#poultry plucking

[rmspeltzfarm]

Making strong chickens

Making some strong chicks

[gar-a-ash]

Introducing dog food X3 and 'I needed to buy six chicks per policy' X3. It's hilarious seeing the largest commercial bird (turkeys) next to the smallest commercial bird (bantams). They are handling the brooder together well, though! Reese wants to sniff the beepers and is mad I won't let him, and Tassie wants to crunch them so bad.

They are in a separate room that is locked away so none of the household pets can get at them, and in a few weeks they'll be outside to pasture just in time to make room for my mail order of chicks to arrive. Plan is the three turkeys, egg laying hens and dual purpose ducks next month, and then later in June we'll start about ten broilers or so. My brother also wants me to raise broilers for him, so that'll be about twenty broilers total, but we're fencing a 60x60 area so they'll have plenty of room to free range. Mostly doing this to save a bit of money feeding the dogs (and ourselves), but also because I like ducks and wanted some. If I was going to get some ducks, might as well go all the way, right?

This week is supposed to be warm so I'm hoping we can get the fence up so long as I can kick this sinus infection, but if I can't this week than the week after will still be plenty of time. And then over the summer I'll be working on getting this ancient trailer rebuilt into a mobile coop, which is what our birds will be wintering in. Busy year for us, alongside pursuing titles on the dogs!

[birdgenetics]

Apparently in ringneck doves blond and white were the only two colors available in Europe for centuries. Neither of which are wild type...

It's too bad though because dun is my favorite color. Though non-wild bay is another of my favorites. The black legs and mane and red coat are so striking!

It's such a shame that most chickens are white though, even if white is pretty. Gold duckwing is such a beautiful color! Wild type is my favorite in many species. Sometimes nature does it best.

I guess that also goes to show how much cats are an outlier among domestic species. Yes, breeds exist but the majority of domestic cats are moggies. And many are black tabbies.

In poultry, while meat ducks are in fact white, I think ducks and pigeons are the only species I can think of where you can find wild-color specimens no matter the size. Especially pigeons. Many pigeon breed standards aren't too picky about color. Blue bar is accepted in most breed standards, and is the most popular color in many of them.

Here’s another quick look at horse genetics:

There might be regional names for the different “shades” of dun, so if you happen to have heard them be called a different name, it might be down to that. For example, I’ve seen bay duns be referred to as mouse duns from time to time.

The difference between the upper two is a bit subtle, I hope you can spot it nevertheless

[cnyazhongmachinery]

A shape plucker machine for chicken | poultry plucking machine| chicken plucker

Capacity:50-500kg/h Machine material:SUS304 https://hnjoyshine.com/products/Poultry-Plucking-Machine_1.html Wechat/whatsapp:8613213203466

[eclipsesincarnation]

I don't know how I didn't think of this before, but the white and yellow/gold things hanging off aren't ribbons, they're feathers I cannot be more sure that if they are feathers, the ones on the red's task are canary feathers, they're plucked off Jimmy every previous life season, and the Secret Keeper is just teasing the lot with these on there!!! As for the white feathers, puzzles me more, it could be the Secret Keeper's feathers, the feathers of the Watcher (which, we are the Secret Keeper AND the Watchers guys, it is one entity and it is us, we literally suggest ideas for secrets HELLO?!), or could be Grian's feathers, my favourite thought is that they are Poultry Man's but that's a HC entity more than LS entity Who do you think the white feathers are? Agree or disagree with my suggestions??

[alittlebitofwonk]

Have a writing piece from an AU I’ve been working on.

"ՏԾ ՌԹՏԹ ɧԹՏ ՌԾ ɿԺȝԹ աɧԹԵ ԵɧȝՎ'Րȝ ԳԾɿՌԳ ԵԾ ԺԾ աɿԵɧ ɧɿʍ."

"ՇԾՐՐȝՇԵ. ՄՌԲԾՐԵՄՌԹԵȝʅՎ."

"աȝ'Րȝ ՏԾ ԲՄՇƙȝԺ."

Grian has no idea what these beings are saying, but he has the distinct idea that they’re talking about him. He’s pretty sure they’ve been talking about him since he first woke up to their awed faces staring over him, making him a little self conscious. Were his feathers crooked, or something?

