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davidsphysicsblog · 6 years ago

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Why does it seem that my cellphone is spying on me?

In his seminal book, “The Singularity is Near – When Humans Transcend Biology,” Ray Kurzweil laments the fate of Artificial Intelligence (AI): “An underlying problem with artificial intelligence that I have personally experienced in my forty years of in the area is that as soon as an AI technique works, it is no longer considered AI and is spun off in its own field …” Kurzweil then goes on to give the example of speech recognition – although if you both listen and watch the closed captions to the nightly news, you might wonder how intelligent this recognition is. Still that point has stuck with me since I first read The Singularity is Near, when it first came out in 2005.

Well, friends there is no longer any denying the existence of AI in our lives. We have moved beyond what has been referred to as the “Dark Age of AI.”We’ve got everything from intelligent toaster ovens to self-driving automobiles. Recently, I saw, with a shutter, a news clip about self-driving eighteen wheelers. Yikes, I thought. But then I considered how many people have been wiped out by drowsy truck drivers. Which is better, which is worse?

Now, I am a great proponent of futurism. More importantly, I recognize that there is no denying technology, any more than there is denying climate change. There are good reasons to fear it, especially if your job is in jeopardy. Ultimately all our jobs are in jeopardy. But there is no stopping it. Technology always outruns its own ethical basis. It has no morality. It just is. And the Luddites, who in the early nineteenth century rose up and destroyed textile machinery because they feared it would take away their means of employment are now reduced merely to a fancy word and a footnote. As I type this AI programs “spellcheck” me and “autocorrect” my grammar. Both of those words exist in the language only because of the AI revolution. So, they are taking over our language as well.

There is also the nostalgia factor. My IPad and my Kindle do not feel or smell like a book. I so love these tactile and olfactory experiences. But the fact is that my whole library, which is voluminous, could easily fit in digital form on my computer devices, and I read at least three times faster electronically than on paper. Although one might ask, what the rush is? Ultimately, where this nostalgia is concerned we become like Edward Arlington Robinson’s “Minever Cheevy.”

“Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,

Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;

He wept that he was ever born,

And he had reasons.

Miniver loved the days of old

When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;

The vision of a warrior bold

Would set him dancing.

Miniver sighed for what was not,

And dreamed, and rested from his labors;

He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,

And Priam’s neighbors.

Miniver mourned the ripe renown

That made so many a name so fragrant;

He mourned Romance, now on the town,

And Art, a vagrant.

Miniver loved the Medici,

Albeit he had never seen one;

He would have sinned incessantly

Could he have been one.

Miniver cursed the commonplace

And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;

He missed the mediæval grace

Of iron clothing.

Miniver scorned the gold he sought,

But sore annoyed was he without it;

Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,

And thought about it.

Miniver Cheevy, born too late,

Scratched his head and kept on thinking;

Miniver coughed, and called it fate,

And kept on drinking.”

Isn’t it wonderful how all I needed to do was to type “Minever Cheevy” into my search engine, a form of AI and the whole text, which I first read on paper in high school pops up? This is but the first stage in the development of Kurzweil’s bionic man-machine.

And as I was typing the last, my cellphone dinged with the message from Bloomberg News that:

“Medical apps have made it easier than ever for doctors to treat people without ever seeing them in person.”

Is this getting just a bit spooky?

Which brings me to what I really wanted to discuss. I recently read Michael Chertoff’s “Exploding Data: Reclaiming Our Cyber Security in the Digital Age.” This book describes the megadata on each of us, which seems merely a collection of useless facts. Where we were every minute of the day, what we bought, what we ate, what we spent, and on and on. It is not the individual facts that are significant, but the Gestalt, that ultimately presents the threat, not just to individual privacy an liberty, but to national and world security.

Allow me to quote the ninth amendment to the United States Constitution. Yes, Republican friends there is more than the second amendment, which protects the right of madmen to buy assault rifles. But the little ninth amendment says merely:

“The enumeration in the Constitution, of certain rights, shall not be construed to deny or disparage others retained by the people.”

This is your right to privacy, people! The government does not belong in your workplace, in your home, or in your bedroom, for instance. And when we allow ourselves to be monitored 24-7, we give up that right, in part or in total.

And on the security side. Connect your home to the internet with devices such as smart electric meters for instance, where “the bad guys” have implanted administrative codes in the chips they made for us and we bought because they are cheap, and they can shut down our power grids.

In 2004, yes fifteen years ago, the Israeli military assassinated Sheik Ahmed Yassin, the spiritual leader and founder of the militant Palestinian group Hamas, by landing a smart missile in the lap of the wheelchair-bound Sheik Yassin. I am not suggesting that you have anything to fear from the fact that your own iPhone is tracking your whereabouts in real-time.

What has freaked me out was an IM session that I was having with a friend on my IPhone to set up a time to meet for coffee. When we had settled as to time and place, I went to add it to my calendar, hit the add button, and there it was Name of Person, Name of place, and time all neatly pre-entered for me. Starting with OS 10.0, we are now up to OS 12.2, the operating system has AI algorithms that search your texts and emails in this way. For convenience, right? I’m sorry it seems not so much as helpful as creepy and an invasion of privacy.

I am reminded of a second poem. This by W. H. Auden and called “To the Unknown Citizen.” Perhaps we might modernize the title to “To the Unknown Citizen and his Megadata.”

(To JS/07 M 378 This Marble Monument Is Erected by the State)

He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be

One against whom there was no official complaint,

And all the reports on his conduct agree

That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a

saint,

For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.

Except for the War till the day he retired

He worked in a factory and never got fired,

But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.

Yet he wasn’t a scab or odd in his views,

For his Union reports that he paid his dues,

(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)

And our Social Psychology workers found

That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.

The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day

And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every way.

Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,

And his Health-card shows he was A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.

Our researchers into Public Opinion are content

That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;

When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war, he went.

He was married and once in hospital but left it cured.

Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare

He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Instalment Plan

And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,

added five children to the population,

Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of his

generation.

And our teachers report that he never interfered with their

education.

Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd: e heard.

I feel a need to return photographically to a simpler time, to turn back the clock to the Willoughby of Twilight Zone fame, to a more mechanical time. The time of carburetors, now replaced by AI chips called injection systems.

#artificial intelligence #futurism #Megadata

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willoughbyscamera · 2 years ago

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The Top 7 Features to Consider When Choosing the Best Camera for Photography

When choosing the best camera for photography, several features must be considered. Megapixels, optical zoom, aperture, ISO range, shutter speed, and white balance are all essential factors to consider. Ultimately, the best camera for you will be the one that meets your specific needs and budget. Consider Willoughby's camera shop for all your camera needs. With a wide range of cameras to choose from, you’re sure to find the perfect one.

#Willoughbys Camera

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yellowfeather84 · 7 years ago

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I didn’t speak, as I followed him up four flights of winding stairs to the top of the house.

I was much too busy thinking, my mind in a whirl. “Pimpmaster,” the lad in the pub had called him. But surely that was only an epithet—such a thing was absolutely impossible. For the Jamie Fraser I had known, it was impossible, I corrected myself, looking up at the broad shoulders under the dark gray serge coat. But for this man?

I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting, but the room was quite ordinary, small and clean—though that was extraordinary, come to think of it—furnished with a stool, a simple bed and chest of drawers, upon which stood a basin and ewer and a clay candlestick with a beeswax candle, which Jamie lighted from the taper he had carried up.

He shucked off his wet coat and draped it carelessly on the stool, then sat down on the bed to remove his wet shoes.

“God,” he said, “I’m starving. I hope the cook’s not gone to bed yet.”

“Jamie …” I said.

“Take off your cloak, Sassenach,” he said, noticing me still standing against the door. “You’re soaked.”

“Yes. Well … yes.” I swallowed, then went on. “There’s just … er … Jamie, why have you got a regular room in a brothel?” I burst out.

He rubbed his chin, looking mildly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Sassenach,” he said. “I know it wasna right to bring ye here, but it was the only place I could think of where we might get your dress mended at short notice, besides finding a hot supper. And then I had to put Mr. Willoughby where he wouldna get in more trouble, and as we had to come here anyway … well”—he glanced at the bed—“ it’s a good deal more comfortable than my cot at the printshop. But perhaps it was a poor idea. We can leave, if ye feel it’s not—”

“I don’t mind about that,” I interrupted. “The question is—why have you got a room in a brothel? Are you such a good customer that—”

“A customer?” He stared up at me, eyebrows raised. “Here? God, Sassenach, what d’ye think I am?”

“Damned if I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m asking. Are you going to answer my question?”

