KEYS (10k)


NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   18 Joanne Fluke
   8 Anonymous
   7 Stephen King
   7 Haruki Murakami
   7 Cassandra Clare
   5 Kurt Vonnegut
   4 Rick Riordan
   4 Nessa Carey
   4 Jodi Picoult
   4 Jeff Wheeler
   4 James Allen
   4 Israelmore Ayivor
   4 Hermann Hesse
   4 Gail Honeyman
   4 Anthony Doerr
   3 Woody Allen
   3 Walt Whitman
   3 Walter Benjamin
   3 Susan Wiggs
   3 Ruth Reichl

1:It will be seen in the frying of the eggs. ~ miguel-de-cervantes, @wisdomtrove

2:You can’t make an omelet without breaking the eggs. ~ joseph-campbell, @wisdomtrove

3:Heaven is like an egg, and the earth is like the yolk of the egg. ~ zhuangzi, @wisdomtrove

4:My brother thinks he's a chicken-We don't talk him out of it because we need the eggs ~ groucho-marx, @wisdomtrove

5:They say that hens do cackle loudest when there is nothing vital in the eggs they have laid. ~ ambrose-bierce, @wisdomtrove

6:Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg. ~ haruki-murakami, @wisdomtrove

7:The egg is white though the hen is black as coal... Out of evil comes good, through the great goodness of God. ~ charles-spurgeon, @wisdomtrove

8:Some people like destroying for the hell of it; they love destroying beauty; they try to feel those people and then crack the egg. ~ frederick-lenz, @wisdomtrove

9:The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The God's name is Abraxas. ~ hermann-hesse, @wisdomtrove

10:It is remarkable that when great discoveries are effected, their simplicity always seems to detract from their originality: on these occasions we are reminded of the egg of Columbus! ~ benjamin-disraeli, @wisdomtrove

11:wonder what day god created the egg' &

12:One of our defects as a nation is a tendency to use what have been called "weasel words." When a weasel sucks eggs the meat is sucked out of the egg. If you use a "weasel word" after another there is nothing left of the other. ~ theodore-roosevelt, @wisdomtrove

13:My biggest faults is that the faults I was born with grow bigger each year. It's like I was raising chickens inside me. The chickens lay eggs and the eggs hatch into other chickens, which then lay eggs. Is this any way to live a life? What with all these faults I've got going, I have to wonder. Sure, I get by. But in the end, that's not the question, is it? ~ haruki-murakami, @wisdomtrove

14:Leaving the complications of the human breakfast-table out of account, in an elemental sense, the egg only exists to produce the chicken. But the chicken does not exist only in order to produce another egg. He may also exist to amuse himself, to praise God, and even to suggest ideas to a French dramatist. Being a conscious life, he is, or may be, valuable in himself. ~ g-k-chesterton, @wisdomtrove

15:We don't make bicycles anymore. It's all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways for everyone to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if somebody does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan. ~ kurt-vonnegut, @wisdomtrove

16:Chances are that any helpful two-year-old will break some eggs. We are often not very good at things when we are new. But there may be an important choice to make at such moments. Do we support and protect the innate wish to be of help to others in our children, or do we protect the eggs? Hard as it seems, the greater mother wisdom may lie in a willingness to clean up broken eggs or replace a mitten and a box of crayons. ~ rachel-naomi-remen, @wisdomtrove

17:&

18:I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree toad is a chef-d'oeurve for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels! ~ walt-whitman, @wisdomtrove

19:Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both: - touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am's private own: not spirit, soul; the liquorish and ungirdled mind is anyone's to take in any any darkened hallway of this earthly tenement. But let flesh touch with flesh, and watch the fall of all the eggshell shibboleth of caste and color too. ~ william-faulkner, @wisdomtrove

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:From the egg to the apple. ~ Horace,

2:The eggshell of appearance split. ~ James Merrill,

3:The egg cackles and lays the chicken. ~ Robin Morgan,

4:They are the Eggheads. He is the Walrus. ~ Salman Rushdie,

5:He broke the eggs but burned the omelette. ~ Arundhati Roy,

6:The eggs taste like clouds. Like spun gold. ~ Anthony Doerr,

7:It will be seen in the frying of the eggs. ~ Miguel de Cervantes,

8:could feel the eggshells cracking under my shoes, ~ Linwood Barclay,

9:I am the eggman They are the eggmen! I am the walrus! ~ John Lennon,

10:A chicken is the egg’s way of making more eggs. ~ Robert Anton Wilson,

11:He was as lost in this day as a chick wet from the egg. ~ Eoin Colfer,

12:History is an omlette. THe eggs are already broken. ~ Orson Scott Card,

13:Now I know which came first - the chicken not the egg. ~ David Cameron,

14:If you've broken the eggs, you should make the omelette. ~ Anthony Eden,

15:It's improper to use the egg roll for political purposes. ~ Mark Tooley,

16:The egg is the symbol of perfection. Do you want an egg? ~ Mason Cooley,

17:Time slowed and reality bent; on and on the eggman went. ~ Stephen King,

18:I am the eggman They are the eggmen! I am the walrus! ~ John Lennon,

19:DAMN MY EGGS! DAMN ALL THE EGGS THAT EVER WAS!" -Wilson ~ Lorraine Hansberry,

20:The egg it is the source of all To everyone's ancestral hall. ~ Clarence Day,

21:Stir the eggnog, lift the toddy, Happy New Year everybody. ~ Phyllis McGinley,

22:You don't worry about dropping the eggs until you're almost home. ~ Stephen King,

23:The egg can be your best friend if you just give it the right break ~ Julia Child,

24:I love you on the surface of seas Red like the egg when it is green ~ Andre Breton,

25:to debate which came first, the chicken or the egg, is always futile. ~ Mike Dooley,

26:Rooster, maybe well crows, but the eggs still bears the chicken. ~ Margaret Thatcher,

27:We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. ~ John Milton,

28:I'm youth, I'm joy, I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg. ~ James M Barrie,

29:I love you on the surface of seas Red like the egg when it is green ~ Andr Breton,

30:It may be the cock that crows, but it is the hen that lays the eggs. ~ Margaret Thatcher,

31:We shall sooner have the fowl by hatching the egg than by smashing it. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

32:Dada is the sun, Dada is the egg. Dada is the Police of the Police. ~ Richard Huelsenbeck,

33:Yet loyalty must run two ways, or else become betrayal in the egg. ~ Lois McMaster Bujold,

34:For workaholics, all the eggs of self-esteem are in the basket of work. ~ Judith M Bardwick,

35:The wise thief does not steal the egg if his action will awaken the dragon. ~ R A Salvatore,

36:The moment I began searching for the egg, the future no longer seemed so bleak. ~ Ernest Cline,

37:Loving a single person wholeheartedly is like putting all the eggs in one basket ~ M F Moonzajer,

38:Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched. ~ Guy de Maupassant,

39:The secret, if one may paraphrase a savage vocabulary, lies in the egg of night. ~ Loren Eiseley,

40:We leave tonight," he continued, very cold and calm, "and we take the eggs with us. ~ Naomi Novik,

41:I am Eggther, Protector of the egg. If you dare come near me, I will break your leg. ~ Rick Riordan,

42:My brother thinks he's a chicken-We don't talk him out of it because we need the eggs ~ Groucho Marx,

43:bacon is a little like chewing shards of pottery. And the eggs deserved a better fate. ~ John Flanagan,

44:The egg, at last, is revealed, and what is more coherent and elemental than an egg? ~ Guillermo del Toro,

45:As my grandmother said, 'Sorry won't unbreak the eggs'. Just clean the mess and move on. ~ Raymond E Feist,

46:They say that hens do cackle loudest when there is nothing vital in the eggs they have laid. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

47:My first business deal was with my mother. I invested in chickens. I sold the eggs to my mother. ~ Joel McCrea,

48:Throw eggs at a rock, and though one uses all the eggs in the world, the rock remains the same. ~ Pearl S Buck,

49:Football is a fertility festival. Eleven sperm trying to get into the egg. I feel sorry for the goalkeeper. ~ Bjork,

50:The hen is the wisest of all the animal creation, because she never cackles until the egg is laid. ~ Abraham Lincoln,

51:Leave the eggs to bathe for 15 minutes in the hot water like a sexy Swedish chick in a natural mineral sauna. ~ Coolio,

52:Our curses on them that boil the eggs too hard! What use is an egg that is hard to any person on earth? ~ Lady Gregory,

53:important to cook fillings without cheese before you add them to the eggs, or they will not heat up ~ J Kenji L pez Alt,

54:A strange idea was pecking at his brain like a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him. ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky,

55:Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away. ~ Walter Benjamin,

56:But the Egyptian passion for violence, for killing the goose that lays the eggs- that's a different matter. ~ Noel Barber,

57:One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and - pop! - out of the egg came a tiny and very hungry caterpillar. ~ Eric Carle,

58:Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg. ~ Haruki Murakami,

59:"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg." ~ Haruki Murakami,

60:The hedges are spruting like chicks from the eggs when they are newly hatched or as the vulgar says clacked. ~ Marjorie Fleming,

61:Routine is rather like the egg whites in a batter: It imparts little flavor, but it holds everything together. ~ Josiah Bancroft,

62:split the omelet in half and served the eggs on some smashing Villeroy and Bach plates with a farmhouse design. ~ Orest Stelmach,

63:The egg is white though the hen is black as coal...Out of evil comes good, through the great goodness of God. ~ Charles Spurgeon,

64:Patriotism is a kind of religion; it is the egg from which wars are hatched." [My Uncle Sosthenes] ~ Guy de Maupassant,

65:As if a silver in the egg-and-spoon race was some sort of compensation for not understanding how to use an apostrophe. ~ Gail Honeyman,

66:The egg is white though the hen is black as coal...Out of evil comes good, through the great goodness of God. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

67:Ungrateful little twit.” The egg-man scowls at me. “Looking a gift spider in the fangs. See if you’re invited to tea again. ~ A G Howard,

68:Now rush the eggs into a large bowl of ice water; this will keep that unattractive green ring from forming around the yolk. ~ Ruth Reichl,

69:In the kitchen, the egg is ultimately neither ingredient nor finished dish but rather a singularity with a thousand ends. ~ Michael Ruhlman,

70:Girls when it says "I love you" - it's like a second baptism - It gives them a whole new heart - As at the end of the egg. ~ Georges Brassens,

71:Puritanism, believing itself quick with the seed of religious liberty, laid, without knowing it, the egg of democracy. ~ James Russell Lowell,

72:It’s the difference between dancing along the eggshell crust of acquaintance and diving into the messy center of a relationship. ~ Jodi Picoult,

73:Part of growing up is not waiting in line at a hipster breakfast restaurant. The eggs taste the same across the street. I promise. ~ Jason Segel,

74:I'm like a big old hen. I can't cluck too long about the egg I've just laid because I've got 5 more inside me pushing to get out. ~ Louis L Amour,

75:Is everything okay with you and Jackass over there?” “I can hear you,” Seth replied, dumping the eggs in a heated skillet. ~ Jennifer L Armentrout,

76:Just to settle it once and for all: Which came first, the chicken or the egg? The egg, laid by a bird that was not a chicken. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

77:Some people like destroying for the hell of it; they love destroying beauty; they try to feel those people and then crack the egg. ~ Frederick Lenz,

78:I wanted to live in a house with walls painted in various shades of blue and green, instead of the eggshell hue that screamed renter. ~ Tayari Jones,

79:Nick finished his breakfast and couldn’t wait to get back to the city. He was a man on a mission. Operation Scrape the Egg Off His Face. ~ Ashlyn Chase,

80:For a light and airy cake, it’s imperative that the egg yolks and sugar are slightly thickened before incorporating the chocolate. Mom ~ Ellie Alexander,

81:Why's your name Yolk?' 'Er... don't know. Was my father's name... I guess.' 'Think you're the best part of the egg, do you, Yolk? ~ Joe Abercrombie,

82:Ex-convicts prepared the eggs for the White House’s Easter Egg Roll. It’s nice to see the White House reaching out to former members of Congress. ~ Jay Leno,

83:The game's in the refrigerator, the door's closed, the light's out, the eggs are cooling, the butter's getting hard and the Jell-O's jiggling. ~ Chick Hearn,

84:nor the egg making you fat–it’s the carbs! The carbs cause high levels of insulin which steer both carbs and fat (and protein) into your fat cells. ~ Mark Sisson,

85:When painting the faces of young persons ... use the yolk of the egg of a city hen, because they have lighter yolks than those of country hens. ~ Cennino Cennini,

86:When making hard-boiled eggs, throw one teaspoon of baking soda into the water. The shell will come off without a problem once the egg is cooked. ~ Keith Bradford,

87:Just forget the egg for a minute, all right?” Harry hissed as Professor Flitwick went whizzing resignedly past them, landing on top of a large cabinet. ~ J K Rowling,

88:Pan, who and what art thou?" he cried huskily. "I'm youth, I'm joy," Peter answered at a venture, "I'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg. ~ James M Barrie,

89:Never leave the egg in you not laid. Don't leave the laid eggs there not hatched. You deserve the best; you were created to use every gift in you! ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

90:The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities. ~ James Allen,

91:I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, ~ Walt Whitman,

92:The eggs turn out less than ideal, but since we both push them around our plates in a show of eating instead of actually consuming them, it doesn’t matter ~ Meghan March,

93:If sleep is the apogee of physical relaxation, boredom is the apogee of mental relaxation. Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. ~ Walter Benjamin,

94:The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever will be born must destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The name of the god is Abraxas. ~ Anonymous,

95:He shoveled the bacon out on a plate and broke the eggs in the hot grease and they jumped and fluttered their edges to brown lace and made clucking sounds. ~ John Steinbeck,

96:The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. The God's name is Abraxas. ~ Hermann Hesse,

97:My mouth tasted like some creature had laid eggs in there and then the eggs had hatched and all the baby creatures had taken their first craps on my tongue. ~ Victor Gischler,

98:The bird fights its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Who would be born must first destroy a world. The bird flies to God. That God's name is Abraxas. ~ Hermann Hesse,

99:He shoveled the bacon out on a plate and broke the eggs in the hot grease and they jumped and fluttered their edges to brown lace and made clucking sounds. ~ John Steinbeck,

100:You got the eggs in you; the world is fully ready to celebrate the chicks out of your laying labour. Never give up. Go and breed! Go and breed great dreams. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

101:He said that mixing an omelet was a lot like mixing paint: the eggs were my basic palette, and then I could build tastes out of whatever ingredients I had around. ~ Jordan Weisman,

102:The gilded confines of the Beauty Hall were not my preferred habitat; like the chicken that had laid the eggs for my sandwich, I was more of a free-range creature. ~ Gail Honeyman,

103:Self-pity is the hens' besetting sin," remarked Mr. Payton. "Foolish fowl. How they came to achieve anything as perfect as the egg I do not know! I cannot fathom. ~ Elizabeth Enright,

104:I bet you think an egg is something you casually order for breakfast when you can't think of anything else. Well, so did I once, but that was before the egg and I. ~ Claudette Colbert,

105:I told her I wanted a plastic surgeon to sew me up, and I wanted her to freeze my ovaries, so I could harvest the eggs and have a biological child through a surrogate. ~ Fran Drescher,

106:Breakfast - which I didn't mind skipping; if the eggs had been any runnier and the bacon a little less fatty, I could have raced them against each other around my plate. ~ Allen Steele,

107:It is therefore proper to acknowledge that the first filaments of the chick preexist in the egg and have a deeper origin, exactly as [the embryo] in the eggs of plants. ~ Marcello Malpighi,

108:Puritanism, believing itself quick with the seed of religious liberty, laid, without knowing it, the egg of democracy. ~ James Russell Lowell, Among My Books. New England Two Centuries Ago,

109:We have used up all our inherited freedom, like the young bird the albumen in the egg. It is not an era of repose. If we would save our lives, we must fight for them. ~ Henry David Thoreau,

110:Huevos up. Swing up to the window, swing back to Al B. Hall, who says, "Bless you," and would I get him a bottle of Satan's Red-Hot Revenge for the eggs? Sure thing, Pastor. ~ Joan Bauer,

111:She watched him fill half his plate with the egg-casserole mixture, oblivious to her look of disgust at all the unborn chicks that had given their lives for his breakfast. ~ Kallypso Masters,

112:The bird is fighting its way out of the egg. The egg is the world. Whoever wishes to be born must destroy a world. The bird is flying to God. The god is named Abraxas.” After ~ Hermann Hesse,

113:(...) after an early dinner at The Egg and We, a recently inaugurated and not very successful little restaurant which Pnin frequented from sheer sympathy with failure (...) ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

114:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time only a dream. Just as the oak sleeps in the acorn, and the bird waits in the egg, so dreams are the seedlings of realities. ~ Jeff Wheeler,

115:wonder what day god created the egg' 'how should we know? we should not question. our stay on earth is not for long. let us rejoice and believe and give thanks'. 'eat a egg ~ Ernest Hemingway,

116:An egg is a thing that must be careful. That's why the chicken is the egg's disguise. The chicken exists so that the egg can traverse the ages. That's what a mother is for. ~ Clarice Lispector,

117:The argument about zoning and the presidency of Nigeria is like the philosophical argument of the egg or the hen. Who is older through the evolutionary process, who came first? ~ Goodluck Jonathan,

118:Anyone who has kids knows that children like to be around chickens, goats, whatever. My kid loves to go out and feed the chickens and collect the eggs. It's a nice way of living. ~ Novella Carpenter,

119:Using three battens from Kirit’s wing, Djonn and Ceetcee built a tripod over the fire and suspended a small bone trivet beneath. I placed the eggs in the trivet, and we waited hungrily. ~ Fran Wilde,

120:It is remarkable that when great discoveries are effected, their simplicity always seems to detract from their originality: on these occasions we are reminded of the egg of Columbus! ~ Benjamin Disraeli,

121:Oh, God above, if heaven has a taste it must be an egg with butter and salt, and after the egg is there anything in the world lovelier than fresh warm bread and a mug of sweet golden tea? ~ Frank McCourt,

122:I thought about the screws and their happiness. Maybe they were glad to be free of the eggbeater, to be independent screws, to luxuriate on white trays. It did feel good to see them happy. ~ Haruki Murakami,

123:Don’t work too hard cleaning up after breakfast! To remove egg from bowls and pans, soak them in cold water, not hot. Hot water actually cooks the egg, making it more difficult to scrub off. ~ Gooseberry Patch,

124:Think of egg and spoon. If there is an egg, well, fine. You eat. Unless you use your spoon to hold the egg out of my reach. Does being in possession of a spoon give you more right to the egg? ~ Gregory Maguire,

125:Amelia looked at the eggs-like sickly, jaundiced eyes-and thought of her own eggs, a handful left, old shrivelled like musty dried fruit where once they must have been bursting toward the light- ~ Kate Atkinson,

126:Nor did he care about his childhood, for certainly I never heard him speak of it. I once questioned him about his early days and he would not answer. ‘What is the egg to the eagle?’ he asked me… ~ Bernard Cornwell,

127:other, better, memories: making fried eggs with her dad, turning them over with a large black plastic spatula. “Not so fast, Molly Molasses,” he’d say. “Easy. Otherwise the eggs’ll go splat. ~ Christina Baker Kline,

128:A brown trout sips one off the surface. Beneath the trout, mica-flecked sand gleams white. Come fall the female's caudal fin will nudge the grains to make a nest, the eggs spilling like pearls into a purse. ~ Ron Rash,

129:I stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it behind me. Then I made a silent vow not to go outside again until I had completed my quest. I would abandon the real world altogether until I found the egg. ~ Ernest Cline,

130:If you have the golden chicken, the archaeologists don’t want the chicken to produce any golden eggs, but the tourist guys, they want to cut it open to get all the eggs at once. There should be a balance. ~ Douglas Preston,

131:The egg it is the source of all. Tis everyone's ancestral hall. The bravest chief that ever fought, The lowest thief that e'er was caught, The harlot's lip, the maiden's leg, They each and all came from an egg. ~ Clarence Day,

132:You'll never solve your mysteries, Scharr. Not as long as we live in this. This world's a whore, all soaked in perfumes, and you're so easily seduced." He tapped his skull. "Break the eggshell. Time to fly. ~ Jeffrey Overstreet,

133:A bull may sometimes be a cow, a jackdaw may discourse, cocks have established from time to time the hypothesis that the egg is impeculiar to the she-bird, but a servant is at all times a servant notwithstanding. ~ Flann O Brien,

134:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of reality. ~ James Allen,

135:They can’t help it, you know. It happens in the egg,” she reasoned. “As soon as they grow that genitalia, intelligence goes right out the window and we’re left with this thing that just wants to stick it in any hole. ~ G A Aiken,

136:You should have tried the eggplant parmesan she tried to hoist on me at the church bake sale. No wonder her children turned to Satan. He probably showed up as an angel of light and promised them a decent meal. ~ Kathy Hepinstall,

137:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time only a dream. Just as the oak sleeps in the acorn, and the bird waits in the egg, so dreams are the seedlings of realities. Beware, therefore, what you dream of. ~ Jeff Wheeler,

138:For some artists the live performance is the chicken before the egg of writing or recording of repertoire. For other artists the writing or recording of repertoire is the chicken before the egg of live performance. ~ Black Francis,

139:I am the outcast come home to roost and the eggs of tomorrow are incubating in my fame. You hate me, you love me, you made me, and now I am in you. I am like that disease brewing in your loins and I think you like it. ~ Nikki Sixx,

140:I am the outcast come home to roost and the eggs of tomorrow are incubating in my fame. You hate me, you love me, you made me, and now I am in you. I am like that disease brewing in your loins and I think you like it… ~ Nikki Sixx,

141:That could be made into a sad song, Simon supposed. 'If they are eggs, why are they gray? Who can say, who can say?' Admittedly, "Why Are the Eggs So Gray?" might not be a big hit, even on the hipster circuit. ~ Cassandra Clare,

142:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn, the bird waits in the egg, and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities. ~ James Allen,

143:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time a dream. The oak sleeps in the acorn; the bird waits in the egg; and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs. Dreams are the seedlings of realities. ~ James Allen,

144:What comes first, the chicken or the egg? You start out bad, you don't really feel right, you don't have the same explosion, then you start to lose confidence, you start to doubt your ability. It's a snowball effect. ~ Lance Berkman,

145:Hundreds of barefoot Filipinos marched on the roads through the Philippines carrying heavy wooden crosses and whipping their backs until they bled to prepare for Easter. Call me old-fashioned but I just like coloring the eggs. ~ Jay Leno,

146:"Via ovicipitum dura est," or, for the benefit of the engineers among you: "The way of the egghead is hard." ~ Adlai Stevenson, lecture at Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts, March 17, 1954. Stevenson, Call to Greatness, p. xi (1954).,

147:I've seen the future all my life,' she says. 'It tends to work as a paradox, in my experience. You find out something is going to happen, and then you do it because you know that's what happens. It's a chicken-or-the-egg scenario. ~ Cynthia Hand,

148:It’s the difference between dancing along the eggshell crust of acquaintance and diving into the messy center of a relationship. It’s not always perfect; it’s not always pleasant—but because it is rooted in respect, it is unshakable. ~ Jodi Picoult,

149:1059The egg it is the source of it all. ‘Tis everyone’s ancestral hall. The bravest chief that ever fought, The lowest thief that e’er was caught, The harlot’s lip, the maiden’s leg, They each and all came from an egg. ~ Clarence Day Jr,

150:I don't trust you! You're not trustworthy! No knife!" Dave held the tip of the knife above the tarantula. "I'm gonna poke it! Don't move!" I froze. Dave winced and clutched at his eye with his free hand. "Ow! The eggshell is still there! ~ Jeff Strand,

151:One of our defects as a nation is a tendency to use what have been called ''weasel words.'' When a weasel sucks eggs the meat is sucked out of the egg. If you use a ''weasel word'' after another there is nothing left of the other. ~ Theodore Roosevelt,

152:Every bird which flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw. Germination includes the hatching of a meteor and the tap of a swallow's bill breaking the egg, and it leads forward the birth of an earth-worm and the advent of Socrates. ~ Victor Hugo,

153:...In primary school, sports day was the one day of the year when the less academically gifted students could triumph...As if a silver in the egg-and-spoon race was some sort of compensation for not understanding how to use an apostrophe ~ Gail Honeyman,

154:When we first put 'Let It Be' out, I had to cut out a lot of stuff that I really like and wanted to stay in there. The stuff in the new DVD has a lot of the stuff that had to be cut out. So for me, it's like the egg is now complete. ~ Michael Lindsay Hogg,

155:If you put a red egg in the nest of a herring gull, it goes berserk. The color red triggers aggression in the bird, while the shape of the egg triggers brooding behavior—as a result, it tries to simultaneously attack the egg and incubate it. ~ David Eagleman,

156:And then I saw it—not below, where I had looked, but over my head, a vast and noble curve stretching away to either side, with white cloud flying between ourselves and it, a world all speckled over with blue and green like the egg of a wild bird. ~ Gene Wolfe,

157:It is a well-documented fact that guys will not ask for directions. This is a biological thing. This is why it takes several million sperm cells... to locate a female egg, despite the fact that the egg is, relative to them, the size of Wisconsin. ~ Dave Barry,

158:At a very early stage of the novel's development I get this urge to collect bits of straw and fluff, and to eat pebbles. Nobody will ever discover how clearly a bird visualizes, or if it visualizes at all, the future nest and the eggs in it. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,

159:Nobody said anything while I opened the bag and took out the egg salad sandwich. It was one of those funny moments when a bit of normal human activity embarrasses everybody out of their bluster and hostility, and roles are momentarily laid aside. ~ Jonathan Lethem,

160:When you start with a portrait and search for a pure form, a clear volume, through successive eliminations, you arrive inevitably at the egg. Likewise, starting with the egg and following the same process in reverse, one finishes with the portrait. ~ Pablo Picasso,

161:Ce'Nedra returned, frowning and a little angry. "They won't give me their eggs, Lady Polgara," she complained. "They're sitting one them." "You have to reach under them and take the eggs, dear." "Won't that make them angry?" "Are you afraid of a chicken? ~ David Eddings,

162:I just work, to the exclusion of most other things. I rarely work in a frenzied manner, just kind of - if you take the beater that whips the icing or the eggs into shape - on the upper end of medium speed, that's kind of how I am about seven days a week. ~ Henry Rollins,

163:By putting business before every other manifestation of life, our mechanical and financial civilization has forgotten the chief business of life: namely, growth, reproduction, development. It pays infinite attention to the incubator-and it forgets the egg! ~ Lewis Mumford,

164:It's always difficult to be born. As you know, the bird must make an effort to break out of the egg. Think back and ask: Was the path really that difficult? Merely difficult? Wasn't it also beautiful? Could you have thought of a more beautiful or easier one? ~ Hermann Hesse,

165:He pulled back his head warily; like many of the children in the neighbourhood, this one had come into the world in the avatar of a complete maniac, and it would not be unlike her to whack him on the forehead with the egg just to see what would happen. ~ Kim Stanley Robinson,

166:You know how fighting fish do it? They blow bubbles and in each one of those bubbles is an egg and they float the egg up to the surface. They keep this whole heavy nest of eggs floating, and they're constantly repairing it. It's as if they live in both elements. ~ Audre Lorde,

167:A long, thin line like steam trailed from the mirror through the room and into the cup of tea. The heat from the tea was warming the egg, steamy tendrils rising, wrapping around its bright spotted shell. Already there were cracks. “Get the egg!” Raven said. Raven ~ Shannon Hale,

168:She told me that she liked white people but didn’t have any close white friends and asked if I was interested in cross-pollinating. I told her we would see how things went but not to put the chicken wing before the egg. We grew to be fast friends, and a couple ~ Chelsea Handler,

169:The dirigible came to rest as lightly as a butterfly on an egg, if the butterfly were to stumble a bit and list heavily to one side and the egg to take on the peculiar characteristics of Scotland in winter: more soggy and more gray than one would think possible. ~ Gail Carriger,

170:Ce'Nedra returned, frowning and a little angry. "They won't give me their eggs, Lady Polgara," she complained. "They're sitting one them." "You have to reach under them and take the eggs, dear." "Won't that make them angry?" "Are you afraid of a chicken? ~ David Eddings,

171:Silas baked me a cake for my birthday. It was awful. I think he forgot the eggs. But it was the most beautiful chocolate failure I’ve ever seen. I was so happy that I didn’t even make a gag face when I ate a slice. But, oh god, it was so bad. Best boyfriend ever. ~ Tarryn Fisher,

172:I saw the eggs Maria dyed. They were all sorts of colours. There were red ones, but blue and green ones also. How peculiar! Since Easter eggs are to remind us of Christ's blood, how come they can be blue an green? [...] They must be out of their minds in Athens. ~ Eugenia Fakinou,

173:After all, they (the pro-vaccine lobbyists) say to themselves, you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs. But the eggs being broken are small, helpless, and innocent babies, while the omelette is being enjoyed by the pediatricians and vaccine manufacturers. ~ Harris L Coulter,

174:Since when do rabbits have eggs?’ Ruth persisted, looking at the bewildered villagers. ‘Never thought of that, eh? Where did it get them? Presumably from chocolate chickens. The bunny must have stolen the eggs from candy chickens who’re searching for their babies. Frantic. ~ Louise Penny,

175:The strange fact that out of millions of people in the world, your mother and father met and decided to get married to each other. And out of the millions of sperm, that the one with your genes was the one that made it to the egg and fertilised the egg. I'll never forget it. ~ A J Jacobs,

176:Problems are an important part of maturing--meet them straight on. Work them out. It's like the chick in the egg. It has to break through the eggshell on its own. That's how it gains its first strength. If you break the shell for the chick, you end up with a puny little runt. ~ Mark Tobey,

177:you can’t just move backward. You can’t push the chicken back into the egg, wine back into the grape, the boy back into the womb. If you want the baby to let go of your watch, you don’t just try to explain that he ought to do it—you offer him something he would rather have. ~ Isaac Asimov,

178:Annabeth looked at me. " We have to get out of here." " You think I want to be in the girls' restroom?" " I mean the ship, Percy! We have to get off the ship." " Smells bad," Tyson agreed. " And dogs eat all the eggs. Annabeth is right. We must leave the restroom and the ship. ~ Rick Riordan,