Ever since he woke up, still injured from the crash, they’ve been marveling over him. Over his double set of wings that sprouts from his back. Over the scaly black cartilage that covers his fingers and much of his feet and his cheekbones. Over the feathers that hide and protect his ear canals. Over his arched, taloned feet designed to perch on branches. Over… well, over everything about Grian, really. Which is funny, because they’re the weird ones. No feathers, no external cartilage, flat feet… But they’re similar, too. Their skin is the same, and they have hair too. They’re bipedal, like most of the aliens in the Galactic Confederacy.

Of course, this raises a whole other set of questions about the evolution of life that has already been considered for years. Evolution seems to favor certain traits for intelligent life, even this far from home. Grian has so many questions.

A shame they can’t understand each other.

Grian’s picked up little things along the way, learned bits and pieces of their language over the last month or two. Like their word for “food” or “help” or “water”. He know their names, too. At least he assumes that when they pointed at themselves and repeated the same word over and over that they were telling Grian their names.

Currently, he’s sitting on a metal table in the ship’s laboratory. It’s a little rudimentary, compared to the stuff back home, but most of it does the job. The female (? that’s an assumption on Grian’s part, he’s not sure how gender and sex work in these individuals), who calls herself Pearl, has used a swab to take samples from his mouth, and is currently oohing and aaahing at them beneath a microscope. Grian’s no scientist, so he has no idea what’s so cool about some cells from his cheek. They’re just cells. Impulse, the captain and one of two males(?), is currently scowling at a tablet.

Just as Pearl is eyeing the feathers on the end of Grian’s tail (and no WAY is he letting her pluck him like common poultry!), the door to the lab opens and the smaller of the two males, Tango, waltzes in, whistling. Grian instinctively whistles a little tune back in his home language, and Tango grins widely at him. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but the creatures who pulled him from the wreck are amazed regardless.

[rustic-space-fiddle]

Working on Grazer concept design. (See details below the cut)

These Grazers are from Cain’s tribe, the Grassland Grazers. There’s three main tribes of Grazers: the Grassland Grazers, the Mountain Grazers, and the Desert Grazers. I’m still working on names for these tribes, but for now that’s what I’ve got. They’re all somewhat nomadic, following the good grass/plants and the changing seasons. They’re predators, technically, but they raise, protect, and harvest small livestock. The grasslands grazers shepherd the wee dragon-sheep (I called them “skofies” before but I’m not loving that name so much rn…), the mountain ones raise cattle, and the desert ones raise poultry (kinda like quail).

Some notes on Grasslands Grazers, though I’m still fleshing them out:

They wear jewelry on their arms, ankles, necks, and horns that clinks to both help the sheep (who are as dumb as Earth sheep) stay close by and warn predators that someone is watching them. They’re also decorative.

Their braids are a source of pride and they almost never cut their hair, except under extreme circumstances.

They source their beads from stones found in riverbeds, but sometimes trade with the other tribes or humans/elves/etc. to get special precious stones or metals. Anything to make fun clinky jewelry.

Young Grazers (1-6) don’t wear beads around their necks or ankles in order to avoid getting caught in anything. They don’t help with the sheep then either so it’s not as necessary. However, they do wear little headbands with little beads on them, which they then turn in for real beads to adorn their necks or growing horns with once they get old enough to help tend the flocks.

Married Grazers get stripe tattoos on their chins. Men with facial hair will often shave or pluck the hair within the tattoo to make sure it’s always visible.

Some notes on the others:

The desert that the Desert Grazers roam isn’t an empty sand desert. It’s on the edge of the Great Desert (name TBD), but it’s got plenty of fauna and flora and rainfall.

The Mountain Grazers have slightly more permanent homes, with a series of large and small caves used by the main group and the shepherds over the seasons. They travel lightest of all Grazers.

Mountain Grazers have large circular horns like ibex goats and the Desert Grazers have horns like gazelles.

[idolatrybarbie]

lover, be sweet masterlist

pairing: marcus pike x fem!reader

word count & rating: 1.8k | explicit - minor free zone!

summary: cuddles. guilt. the sensual caressing of plucked poultry. they don't make Pepto-Bismol for shame, do they?

warnings: references to and discussion of sex - hence the explicit rating, depression, loneliness, guilt & shame, angst, dissociation, citizen kane (1941) dir. orson welles, a few lighthearted moments but don't get your hopes up people, reader is described as slightly shorter than/the same height as marcus, very dramatic metaphors, very lightly edited, bea regresses to using writing as therapy again.

notes: hi - i am sad. this is a fic about me being sad. if you read it you might be able to figure out why i'm sad. i don't love creating from a place of sadness anymore but i am sick of talking about it to people that care about me and my girlfriend marcus pike is, like, right there. so this is me being sad. i am going to try to not write a fic like this again (sad for the fact that i am sad.) we'll see how successful that mission is. we out here.