He stared at his stockinged feet for a moment, wiggling his toes on the floorboard. At last he looked up at me, and answered calmly, “I suppose so. I’m not a customer of Jeanne’s, but she’s a customer of mine—and a good one. She keeps a room for me because I’m often abroad late on business, and I’d as soon have a place I can come to where I can have food and a bed at any hour, and privacy. The room is part of my arrangement with her.”

I had been holding my breath. Now I let out about half of it. “All right,” I said. “Then I suppose the next question is, what business has the owner of a brothel got with a printer?” The absurd thought that perhaps he printed advertising circulars for Madame Jeanne flitted through my brain, to be instantly dismissed.

“Well,” he said slowly. “No. I dinna think that’s the question.”

“It’s not?”

“No.” With one fluid move, he was off the bed and standing in front of me, close enough for me to have to look up into his face. I had a sudden urge to take a step backward, but didn’t, largely because there wasn’t room.

“The question is, Sassenach, why have ye come back?” he said softly.

“That’s a hell of a question to ask me!” My palms pressed flat against the rough wood of the door. “Why do you think I came back, damn you?”

“I dinna ken.” The soft Scottish voice was cool, but even in the dim light, I could see the pulse throbbing in the open throat of his shirt.

“Did ye come to be my wife again? Or only to bring me word of my daughter?” As though he sensed that his nearness unnerved me, he turned away suddenly, moving toward the window, where the shutters creaked in the wind.

“You are the mother of my child—for that alone, I owe ye my soul—for the knowledge that my life hasna been in vain—that my child is safe.” He turned again to face me, blue eyes intent.

“But it has been a time, Sassenach, since you and I were one. You’ll have had your life—then—and I have had mine here. You’ll know nothing of what I’ve done, or been. Did ye come now because ye wanted to—or because ye felt ye must?”

My throat felt tight, but I met his eyes.

“I came now because before … I thought you were dead. I thought you’d died at Culloden.”

His eyes dropped to the windowsill, where he picked at a splinter.

“Aye, I see,” he said softly. “Well … I meant to be dead.” He smiled, without humor, eyes intent on the splinter. “I tried hard enough.” He looked up at me again.

#outlander #voyager #book quotes #jamie fraser #claire fraser #jamie x claire

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jeremypassion · 5 years ago

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Canon EOS Rebel T6 Review | Is The Canon T6 Any Good For Video?

The Canon Rebel T6 is an entry level DSLR designed with photography in mind it any good for filming video?

Canon T6 Review | CheckOut@ Amazon

Reviews On Amazon :

4.5 out of 5 stars By

456 Ratings

| 536 answered questions

Let’s see.

(INTRO)

Welcome to Best Camera Reviews, I’m Jack, and I’m not going to drag you through the mud making you wait to find out.

So, the short answer is, no, It doesn’t really work for video.

Let’s start by going over this camera’s features and limitations.

As far as the body goes you have nice sturdy build, with a very ergonomic design.

The camera itself feels well built, and the buttons are somewhat intuitively placed.

I say somewhat because, while most of them make sense, there just isn’t anywhere near enough of them.

There are no customizable function buttons, and, with out a touch screen display changing settings takes way longer then it should.

To shoot video you have to switch to video mode.

And, to change any settings in video mode you have to go to the menu and enable manual exposure for video.

Another thing I really wish cannon had added was a touch screen LCD, but canon need ways to make people by the Ti series cameras.

This brings me to the biggest reason the T6 isn’t ideal for video.

It doesn’t have mic jack.

Now I know cannon’s dslr’s don’t have that good of preamps anyway but external mics make your audio so much better.

Canon Digital SLR Camera Kit [EOS Rebel T6] with EF-S 18-55mm and EF 75-300mm Zoom Lenses - Black

Read@ Amazon

456 Ratings

| 536 answered questions

By Canon

I have a love hate relationship with Cannon’s 18-55mm kit lens, it has great internal stabilization,

so you shoot handheld a lot easier, but, it’s pretty soft and focusing with it is extremely difficult.

speaking of focus the T6’s auto focus is as expected not great, its loud and swims around a lot.

However, this doesn’t really concern me because I rarely use auto focus, and you really cant get good auto focus anyway without spending more than twice the T6’s original cost.

Rolling shutter is about what you’d expect, nothing horrendous, but defiantly not the best I’ve seen.

In terms of picture profiles your best option is neutral, its semi flat, and does preserve probably another half a stop of dynamic range.

Its probably good that’s its not to flat anyway however because the T6 shoots at a max of 28 megabytes a second, so there’s not that much you can do when grading the image before it breaks.

Even my GoPro has a higher bit rate; of about 70. However, 28 megabytes it normal for almost canon dslrs under 1,000 dollars so it isn’t a downside specifically to the T6.

And if you’re not grading it heavily it holds up quite well.

Before I talk anymore let’s take a look at some test footage I shot with this camera.

Read More@ Amazon

(Footage)

So, as you can see the video quality is actually decently usable.

With enough patience when shooting and editing you can total pull usable video out of this camera, but there are some limitations.

Mainly its lack of any usable slow-motion, I mean come on cannon at least put 60 fps in hd.

If you want to shoot semi slow motion 60fps you have to go down to 720p which at least in my opinion looks really soft.

Low, light in this camera Is also pretty bad, it’s not the worst but its defiantly not clean or bright.

(Low Light)

Amazon's Choice

Amazon's Choice recommends highly rated, well-priced products available to ship immediately.

Now, I know I’ve been mostly hitting on this camera.

But for the type of people this camera is geared towards, namely people who are just getting into photography and want their fist

DSLR, the T6 preforms excellently, it’s just not great for video.

But, there is one thing I really like about shooting on this camera, and that’s the lens flares.

This camera produces beautiful lens flares.

Canon just dropped the mic on that.

But, that’s all I’ve got for you guys today, I’m Silas Willoughby, this has been echo productions, and ill see you, next week.

#Canon EOS Rebel T6 Review #Is The Canon T6 Any Good For Video #canon #canon eos #canon eos rebel #canon eos rebel t6

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coalstock · 5 years ago

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Coalstock, Village [Permalink]

Population: 690, Size: 11 acres Wealth: 6,900 gp. Max value for sale: 228 gp. Max pawn value: 1,208 gp Demographics: Human (85%), Elf (10%), Half-Orc (1%), Half-Elf (1%), Dwarf (1%), Halfling (1%), Gnome (1%)

Coalstock is completely destitute and rundown, and is known for its mines and industry. The Village is ruled by a cabal who seized power. There is some tension between the races.

Tavern: The Striking Respite 2 Owner: Rosamund Addington, Female Human [Details]

Location: In the Market Quarter. The street outside has a pickpocket looking for marks.

Description: The tavern is a wooden structure, with a white tile roof and a small vegetable garden. It is well-lit by a few magical torches. It contains an old-looking telescope and cured meats and cheeses hanging from the ceiling.

Specials:

Beef Casserole with Onion and a Coffee (5 sp)

Rabbit Stew with Sharp Cheese and a Tankard of Ale (5 sp)

Pheasant Soup with Oat Bread and a Tankard of Cider (5 sp)

Other Patrons:

Rinn Iathrana, Female Elf [Details]

Theodoric Riley, Male Human [Details]

Eida Hogcollar, Female Halfling [Details]

Gwynnie Swiftwhistle, Female Halfling [Details]

Tavern: The Ghastly Cup 6 Owner: Hugh Emsworth, Male Human [Details]

Location: In a residential quarter known for its devout residents. The street outside has drunken revelers and is full of market stalls.

Description: The tavern is a log cabin, with a red tile roof and simple furniture. It contains an empty cage and a small stage for performers. Runs a fight club.

Chocolate Casserole with Potatoes and a Glass of Vodka (5 sp)

Ham Steamed Bun with Peas and a Mug of Perry (5 sp)

Eggs and Ham Ramen with Fries and a Tankard of Beer (5 sp)

Gorga Boleem, Female Half-Orc [Details]

Harriet Swiftwhistle, Female Halfling [Details]

Hubert Acton, Male Human [Details]

Alchemist: The Lover's Cure 5 Owner: Lewis Mitchell, Male Human [Details]

Location: In a temple ward. The street outside contains a heroic monument and ominously quiet and empty.

Description: The alchemist is a brick two-story building, with several shuttered windows and overgrown hedges. A number of hunting trophies line the walls. It contains an inviting hearth and a small serving area with glowing potions.

