloudy and chilly The latest on the garden is over on Gratitude and Growth. Today’s serial episode is from Legerdemain: Episode 94: From Doom to Dilly Dally Cheating lovers, a sense of threat, and Portha Prtichard’s excellent ale. Legerdemain Serial Link Legerdemain…

[xtruss]

The Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II! It Seemed That Everyone in The World Was Here.

— By Mollie Panter-Downes | June 5, 1953 | Letter From LondonJune 13, 1953 Issue | May 5, 2023

Photograph by Bela Zola/Getty Images

June 4

This Coronation, the older generation of the young Queen’s subjects say contentedly, was the last they ever expect to see. It was probably the most superb and certainly the most moving one that anybody now living has seen. To lots of English, going over every minute of the big day in endless discussions, it seems to have been a vast prize package that made up for the long years of drabness. Its complicated rituals and pageantry contained elements of the ancient magic of the Old Testament, of Hans Christian Andersen, and of “The Golden Bough;” a bit of “Plain Tales from the Hills;” and various antique traditions treated with brilliant modern showmanship, and it turned out wonderful. Everything turned out wonderful but the weather, and even that, Londoners loyally declare between their sneezes, could not spoil it.

On Sunday, the nation asked God to save the Queen in services held in big cathedrals, in the dank Norman chill of little country churches, and on village greens under the undenominational sky. Having made their peace with Heaven, citizens spent Monday stocking up on the big day’s bodily needs. There were long queues at all the bakers’ shops for bread (which ran out, making it almost seem that housewives had panicky ideas of preparing for a prolonged siege), and other queues for sweets to assuage the pangs of thirst, for bottles to do the same thing more festively, and for plastic raincoats to pop prudently into the basket, along with the thermos flasks and the sunglasses. Right up to the last minute, there was a great bustle of workmen hammering and heaving decorations into place along the route. Householders clambered precariously out on their window sills with their mouths full of tacks and their hands full of red-white-and-blue streamers, and a stroll around the sights was enlivened by the risk of a shower of potted hydrangeas, crashing from the hands of florists’ men feverishly fixing shop and hotel fronts with banks of fresh flowers.

Suddenly, after all the doubts and rumors about how many visitors were going to turn up for the Coronation, it seemed that everyone in the world was here. Bus conductors, benignly eying cargoes of passengers who sounded like a Berlitz school with the roof off, bawled “Picc-dilly Cir-cus” to longhaired Dyaks in lounge suits, lovely Indian ladies in dragonfly-colored saris, and unidentified Asian exotics in striped robes and intricately tied headdresses. All day, taxis with their tops down cruised along the processional route (though cruised is maybe hardly the word for the slow crawl through the wedged traffic) with people perched all over them waving Coronation balloons, sucking pop bottles, and gaping up at the banners. By midday, the curbs along the Mall, Hyde Park, Trafalgar Square, and other key spots for viewing the next day’s show were crowded with people setting up housekeeping in the gutter among their bundles and their bits of shabby bedding as handily as though they were back in the old blitz days of sleeping in the tubes. (“Run along to the lady two places down, Mavis, and ask her if she can oblige with a tin opener.”) They had brought their food, their radios, their cards for patience, their old people, who were swaddled in rugs and leaned against lampposts as though they had grown there, and their infants, who placidly chewed on Coronation ribbons pinned to stout maternal bosoms and stared with interest up at the sky, which unkindly darkened and hurled chilly rain on them. The route instantly sprouted acres of sodden mushroom shapes, as people squatted under small tents of blankets or rubber groundsheets. As a demonstration of damp mass devotion, the huddled Coronation-eve multitudes would have mightily astonished the English of other days, who sometimes lampooned their monarchs and sometimes died for them but would never have thought of risking pneumonia for them. It was sad that the Queen did not get the traditional royal weather, which (as one of the “Golden Bough” touches) is supposed to react to the presence of the royal person with beaming skies.

Coronation Day dawned cold and dry, continued cold and wet, and appeared to be about to usher in a new ice age as well as a new Elizabethan Age. It was the meanest June day that anyone can remember. In its glum early light, alarm clocks started to buzz all over London like a swarm of irritable hornets, and the first groups began to traipse through the streets toward the bus and tube stations, where they bought the morning papers and read the great news about the Everest climbers. The police had artfully encouraged citizens to leave their cars at home by ruling off a large Coronation area in which motoring was forbidden, and by issuing passes for various official parking lots that were so far away most people gave up and took to the bus or their own feet. Scotland Yard was also, it developed, extremely canny with its constant propaganda to the effect that if holders of tickets for the official stands did not get along to their places bright and early, they might find it impossible to struggle through the crowds later. This worked fine for everyone but the obedient members of the public, who were in their seats, virtuously munching their breakfast hard-boiled eggs, by six or seven o’clock, as requested, and viewed with no pleasure at all the ease with which less docile late-comers strolled into their seats, cool as cucumbers and pink with delightful sleep, two, three, and even four hours later.