It’s you who brings up the ‘M’ word. Well, two words: moving in. They come out of your mouth haphazardly one night. A long night of dinner and drinks with wonderful sex after.

It’s been six months. The question, what if me staying over was more…permanent? Marcus is silent for about thirty seconds before he simply kisses you, asking if he needs to start bringing boxes home from work. This is what makes you recoil emotionally, shaking your head as you say you’ve had too much wine. You fall asleep in his arms with your heart pounding and cold.

How are you supposed to tell Marcus that the last time you lived with someone you knew, it ended disastrously? Not just a shit roommate—lives ruined, emotional wounds that never quite healed. A friendship of almost a decade down the drain because the one person you trusted in the world couldn’t grow out of the role they’d locked themselves in. How do you tell him that your family only started treating you right when you moved hours away, that you need an allotted amount of time alone lest you turn into the worst person alive?

You’re over here three out of five nights of his work week. Marcus is the one person in the world you seem to never be able to get enough of. And yet you can’t help that lingering instinct, a stutter in your gut that births a brood of unwanted doubts and insecurities. You live alone. You like it like that. Liked it like that, maybe.

You’d like to move your dishes into the cabinet downstairs—the chipped set of Corelle that Marcus has eaten off of all but once, telling you the plates reminded him of the ones his mother had in Chile. You’d like to wake up with fresh underwear after showers with the man you love only a drawer pull away; his sheets to become your sheets, and yours his. Bender doesn’t like your couch as much as Marcus’ and you’ve been meaning to sell it anyway. 

There is a life that could be lived here. A future within these red walls. But you won’t risk it. You will not make that mistake again. Some things are not meant to be shared, and maybe this is one of them. Better to be in solitude half the time with him than isolated all the time without.

But all this stays in the background. Marcus doesn’t bring it up again, doesn’t push. Part of you assumes that he’s forgotten—he drank a lot of wine that night too. Or perhaps he assumes your life has had enough change for a little while. The new job and all that comes with it.

After months of unemployment and steadily weaning yourself off of babysitting other people’s pets, you’ve found one. It’s not much—the pay or the pleasure in doing it—but it is something. You wake up at seven o’clock to be ready for eight and out of the house by quarter past. The drive to D.C. is busy, an increasingly miserable twenty-seven minute commute that everyone on the road slogs through together.

Marcus is happy for you. He’s happy you leave the house for some other reason than to visit him, and he likes to hear about your work day. The people are fine, nice even, and you tell him that. Neither he nor they can stave off the low mood that takes hold of you with every coming cold season, but you try not to focus on that.

Marcus is aware, but he doesn’t bring it up beyond a simple question of how you’re feeling sometimes. He gets warmer as the world outside does the opposite, softening beyond what you thought possible. Your boyfriend is a sourdough starter, not that you’re complaining. The sex you have is sweet and slow. Lovemaking might be the only appropriate turn of phrase. He can’t seem to stop saying it—the ‘L’ word—every time he’s inside of you.

Your dreams are an odd combination of the Palace of Versailles and Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane. A spotlight, a projector. The many versions of yourself, all of whom Marcus loves. The many versions of yourself, most of which you do not.

Mirrors. Lots of them. You’re grateful now when the shower steam makes the glass in Marcus��� bathroom sweat, sparing you from looking into another one. Being so walled off feels like lying to him. You can’t help it. Maybe it’s the intimacy of telling Marcus that’s getting to you. Might it be easier to stand at a pulpit and do a speech on how you feel? Direct. Factual even if the words aren’t confident.

Some Thursday night, three weeks after the ‘M’ word, you pull your car into the driveway beside your house…and sit. Headlights on, engine idle. Right now is the perfect time to freeze and stare out at the dust settled over the dashboard. You only move when knuckles rap on your window. Marcus, of course. His breath is as warm as his soul, fogging up the dirty glass.

You turn the car off, pulling the key from the ignition. He opens the door for you when you make a move to grab your bag.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is already laced with concern.

“Hi.”

“Are you okay?”

“What? Yeah. Just…thinking.”