Potion of Poison (dmg 188) (99 gp)

Potion of Fire Breath (dmg 187) (145 gp)

Potion of Fire Breath (dmg 187) (148 gp)

Geoffrey Willoughby, Male Human [Details]

Carrin Siannodel, Male Elf [Details]

Jeweler: The Emerald Anklet 1 Owner: Callie Cherrycheeks, Female Halfling [Details]

Location: In a small alley. The street outside has a pickpocket looking for marks.

Description: The jeweler is a timber and brick large single story building, with several shuttered windows and well-made wooden furniture. It was once a barracks, and has a collection of arms and armor. It contains a large bookshelf filled with books and glass display cabinets with jewelry.

Exquisite Earrings (4 gp)

Exquisite Ring (3 gp)

Exquisite Earrings (4 gp)

Kelter Deephollow, Male Halfling [Details]

Blacksmith: The White Steelworks 4 Owner: Adelaide Myerscough, Female Human [Details]

Location: In the Harbor ward. The street outside is unusually full of carriages and has a pickpocket looking for marks.

Description: The blacksmith is a concrete large single storey building, with a reinforced wooden door and roughly hewn wooden furniture. Several battered shields hang on the walls. It contains large rugs on the floor and large pillars covered in weaponry.

Ammunition, +1 (dmg 150) (24 gp)

Ring Mail (phb 145) (27 gp)

Chain Shirt (phb 145) (45 gp)

Herleva Kimberly, Female Human [Details]

Roger Home, Male Human [Details]

Emeny Camden, Female Human [Details]

General Store: Cat Tail Cabinet 3 Owner: Sybil Charlton, Female Elf [Details]

Location: In between the Market Quarter and the Harbor Ward. The street outside is covered in fallen leaves and has a pickpocket looking for marks.

Description: The general store is a plaster large single storey building, with a small fenced yard and a big brick chimney. It contains religious paraphernalia on the walls and barrels full of bulk food. They're doing a sale or promotional event.

Clothes, Fine (phb 150) (15 gp)

Vial (phb 153) (1 gp)

Ink (1 ounce bottle) (phb 150) (10 gp)

Alchemist: Fate & Infusion 7 Owner: Cali Blyth, Female Human [Details]

Location: On the outside of the Market Quarter. The street outside is next to a large public square.

Description: The alchemist is a timber framed sprawling single storey building, with a small fenced yard. It contains a number of pots and misc supplies hanging from the ceiling and a number of distillers scattered about.

Specials:

Potion of Healing (dmg 187) (49 gp)

Potion of Water Breathing (dmg 188) (171 gp)

Other Patrons:

Nicholas Carlisle, Male Human [Details]

Rosamund Colby, Female Human [Details]

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bordersmash8-blog · 6 years ago

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Ruth Reichl on Why Gourmet’s Website Was Doomed From the Start

In 2009, Condé Nast shuttered its premiere food magazine Gourmet after 68 years in business. It was a shock to readers, food lovers, media world watchers, and restaurant industry reporters. It was a shock to Ruth Reichl, the woman at the helm. “A world without Gourmet was unimaginable,” Reichl writes in her new memoir Save Me the Plums, where she recounts the full story of her decade at the magazine for the first time. As the recession hit and revenue plummeted at a magazine dependent on luxury advertisers, Reichl figured change was coming. “I’d fortified myself against the pain of being fired, but this was worse: They had murdered the magazine,” she writes.

Of course, the memoir centers on more than the magazine’s demise. Reichl’s story is one of learning how to manage a staff and run a magazine after a career in newspapers, juggling demands at work and at home, and living through the golden era of Condé Nast, with its notoriously exorbitant salaries, clothing allowances, black cars on demand, and generous operating budgets. It is also the story of the evolution of the modern food world and media’s place within it.

In this excerpt from Save Me the Plums, Reichl recounts the difficulties she had finally launching Gourmet’s website, something she had been asking for since she arrived, and the internal rivalry with recipe site Epicurious. —Amanda Kludt

If you need inspiration when you’re planning a party, chances are you’ll leaf through cookbooks and magazines, dreaming up dinner. But if you come home from the farmers market with a bushel of ripe peaches or a fine cheese pumpkin, you’ll probably head to the Internet.

Cooks embraced the Internet from the very start, immediately appreciating the ease of googling an ingredient and finding dozens of different ways to use it. They treasured the ability to comment on a recipe and warn other cooks away from a dud or to suggest alternative methods. Instant communities sprang up, as cooks asked and answered dozens of questions. The Internet literally transformed the way we cook.

The possibilities the Internet held for Gourmet were so exciting that I began fighting for a website from my first day on the job. But Si [Newhouse, then the chairman of Condé Nast] was wary of the Web; while other media companies invested in technology, he sank a reported one hundred million dollars into a new print magazine. “Sank” is the appropriate word: Portfolio, his flashy business magazine, flamed out after two years. Meanwhile, he pursued an Internet strategy that involved shoveling the contents of his many magazines into super-sites like Epicurious and style.com.

But having Epicurious as our only online presence made me miserable, and for years I tried to persuade Si that Gourmet deserved a standalone site. I presented data about recipes being the most wanted content on the Web. Si didn’t care. My talk about Web advertising strategies interested him not at all. After each session I stomped back to my office to sit by, impotent and angry, as Epicurious siphoned off our recipes.

I did not fume alone. Everyone at Gourmet hated Epicurious. They were our archenemy. “We’re getting robbed!” Zanne [Stewart, Gourmet’s executive food editor] once complained. “And what’s worse is the way our recipes get tossed in with all the others as if there was no difference between us and Parade, Self...” Morosely, she listed all the other publications whose recipes lived on Epicurious. “At least Bon Appétit has a test kitchen,” she said darkly, “but some of the others...” I thought of our insane testing process and the vast amounts of money we spent ensuring that our recipes were absolutely foolproof.

When I complained to Chuck [Townsend, former Condé Nast CEO], over yet another bland lunch, he sighed deeply. “I hear the same thing from Anna Wintour,” he said. “You both want to support your brands with standalone sites. I certainly understand, but Si won’t budge.”

I don’t know what made Si change his mind, but when he finally did, he came in person to deliver the news. “I want you to create gourmet.com as quickly as possible,” he said as he sat down.

In my excitement, I began to babble. “You won’t be sorry; we’re going to create the best food site on the Web. We’ve got so many ideas! We’re going to hire a videographer and put webcams in the kitchen so readers can get to know the cooks; I was thinking we might even script a little show and call it Soup Opera. Just a few minutes from the kitchen every day. And we’ll create an online course: ‘Learn to Cook with Gourmet.’”

Was that a smile? Hard to tell. “That could be lucrative,” he said cautiously.

“We’ll go behind the scenes of all the restaurants we review,” I rushed on, “take cameras right into the kitchens. We’ll get our foreign correspondents to send daily dispatches from every corner of the world. We’ll put up episodes of our television show, Diary of a Foodie. And then of course there’s all the great content from the past. . . .”

Si’s face told me I was talking too fast, that he found my enthusiasm frightening. I reined myself in, tried to slow down. “Our recipes alone should quickly build traffic; everybody knows they’re the best-tested and most reliable recipes in the world.”

Si fidgeted, looking more uncomfortable than usual. “No,” he said.

Everyone at Gourmet hated Epicurious. They were our archenemy.

“No?”

“You can’t have your recipes.”

“Excuse me?” I struggled to understand what he was saying. “Every recipe published in Gourmet belongs to Epicurious. That will not change.”

For a moment I was too stunned to speak. When I’d mastered my emotions I squeaked, “Are you telling me you want us to create a website without recipes? I’m sorry, but that’s insane!”

Si drew himself up. “Epicurious,” he said with regal deliberation, “is the oldest recipe site on the Web. It is very successful.” He rose, ponderously, from the chair. “It will continue as in the past.” He turned toward the door; the audience was over.

“Wait!” I couldn’t not try. “What if we put the recipes up on both Epicurious and gourmet.com?”

“That risks cannibalizing their traffic, and we don’t want to do anything to jeopardize our most successful website. When readers want recipes, we’ll just redirect the traffic from Gourmet to Epicurious.” He had reached the door now, but he turned to throw me a bone.

“Any extra recipes you create,” he said graciously, “anything that hasn’t run in the book, are yours to use as you see fit.” His smile suggested I should be grateful for this gift.

“It’s a disaster!” Doc [aka John Willoughby, Gourmet’s executive editor] was appalled.

“Worse than that,” said Larry [Karol, the managing editor] gloomily. “It could destroy us. Building a website and staffing it is going to cost a fortune; I’ve been working on the figures. How are we supposed to make it back if the recipes live on Epicurious? They’ll get all the ads.” He darted out of the office and returned with a handful of documents.