As early as five-thirty, there was a great to-ing and fro-ing outside the Abbey of ushers, officials of one kind and another, and early arrivals in curious, resplendent garments. Loudspeakers were everywhere, and the B.B.C. filled in the moments when there was nothing to look at by relaying jolly dance music and warnings to householders, passed on from the R.S.P.C.A., not to forget to feed their pets in the excitement of the day and to be sure to see that no feathered friends had nested in Coronation bonfire piles to be set alight that evening. At the Abbey and all around Parliament Square were stands resembling the high, scalloped galleries of a medieval tilting yard, painted clear blue and yellow, and decorated with shields and little pennants flying aloft. These stands were full of visitors from the Commonwealth nations, which had sent by air magnificent floral decorations for them. The Canadian and Ceylon sections were banked with masses of strange flame-yellow and parakeet-green blossoms, and from one corner jutted a fabulous floral umbrella (mournfully appropriate to the day) composed of massed lotus buds and orchids, which had been flown in as a present to the Queen from India. In the icy morning air, these lovely things looked as nipped as some of the fine dark faces in the Ceylon stand.

The ladies hurrying into the Abbey also looked fairly unhappy in their regulation gowns of pale brocade; short, stiff matching veils flowing from the backs of their heads; and only brief fur wraps covering their bare arms and bosoms. The warmest-looking, most envied guest was a stout African chief who arrived in a cozy mantle that seemed to be made of colored blankets. The males certainly outshone the females in their splendor, with a perfectly stunning sartorial diversity of scarlet tunics; gold-laced velvet coats; stovepipe trousers showing off thin, horsy legs; Highland kilts showing off brawny ones; blue cloaks blazing with decorations; spurs; swords; and fancy-dress hats, trimmed with bottle-brush plumes or swan feathers, that they nursed tenderly in the crooks of their arms, as though carrying valuable roosters.

The peers and peeresses were pure Tenniel, needing only flamingos and croquet hoops to complete the absurd and gorgeous picture. One peer drove himself and his lady to the Abbey in a small gray car, which appeared to be occupied by two splendid, bulging polar bears. Only the Earl of Shrewsbury and the Marquess of Bath availed themselves of the old privilege of the nobility—rarely exercised now that the stables of the great country houses are either closed or used as tearooms for visiting tourists—of showing up in style in their family equipages. The Bath coach was pale canary, with buttercup-yellow liveries for the powdered footmen and coachmen, and the Shrewsbury turnout was blue and pale yellow. (The Earl’s footmen, clinging gamely to the back of the jouncing thing, were his butler and his brother-in-law, going along for the ride.) The hours of waiting for the Queen’s arrival at eleven o’clock were nicely diverted, too, by the spectacle of the various small processions that, by miraculous stage management, passed under Big Ben right at their scheduled moments. At eight-forty-five, the Lord Mayor’s gold-and-scarlet coach, which was built in 1735 and looks a mite uncomfortable in 1953, rumbled across the square amid its marching guard of Cromwellian pikemen. At nine-thirty, the Speaker rode across from the House of Commons in his painted coach, a square, rickety vehicle looking like a tea caddy on wheels, which shook abominably on its antique springs and was guarded, according to tradition, by a lone trooper of the Life Guards, jogging in the rear. The person who, apart from the Queen, really stole the show, though, was the enormously tall, powerfully built, and engaging Queen Salote of Tonga, the tiny British protectorate that at the outbreak of the Second World War stoutly cabled the allegiance to the Crown of its thirty-four thousand souls before anyone else had got around to reaching for a pencil. Queen Salote won the spectators’ hearts by riding in an open carriage through one of the day’s cold downpours, and beaming and waving as though she loved every soaking moment of it. (The three other carriageloads of sultans and sultanas in her procession stopped and cautiously had their tops closed to protect their dazzling jewels and cloth-of-gold garments.) Sir Winston Churchill, beaming like a moon from out of the midnight blue of his Garter finery, also got a big, affectionate hand when he arrived in the carriage procession of the Commonwealth Prime Ministers. Each Prime Minister had his own mounted escort—Pakistan lancers in gauzy black-and-silver turbans for Mr. Mohammed Ali, scarlet-uniformed Royal Canadian Mounties for Mr. St. Laurent, slender, elegant Singhalese in white tunics with white pennants fluttering from their lances for Mr. Dudley Senanayake, of Ceylon, and so on. Mr. Nehru was wildly cheered. Dr. Malan was politely cheered by some. The Queen’s approach was signalled by the squealing rapture, high above the great clamor of bells, of the thousands of school children watching her go by along the Thames Embankment. She looked happy and unexpectedly bridal—the white dress, the bouquet of white flowers, and the handsome husband (who was cheered all for himself, and warmly, when he appeared with her later in the day on the Buckingham Palace balcony).