Marcus glances at the empty driver’s seat. “In the car…with the engine running?”

“Got home a few minutes ago,” you say. You don’t know how long it’s been.

Marcus senses your fragile footing, redirecting the conversation. “Do you want to come over tonight?”

“I don’t know,” you say. The words are highlighted by a puff of white past your lips. “Been a long day.”

“I’m making roast chicken,” Marcus says, trying to entice you. “We can lay on the couch. I’ll give you a foot massage.” When he sees you aren’t biting, he adds, “We can watch Pacific Rim. Again.”

You smile as the slightest bit of fire sparks in your chest. “You’ve got a deal.”

Marcus waits at the front door as you collect Bender from your living room. Then he leads the way across the street, unlocking his own door and letting you in first. The cat in your arms leaps gracefully away, ready to find a new spot to nuzzle into.

After a hot shower alone, you feel more like a person. No length of time spent under the water is going to get rid of the guilt masquerading as hunger pains, though. Marcus is already working on dinner when you make your way downstairs. His waist apron hangs over his hips, crimson to match everything else; a thoughtless purchase on your part except for the mental image of him wearing it with that adorably taut face he makes when focusing.

Seeing that exact expression now as Marcus rubs margarine over the plucked, pink body of a whole chicken makes you laugh a little. He looks up at you, hearing the noise, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“You like what you see?” Marcus waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“The sensual caressing of dead poultry?”

He makes a face. “When you put it like that…”

“I speak the truth, the whole truth—”

“And nothing but the truth. You forget that you’re dating a man of the law, y’know.”

“How could I forget?” you ask, coming up behind him. Wrapping your arms around his waist, you peer over the side of Marcus’ arm to watch him season the chicken with various spices on the counter. “You’re always here to protect me.”

“I’m glad you know that,” he says. “And I really mean always.”

Marcus can’t see the look of curious confusion that crosses your face. “Of course,” you mumble into his shoulder.

The chicken is placed on a baking pan lined with tinfoil before it disappears into the oven. Marcus washes his hands thoroughly, tossing everything into a sink of hot and soapy water before he finally embraces you. His hugs are a godsend. You melt into his arms and let yourself be held. Then, another twist of your organs. The feeling plagues you like heartburn, showing up at the worst of times. They don’t make Pepto-Bismol for shame, do they?

Marcus must feel you tense up, because he asks, “Alright. What’s wrong?”

Pulling back from the hug, he stares at you—the heat of a thousand carefully probing suns.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say. Clearly he doesn’t buy it, taking in the way your eyes are starting to water like the Potomac.

“Well that’s just not true. Honey, please just… I want to help you.”

“I can’t move in with you,” you whisper. The first tear falls when you blink, a warm trail falling slowly down your cheek.

Marcus tilts his head. “What?”

“I can’t move in with you,” you repeat a little louder. “I’m not—I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “If you’re not ready—”

“It’s not about being ready,” you say, pulling yourself from his grasp. “It’s about…I don’t know. I love you. And that’s huge, and the last time I lived with someone I loved it ruined my life. I can’t do that with this. With us. I won’t.”

Marcus gently calls your name as you turn away from him, hands steady against the granite countertop. You can’t look at him. You’ve told the man you love that you can’t take the next step of further knitting your lives together. Of starting anew as a pair. There is no timeline to feed him. No amount of months given will tide him over because there's no expiry date on this feeling of yours. It simply is; there was a time before it existed, but you’re almost certain there will be no after.

That crawling specter of loneliness hasn’t haunted you for six whole months, and you would like to keep it that way. Even if the knowledge that you’re missing minute details about Marcus in your time across the street kills you the slightest bit; even if you want to show him that you’re all in on this, what your boyfriend doesn’t know is that you are a nuclear reactor. The disaster happened a long time ago, but the ground is still poisoned. The air is teeming with radiation even if he’s been slowly sipping the water.

You say, “I don’t know when I’m going to be ready.” Not now, if ever. Breaking your own goddamn heart.

“That’s okay,” Marcus says. “There’s no rush on it. You could take a million years. I’m still going to be here.” He takes you back into his arms, cradling your head against his body.

This doesn’t fix anything—doesn’t fix you, but you don’t want Marcus to do that anyway. For now, this works. Right now this is okay.

[howlingday]

Can you do a Renfield scene please?

---------------------------------------------------

Renfield is an R-Rated movie for a reason.