179:Mitochondria, as we have seen, are only passed on in the egg, so all 13 mitochondrial genes come from our mothers. If these genes really do influence lifespan, and we can only inherit them from our mothers, then our own lifespan should reflect that of our mothers but not our fathers. ~ Nick Lane,

180:Giovanni eyed her purple summer dress. “We were talking about our favorite colors. Mine is purple. So is Federico’s. That’s why he made the eggplant. Right, Federico?” “Absolutely, my friend!” Natalie smacked Giovanni on the arm. “Behave.” Giovanni smiled. “I’ll try. Nice to see you. ~ Rich Amooi,

181:After the shot he collapsed on the bed and lay there inert, but something was stirring in his spine from neck to the tail - and now pieces tore loose in the eggs and then a red, glistening head emerges in reeking yellow slime - and then the whole centipede crawling out quick. ~ William S Burroughs,

182:There was a game they played at dinner. The word “delicious” was out of bounds. On this occasion the eggs were robust, the grilled salmon was succulent, the salad had verve, Polly’s blackberry cobbler had zest, and Qwilleran’s seven-layer chocolate cake had a certain nobility. ~ Lilian Jackson Braun,

183:A guy comes down to earth, takes your sins, dies, and comes back three days later. You believe in him and go to heaven forever. How do you get from that to Hide-The-Eggs? Did Jesus have a problem with eggs? Did he go, "When I come back, if I see any eggs, the whole salvation thing is off." ~ Jon Stewart,

184:Annabeth looked at me. " We have to get out of here." " You think I want to be in the girls' restroom?" " I mean the ship, Percy! We have to get off the ship." " Smells bad," Tyson agreed. " And dogs eat all the eggs. Annabeth is right. We must leave the restroom and the ship. ~ Rick Riordan,

185:As the Bhagavad Gita says, ‘There never was a time when I was not . . . there will never be a time when I will cease to be.’ Since time and space began together – as both St Augustine and the big bang attest – the Bhagavad Gita has a point. The chicken and the egg arrived at the same time. ~ Bill Bryson,

186:The two goofs started to battle, each holding their futuristic invisible swords, making boy sounds as they clashed against each other and jumped around the room. I sat on the stool, blinking at them, holding the eggs outside of my mouth for a good thirty seconds, twenty-nine seconds too long. ~ Ashlan Thomas,

187:I love afternoons like that, like when we talk about things like metempsychosis, when we learn so much, and explore so much, and ideas grow and take flight, like the idea about the universe and the egg. I love being home-schooled, when we don't have to stick to subjects and timetables and rules. ~ David Almond,

188:Invading a statist society is like grabbing the cages of a large number of trapped chickens – you get all of the eggs in perpetuity. Invading a stateless society is like taking a sprint at a flock of seagulls – all they do is scatter, and you get nothing, except perhaps some crap on your forehead. ~ Stefan Molyneux,

189:an anticoagulant called antithrombin, and it is secreted in the milk of genetically modified goats. Another approved drug is isolated from the milk of transgenic rabbits, and in 2015, the FDA gave the go-ahead for a protein-based drug that is purified from the egg whites of transgenic chickens.56 ~ Jennifer A Doudna,

190:This sounds like a brag, but I know how to make good fried rice. I learned in college. There are two secrets - take the rice after you cook it and let it get cold in the fridge. Then cook the egg like you're making a fried egg and just before it's done, dump the rice and veg on it and swirl it around. ~ Patton Oswalt,

191:Sorrel soup: "You cut the egg into slices, and you eat it with the green soup. And the mixture of the sharp green acidity and the round comfort of the egg reminds you of something extraordinary and far away. Of home? Certainly not, not even for Poles. Of what then? ...Of survival, perhaps. ~ John Berger,

192:Five adults, a Leprechaun, a Dragon Prince, and two toddlers required a lot of French toast, but with Allie on one grill and Katie on the other, Graham beating the eggs, Charlie pouring juice, Auntie Gwen setting the table, Joe dealing with the coffee maker, and Jack watching the twins, breakfast got made. ~ Tanya Huff,

193:It was made of only one kind of bone, he realized, repeated over and over. Each of the bones was dry and ball-like. He imagined that they might be the eggshells of some huge bird. But another flare of lightning told him differently: they had holes for eyes, and they had teeth, which grinned without humor. ~ Neil Gaiman,

194:Nor did he care about his childhood, for certainly I never heard him speak of it. I once questioned him about his early days and he would not answer. ‘What is the egg to the eagle?’ he asked me, then said he had been born, he had lived and he had become a soldier, and that was all I needed to know. (p97) ~ Bernard Cornwell,

195:Young people and dreams are like baby turtles on the beach. The eggs hatch and they have to scramble to the water before the birds get them. We all have our sights set on water, but only a lucky few make it there unscathed. Life has a way of swooping in and picking off the forces and beliefs that motivates us. ~ Chris Colfer,

196:Thyroid secretions in adequate amounts appear to be essential for development of the egg and for proper ovarian secretions. If thyroid function is low, an egg may be discharged from an ovary but it may not be fertilizable or, if fertilized, may not be capable of nesting so that pregnancy is quickly aborted. ~ Broda Otto Barnes,

197:In the candlelight, she looks of another world, her face all freckles, and in the center of the freckles those two eyes hang unmoving like the egg cases of spiders. They do not track him, but they do not unnerve him, either; they seem almost to see into a separate, deeper place, a world that consists only of music. ~ Anthony Doerr,

198:Our prototypical behavior has occurred. How was it influenced by events when the egg and sperm that formed that person joined, creating their genome—the chromosomes, the sequences of DNA—destined to be duplicated in every cell in that future person’s body? What role did those genes play in causing that behavior? ~ Robert M Sapolsky,

199:But sometimes you get a career and then you suddenly realize you don't have a life. Or if you stay at home with your family, you suddenly realize that your life is actually everyone else's life, not your own. Either way, when you got all your eggs in one basket, the basket gets heavy. Maybe the eggs start to break. ~ Neal Shusterman,

200:MARTA’S LAST MEAL—PYTT I PANNA In foaming butter, separately and aggressively brown cubed beef, potatoes, and diced onions until crisp. Incorporate ingredients in the skillet with additional butter, season and reheat. Form a well in the mixture, and break a raw egg into it. Stir the egg into the hash before serving. ~ Jason Matthews,

201:HOw do you protect a child from heartbreak? All I know is the egg wants to be held all the time, and perhaps if I hold her all the time she will know that she is loved in such a fundamental and profound way that when her heart is broken as an adult, she will not fall apart, will know that she is still loved and lovable. ~ Camilla Gibb,

202:There must be a divorce! Within the egg of sin there sleeps the seed of damnation! Man, there must be a divorce between you and your sins. Not a mere separation for a season, but a clear divorce. Cut off the right arm; pluck out the right eye, and cast them from you, or else you cannot enter into eternal life. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon,

203:THROUGH THIS EVENING’S tide of faces unregistered, unrecognized, amid hurrying black shoes, furled umbrellas, the crowd descending like a single organism into the station’s airless heart, comes Shinya Yamazaki, his notebook clasped beneath his arm like the egg case of some modest but moderately successful marine species. ~ William Gibson,

204:The first time it was my turn to do the shopping, I overindulged my growing taste for exotic food with a bagful of goodies like smoked elk’s liver and chocolate-covered ants and mackerel-and-prune soup and curried walrus testicles. I’d sort of forgotten about the milk and the bread and the eggs. I was never allowed to shop again. ~ John Cleese,

205:Eggs crack. Butter pops in a hot pan. Soon all of Marie-Laure’s attention is absorbed by the smells blooming around her: egg, spinach, melting cheese. An omelette arrives. The eggs taste like clouds. Like spun gold. Marie-Laure can hear a can opening, juice slopping into a bowl. Seconds later she is eating wedges of wet sunlight. ~ Anthony Doerr,

206:I think the meaning of the universe is bound up with the egg. ... I am fed up with the meaning of the universe. Everything starts in the egg and ends in death. I think it's called 'the heartbreak at the heart of things.' But then perhaps our very mortality is an egg and at the moment of death our souls will emerge like damp chicks. ~ Alice Thomas Ellis,

207:Today he was reading the research of a team from University, who had recorded a zinc flash at the precise instant a sperm fertilized an egg. A rush of calcium at that moment caused zinc to be released from the egg. As the zinc burst out, it attached itself to small, fluorescent molecules: the spark that was picked up by camera microscopes. ~ Jodi Picoult,

208:Some spiritual people say there's no such thing as coincidence. And I guess I can't know if it's the chicken or the egg for my lack of spirituality. But I do believe in coincidence. I believe in it very much. I see it everywhere. I have to. Otherwise I'd start to believe the universe if adversarial, and I don't need another opponent right now. ~ Jamie Mason,

209:The sad truth is very few people will ever be 'for' you in your terms. The bigger question is how many are against you--and still more importantly, how many are against you that you thought were for you? These are the deep insect tunnels that lead to the egg chambers guarded by mindless dark armor. Mandible and leverage. Chemical secretions. ~ Kris Saknussemm,

210:Wild animals almost never die of old age: starvation, disease, or predators catch up with them long before they become really senile. Until recently this was true of man too. Most animals die in childhood, many never get beyond the egg stage. Starvation and other causes of death are the ultimate reasons why populations cannot increase indefinitely. ~ Richard Dawkins,

211:If you were extremely unlucky, the forest spiders would get to you first and lay their eggs in you.” “Why is that considered extremely unlucky?” “You’d still be alive when the eggs hatched.” “That is probably the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard,” Shakespeare muttered. He pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil. “I’ve got to make a note of that. ~ Michael Scott,

212:Today he was reading the research of a team from Northwestern University, who had recorded a zinc flash at the precise instant a sperm fertilized an egg. A rush of calcium at that moment caused zinc to be released from the egg. As the zinc burst out, it attached itself to small, fluorescent molecules: the spark that was picked up by camera microscopes. ~ Jodi Picoult,

213:Somehow, the notion that Professor Moriarty had parents - might have been a child - never sat right. A viper is a snake straight from the egg. I couldn't help but picture little Jamie as a balding midget in a sailor suit, spying Cook and the baker's boy rolling in the flour on the kitchen table through his toy telescope, and blackmailing them for extra buns. ~ Kim Newman,

214:While the egg yolks cooled, he directed the beaters at the egg whites, setting the mixer on high speed that sent small bubbles giggling to the side of the bowl, where a few became many until they were a white froth rising up and then lying down again in patters and ridges, leaving an intricate design like the ribs of a leaf in the wake of the beaters ~ Erica Bauermeister,

215:My biggest fault is that the faults I was born with grow bigger each year. It's like I was raising chickens inside me. The chickens lay eggs and the eggs hatch into other chickens, which then lay eggs. Is this any way to live a life? What with all these faults I've got going, I have to wonder. Sure, I get by. But in the end, that's not the question, is it? ~ Haruki Murakami,

216:My biggest faults is that the faults I was born with grow bigger each year. It's like I was raising chickens inside me. The chickens lay eggs and the eggs hatch into other chickens, which then lay eggs. Is this any way to live a life? What with all these faults I've got going, I have to wonder. Sure, I get by. But in the end, that's not the question, is it? ~ Haruki Murakami,

217:He had forgotten the egg. It still lay on the veranda, and Nagaina came nearer and nearer to it, till at last, while Rikki-tikki was drawing breath, she caught it in her mouth, turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an arrow down the path, with Rikki-tikki behind her. When the cobra runs for her life, she goes like a whip-lash flicked across a horse’s neck. ~ Rudyard Kipling,

218:Genius detects through the fly, through the caterpillar, through the grub, through the egg, the constant individual; through countless individuals the fixed species; through many species the genus; through all genera the steadfast type; through all the kingdoms of organized life the eternal unity. Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,

219:Thus the name of the game when it comes to evolution is not obtaining food or other resources: it is reproduction. Which came first, the chick or the egg? From an evolutionary perspective the egg did. A chicken is merely an egg's way of producing another egg. The chicken is just a transient reproductive superstructure that provides for the perpetuation of genes. ~ Geoffrey Miller,

220:Most eggs are white, regardless of the color of the birds that lay them. Real life dwells within this white. The shell of the egg is like the membrane that forms the boundary between this world and the next, and when it breaks, what emerges is no longer white but imbued with the color of the animal. Is this not the moment when newborn life starts walking towards chaos? ~ Kenya Hara,

221:Hear What The Mournful Linnets Say Hear what the mournful linnets say: ‘We built our nest compact and warm, But cruel boys came round our way And took our summerhouse by storm. ‘They crushed the eggs so neatly laid; So now we sit with drooping wing, And watch the ruin they have made, Too late to build, too sad to sing.’ ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

222:All the distances I had traveled, trying to be myself, didn’t matter here, where nothing ever changed. Not the mahogany furniture or the art or the books in their placement on the shelves. Not the eggshell sheen on the walls, or the quality of light coming through the stained-glass window on the landing. This was the light of childhood. I was all the ages I had ever been. ~ Paula McLain,

223:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time only a dream. Just as the oak sleeps in the acorn, and the bird waits in the egg, so dreams are the seedlings of realities. Beware, therefore, what you dream of. For some dreams are given by the Medium to inspire us by what may yet be. Others are planted within us by others, foul seeds that we harvest to our destruction. ~ Jeff Wheeler,

224:Leaving the complications of the human breakfast-table out of account, in an elemental sense, the egg only exists to produce the chicken. But the chicken does not exist only in order to produce another egg. He may also exist to amuse himself, to praise God, and even to suggest ideas to a French dramatist. Being a conscious life, he is, or may be, valuable in himself. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,

225:We're trying to make our current house look domestic so that somebody will want to buy it. We're making a lot of simple, obvious improvements that never would have occurred to us to make while we actually lived here, because, tragically, we both happen to be domestically impaired. If we were birds, our nest would consist of a single twig with the eggs attached via Scotch tape. ~ Dave Barry,

226:For some reason, Leah struggled to carry on a casual conversation. She couldn’t make sense of this new, happier Gideon. She picked at the eggs on her plate, spearing a few onto her fork. She raised her eyes to sneak a glance at him. He was watching her, unashamed. He didn’t look away, didn’t say anything, but the tips of his mouth quirked upward in a grin. Who was this man? ~ Misty M Beller,

227:screaming at myself to listen to what I’d learned through thirteen hard years. The shorter the time, the cooler you’ve got to be. If you’ve only got one shot, you’ve got to make it count. You can’t afford to miss because you screwed up the planning. Or because you ran out of blood sugar and got sick and dizzy in the small hours of the morning. So I forced the eggs down and drank ~ Lee Child,

228:The queen bee has control over the sex of the eggs she lays. If she uses stored sperm to fertilize the egg, the larva that hatches is female. If the egg is left unfertilized, the larva that hatches is male. This means that female bees inherit genes from their mothers and their fathers, while male bees inherit only genes from their mothers. —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL ~ Karen White,

229:The greatest achievement was at first and for a time only a dream. Just as the oak sleeps in the acorn, and the bird waits in the egg, so dreams are the seedlings of realities. Beware, therefore, what you dream of. For some dreams are given by the Medium to inspire us by what may yet be. Others are planted within us by others, foul seeds, that we harvest to our destruction.”     - ~ Jeff Wheeler,

230:We don't make bicycles anymore. It's all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways for everyone to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if somebody does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

231:This guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, Doc, my brother’s crazy. He thinks he’s a chicken. The doctor says, Well, why don’t you turn him in? And the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. Well I guess that’s pretty much how I feel about relationships. You know they’re totally irrational and crazy and absurd but I guess we keep going through it because, uh, most of us need the eggs. ~ Woody Allen,

232:I had an excellent repast - the best repast possible - which consisted simply of boiled eggs and bread and butter. It was the quality of these simple ingredients that made the occasion memorable. The eggs were so good that I am ashamed to say how many of them I consumed ....It might seem that an egg which has succeeded in being fresh has done all that can be reasonably expected of it. ~ Henry James,

233:The adult May fly lives only a few hours, just long enough to mate. He has neither mouth nor stomach, but needs neither since he does not live long enough to need to eat. The eggs the May fly leaves hatch after the parent has died. What is it all about. What's the point? There is no point. That's just the way it is. It is neither good nor bad. Life is mainly simply inevitable. (41) ~ Sheldon B Kopp,

234:It reminds me of that old joke- you know, a guy walks into a psychiatrist's office and says, hey doc, my brother's crazy! He thinks he's a chicken. Then the doc says, why don't you turn him in? Then the guy says, I would but I need the eggs. I guess that's how I feel about relationships. They're totally crazy, irrational, and absurd, but we keep going through it because we need the eggs. ~ Woody Allen,

235:Nature has got it all wrong: When you are younger, it should be harder to get pregnant, and as you get older it should be easier. When you are so ready, you can't do it to save your life. And when you are 21, you are so not ready, but you are ripe as could be. The eggs should become more developed the older you get, not die slowly from the day you're born. That's one thing God got wrong. ~ Halle Berry,

236:Bird Nesting O wonderful! In sport we climbed the tree, Eager and laughing, as in all our play, To see the eggs where, in the nest, they lay, But silent fell before the mystery. For, one brief moment there, we understood By sudden sympathy too fine for words That we were sisters to the brooding birds And part, with them, in God’s great motherhood. ~ Ellis Parker Butler,

237:PIPÉRADE—BASQUE PEPPER STEW Sauté sliced onions and garlic in oil until soft. Add thin strips of roasted red peppers and crushed peeled tomatoes, season with salt, pepper, oregano, and paprika, and simmer until incorporated. Break eggs onto the top of the sauce and finish in the oven until the eggs are set but the yolks are still runny. Serve with grilled country bread or as a side dish. ~ Jason Matthews,

238:I have devoted my whole life to the study of Nature, and yet a single sentence may express all that I have done. I have shown that there is a correspondence between the succession of Fishes in geological times and the different stages of their growth in the egg,-this is all. It chanced to be a result that was found to apply to other groups and has led to other conclusions of a like nature. ~ Louis Agassiz,

239:The daguerreotypist once whispered her that these marks betokened the oddities of the Pyncheon family, and that the chicken itself was a symbol of the life of the old house, embodying its interpretation, likewise, although an unintelligible one, as such clews generally are. It was a feathered riddle; a mystery hatched out of an egg, and just as mysterious as if the egg had been addle! ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne,

240:Tía Fermina whispers the prayers so faintly I can't understand them. After she makes dozens of crosses all over my body, she says it's time to see inside the egg, to understand what's been stewing inside of me. Tía cracks the egg into a glass of water and holds it up to the light.. The waters turns thick and cloudy, and when we looks closer, we see a dot of dark blood in the center of the yolk. ~ Erika L S nchez,

241:An egg is not likely to grow on its own," said the crow crossly. "She's right," said Edward. "I've never seen a grown-up egg." "The egg doesn't grow!" cried the bird. "It's what's inside that grows." "Then why don't you sit on what's inside?" Avon asked. "Because there's a shell." "What makes you so sure there's something inside?" asked Edward. "It's always been that way!" insisted the crow. ~ Avi,

242:Who are you?” the creature asked in a flat, sandpaper voice. “I am the egg man,” I said seriously. Darius slightly shook his head. He probably also rolled his eyes. “Egg man,” the creature said. Its head slowly turned to Darius. The suit wasn’t hiding him from the boat captain. “Who are you?” Darius stared at him for a beat. “I am the walrus.” I couldn’t help myself. I was a Beatles fan. “Goo goo g’joob. ~ K F Breene,

243:You were born a winner, a warrior, one who defied the odds by surviving the most gruesome battle of them all - the race to the egg. And now that you are a giant, why do you even doubt victory against smaller numbers and wider margins? The only walls that exist are those you have placed in your mind. And whatever obstacles you conceive, exist only because you have forgotten what you have already achieved. ~ Suzy Kassem,

244:Isaiah and Beth sit on the bed and munch on a shared container of pepper steak. “Stop bogarting the rice.” Isaiah moves some of the pile from Beth’s side of the container, and she darts her fork as if to stab him, but he quickly snatches his hand back. “You got the egg roll,” exclaims Beth. “I get the rice. That’s how stuff works between us, so stop messing with the system. ~ Katie McGarry,

245:Christ, back in Chicago, we don't make bicycles any more. It's all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways for everybody to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if someone does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

246:You see, cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places." "Enormous?" said Jace. "Did you just call me fat?" "It was an analogy." "I am not fat. ~ Cassandra Clare,

247:Christ, back in Chicago, we don’t make bicycles any more. It’s all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways for everybody to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if somebody does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

248:It was the egg,” Slade snapped, “because the mutation began with the misreplication of DNA during fertilization of the embryo and its development.  It wasn’t like an adult bird just magically became a mutant chicken that started popping out more chickens.  I have always thought it was an incredibly stupid question, and whoever came up with it obviously had no background in or understanding of science.” “Personally, ~ Sara King,

249:That’s a millstone for you,” I told her, “I’m sorry,” and the minute it left my mouth, I knew it was coming from the true mind that was me, not the mind for the master to see. I was sorry for her. Sarah had jimmied herself into my heart, but at the same time, I hated the eggshell color of her face, the helpless way she looked at me all the time. She was kind to me and she was part of everything that stole my life. ~ Sue Monk Kidd,

250:You see, cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places." "Enormous?" said Jace. "Did you just call me fat?" "It was an analogy." "I am not fat. ~ Cassandra Clare,

251:Every variety of the name of flesh, old flesh quailing upon aged bones, or the unquenched flesh of boys and women on limbs infirm with the desires that could be represented in effigy but not be slaked except in mime — for they were desires engendered in the forests of the mind, belonging not to themselves but to remote ancestors speaking through them. Lust belongs to the egg and its seat is below the level of psyche. ~ Lawrence Durrell,

252:A really great omelette has two whole eggs and one extra yolk, and by the way, the same thing goes for scrambled eggs. As for egg salad, here’s our recipe: boil eighteen eggs, peel them, and send six of the egg whites to friends in California who persist in thinking that egg whites matter in any way. Chop the remaining twelve eggs and six yolks coarsely with a knife, and add Hellmann’s mayonnaise and salt and pepper to taste. ~ Nora Ephron,

253:At some point in every officer’s career he needs to decide if he is a chicken or a pig when it comes to breakfast.” Tomal’s bright smile quickly morphed into a pinched expression, “You must still be out of it, sir.  You’re talking gibberish.” Hastelloy let out a loud laugh.  “Not at all.  You see the chicken is involved in a breakfast by providing the eggs, but a pig is committed to the meal by providing the bacon and ham. ~ Mark Henrikson,

254:Chances are that any helpful two-year-old will break some eggs. We are often not very good at things when we are new. But there may be an important choice to make at such moments. Do we support and protect the innate wish to be of help to others in our children, or do we protect the eggs? Hard as it seems, the greater mother wisdom may lie in a willingness to clean up broken eggs or replace a mitten and a box of crayons. ~ Rachel Naomi Remen,

255:It is this finality of the Christian concept of the resurrection . . . that distinguishes Christianity from other god-king myths. It happened once . . . this since of finality is probably one reason why early Christians . . . felt that Christianity needed to be supplemented by some elements of an older fertility ritual. They needed the recurring promise of rebirth . . . symbolized by the egg and the rabbit at Easter. P. 100 ~ Carl Gustav Jung,

256:Now they can acquire “the egg from one source (including, in many cases, the intended mother) and the womb from another.”50 This “unbundling” of the supply chain, Spar explains, has prompted growth in the surrogacy market.51 “By removing the traditional link between egg, womb, and mother, gestational surrogacy [has] reduced the legal and emotional risks that had surrounded traditional surrogacy and allowed a new market to thrive. ~ Michael J Sandel,

257:Stracciatella alla Romana 8 cups chicken broth, preferably homemade 6 ounces fresh spinach, cut into strips 4 eggs, plus 2 tablespoons water ½ cup grated Pecorino Romano cheese Salt and pepper Boil the stock and add spinach, cooking until wilted, about 3 minutes. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs with the water; add grated cheese. Whisk the egg mixture briskly into the boiling broth, and add salt and pepper to taste, then serve. ~ Christina Baker Kline,

258:the cuckoo bird," she said, "You see, cuckoos are parasites. THey lay their eggs in in other birds' nests. Whhen the egg hatches, the baby cuckoopushes the other birds out of the nest. THe poor parent birds work to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places.' Enormous?' said Jace. 'Did you just call me fat?' It was an analogy.' I am not fat. ~ Cassandra Clare,

259:In the empty lobby outside the Dance Hall she paused to scent the air from the landing board. The orchard was sweet and cool in the rising dawn, and the rain had almost stopped. The comb began to thrum as the hive awoke and the multitude of sisters began moving. Once desperate to be out on the wing, Flora no longer wanted to forage, only to be still and breather sweet wax. The egg in her belly glowed bright inside her like a tiny sun. ~ Laline Paull,

260:Sport is a mystery to me. In primary school, sports day was the one day of the year when the less academically gifted students could triumph, winning prizes for jumping fastest in a sack, or running from Point A to Point B more quickly than their classmates. How they loved to wear those badges on their blazers the next day! As if a silver in the egg-and-spoon race was some sort of compensation for not understanding how to use an apostrophe. ~ Gail Honeyman,

261:One of the tough things about being an actor, probably the hardest thing, is getting your foot in the door, and my father handled that for me at a very early age. It's funny, I get an image of the thing with eggs and chickens where, when the egg is getting ready to hatch, the little chicken will start to peck at the shell a little bit, and the mom will hear that and start to peck at the shell from the outside, and they're both kind of working together. ~ Jeff Bridges,

262:The lancet fluke (Dicrocoelium) infects the brain of ants by taking control and driving them to climb to the top of a blade of grass where they can be eaten by a cow. The ingested fluke then lays eggs in the cow gut. Eventually, the eggs exit the cow, and hungry snails eat the dung (and fluke eggs). The fluke enters the snail's digestive gland and gets excreted in sticky slime full of a seething mass of flukes to be drunk by ants as a source of moisture. ~ Darrel Ray,

263:Not even a cat was out. The rain surged down with a steady drone. It meant to harm New York and everyone there. The gutters could not contain it. Long ago they had despaired of the job and surrendered. But the rain paid no attention to them… New York people never lived in houses or even in burrows. They inhabited cells in stone cliffs. They timed the cooking of their eggs by the nearest traffic light. If the light went wrong, so did the eggs… ~ Barbara Newhall Follett,

264:In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was programmed in classic binary. And the Word said, “Let there be life!” And so, somewhere in the TechnoCore vaults of my mother’s estate, frozen sperm from my long-dead daddy was defrosted, set in suspension, shaken like the vanilla malts of yore, loaded into something part squirt gun and part dildo, and—at the magic touch of a trigger—ejaculated into Mother at a time when the moon was full and the egg was ripe. ~ Dan Simmons,

265:Some people can’t handle power. Some men seem decent until you give them a slave, and soon they’re a tyrant, beating and raping the slave in their charge. Power is a test, Liv. All power is a test. We don’t call it breaking the halo. We call it breaking the egg. You never know what kind of bird is going to be hatched. And some are born deformed and must be put down. That is tragedy, but not murder. Do you think your father could handle a little extra power? ~ Brent Weeks,

266:I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journeywork of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree toad is a chef-d'oeurve for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels! ~ Walt Whitman,

267:We just watched the egg. At first, it seemed like it'd be okay. But then a crack wiggled its way from the bottom to the top, and the insides took their cue, oozing out with a definitive blurp. "My, my," Pascal said. We watched as the white spread fast and loose, while the bright orange yolk moved with purpose, like a paramecium. "Kinda sexy, no?" he remarked, more to the egg than to me, but I blushed four thousand degrees anyway. Oh. My. God. ~ Jessica Tom,

268:According to her chore list, she was supposed to feed the chickens. Milly hd already retrieved the eggs. She'd mentioned something about egg salad, if she could round up a jar of pickles in the cellar. "A change might do us good," she'd said, which made Twiss laugh. "Nothing like old pickles to oust us from routine." Twiss fed the chickens, each of whom she called Raoul because she couldn't tell them apart, and swept up the droppings on the floor. ~ Rebecca Rasmussen,

269:He found Nora and Wesley bustling about the kitchen attempting to cook breakfast in a manner that appeared more combative than collaborative. “Jesus H. Christ, Wesley,” Nora said with feigned anger. “Cheese omelets have to have cheese or they’re just flat scrambled eggs.” “Woman, Wisconsin is out of cheese now because of your omelet.” Wesley smacked her hand as she tried to put more cheese on the eggs. “Set the table and stop being a backseat chef. ~ Tiffany Reisz,

270:The wonder is that the characteristic efficacy to touch and inspire deep creative centers dwells in the smallest nursery fairy tale-as the flavor of the ocean is contained in a droplet or the whole mystery of life within the egg of a flea. For the symbols of mythology are not manufactured; they cannot be ordered, invented, or permanently suppressed. They are spontaneous productions of the psyche, and each bears within it, undamaged, the germ power of its source. ~ Joseph Campbell,

271:...we often imagined, as we drove, a fictional universe in which Fitzgerald's and Wodehouse's creations might visit one another. Bertie Wooster and Jeeves might have intruded on the rarefied world of the Eggs, silly-ass Bertie stepping into sensible Nick Carraway's shoes, and Reginald Jeeves the fish-eating Spinoza-loving gentleman's gentleman and genius finding a way to give Jay Gatsby the happy-ever-after ending with Daisy Buchanan for which he so profoundly longed. ~ Salman Rushdie,

272:These fireflies that you say you see are like the chick that hatched in our hands,” she explained. “Huh?” “I gave you a very special power the night you brought me the egg. I taught you to see things like I have to see them,” she said. She laid a wrinkly finger on my forehead. “Imagining them. And I see you’ve managed to make good use of that power.” I let out a sigh of wonder. “There’s no creature more amazing than one that can make its own light,” Grandma went on. ~ Paul Pen,

273:Brahmananda Purana, has declared in twelve thousand two hundred verses, the magnificence of the egg of Brahma, and in which an account of the future Kalpa is contained, as was revealed by Brahma. It is usually considered to be in much the same predicament as Skanda, no longer procurable in a collective body, but represented by a variety of Khandas and Mahatmyas, professing to be derived from it. ~ H.H.Wilson, in "Oriental Translation Fund, Volume 52 (Google eBook), Volume 52 (1840)}, p. liv,