Together with the rest of the world, the crowds outside the Abbey heard the immense ceremony begin with the Recognition—the tremendous, thrilling fanfares from the trumpets and the ringing, shouted injunctions, four times called to the four corners of the ancient walls, which indeed had ears, to God to save Queen Elizabeth. Everyone then settled down to listen, which in the wet and drafty stands presented some slight problems. Was it all right, for instance, and not an awful bit of lése-majesté, to gulp a surreptitious cup of coffee while the Queen’s hands were being touched with the golden spurs of chivalry and she was receiving from the Archbishop the “kingly sword” with which to protect the right and punish the wrong? But at last it was over. The Queen had been crowned with the huge, hideous, sacred St. Edward’s Crown (and there was an astonishing emotional silence in the packed streets when this moment came). The trumpets shrilled again and the Tower guns roared, to the alarm of the neighborhood pigeons, and hundreds of Her Majesty’s subjects uncoiled themselves thankfully out of approaching rigor mortis and struggled along for a nip of something strong and reviving at the bar beneath the Abbey stand.

The return parade began in pouring, relentless rain, which turned khaki uniforms to greenish black as they clung to the soldiers’ backs, took the crispness out of the marvellous Pakistan turbans, and so bedewed the Foot Guards’ bearskins that they looked as gray as the grizzled mops of the elderly Fiji chieftains. The stout white-stockinged calves of the footmen on the royal carriages were pale-strawberry pink with the dye from their crimson velvet pantaloons. But the rain could not dampen the mad excitement of the crowds camping out on the sidewalks and watching the old glamorous, Kiplingesque trimmings of Empire swing by—the dark faces and the white, the smart scarlet tarbooshes of the Africans, the turned-up Australian hats, the wild-looking men from Papua and Samoa, the small, neat Gurkhas, and the Pakistan pipers hung round with leopard skins. The British regiments were also quite a sight in their various bottle-green or scarlet frogged tunics, their plaids, their colored pants and their fur caps, and with their standards decorated, by tradition, with bouquets of fresh white roses or laurel wreaths or sprigs of bay. The most comical sights in the parade were the mounted Navy and Air Force officers, who joggled along unhappily on their restive horses, which they patted beseechingly from time to time. It was the first really remarkable show of men marching wonderfully in all their wonderful-looking prewar finery that London had seen since the war. It culminated in the expected but somehow extraordinary spectacle of the gleaming, barbaric coach, slowly rolling along like a ponderous golden juggernaut, with (as it appeared to some sympathetic onlookers) its dedicated sacrifice inside—a young woman looking pale, grave, and extremely small under a crown which, as a painful reminder that uneasy lies the head that wears one, blazed with more than three thousand weighty, luminous stones, including the great, rough ruby that Henry V wore in his helmet circlet at Agincourt.

The end of the day was celebrated with floodlighting, fireworks on the river, champagne flowing expensively at gala dinners in all the big restaurants, beer and community singing flowing in the pubs, and people flowing down the Mall and Constitution Hill to floodlit Buckingham Palace, before which they squeezed together and swayed and shouted for the Queen. An innovation that brought the age of the palais de danse right up to the Palace gates was loud, raucous dance music, broadcast with an intensity that must have shattered the nice quiet evening the maternal section of the crowd was audibly hoping the Queen was having with the “Jook” after their tiring day. There was not much dancing. Here and there, a couple jived under the trees to something called a Coronation samba, and a ragged conga line determinedly shuffled along the Mall, under the arches and the suspended golden crowns that, when floodlit, are certainly the most beautiful sight to be seen in London. The crowd was good-tempered and orderly, wildly cheering the Queen when she appeared on the balcony, and then grabbing the children and starting to trudge home to bed.

The bitterly cold evening and the showers probably kept thousands of people off the streets. St. James’s Street, where the clubs were hung with brilliant heraldic trappings, behind which their members were, no doubt, toasting Her Majesty in their cellars’ remaining vintage port, was soon as silent as on a wet Sunday afternoon, and in Berkeley Square, pretty as a Watteau féte champétre with its rain-soaked rose garlands looped among the trees, the canned nightingale, installed for the season, gurgled to only a few peacefully strolling lovers. Groups of white-coated workmen began to appear and started pulling down the wooden traffic gates. The great day for Elizabeth and for England was over—or maybe, as people seem emotionally to believe, it had just begun. ♦

— Published in the print edition of the June 13, 1953, issue, with the headline “Letter From London.”

[mtgdays]

Single Scoop: A Thing of Beauty

It has had many names …Chilly Dilly….Cucumber of Cold…. but you might know it as Thing in the Ice Source: MTG GOLD FISH