“Do you want to know how much we spend on creating the recipes?”

“No,” I said. He didn’t have to tell me that the meticulous Gourmet system ate up a small fortune.

Larry ignored me. “The kitchen budget is huge. Salaries for twelve cooks, three dishwashers, a photographer, and his assistant. Food costs alone run more than a hundred grand a year. Props for photographs. Corporate charges for the kitchen. Not to mention copyediting the recipes. And we’re supposed to just hand them over for free?”

“Epicurious should at least share the costs,” said Doc. “If the recipes are going to live on their website, it’s only fair.”

“It would be simple to do,” Larry pointed out. “Just bookkeeping; no actual money need change hands. All they’d have to do is shift some of the costs on paper, put some of the expenses on their budget instead of ours.”

But when we presented the figures to John Bellando, the chief financial officer, he laughed as if we’d told a hilarious joke. “That,” he said succinctly, “is not going to happen.”

“I blame myself,” I said as we gloomily left the office. “I kept pushing for our own website. I never dreamed they’d handicap us like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Larry. “How could you have imagined this? How could anyone? Of course we should have our own website. Food sites are huge.”

“Yeah,” I said glumly, “but what people want are recipes.”

“We can’t have a website without recipes,” Larry agreed. “And unfortunately I can only think of one solution. The kitchen’s going to have to create twice as many.”

“That’ll be great for morale,” I muttered.

“Not to mention the budget,” he added. We stood there, the two of us, envisioning the huge piles of food the cooks were now going to require.

Looking back, I should have just said no. But, reluctant to be a squeaky wheel, I drove on like a good girl, devoting more and more resources to a money pit that could never be solvent, a hungry maw that could never be sated, a future we could never quite reach. I knew I was tilting at windmills, but I loathe confrontation and I kept hoping that somehow it would be okay.

There were high points. We were the first print magazine to hire a full-time video producer, and through her work readers came to know — and love — all the cooks. We were able to demonstrate techniques �� boning fish, icing cakes, sharpening knives. We created crazy recipes for ingredients that would never have made it into the magazine: offal, insects, corn silk, and carrot tops. Best of all, for the first time we had the luxury of space. Now, whenever someone came up with an offbeat idea, it was easy to say yes. “We can always put it on the Web...” became our mantra.

And that is exactly what I said when Ian Knauer and Alan Sytsma approached me about the goat.

Ian Knauer was our most unorthodox cook. A talented chef, he was also a farmer, forager, and hunter, and this unique set of skills set him apart from everyone else in the kitchen. You never knew what he’d show up with: a deer he’d shot over the weekend, the season’s first chanterelles, a slew of ramps he’d stumbled across in Prospect Park. Ian came to us as a backup recipe tester, and when I told him we were promoting him to full-time food editor, he stared at me for one shocked second and then said, “Shut the fuck up!”

Now he was poking his head into my office. “Alan and I have an idea—” he began.

Alan picked it up. “We just saw this cool documentary called A Son’s Sacrifice—”

“Slow down,” I said.

Ian gestured to Alan to continue. “It takes place in a halal butcher shop filled with live animals; you choose your beast and then they slaughter it.”

“So,” Ian picked up the thread, “we want to do a story about how it feels to watch an animal make the transition from living, breathing creature to something that you cook.”

Five years earlier, this story would have been too gruesome to consider. Now I hesitated, wondering if Gourmet readers were ready for this.

“We can always put it on the Web...” became our mantra.

“It could be very powerful,” Alan pleaded. “The meat movement is starting to take off; people are really interested in butchering.”

He had a point. The artisanal food movement had turned butchers into heroes, and nose-to-tail classes were selling out. Maybe this was worth doing?

“We can always put it on the Web,” I said.

They returned from Queens carrying two huge black plastic sacks, and you could smell them halfway across the building. The reek of the abattoir was so intense it seemed they had brought the entire contents of the butcher shop with them. The goat’s body was still warm, and as they drew closer the primal scent grew stronger. By the time they reached the kitchen door, the animal funk was overwhelming. Up close, the sharp metallic smell of freshly spilled blood made the hair on the nape of my neck rise; despite my strong wish not to, I put my hand over my mouth. For a moment I stopped breathing.

“I can’t believe the guards let you in.” I cautiously lowered my hand.

“They didn’t seem happy,” Ian admitted. “But we flashed our employee passes and ran for an elevator before they could stop us. The doors were just closing.”

“I hope it was empty.”

Ian and Alan exchanged a glance. Ian heaved his plastic bag onto the kitchen counter. “Anna Wintour was in there.”

I stared at him, fascinated and appalled. “What did she do?”

“What could she do? She just kept backing into the corner until she couldn’t go any farther.”

I watched as he removed sundry bits of bloody goat from the bag. “Goat tacos,” he said, “are on the menu.”

I eyed him suspiciously — did Gourmet readers want goat tacos? Briefly, I envied Anna; she didn’t have to dream up ridiculous ways to generate traffic for her website.

Later, reading the story, I was ashamed of myself. There was nothing remotely ridiculous about the article Ian and Alan had written.

The halal butchers they introduced were proud men who had invested every penny they had in their shop. After September 11, they said sadly, everything changed and their once-thriving business began to struggle. Faith kept them going: They sincerely believed they had a God-given mission. Their goats were humanely raised on a rural hillside, and they were convinced their customers would appreciate how much finer spoke they were than ordinary goats, how much more delicious. “It is this food” — the butcher said reverently — “that can help the rest of America accept Islam.”

As Ian and Alan waded among the flock of goats, trying to select the finest animal, the butcher stood to one side, sharpening his knife. He prayed over the chosen goat, thanked him for his life, and dispatched the beast with a single slash to the throat. As he delivered the carcass into Ian’s hands, he said quietly, “I know you guys will treat him well.”

It was a solemn moment, for the goat represented something much bigger than food to these butchers. It was hope for the present — and a prayer for the future. Looking back, it occurs to me that it was the perfect metaphor for gourmet.com.

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/29/18285307/ruth-reichl-memoir-save-me-the-plums-excerpt-gourmet-website

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phoenixflames12 · 7 years ago

Text

A Daughter Lost, A Father Found- Chapter 13: Lallybroch

Following Jamie's instructions, Brianna returns to Lallybroch with Fergus to find the family that she never knew she had.

AO3 Link Here

They ride to Lallybroch in relative silence, each consumed by their own thoughts. Willoughby had slipped away, disappearing into the shadows with a nod to Fergus who had scowled back, not bothering to hide his dislike of the man.

‘Where will he go?’ Brianna cannot help but be glad to see the last of the small man bundled in his soiled blue silks, no matter how loyal he was to her father.

‘To Edinburgh I suspect,’ Fergus shrugs in a gesture that is perfectly French and rubs his eyes, blinking rapidly. The events at the cove are still raw to them both, rising before their eyes and screaming in their sleep.

The weight of Jamie’s hand in her hair, his dreadful stillness telling her everything that she did not want to know.

The piercing shriek that had ripped the night apart, the weight of her Mother’s hand vanishing into nothingness, Fergus spread-eagled on the ground, gasping like a fish.

Brianna cannot stop thinking and wishes that she could.

Wishes that she could erase the terrible shriek that had risen from the shore from her mind or the way that Jamie had held her, arms shaking, unable to tell her what she knows now must be true.

It is only when they clear the last high pass and have reined the horses in, does she realise that they have reached the last hill and are now looking down onto Lallybroch. Lallybroch with the farmhouse tucked into the valley, with the broch rising above it, glowering down over the house.

Home.

She has never seen it, has only her parents’ descriptions of it to guide her and yet she knows that this is the place. Can see it in the way that Fergus’s shoulders seem to sag in relief as if a great, invisible weight has been plucked from him and thrown into the abyss.

His eyes are gleaming as they turn to look at hers, his face flushed in the cool, February breeze. ‘You’re home now, ma Cherie’, he says simply, gesturing widely down to the house.

‘Yes,’ she hears herself say, choking back sudden memories of Fury Street, of long heat drenched summers spent playing in the garden with friends and one of the many dogs that had populated her childhood hollowing out her breastbone.

It had been ar the end of such a summer when she was twelve. A long and lazy summer when she had clung stubbornly to each day, staying out until the sun was little more than a burning crescent on the horizon. Twelve and climbing trees, laughing at Claire following her around with her camera as the comforting weight of the dog had pressed against her, her arms wrapped around the wide, warm neck, breathing in the sweet musk mixed in with the warmth of tarmac, the clean, clear air of home as the shutter clicked.

Had Frank been there? She doesn’t know.