274:The egg-man looks over my shoulder. “Those wings aren’t the only proof of your heritage. You’re a traitor, sending us all up river so you could save your petty mortal half. You’re nothing short of a—” “Benedict,” I interrupt between clenched teeth. Hubert’s eyes narrow—curious and hate-filled. “Eggs Benedict.” I point to a picture on the menu. “Poached eggs. Canadian bacon. Hollandaise sauce and an English muffin. And I’d like a side of fruit.” ~ A G Howard,

275:And after I told my six-year-old, grandma died in the accident, after tears and questions she suggested, maybe now is a good time to explain what the man has to do with babies. So i chose one perfect lily from that vase and with the tip of a paring knife slit open the pistil to trace the passage pollen makes to the egg cell- the eggs i then slipped out and dotted on her fingertips, their greenish-white translucent as the air in this blizzard that cannot cool the unbearable heart. ~ Kimiko Hahn,

276:I had found by experience that putting things down on paper helped to clear the mind in precisely the same way, as Mrs. Mullet had taught me, that an eggshell clarifies the consommé or the coffee, which, of course, is a simple matter of chemistry. The albumin contained in the eggshell has the property of collecting and binding the rubbish that floats in the dark liquid, which can then be removed and discarded in a single reeking clot: a perfect description of the writing process. ~ Alan Bradley,

277:PLATITUDE, n. The fundamental element and special glory of popular literature. A thought that snores in words that smoke. The wisdom of a million fools in the diction of a dullard. A fossil sentiment in artificial rock. A moral without the fable. All that is mortal of a departed truth. A demi-tasse of milk-and-mortality. The Pope's-nose of a featherless peacock. A jelly-fish withering on the shore of the sea of thought. The cackle surviving the egg. A desiccated epigram. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

278:I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven, And the narrowest hinge in my hand puts to scorn all machinery, And the cow crunching with depress'd head surpasses any statue, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels. ~ Walt Whitman,

279:A tingle passed through him. Saphira-- I know, she said, her excitement rising. The eggs! Eragon smiled. Eggs! Dragon eggs! As a race, they would not pass into the void. They would survive, and flourish, and return to their former glory, as they had been before the fall of the Riders. Then a horrible suspicion occurred to him. Did you make us forget anything else? he asked Umaroth. If we did, how would we know? replied the white dragon. ~ Christopher Paolini,

280:Morgan sighed. "I," she announced, "am so pathetic." "You are not," I said. "I am." She went over and straightened the cling wrap, corner to corner. "Do you know how many times I've brought in devilled eggs? This is, like, the only time I haven't been sobbing and that's only 'cause I cried all night. And Norman," she said, her voice rising to a wail, "sweet Norman, always just acts so surprised to see the eggs, and pleased, and he never, once, has ever acted like he knew what they meant." ~ Sarah Dessen,

281:Morgan sighed. "I," she announced, "am so pathetic." "You are not," I said. "I am." She went over and straightened the cling wrap, corner to corner. "Do you know how many times I've brought in devilled eggs? This is, like, the only time I haven't been sobbing and that's only 'cause I cried all night. And Norman," she said, her voice rising to a wail, "sweet Norman, always just acts so surprised to see the eggs, and pleased, and he never, once, has ever acted like he knew what they meant. ~ Sarah Dessen,

282:I'll eat whatever you put in front of me." He grinned uneasily, eyeing the egg. "You'll not toss that at my head, will you?" "This?" Helena held the light brown egg between thumb and forefinger. "Why would I do that?" Sven glanced from Hakan to Helena. She cupped the egg and let it roll across her palm. "Helena." Hakan's voice threaded with warning. "Twould please me greatly to have my eggs cooked this morn." She gave the egg a small toss and it plopped into her palm intact. "As you wish. ~ Gina Conkle,

283:The sword was called Kaledvoulc'h, which means hard lightning, though Igraine prefers to call it Excaliber, and I shall call it so as well because Arthur never cared what name his longsword carried. Nor, did he care about his childhood, for certainly I never heard him speak of it. I once questioned him about his early days and he would not answer. “What is the egg to the eagle?” he asked me, then said that he had been born, he had lived, and he had become a soldier, and that was all I needed to know. ~ Bernard Cornwell,

284:Lily heard feet padding along the landing outside her room and then her mother pushed open the door without knocking, carrying a breakfast tray: bread and jam, a glass of pomegranate juice, and a pot of tea. Yesterday, Lily couldn't drink the milk. It was warm, tasted too much like cow, and the egg yolks were bright orange, so she just ate the naan. She had never before eaten flatbread like this- baked on hot stones, dimpled and crusty, it tasted sour and earthy and so delicious, she could eat an entire slab. ~ Donia Bijan,

285:The progress of science has been amazingly rapid in the last decade; but consider the savants, those exhausted hens. They are certainly not “harmonious” natures: they can merely cackle more than before, because they lay eggs oftener: but the eggs are always smaller, [Pg 64] though their books are bigger. The natural result of it all is the favourite “popularising” of science (or rather its feminising and infantising), the villainous habit of cutting the cloth of science to fit the figure of the “general public. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,

286:The egg industry itself funded research on Salmonella and the various ways to cook eggs. What did they find? Salmonella in eggs can survive scrambled, over-easy, and sunny-side-up cooking methods. Sunny side up was found to be the riskiest. The industry-funded researchers bluntly concluded: “The sunny-side-up method should be considered unsafe.”84 In other words, even the egg industry itself knows that its product, prepared in a manner that millions of Americans eat on any given day all across the country, is unsafe. ~ Michael Greger,

287:Metabolically active cells, such as those of the liver, kidneys, muscles, and brain, have hundreds or thousands of mitochondria, making up some 40 per cent of the cytoplasm. The egg cell, or oocyte, is exceptional: it passes on around 100000 mitochondria to the next generation. In contrast, blood cells and skin cells have very few, or none at all; sperm usually have fewer than 100. All in all, there are said to be 10 million billion mitochondria in an adult human, which together constitute about 10 per cent of our body weight. ~ Nick Lane,

288:What are you making?" he asked me. "Eggplant with a pomegranate walnut sauce." It was nice to be able to answer at least something with certainty. I turned the eggplant over in the pan. The sauce was just a mixture of pomegranate juice, good red wine vinegar, garlic, red pepper flakes, and salt. Nothing else. It was hard for me to resist embellishing recipes that called for so little, but the complexity of the juice transformed what would otherwise be the world's most basic support ingredients into a symphony of flavor. ~ Beth Harbison,

289:Alternatively, describing the economic side as ‘finally’ asserting itself could be an attempt to say that although both economic and non-economic factors interact, a larger proportion of the causal impetus comes from the productive forces. But on what basis could one say this? How could one divide the interacting processes and say which played the larger role? We cannot solve the chicken-and-egg problem by saying that while the existence of the species is not due to the egg alone, the egg has more to do with it than the chicken. ~ Anonymous,

290:BIRTH, n. The first and direst of all disasters. As to the nature of it there appears to be no uniformity. Castor and Pollux were born from the egg. Pallas came out of a skull. Galatea was once a block of stone. Peresilis, who wrote in the tenth century, avers that he grew up out of the ground where a priest had spilled holy water. It is known that Arimaxus was derived from a hole in the earth, made by a stroke of lightning. Leucomedon was the son of a cavern in Mount Etna, and I have myself seen a man come out of a wine cellar. ~ Ambrose Bierce,

291:Fuck! How many times do I have to tell you? The butter goes into a butter dish because otherwise it absorbs all the other smells! And the cheese too! Transparent wrap wasn't invented for dogs, shit! And what the hell is this? Lettuce? Why did you leave it in a plastic bag? Plastic ruins everything! I've already told you, Philibert. Where are all those containers I brought home the other day? And what about this lemon? What's it doing in the egg compartment? You cut open a lemon, you wrap it up or put it upside down on a plate, capice? ~ Anna Gavalda,

292:The proteins create a gradient within the egg. Like sugar diffusing out of a cube in a cup of coffee, they are present at high concentration on one end of the egg, and low concentration on the other. The diffusion of a chemical through a matrix of protein can even create distinct, three-dimensional patterns-like a pool of syrup ribboning into oatmeal. Specific genes are activated at the high-concentration end versus at the low-concentration end, thereby allowing the head-tail axis to be defined, or other patterns to be formed. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,

293:A culture that treats women as objects, that gleefully supports entertainment that is more often demeaning toward women than it is not, that encourages the erosion of a woman’s autonomy and personal space, is the same culture that elects state lawmakers who work tirelessly to enact restrictive abortion legislation. Or is it that state lawmakers who work tirelessly to enact restrictive abortion legislation encourage their constituents to treat women as objects? Perhaps this is trickle-down misogyny—which came first, the chicken or the egg? ~ Roxane Gay,

294:Because there is something in the touch of flesh with flesh which abrogates, cuts sharp and straight across the devious intricate channels of decorous ordering, which enemies as well as lovers know because it makes them both:---touch and touch of that which is the citadel of the central I-Am's private own: not spirit, soul; the liquorish and ungirdled mind is anyone's to take in any any darkened hallway of this earthly tenement. But let flesh touch with flesh, and watch the fall of all the eggshell shibboleth of caste and color too. ~ William Faulkner,

295:What are you doing?” Jack asked as he wandered into the kitchen. “I’m cleaning out the refrigerator,” she answered. “I’m going to stop bringing food into this house—we let too much go to waste.” She heard David start to stir and lifted her head like a doe smelling a hunter. “I’ll get him,” Jack said. “He’s heavy.” “Okay. I’ll get his breakfast ready. Would you like me to make you an omelet or something?” “How old are the eggs?” he asked. “Hmm,” she said, looking. “I don’t think they’re deadly yet.” “I think I’ll pass, thanks.” “Coward.” David ~ Robyn Carr,

296:Place the frozen hash browns in the bowl of a food processor. Use the steel blade, and process with an on-and-off motion until the potatoes are finely chopped. (If you don’t have a food processor, you don’t have to go out and buy one to make these. Just lay your frozen potatoes out on a cutting board in single layers, and chop them up into much smaller pieces with a chef’s knife.) Leave the potatoes in the food processor (or on the counter) while you… Crack the eggs into a large bowl and beat them with a fork or a wire whip until they’re fluffy. ~ Joanne Fluke,

297:I didn't have a chance to buy you anything," she said, then held both closed hands toward him. Uncurled her fingers. In each cupped palm a brown egg. He took them. They were cold. He thought it a tender, wonderful thing to do. She had given him something, the eggs, after all, only a symbol, but they had come from her hands as a gift. To him. It didn't matter that he'd bought them himself at the supermarket the day before. He imagined she understood him, that she had to love him to know that it was the outstreched hands, the giving, that mattered. ~ Annie Proulx,

298:sweet music It beats love because there aren’t any wounds: in the morning she turns on the radio, Brahms or Ives or Stravinsky or Mozart. She boils the eggs counting the seconds out loud: 56, 57, 58…she peels the eggs, brings them to me in bed. After breakfast it’s the same chair and listen to the classical music. She’s on her first glass of scotch and her third cigarette. I tell her I must go to the racetrack. She’s been here about 2 nights and 2 days. “When will I see you again?” I ask. She suggests that might be up to me. I nod and Mozart plays. ~ Charles Bukowski,

299:Boy and Egg Every few minutes, he wants to march the trail of flattened rye grass back to the house of muttering hens. He too could make a bed in hay. Yesterday the egg so fresh it felt hot in his hand and he pressed it to his ear while the other children laughed and ran with a ball, leaving him, so little yet, too forgetful in games, ready to cry if the ball brushed him, riveted to the secret of birds caught up inside his fist, not ready to give it over to the refrigerator or the rest of the day. ~ Naomi Shihab Nye,

300:I have been told that when a baby bird is ready to hatch, if you break the egg for the bird, it will die. The bird must peck its own way out of the egg into the world. This aggressive “workout” strengthens the bird, allowing it to function in the outside world. Robbed of this responsibility, it will die. This is also the way God has made us. If he “hatches” us, does our work for us, invades our boundaries, we will die. We must not shrink back passively. Our boundaries can only be created by our being active and aggressive, by our knocking, seeking, and asking ~ Henry Cloud,

301:It was great seeing Annie again. I realised what a terrific person she was and how fun it was just knowing her. And I thought of that old joke, you know. The guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, "Doc, my brother's crazy. He thinks he's a chicken." and the doctor says, "well, why don't you turn him in?" and the guy says, "I would, but o need the eggs."  Well, I guess that's pretty much now how I feel about relationships. You know, they're totally irrational and crazy and absurd and, but, err, I guess we keep going through it because most of us need the eggs. ~ Woody Allen,

302:Suppose a hen is about to lay an egg. Before she gives birth, do you think the egg is already there? Yes, of course. It is inside. You also were inside before you were outside. That means that before you were born, you already existed-inside your mother. The fact is that if something is already there, it does not need to be born. To be born means from nothing you become something. If you are already something, what is the use of being born? So, your so-called birthday is really your Continuation Day. The next time you celebrate, you can say, "Happy Continuation Day. ~ Anonymous,

303:It is more magnificent than what I thought heaven might be, and yet it is all of its wonder, as well.” ... "Iris, we are shut off from it in this life because if any knew its magnificence, life itself would end, for all who are living would seek death. But as the egg must be in the nest for the bird to fly from it, so the living must live and die when nature intends so that the shell may be broken at the point when the living have wings to fly. It is as if in life we are blind, and in death we see. In life we think in error, but in death we know and love and understand. ~ Douglas Clegg,

304:Bugs bug people, but they can kill sheep. Flies, mosquitoes, and gnats can turn the summer into a time of torture for the livestock. Consider nose flies, for example. If they succeed in depositing their eggs into the membrane of the sheep’s nose, the eggs become worm-like larvae, which drive the sheep insane. One shepherd explains: “For relief from this agonizing annoyance, sheep will deliberately beat their heads against trees, rocks, posts, or brush…. In extreme cases of intense infestation, a sheep may even kill itself in a frenzied endeavor to gain respite from the aggravation.”4 ~ Max Lucado,

305:Some tribes [of monkeys] have taken to washing potatoes in the river before eating them, others have not. Sometimes migrating groups of potato-washers meet non-washers, and the two groups watch each other's strange behavior with apparent bewilderment. But unlike the inhabitants of Lilliput, who fought holy crusades over the question at which end to break the egg, the potato-washing monkeys do not go to war with the non-washers, because the poor creatures have no language which would enable them to declare washing a diving commandment and eating unwashed potatoes a deadly heresy. ~ Arthur Koestler,

306:J. Edgar Hoover, the pugnacious director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), put it country-simple for a lay audience when he declared in a widely quoted 1961 speech: "The three biggest threats to America are the Communists, the Beatniks, and the Eggheads." America's secret police chief with the bulldog visage was exaggerating when he fingered the reds, for he knew that the Communist Party USA by this time was largely a front for government spies masquerading as authentic members. As for the eggheads—Hoover never bothered to explain who they were or why they were dangerous. ~ Martin A Lee,

307:What did you tell your father?’ ‘I want to go to Marina Beach tonight with Bindu and Gai.’ ‘Why?’ ‘To see Olive Ridley.’ ‘Who is he?’ ‘Olive Ridley is a turtle.’ ‘A turtle?’ ‘Endangered.’ ‘Why must you go to a beach at midnight to see a turtle?’ ‘The turtles swim in from the sea and walk on the beach at midnight to lay eggs.’ ‘Why are you interested in turtle eggs?’ ‘We have to ensure the eggs are safe. Or Olive Ridleys will become extinct.’ ‘Do boys, too, want to save the Olive Ridleys?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Mythili, just think about it. You. Midnight. Marina Beach. Boys. How could you even ask your father? ~ Manu Joseph,

308:The sun is brahma—this is the teaching. Here is the explanation: In the beginning, this world was nonbeing. This nonbeing became being. It developed. It turned into an egg. It lay there for a year. It burst asunder. One part of the eggshell was of silver, the other part was of gold. The silver part is the earth, the golden part is the sky…. What was born of it, is yonder sun. When it was bom there were shouts and hurrahs, all beings and all desires rose up to greet it. Therefore at its rising and at its every return, there are shouts and hurrahs, all beings and all desires rise up to greet it.6 ~ Erich Neumann,

309:If you could choose to master a single ingredient, no choice would teach you more about cooking than the egg. It is an end in itself; it's a multipurpose ingredient; it's an all-purpose garnish; it's an invaluable tool. The egg teaches your hands finesse and delicacy. It helps your arms develop strength and stamina. It instructs in the way proteins behave in heat and in the powerful ways we can change food mechanically. It's a lever for getting other foods to behave in great ways. Learn to take the egg to its many differing ends, and you've enlarged your culinary repertoire by a factor of ten. ~ Michael Ruhlman,

310:My heart leaped with excitement. Odin was sending me to fight the jotuns in Jotunheim! I jumped up and summoned my spear of light. It blazed with anticipation. “I won’t let you down, sir! I’ll take care of those giants and their wretched sorcery!” “Ah. No.” Odin handed me a Valkyrie Vision body cam. “I need you to take a new photo of the egg. So I can see if it is beginning to hatch.” My spear dimmed. “Oh.” He raised an eyebrow. “It’s an important job. Likely fraught with danger.” “Oh, sure,” I agreed. “Snapping a pic of an egg in a nest would be . . . obviously. I’ll be on my way, then. ~ Rick Riordan,

311:You humans drink our milk and eat the eggs of the chickens and the ducks. Isn't that enough for you? Isn't it enough that we give you our children and what's meant for our children? And if not, when is it enough? All you humans do is take, take, take from the earth and its beautiful creatures, and what do you give back? Nothing. I know humans consider it a grave insult to be called an animal. Well, I would never give a human the fine distinction of being called an animal, because an animal may kill to live but an animal never lives to kill. Humans have to earn the right to be called animals again. ~ David Duchovny,

312:If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through the shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,

313:Part of this may involve the small percentage of histones that are present in the sperm genome. Many of these are located at the imprinting control regions, and may protect these regions from reprogramming when the sperm and the egg fuse25. Histone modifications also play a role in establishing ‘new’ imprints during gamete production. It seems to be important that the imprinting control regions lose any histone modifications that are associated with switching genes on. Only then can the permanent DNA methylation be added26. It’s this permanent DNA methylation that marks a gene with a repressive imprint. ~ Nessa Carey,

314:There was a zombie at my back door. Its eyes swung up, and they were blue, the whites already clouding with the egg rot of death. Its jaw a mess of meat and frozen blood; something had eaten half its face. Its fingertips already worn down to bony nubs, scraped against the window. Flesh hung in strips from it’s hand, and my stomach turned over hard. Black mist rose at the corners of my vision, and the funny rushing sound in my head sounded like a jet plane taking off. I’d know that zombie anywhere. Even if he was dead and mangled, his eyes were the same. Blue as winter ice, fringed with pale lashes. ~ Lilith Saintcrow,

315:If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through that shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,

316:Susurrus whispers through the grass and gorse, godling of the Martian wind, gene-spliced tyke of Zephyros and Ares. His story needs no Ovid, tells itself in the rustle of striplings and flowers he loves, the tale that he is: a zygote collaged from: spermatazoa flensed to nuclear caducei; a mathematical transform by the Fréres Fourier, Jean and Charles, flip of an axis changing Y to X; and the egg from which Eros hatched, is always hatching, offered up blithely to a god of war gone broody, Ares a sharper marksman than any brat with bow and arrow, no more to be argued with than the groundling Renart in a frum. ~ Hal Duncan,

317:Inert Perfection "Inert Perfection, let me chip your shell. You cannot break it through with that soft beak. What if you broke it never, and it befell You should not issue thence, should never speak?" Perfection in the egg, a fluid thing, Grows solid in due course, and there exists; Knowing no urge to struggle forth and sing; Complete, though shell-bound. But the mind insists It shall be hatched ... to this ulterior end: That it be bound by Function, that it be Less than Perfection, having to expend Some force on a nostalgia to be free. ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay,

318:Dino-DNA injected into frog eggs would likely yield something different from dino-DNA in dinosaur eggs-because the micro-environment of the egg would inevitably influence which genetic cascades were expressed. (Fans of the environment shouldn't get too comfortable, either-implanting a frog's DNA into a dinosaur egg would be even less likely to yield a dinosaur.) Because the recipes that build the mind and brain are always sensitive to the environment, there is no guarantee that those recipes will converge on any particular outcome, and there will never be an easy answer to our questions about nature and nurture. ~ Gary F Marcus,

319:Crack 4 eggs into a bowl and season them with salt and a few drops of lemon juice, whisking thoroughly to break them up. Gently melt a little butter in a saucepan over the lowest possible heat and pour in the eggs. Continue to stir with a whisk or a fork, while adding 4 or more tablespoons of butter in thumb-size pieces, letting each be absorbed before you add the next. Never stop stirring, and be patient. It’ll take several minutes for the eggs to start to come together. When they do, pull them from the stove in anticipation of the cooking that will continue due to residual heat. Serve with—what else?—buttered toast. ~ Samin Nosrat,

320:When may did so, he found every cup and saucer, plate, vase, and bowl standing arranged across the floor like pieces in a scaled-up chess game. "The Whitstable family tree," Bryant explained, entering and setting down his tea tray. "It's the only way I could get it sorted out in my head. I had to see them properly laid out, who was descended from whom." He pointed to a milk jug. "Daisy Whitstable is bottom left-hand corner, by the fireguard. Next to her is the egg cup, brother Tarquin... Now, pass me Marion and Alfred Whitstable over there." "What's their significance?" "We need them to drink out of. ~ Christopher Fowler,

321:Christ, back in Chicago, we don’t make bicycles any more. It’s all human relations now. The eggheads sit around trying to figure out new ways for everybody to be happy. Nobody can get fired, no matter what; and if somebody does accidentally make a bicycle, the union accuses us of cruel and inhuman practices and the government confiscates the bicycle for back taxes and gives it to a blind man in Afghanistan.” “And you think things will be better in San Lorenzo?” “I know damn well they will be. The people down there are poor enough and scared enough and ignorant enough to have some common sense! ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

322:Will you have kids?" "You make such an attractive case for the reproductive plunge. I don't know, Duncan. Childhood is so exhausting." "As a parent?" "I mean as the child. Not sure it's fair to drop somebody else into life without giving them a choice in the matter." "You'll find it's kind of tough to canvass the opinion of sperm." "I prefer asking the eggs—they're more articulate. Anyway, aren't you the guy who's always bemoaning the future of humanity? Saying how the worst jerks always have millions of babies, meaning the world gets worse every generation?" "Exactly why decent people need to have kids. ~ Tom Rachman,

323:His lack of story seemed to be of the which-came-first-the-chicken-or-the-egg variety. For example, he thought that if he learned how to hang-glide, then maybe his life’s story could begin there—an adventure! Perhaps there would be a mystical moment up in the sky! But wait—in order to have such adventures, Craig would have to be into hang-gliding to begin with. If he rushed out and chose an activity at random, would he now have a meaningful experience? As Craig wasn’t actually into anything, he was trapped in the chicken-egg loop. Where to start? And how? He felt that his attempts to generate a life story were futile. ~ Douglas Coupland,

324:When a child who has pinworms scratches his or her bottom, the eggs get lodged underneath his or her fingernails. Without serious scrubbing every morning, including underneath fingernails, it’s easy for those eggs to get around. They’re sticky little things and they easily make their way from fingers to everything the child touches—doorknobs, furniture, toys, even food. When other children touch those surfaces, they pick up some eggs. Eventually, those curious fingers make their way into mouths and some eggs are ingested orally, worms hatch in the small intestine, migrate to the large intestine, and begin the cycle again. ~ Sharon Moalem,

325:Do you know about the cuckoo bird, Jonathan Morgenstern?” Jace wondered if perhaps being the Inquisitor—it couldn’t be a pleasant job—had left Imogen Herondale a little unhinged. “The what?” “The cuckoo bird,” she said. “You see, cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds’ nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places.” “Enormous?” said Jace. “Did you just call me fat?” “It was an analogy.” “I am not fat. ~ Cassandra Clare,

326:Do you know about the cuckoo bird, Jonathon Morgenstern?" Jace wonderwd if perhaps being the Inquisitor—it couldn't be a pleasant job—had left Imogen Herondale a little unhinged. "The what?" "The cuckoo bird," she said. "You see, cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food for the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places." "Enormous?" said Jace. "Did you just call me fat?" "It was an analogy." "I am not fat. ~ Cassandra Clare,

327:1213 What Shall I Do When The Summer Troubles 956 What shall I do when the Summer troubles— What, when the Rose is ripe— What when the Eggs fly off in Music From the Maple Keep? What shall I do when the Skies a'chirrup Drop a Tune on me— When the Bee hangs all Noon in the Buttercup What will become of me? Oh, when the Squirrel fills His Pockets And the Berries stare How can I bear their jocund Faces Thou from Here, so far? 'Twouldn't afflict a Robin— All His Goods have Wings— I—do not fly, so wherefore My Perennial Things? ~ Emily Dickinson,

328:It turned out to be a war which, unfortunately for Comrade Pillai, would end almost before it began. Victory was gifted to him wrapped and beribboned, on a silver tray. Only then, when it was too late, and Paradise Pickles slumped softly to the floor without so much as a murmur or even the pretense of resistance, did Comrade Pillai realize that what he really needed was the process of war more than the outcome of victory. War could have been the stallion that he rode, part of, if not all, the way to the Legislative Assembly, whereas victory left him no better off than when he started out. He broke the eggs but burned the omelette. ~ Arundhati Roy,

329:Today, while Mother was watching me work, she suddenly remarked, “They say that people who like summer flowers die in the summer. I wonder if it’s true.” I did not answer but went on watering the eggplants. It is already the beginning of summer. She continued softly, “I am very fond of hibiscus, but we haven’t a single one in this garden.” “We have plenty of oleanders,” I answered in an intentionally sharp tone. “I don’t like them. I like almost all summer flowers, but oleanders are too loud.” “I like roses best. But they bloom in all four seasons. I wonder if people who like roses best have to die four times over again.” We both laughed. ~ Osamu Dazai,

330:Yesterday, I baked a fresh eggplant in the oven with the skin on at 360 ° F for forty minutes. I didn’t do anything except put the eggplant in the oven and turn the oven on. Then I heated a frying pan and added a couple of cups of finely chopped onion, tossing and mixing them with a wooden spoon until they glistened and had a slight tan. I took out the cooked eggplant, sliced it in half, turned it skin-side up (meaty center down), and, using a dish towel, squeezed the skin off, leaving the soft cooked center on the plate. I mixed in the onions, added a tablespoon of Ceylon cinnamon, and it was done. (Sometimes I add some currants and chopped raw onion.) ~ Joel Fuhrman,

331:And each year, more gunters called it quits, concluding that Halliday had indeed made the egg impossible to find. And another year went by. And another. Then, on the evening of February 11, 2045, an avatar’s name appeared at the top of the Scoreboard, for the whole world to see. After five long years, the Copper Key had finally been found, by an eighteen-year-old kid living in a trailer park on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. That kid was me. Dozens of books, cartoons, movies, and miniseries have attempted to tell the story of everything that happened next, but every single one of them got it wrong. So I want to set the record straight, once and for all. ~ Ernest Cline,

332:For Grace, After a Party" You do not always know what I am feeling. Last night in the warm spring air while I was blazing my tirade against someone who doesn’t interest me, it was love for you that set me afire, and isn’t it odd? for in rooms full of strangers my most tender feelings writhe and bear the fruit of screaming. Put out your hand, isn’t there an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside the bed? And someone you love enters the room and says wouldn’t you like the eggs a little different today? And when they arrive they are just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather is holding. ~ Frank O Hara,

333:Chicks THE CHICK in the egg picks at the shell, cracks open one oval world, and enters another oval world. 'Cheep... cheep... cheep' is the salutation of the newcomer, the emigrant, the casual at the gates of the new world. 'Cheep... cheep'... from oval to oval, sunset to sunset, star to star. It is at the door of this house, this teeny weeny eggshell exit, it is here men say a riddle and jeer each other: who are you? where do you go from here? (In the academies many books, at the circus many sacks of peanuts, at the club rooms many cigar butts.) 'Cheep... cheep'... from oval to oval, sunset to sunset, star to star. ~ Carl Sandburg,

334:superstructure and the productive forces is admitted, is it still possible to maintain that production determines the superstructure, rather than the other way round? It is the old chicken-and-egg problem all over again. The productive forces determine the relations of production to which correspond the ideas of the society. These ideas lead to the further development of productive forces, which lead to new relations of production, to which correspond new ideas. In this cyclical movement it makes no more sense to say that productive forces play the determining role than to say that the egg ensures the continued existence of chickens rather than the other way round. ~ Anonymous,

335:He is my Savior. He is my friend. He was born in a manger. And died for my sins. He still lives in heaven above, Looking down on us. He loves us so much, Even if sometimes we’re dumb. And so, we celebrate Christmas every year, Loving God and bringing holiday cheer. But we often get so mixed up in the spirit, We don’t realize what makes Christmas. It’s not about the eggnog, presents, Reindeer, or even elves. It’s about God who sent His One and only Son, Jesus for us. So, whatever you do this year, Remember Christmas is about Jesus, Not Santa Claus and Reindeer. Merry Christmas, Dear! ~ Rachel Nicole Wagner,

336:But do you know how you should live? Like that crow that has built a nest on that palm tree. When it knows it is going to lay eggs, it builds its nest. Then it incubates the eggs and hatches them. It finds food for the little ones and takes care of them until they grow their own wings. Once that happens, what do you think is the relationship between the baby crow and its mother? They go their separate ways. “You got your wings, now get out of here, and fend for yourself.” That’s the way to live. Instead, we give birth, raise them, get them married, save money and struggle. Is this any way to live? If we were more like crows and cuckoos, I’d also like to have children. ~ Perumal Murugan,

337:dairy products. This includes the Swiss in the high Alps, the Arabs (using camel's milk), and the Asiatic races (using milk of sheep and musk ox). In the second place there are those using liberally the organs of animals, and the eggs of birds, wild and domesticated. These include the Indians of the far North, the buffalo hunting Plains Indians and the Andean tribes. In the third place there are those using liberally animal life of the sea. These include Pacific Islanders and coastal tribes throughout the world. In the fourth place there are those using small animals and insects. These include the Australian Aborigines in the interior, and the African tribes in the interior. ~ Anonymous,