Cinder: (Leaps over, Snaps Goodwitch neck)

Cinder: (Dodges Port's gunfire)

Cinder: (Ducks under Qrow's swing, Lunges)

Emerald: Whoawhoawhoawhoa! Uh, that was a lot, huh? Maybe we should back up to the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cinder: And you are?

Emerald: E-E-E-Emerald, ma'am.

Cinder: E-E-E-Emerald who?

Emerald: E-Emerald Sustrai... ma'am.

Cinder: (Smiles) Emerald Sustrai... the thief... But I forgive you, for I am Cinder Fall.

Emerald: (Speaking over) When I first met Miss Cinder, I was- Well, like she said, a thief. She could have killed me there, but instead let me into her home. I had no idea that she would change my life and my family's lives forever. But she definitely did.

Cinder: You would make a very good assistant... Miss Sustrai.

Emerald: I empathized with her at the start, in certain aspects.

Cinder: I never eat... poultry.

Emerald: And, well, she made me feel important. She took me to places I've never dreamed of! Like the theater! But then... she made me her familiar.

Familiar (noun); a servant, often gifted by a creature in power with power portion; someone's bitch for life.

Emerald: I was responsible for everything the ma'am needed, including staff changes.

Cinder: (Sets Watts on fire)

Emerald: And providing her with her, uh... "special" cravings... that she needed to survive.

Cinder: (Mouth bloodied, Puts on bowler hat)

Emerald: Look! I didn't just jump into serving the Queen of Evil. We... We had some great times! But just like all great times-

SERVANT

Emerald: They come to an end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cinder: (Telepathy) The Huntsmen have arrived, Emerald!.

Emerald: (Grabs box, Plucks worm, Talkover) Right, this. See, the ma'am gets her power from consuming human life, and I... I have to eat Grimm. Now, where were we again?

Cinder: (Grabs Qrow's throat, Tears it out)

Oobleck: (Holding relic) YOU WILL NOT HARM ANOTHER SOUL WHILST I STILL BREATHE!

Cinder: (Roars, Snarls)

Emerald: I'm coming, Ma'am!

Cinder: (Leaps, Bound by magic)

Oobleck: Oh, thank the Brothers that worked.

Emerald: (Runs over, Stops) Shit...

Oobleck: This is the Relic of Holding, Miss Sustrai. She cannot escape. Let us do what we must so you can finally be free!

Cinder: Free? When I am gone, they will execute you for what you have done. Sever your hands and force you to fight the Grimm. Only I can protect you. I am your only friend. I'm the only one who cares for you.

Emerald: I still remember thinking, "She really, really means it this time!".

Emerald: (Tosses a bag, Lands in the fire)

Oobleck: (Sizzling, crackling pop behind him, Drops the relic) Sustrai! We are the last of his legion! Now every drop of blood that Cinder spills will be on your hands!

Cinder: (Into smoke, Goes inside Oobleck, Explodes him from the inside)

Emerald: HOLY SHIT! Uh... That's a new one.

Port: (Shoots curtain, Drapes drop)

Cinder: (Burns in the sunlight, Leaps on Port)

Port: (Screams as he's disemboweled, Burns)

Emerald: Hold on, ma'am! (Grabs drapes, Tosses them on her) Are you okay, ma'am?!

Cinder: (Charred to a crisp, Wheezes) NO...

[darkened-storm]

The Venus Fly Trap

@bladerbunny @hellovivirose @let-it-ripperoni

“Your venus fly trap is looking pretty average,” Steph said rather hesitantly. Ilma, however, took a far less tactful approach. “It looks rather dead.” Celeste winced. “I think it’s hungry, but I can’t get it to eat anything. I even let a fly hang around it for three days and nothing.” Steph shuddered and resisted the urge to douse the kitchen in disinfectacnt, but she did make a mental note to douse Ian instead before they let him into the sharehouse again. “Maybe we can feed it ourselves,” Ilma suggested, heading for the fridge. “I put some steak in here last time Steph over-stocked on groceries.” “Lies and slander,” Steph defended herself. “I don’t overstock. I buy extra steak because we can’t have any form of poultry around here on account of Brooklyn’s love affair with the feathered creatures.” “We also can’t keep fish in the house because it makes you puke,” Ilma reminded her apathetically as she rifled through the freezer. “Aha.” She tossed the steak down on the counter with a thud and reached for a knife. With the sort of expertise and knife handling skills that made Celeste and Steph fear for the next person who crossed her, Ilma filleted the steak and placed a small sliver on one of the trap’s leaves. And nothing happened.