She can imagine him though, standing nonchantly in cotton shirt and trousers, dark eyes gleaming over a cigarette, just outside the French windows with their terracotta pots, one hand thrust deep in his pockets, smiling his approval.

‘Well done, smudge.’

She is so lost in her thoughts that she almost doesn’t hear Fergus’s horse throw up its head in a sharp whinny of greeting. Her horse repeats the call, throwing up his head so that she drops the reins, her mouth suddenly dry.

She hadn’t thought about who would meet them first.

Would it be Ian, her father’s blood brother?

Or Jenny, his beloved sister, keeper of his heart and soul, whose very bones had kept Lallybroch alive in the desperate years after the Rising?

A handsome young man on a smart bay horse is coming up behind them, so that the horses swing round to greet their new companion. He pulls up for a moment at the sight of them; Fergus, tall and dark against the midday sun, herself, rumpled and dusty with her gleaming hair tumbling loose down her back.

He comes on slowly, warily, and then at the sight of Fergus, nudges his horse into a trot with his heel, face splitting into a grin that is tinged with surprise as he sweeps off his hat to them.

He is young and looks slightly younger than Fergus. He has a pleasant, strong-looking face with the high Mackenzie cheekbones and soft brown eyes under a thick cap of curly, black hair.

‘Fergus! Fergus, mo caraaidh, we didna expect ye for another week at least!’

Fergus grins at that, the expression broadening across his mobile mouth as the young man slaps him heartily on the shoulder in a gesture of fraternal goodwill and the questioning piece falls into place.

Young Jamie.

This young man with the feather dark hair is Jamie Murray, her father’s eldest nephew, who had inherited Lallybroch after her parents had signed the Deed of Sasine, dated a year before the bloodbath of Culloden.

Those eyes find hers slowly, the thick, dark brows raised as he takes her in.

‘Madame’, he says at last, voice full of questions that she isn’t sure that she can answer. ‘Might I assist ye?’

She smiles at him, eyes finding Fergus who nods encouragingly, his grin still cutting across his lips.

‘I…’ She swallows, feeling the same dry mouthed sensation of dread that she had felt standing in the print shop before her father, creeping into her chest.

This time is different, a small voice in her brain tells her.

Drawing herself up in the saddle to meet his gaze, she swallows.

‘I’m Brianna… Fraser.’ Even after all these months of saying it, it still sends a tingle of warmth into her heart that she can now use her father’s, her true father’s name without fear.

The shadow of wariness that has clouded his face at the sight of her fades somewhat, the look of baffled puzzlement doesn’t.

He nods cautiously, eyes darting to Fergus for confirmation.

‘Your servant, ma’am. Jamie Fraser Murray, of Broch Tuarach,’ the title that should belong to her father, to her Jamie, feels oddly formal on his lips, like a pair of shoes that he is still getting used to.

‘Pleased to meet you’, she says, feeling a grin creep across her lips. Leaning from her saddle and keeping a firm grip on the reins, she extends a hand to him, which he shakes, eyebrows still raised, searching her face. ‘I’m your cousin.’

The brows, if possible, go even higher at that, his expression changing in an instant from one of puzzled curiosity to open incredulity as he tries to find some form of family resemblance that would induce such a remark. From his saddle, Fergus smothers a laugh.

‘Jamie Fraser is my father.’ The words sound so simple and yet to say them now, after nearly a year of wondering, of wishing, of hating and not daring to even hope, sends a bubble of hope that bursts into emotion into her throat. Quick, hot tears prick at the corners of her eyelids and she bites her lip to stop it from trembling, fixing her eyes on the brown ones before her, softening in concern.

‘Ah, a leannan, dinna weep!’ He fumbles in his pocket for a handkerchief which she accepts with an undignified sniff, dabbing furiously at her eyelids.

He takes the pause to look her over minutely, eyes wide with wonder. When she at last looks up at him again there is a wide, slow smile splitting his face.

‘Damned if it isn’t!’ He turns in his saddle to grin at Fergus who nods rapidly and then seizes her hand with both his own. His grip is hard and tight enough to squeeze the bones together and she matches it, the warmth from his skin spread luxuriously into her own.

‘Jesus!’ He says at last, the word ringing with laughter. ‘My mother will have kittens!’

Ellen Mackenzie’s rose briar is just coming into leaf as they walk up from the kailyard. They had stabled, fed and watered the horses and Brianna’s stomach is growling with hunger, the desire for food momentarily overcoming her anxiety of what awaits her.

Under the curling foliage, she can just make out the carved letters on the lintel over the door, the words carved with care into the weathered wood.

Fraser, 1716.

She stops, gazing up at it and allowing the small thrill of hope and happiness that she has fought against for so long to settle in her stomach.

This is home.

Her true home.

‘Alright there, cousin?’ Jamie Murray turns to look back at her, dark eyes following hers to the sunwarm wood.

‘Fine,’ she nods, swallowing and automatically ducks her head to follow him into the house, her actions earning a knowing smile.

‘You’ve been sleeping in blackhouses then?’ There are soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiles at her, making him look older than twenty-four. From the inside of the house she hears a babble of voices, all raised in exclamation at Fergus’s entrance.

‘We’re mostly tall, save my mam and wee Kitty. Our grandsire built this for his wife who was a verra tall lady herself.’

Ellen Mackenzie. Ellen Mackenzie with her height and the slanted cat eyes of a brilliant blue passed down to her son and granddaughter. Ellen Mackenzie who, according to Claire, who had been told the story on her wedding night to Jamie, frightened and wary in their night things as they sipped whisky in the chamber above the taproom, had run away with Brian McDubh, Black Brian Fraser. Ellen Mackenzie who had died in an ocean of birthing blood, choking away her life at the age of thirty-eight.

Our grandsire. The casual use, the automatic inclusion of her into this family makes her feel suddenly warm, despite the coolness of the hallway.

Claire and Frank had both been only children, as far as she knew. Frank Randall had had distant relatives but she had never met any of them and only rarely had they received cards at Christmas, the stained and faded postmarks telling of distant lives in remote countries, half a world away.

She had set out to find her father, find him and tell him that his sacrifice on the field at Culloden had not been in vain. She had not expected and had not been prepared to find a whole new family in the process.

Suddenly a door bangs open to her left and a small pack of children dash out, shrieking and laughing, looking over their shoulders in terrified delight. Brianna laughs with them, sidestepping and dodging their bodies, pushing them onward. They charge past like carriages on a runaway train and one of them, a small boy of about four or so, barrels his way headlong into young Jamie, catching him firmly around the legs.

‘Daddy! Daddy!’ The latter catches him expertly and hoists him into his arms, settling him against his shoulder where he sits in sudden silence, his laughter cut off by curiosity and stares in wide-eyed silence at Brianna.

‘Well then, mo mac! Is that the way ye should greet your cousin, to see ye dashin’ about like a chicken fair wild after corn?’ His voice is stern, but Brianna senses the smile behind it and cannot help but smile encouragingly at the child who giggles.

Catching Brianna’s smile, he grows suddenly shy and shakes his head, burying it in the warm crook of his father’s shoulder, which makes Jamie Murray laugh, shifting the boy further up his hip.

‘It’s alright mo bhalaiach,’ a long, calloused finger reaches out to trace the soft curve of the boy’s cheek.

Slowly, he raises his head to peep at her again, blue eyes wide with interest.

‘My eldest boy, Matthew’, Young Jamie says to Brianna with a rueful smile. Any further conversation however is stilled with a door further down the hallway swishing open and the sound of light footsteps on the boards of the hallway.

‘Aye, Jamie? Fergus said we had guest- ‘the soft, brisk voice dies suddenly and Brianna feels her throat close, hope and longing suffusing into a sudden, unnameable desire.

Jenny Murray is barely five feet tall and as lightly built as a sparrow. Her ebony black hair now streaked liberally with grey is pulled back into a bun and the lines that run from nose to mouth are momentarily slack with shock.

She stares at Brianna for a moment that feels like an eternity, her hands balled up in the fabric of her apron. She has the same slanted cat-eyes as Jamie, but they are somewhat softer, more grey than the sharp blades of blue that Brianna has inherited from her father. Beautiful as they are, they are made even more striking as Jenny Murray’s face has blanched as white as paper and she looks suddenly as if she is about to faint.

‘Mam?’ Setting his son down and shooing him away with a firm shove, Jamie Murray hurries towards his mother who has groped for the wall to steady herself.

‘Ye can’t,’ she says at last, ignoring Jamie, her voice very faint. ‘Ye can’t be.’

Brianna nods, smiling tentatively.

I am and oh, please be happy! Please be happy I’m here!