338:This process of assimilation, which takes place in depth, requires a state of relaxation that is becoming rarer and rarer. If sleep is the apogee of physical relaxation, boredom is the apogee of mental relaxation. Boredom is the dream bird that hatches the egg of experience. A rustling in the leaves drives him away. His nesting places - the activities that are intimately associated with boredom - are already extinct in the cities and are declining in the country as well. With this the gift for listening is lost and the community of listeners disappears. For storytelling is always the art of repeated stories, and this art is lost when the stories are no longer retained. ~ Walter Benjamin,

339:I’ll never forget that Depression Easter Sunday. Our son was four years old. I bought ten or fifteen cents’ worth of eggs. You didn’t get too many eggs for that. But we were down. Margaret said, ‘Why he’ll find those in five minutes.’ I had a couple in the piano and all around. Tommy got his little Easter basket, and as he would find the eggs, I’d steal ’em out of the basket and re-hide them. The kid had more fun that Easter than he ever had. He hunted Easter eggs for three hours and he never knew the difference. (Laughs.) “My son is now thirty-nine years old. And I bore him to death every Easter with the story. He never even noticed his bag full of Easter eggs never got any fuller. . . . ~ Studs Terkel,

340:The Inquisitor stared at him as if he were a talking cockroach. "Do you know about the cuckoo bird, Jonathan Morgenstern?" Jace wondered if perhaps being the Inquisitor—it couldn't be a pleasant job—had left Imogen Herondale a little unhinged. "The cuckoo bird," she said. "You see, cuckoos are parasites. They lay their eggs in other birds' nests. When the egg hatches, the baby cuckoo pushes the other baby birds out of the nest. The poor parent birds work themselves to death trying to find enough food to feed the enormous cuckoo child who has murdered their babies and taken their places." "Enormous?" said Jace. "Did you just call me fat?" "It was an analogy." "I am not fat. ~ Cassandra Clare,

341:Facts swooped like swallows, darting across her mind; there was a rush of pride in things still remembered. Singing was limited to the perching birds, the order Passeriformes. Nearly half the birds in the world didn't sing, but they still used sound to communicate- calls as opposed to song. Most birds had between five and fifteen distinct calls in their repertoire; alarm and territorial defense calls, distress calls from juveniles to bring an adult to the rescue, flight calls to keep the flock coordinated, even separate calls for commencing and ending flight. Nest calls. Feeding calls. Pleasure calls. Some chicks used calls to communicate with their mothers while they were still in the egg. ~ Tracy Guzeman,

342:Through Red’s eyes, this entire Universe is about Relationship — between the most minute particles and the grandest galaxies, between the chicken and the egg, between the ocean and the sand, between this book and the Energy that inspired this book, between the light and the dark, between the masculine and the feminine, between spirit and soul, between everything and no-thing, between true and false, between inner and outer, between friend and foe, between that dimension and this dimension, between my hand and your heart, between your foot and the ground, and most important, between you and You, you (You) and God/dess, you (You) and “Them,” and well, you get the gist. Essentially, this makes everyone and everything our Lovers. ~ Sera Beak,

343:For Grace, After a Party"   You do not always know what I am feeling. Last night in the warm spring air while I was blazing my tirade against someone who doesn't interest     me, it was love for you that set mc afire,   and isn't it odd? for in rooms full of strangers my most tcndcr feelings                        writhe and bear the. fruit of screaming. Put out your hand, isn't there              an ashtray, suddenly, there? beside the bed? And someone you love enters the room and says wouldn't                       you like the eggs a little different today?                      And when they arrive they are just plain scrambled eggs and the warm weather is holding. ~ Frank O Hara,

344:If there is a hard, high wall and an egg that breaks against it, no matter how right the wall or how wrong the egg, I will stand on the side of the egg. Why? Because each of us is an egg, a unique soul enclosed in a fragile egg. Each of us is confronting a high wall. The high wall is the system which forces us to do the things we would not ordinarily see fit to do as individuals . . . We are all human beings, individuals, fragile eggs. We have no hope against the wall: it's too high, too dark, too cold. To fight the wall, we must join our souls together for warmth, strength. We must not let the system control us -- create who we are. It is we who created the system. (Jerusalem Prize acceptance speech, JERUSALEM POST, Feb. 15, 2009) ~ Haruki Murakami,

345:Please do, however, allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: Rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this: "Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg." Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be? ~ Haruki Murakami,

346:Get him! Catch him!” the Widow shrieked. Was it my imagination or were the eggs inside her writhing faster and faster? Her immense white abdomen looked like a pot of water coming to a boil. “You fools!” she gasped at the spiders. “If you cannot catch him, I’ll do it myself!” From beneath her abdomen, a long white fleshy coil rose up like a vast snake. It spasmed and I ducked just in time as a coil of white webbing shot out. Holy fuck, I needed to get out of here now! “Stay still!” the Widow ordered me imperiously—like I was going to obediently wait while she webbed me up again. “My eggs are almost fully ripe—they must be fertilized and implanted now.” “Sorry, lady,” I growled, dodging another loop of white webbing. “Not my fuckin’ problem.” I ~ Evangeline Anderson,

347:Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.” ― Mark Twain, Mark Twain: The Innocents Abroad/Roughing It Dum vivimus vivamus "While we live, let us live". This too shall pass... I Corinthians 10:12 Be still and know... Psalm 46:10 "Damn my eggs. Damn all the eggs there ever was." A Raisin in the Sun Anything is possible, but many things are highly unlikely. Only those who will risk going to far can possibly find out how far one can go. T.S. Eliot Do I dare Disturb the universe? TS Eliot ~ Mark Twain,

348:In his little speech to Alice, Humpty Dumpty sketches the future of human hopes and gives the clue to our salvation: to become masters of the words we speak, to make language answer our needs, Humpty Dumpty was a prophet, a man who spoke truths the world wasn't ready for. For all men are eggs, in a manner of speaking. We exist, but we haven't yet achieved the form that is our destiny. We are pure potential, an example of the not-yet-arrived. For man is a fallen creature--we know that from Genesis. Humpty Dumpty is also a fallen creature. He falls from his wall, and no one can put him back together again--neither his king, nor his horses, nor his men. But that is what we must all now strive to do. It is our duty as human beings to put the egg back together again. ~ Paul Auster,

349:Without another word, we began to eat. I was hungry, but no appetite would excuse the way we set upon those dishes. We shoveled food into our mouths in a manner ill befitting our fine attire. Bears would have blushed to see us bent over our plates. The pheasant, still steaming from the oven, its dark flesh redolent with the mushroom musk of the forest floor, was gnawed quickly to the bone. It was a touch gamy - no milk-fed goose, this - but it was tender, and the piquant hominy balanced that wild taste as I had hoped it would. The eggs, laced pink at the edges and floating delicately in a carnal sauce, were gulped down in two bites. The yolks were cooked to that rare liminal degree, no longer liquid but not yet solid, like the formative moment of a sun-colored gem. ~ Eli Brown,

350:He saw then that there was a lens at one end, disguised as a dewdrop in the throat of an asphodel. Gently he took the egg in his hands, closed one eye, and looked. The light of the interior was not, as he had half expected, gold tinted, but brilliantly white, deriving from some concealed source. A world surely meant for Earth shone within, as though seen from below the orbit of the moon—indigo sea and emerald land. Rivers brown and clear as tea ran down long plains. His mother said, “Isn’t it pretty?” Night hung at the corners in funereal purple, and sent long shadows like cold and lovely arms to caress the day; and while he watched and it fell, long-necked birds of so dark a pink that they were nearly red trailed stilt legs across the sky, their wings making crosses. ~ Gene Wolfe,

351:Between the sky and the egg-shaped, egg-smooth granite boulder that floats out in the middle of the meadow’s widest field, everything has its own green: cattails, willow leaves, the flip side of an aspen leaf, the gray-green sage, the yellow-green native pasture, the loden timber, all circling around, with that boulder at the center, as if the meadow were a green ear held up to listen to the sky’s blue, and there is an axis drawn between the boulder and the sun. Elsewhere on the mountain, most of the green stays locked in pines, the prairie is scorched yellow. But Lyle’s meadow is a hemorrhage of green, and a green clockwork of waterways and grasses, held up to the sky in its ring of ridges, held up for the sky to listen, too. The granite boulder is only there to hold it down. ~ James Galvin,

352:I am afraid I am going to drift into fiction, truthful but incomplete, for lack of some details which I cannot conjure up today and which might have enlightened us. This morning, the idea of the egg came again to my mind and I thought that I could use it as a crystal to look at Madrid in those days of July and August 1940—for why should it not enclose my own experiences as well as the past and future history of the Universe? The egg is the macrocosm and the microcosm, the dividing line between the Big and the Small which makes it impossible to see the whole. To possess a telescope without its other essential half—the microscope—seems to me a symbol of the darkest incomprehension. The task of the right eye is to peer into the telescope, while the left eye peers into the microscope. ~ Leonora Carrington,

353:Ali had had four wives and sixteen children, not counting the six who died as youngsters. "I'm so sorry," I said, wincing at the magnitude of his loss. "It was a long time ago," he said, puzzled by my concern. "Are you married?" he asked. "How long?" Six years, no children, I told him, adding, "But that will probably change next year." "How do you know?" "What?" "How do you know it will change? It is on God's hands." "Well, some practices will start and others will stop," I said. He gasped. "It's wrong. You are killing the eggs, the sperm." "You know," I said, "the female body ejects its eggs every month." "Yes," he said, gripping the table's edge, "but the sperm! They must move freely. You mustn't hold them back. It's murder! ~ Dan Morrison,

354:All this reprogramming of the genome in normal early development changes the epigenome of the gametes and creates the new epigenome of the zygote. This ensures that the gene expression patterns of eggs and sperm are replaced by the gene expression patterns of the zygote and the subsequent developmental stages. But this reprogramming also has another effect. Cells can accumulate inappropriate or abnormal epigenetic modifications at various genes. These disrupt normal gene expression and can even contribute to disease, as we shall see later in this book. The reprogramming of the egg and the sperm prevent them from passing on from parent to offspring any inappropriate epigenetic modifications they have accumulated. Not so much wiping the slate clean, more like re-installing the operating system. ~ Nessa Carey,

355:I look over at Andie. “Please don’t tell me she’s going to touch chicken poop.” Andie’s face is totally impassive. “Nope.” “Phew. That’s a relief.”… “She is going to touch their eggs, though.” … “Then she is going to touch their poop.” She laughs, sounding confused. “How so?” She takes a sip of her drink as she waits to be educated by me. I cringe. “Ew, Andie. Because the eggs come from their butts, of course.” Andie laughs so hard she spits coffee out at me … “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She wipes tears away. “Oh, man, Candice, I sure have missed you.” I frown at her obvious ignorance of all things chicken. “I missed you too. But why are you laughing over simple scientific facts? Google is your friend, you know, Andie. You really shouldn’t neglect your Googling. ~ Elle Casey,

356:If that dickwad Sabin wants to talk to her, that means Gwennie will want to, as well.” Kaia drummed her nails against the tabletop. “And as you know, puppy, I ensure that my sister gets what she wants. Besides, I’m about to die of boredom since no one has attacked the fortress as promised.” “Harpy,” Aeron snapped. “Don’t try my patience. You will obey me in this and let the angel go.” “Warriors are so adorable when they think they’re all tough and commanding.” Kaia’s arm shot out, again rattling dishes, and she snatched up a handful of eggs. A handful she then launched at Aeron. Olivia quickly dodged, and the eggs slapped Aeron in the face. His lips curled in a grimace as he wiped away the yellow mess. Rather than touch her again, however, he flattened his palms on the arms of the chair. Kaia ~ Gena Showalter,

357:High Explosive HIGH EXPLOSIVE by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson 'Twas the dingo pup to his dam that said, "It's time I worked for my daily bread. Out in the world I intend to go, And you'd be surprised at the things I know. "There's a wild duck's nest in a sheltered spot, And I'll go right down and I'll eat the lot." But when he got to his destined prey He found that the ducks had flown away. But an egg was left that would quench his thirst, So he bit the egg and it straightway burst. It burst with a bang, and he turned and fled, For he thought that the egg had shot him dead. "Oh, mother," he said, "let us clear right out Or we'll lose our lives with the bombs about; And it's lucky I am that I'm not blown up It's a very hard life," said the dingo pup. ~ Banjo Paterson,

358:I rolled the egg in my fingers, astonished by the purity of the light blue color and the symmetry of its shape. I found myself handling it delicately, as though afraid it might crack at my touch. This was more than just a beautiful object. Unlike all the other parts of birds, mammals, frogs, or snakes these young ravens might have eaten, this morsel still had a possible future. It could become a living bird. It had the potential to become a robin with a red breast who sings a beautifully melodious song at dawn. This egg was like the underdog kid who has beaten all the odds. The audience is cheering for him or her to continue, because he or she represents everyone’s hope. I gently placed the egg into my mouth, cradled it on my tongue, and took it down with me to find a robin’s nest and foster parents. Meanwhile, ~ Bernd Heinrich,

359:It is said that once upon a time St. Kevin was kneeling with his arms stretched out in the form of a cross in Glendalough. . . As Kevin knelt and prayed, a blackbird mistook his outstretched hand for some kind of roost and swooped down upon it, laid a clutch of eggs in it and proceeded to nest in it as if it were the branch of a tree. Then, overcome with pity and constrained by his faith to love all creatures great and small, Kevin stayed immobile for hours and days and nights and weeks, holding out his hand until the eggs hatched and the fledging grew wings, true to life if subversive of common sense, at the intersection of natural process and the glimpsed ideal, at one and the same time a signpost and a reminder. Manifesting that order of poetry where we can at last grow up to that which we stored up as we grew. ~ Seamus Heaney,

360:Raeanne Mirror, Mirror When I look into a mirror, it is her face I see. Her right is my left, double moles, dimple and all. My right is her left, unblemished. We are exact opposites, Kaeleigh and me. Mirror image identical twins. One egg, one sperm one zygote, divided, sharing one complete set of genetic markers. On the outside we are the same. But not inside. I think she is the egg, so much like our mother it makes me want to scream. Cold. Controlled. That makes me the sperm I guess. I take completely after our father. All Daddy, that's me. Codependent. Cowardly. Good, bad. Left, right. Kaeleigh and Raeanne. One egg, one sperm. One being, split in two. And how many souls? ~ Ellen Hopkins,

361:Not long after he moved, the mail carrier got embroiled in a battle with the Middletown government over the flock of chickens that he kept in his yard. He treated them just as Mamaw had treated her chickens back in the holler: Every morning he collected all the eggs, and when his chicken population grew too large, he’d take a few of the old ones, wring their necks, and carve them up for meat right in his backyard. You can just imagine a well-bred housewife watching out the window in horror as her Kentucky-born neighbor slaughtered squawking chickens just a few feet away. My sister and I still call the old mail carrier “the chicken man,” and years later even a mention of how the city government ganged up on the chicken man could inspire Mamaw’s trademark vitriol: “Fucking zoning laws. They can kiss my ruby-red asshole.” The ~ J D Vance,

362:Gus flipped open the egg carton and handed Isaac an egg. Isaac tossed it, missing the car by a solid forty feet. "A little to the left," Gus said. "My throw was a little to the left or I need to aim a little to the left?" "Aim left." Isaac swiveled his shoulders. "Lefter," Gus said. Isaac swiveled again. "Yes. Excellent. And throw hard." Gus handed him another egg, and Isaac hurled it, the egg arcing over the car and smashing against the slow-sloping roof of the house. "Bull's-eye!" Gus said. "Really?" Isaac asked excitedly. "No, you threw it like twenty feet over the car. Just, throw hard, but keep it low. And a little right of where you were last time." Isaac reached over and found an egg himself from the carton Gus cradled. He tossed it, hitting a tailing. "Yes!" Gus said. "Yes! TAILLIGHT! ~ John Green,

363:I watched bulls bred to cows, watched mares foal, I saw life come from the egg and the multiplicative wonders of mudholes and ponds, the jell and slime of life shimmering in gravid expectation. Everywhere I looked, life sprang from something not life, insects unfolded from sacs on the surface of still waters and were instantly on prowl for their dinner, everything that came into being knew at once what to do and did it, unastonished that it was what it was, unimpressed by where it was, the great earth heaving up bloodied newborns from every pore, every cell, bearing the variousness of itself from every conceivable substance which it contained in itself, sprouting life that flew or waved in the wind or blew from the mountains or stuck to the damp black underside of rocks, or swam or suckled or bellowed or silently separated in two. ~ E L Doctorow,

364:Mouthbrooding is a common form of behavior in cichlids. Typically, it refers to post-spawning behavior in which parents (usually females) hold their brood of fertilized eggs inside their mouths until they hatch and sometimes even after that. This provides the eggs and fry with a haven from predators, a point commonly portrayed in crowd-pleasing nature videos that depict young fish darting back into their parent’s mouth at the first sign of danger. Conspicuously missing from these lighthearted reports is the fact that parents holding a mouthful of eggs usually eat a considerable portion of them, and sometimes the entire brood. Also destined for the digital equivalent of the cutting room floor are shots showing male cichlids fertilizing the eggs in the females’ mouths, always a difficult topic to explain during family TV time. Mouthbrooders ~ Bill Schutt,

365:Savory Frittata Always use naturally nested eggs laid by uncaged chickens. The eggs taste better, and the chickens will thank you. 4 medium potatoes, scrubbed and diced fine 6 large, fresh eggs 1/ 4 cup cream 3/ 4 cup chopped tomatoes 1 small zucchini, grated 1/ 4 sweet onion, chopped 1 Tablespoon minced herbs, including oregano, thyme, flat-leaf parsley, red pepper flakes, garlic 2 Tablespoons olive oil + 1 Tablespoon sweet butter salt and pepper to taste 1 cup shredded cheese In a wide ovenproof skillet, grill the potatoes in olive oil and butter until browned. Add zucchini and onions, then tomatoes and herbs. Season with salt and pepper. Whisk the eggs together with cream and pour the mixture over potatoes. Sprinkle on the cheese. Bake at 400 ° F degrees for 25 minutes or until top is firm. Serve in wedges warm, or at room temperature. ~ Susan Wiggs,

366:Break out to go out: The birds dare to break the egg shell It does so in order to get out of that Hell When it finally succeeds, it’ll then fly To its comfort zone it’ll say bye Are you being confined in a small space How long will you remain at that place? Before you can explore more territories, Break away from the former glories. Yesterday’s excellence is today’s average You must strive to be better age after age Never accept the available mediocrity As the only preferable opportunity Decide to grow from below to hero And make it a point to vacate level zero Reach out and arise with power God’s blessings on you, will shower Agree to grow, never attempt to be slow Be not afraid. Never doubt. You’ll flow The grace of God will be your guide Taking you along, side by side. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

367:During the period in question, the changes in the empty space in the womb can only be identified by an anatomical or gynecological examination. Yet these changes, only recently identified by scientists, are miraculously indicated in Surat ar-Ra‘d: Allah knows what every female bears and every shrinking of the womb and every swelling. Everything has its measure with Him. (Qur'an, 13:8) At the beginning of the menstrual period, the mucous on the walls of the womb (the endometrium layer) is 0.5 mm (0.02 inch) thick. Under the effect of hormones secreted by the egg, this layer grows and reaches a thickness of 5-6 mm (0.2 inch). This layer is then discarded in the absence of fertilisation. As we see from the above verse, this monthly increase and reduction in the walls of the womb is indicated in the Qur'an. ~ Harun Yahya,

368:Gardener I am in love with my womb & jealous of it. I cover it tenderly with a little pink hat (a sort of yarmulke) to protect it from men. Then I listen for the gentle ping of the ovary: a sort of cupid's bow released. I'm proud of that. & the spot of blood in the little hat & the egg so small I cannot see it though I pray to it. I imagine the inside of my womb to be the color of poppies & bougainvillea (though I've never seen it). But I fear the barnacle which might latch on & not let go & fear the monster who might grow to bite the flowers & make them swell & bleed. So I keep my womb empty & full of possibility. Each month The blood sheets down like good red rain. 84 I am the gardener. Nothing grows without me. ~ Erica Jong,

369:Masters, holding aloft a hard-boiled egg from the free lunch as if it were a crystal ball, said, “Have you gentlemen ever considered the question of the true nature of the University? Mr. Stoner? Mr. Finch?” Smiling, they shook their heads. “I’ll bet you haven’t. Stoner, here, I imagine, sees it as a great repository, like a library or a whorehouse, where men come of their free will and select that which will complete them, where all work together like little bees in a common hive. The True, the Good, the Beautiful. They’re just around the corner, in the next corridor; they’re in the next book, the one you haven’t read, or in the next stack, the one you haven’t got to. But you’ll get to it someday. And when you do—when you do—” He looked at the egg for a moment more, then took a large bite of it and turned to Stoner, his jaws working and his dark eyes bright. ~ John Williams,

370:Gougères Gougères are airy French cheese puffs that originated in France, and are traditionally served this time of year with champagne dry, not brut. 1 cup water 1 stick unsalted butter, cut into small pieces 1/2 teaspoon salt 1 cup flour 4 large eggs 1 1/2 cups coarsely grated Gruyère cheese Preheat oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper. Place the water, butter and salt in a saucepan and bring to a boil, then reduce heat to moderate. Add flour all at once and beat with a wooden spoon until the mixture pulls away from side of pan. Transfer mixture—known as pâte à choux—to a bowl and use an electric mixer to beat in the eggs, one at a time. If the batter is too stiff, add another egg. Stir the Gruyère into the pâte à choux and drop by tablespoons, about one inch apart, on the baking sheet. Bake for about twenty-five minutes, or until golden brown. Serve warm. ~ Susan Wiggs,

371:Break out to go out          The birds dare to break the egg shell It does so in order to get out of that Hell When it finally succeeds, it’ll then fly To its comfort zone it’ll say bye Are you being confined in a small space How long will you remain at that place? Before you can explore more territories, Break away from the former glories. Yesterday’s excellence is today’s average You must strive to be better age after age Never accept the available mediocrity As the only preferable opportunity Decide to grow from below to hero And make it a point to vacate level zero Reach out and arise with power God’s blessings on you, will shower Agree to grow, never attempt to be slow Be not afraid. Never doubt. You’ll flow The grace of God will be your guide Taking you along, side by side. ~ Israelmore Ayivor,

372:Your essays spoke of beauty, of love, of light and darkness, of joy and sorrow, and of the goodness of life. They were wonderful compositions. I have seldom read any that have touched me more. To thank you and your teacher Mrs. Ellis, I am sending you what I think is one of the most beautiful and miraculous things in the world—an egg. I have a goose named Felicity and she lays about forty eggs every spring. It takes her almost three months to accomplish this. Each egg is a perfect thing. I am mailing you one of Felicity's eggs. The insides have been removed—blown out—so the egg should last forever. I hope you will enjoy seeing this great egg and loving it. Thank you for sending me your essays about being somebody. I was pleased that so many of you felt the beauty and goodness of the world. If we feel that when we are young, then there is great hope for us when we grow older. ~ E B White,

373:Nothing in the community lives in isolation from the rest, not even the queens of the social insects. Nothing lives only in itself, needing nothing from the community. Nothing lives only for itself, owing nothing to the community. Nothing is untouchable or untouched. Every life is on loan from the community from birth and without fail is paid back to the community in death. The community is a web of life, and every strand of the web is a path to all the other strands. Nothing is exempt or excused. Nothing is special. Nothing lives on a strand by itself, unconnected to the rest. As you saw yesterday, nothing is wasted, not a drop of water or a molecule of protein—or the egg of a fly. This is the sweetness and the miracle of it all, Jared. Everything that lives is food for another. Everything that feeds is ultimately itself fed upon or in death returns its substance to the community. ~ Daniel Quinn,

374:Eschatology <i>for Richard Exner</i> Mind dwells on apocalypse, the body digs the shutting of a gate, the turning of a sod, a page once done is done, a work complete the change, the travelling come down to this, the great circle of days, recurrence of the simplest things. Between two slabs I dig a wine-cellar, floor it with brick, wall it with brick and board soon I will stock it, build a new shed over it, soon the eggplants will rise, tomatoes push up behind the basil, and my child will be walking. You write from California astonished at my faith in Things What can I say? There is a place, a border where chill leaves the words, where even the fire leaves and all that is said becomes hopeless. Deeper still there is a place where it begins again. ~ David Brooks,

375:The Story of the Rabbit and the Eggplant Once there was a race between a rabbit and an eggplant. Now, the eggplant, as you know, is a member of the vegetable kingdom, and the rabbit is a very fast animal. Everybody bet lots of money on the eggplant, thinking that if a vegetable challenges a live animal with four legs to a race, then it must be that the vegetable knows something. People expected the eggplant to win the race by some clever trick of philosophy. The race was started, and there was a lot of cheering. The rabbit streaked out of sight. The eggplant just sat there at the starting line. Everybody knew that in some surprising way the eggplant would wind up winning the race. Nothing of the sort happened. Eventually, the rabbit crossed the finish line and the eggplant hadn’t moved an inch. The spectators ate the eggplant. Moral: Never bet on an eggplant. ~ Daniel Pinkwater,

376:Symbols I watched a rosebud very long Brought on by dew and sun and shower, Waiting to see the perfect flower: Then, when I thought it should be strong, It opened at the matin hour And fell at evensong. I watched a nest from day to day, A green nest full of pleasant shade, Wherein three speckled eggs were laid: But when they should have hatched in May, The two old birds had grown afraid Or tired, and flew away. Then in my wrath I broke the bough That I had tended so with care, Hoping its scent should fill the air; I crushed the eggs, not heeding how Their ancient promise had been fair: I would have vengeance now. But the dead branch spoke from the sod, And the eggs answered me again: Because we failed dost thou complain? Is thy wrath just? And what if God, Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, Should also take the rod? ~ Christina Georgina Rossetti,

377:The rock has split, the egg has hatched, the prismatically plumed bird of life has escaped from its cage. It spreads its wings and is perched now on the peak of the huge African mountain Kilimanjaro. Strange recompense, in the depths of our despair at the unfathomable mist into which all mankind is plunging, a curious force awakens. It is Hope long asleep, aroused once more. Wilson has taken an army of advisers and sailed for England. The ship has sunk. But the men are all good swimmers. They take the women on their shoulders and buoyed on by the inspiration of the moment they churn the free seas with their sinewy arms, like Ulysses, landing all along the European seaboard. Yes, hope has awakened once more in men's hearts. It is NEW! Let us go forward! The imagination, freed from the handcuffs of "Art", takes the lead! Her Feet are bare and not too delicate. In fact those who come behind her have much to think of. Hm. Let it pass. ~ William Carlos Williams,

378:We’re terribly worried about Uncle Henry. He thinks he’s a chicken.’ ‘Well, why don’t you send him to the doctor?’ ‘Well, we would, only we need the eggs.’ ” Standish stared at her as if a small but perfectly formed elderberry tree had suddenly sprung unbidden from the bridge of her nose. “Say that again,” he said in a small, shocked voice. “What, all of it?” “All of it.” Kate stuck her fist on her hip and said it again, doing the voices with a bit more dash and Southern accents this time. “That’s brilliant,” Standish breathed when she had done. “You must have heard it before,” she said, a little surprised by this response. “It’s an old joke.” “No,” he said, “I have not. We need the eggs. We need the eggs. We need the eggs. ‘We can’t send him to the doctor because we need the eggs.’ An astounding insight into the central paradoxes of the human condition and of our indefatigable facility for constructing adaptive rationales to account for it. Good God.” Kate ~ Douglas Adams,

379:He met his day in the shower, washing his hair with shampoo that was guaranteed to have never been put in a bunny's eyes and from which ten percent of the profits went to save the whales. He lathered his face with shaving cream free of chlorofluorocarbons, thereby saving the ozone layer. He breakfasted on fertile eggs laid by sexually satisfied chickens that were allowed to range while listening to Brahms, and muffins made with pesticide-free grain, so no eagle-egg shells were weakened by his thoughtless consumption. He scrambled the eggs in margarine free of tropical oils, thus preserving the rain forest, and he added milk from a cartn made of recycled paper and shipped from a small family farm. By the time he finished his second cup of coffee, which would presumably help to educate the children of a poor peasant farmer named Juan Valdez, Sam was on the verge of congratulating himself for single-handedly preserving the planet just by getting up in the morning. ~ Christopher Moore,

380:do the chromosomes behave in ontogenesis?3 The growth of an organism is effected by consecutive cell divisions. Such a cell division is called mitosis. It is, in the life of a cell, not such a very frequent event as one might expect, considering the enormous number of cells of which our body is composed. In the beginning the growth is rapid. The egg divides into two ‘daughter cells’ which, at the next step, will produce a generation of four, then of 8, 16, 32, 64, …, etc. The frequency of division will not remain exactly the same in all parts of the growing body, and that will break the regularity of these numbers. But from their rapid increase we infer by an easy computation that on the average as few as 50 or 60 successive divisions suffice to produce the number of cells4 in a grown man – or, say, ten times the number,2 taking into account the exchange of cells during lifetime. Thus, a body cell of mine is, on the average, only the 50th or 60th ‘descendant’ of the egg that was I. ~ Erwin Schr dinger,

381:The old Jewish Mysteries declare the serpent to be a symbol of Samael, the archangel of Mars and the master of the astral light. In scriptural writings serpents are frequently used to represent currents or waves of force moving in space. The Midgard Snake of the Nordic Eddas, and the Orphic serpent twined about the Egg of the Year, are both symbols of the zodiac and the serpentine course of the sun. The erect serpent of Egypt, and the hooded Naga of India and Cambodia, signify the spinal fire in man. The winged serpents of Gobi, and the Taoist dragons of China, represent both the psychic forces of the soul and the initiates, or sky-men. The Indians of the Southwest of America have serpent symbols of similar significance; and the Quetzalcoatl, or Feathered Snake of Central America, is a symbol of the initiate or high priest. The Druid priests of Britain and Gaul called themselves serpents; and these too are the snakes that St. Patrick is said to have driven from Ireland. ~ Manly P Hall, How to Understand Your Bible,