“It’s not working,” Celeste said, sounding defeated. “Hmm,” Ilma murmured, frowning at the plant. “Maybe it prefers fresh meat. It is a carnivorous plant after all.” “Oh joy,” Steph muttered. “Maybe we should shove Ian’s nose in there then.” Ilma, who always took the potential mutilation of Ian’s nose entirely seriously, said; “it’s not going to fit, but we could try his finger instead.” “You’re not feeding Ian to the plant!” Kiya’s shout could be heard from the lounge where she was clearly eavesdropping whilst working. “You’ll give it indigestion.” Ilma rolled her eyes. “Fine, we won’t feed Ian to the plant.” She turned to Celeste. “Did it come with any instructions when you brought it?” Celeste glanced around the kitchen and ruffled some of Kiya’s paperwork. “They’re around her soemwhere… Kiya, when are you going to clean up this mess?” “When your lazy ass boyfriend starts pulling his weight around here!” was the irritated response. “Last I checked this academy was HIS IDEA.” “You had to ask, didn’t you,” Ilma grumbled and Celeste shook her head in dismay. “Here it is,” Steph announced, plucking a colourful flyer from the bottom of the pile and reading the instructions out loud. “Do not feed a Venus fly trap any meat: including chicken, steak, sausages or hot dogs. Also, refrain from offering it fruit or candy.” She flipped the flyer over and appraised the other side, then screwed her face up in disgust. “Well that’s not very helpful at all. I’m going to get someone who has actually kept a plant alive for more than a day.” She disappeared upstairs and returned with Becky in tow. “It needs more light for a start,” Becky determined, then aimed a glare in her cousin’s direction. “If someone bothered to open the curtains around here…” Ilma looked offended. “I need to protect my skin from the UV light - think about my complexion.” Ignoring her, Becky went on. “You shouldn’t let it flower either,” she said, reaching for the sheers. “A mature trap can handle the energy deficit of producing a flower, but not before it’s at least a year old.” “But the flowers are so pretty,” Celeste lamented. “Yes, but they’re entirely useless,” Becky insisted as she began to hack away at the flowers with the sheers. “Purely ornamental.” “Oh, so like your boyfriend,” Steph deduced, then glanced over her shoulder to make sure Kai wasn’t lurking in the hallway. “And it needs food it would catch in the wild,” Becky went on, ignoring the comment. She cleared the Ilma’s steak from the trap then reached for the fly squatter Kiya had conveniently stored by the microwave. SPLAT! The fly that had been buzzing around the kitchen for the last three days met an unfortunate end and Becky plucked it from the squatter using a pair of chopsticks. “Ew,” Celeste grimaced, watching as Becky carefully placed the fly on the leaf of the trap. Then, using the edge of the chopstick, she tickled the fine hairs on the edge of the leaf and the trap snapped shut. “ACK!” Steph exclaimed, jumping back and yeeting Ilma in front of herself as a shield, but Celeste was bouncing on the balls of her feet and hugging Becky enthusiastically. “You did it!” Their mission accomplished, the girls retired to the lounge room. Steph snuggled into the couch and used Kiya’s shoulder as a pillow. “So - does the fly trap have a name?”

[theygender]

As someone with a special interest in deep time, human evolution, and prehistoric human societies, the paleo diet as it's commonly practiced makes no sense to me. Why is it so meat-centered? Most of the diet plans I've seen are almost entirely red meat, poultry, and fish with just the occasional side of vegetables and maybe like a single piece of fruit here and there (but no fruit juice)

And like. Do people not realize that for the majority of human evolution our ancestors primarily ate plants? We're omnivores by nature, but for most of prehistory plants made up the majority of our diet with meat only supplementing it in most places. We literally evolved an entire form of color vision that isn't seen in most mammals specifically to help us find fruit. The reason you can see red, orange, and purple is bc your ancestors ate so many fruits in those colors that it was biologically advantageous for them to evolve Fruit Vision to find them easier. There's a reason that fruits and vegetables make up such a huge chunk of the food pyramid

And then they also go and ban grains? G R A I N S ?? One of the oldest staples of the human diet? The food which made up such a huge part of our ancestors' diets that it became the largest group in the entire food pyramid? The food that we've been evolving alongside for hundreds of thousands of years, quite possibly as long as humans have existed?? And legumes??? Which together with grains were so important to prehistoric humans that we learned how to cultivate them in the wild even while we still lived as hunter gatherers? The two foods that were so important that we developed agriculture time and time again across all corners of the globe specifically to have more of them? So important that our ancient ancestors engaged in tens of thousands of years of targeted cultivation to make them into the perfect source of food for us?? They don't allow that in the "paleo" diet???