‘Jen? Jamie? What’s going on?’

A tall man with a long, work worn face and deep brown eyes comes out of the door that Jenny Murray had just closed. His eyes widen in surprised concern at the sight of Jenny and he makes to go to her, the stiff, awkward clunk of the wooden leg he wears echoing in the silence.

Jenny ignores him, eyes still fixed on Brianna, searching her face minutely.

‘You’re really his, then? ‘You’re truly Jamie’s lassie?’’ Jenny’s voice is barely a whisper and the tall, dark haired man who must be Ian, stops suddenly, eyes wide.

One hand reaches up to trace her cheek, feeling the high Mackenzie cheekbones then falls to seize her own. A soft, pink colour is flooding back into her face now, smarts of silver pricking at the corner of her eyes.

‘You’re truly Jamie’s lassie?’ The tall man moves closer as he repeats the question, a small, warm smile playing at his lips, setting the soft brown eyes alight.

The rush of warmth that Brianna feels at those words makes her unable not to smile in reply. She catches the soft spicy smell of baking that is caught in the folds of Jenny Murray’s gown and something else, something denser, more earthbound and pungent that she can’t quite place before she is gathered into her aunt’s shaking embrace.

‘I never doubted him,’ she hears Jenny say in a choked and broken whisper, lost within her hair. ‘I never ever doubted for a minute, lass!’ She draws back, holding Brianna at arms- length to survey her better and Brianna cannot help but return the joyful beam of delight that lights up her aunt’s face.

‘Oh niece, I’m that glad! I’m that glad ye’ve come!’

‘Come through to the parlour cousin, and sit down. You’ll be wanting to, surely?’ Cousin Jamie’s voice is firm in her ear, the smell of horse and musk that she remembers vividly from her own Jamie ripe against her skin. His arm is around her, turning her with a nod to Jenny and Ian and urging her through another door off the hallway.

This room is high ceilinged and homely, with a fire in the grate and a rag rug over the stone floor. There is a small Oak wood table surrounded by hassocks. A great mastiff lying by the fire lumbers to his feet with a ‘wuff’ of surprise at their entrance, ambling slowly over to Brianna to sniff out his welcome. Brianna bends and buries her face in the dog’s fur, fingers losing themselves in the welcome velvet softness of the large ears, feeling the cool wetness of the dog’s nose nuzzle against her skirts. The gaggle of children that had passed her in the hallway are all crowded round one of the armchairs, where a woman with curly hazel coloured hair and a soft smattering of freckles is reading to them, her face animated in the flickering firelight.

At the sound of their footsteps stops abruptly and flings herself at Young Jamie, surprise and laughter blossoming through a stream of rapid Gaelic. Brianna thinks of her parents and the too-short time that Claire had spent at Lallybroch before Wentworth and the Rising, the thought sending a hollow pain through her breastbone.

‘Cousin Brianna, allow me to present my wife, Joan Murray’, she smiles in response and bobs a curtsey, taking in Joan’s wide eyes as she takes in Brianna’s height, the flaming mass of her hair.

‘Cousin? Why Jamie Murray, ye never said…’

‘Do I have to?’ Young Jamie grins at her. ‘Look at her, Joanie. Can’t ye see?’

‘I can see she’s a Mackenzie like yer mam and yer uncle but…’

But why is she here?

The unasked question rings out clear in the silence and pulling herself to her feet, Brianna feels helpless to prevent it.

‘Can ye tell us that, a leannan?’ It is the tall man with the soft brown eyes and the hobbled stride who speaks at last, moving slowly into the room. Brianna swallows at the sight of him, Ian Murray, her father’s best friend and blood brother. By the fire, the children have all gone quiet and round eyed, gazes flickering to each grown up in turn.

Ian eases himself onto a hassock, dark eyes kind and questioning as he motions her to sit beside him. As she does so, she sees Fergus emerge at last, as presentable as water, soap and a razor could make him, dark eyes gleaming. He nods to Ian, grins at Jamie, bows to Joan and Jenny and is about to move to her, when a boy of about seven or so with a mop of mouse brown hair, a snub nose that is covered with freckles and hazel eyes breaks the silence by barrelling his way into Fergus’s midriff with a cry of delight.

‘Oof!’ He staggers for a moment, catching the boy around the shoulders and tickling him. ‘And how are you, Henry? Did you miss me, mon petit démon?’ The boy laughs toothily at this and a flicker of a smile crosses Ian’s lips. He nods to Fergus who promptly swings Henry onto his shoulders and charges out to the joy of the other children who charge out after him, whooping and yelling like fiends.

Ian’s smile grows wider in the quiet, one hand reaching over to find Brianna’s, his grip as secure as a sanctuary. At the sound of Ian’s voice, Jenny has reappeared with streaks of flour and gravy splattered down a faded apron. Brianna watches her move through the room until she stands behind her husband, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Young Jamie and Joan watch on, expressions caught in curiosity.

Despite the kindness in their eyes, Brianna feels overwhelmed. Her fingers are thick and icy despite the warmth of Ian’s grasp and the weight of the pearls in her hand feel like boulders set to drag her down. ‘My name is Brianna,’ she says at last, eyes dancing to Jenny and then back to Ian.

‘Brianna’, Jenny murmurs, her eyes suddenly far away, the word tinged with something like regret.

Ian tightens his grip on Brianna’s hand and she remembers how Jamie had done the same when she had first entered the print shop.

And where is he now? Oh God, did he ever make it away from Mullins Cove?

‘I’m your Uncle Ian, lass. Welcome to ye.’

Uncle. Aunt. Cousin. A new found family that she had never known she had.

Ian’s voice is soft and Brianna swallows back a thickening in her throat, unable to stop the sudden pricking of salt from catching at her eyes.

‘I... My...’ Her voice is thick and heavy and she swallows, tries again but finds that she can’t.

‘It’s alright, a leannan,’ she feels rather than sees the hand that touches her, smoothing the tumbled locks from her face.

She swallows thickly, then reaches into the reinforced pocket in her cloak and drops the necklace on the table.

Silence fills the room as securely as a cloak. The only sound comes from the hissing of the peat fire, burning low into embers at the hearth. The dog has not returned.

It is Jenny who moves first.

Like a sleepwalker, she reaches out a finger and touches one of the pearls, glowing in the firelight, her eyes shining grey and gold as they rise to meet Brianna. From his corner, she hears Young Jamie catch his breath. The necklace lies gleaming against the dark wood, her Mothers’ pearls blazing in their singular irregularity.

‘Oh my’, she says quietly, eyes shifting from Brianna to Ian who nods in silent affirmation. ‘He really was right then.’ The words are spoken as much to herself as to anyone else. ‘He never did forget her.’

‘Of course he didna’, Ian’s voice is soft, addressing both Brianna and Jenny. One broad, work-worn hand reaches out to cover Brianna’s own. ‘He never would.

She is woken at some indistinguishable point in the night by a loud thud outside her window and a hammering at the door. She jolts awake, startled and thinking of Cairfax Close. Thinking of Fergus, Jamie, her mother, Roger...

Roger. The name is like a bolt to her heart and she is sitting up and fumbling for her cloak before she is truly awake.

Grabbing the brass candlestick from the table, she lights it clumsily from the fire and pushes the window open. The air outside is cool and crisp, a slight breeze playing with the tangled leaves of the rose briar, whispering their night-time song softly against the glass.

There are stamps of horses’ hooves, a chorus of sleepy dogs barking and cries of surprise from the kailyard; the flickering lights of candlesticks and oil lamps picking out the swing of Ian’s kilt as he hobbles his way from the house. Aunt Jenny is there too, a ragged tartan shawl thrown over her shift, her hair a long rope down her back.

Pushing the window open further, Brianna almost drops her candle. It wobbles and she manages to catch it just in time, but not before the noise alerts her father. His face is drawn and haggard in the broken light, a spectacular bruise beginning to gather over his left eye. He staggers slightly as he stands there and Brianna’s gaze is drawn to the figure next to him, hunched over and limping, swaying on his feet.

Roger.

No, it couldn’t be.

It simply couldn’t.

And yet as her eyes grow more accustomed to the gloom, her heart leaps into her mouth and she has bite back a cry because it is. It is Roger, deathly pale and clutching his abdomen as he staggers against Jamie’s weight, almost falling into Uncle Ian and Young Jamie as they rush to help.

Pulling herself out from the window, Brianna throws her blanket over her shoulder and rushes from the room, praying that she is not too late.