382:Breakfast was Bond’s favourite meal of the day. When he was stationed in London it was always the same. It consisted of very strong coffee, from De Bry in New Oxford Street, brewed in an American Chemex, of which he drank two large cups, black and without sugar. The single egg, in the dark blue egg-cup with a gold ring round the top, was boiled for three and a third minutes. It was a very fresh, speckled brown egg from French Marans hens owned by some friend of May in the country. (Bond disliked white eggs and, faddish as he was in many small things, it amused him to maintain that there was such a thing as the perfect boiled egg.) Then there were two thick slices of wholewheat toast, a large pat of deep yellow Jersey butter and three squat glass jars containing Tiptree ‘Little Scarlet’ strawberry jam; Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade and Norwegian Heather Honey from Fortnum’s. The coffee pot and the silver on the tray were Queen Anne, and the china was Minton, of the same dark blue and gold and white as the egg-cup. ~ Ian Fleming,

383:All this refers to one aspect only of the evolution of reptiles; needless to say, countless other essential transformations of structure and behaviour were required to make the new creatures viable. The changes could have been gradual-but at each step, however small, all the factors involved in the story had to cooperate harmoniously. The liquid store in the egg makes no sense without the shell. The shell would be useless, in fact murderous, without the allantois and without the tin-opener. Each change, taken in isolation, would be harmful, and work against survival. You cannot have a mutation A occurring alone, preserve it by natural selection, and then wait a few thousand or million years until mutation B joins it, and so on, to C and D. Each mutation occurring alone would be wiped out before it could be combined with the others. They are all interdependent. The doctrine that their coming together was due to a series of blind coincidences is an affront not only to commonsense but to the basic principles of scientific explanation. ~ Arthur Koestler,

384:Here’s the sequence of epigenetic events in very early development: The male and female pronuclei (from the sperm and the egg respectively) are carrying epigenetic modifications; The epigenetic modifications get taken off (in the immediate post-fertilisation zygote); New epigenetic modifications get put on (as the cells begin to specialise). This is a bit of a simplification. It’s certainly true that researchers can detect huge swathes of DNA demethylation during stage 2 from this list. However, it’s actually more complicated than this, particularly in respect of histone modifications. Whilst some histone modifications are being removed, others are becoming established. At the same time as the repressive DNA methylation is removed, certain histone marks which repress gene expression are also erased. Other histone modifications which increase gene expression may take their place. It’s therefore too naïve to refer to the epigenetic changes as just being about putting on or taking off epigenetic modifications. In reality, the epigenome is being reprogrammed. ~ Nessa Carey,

385:Still, we permit the appearance of our meats, sauces, fruits, and vdgetables to dominate our tongues until it is difficult to divide a twist of lemon or squeeze of lime from the colors of their rinds or separate yellow from its yolk or chocolate from the quenchless brown which seems to be the root, shoot, stalk, and bloom of it. Yet I hardly think the eggplant's taste is as purple as its skin. In fact, there are few flavors at the violet end, odors either, for the acrid smell of blue smoke is deceiving, as is the tooth of the plum, though there may be just a hint of blue in the higher sauces. Perceptions are always profound, associations deceiving. No watermelon tastes red. Apropos: while waiting for a bus once, I saw open down the arm of a midfat, midlife, freckled woman, suitcase tugging at her hand like a small boy needing to pee, a deep blue crack as wide as any in a Roquefort. Split like paper tearing. She said nothing. Stood. Blue bubbled up in the opening like tar. One thing is certain: a cool flute blue tastes like deep well water drunk from a cup. ~ William H Gass,

386:When Ida Puts Her Armor On When Ida puts her armor on And draws her trusty blade The turnips in the bin turn pale, The apples are afraid. The quiet kitchen city wakes And consternation feels, And quick the tocsin pealeth forth In long potato peels. When Ida puts her armor on The pots and pans succumb, A wooden spoon her drum-stick is, A mixing pan her drum; She charges on the kitchen folk With silver, tin and steel She beat the eggs, she whips the cream, The victory is a meal. When Ida puts her apron on Her breast-plate is of blue. (Checked gingham ruffled top and sides) Her gauntlets gingham, too; And thus protected from assault Of batter, stain and flour She wars with vegetable foes And conquers in an hour. When Ida puts her armor on She is so fair to see Her battle with the kitchen folk Is reproduced in me; So sweet she is, armed cap-a-pie, So good her kitchen art I hardly know which loves her best My palate or my heart. ~ Ellis Parker Butler,

387:Caponata This has an excellent flavor and makes a very nice presentation on a perfect leaf of lettuce, not that Robert and Sal ever gave a hoot about presentation. And it’s even quite low in calories, not that guys care about that, either. Serve this as a traditional antipasto with a good crusty Italian bread and a glass of chilled Pinot Grigio. Peel and dice an eggplant, toss with salt, put in a colander and drain for at least a half hour. Then heat up a heavy skillet and add 1/ 4 cup olive oil, a small onion, chopped, and a stick of celery, also chopped. Add the eggplant and sauté. Finally, add three chopped tomatoes, three minced anchovies, a pinch of sugar, 1/ 4 cup wine vinegar and a spoonful of capers (the best ones come from Pantelleria Island). If your family likes olives, add some of those, too, along with a pinch of red pepper flakes. Simmer for ten minutes. Cool, then store overnight in a glass container. For a smoother spreading consistency, you can whirl the mixture in the food processor, but don’t overdo it. Things that are too smooth lose their character. ~ Susan Wiggs,

388:The idea that human beings cannot logically recognize suffering in a chicken, or draw meaningful conclusions about how a human would react to the conditions under which a caged hen lives, is ridiculous. There is a basis for empathy and understanding in the fact of human evolutionary continuity with other creatures that enables us to recognize and infer, in those creatures, experiences similar to our own. The fact that animals are forcibly confined in environments that reflect human nature, not theirs, means that they are suffering much more than we know in ways that we cannot fathom. If they preferred to be packed together without contact with the world outside, then we would not need intensive physical confinement facilities, and mutilations such as debeaking, since they would voluntarily cram together, live cordially, and save us money. The egg industry thinks nothing of claiming that a mutilated bird in a cage is 'happy,' 'content,' and 'singing,' yet will turn around and try to intimidate you with accusations of 'anthropomorphism' if you logically insist that the bird is miserable. ~ Karen Davis,

389:Loeser's favourite book in Blimk's shop, where he spent most of his afternoons, was still Dames! And how to Lay them. He referred to it constantly, like a psalter, with an inexhaustible excitement at the notion that it was possible to seduce a woman just by following a rigorous system of instructions. The problem was, there wasn't much in it that he felt he could put to practical use. 'Want to impress a dame with morning after the night before? Run to the kitchen while she's still snoozing fit to bust, and come back with what I like to call the Egg Majestique. That's one of every type of egg on a tray: a soft-boiled egg, a hard-boiled egg, an egg over easy, an egg sunny side up, a poached egg, a devilled egg, a pickled egg, a coddled egg, a scrambled egg, a one-egg omelette, and a shot of egg nog for the hangover. No dame will be able to believe you know so many ways to cook eggs. Egg protein is good for the manly function, and after you've pulled off the Egg Majestique, you'll probably need it, if you know what I mean.' This sounded pretty authoritative to Loeser but he just wasn't quite sure. ~ Ned Beauman,

390:So many of us fail: we divorce our wives and husbands, we leave the roofs of our lovers, go once again into the lonely march, mustering our courage with work, friends, half pleasures which are not whole because they are not shared. Yet still I believe in love's possibility, in its presence on the earth; as I believe I can approach the altar on any morning of any day which may be the last and receive the touch that does not, for me, say: There is no death; but does say: In this instant I recognize, with you, that you must die. And I believe I can do this in an ordinary kitchen with an ordinary woman and five eggs. The woman sets the table She watches me beat the eggs. I scramble them in a saucepan, as my now-dead friend taught me; they stand deeper and cook softer, he said. I take our plates, spoon eggs on them, we sit and eat. She and I and the kitchen have become extraordinary; we are not simply eating; we are pausing in the march to perform an act together, we are in love; and the meal offered and received is a sacrament which says: I know you will die; I am sharing food with you; it is all I can do, and it is everything. ~ Andre Dubus,

391:I’m often asked by parents what advice can I give them to help get kids interested in science? And I have only one bit of advice. Get out of their way. Kids are born curious. Period. I don’t care about your economic background. I don’t care what town you’re born in, what city, what country. If you’re a child, you are curious about your environment. You’re overturning rocks. You’re plucking leaves off of trees and petals off of flowers, looking inside, and you’re doing things that create disorder in the lives of the adults around you. And so then so what do adults do? They say, “Don’t pluck the petals off the flowers. I just spent money on that. Don’t play with the egg. It might break. Don’t….” Everything is a don’t. We spend the first year teaching them to walk and talk and the rest of their lives telling them to shut up and sit down. So you get out of their way. And you know what you do? You put things in their midst that help them explore. Help ‘em explore. Why don’t you get a pair of binoculars, just leave it there one day? Watch ‘em pick it up. And watch ‘em look around. They’ll do all kinds of things with it. ~ Neil deGrasse Tyson,

392:Pistachio Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Fig Frosting 2¼ cups flour 1 tablespoon baking powder ½ teaspoon salt 3 eggs 1 cup milk 1 stick butter, softened 1¼ cups sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon pistachio extract 1 cup ground pistachios Preheat oven to 350. Line cupcake pan with paper liners. In a large bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, and salt. In a medium bowl, beat together the eggs, milk, butter, sugar, vanilla, and pistachio extracts. Mix the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients until smooth. Stir in the ground pistachios. Scoop the batter evenly into paper liners. Bake 25 to 30 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center of the cupcake comes out clean. Let cool before frosting. Makes 24. Cream Cheese Frosting with Fig Garnish 8 ounces cream cheese, softened 1 stick unsalted butter, softened ½ teaspoon vanilla extract 3 cups powdered sugar Fresh fig slices Beat cream cheese, butter, and vanilla in large bowl until smooth. Gradually add powdered sugar and beat until frosting is smooth. Put frosting in a pastry bag and pipe onto cupcakes in thick swirls, using an open tip. Top with a slice of fresh fig. ~ Jenn McKinlay,

393:Et supper?" Foote asked. "No, sir," Stoner answered. Mrs. Foote crooked an index finger at him and padded away, Stoner followed her through several rooms into a kitchen, where she motioned him to sit at a table. She put a pitcher of milk and several squares of cold cornbread before him. He sipped the milk, but his mouth, dry from excitement, would not take the bread. Foote came into the room and stood beside his wife. He was a small man, not more than five feet three inches, with a lean face and a sharp nose. His wife was four inches taller, and heavy; rimless spectacles hid her eyes, and her thin lips were tight. The two of them watched hungrily as he sipped his milk. "Feed and water the livestock, slop the pigs in the morning," Foote said rapidly. Stoner looked at him blankly. "What?" "That's what you do in the morning," Foote said, "before you leave for your school. Then in the evening you feed and slop again, gather the eggs, milk the cows. Chop firewood when you find time. Weekends, you help me with whatever I'm doing." "Yes, sir," Stoner said. Foote studied him for a moment. "College," he said and shook his head. ~ John Williams,

394:Let Us Play Yesterday 728 Let Us play Yesterday— I—the Girl at school— You—and Eternity—the Untold Tale— Easing my famine At my Lexicon— Logarithm—had I—for Drink— 'Twas a dry Wine— Somewhat different—must be— Dreams tint the Sleep— Cunning Reds of Morning Make the Blind—leap— Still at the Egg-life— Chafing the Shell— When you troubled the Ellipse— And the Bird fell— Manacles be dim—they say— To the new Free— Liberty—Commoner— Never could—to me— 'Twas my last gratitude When I slept—at night— 'Twas the first Miracle Let in—with Light— Can the Lark resume the Shell— Easier—for the Sky— Wouldn't Bonds hurt more Than Yesterday? Wouldn't Dungeons sorer frate On the Man—free— 624 Just long enough to taste— Then—doomed new— God of the Manacle As of the Free— Take not my Liberty Away from Me— ~ Emily Dickinson,

395:The spermatozoon that conveyed to the egg countless complicated individual and racial characteristics of the father was visible only through a microscope; even the most powerful magnification was not enough to show it as other than a homogeneous body, or to determine its origin; it looked the same in one animal as in another. These factors forced one to the assumption that the cell was in the same case as with the higher form it went to build up: that it too was already a higher form, composed in its turn by the division of living bodies, individual living units. Thus one passed from the supposed smallest unit to a still smaller one; one was driven to separate the elementary into its elements. No doubt at all but just as the animal kingdom was composed of various species of animals, as the human-animal organism was composed of a whole animal kingdom of cell species, so the cell organism was composed of a new and varied animal kingdom of elementary units, far below microscopic size, which grew spontaneously, increased spontaneously according to the law that each could bring forth only after its kind, and, acting on the principle of a division of labour, served together the next higher order of existence. ~ Thomas Mann,

396:The modern philosopher claims, like a sort of confident man, that if we will grant him this, the rest will be easy; he will straighten out the world, if he is allowed to give this one twist to the mind... Against all this the philosophy of St. Thomas stands founded on the universal common conviction that eggs are eggs. The Hegelian may say that an egg is really a hen, because it is a part of an endless process of Becoming; the Berkelian may hold that poached eggs only exist as a dream exists, since it is quite as easy to call the dream the cause of the eggs as the eggs the cause of the dream; the Pragmatist may believe that we get the best out of scrambled eggs by forgetting that they ever were eggs, and only remembering the scramble. But no pupil of St. Thomas needs to addle his brains in order adequately to addle his eggs; to put his head at any peculiar angle in looking at eggs, or squinting at eggs, or winking the other eye in order to see a new simplification of eggs. The Thomist stands in the broad daylight of the brotherhood of men, in their common consciousness that eggs are not hens or dreams or mere practical assumptions; but things attested by the Authority of the Senses, which is from God. ~ G K Chesterton,

397:Depression is hard to understand, because it is not a consistent state. Depression is rather like a virus, but like a virus, it has its manageable days and its acute, life-threatening flare-ups. You can be in a depression and still laugh at a friend’s joke or have a good night at dinner or manage low-level functioning. You grocery shop and stop to pet a puppy on the corner, talk to friends in a café, maybe write something you don’t hate. When this happens, you might examine your day for clues like reading tea leaves in a cup: Was it the egg for breakfast that made the difference? The three-mile run? You think, well, maybe this thing has moved on now. And you make no sudden moves for fear of attracting its abusive attention again. But other times… Other times, it’s as if a hole is opening inside you, wider and wider, pressing against your lungs, pushing your internal organs into unnatural places, and you cannot draw a true breath. You are breaking inside, slowly, and everything that keeps you tethered to your life, all of your normal responses, is being sucked through the hole like an airlock emptying into space. These are the times Holly Golightly called the Mean Reds. I call it White Knuckling it. ~ Libba Bray,

398:GRAHAM CRACKER CAKE Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ½ cup salted butter, softened (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) ¾ cup white (granulated) sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 large eggs 2 teaspoons baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt 2 and ¼ cups graham cracker crumbs 1 cup whole milk 1 cup chopped nuts (measure after chopping—I used walnuts)   8 and ¾ ounce can crushed pineapple WITH juice ¼ cup white (granulated) sugar Hannah’s Note: You can either crush your own graham cracker crumbs by placing graham crackers in a bag and rolling the bag with a rolling pin, crushing them in the food processor by using the steel blade, or you can buy ready-made graham cracker crumbs at the store. Spray a 9-inch square baking pan with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray and sprinkle the inside with flour. Shake out excess flour. You may also use Pam spray for baking, which contains a coating of flour. Both will work well. In an electric mixer, cream the butter and the sugar, adding the sugar gradually with the mixer on MEDIUM speed. Add the vanilla extract and mix it in thoroughly. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, incorporating the first egg before you add the second. Add the baking powder and the salt, beating until ~ Joanne Fluke,

399:Tinkerbells Lemon cupcakes with raspberry buttercream frosting rolled in pink sugar. 1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened 2 cups granulated sugar, divided 4 extra large eggs, at room temperature ⅓ cup grated lemon zest (6 to 8 large lemons) 3 cups flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon salt ¼ cup freshly squeezed lemon juice ¾ cup buttermilk, at room temperature 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cream the butter and 2 cups granulated sugar until fluffy, about 5 minutes. With the mixer on medium speed, add the eggs, one at a time, and the lemon zest. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt in a bowl. In another bowl, combine the lemon juice, buttermilk, and vanilla. Add the flour and buttermilk mixtures alternately to the batter, beginning and ending with the flour. Use an ice cream scoop to fill paper-lined cupcake pan. Bake 20 minutes. Makes 24. Raspberry Buttercream Use previous buttercream recipe, but instead of milk and vanilla, use a half cup of fresh raspberries. Be sure to wash and dry raspberries thoroughly before mixing them in. Roll the cupcakes in pink decorating sugar before the buttercream has set. ~ Jenn McKinlay,

400:My impressions were this: There is an insect called the hunting wasp. The female hunts for spiders and other insects and preys on them in an unusual way. She stings them in the large nerve ganglion on the underside of the thorax so that they are not killed but only paralyzed. She then lays an egg on the paralyzed victim (or within it’s body) and seals the prey up in a nest. When the egg hatches, the wasp larva commences to eat the prey, slowly, gradually, in a highly systemized way. The nonvital tissues and organs are eaten first, so that the paralyzed creature remains alive for a good many days. Eventually, of course, its guest eats away so much of it that it dies. During the whole long process of consumption, the prey cannot move, cry out or resist in any way.” “Now, suppose we view the Church as the hunting wasp, it’s stinger being represented by the nuns and priests who teach in the schools. And let us view the pupils as the paralyzed prey. The egg that is injected into them is the dogma, which in time must hatch into the larva-personal philosophy or religious attitude. This larva, as that of the wasp eats away from within, slowly and in a specialized manner, until the victim in destroyed. That is my impression of parochial education. ~ Tom Robbins,

401:Or one might take the tip of the pencil and magnify it. One reaches the point where a stunning realization strikes home: The pencil tip is not solid; it is composed of atoms which whirl and revolve like a trillion demon planets. What seems solid to us is actually only a loose net held together by gravity. Viewed at their actual size, the distances between these atoms might become league, gulfs, aeons. The atoms themselves are composed of nuclei and revolving protons and electrons. One may step down further to subatomic particles. And then to what? Tachyons? Nothing? Of course not. Everything in the universe denies nothing; to suggest an ending is the one absurdity. If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through the shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,

402:It didn’t take long for us to realize, though, that we hadn’t eaten since the eggs twenty-four hours earlier. Eating was the one desire of the flesh we hadn’t fulfilled. I remembered seeing a McDonald’s near the entrance of our hotel, and since I needed a little exercise I offered to dart out for some safe and predictable American food, which would tide us over till the dinner we had reservations for that night. Our blood sugar was too low to comb the city, looking for a place to have a quick lunch. I knew Marlboro Man was a ketchup-only guy when it comes to burgers, and that’s what I ordered when I approached the counter: “Hamburger, ketchup only, please.” “Sar…you only want kitchipinmite?” the innocent clerk replied. “Excuse me?” “Kitchipinmite?” “Uh…pardon?” “You jis want a hamburger with kitchipinmite?” “Uh…what?” I had no idea what the poor girl was saying. It took me about ten minutes to realize the poor Australian woman behind the counter was merely repeating and confirming my order: kitchip (ketchup) inmite (and meat). It was a traumatic ordering experience. I returned to the hotel room, and Marlboro Man and I dug into our food like animals. “This tastes a little funny,” my new husband said. I concurred. The mite was not right. It didn’t taste like America. ~ Ree Drummond,

403:Well, what is she, then? And where did she come from?” cried the Fledgling shrilly, flapping his short wings and staring down at the cradle. “You tell him, Annabel!” the Starling croaked. Annabel moved her hands inside her blanket. “I am earth and air and fire and water,” she said softly. “I come from the Dark where all things have their beginning.” “Ah, such dark!” said the Starling softly, bending his head to his breast. “It was dark in the egg, too,” the Fledgling cheeped. “I come from the sea and its tides,” Annabel went on. “I come from the sky and it’s stars, I come from the sun and it’s brightness—“ “Ah, so bright!” said the starling, nodding. “And I come from the forests of earth.” As if in a dream, Mary Poppins rocked the cradle—to-and-fro, to-and-fro with a steady swinging movement. “Yes?” whispered the Fledgling. “Slowly I moved at first,” said Annabel, “always sleeping and dreaming. I remembered all I had been and I thought of all I shall be. And when I had dreamed my dream I awoke and came swiftly.” She paused for a moment, her blue eyes full of memories. “And then?” Prompted the Fledgling. “I heard the stars singing as I came and I felt warm wings about me. I passed the beasts of the jungle and came through the dark, deep waters. It was a long journey. ~ P L Travers,

404:Our spirits live and grow in our human bodies much like the chick develops inside the egg. If it were possible for the chick to be told that a great world waits beyond its shell, that this world is filled with fruits and flowers, rivers and great mountains, and that its own mother is also there waiting for it to be set free and to experience this splendor, the chick could still neither comprehend nor believe it. Even if one explained that its feathers and wings and eyes were developing so that it could fly and see, still it would not be able to believe it, nor would any proof be possible, until it broke through its shell. In the same way, there are many people who cannot comprehend the spiritual life or the existence of God because they cannot see beyond the confines of their bodily sense. Their thoughts – like delicate wings – cannot yet carry them beyond the narrow confines of logic. Their weak eyes cannot yet make out those eternal treasures that God has prepared for his children. The only condition necessary for us to break out  of our material limitations and attain spiritual life is darshana that we accept the life-giving warmth of God’s spirit, just as the chick receives its mother’s warmth. Without that warmth, we will not take on the nature of the Spirit and we may die without ever hatching out of this material body. ~ Anonymous,

405:. . . to my surprise I began to know what The Language was about, not just the part we were singing now but the whole poem. It began with the praise and joy in all creation, copying the voice of the wind and the sea. It described sun and moon, stars and clouds, birth and death, winter and spring, the essence of fish, bird, animal, and man. It spoke in what seemed to be the language of each creature. . . . It spoke of well, spring, and stream, of the seed that comes from the loins of a male creature and of the embryo that grows in the womb of the female. It pictured the dry seed deep in the dark earth, feeling the rain and the warmth seeping down to it. It sang of the green shoot and of the tawny heads of harvest grain standing out in the field under the great moon. It described the chrysalis that turns into a golden butterfly, the eggs that break to let out the fluffy bird life within, the birth pangs of woman and of beast. It went on to speak of the dark ferocity of the creatures that pounce upon their prey and plunge their teeth into it--it spoke in the muffled voice of bear and wolf--it sang the song of the great hawks and eagles and owls until their wild faces seemed to be staring into mine, and I knew myself as wild as they. It sang the minor chords of pain and sickness, of injury and old age; for a few moments I felt I was an old woman with age heavy upon me. ~ Monica Furlong,

406:I make a great fried egg sandwich. Want to try it?" Chloe stared at her with an encouraging smile until Josey finally laughed and nodded. "Okay." "Great!" Chloe put on a pair of disposable gloves, then she took butter and two eggs from the under-the-counter fridge. "Go ahead and take a business card. You can call me here if you want. And the bottom number is my cell." She plopped a pat of butter onto the grill. When the butter melted, she cracked the eggs into it, close enough for their whites to merge. While they sizzled, she buttered two slices of sourdough bread and put them on the grill. "I didn't know this place was called Red's," Josey said, reading the card. Chloe smiled when she thought of her great-grandfather. "Another family tradition. My great-grandfather had red hair. So did my mother." Chloe sprinkled the eggs with salt and pepper and a pinch of dill, then turned them over with her spatula. She flipped the quickly toasting bread too. She'd spent her childhood watching her great-grandfather do this, and here at the shop was the only time she felt him near anymore. "Do you want this for here or to go?" "To go." Chloe sprinkled a little more salt and pepper on the eggs, made sure the yolks had firmed ever so slightly, then topped them with cheese. She let the cheese melt before scooping the eggs up and putting them on the buttered sourdough. ~ Sarah Addison Allen,

407:He dipped his fork into the layers of eggplant and cheese. Moments later, it seemed to detonate in his mouth. The pasta, he now realized, had simply been a curtain raiser, carbohydrate to take the edge off his hunger, but this new dish was something else, teasing his appetite awake again, the intensity of the flavors bringing to life taste buds he had never even known existed. The cheese tasted so completely of cheese, the eggplant so rich and earthy, almost smoky; the herbs so full of flavor, requiring only a mouthful of wine to finish them off... He paused reverently and drank, then dug again with his fork. The secondo was followed by a simple dessert of sliced pears baked with honey and rosemary. The flesh of the fruit looked as crisp and white as something Michelangelo might have carved with, but when he touched his spoon to it, it turned out to be as meltingly soft as ice cream. Putting it in his mouth, he was at first aware only of a wonderful, unfamiliar taste, a cascade of flavors which gradually broke itself down into its constituent parts. There was the sweetness of the honey, along with a faint floral scent from the abundant Vesuviani blossom on which the bees had fed. Then came the heady, sunshine-filled fragrance of the herbs, and only after that, the sharp tang of the fruit itself. By the time the pears were eaten, both jugs of wine had been emptied too. ~ Anthony Capella,

408:Death by Chocolate Dark chocolate ganache on a chocolate with chocolate chips cupcake. 1⅓ cups all purpose flour 2 teaspoons baking powder ¼ teaspoon baking soda ¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder ⅛ teaspoon salt 3 tablespoons butter, softened 1½ cups white sugar 2 eggs, at room temperature ¾ teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup milk 1 bag semisweet chocolate chips Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cocoa, and salt. Set aside. In a large bowl, cream together the butter and sugar until well blended. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well with each addition, then stir in the vanilla. Add the flour mixture alternately with the milk; beat well. Add the chocolate chips. Bake for 15 to 17 minutes. Makes 12. Dark Chocolate Ganache 2 cups dark chocolate chips 2 cups heavy cream 2 teaspoons vanilla extract Place chocolate chips in a large bowl. Pour the cream into a saucepan, and bring it to a boil. Once the cream boils, remove it from the heat and pour it over the chips. Let stand for a minute or two, then stir with a whisk until smooth. Be sure to scrape the bottom of the bowl occasionally. Stir in the vanilla until well blended. Place a piece of plastic wrap directly on the surface of the ganache and allow it to cool to room temperature. Dip tops of cool cupcakes into the mixture and allow it to dry. ~ Jenn McKinlay,

409:Potato Bake or Party Potatoes Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position   This is another recipe from Vera Olsen (“Hot Stuff”) who’s engaged to marry Andrew Westcott (“Silver Fox.”)   1/3 cup flour ½ teaspoon baking powder 2 teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon pepper ½ teaspoon garlic powder ½ teaspoon onion powder ½ teaspoon paprika 4 eggs 1 large grated onion ½ cup melted butter (1 stick, ¼ pound) 5 cups frozen hash browns or frozen Potatoes O’Brien 2 cups grated cheese (any kind will do)   Spray a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan with Pam or other non-stick spray. Mix flour, baking powder, salt, pepper, and seasonings in a large bowl with a fork. Add the eggs and whisk it all up. Stir in the onion, melted butter, grated cheese and potatoes. Dump the mixture into the cake pan, cover it with foil, and bake at 350 degrees F. for one hour. Remove foil, turn the oven up to 400 degrees F., and bake for an additional 15 to 30 minutes, or until the top is crusty and golden brown. If you want to make this into what Vera Olsen calls “Party Potatoes,” take the potatoes out of the oven, let them cool for about ten minutes so that the eggs and cheese hold them together, cut them into serving-size squares, (you can get about 12 from a pan,) transfer the squares to a platter, and top each one with a generous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of caviar (or crumbled bacon for those who don’t like caviar.) ~ Joanne Fluke,

410:2 ounces chopped bittersweet chocolate 1 tablespoon instant coffee 1¼ cups boiling water 2¾ cups all-purpose flour 2¾ cups granulated sugar ¾ cup unsweetened cocoa powder ½ teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons baking soda 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 cup vegetable oil 1¼ cups buttermilk 4 large eggs 2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease and flour a 9″ × 13″ cake pan. Place the chocolate and coffee in a small bowl. Pour the boiling water over the chocolate and coffee and let it stand 5 minutes. Whisk until smooth. Using an electric mixer, combine the flour, sugar, cocoa powder, salt, baking soda, and baking powder in a large bowl. Mix on low speed until well combined. Add the oil and buttermilk and mix well, scraping down the sides as needed. Add the eggs one at a time, beating after each until incorporated. Add the chocolate-coffee mixture very carefully, on the lowest speed, as it will slosh around the bowl. Add the vanilla. Finish by scraping the bowl down and mixing all the batter with a rubber spatula. Scrape the batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 45 minutes, until the cake feels firm when touched lightly in the center or a toothpick inserted in the center comes out with a few moist crumbs attached. If the toothpick comes out clean, the cake is over baked. Cool the cake completely in the pan on a wire rack. Dust with confectioners' sugar and serve right out of the pan. ~ Dinah Bucholz,

411:Bodisham insisted upon a series of conferences with practically all the Group present and participating. The egg of the world revolution was indeed incubated in meetings very like tutorial classes. Our dramatic and romantic dispositions would have it otherwise, but that was the course reality chose to take. It was begotten of a sentence, it was fostered in talk. In the beginning was the Word. There is no strong, silent man in the history of the world renascence. "I've got so little to say," said Dreed, and he was the nearest approach to speechlessness in the Group. "All the more reason for coming to listen," said Rud. They had to understand each other, Bodisham urged, and to keep on understanding each other. "You have to talk a movement into being," he said, "and you have to keep it alert by talk. You have to write and keep on writing memoranda on the different expressions of our fundamental ideas, as fact challenges them. It is laborious but absolutely necessary." So long as Lenin lived, Bodisham argued, he wrote and talked and explained, and when he died progress in Russia turned its face to the wall. The hope went out of the Russian experiment. "You have to play the role of Lenin in our movement," said Bodisham. The Common-sense Party had to keep alive mentally even if it risked serious internal conflicts. Rigidity was a sign of death. Fixed creeds were the coffins of belief. ~ H G Wells,