Not to mention the rules against "processed" foods. Bread and pasta and tortillas aren't allowed bc they're made by humans. Fruit juice isn't allowed bc the fruits are juiced by humans. Basically anything that doesn't look like it was freshly plucked from the vine or chopped off of an animal without alteration is banned from the paleo diet. But learning to process our food is arguably what made us human. Humans as a species are defined by our ability to utilize complex language, social learning, and tools, and those are all thought to be tied to our larger proportional brain size compared to other animals. There's growing evidence that the evolution of our brains is directly tied to the food our ancestors ate. The fossil record shows that the increase in brain size is correlated with humans beginning to cook and process our food (something that no other animal is known to do), and the theory is that by making digestion easier, our bodies were able to divert energy from the development of our digestion systems to the development of our brains instead. Learning to process food was an essential step in the evolution of early humans

Altogether it just seems so... Unscientific. It's like the people pushing paleo diets don't care about what their paleolithic ancestors actually ate or how our bodies evolved to digest food, they just care about acting out some fantasy of living like the fictional hollywood version of a caveman. And that has absolutely nothing to do with "health"

[haystackpancake]

The jeering face was back this morning

Guttural barks, growling, horny, like the jeering face came back this morning. goosebumps flutter, hairs sent soaring by the jeering face came back this morning.

tore off my cellophane flesh, teeth sink into stained chicken breast through sheets unshaded eyes heat frozen, thawing, deer meat thighs

Wolf skinned grandma reads her a story like the jeering face came back this morning girl's ears cant handle all that gory, but your jeering face was back this morning.

sweat buffalo soaked and sitting up your belly full, not had enough cream skin yanked lips attempt a smile "fetch me a bowl for wing bone pile"

poultry a-chase, jackal snoring, like the jeering face I saw this morning feathers plucked and juices pouring turned your head and said good-morning.

[sebastianshaw]

Isis giddily displayed her pet to her father, tugging at his sleeve for attention. "Daddy, don't you like Emma Puss's new dress? It's the latest in feline fashon!"

Shaw STARED at the absurd and somehow strangely ghoulish sight before him. He never got used to the bizarre, alien-looking little creature that his daughter had chosen for her boon companion. There was simply something uncanny about the cat, made moreso when it was attired. Finally, he said, "Now I understand the meaning of a dressed turkey." Really, she did look like a raw and plucked little piece of poultry! @gods-own-xman

[nightmarist]

Dragon Age OC — Dirthadin & Little Things

He routinely shaves his eyebrows and the side of his head. Has a lovely stamped razor with nouveau like leaf designs, and a simple little wooden bowl with a mark of his for her clan on the bottom. His facial hair is always pretty thin so he usually just plucks it with his fingers if he’s actively annoyed by it. Sometimes he does it subconsciously when thinking.

Carries two small daggers strapped to his thighs, and one hidden in his grieves. The hidden one is slightly curved, custom to fit as if part of his armor to remain as unnoticeable as possible.

His grieves and braces are stamped with a combined, simplistic symbol of Falon’din and Dirthamen, the twin brothers of death and knowkedge that he named himself after.

He named himself Dirthadin and abandoned his clan name in pursuit of being “Keeper of the Dead.”

He keeps a wooden game set with him, a Dalish game that can be played various ways similar to Senet, Chess, or Solitaire (peg).

His athleticism is mostly in running and parkour, with excellent upper body strength and grip for climbing hard to reach places. Hes a fast climber and very spry, to the point even other elves may have a hard time keeping up. He’s very quick to dodge, but practically garbage at non-magical combat.

He bruises easy and has cold hands.

He’s fairly good with his hands, deft in means of crafting skills like sewing, drawing, and weaving. If the weather gets a bit too cold though he feels it in his joints and can lose a lot of mobility. Because of this he carries a lot of poppy and poppy seeds.

He likes rabbit soup with mushrooms, but loves mixed hot grains with herbs and poultry.