#mine #writing #fanfiction #outlander #Voyager #drums of autumn #a daughter lost a father found #brianna randall #fergus #jenny murray #ian murray #jamie murray #jamie fraser #roger wakefield #blood of my blood #thoughts?

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unumveroregina · 7 years ago

Note

🚼 - How would your muse react to losing a child? How would they cope? 💧 - How would your muse react to losing a best friend? How would they cope? 💔 - How would your muse react to losing a romantic partner? How would they cope

🚼 - How would your muse react to losing a child? How would they cope? 

“I hope to leave you with child.” Henry purred into herneck the night before he’d left for France.

After baby Harry’s death January a couple of years before she’dprayed every month the blood on her sheets wouldn’t appear, that shewouldn’t have to turn Henry away from her bed for a whole week everymonth.

Then it had happened.

In June and July she’d blamed the stress of preparing for Henry’scampaign. In August the blood was still absent. By September shewas sure. He’d fulfilled his hope, there’d be another Duke ofCornwall come April- please God. Still she didn’t dare speak a wordof it to anyone– not even her ladies. The English still fussed overher as if she were made of glass.

News of the Scottish Invasion came only a few days later. There’dbeen no choice she thought. The plum of English troops had gone withHenry over the channel leaving only the boys and old men. Her troopsneeded her. A Queen of England hadn’t been left as regent sincePhillipa… she had a duty to her people, one just as great ascarrying their heir. Besides her mother had birthed nearly a dozenchildren while acting as a general herself. There was no harm in it.. . Katharine hoped there was no harm in it. She’d no choice eitherway.

María, always the boldest of her ladies, had been the first tospeak of it. A thickening waist could only be hidden for so long whenone had ladies helping them dress. She’d hushed the younger woman’sworries with reminders of Isabella’s campaigns while pregnant. Aride north would be nothing. It wasn’t as if they were going to theactual front. Midway through the month all her ladies knew. Shehadn’t called for tansy water in months as most of them did, as sheoften did herself when her monthly flux came.

Now all those months of trying and hoping… all come tonothing.

Another dead baby… a son come too soon.

“Don’t say it María,” Katharine stared gap in theshutters where a chink of light had snuck through. “It’s myown fault.”

The midwives had already bundled the baby away, they’d not evenlet her hold him.

She’d failed Henry a third time and lost a child just like thefirst one.

It was her own fault it had to be. She’d tried god’s patienceone too many times. Her mother had been an exception among the queensof Europe. She’d been queen in her own right. She’d had to rule.Katharine had been selfish and jumped at the chance to play warriorqueen. This was to be her punishment.

“God’s punishment… why else would he take anotherprince from us? I thought I could do it everything.”

💧 - How would your muse react to losing a best friend? How would they cope?

This banishment had been a long time coming… from both sides.It was a wonder in many ways that Henry hadn’t sent her from courtbefore, Charles’ ambassador certainly insisted she leave court- tothe point he’d suggested she take Mary!- enough times. All the samenothing was certain but with Henry’s newest decision he was theHead of the Church the tide was turning- though Katharine would admitit to no one. He claimed, as always, she was the Dowager Princess ofWales thus she had no need of the household she’d had while playingHenry’s unknowing mistress.

Some of her ladies had gone to the jezabel’s household, some hadgone home to their families… some Katharine had fought as much asshe dared. María most of all. The Baroness was the longest servingof her ladies. María had come from Spain with her for goodness sake!They were cousins. Married to an Englishman or not María had alwaysthe dearest of her ladies, and they’d only been parted when theyounger woman had been with child.

The Baroness Willoughby de Eresby was Spanish.

She couldn’t be trusted according to this new English court,least they plot some great coup against the King to put the PrincessMary on the throne in his place. A separation had to come they said.

The others leaving was easier to bear. Even her darling Mary’sabsence… at least there was a true purpose to her darling beingsent off to Wales. This was the sort of senseless cruelty Katharinewould never admit Henry was capable of. It was that Boleyn creature’sdoing- like everything else.

It was unbecoming of a queen, of a Princess of Spain but Katharinecouldn’t bear to see María before what was left of the household wasbundled into the wagons and they were sent god knows where. They’dsaid their goodbyes the night before.

William, María’s ever faithful husband, was the last one to seeher.

“She refused it last night,” Katharine pressed a silver boxinto the baron’s hand. “I want her to have it, William. She…the both of you are the only ones who never faltered from my side inthree decades. It’s hers no matter what she says, she’ll bluster andinsist I keep it, for you to send it back to me.”

💔 - How would your muse react to losing a romantic partner? Howwould they cope

I know the other two are IC but Katharine put it herselfbetter than I ever could for this one. She loved Henry without adoubt. She excused a LOT of crap but she still loved him for himself.I’ve read her last letter a thousand times. I’ve done papers onher, I’ve rped her on and off for years and she still breaks myheart.

My most dear lord, king and husband,

The hour of my death now drawing on, the tender love I owe youforceth me, my case being such, to commend myself to you, and to putyou in remembrance with a few words of the health and safeguard ofyour soul which you ought to prefer before all worldly matters, andbefore the care and pampering of your body, for the which you havecast me into many calamities and yourself into many troubles. For mypart, I pardon you everything, and I wish to devoutly pray God thatHe will pardon you also. For the rest, I commend unto you ourdaughter Mary, beseeching you to be a good father unto her, as I haveheretofore desired. I entreat you also, on behalf of my maids, togive them marriage portions, which is not much, they being but three.For all my other servants I solicit the wages due them, and a yearmore, lest they be unprovided for. Lastly, I make this vow, that mineeyes desire you above all things.Katharine the Quene.

#are you secretly trying to kill me?#that was a shitstorm of feels #not going to lie the best friend one broke me the most #maria is an unsung hero of english history #breaking into her best friends house arrest two days before katharine died becasue she'd had enough of henry's crap #hrhmonpetitechou #meme

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shuttersha · 2 months ago

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Bring Elegance And Efficiency To Your Willoughby Home With Plantation Shutters

Plantation shutters offer Willoughby homeowners a blend of style, functionality, and energy efficiency. With Timbershades, a trusted family-run business, you have access to a vast range of shutters, blinds, and awnings tailored to enhance your living space. Whether you’re aiming for aesthetic appeal, enhanced privacy, or energy savings, plantation shutters are an investment worth considering. Let Timbershades help transform your home into a stylish, comfortable retreat.

#shutters willoughby

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high-pressure-cleaning · 1 year ago

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Enhance Your Home with Shutters in Willoughby

When it comes to enhancing the aesthetics and functionality of your home in Willoughby, shutters are an excellent choice. These versatile window coverings not only offer privacy and light control but also add a touch of elegance to your interior decor. In this blog, we will explore the benefits of shutters in Willoughby, their types, and why they are an ideal choice for your home.

#shutters in willoughby

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ecotone99 · 6 years ago

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Willoughby Springs

Summer is coming, you know what that brings?

3 months of hell for Willoughby Springs.

Close up your windows, and pull down the shutters.

No sounds after midnight, not even a mutter.

Lock your doors, check once, check twice.

The monsters on the other side aren’t very nice.

Lay down in bed, and shut your tired eyes.

Don’t listen to the screams, they’re all full of lies.

When they come knocking, don’t let them in.

While their words promise hope, all they know is sin.

Pray for your friends, your family, your neighbor.

Pray that your not their favorite flavor.

When morning comes, make sure you’re well fed.

Join the others, and help pick up the dead.

Remember their faces, be sure not to skim.

You’ll see them at night, in the form of a demon.

Don’t let them trick you, that’s their plight.

They’ll lure you out using people you like.

Your flesh they’ll rip, your bones they’ll eat.

Your blood they’ll sip, what an untimely end to meet.

But don’t you worry, don’t fret at all.

They’ll go away this coming fall.

Now that you know all of these things.

Could you survive Willoughby Springs?

submitted by /u/JuniperJune_HJH [link] [comments] source https://www.reddit.com/r/shortscarystories/comments/bpdfd7/willoughby_springs/ via Blogger http://bit.ly/2Q3MD1i

#Blogger #Story

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viralhottopics · 8 years ago

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The storm chasers hunting bolts in Australia’s Top End

Our photographer hits the road with seasoned storm chasers in the Northern Territory to track down some of the regions famous lightning storms

Im standing on a dirt track somewhere in the wilds of Australias Northern Territory and in every direction I look the indigo sky is being shredded by bolts of electrical energy. Its unlike anything Ive ever seen before. Ive been hunting a lightning show and boy have I found one.

Suddenly Im very conscious of natures imposing scale and, more importantly right now, my proximity to a bared-wire fence the kind of object thats likely to attract a strike. We should probably get in the car, says Mike ONeill, the veteran Darwin storm chaser who has led me here. Reluctantly, I agree.