412:Between culinary school, a year and a half of apprentice stages all over the world in amazing restaurants, ten years as the personal chef of talk show phenom Maria De Costa, and six years as Patrick's culinary slave, I am nothing if not efficient in the kitchen. I grab eggs, butter, chives, a packet of prosciutto, my favorite nonstick skillet. I crack four eggs, whip them quickly with a bit of cold water, and then use my Microplane grater to grate a flurry of butter into them. I heat my pan, add just a tiny bit more butter to coat the bottom, and let it sizzle while I slice two generous slices off the rustic sourdough loaf I have on the counter and drop them in the toaster. I dump the eggs in the pan, stirring constantly over medium-low heat, making sure they cook slowly and stay in fluffy curds. The toast pops, and I put them on a plate, give them a schmear of butter, and lay two whisper-thin slices of prosciutto on top. The eggs are ready, set perfectly; dry but still soft and succulent, and I slide them out of the pan on top of the toast, and quickly mince some chives to confetti on top. A sprinkle of gray fleur de sel sea salt, a quick grinding of grains of paradise, my favorite African pepper, and I hand the plate to Patrick, who rises from the loveseat to receive it, grabs a fork from the rack on my counter, and heads out of my kitchen toward the dining room. Dumpling followed him, tail wagging, like a small furry acolyte. ~ Stacey Ballis,

413:~ Hillary Manton Lodge VANILLA BEAN CRÈME ANGLAISE ~ Hillary Manton Lodge 4 large egg yolks 2½ tablespoons sugar 1 cup whole milk ¾ cup heavy cream 1 teaspoon vanilla bean paste Prepare an ice bath by filling a large bowl halfway with ice, then nestling a second bowl (ideally metal) inside the ice. Set a wire-mesh strainer over the second bowl. Using a mixer, beat the yolk and sugar together for about two minutes, or until pale and creamy. Combine the milk, cream, and vanilla bean paste in a medium-sized saucepan, and bring to a simmer over medium heat, stirring constantly to prevent scalding. Once the cream has just reached a simmer, remove from heat and reduce burner to medium-low. With the mixer running on low, slowly pour ⅓ cup of the hot cream into the sugared yolks. Blend until well incorporated, then pour the remaining cream into the mixing bowl. Transfer the custard to the saucepan, and return it to the stove. If it’s frothy; the air will dissipate as it cooks. Stir over medium-low heat for 5–10 minutes, or until the mixture can coat a spoon. For thicker custard, cook a few minutes longer. If the custard resists thickening, increase the heat; avoid a boil, as the egg will cook and the sauce will separate. Once the custard has thickened, remove it from the stove and pour it through the mesh strainer and into the chilled bowl. Chill the sauce in a covered container for three hours, or overnight. The custard will thicken as it cools. Makes about 2 cups. ~ Hillary Manton Lodge,

414:They soon began plying me with questions about America and American writers. Like most educated Europeans they knew more about American literature than I ever will. Antoniou had been to America several times, had walked about the streets of New York, Boston, New Orleans, San Francisco and other ports. The thought of him walking about the streets of our big cities in bewilderment led me to broach the name of Sherwood Anderson whom I always think of as the one American writer of our time who has walked the streets of our American cities as a genuine poet. Since they scarcely knew his name, and since the conversation was already veering towards more familiar ground, namely Edgar Allan Poe, a subject I am weary of listening to, I suddenly became obsessed with the idea of selling them Sherwood Anderson. I began a monologue myself for a change—about writers who walk the streets in America and are not recognized until they are ready for the grave. I was so enthusiastic about the subject that I actually identified myself with Sherwood Anderson. He would probably have been astounded had he heard of the exploits I was crediting him with. I’ve always had a particular weakness for the author of "Many Marriages." In my worst days in America he was the man who comforted me, by his writings. It was only the other day that I met him for the first time. I found no discrepancy between the man and the writer. I saw in him the born story teller, the man who can make even the egg triumphant. ~ Henry Miller,

415:Oatmeal Raisin Crisps Preheat oven to 375° F., rack in the middle position. 1 cup melted butter (2 sticks—½ pound) 2 cups white sugar 2 teaspoons vanilla ½ teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons baking soda 2 large eggs, beaten (just whip them up with a fork) 2 ½ cups flour (no need to sift) 1 cup raisins (either regular or golden, you choose) 2 cups GROUND dry oatmeal (measure before grinding) Melt the butter in a large microwave-safe bowl. Add the sugar and mix. Then mix in the vanilla, salt, and the baking soda. When the mixture has cooled to room temperature, stir in the eggs. Add the flour and stir it all up. Then mix in the raisins. Prepare your oatmeal. (Use Quakers if you have it—the cardboard canister is useful for all sorts of things.) Measure out 2 cups and dump it in the food processor, chopping it with the steel blade until it’s the consistency of coarse sand. Dump it in your dough and mix it all up. (This dough will be fairly stiff.) Roll walnut-sized dough balls with your hands and place them on a greased cookie sheet, 12 to a standard sheet. (If it’s too sticky to roll, place the bowl in the refrigerator for 30 minutes and try again.) Squish the dough balls down with a fork in a crisscross pattern (like peanut butter cookies). Bake at 375 degrees for 10 minutes. Cool on the cookie sheet for 2 minutes, then remove the cookies to a wire rack to cool completely. Andrea likes these and she’s never liked raisins—go figure. Chapter Ten Andrea shivered as Hannah parked at the end of Vera Olsen’s alley. ~ Joanne Fluke,

416:NORMAN’S EGG SALAD 4 cups peeled and chopped hard-boiled eggs.*** (That’s about a dozen extra large eggs—measure after chopping) 1/2 cup crumbled cooked bacon (make your own or use real crumbled bacon from a can—I used Hormel Premium Real Crumbled Bacon) 1 Tablespoon chopped parsley (it’s better if it’s fresh, but you can use dried parsley flakes if you don’t have fresh on hand) 1/4 cup grated carrots (for color and a bit of sweetness) 4 ounces cream cheese 1/4 cup sour cream 1/2 cup mayonnaise (I used Best Foods, which is Hellmann’s in some states) 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder (or 1/2 teaspoon freshly minced garlic) 1/2 teaspoon onion powder (or 1 teaspoon freshly minced onion) salt to taste freshly ground black pepper to taste   Peel and chop the hard-boiled eggs. Add the crumbled bacon, the parsley, and the grated carrots. Mix well.   Put the cream cheese in a small bowl and microwave for 30 seconds on HIGH to soften it. If it can be easily stirred with a fork, add the sour cream and mayonnaise, and mix well. If the cream cheese is still too solid, give it another 10 seconds or so before you add the other ingredients.   Stir in the garlic powder and onion powder.   Add the cream cheese mixture to the bowl with the eggs and stir it all up. Add salt and freshly ground pepper to taste, and chill until ready to serve.   Serve by itself on a lettuce leaf, as filling in a sandwich, or stuffed in Hannah’s Very Best Cream Puffs for a fancy luncheon.   Yield: Makes approximately a dozen superb egg salad sandwiches. ~ Joanne Fluke,

417:From New Numbers Friday. Wet dusk. Three blind men outside an Indian restaurant. They shout at each other. They have been drinking. While sticks wave in the doorway. The place is almost empty. They feel about the tables. Two patrons draw their curries back. They find a table near the door. They telescope their sticks and wait. Their order is: two eggs and chips, one curry. Their chins are up. Their mouths are open. One drums the laminated calico. Their plates arrive. The taller of the egg men reads his chips. He learns their number and their average size. The other one eats furiously. He who chose curry, stirs it, looking upwards. Shots of the Himalayas line the walls. The rapid eater finishes and listens to the first. He hears a fork enter a chip. He hears the chip approach and disappear forever into his companions mouth. And as its mastication starts his fork moves out and spears the cluster of remaining chips securing two. He eats them both. Yolk coagulates on his lapel. 40 The one with curry yawns. None of them have removed their overcoats. The masticator's fork returns, touches the plate, lifts half an inch, dips in, lifts, hesitates, swings to and fro, then stabs the gobbler in his face. All three get to their feet. The curry man supplies the waiter with his purse. Their sticks expand. Outside they start to shout obscene remarks. ~ Christopher Logue,

418:Jeremy fixed her with a dark look, full of reproach. A hot blush singed the tips of her opal-adorned ears. For a moment, Lucy felt as though she were sitting in the breakfast room wearing only her nightgown—or less. But if he meant to shame her, he would be sorely disappointed. Her lips tingled, and she slowly wet them with her tongue before flashing him a bold grin. He quickly looked away. Oh, what fun it was to vex him. He made it so easy to do. Hunting and fishing were all welland good, but truly, Jemmy-baiting had always been her favorite autumn sport. Lucy viewedhis staid countenance as an unending challenge. A smooth, thick-shelled egg that begged to be cracked. Any rearrangement of his features constituted a victory, be it a wince, a scowl, or that rarest of expressions—a smile. A smile that showed teeth counted double.Last night had shown her an entirely new way to bedevil Jeremy Trescott. Not with girlish pranks, but with womanly wiles. Oh, yes. She ‟ d cracked the egg last night, but good. Hisexpression of befuddled desire was far more amusing than a wince or a scowl, or even asmile that showed teeth. That last kiss had to count at least ten.She lifted her cup of chocolate to her lips. Closing her eyes, she pressed her tongue againstthe cool china rim, remembering the power of a proper kiss. Drinking in the hot, sweetrichness, feeling delicious warmth spread down her throat and pool in her belly. And lower.She sighed into the cup. If Jeremy ‟ s kiss could rival chocolate, Lucy shivered to imaginehow it would be to kiss— ~ Tessa Dare,

419:St Cuthbert was called to be a hermit on Lindis­farne. This was more than a thousand years ago. There were only small wooden huts there then, and the wind and the wild sea and everything that lived in the wild sea. Cuthbert went out there to the mon­astery, but the monastery was not far enough and he was called out further. He rowed to an empty island, where he ate onions and the eggs of seabirds and stood in the sea and prayed while sea otters played around his ankles. He lived there alone for years, but then he was called back. The King of Northumbria came to him with some churchmen, and they told him he had been elected Bishop of Lindisfarne and they asked him to come back and serve. There’s a Victorian painting of the king and the her­mit. Cuthbert wears a dirty brown robe and has one calloused hand on a spade. The king is offering him a bishop’s crosier. Behind him, monks kneel on the sands and pray he will accept it. Behind them are the beached sailboats that brought them to the island. The air is filled with swallows. Cuthbert’s head is turned away from the king, he looks down at the ground and his left hand is held up in a gesture of refusal. But he didn’t refuse, in the end. He didn’t refuse the call. He went back. We head out because the emptiness negates us. We leave the cities and we go to the wild high places to be dissolved and to be small. We live and die at once, the topsoil is washed away and the rock is exposed and it is not possible to play the games anymore. Now I am exposed rock. Like Cuthbert, I have been washed clean. What do I see? ~ Paul Kingsnorth,

420:1118 When Mother Made An Angel Cake When mother baked an angel cake we kids would gather round An' watch her gentle hands at work, an' never make a sound; We'd watch her stir the eggs an' flour an' powdered sugar, too, An' pour it in the crinkled tin, an' then when it was through She'd spread the icing over it, an' we knew very soon That one would get the plate to lick, an' one would get the spoon. It seemed no matter where we were those mornings at our play, Upstairs or out of doors somewhere, we all knew right away When Ma was in the kitchen, an' was gettin' out the tin An' things to make an angel cake, an' so we scampered in. An' Ma would smile at us an' say: 'Now you keep still an' wait An' when I'm through I'll let you lick the spoon an' icing plate.' We watched her kneel beside the stove, an' put her arm so white Inside the oven just to find if it was heatin' right. An' mouths an' eyes were open then, becoz we always knew The time for us to get our taste was quickly comin' due. Then while she mixed the icing up, she'd hum a simple tune, An' one of us would bar the plate, an' one would bar the spoon. Could we catch a glimpse of Heaven, and some snow-white kitchen there, I'm sure that we'd see mother, smiling now, and still as fair; And I know that gathered round her we should see an angel brood That is watching every movement as she makes an angel food; For I know that little angels, as we used to do, await The moment when she lets them lick the icing spoon and plate. ~ Edgar Albert Guest,

421:Strawberry Cheesecake Streusel Muffins Streusel Topping 3 tablespoons White Sugar 3 tablespoons Dark Brown Sugar ½ cup + 3 tablespoons Flour Pinch Coarse Kosher Salt 5 tablespoons butter, melted Cream Cheese Filling 4 ounces cream cheese ⅓ cup white sugar 2 teaspoons beaten egg 1 tsp vanilla extract Muffin Batter 2 cups all purpose flour ½ cup granulated sugar 2 tsp baking powder ½ tsp salt 1 egg ¼ cup canola oil 1 cup whole milk (original recipe used ¾ cup) 1 tsp vanilla extract 1½ cups strawberries, cut into small pieces Instructions cont… Preheat oven to 400. Line a muffin tin with cupcake liners and spray each liner with non-stick spray. Set aside. To make the streusel topping, mix together sugars, flour and salt. Drizzle warm butter over mixture and toss with fork to form pea size pieces. Set aside. To make cream cheese filling, beat cream cheese, sugar, egg and vanilla extract together with an electric mixer in a medium bowl until smooth. Set aside. To make the muffins. Whisk flour, sugar baking powder and salt in a medium bowl. In a separate bowl, whisk the egg, oil, milk and vanilla extract. Add the dry ingredients into the milk mixture. Stir until just incorporated. Do not over mix or you will get a tough muffin. Fold in the strawberries. Scoop a heaping tablespoon of the muffin batter into each cupcake liner. Add a heaping tablespoon of the cream cheese filling. Add another heaping tablespoon on batter onto of the cream cheese filling. I was able to fill the muffin tins full. Sprinkle the streusel topping on the tops. Bake for 25 minutes. Allow to cool in muffin tin for 10 minutes. Remove and chow down. ~ Sapphire Knight,

422:Everyone loves banana bread! This banana bread recipe cooks up moist and delicious. It also makes a great bread for a nut butter sandwich. Ingredients 1/2 cup butter or unrefined coconut oil 3/4 tsp celtic sea salt 6 eggs, preferably pasture-raised 1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract 1/2 tsp almond extract 1/2 cup honey 3/4 cup coconut flour 1 large or 2 small ripe bananas, mashed Directions Melt butter or coconut oil in a small saucepan over low heat. Turn off heat and allow to cool slightly. Meanwhile, combine the eggs, salt, vanilla extract, and almond extract in a large bowl. If using an immersion blender, pulse a few times to combine. Otherwise, mix to combine with a whisk or mixer. Add the honey to the butter (or coconut oil) and stir slightly. Pour this mixture into the wet ingredients and blend well with immersion blender or mixer. Measure out the coconut flour. Since coconut flour clumps, it will need to be sifted if you are not using an immersion blender. Pour the coconut flour into the bowl with the wet ingredients. Use an immersion blender or mixer to thoroughly combine all ingredients, making sure there are no lumps. (Since coconut flour does not contain gluten, there is no worry of over-mixing the batter). Add mashed banana and mix to combine. Using butter or coconut oil, generously grease one large (9”X5”) loaf pan or two small (7.5”X3.75”) loaf pans. Pour the batter into the loaf pan(s). Bake in a 325 degrees F oven until a toothpick inserted in the middle comes out clean. This will take 50-60 minutes for two loaves. Remove from oven and cool. Delicious with a pat of butter and a big glass of raw milk or milk kefir! ~ Anonymous,

423:FEBRUARY 16 Misery If peace comes from seeing the whole, then misery stems from a loss of perspective. We begin so aware and grateful. The sun somehow hangs there in the sky. The little bird sings. The miracle of life just happens. Then we stub our toe, and in that moment of pain, the whole world is reduced to our poor little toe. Now, for a day or two, it is difficult to walk. With every step, we are reminded of our poor little toe. Our vigilance becomes: Which defines our day—the pinch we feel in walking on a bruised toe, or the miracle still happening? It is the giving over to smallness that opens us to misery. In truth, we begin taking nothing for granted, grateful that we have enough to eat, that we are well enough to eat. But somehow, through the living of our days, our focus narrows like a camera that shutters down, cropping out the horizon, and one day we're miffed at a diner because the eggs are runny or the hash isn't seasoned just the way we like. When we narrow our focus, the problem seems everything. We forget when we were lonely, dreaming of a partner. We forget first beholding the beauty of another. We forget the comfort of first being seen and held and heard. When our view shuts down, we're up in the night annoyed by the way our lover pulls the covers or leaves the dishes in the sink without soaking them. In actuality, misery is a moment of suffering allowed to become everything. So, when feeling miserable, we must look wider than what hurts. When feeling a splinter, we must, while trying to remove it, remember there is a body that is not splinter, and a spirit that is not splinter, and a world that is not splinter. ~ Mark Nepo,

424:Ron said nothing. He hadn’t mentioned Viktor Krum since the ball, but Harry had found a miniature arm under his bed on Boxing Day, which had looked very much as though it had been snapped off a small model figure wearing Bulgarian Quidditch robes. Harry kept his eyes skinned for a sign of Hagrid all the way down the slushy High Street, and suggested a visit to the Three Broomsticks once he had ascertained that Hagrid was not in any of the shops. The pub was as crowded as ever, but one quick look around at all the tables told Harry that Hagrid wasn’t there. Heart sinking, he went up to the bar with Ron and Hermione, ordered three butterbeers from Madam Rosmerta, and thought gloomily that he might just as well have stayed behind and listened to the egg wailing after all. “Doesn’t he ever go into the office?” Hermione whispered suddenly. “Look!” She pointed into the mirror behind the bar, and Harry saw Ludo Bagman reflected there, sitting in a shadowy corner with a bunch of goblins. Bagman was talking very fast in a low voice to the goblins, all of whom had their arms crossed and were looking rather menacing. It was indeed odd, Harry thought, that Bagman was here at the Three Broomsticks on a weekend when there was no Triwizard event, and therefore no judging to be done. He watched Bagman in the mirror. He was looking strained again, quite as strained as he had that night in the forest before the Dark Mark had appeared. But just then Bagman glanced over at the bar, saw Harry, and stood up. “In a moment, in a moment!” Harry heard him say brusquely to the goblins, and Bagman hurried through the pub toward Harry, his boyish grin back in place. ~ J K Rowling,

425:Spinach Quiche Preheat oven to 375 degrees F., rack in the middle position   This is my recipe. It can be served as an appetizer if you cut it into thin slices and arrange them on a platter. It can also be served as an entrée.   One 9-inch unbaked pastry shell 1 beaten egg yolk (reserve the white in a small dish) 10-ounce package frozen chopped spinach ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon pepper (freshly ground is best) 3 Tablespoons horseradish sauce 2 ounces shredded Jarlsberg (or good Swiss cheese) 4 eggs 1½ cups Half & Half (or light cream) 1/8 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly ground is best)   Beat the egg yolk in a glass with a fork. Brush the inside of the unbaked pastry shell with the yolk. Set the shell aside to dry. Cook and drain the spinach. Squeeze out as much moisture as you can and then blot with a paper towel. In a bowl, combine the spinach with the salt, pepper, and horseradish sauce. Spread it in the bottom of the pastry shell. Sprinkle the top with the grated cheese. Beat the 4 whole eggs with the reserved egg white. Add the Half & Half, salt, and cayenne pepper. Mix well and pour on top of cheese. Sprinkle the top with nutmeg. Bake at 375 degrees F. for 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted one inch from the center comes out clean. Let cool for ten minutes and then cut into wedges and serve. This quiche can be served warm or at room temperature. I’ve even been known to eat it cold, straight out of the refrigerator. It’s perfect for a fancy brunch or a lazy, relaxed breakfast on the weekend. Yield: Serves from 12 to 18 as an appetizer. Serves six as an entrée if they only have one piece. ~ Joanne Fluke,

426:GERMAN PANCAKES Preheat oven to 375 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   Prepare an 8-inch square pan by spraying it with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray, or coating the inside with butter. Hannah’s 1st Note: You can double this recipe if you like, so that it will serve 8 people. If you double this recipe, it will take approximately 55 minutes to bake. Hannah’s 2nd Note: This dish works best if you use an electric mixer. 6 strips bacon (I used applewood smoked bacon) 4 large eggs 1 cup whole milk (I’ve used heavy cream and that works also) 1 cup flour (Just scoop it up and level it off with a table knife.) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 teaspoon salt 4 ounces cream cheese (half of an 8-ounce package) minced parsley to sprinkle on top (optional) Fry the bacon in a frying pan on the stovetop until it’s crispy. Let it cool to room temperature, and then crumble it into the bottom of your baking pan. In an electric mixer, beat the eggs with half of the milk (that’s ½ cup). Continue to beat until the mixture is light and fluffy. Add vanilla extract and salt. Beat until they’re well combined. Mix in the flour and beat for 40 seconds. Add the second half of the milk (another ½ cup) and beat until everything is light and fluffy. Pour half of the mixture over the bacon crumbles in the 8-inch square pan. Cut the cream cheese into 1-inch-square cubes. Place them evenly over the egg mixture in the pan. Pour the second half of the mixture over the cream cheese. Bake at 375 degrees F. for 45 to 55 minutes, or until it’s golden brown and puffy on top. Hannah’s 3rd Note: This breakfast entree is excellent when served with biscuits or crispy buttered toast. ~ Joanne Fluke,

427:If peace comes from seeing the whole, then misery stems from a loss of perspective. We begin so aware and grateful. The sun somehow hangs there in the sky. The little bird sings. The miracle of life just happens. Then we stub our toe, and in that moment of pain, the whole world is reduced to our poor little toe. Now, for a day or two, it is difficult to walk. With every step, we are reminded of our poor little toe. Our vigilance becomes: Which defines our day—the pinch we feel in walking on a bruised toe, or the miracle still happening? It is the giving over to smallness that opens us to misery. In truth, we begin taking nothing for granted, grateful that we have enough to eat, that we are well enough to eat. But somehow, through the living of our days, our focus narrows like a camera that shutters down, cropping out the horizon, and one day we’re miffed at a diner because the eggs are runny or the hash isn’t seasoned just the way we like. When we narrow our focus, the problem seems everything. We forget when we were lonely, dreaming of a partner. We forget first beholding the beauty of another. We forget the comfort of first being seen and held and heard. When our view shuts down, we’re up in the night annoyed by the way our lover pulls the covers or leaves the dishes in the sink without soaking them first. In actuality, misery is a moment of suffering allowed to become everything. So, when feeling miserable, we must look wider than what hurts. When feeling a splinter, we must, while trying to remove it, remember there is a body that is not splinter, and a spirit that is not splinter, and a world that is not splinter. ~ Mark Nepo,

428:Caramel Apple Bundt Cake For people. Cake 1½ cups flour 1 cup pecans 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda 1½ teaspoons cinnamon ¾ teaspoon nutmeg ¾ teaspoon cloves ¼ teaspoon salt 2 medium apples, peeled and cored ½ cup sugar + extra 1¼ sticks (10 tablespoons) butter at room temperature + extra for greasing the pan 1 cup packed dark brown sugar 2 large eggs at room temperature 1 cup applesauce Preheat oven to 350ºF. Place the flour, pecans, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and salt in a food processor and pulse until the pecans are fine. Transfer the flour mixture to a bowl. Insert the grating disk and grate the apples. Take 1 tablespoon of sugar out of the plain sugar and set it aside. Cream the butter with the sugars. Beat in the eggs. Alternate adding the applesauce and the flour mixture until completely combined. Stir in the grated apples. Grease the Bundt pan liberally. Sprinkle the extra sugar on the butter. You may need another tablespoon of sugar for full coverage. Use a cooking spoon to ladle the batter into the Bundt pan and smooth the top. Bake 40 minutes or until it begins to pull away from the sides and a cake tester comes out clean. Allow to rest on a baking rack about 5 to 10 minutes. Loosen the edges, and flip onto the rack. When cool, top with caramel. Caramel 4 tablespoons unsalted butter 1 cup packed dark brown sugar ¼ cup heavy cream Place the ingredients in a deep microwave-safe dish (I used a 4-cup Pyrex measuring cup). Microwave in short bursts, stirring occasionally, until it bubbles up and the sugar melts. (You may find that you even like it if the sugar doesn’t melt!) Swedish Tea Ring For people. ~ Krista Davis,

429:Shaping the mounds of dough is easiest to do with a spring-loaded ice cream scoop, although you can use two spoons or a pastry bag with a large, plain tip. 1 cup (250 ml) water ½ teaspoon coarse salt 2 teaspoons sugar 6 tablespoons (90 g) unsalted butter, cut into small chunks 1 cup (135 g) flour 4 large eggs, at room temperature ½ cup (85 g) semisweet chocolate chips ½ cup (60 g) pearl sugar (see Note) Position a rack in the upper third of the oven. Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C) and line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Heat the water along with the salt, sugar, and butter in a medium saucepan, stirring, until the butter is melted. Remove from heat and dump in all the flour at once. Stir rapidly until the mixture is smooth and pulls away from the sides of the pan. Allow the dough to cool for 2 minutes, stirring occasionally to release the heat; then briskly beat in the eggs, one at a time, until the paste is smooth and shiny. Let cool completely to room temperature, then stir in the chocolate chips. If it’s even slightly warm, they’ll melt. Drop mounds of dough, about 2 tablespoons each, on the baking sheet, evenly spaced. Press pearl sugar crystals liberally over the top and sides of each mound. Use a lot and really press them in. Once the puffs expand, you’ll appreciate the extra effort (and sugar). Bake the chouquettes for 35 minutes, or until puffed and well browned. Serve warm or at room temperature. STORAGE: Choquettes are best eaten the same day they’re made. However, once cooled, they can be frozen in a zip-top freezer bag for up to one month. Defrost at room temperature, then warm briefly on a baking sheet in a moderate oven, until crisp. ~ David Lebovitz,

430:The fact that our Universe (together with the entire Level III multiverse) may be simulatable by a quite short computer program calls into question whether i makes any ontological difference whether simulations are "run" or not. If, as I have argued, the computer need only describe and not compute the history, then the complete description would probably fit on a single memory stick, and no CPU power would be required. It would appear absurd that the existence of this memory stick would have any impact whatsoever on whether the multiverse it describes exists "for real." Even if the existence of the memory stick mattered, some elements of this multiverse will contain an identical memory stick that would "recursively" support its own physical existence. This wouldn't involve any Catch-22, chicken-or-the-egg problem regarding whether the stick or the multiverse was created first, since the multiverse elements are four-dimensional spacetimes, whereas "creation" is of course only a meaningful notion within a spacetime. So are we simulated? According to the MUH, our physical reality is a mathematical structure, and as such, it exists regardless of whether someone here or elsewhere in the Level IV multiverse writes a computer program to simulate/describe it. The only remaining question is then whether a computer simulation could make our mathematical structure in any meaningful sense exist even more than it already did. If we solve the measure problem, perhaps we'll realize that simulating it would increase its measure slightly, by some fraction of the measure of the mathematical structure within which it's simulated. My guess is that this would be a tiny effect at best, so if asked, "Are we simulated?," I'd bet my money on "No! ~ Max Tegmark,

431:there was something else, something more complicated, more secret, and that is that girls in those days, even modern girls, like us, girls who went to school and then to university, were always taught that women are entitled to an education and a place outside the home—but only until the children are born. Your life is your own only for a short time: from when you leave your parents' home to your first pregnancy. From that moment, from the first pregnancy, we had to begin to live our lives only around the children. Just like our mothers. Even to sweep pavements for our children, because your child is the chick and you are—what? When it comes down to it, you are just the yolk of the egg, you are what the chick eats so as to grow big and strong. And when your child grows up—even then you can't go back to being yourself, you simply change from being a mother to being a grandmother, whose task is simply to help her children bring up their children. True, even then there were quite a few women who made careers for themselves and went out into the world. But everybody talked about them behind their backs: look at that selfish woman, she sits in meetings while her poor children grow up in the street and pay the price. Now it's a new world. Now at last women are given more opportunity to live lives of their own. Or is it just an illusion? Maybe in the younger generations too women still cry into their pillows at night, while their husbands are asleep, because they feel they have to make impossible choices? I don't want to be judgmental: it's not my world anymore. To make a comparison I'd have to go from door to door checking how many mothers' tears are wept every night into the pillow when husbands are asleep, and to compare the tears then with the tears now. ~ Amos Oz,

432:I spent most of the afternoon tempering the new batch of couverture and working on the window display. A thick covering of green tissue paper for the grass. Paper flowers- daffodils and daisies, Anouk's contribution- pinned to the window frame. Green-covered tins that had once contained cocoa powder, stacked up against each other to make a craggy mountainside. Crinkly cellophane paper wraps it like a covering of ice. Running past and winding into the valley, a river of blue silk ribbon, upon which a cluster of houseboats sits quiet and unreflecting. And below, a procession of chocolate figures, cats, dogs, rabbits, some with raisin eyes, pink marzipan ears, tails made of licorice-whips, with sugar flowers between their teeth... And mice. On every available surface, mice. Running up the sides of the hill, nestling in corners, even on the riverboats. Pink and white sugar coconut mice, chocolate mice of all colors, variegated mice marbled through with truffle and maraschino cream, delicately tinted mice, sugar-dappled frosted mice. And standing above them, the Pied Piper resplendent in his red and yellow, a barley-sugar flute in one hand, his hat in the other. I have hundreds of molds in my kitchen, thin plastic ones for the eggs and the figures, ceramic ones for the cameos and liqueur chocolates. With them I can re-create any facial expression and superimpose it upon a hollow shell, adding hair and detail with a narrow-gauge pipe, building up torso and limbs in separate pieces and fixing them in place with wires and melted chocolate.... A little camouflage- a red cloak, rolled from marzipan. A tunic, a hat of the same material, a long feather brushing the ground at his booted feet. My Pied Piper looks a little like Roux, with his red hair and motley garb. ~ Joanne Harris,

433:CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES 6 tablespoons chilled butter ( ¾ stick, 3 ounces) 12-ounce package semi-sweet chocolate chips (two cups—I used Ghirardelli’s) ½ cup firmly packed powdered sugar (confectioner’s sugar) 6 egg yolks 1 Tablespoon rum, brandy, flavored brandy, or vanilla extract   Put an inch or so of water in the bottom half of a double boiler and heat it to a gentle boil. Cut the butter in chunks and place them in the top half of the double boiler. Add the chips and then the powdered sugar and set the top half over the bottom half. Put on the cover and let everything melt while you…   Beat the egg yolks in a small bowl with a whisk. Whisk until they’re thoroughly combined, but stop before they get fluffy or lighter in color.   Stir the chocolate until it’s completely melted. It will be thick, almost like fudge. Remove the top half of the double boiler and set it on a cold burner.   Stir several spoonfuls of beaten egg yolk into the chocolate mixture. When that’s incorporated, stir in several more spoonfuls. Keep adding egg yolk in small amounts, stirring constantly, until all the egg yolks have been incorporated and the chocolate mixture is smooth and glossy.   Stir in the rum, brandy, or vanilla. Put the lid back on the top of the double boiler and refrigerate the chocolate mixture for 3 hours. To Decorate Truffles: finely chopped nuts powdered (confectioner’s) sugar chocolate sprinkles shaved chocolate cocoa powder finely shredded coconut   Warning: This next step is fairly messy. If you like, wear disposable plastic food-server gloves. You can also lightly grease your hands, or spray them with Pam or other non-stick cooking spray so the chocolate won’t stick to your fingers.   Form small balls of chilled chocolate with your hands and roll them in bowls of the above ingredients. ~ Joanne Fluke,

434:Reprogramming is what John Gurdon demonstrated in his ground-breaking work when he transferred the nuclei from adult toads into toad eggs. It’s what happened when Keith Campbell and Ian Wilmut cloned Dolly the Sheep by putting the nucleus from a mammary gland cell into an egg. It’s what Yamanaka achieved when he treated somatic cells with four key genes, all of which code for proteins highly expressed naturally during this reprogramming phase. The egg is a wonderful thing, honed through hundreds of millions of years of evolution to be extraordinarily effective at generating vast quantities of epigenetic change, across billions of base-pairs. None of the artificial means of reprogramming cells comes close to the natural process in terms of speed or efficiency. But the egg probably doesn’t quite do everything unaided. At the very least, the pattern of epigenetic modifications in sperm is one that allows the male pronucleus to be reprogrammed relatively easily. The sperm epigenome is primed to be reprogrammed6. Unfortunately, these priming chromatin modifications (and many other features of the sperm nucleus), are missing if an adult nucleus is reprogrammed by transferring it into a fertilised egg. That’s also true when an adult nucleus is reprogrammed by treating it with the four Yamanaka factors to create iPS cells. In both these circumstances, it’s a real challenge to completely reset the epigenome of the adult nucleus. It’s just too big a task. This is probably why so many cloned animals have abnormalities and shortened lifespans. The defects that are seen in these cloned animals are another demonstration that if early epigenetic modifications go wrong, they may stay wrong for life. The abnormal epigenetic modification patterns result in permanently inappropriate gene expression, and long-term ill-health. ~ Nessa Carey,

435:The argument that Hawking has offered may be conveyed by question-and-answer, as in the Catholic catechism.   A Catechism of Quantum Cosmology Q: From what did our universe evolve? A: Our universe evolved from a much smaller, much emptier mini-universe. You may think of it as an egg. Q: What was the smaller, emptier universe like? A: It was a four-dimensional sphere with nothing much inside it. You may think of that as weird. Q: How can a sphere have four dimensions? A: A sphere may have four dimensions if it has one more dimension than a three-dimensional sphere. You may think of that as obvious. Q: Does the smaller, emptier universe have a name? A: The smaller, emptier universe is called a de Sitter universe. You may think of that as about time someone paid attention to de Sitter. Q: Is there anything else I should know about the smaller, emptier universe? A: Yes. It represents a solution to Einstein’s field equations. You may think of that as a good thing. Q: Where was that smaller, emptier universe or egg? A: It was in the place where space as we know it did not exist. You may think of it as a sac. Q: When was it there? A: It was there at the time when time as we know it did not exist. You may think of it as a mystery. Q: Where did the egg come from? A: The egg did not actually come from anywhere. You may think of this as astonishing. Q: If the egg did not come from anywhere, how did it get there? A: The egg got there because the wave function of the universe said it was probable. You may think of this as a done deal. Q: How did our universe evolve from the egg? A: It evolved by inflating itself up from its sac to become the universe in which we now find ourselves. You may think of that as just one of those things. This catechism, I should add, is not a parody of quantum cosmology. It is quantum cosmology. ~ David Berlinski,

436:Soba noodles with eggplant and mango This dish has become my mother’s ultimate cook-to-impress fare. And she is not the only one, as I have been informed by many readers. It is the refreshing nature of the cold buckwheat noodles the sweet sharpness of the dressing and the muskiness of mango that make it so pleasing. Serve this as a substantial starter or turn it into a light main course by adding some fried firm tofu. Serves 6 1/2 cup rice vinegar 3 tbsp sugar 1/2 tsp salt 2 garlic cloves, crushed 1/2 fresh red chile, finely chopped 1 tsp toasted sesame oil grated zest and juice of 1 lime 1 cup sunflower oil 2 eggplants, cut into 3/4-inch dice 8 to 9 oz soba noodles 1 large ripe mango, cut into 3/8-inch dice or into 1/4-inch-thick strips 12/3 cup basil leaves, chopped (if you can get some use Thai basil, but much less of it) 21/2 cups cilantro leaves, chopped 1/2 red onion, very thinly sliced In a small saucepan gently warm the vinegar, sugar and salt for up to 1 minute, just until the sugar dissolves. Remove from the heat and add the garlic, chile and sesame oil. Allow to cool, then add the lime zest and juice. Heat up the sunflower oil in a large pan and shallow-fry the eggplant in three or four batches. Once golden brown remove to a colander, sprinkle liberally with salt and leave there to drain. Cook the noodles in plenty of boiling salted water, stirring occasionally. They should take 5 to 8 minutes to become tender but still al dente. Drain and rinse well under running cold water. Shake off as much of the excess water as possible, then leave to dry on a dish towel. In a mixing bowl toss the noodles with the dressing, mango, eggplant, half of the herbs and the onion. You can now leave this aside for 1 to 2 hours. When ready to serve add the rest of the herbs and mix well, then pile on a plate or in a bowl. ~ Yotam Ottolenghi,

437:I adore macaroni and cheese. Whenever I see it on a menu at a restaurant, I have to order it. I’ve had (and consequently made) fried mac and cheese balls, lobster mac and cheese, truffle mac and cheese, quattro formaggi mac and cheese, and Kraft mac and cheese. Now, don’t get me wrong—all of the fancy macaroni and cheese dishes have been delectable and enjoyable, but at home, I like a simple, delicious mac and cheese. So here’s my recipe. This dish is best when served during a game or movie night with family and friends. Serves 8 to 10 8 ounces (225 g) elbow macaroni 1½ cups Velveeta cheese (about 7 ounces/190g), cut into ½-inch cubes 2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons kosher salt 1½ teaspoons dry mustard ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper ⅔ cup (165 ml) sour cream 2 large eggs, lightly beaten 1½ cups (360 ml) half-and-half 1½ cups (360 ml) heavy cream ⅓ cup (55 g) grated onion 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 2 cups grated sharp Cheddar cheese (about 8 ounces/230g) • Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a 9-by-13-inch (23-by-33-cm) baking dish. Bring a 4-quart (3.8-L) saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook it halfway through, about 3 minutes. Drain the pasta and transfer it to the baking dish. Stir in the cubed Velveeta. • Combine the flour, salt, mustard, black pepper, nutmeg, and cayenne in a large mixing bowl. Add the sour cream and eggs and whisk until smooth. Whisk in the half-and-half, cream, onion, Worcestershire sauce, and a sprinkle of black pepper. Pour the egg mixture over the pasta mixture in the prepared baking dish and stir to combine. Sprinkle the Cheddar cheese evenly over the surface. Bake until the pasta mixture is set around the edges but still a bit loose in the center, about 30 minutes. Let it cool for 10 minutes before serving. ~ Melissa Gilbert,

438:1 cup of ordinary white flour a pinch of salt 2 eggs 2½ cups of milk and water (1½ cups of milk and 1 cup of water mixed) 1 tablespoon of either vegetable oil or melted butter (You’ll also need some granulated sugar and a couple of lemons to put on the pancakes, along with other things like jams and possibly even maple syrup because you’re American.) Put the flour and salt in a mixing bowl. Crack the eggs in and whisk/fork the egg into the flour. Slowly add the milk/water mixture, stirring as you go, until there are no lumps and you have a liquid the consistency of a not-too-thick cream. Then put the mixture in the fridge overnight. Grease or butter or oil a nonstick frying pan. Heat it until it’s really hot (375 degrees according to one website, but basically, it has to be hot for the pancake to become a pancake. And these are crepes, French style, not thick American round pancakes). Stir the mixture you just took from the fridge thoroughly because the flour will all be at the bottom. Get an even consistency. Then ladle some mixture into the pan, thinly covering the bottom of the pan. When the underside of the pancake is golden, flip it (or, if you are brave, toss it). Cook another 30 seconds on the other side. For reasons I do not quite understand (although pan heat is probably the reason), the first one is always a bit disappointing. Often it’s a burnt, sludgy, weird thing, always, in my family, eaten by the cook (which was me). Just keep going, and the rest will be fine. Sprinkle sugar in the middle. And then squeeze some lemon juice on, preferably from a lemon. Then wrap it like a cigar and feed it to a child. (You can experiment with other things in the middle, like Nutella or jam or even maple syrup—but remember that these pancakes are not syrup-absorbent like American-style pancakes.) This is a very peculiar interview, Joe. Let me know how the pancakes come out. ~ Neil Gaiman,

439:WATERMELON COOKIES Preheat oven to 325 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 package (.16-ounce) watermelon (or any other flavor) Kool-Aid powder (Don’t get the kind with sugar or sugar substitute added.) 1 and ⅔ cup white (granulated) sugar 1 and ½ cups softened butter (2 and ½ sticks, 10 ounces) 2 large eggs, beaten (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 3 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) ½ cup white (granulated) sugar in a bowl Hannah’s 1st Note: When Brandi makes these cookies, she rolls them out on a floured board and uses cookie cutters. Rolled cookies take more time than other types of cookies, so Lisa and I modified Brandi’s recipe for use at The Cookie Jar. Mix the watermelon Kool-Aid with the granulated sugar. Add the softened butter and mix until it’s nice and fluffy. Add the eggs and mix well. Mix in the salt and the baking soda. Make sure they’re well incorporated. Add the flour in half-cup increments, mixing after each addition. Spray cookie sheets with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. You can also use parchment paper if you prefer. Roll dough balls one inch in diameter with your hands. (We use a 2-teaspoon cookie scooper at The Cookie Jar.) Roll the cookie balls in the bowl of white sugar and place them on the cookie sheet, 12 to a standard-size sheet. Bake the Watermelon Cookies at 325 degrees F. for 10 to 12 minutes (mine took 11 minutes) or until they’re just beginning to turn golden around the edges. Don’t overbake. Let the cookies cool on the cookie sheets for no more than a minute, and then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. Yield: Approximately 6 dozen pretty and unusual cookies that kids will adore, especially if you tell them that they’re made with Kool-Aid. Hannah’s 2nd Note: Brandi’s mother baked these cookies to send to school on birthdays. She ~ Joanne Fluke,

440:CAKE whole black peppercorns whole cloves whole cardamom 1 cinnamon stick 2 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 3 large eggs 1 large egg yolk 1 cup sour cream 1½ sticks (6 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 cup sugar 2 large pieces fresh ginger root (¼ cup, tightly packed, when finely grated) zest from 2 to 3 oranges (1½ teaspoons finely grated) Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 6-cup Bundt pan. Grind your peppercorns, cloves, and cardamom and measure out ¼ teaspoon of each. (You can use pre-ground spices, but the cake won’t taste as good.) Grind your cinnamon stick and measure out 1 teaspoon. (Again, you can use ground cinnamon if you must.) Whisk the flour with the baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt in a small bowl. In another small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk into the sour cream. Set aside. Cream the butter and sugar in a stand mixer until the mixture is light, fluffy, and almost white. This should take about 3 minutes. Grate the ginger root—this is a lot of ginger—and the orange zest. Add them to the butter/sugar mixture. Beat the flour mixture and the egg mixture, alternating between the two, into the butter until each addition is incorporated. The batter should be as luxurious as mousse. Spoon batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes, until cake is golden and a wooden skewer comes out clean. Remove to a rack and cool in the pan for 10 minutes. SOAK ½ cup bourbon 1½ tablespoons sugar While the cake cools in its pan, simmer the bourbon and the sugar in a small pot for about 4 minutes. It should reduce to about ⅓ cup. While the cake is still in the pan, brush half the bourbon mixture onto its exposed surface (the bottom of the cake) with a pastry brush. Let the syrup soak in for a few minutes, then turn the cake out onto a rack. Gently brush the remaining mixture all over the cake. ~ Ruth Reichl,

441:There could be something wrong with me because I see Negroes neither better nor worse than any other race. Race pride is a luxury I cannot afford. There are too many implications bend the term. Now, suppose a Negro does something really magnificent, and I glory, not in the benefit to mankind, but the fact that the doer was a Negro. Must I not also go hang my head in shame when a member of my race does something execrable? If I glory, then the obligation is laid upon me to blush also. I do glory when a Negro does something fine, I gloat because he or she has done a fine thing, but not because he was a Negro. That is incidental and accidental. It is the human achievement which I honor. I execrate a foul act of a Negro but again not on the grounds that the doer was a Negro, but because it was foul. A member of my race just happened to be the fouler of humanity. In other words, I know that I cannot accept responsibility for thirteen million people. Every tub must sit on its own bottom regardless. So 'Race Pride' in me had to go. And anyway, why should I be proud to be Negro? Why should anyone be proud to be white? Or yellow? Or red? After all, the word 'race' is a loose classification of physical characteristics. I tells nothing about the insides of people. Pointing a achievements tells nothing either. Races have never done anything. What seems race achievement is the work of individuals. The white race did not go into a laboratory and invent incandescent light. That was Edison. The Jews did not work out Relativity. That was Einstein. The Negros did not find out the inner secrets of peanuts and sweet potatoes, nor the secret of the development of the egg. That wad Carver and Just. If you are under the impression that every white man is Edison, just look around a bit. If you have the idea that every Negro is a Carver, you had better take off plenty of time to do your searching. ~ Zora Neale Hurston,

442:sad about a man she had never met. She poured syrup over her short stack and started to eat anyway. “So, did you stay in touch after the academy?” she asked. “Not really,” Bosch said. “We were close then, and there were class reunions, but we were on different tracks. It wasn’t like now with social media and all of that Facebook stuff. He was up in the Valley and came to Hollywood after I’d left.” Ballard nodded and picked at her food. The pancakes were getting soggy and more unappetizing. She moved her fork to the eggs. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about King and Carswell,” she said. “I assume you or Soto talked to them at the start of this.” “Lucia did,” Bosch said. “One of them, at least. King retired about five years ago and moved to East Bumfuck, Idaho—somewhere out in the woods with no phone and no internet. He went completely off the grid. She got the PO box where his pension checks go and sent him a letter asking for an interview on the case. She’s still waiting for an answer. Carswell also retired and he took a gig as an investigator with the Orange County D.A. Lucia went down and talked to him but he wasn’t a font of new information. He barely remembered the case and told her everything he did know was in the murder book. It didn’t sound as though he wanted to talk about a case he didn’t close. I’m sure you know the type.” “Yeah—‘If I can’t close it, nobody else can.’ What about Adam Sands, the boyfriend. Either of you do a fresh interview?” “We couldn’t. He died in 2014 of an overdose.” Ballard nodded. It wasn’t a surprising end for Sands but it was a disappointment because he could have been helpful in setting the scene that Daisy Clayton lived and died in and in providing the names of other runaways and acquaintances. Ballard was beginning to see why Bosch wanted to locate the field interview cards. It might be their only hope. “Anything else?” she asked. “I take ~ Michael Connelly,

443:The Book of Oogenesis In the beginning were the gametes. And though there was sex, lo, there was no gender, and life was in balance. And God said, “Let there be Sperm”: and some seeds did shrivel in size and grow cheap to make, and they did flood the market. And God said, “Let there be Eggs”: and other seeds were afflicted by a plague of Sperm. And yea, few of them bore fruit, for Sperm brought no food for the zygote, and only the largest Eggs could make up the shortfall. And these grew yet larger in the fullness of time. And God put the Eggs into a womb, and said, “Wait here: for thy bulk has made thee unwieldy, and Sperm must seek thee out in thy chambers. Henceforth shalt thou be fertilized internally.” And it was so. And God said to the gametes, “The fruit of thy fusion may abide in any place and take any shape. It may breathe air or water or the sulphurous muck of hydrothermal vents. But do not forget my one commandment unto you, which has not changed from the beginning of time: spread thy genes.” And thus did Sperm and Egg go into the world. And Sperm said, “I am cheap and plentiful, and if sowed abundantly I will surely fulfill God’s plan. I shall forever seek out new mates and then abandon them when they are with child, for there are many wombs and little time.” But Egg said, “Lo, the burden of procreation weighs heavily upon me. I must carry flesh that is but half mine, gestate and feed it even when it leaves my chamber,” for by now many of Egg’s bodies were warm of blood, and furry besides. “I can have but few children, and must devote myself to those, and protect them at every turn. And I will make Sperm help me, for he got me into this. And though he doth struggle at my side, I shall not let him stray, nor lie with my competitors.” And Sperm liked this not. And God smiled, for Its commandment had put Sperm and Egg at war with each other, even unto the day they made themselves obsolete. ~ Peter Watts,

444:The next morning Tatiana was screaming from inside the cabin. Her shrieks carried to Alexander through the pines, over the sound of his ax falling down on the cracking wood. He dropped the axe and ran to the house to find her crouching on top of the high counter. Her legs were drawn up to her neck. “What?” he exclaimed, panting. “Shura, a mouse ran by my feet as I was cooking.” Alexander stared at the eggs on the hearth, at the small pot of bubbling coffee on the Primus stove, at the tomatoes already on their plates, and then at Tatiana, ascended a meter from the floor. His mouth reluctantly, infectiously drew into a wide grin. “What are you”—he was trying to keep from laughing—“what are you doing up there?” “I told you!” she yelled. “A mouse ran by and brushed his”—she shivered—“his tail against my leg. Can you take care of it?” “Yes, but what are you doing up there?” “Getting away from the mouse, of course.” She frowned, looking at him unhappily. “Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to catch it?” Alexander walked to the counter and picked her up. Tatiana grabbed his neck but did not put her feet down. He hugged her, kissed her, kissed her again with enormous affection, and said, “Tatiasha, you goose, mice can climb, you know.” “No they can’t.” “I’ve seen mice climb the pole of the commander’s tent in Finland, trying to get to the piece of food at the very top.” “What was food doing at the top of the tent pole?” “We put it there.” “Why?” “To see if mice could climb.” Tatiana almost laughed. “Well, you’re not getting breakfast, or coffee, or me in this house until that mouse is gone.” After carrying her outside, Alexander went back for the breakfast plates. They ate on the bench, side by side. Alexander turned and stared at her incredulously. “Tania, are you…afraid of mice?” “Yes. Have you killed it?” “And how would you like me to do that? You never told me you were afraid of mice. ~ Paullina Simons,

445:Chris- the one who wrote the halfway creepy thing about missing me so much when I didn't post and thinking I was dead- found it mind-boggling that before the Julie/Julia Project began, I had never eaten an egg. She asked, "How can you have gotten through life without eating a single egg? How is that POSSIBLE???!!!!!" Of course, it wasn't exactly true that I hadn't eaten an egg. I had eaten them in cakes. I had even eaten them scrambled once or twice, albeit in the Texas fashion, with jalapeños and a pound of cheese. But the goal of my egg-eating had always been to make sure the egg did not look, smell, or taste anything like one, and as a result my history in this department was, I suppose, unusual. Chris wasn't the only person shocked. People I'd never heard of chimed in with their awe and dismay. I didn't really get it. Surely this is not such a bizarre hang-up as hating, say, croutons, like certain spouses I could name. Luckily, eggs made the Julia Child way often taste like cream sauce. Take Oeufs en Cocotte, for example. These are eggs baked with some butter and cream in ramekins set in a shallow pan of water. They are tremendous. In fact the only thing better than Oeufs en Cocotte is Ouefs en Cocotte with Sauce au Cari on top when you've woken up with a killer hangover, after one of those nights when somebody decided at midnight to buy a pack of cigarettes after all, and the girls wind up smoking and drinking and dancing around the living room to the music the boy is downloading from iTunes onto his new, ludicrously hip and stylish G3 Powerbook until three in the morning. On mornings like this, Oeufs en Cocotte with Sauce au Cari, a cup of coffee, and an enormous glass of water is like a meal fed to you by the veiled daughters of a wandering Bedouin tribe after one of their number comes upon you splayed out in the sands of the endless deserts of Araby, moments from death- it's that good. ~ Julie Powell,

446:The child, who is most at home with wonder, says: Daddy, what is above the sky? And the father says: The darkness of space. The child: What is beyond space? The father: The galaxy. The child: Beyond the galaxy? The father: Another galaxy. The child: Beyond the other galaxies? The father: No one knows. “You see? Size defeats us. For the fish, the lake in which he lives is the universe. What does the fish think when he is jerked up by the mouth through the silver limits of existence and into a new universe where the air drowns him and the light is blue madness? Where huge bipeds with no gills stuff it into a suffocating box and cover it with wet weeds to die? “Or one might take the tip of a pencil and magnify it. One reaches the point where a stunning realization strikes home: The pencil-tip is not solid; it is composed of atoms which whirl and revolve like a trillion demon planets. What seems solid to us is actually only a loose net held together by gravity. Viewed at their actual size, the distances between these atoms might become leagues, gulfs, aeons. The atoms themselves are composed of nuclei and revolving protons and electrons. One may step down further to subatomic particles. And then to what? Tachyons? Nothing? Of course not. Everything in the universe denies nothing; to suggest an ending is the one absurdity. “If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through that shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,

447:I was a bird. I lived a bird's life from birth to death. I was born the thirty-second chick in the Jipu family. I remember everything in detail. I remember breaking out of the shell at birth. But I learned later that my mother had gently cracked the shell first to ease my way. I dozed under my mother's chest for the first few days. Her feathers were so warm and soft! I was strong, so I kicked away my siblings to keep the cozy spot. Just 10 days after I was born, I was given flying lessons. We all had to learn quickly because there were snakes and owls and hawks. My little brothers and sisters, who didn't practice enough, all died. My little sister looked so unhappy when she got caught. I can still see her face. Before I could fly, I hadn't known that our nest was on the second-lowest branch of a big tree. My parents chose the location wisely. Snakes could reach the lowest branch and eagles and hawks could attack us if we lived at the top. We soared through the sky, above mountains and forests. But it wasn't just for fun! We always had to watch out for enemies, and to hunt for food. Death was always nearby. You could easily starve or freeze to death. Life wasn't easy. Once, I got caught in a monsoon. I smacked into a tree and lay bleeding for days. Many of my family and friends died, one after another. To help rebuild our clan, I found myself a female and married her. She was so sweet. She laid many eggs, but one day, a human cut down the tree we lived in, crushing all the eggs and my beloved. A bird's life is an endless battle against death. I survived for many years before I finally met my end. I found a worm at some harvest festival. I came fluttering down. It was a bad mistake. Some big guy was waiting to ambush hungry little birdies like me. I heard my own guts pop. It was clear to me that I was going to die at last. And I wanted to know where I'd go when I died. ~ Osamu Tezuka,

448:I spent another sleepless night in my apartment and in the early hours of the morning I snuck once more into my little kitchen, to prepare a huge torta di ricotta. I needed a cheesecake: it was the only thing that could give me the peace of mind I craved. Had I been too hasty in offering to give l'Inglese lessons? I asked myself, as I ground green almonds with my pestle. The power of my wrist quickly turned the almonds to powder. If only I could grind my worries away as easily. I beat the ricotta, egg yolks, honey, sugar, lemon juice, and rind into the almonds. I beat and beat and beat the mixture until a sweat formed on my brow and my body began to glow with warmth. Even then I did not stop beating. I welcomed the exhaustion that began to creep up on me: I could feel the healing power of my cooking. Really I knew nothing about l'Inglese. Nothing at all. Except that everything about him spelled danger to an inexperienced woman like me. I was afraid of him, yet could not bear the thought of not seeing him again. I was always thinking of him, imagining our next meeting: amusing myself with every possible scenario. I whisked the egg whites into peaks in a matter of seconds. I reasoned that I had been right to speak out to him when I did. I knew how I would have hated myself if I had let the moment slip by. I knew how wretched and foolish I would have felt at my impotence, and yet this turbulence inside me was almost as bad. Acrobatic butterflies fluttered in my stomach, however much I tried to feed them into submission. When the torta had baked to a golden, angel-scented crust, and after waiting impatiently for it to cool, I helped myself to a large slice with a thick dollop of cream. Ooh, it was good. I mopped up every crumb from the plate with my finger. Then I switched out the lights and climbed back into bed. I resigned myself to the thought that what was done could not be undone and drifted into a lemon-flavored sleep. ~ Lily Prior,

449:The greatest mystery the universe offers is not life but size. Size encompasses life, and the Tower encompasses size. The child, who is most at home with wonder, says: Daddy, what is above the sky? And the father says: The darkness of space. The child: What is beyond space? The father: The galaxy. The child: Beyond the galaxy? The father: Another galaxy. The child: Beyond the other galaxies? The father: No one knows. You see? Size defeats us. For the fish, the lake in which he lives is the universe. What does the fish think when he is jerked up by the mouth through the silver limits of existence and into a new universe where the air drowns him and the light is blue madness? Where huge bipeds with no gills stuff it into a suffocating box and cover it with wet weeds to die? Or one might take the tip of the pencil and magnify it. One reaches the point where a stunning realization strikes home: The pencil tip is not solid; it is composed of atoms which whirl and revolve like a trillion demon planets. What seems solid to us is actually only a loose net held together by gravity. Viewed at their actual size, the distances between these atoms might become league, gulfs, aeons. The atoms themselves are composed of nuclei and revolving protons and electrons. One may step down further to subatomic particles. And then to what? Tachyons? Nothing? Of course not. Everything in the universe denies nothing; to suggest an ending is the one absurdity. If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through the shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,

450:Carbonara: The union of al dente noodles (traditionally spaghetti, but in this case rigatoni), crispy pork, and a cloak of lightly cooked egg and cheese is arguably the second most famous pasta in Italy, after Bologna's tagliatelle al ragù. The key to an excellent carbonara lies in the strategic incorporation of the egg, which is added raw to the hot pasta just before serving: add it when the pasta is too hot, and it will scramble and clump around the noodles; add it too late, and you'll have a viscous tide of raw egg dragging down your pasta. Cacio e pepe: Said to have originated as a means of sustenance for shepherds on the road, who could bear to carry dried pasta, a hunk of cheese, and black pepper but little else. Cacio e pepe is the most magical and befuddling of all Italian dishes, something that reads like arithmetic on paper but plays out like calculus in the pan. With nothing more than these three ingredients (and perhaps a bit of oil or butter, depending on who's cooking), plus a splash of water and a lot of movement in the pan to emulsify the fat from the cheese with the H2O, you end up with a sauce that clings to the noodles and to your taste memories in equal measure. Amatriciana: The only red pasta of the bunch. It doesn't come from Rome at all but from the town of Amatrice on the border of Lazio and Abruzzo (the influence of neighboring Abruzzo on Roman cuisine, especially in the pasta department, cannot be overstated). It's made predominantly with bucatini- thick, tubular spaghetti- dressed in tomato sauce revved up with crispy guanciale and a touch of chili. It's funky and sweet, with a mild bite- a rare study of opposing flavors in a cuisine that doesn't typically go for contrasts. Gricia: The least known of the four kings, especially outside Rome, but according to Andrea, gricia is the bridge between them all: the rendered pork fat that gooses a carbonara or amatriciana, the funky cheese and pepper punch at the heart of cacio e pepe. "It all starts with gricia. ~ Matt Goulding,

451:To the ancients, bears symbolized resurrection. The creature goes to sleep for a long time, its heartbeat decreases to almost nothing. The male often impregnates the female right before hibernation, but miraculously, egg and sperm do not unite right away. They float separately in her uterine broth until much later. Near the end of hibernation, the egg and sperm unite and cell division begins, so that the cubs will be born in the spring when the mother is awakening, just in time to care for and teach her new offspring. Not only by reason of awakening from hibernation as though from death, but much more so because the she-bear awakens with new young, this creature is a profound metaphor for our lives, for return and increase coming from something that seemed deadened. The bear is associated with many huntress Goddesses: Artemis and Diana in Greece and Rome, and Muerte and Hecoteptl, mud women deities in the Latina cultures. These Goddesses bestowed upon women the power of tracking, knowing, 'digging out' the psychic aspects of all things. To the Japanese the bear is the symbol of loyalty, wisdom, and strength. In northern Japan where the Ainu tribe lives, the bear is one who can talk to God directly and bring messages back for humans. The cresent moon bear is considered a sacred being, one who was given the white mark on his throat by the Buddhist Goddess Kwan-Yin, whose emblem is the crescent moon. Kwan-Yin is the Goddess of Deep Compassion and the bear is her emissary. "In the psyche, the bear can be understood as the ability to regulate one's life, especially one's feeling life. Bearish power is the ability to move in cycles, be fully alert, or quiet down into a hibernative sleep that renews one's energy for the next cycle. The bear image teaches that it is possible to maintain a kind of pressure gauge for one's emotional life, and most especially that one can be fierce and generous at the same time. One can be reticent and valuable. One can protect one's territory, make one's boundaries clear, shake the sky if need be, yet be available, accessible, engendering all the same. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Est s,