He’s completely ignorant to alienage culture. Never even seen an alienage. He’d probably be insensitive to them about Dalish culture.

Very knowledgeable in alchemy, potion, poultice, and other such things. Doesn’t tend to use much of it, though, usually just a few tinctures for illness or infection or the occasional poison if need be. Occasionally doses himself with sleeping potion. Helps keep nightmares at bay.

His journal has random pressed plants in between the pages. Leaves, flowers, etc. He knows what they are, he just likes to collect them from different regions. Gives him something to do.

The fur over his shoulders is from a large wolf. Whispers around the clans say he’s being controlled or called by the Dread Wolf. That he’s an omen of death or manipulation. In reality it was a demon possessing a wolf and he decided to make use of the fur. There’s a lot of it and it’s warm and he likes cocooning in it when he sleeps. The scent of Wolf and Demon tends to keep things away. Frankly it’d be really funny if Solas heard the rumors there was a wandering (half)bald elf wearing wolf fur that sleeps in cemeteries who is the Dread Wolf in disguise only to find out it’s not even him they’re talking about.

Although a dalish, he has little qualm with humans. Call him knife-ear though and he’ll point a knife between your ears.

He has a good snarl when he’s genuinely angry.

[birchbritches]

Check the Wiring

Hearth thus far and the resultant maim, I tack on time like a poultice, I have wishes like poultry,

which is to say with the stink of a status-post living-thing's continuing mass plucked of recognizable features, stagnant sink weighing on the olfactory bulb with a reflective wonder of what if it cracks, what's a light do when it's little home is breached,

what's left if the passage of electrons makes its getaway? We respire, respirate, say we'll worry about the smell later. 

[iwrotesomeofitdown]

I also recommend the BBC Historical Farms series and its precursor Tales from the Green Valley. Historians and archaeologists living on historical farms with era-appropriate clothing, technology, and foods.

Tw for cooking with (and cutting up) entire pig heads, plucking dead poultry, etc. It’s very hands-on.

One of them is the Tudor Monastery farm (life in England 1457-1509).

Another spinoff (in contrast) is Victorian Slum House (living in a tenement house in Victorian England).

tfw you see some stupid post that paints medieval peasants eating just plain grey porridge and acting as if cheese, butter or meat was too exotic or expensive for them, and have to use all your inner strength to not just reblog it with an angry rant and throwing hands with people. so i will just post the angry rant here

no, medieval people did not only eat grey porridge with no herbs or spices, they had a great variety of vegetables we dont even have anymore, grains and dairy products, not to mention fruits and meats, all seasonal and changing with the time of the year. no, medieval food was not just tasteless, maybe this will surprise some of you but you can make tasty food without excessive spice use, and can use a variety of good tasting herbs. if you'd ever tried to cook some medieval recipes you would know that. medieval people needed a lot of energy for their work, if they would only eat fucking porridge all of the time they would get scurvy and die before they could even built a civilisation. they had something called 'pottage' which was called that because it was cooked in one pot. you could leave the pot on the fire and go about your day, doing stuff and come back to a cooked meal. they put in what was available that time of the year, together with grains, peas, herbs, meat etc etc. again, if you would try to make it, like i have with my reenactment friends, it can actually be really good and diverse.

dont confuse medieval peasants with poor people in victorian england. dont think that TV shows what it was really like. dont think that dirty grey dressed people covered in filth were how the people looked like.

they made use of everything. too poor to buy proper meat? buy a sheeps head and cook it. they ate nettle and other plants we consider weeds now. they foraged and made use of what they found. hell, there are medieval cook books!

most rural people had animals, they had chickens (eggs), goats (milk and dairy), cows (milk and dairy), sheep (milk and dairy) and pigs (meat machine), and after butchering they used ALL THE PARTS of the animal. you know how much meat you can get out of a pig, even the smaller medieval breeds? the answer is a lot

if you had the space you always had a vegetable garden. there are ways to make sure you have something growing there every time of the year. as i said they had a variety of vegetables we dont have anymore due to how farming evolved. you smoked pork in the chimney, stored apples in the dry places in your house, had a grain chest. people could go to the market to buy fish and meat, both fresh and dried/smoked. they had ale, beer and wine, that was not a luxury that was a staple part of their diet.

this post ended once again up being longer than i planned, but please for the love of the gods, just actually educate yourself on this stuff and dont just say stupid wrong shit, takk