The Top End is one of the worlds most active regions for lightning and sees almost daily storms between November and March every year. A single storm can produce more than a thousand bolts in a matter of hours. Intense tropical heat combined with sea breezes and coastal moisture provides the perfect fuel.

Storm chaser Mike ONeill, one of many avid storm photographers in Northern Territory. I probably do up to 1,000km on a chase. Photograph: Jonny Weeks for the Guardian

ONeill is one of a handful of storm chasers photographers and meteorological buffs in the region. Whenever and wherever nature decides to put on a show, one of them will be watching.

I probably do up to 1,000km on a chase, says ONeill. Sometimes you only have to go around the corner to get a decent photo, but sometimes you have to go towards Katherine or even towards Kununurra [in Western Australia]. It just depends where they are and how much time youve got.

I chase every day on my days off. Even before work if theres a storm on the coast, or after work sometimes until five in the morning. I cant live without it.

Signs of a storm

After waiting a week for a thick monsoon rains to clear the region, conditions have eased and tonights predicted storm is one ONeill seems excited about as we begin our journey.

From Darwin we drive south towards Adelaide River, stopping from time to time to assess the cloud formations around us. Other local enthusiasts including Willoughby Owen use radar at every step, honing their understanding of the storms progress as they go. ONeill, who has been chasing for 16 years, is feeling more instinctive.

Radars great but it cant tell you what youve learned from experience, he says. You can tell just visually looking at these clouds theyre a lot healthier out here. Youve got thick towers and where you see it anvil out at the top its actually pushed through the anvil, so its got strong updrafts. Thats the sign of a decent storm. Thatll definitely have lightning in it.

Willoughby Owen checks his radar. Photograph: Jonny Weeks for the Guardian

Storms in this region typically form because the sun heats the land during the day and sea breezes push in during the afternoon, creating boundaries between hot and cool air.

Over here in the Top End weve got easy initiation forced by the Arnhem escarpment, says Owen, whos fortunate that he finishes work about 4pm most days, just as the storms begin bubbling.

The cloud tops reach 45,000 or 50,000 feet, stronger storms 55,000 or 60,000 feet. When youre near tropical lows, when youre near a Madden-Julian Oscillation, you can get tops of 70,000 feet, which is extreme. The lightning can be more intense from those storms, and incredibly loud and violent.

Lightning is made when ice particles inside clouds collide at high speed and become charged the bolt is a sudden and dramatic discharge of that energy, and may be many miles long but around a centimetre wide. The average bolt produces a current of 6,000 to 30,000 amps. Compare that to a radiator that draws about 10 amps and you get a sense of their power. The temperature is also extreme, measuring 30,000C, five times hotter than the surface of the sun. The effect of increasing heat and pressure on the surrounding air is what generates the thunder clap.

Storm chasing is littered with jargon and at times it makes the already complex science seem impenetrable but ONeill and Owen do their best to explain. They tell me many lightning strikes are from cloud to cloud (known as C-to-Cs or crawlers) but some are cloud to ground (C-to-Gs).

Lightning is indiscriminate, ONeill forewarns. The earth has a natural charge. When a thunderstorm is nearby, objects on the ground a cow, telegraph pole, car, tree, anything get invigorated and send upward streamers. When the stepped-leaders come down from the clouds theyll try to make a connection. Thats when you get the bolt.

If someone in the vicinity of a storm notices their hair standing on end, thats a foreboding sign. And, according to the 30-30 rule, if the time between the visible lightning bolt and the subsequent clap of thunder is less than 30 seconds, youre within range of a strike.

Secret spots

Asked what makes a good storm photo, ONeill, who began taking pictures after reading a coffee table book by the renowned storm chaser Peter Jarver, says he has changed his approach over the years.

I used to be mad keen on just getting the lightning bolt in the centre of the frame but everyone does that now, he says. A lot of people go to the same spots and theyll all stand next to each other and get the same shots.

Im more of a composition man now. If I see people standing in a location, Ill go back 20 or 30 metres and get them in the photo. I just want a different aspect rather than a cloud with a bolt coming out. If theres a storm and theres power lines, Ill keep them in there, because its like manmade electricity and natural electricity, so its contrasting subjects. I just want to get away from the norm.

In any case, ONeill prefers to find fresh, unknown vantage points and spends hours hunting for them: We all have our secret spots, he says.

Mike ONeill sets up his camera beside a dirt road overlooking a range of ant hills. Photograph: Jonny Weeks for the Guardian

Having pulled on to the dirt road with the storm brewing around us, ONeill sets up his camera with his cars headlamps illuminating the ant hills in the foreground. He tells me Ill need a shutter speed of 10 seconds (longer as the sky darkens) and a low ISO setting, as well as my tripod and remote trigger.

But ONeill has an extra bit of kit a special lightning trigger which automatically senses when a bolt is being emitted and takes a photo. He used to think it was cheating but now relishes the images. Meanwhile, Im activating my shutter manually, hoping to get lucky. As the sky darkens and the storm erupts, I realise luck is already on my side.

Its going off, mate! ONeill says as were enveloped, bolts jumping out of the sky around us. I dont know which way to direct my camera.

ONeill soon gets back into the car. The metal body of the car makes it safer to be in its like a Faraday cage, he explains. Its good to be standing out there, but right now, nah. I value my life more than a photo.

Monster doggies

Willoughby Owen using a 70mm-200mm lens. Photograph: Jonny Weeks for the Guardian

During my first time storm chasing with Owen, he brings along his friend Jacci Ingham. The two often go out together, unlike ONeill who is steadfastly a solo chaser.

We dont see much activity but Ingham relays the magic of a potent storm in infectious fashion. MCSs [mesoscale convective systems] are great, particularly if you get around the back of them, she says. They produce massive, squiggly scrawlers that fill the sky like spaghetti. Theyre my favourite.

Over dinner on the way home I discover Ingham is YouTube famous. Shes had 27 million views, Owen says. I presume hes joking but he takes out his phone and shows me a viral video of Ingham storm chasing in Darwin in 2010 as a lightning bolt comes crashing down just metres away.

youtube

Both Owen and Ingham have been to the US to chase tornadoes. Its almost an annual pilgrimage for Owen, who has been eight times. And he says he only moved from his native New Zealand to Darwin for the meteorology.

I just love weather, he says. I love seeing its raw and powerful beauty, how it all forms, how it all plays out, the modelling, making a forecast theres a lot of chaos involved in making a forecast. I love how rapidly it can change and when you think you know whats going to happen, it does something slightly different or even the opposite. Youre always, always learning.

10 December 2009 was a memorable night. There was a massive amount of lightning over Darwin. There were bombs going off everywhere. The wind was savage, it was just going ballistic. You could read a book under it.

18 February 2015 was another. It was like a storm in Oklahoma, rotating, twisting massively, you could see the whole structure move. It was just a beautiful storm.

Willoughby Owen and Jacci Ingham spot bolts in the distance. Photograph: Jonny Weeks for the Guardian

On my final night in the NT, Owen and I find a picturesque storm cloud building at sunset. He has driven us to a secluded spot in Adelaide River a telegraph hill with panoramic views and the distant cell is firing out dog-leg bolts from the base of a vast cloud formation. We eventually turn around and realise more action is developing behind us.

Fuck me dead! he yells. Big, massive, monster doggies its going off tap! Owen is broadcasting the the scene to his Facebook Live followers and his tearaway enthusiasm belies his otherwise mild nature.

The view from the telecommunication hill, showing a vast cloud structure and a dog-leg lightning bolt shooting out from the lower right. Photograph: Jonny Weeks for the Guardian

Having set up my camera alongside his, I make a schoolboy error, allowing the weight of my long lens to topple the tripod and send several thousands dollars worth of camera gear crashing down the hillside. I quickly retrieve and reassemble my gear and Owen directs me to a patch of sky where he reckons the next bolt is coming. Hes spot on. Within seconds a powerful bolt illuminates the black sky. Im not sure my settings and framing are right but finally the image displays on the back of the camera its a little wonky and maybe a touch soft, but its there, Ive got it.

Get in! I shout, sharing Owens visceral joy for a split second before swiftly triggering the next shot. He has taught me that the best lightning strikes invariably occur while youre wasting time reviewing old pictures.

The bolts slowly become fewer and father between, and junk cloud eventually interrupts our view.

I get a text message from ONeill checking our progress. He told me he wouldnt be out chasing tonight.

Getting some from work! he says. Wish I was there, but getting some cool keepers. Stay safe!