452:HOMEMADE SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK cup boiling water 4 tablespoons butter ¾cup sugar ½teaspoon pure vanilla extract 1 cup powdered milk (I used Carnation Nonfat Pow- dered Milk, but I’ve also used my local grocery store brand.) In a blender, or using an electric mixer set on LOW, blend together the boiling water and butter. Add the sugar and let it run for a few seconds. Add the pure vanilla extract and let it run for several additional seconds. Shut off the blender or mixer, pour in the powdered milk, and then blend or mix on LOW until the resulting mixture is thick. Use immediately, or store in a covered container in the refrigerator. This homemade version of sweetened condensed milk will last for up to one week in the refrigerator. Yield: This recipe makes the equivalent of one 14-ounce can of sweetened condensed milk that can be used in pies, cakes, cookie bars and flans. Hannah’s Note: My Grandma Ingrid made this up every Sunday morning and put it in the refrigerator to use in coffee for the whole week. SUBSTITUTE FOR SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK (for anyone who needs to avoid milk or dairy) 2 large eggs 1 cup brown sugar (pack it down when you measure it) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 Tablespoons flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt Hannah’s 1st Note: This is easy to make if you use an electric mixer. You can also make it in a blender. You must make it fresh for each recipe you bake. Beat the eggs until they’re of a uniform color and thoroughly blended. Add the brown sugar and mix it in. Add the vanilla extract. Mix it in. Add the flour and beat for one minute, making sure it’s thoroughly incorporated into the mixture. Add the baking powder and the salt. Beat for another minute. Set the resulting mixture aside on the counter until you need it in your recipe. Then add it when your recipe calls for sweetened condensed milk. Hannah’s 2nd Note: This substitute can be used in any BAKED dessert recipe, including pies, cakes, and cookie bars. DO NOT use it in frostings or candy. Yield: One recipe makes enough to substitute for one 14-ounce can of sweetened condensed milk. (That’s the store-bought size.) ~ Joanne Fluke,

453:BONNIE BROWNIE COOKIE BARS Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position.   4 one-ounce squares semi-sweet chocolate (or 3/4 cup chocolate chips) 3/4 cup butter (one and a half sticks) 1½ cups white (granulated) sugar 3 beaten eggs (just whip them up in a glass with a fork) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 1 cup flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1/2 cup chopped cashews 1/2 cup chopped butterscotch chips 1/2 cup semi-sweet chocolate chips (I used Ghirardelli)   Prepare a 9-inch by 13-inch cake pan by lining it with a piece of foil large enough to flap over the sides. Spray the foil-lined pan with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray.   Microwave the chocolate squares and butter in a microwave-safe mixing bowl on HIGH for 1 minute. Stir. (Since chocolate frequently maintains its shape even when melted, you have to stir to make sure.) If it’s not melted, microwave for an additional 20 seconds and stir again. Repeat if necessary.   Stir the sugar into the chocolate mixture. Feel the bowl. If it’s not so hot it’ll cook the eggs, add them now, stirring thoroughly. Mix in the vanilla extract.   Mix in the flour, and stir just until it’s moistened.   Put the cashews, butterscotch chips, and chocolate chips in the bowl of a food processor, and chop them together with the steel blade. (If you don’t have a food processor, you don’t have to buy one for this recipe—just chop everything up as well as you can with a sharp knife.)   Mix in the chopped ingredients, give a final stir by hand, and spread the batter out in your prepared pan. Smooth the top with a rubber spatula.   Bake at 350 degrees F. for 30 minutes.   Cool the Bonnie Brownie Cookie Bars in the pan on a metal rack. When they’re thoroughly cool, grasp the edges of the foil and lift the brownies out of the pan. Place them facedown on a cutting board, peel the foil off the back, and cut them into brownie-sized pieces.   Place the squares on a plate and dust lightly with powdered sugar if you wish.   Hannah’s Note: If you’re a chocoholic, or if you’re making these for Mother, frost them with Neverfail Fudge Frosting before you cut them. ~ Joanne Fluke,

454:On the wall next to the door we’d entered through was a huge floor-to-ceiling bulletin/whiteboard combo and hanging from a thumbtack on the bulletin board amongst pictures and other various sorts of memorabilia was my bra. It’d been washed but it still had a good many blotches of pink on it. If that wasn’t shocking enough, the dialogue written over the last two weeks on the whiteboard pertaining to said bra certainly was. I’ll include the copy just so you can truly appreciate what I’m dealing with here. Tristan’s Mom: What’s this? Tristan: A size 34B lace covered slingshot. Jeff: Nice! Tristan’s Mom: Do I want to know? Tristan: I don’t know, do you? Tristan’s Mom: Not really. Are you planning on returning it or did you win some kind of prize? Tristan: I plead the fifth. Tristan’s Dad: Well done son. Jeff: Ditto! Tristan’s Mom: Don’t encourage him. Tristan: Gee, thanks Mom. Tristan’s Dad: Can’t a father be proud of his only child? Tristan’s Mom: He doesn’t need your help…obviously. Tristan’s Dad: That’s because he takes after me. Tristan: Was there anything else I can do for you two? Tristan’s Mom: Tell her I tried to get the stains out, but I’m afraid they set in before I got to it. Tristan: I’m sure she’ll appreciate your effort, but if I’m any judge (and I’d like to think I am) its size has caused it to become obsolete and she needs to trade up. Jeff: I’m so proud. Tristan: Thanks man. Tristan’s Mom: A name would be nice you know. Tristan: Camie. Tristan’s Mom: Do we get to meet her? Tristan: Sure. I’ll have my people call your people and set it up. Tristan’s Mom: I don’t know why I bother. Do you want anything from the store? Tristan: Yeah, Camie’s sleeping over tonight and I promised her bacon and eggs for breakfast. Jeff’s got the eggs covered but could you pick up some bacon for us and maybe a box of Twinkies for the bus? Thanks, you’re the best. Jeff: I have the eggs covered? Tristan’s Dad: He gets his sense of humor from you. Tristan’s Mom: Flattery will get you everywhere. How would you like your eggs prepared dear? ~ Jenn Cooksey,

455:Lemon Barley Chicken Soup: The first thing you have to do is make chicken broth. Over here in France, I can’t seem to find acceptable packaged chicken broth, so I make it from scratch; it’s really not tricky. Remove the skin from four or five chicken thighs. Put them in a big pot, along with a cut-up onion, a carrot or two, some celery, salt and pepper, and lots of water. Cook this mélange very, very slowly (bubbles just rising) for a few hours (at least three). When you’ve got the broth under way, cook the barley: take 1 cup of barley and simmer it slowly in 4 to 5 cups of water. When it’s soft, drain the barley, but reserve any remaining barley water so you can add it to the broth. When the broth is ready, skim off the froth. Then remove the chicken thighs and when they’re cool enough, strip the meat off the bones, saving it for the soup. Strain the broth and put it to the side. Now that you’ve got chicken broth, it’s time for the soup itself—the rest is even easier. Cut up some leeks, if you have them, though an onion works just fine, too. If you’ve got leeks, put some butter in your (now emptied) stockpot over low heat; use olive oil instead if you have onions. While the leeks/onions are softening, finely mince a knob of ginger and 2 or 3 garlic cloves. If you can get some, you can also crush some lemongrass and put it in at this point. I never seem to cook it right (it always stays tough), but it adds great flavor. Dump all that in with the softened leeks/onions. Cook until you can smell it, but take care to avoid browning. Then add the cut-up chicken and the barley, and pour in the broth. Simmer it over low heat for about half an hour. Add salt to taste. To get a great lemon kick, squeeze 2 lemons and beat the juice well with 2 egg yolks. With the pot removed from the heat source, briskly whisk this mixture into the soup, being careful that the eggs don’t separate and curdle. Then return the pot to the heat and stir vigorously for a bit, until the eggs are cooked. This soup is excellent for sick people (ginger, hot lemon, and chicken; need I say more?) and a tonic for sad people (total comfort). And it’s even better the next day. ~ Eloisa James,

456:CAKE whole black peppercorns whole cloves whole cardamom 1 cinnamon stick 2 cups flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1 teaspoon baking soda ½ teaspoon salt 3 large eggs 1 large egg yolk 1 cup sour cream 1½ sticks (6 ounces) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 cup sugar 2 large pieces fresh ginger root (¼ cup, tightly packed, when finely grated) zest from 2 to 3 oranges (1½ teaspoons finely grated) Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter and flour a 6-cup Bundt pan. Grind your peppercorns, cloves, and cardamom and measure out ¼ teaspoon of each. (You can use pre-ground spices, but the cake won’t taste as good.) Grind your cinnamon stick and measure out 1 teaspoon. (Again, you can use ground cinnamon if you must.) Whisk the flour with the baking powder, baking soda, spices, and salt in a small bowl. In another small bowl, whisk the eggs and egg yolk into the sour cream. Set aside. Cream the butter and sugar in a stand mixer until the mixture is light, fluffy, and almost white. This should take about 3 minutes. Grate the ginger root—this is a lot of ginger—and the orange zest. Add them to the butter/sugar mixture. Beat the flour mixture and the egg mixture, alternating between the two, into the butter until each addition is incorporated. The batter should be as luxurious as mousse. Spoon batter into the prepared pan and bake for about 40 minutes, until cake is golden and a wooden skewer comes out clean. Remove to a rack and cool in the pan for 10 minutes. SOAK ½ cup bourbon 1½ tablespoons sugar While the cake cools in its pan, simmer the bourbon and the sugar in a small pot for about 4 minutes. It should reduce to about ⅓ cup. While the cake is still in the pan, brush half the bourbon mixture onto its exposed surface (the bottom of the cake) with a pastry brush. Let the syrup soak in for a few minutes, then turn the cake out onto a rack. Gently brush the remaining mixture all over the cake. GLAZE ¾ cup powdered sugar, sifted or put through a strainer 5 teaspoons orange juice Once the cake is cooled, mix the sugar with the orange juice and either drizzle the glaze randomly over the cake or put it into a squeeze bottle and do a controlled drizzle. AUTHOR’S NOTE This is a work of fiction. ~ Ruth Reichl,

457:GRAHAM CRACKER CAKE Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ½ cup salted butter, softened (1 stick, 4 ounces, ¼ pound) ¾ cup white (granulated) sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 large eggs 2 teaspoons baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt 2 and ¼ cups graham cracker crumbs 1 cup whole milk 1 cup chopped nuts (measure after chopping—I used walnuts)   8 and ¾ ounce can crushed pineapple WITH juice ¼ cup white (granulated) sugar Hannah’s Note: You can either crush your own graham cracker crumbs by placing graham crackers in a bag and rolling the bag with a rolling pin, crushing them in the food processor by using the steel blade, or you can buy ready-made graham cracker crumbs at the store. Spray a 9-inch square baking pan with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray and sprinkle the inside with flour. Shake out excess flour. You may also use Pam spray for baking, which contains a coating of flour. Both will work well. In an electric mixer, cream the butter and the sugar, adding the sugar gradually with the mixer on MEDIUM speed. Add the vanilla extract and mix it in thoroughly. Beat in the eggs, one at a time, incorporating the first egg before you add the second. Add the baking powder and the salt, beating until they’re thoroughly mixed. Mix in half of the graham cracker crumbs with half of the milk. Beat well. Mix in the other half of the graham cracker crumbs with the remaining half of the milk. Remove the bowl from the mixer and fold in the chopped nuts by hand. Pour the Graham Cracker Cake batter into the prepared pan and smooth the top with a rubber spatula. Bake your cake at 350 degrees F. for 30 minutes. Take your cake out of the oven, turn off the oven, and place the cake on a wire rack to await its topping. In a saucepan on the stovetop, combine the contents of the can of crushed pineapple and juice with the white sugar. Cook the pineapple mixture over MEDIUM HIGH heat, stirring constantly until it boils. Turn the burner down to LOW and cook the pineapple mixture for an additional 10 minutes, stirring frequently. Pour the hot pineapple sauce over the hot cake. Cool in the pan. Serve the Graham Cracker Cake with sweetened whipped cream or vanilla ice cream. ~ Joanne Fluke,

458:JAMBOREE MUFFINS   Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 large egg, beaten ¾ cup whole milk ½ cup vegetable oil cup white (granulated) sugar 2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down when you measure it) 3 teaspoons (one Tablespoon) baking powder 1 teaspoon salt Approximately 1/4 cup jam of your choice Hannah’s 1st Note: This is a great recipe for using up all those jars of jam with little dibs and dabs in the bottom that are taking up too much room on your refrigerator shelf! Grease or spray the bottoms of 12 muffin cups with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Alternatively, you can use paper cupcake liners. Use a muffin pan or a cupcake pan that has cups approximately 2 and ½ inches across the top and are 1 and ¼ inches deep. (That’s a standard size.) Hannah’s 2nd Note: Don’t use an electric mixer to mix up these muffins. Just stir everything up by hand. The muffin batter should be a little lumpy, like brownie batter, and not over-mixed. In a medium-sized bowl, beat the egg with the milk until they are well combined. Stir in the vegetable oil and the white sugar. Measure out the flour in another bowl. Stir in the baking powder and the salt with a fork. Add the flour mixture to the egg mixture in half-cup increments, stirring after each increment, but only until the flour is moistened. The resulting muffin batter will be lumpy. That’s okay. It’s supposed to be. Fill the muffin cups half-full with batter. Get out your jam jars. You can use all one kind, or several different kinds of jam. It’s totally up to you. Use a teaspoon measure or a small-sized spoon from your silverware drawer to drop 1 teaspoon of jam into the center of each muffin. Hannah’s 3rd Note: I hope Mother never reads this recipe because I use one of the antique silver collector’s spoons she gave me to dish out the jam and drop it into the center of the muffin batter. Cover the jam with muffin batter until the muffin cups are ¾ full.   Bake at 400 degrees F. for approximately 20 minutes, or until the muffins are golden brown. Let the Jamboree Muffins cool in the pan for 10 minutes and then serve them with plenty of butter. They’re good warm and they’re good cold. They also reheat well in the microwave. Yield: 12 yummy muffins ~ Joanne Fluke,

459:Sea Holly Begotten by the meeting of rock with rock, The mating of rock and rock, rocks gnashing together; Created so, and yet forgetful, walks The seaward path, puts up her left hand, shades Blue eyes, the eyes of rock, to see better In slanting light the ancient sheep (which kneels Biting the grass) the while her other hand, Hooking the wicker handle, turns the basket Of eggs. The sea is high to-day. The eggs Are cheaper. The sea is blown from the southwest, Confused, taking up sand and mud in waves, The waves break, sluggish, in brown foam, the wind Disperses (on the sheep and hawthorn) spray,— And on her cheeks, the cheeks engendered of rock, And eyes, the colour of rock. The left hand Falls from the eyes, and undecided slides Over the left breast on which muslin lightly Rests, touching the nipple, and then down The hollow side, virgin as rock, and bitterly Caresses the blue hip. It was for this, This obtuse taking of the seaward path, This stupid hearing of larks, this hooking Of wicker, this absent observation of sheep Kneeling in harsh sea-grass, the cool hand shading The spray-stung eyes—it was for this the rock Smote itself. The sea is higher to-day, And eggs are cheaper. The eyes of rock take in The seaward path that winds toward the sea, The thistle-prodder, old woman under a bonnet, Forking the thistles, her back against the sea, Pausing, with hard hands on the handle, peering With rock eyes from her bonnet. It was for this, This rock-lipped facing of brown waves, half sand 113 And half water, this tentative hand that slides Over the breast of rock, and into the hollow Soft side of muslin rock, and then fiercely Almost as rock against the hip of rock— It was for this in midnight the rocks met, And dithered together, cracking and smoking. It was for this Barren beauty, barrenness of rock that aches On the seaward path, seeing the fruitful sea, Hearing the lark of rock that sings, smelling The rock-flower of hawthorn, sweetness of rock— It was for this, stone pain in the stony heart, The rock loved and laboured; and all is lost. ~ Conrad Potter Aiken,

460:Someone touches his shoulder. He has to brace himself against the sloping wall to avoid falling over. Marie-Laure stands behind him in her nightdress. The violins spiral down, then back up. Etienne takes Marie-Laure’s hand and together, beneath the low, sloping roof—the record spinning, the transmitter sending it over the ramparts, right through the bodies of the Germans and out to sea—they dance. He spins her; her fingers flicker through the air. In the candlelight, she looks of another world, her face all freckles, and in the center of the freckles those two eyes hang unmoving like the egg cases of spiders. They do not track him, but they do not unnerve him, either; they seem almost to see into a separate, deeper place, a world that consists only of music. Graceful. Lean. Coordinated as she whirls, though how she knows what dancing is, he could never guess. The song plays on. He lets it go too long. The antenna is still up, probably dimly visible against the sky; the whole attic might as well shine like a beacon. But in the candlelight, in the sweet rush of the concerto, Marie-Laure bites her lower lip, and her face gives off a secondary glow, reminding him of the marshes beyond the town walls, in those winter dusks when the sun has set but isn’t fully swallowed, and big patches of reeds catch red pools of light and burn—places he used to go with his brother, in what seems like lifetimes ago. This, he thinks, is what the numbers mean. The concerto ends. A wasp goes tap tap tap along the ceiling. The transmitter remains on, the microphone tucked into the bell of the electrophone as the needle traces the outermost groove. Marie-Laure breathes heavily, smiling. After she has gone back to sleep, after Etienne has blown out his candle, he kneels for a long time beside his bed. The bony figure of Death rides the streets below, stopping his mount now and then to peer into windows. Horns of fire on his head and smoke leaking from his nostrils and, in his skeletal hand, a list newly charged with addresses. Gazing first at the crew of officers unloading from their limousines into the chateau. Then at the glowing rooms of the perfumer Claude Levitte. Then at the dark tall house of Etienne LeBlanc. Pass us by, Horseman. Pass this house by. ~ Anthony Doerr,

461:For many years, a family of ospreys lived in a large nest near my summer home in Maine. Each season, I carefully observed their rituals and habits. In mid-April, the parents would arrive, having spent the winter in South America, and lay eggs. In early June, the eggs hatched. The babies slowly grew, as the father brought fish back to the nest, and in early to mid August were large enough to make their first flight. My wife and I recorded all of these comings and goings with cameras and in a notebook. We wrote down the number of chicks each year, usually one or two but sometimes three. We noted when the chicks first began flapping their wings, usually a couple of weeks before flying from the nest. We memorized the different chirps the parents made for danger, for hunger, for the arrival of food. After several years of cataloguing such data, we felt that we knew these ospreys. We could predict the sounds the birds would make in different situations, their flight patterns, their behavior when a storm was brewing. Reading our “osprey journals” on a winter’s night, we felt a sense of pride and satisfaction. We had carefully studied and documented a small part of the universe. Then, one August afternoon, the two baby ospreys of that season took flight for the first time as I stood on the circular deck of my house watching the nest. All summer long, they had watched me on that deck as I watched them. To them, it must have looked like I was in my nest just as they were in theirs. On this particular afternoon, their maiden flight, they did a loop of my house and then headed straight at me with tremendous speed. My immediate impulse was to run for cover, since they could have ripped me apart with their powerful talons. But something held me to my ground. When they were within twenty feet of me, they suddenly veered upward and away. But before that dazzling and frightening vertical climb, for about half a second we made eye contact. Words cannot convey what was exchanged between us in that instant. It was a look of connectedness, of mutual respect, of recognition that we shared the same land. After they were gone, I found that I was shaking, and in tears. To this day, I do not understand what happened in that half second. But it was one of the most profound moments of my life. ~ Alan Lightman,

462:She arranged the bacon on a platter and then debated what to do with the ten-inch biscuit that had actually been four small biscuits when she’d placed the pan in the oven. Deciding not to break it into irregular chucks, she placed the entire biscuit neatly in the center of the bacon and carried the platter over to the table, were Ian had just seated himself. Returning to the stove, she tried to dig the eggs out of the skillet, but they wouldn’t come loose, so she brought the skillet and spatula to the table. “I-I thought you might like to serve,” she offered formally, to hide her growing trepidation over the things she had prepared. “Certainly,” Ian replied, accepting the honor with the same grave formality with which she’d offered it: then he looked expectantly at the skillet. “What have we here?” he inquired sociably. Scrupulously keeping her gaze lowered, Elizabeth sat down across from him. “Eggs,” she answered, making an elaborate production of opening her napkin and placing it on her lap. “I’m afraid the yolks broke.” “It doesn’t matter.” When he picked up the spatula Elizabeth pinned a bright, optimistic smile on her face and watched as he first tried to lift, and then began trying to pry the eggs from the skillet. “They’re stuck,” she explained needlessly. “No, they’re bonded,” he corrected, but at least he didn’t sound angry. After another few moments he finally managed to pry a strip loose, and he placed it on her plate. A few moments more and he was able to gouge another piece loose, which he placed on his own plate. In keeping with the agreed-upon truce they both began observing all the polite table rituals with scrupulous care. First Ian offered the platter of bacon with the biscuit centerpiece to Elizabeth. “Thank you,” she said, choosing two black strips of bacon. Ian took three strips of bacon and studied the flat brown object reposing on the center of the platter. “I recognize the bacon,” he said with grave courtesy, “but what is that?” he asked, eyeing the brown object. “It looks quite exotic.” “It’s a biscuit,” Elizabeth informed him. “Really?” he said, straight-faced. “Without any shape?” “I call it a-a pan biscuit,” Elizabeth fabricated hastily. “Yes, I can see why you might,” he agreed. “It rather resembles the shape of a pan. ~ Judith McNaught,

463:But every once in a great while, the pull of her heritage would hit her, and Grand-mere would cook something real. I could never figure out what it was that triggered her, but I would come home from school to a glorious aroma. An Apfel-strudel, with paper-thin pastry wrapped around chunks of apples and nuts and raisins. The thick smoked pork chops called Kasseler ribs, braised in apple cider and served with caraway-laced sauerkraut. A rich baked dish with sausages, duck, and white beans. And hoppel poppel. A traditional German recipe handed down from her mother. I haven't even thought of it in years. But when my mom left, it was the only thing I could think to do for Joe, who was confused and heartbroken, and it was my best way to try to get something in him that didn't come in a cardboard container. I never got to learn at her knee the way many granddaughters learn to cook; she never shared the few recipes that were part of my ancestry. But hoppel poppel is fly by the seat of your pants, it doesn't need a recipe; it's a mess, just like me. It's just what the soul needs. I grab an onion, and chop half of it. I cut up the cold cooked potatoes into chunks. I pull one of my giant hot dogs out, and cut it into thick coins. Grand-mere used ham, but Joe loved it with hot dogs, and I do too. Plus I don't have ham. I whisk six eggs in a bowl, and put some butter on to melt. The onions and potatoes go in, and while they are cooking, I grate a pile of Swiss cheese, nicking my knuckle, but catching myself before I bleed into my breakfast. By the time I get a Band-Aid on it, the onions have begun to burn a little, but I don't care. I dump in the hot dogs and hear them sizzle, turning down the heat so that I don't continue to char the onions. When the hot dogs are spitting and getting a little browned, I add the eggs and stir up the whole mess like a scramble. When the eggs are pretty much set, I sprinkle the cheese over the top and take it off the heat, letting the cheese melt while I pop three slices of bread in the toaster. When the toast is done, I butter it, and eat the whole mess on the counter, using the crispy buttered toast to scoop chunk of egg, potato, and hot dog into my mouth, strings of cheese hanging down my chin. Even with the burnt onions, and having overcooked the eggs to rubbery bits, it is exactly what I need. ~ Stacey Ballis,

464:I have never before gathered eggs from under a hen. Fernando has never before seen a hen. We bend low into the shed where perch a dozen or so fat lady birds. There's no shrieking or fluttering at all. I approach one and ask if she has an egg or two. Nothing. I ask in Italian. Still nothing. I ask Fernando to pick her up but he's already outside the shed smoking and pacing, telling me he really doesn't like eggs at all and he especially doesn't like frittata. Both bold-faced lies. I start to move the hen and she plumps down from her perch quite voluntarily, uncovering the place where two lovely brown eggs sit. I take them, one at a time, bend down and nestle them in my sack. I want two more. I peruse the room. I choose the hen who sits next to the docile one. I pick her up and she pecks me so hard on my wrist that I drop her. I see there is nothing in her nest and apologise for my insensitivity, thinking her nastiness must have been caused by embarrassment. I move on to another hen and this time find a single, paler brown-shelled beauty, still warm and stuck all over with bits of straw. I take it and leave with an unfamiliar thrill. This is my first full day in Tuscany and I've robbed a henhouse before lunch. Back home in the kitchen I beat the eggs, the yolks of which are orange as pumpkin, with a few grindings of sea salt, a few more of pepper, adding a tablespoon or so of white wine and a handful of Parmigliano. I dig for my flat broad frying pan, twirl it to coat its floor with a few drops of my tourist oil, and let it warm over a quiet flame. I drop in the rinsed and dried blossoms whole, flatten them a bit so they stay put, and leave them for a minute or so while I tear a few basil leaves, give the eggs another stroke or two. I throw a few fennel seeds into the pan to scent the oil, where the blossoms are now beginning to take colour on their bottom sides. Time to liven up the flame and add the egg batter. I perform the lift-and-tilt motions necessary to cook the frittata without disturbing the blossoms, which are now ensnared in the creamy embrace of the eggs. Next, I run the lush little cake under a hot grill to form a gold blistery skin on top before sliding it onto a plate, strewing it with torn basil. The heat of the eggs warms the herbs so they give up a double-strength perfume. Now I drop a thread of find old balsamico over it. And finally, let it rest. ~ Marlena de Blasi,

465:When she was a girl, Eleanor had completely believed the tale. That Zephyr brought her back from Africa with him, a pearl that he'd swallowed, that had remained hidden deep within his jaw when he was shot, skinned, sold, and shipped, during the decades his pelt was put on proud display at the big house and through his subsequent repair to reduced circumstances at the Lake House. It was there, one day, when the tiger's head was tilted just so, that the pearl rolled out of his lifeless mouth and became lost in the long weave of the library carpet. It was trodden on, bypassed, and all but forgotten, until one dark night, while the household slept, it was found by fairies on a mission of theft. They took the pearl deep into the woods, where it was laid on a bed of leaves, studied and pondered and tentatively stroked, before being stolen by a bird, who mistook it for an egg. High in the treetops, the pearl began to grow and grow and grow, until the bird became frightened that her own eggs would be crushed and she rolled the argent orb back down the side of the tree, where it landed with a soft thud on a bed of leaf fall. There, in the light of the full moon, surrounded by curious fairy folk, the egg began to hatch and a baby emerged. The fairies gathered nectar to feed her and took turns rocking the babe to sleep, but soon no amount of nectar was enough, and even fairy magic could not keep the child content. A meeting was held and it was decided the woods were no place for a human child and she must be returned to the house, laid on the doorstep in a wrap of woven leaves. As far as Eleanor was concerned, it explained everything: why she felt such an affinity with the woods, why she'd always been able to glimpse the fairies in the meadows where other people saw only grass, why birds had gathered on the ledge outside the nursery window when she was an infant. It also explained the fierce tiger rage that welled up inside her at times, that made her spit and scream and stomp, so that Nanny Bruen hissed and told her she'd come to no good if she didn't learn to control herself. Mr. Llewellyn, on the other hand, said there were worse things in life than a temper, that it only proved one had an opinion. And a pulse, he added, the alternative to which was dire! He said a girl like Eleanor would do well to keep the coals of her impudence warm, for society would seek to cool them soon enough. ~ Kate Morton,

466:Why should he treat Elizabeth as if he harbored any feelings for her, including anger? Elizabeth sensed that he was wavering a little, and she pressed home her advantage, using calm reason: “Surely nothing that happened between us should make us behave badly to each other now. I mean, when you think on it, it was noting to us but a harmless weekend flirtation, wasn’t it?” “Obviously.” “Neither of us was hurt, were we?” “No.” “Well then, there’s no reason why we should not be cordial to each other now, is there?” she demanded with a bright, beguiling smile. “Good heavens, if every flirtation ended in enmity, no one in the ton would be speaking to anyone else!” She had neatly managed to put him in the position of either agreeing with her or else, by disagreeing, admitting that she had been something more to him than a flirtation, and Ian realized it. He’d guessed where her calm arguments were leading, but even so, he was reluctantly impressed with how skillfully she was maneuvering him into having to agree with her. “Flirtations,” he reminded her smoothly, “don’t normally end in duels.” “I know, and I am sorry my brother shot you.” Ian was simply not proof against the appeal in those huge green eyes of hers. “Forget it,” he said with an irritated sigh, capitulating to all she was asking. “Stay the seven days.” Suppressing the urge to twirl around with relief, she smiled into his eyes. “Then could we have a truce for the time I’m here?” “That depends.” “On what?” His brows lifted in mocking challenge. “On whether or not you can make a decent breakfast.” “Let’s go in the house and see what we have.” With Ian standing beside her Elizabeth surveyed the eggs and cheese and bread, and then the stove. “I shall fix something right up,” she promised with a smile that concealed her uncertainty. “Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?” Ian asked, but she seemed so eager, and her smile was so disarming, that he almost believed she knew how to cook. “I shall prevail, you’ll see,” she told him brightly, reaching for a wide cloth and tying it around her narrow waist. Her glance was so jaunty that Ian turned around to keep himself from grinning at her. She was obviously determined to attack the project with vigor and determination, and he was equally determined not to discourage her efforts. “You do that,” he said, and he left her alone at the stove. ~ Judith McNaught,

467:A few hundred million years later, some of these eukaryotes developed a novel adaptation: they stayed together after cell division to form multicellular organisms in which every cell had exactly the same genes. These are the three-boat septuplets in my example. Once again, competition is suppressed (because each cell can only reproduce if the organism reproduces, via its sperm or egg cells). A group of cells becomes an individual, able to divide labor among the cells (which specialize into limbs and organs). A powerful new kind of vehicle appears, and in a short span of time the world is covered with plants, animals, and fungi.37 It’s another major transition. Major transitions are rare. The biologists John Maynard Smith and Eörs Szathmáry count just eight clear examples over the last 4 billion years (the last of which is human societies).38 But these transitions are among the most important events in biological history, and they are examples of multilevel selection at work. It’s the same story over and over again: Whenever a way is found to suppress free riding so that individual units can cooperate, work as a team, and divide labor, selection at the lower level becomes less important, selection at the higher level becomes more powerful, and that higher-level selection favors the most cohesive superorganisms.39 (A superorganism is an organism made out of smaller organisms.) As these superorganisms proliferate, they begin to compete with each other, and to evolve for greater success in that competition. This competition among superorganisms is one form of group selection.40 There is variation among the groups, and the fittest groups pass on their traits to future generations of groups. Major transitions may be rare, but when they happen, the Earth often changes.41 Just look at what happened more than 100 million years ago when some wasps developed the trick of dividing labor between a queen (who lays all the eggs) and several kinds of workers who maintain the nest and bring back food to share. This trick was discovered by the early hymenoptera (members of the order that includes wasps, which gave rise to bees and ants) and it was discovered independently several dozen other times (by the ancestors of termites, naked mole rats, and some species of shrimp, aphids, beetles, and spiders).42 In each case, the free rider problem was surmounted and selfish genes began to craft relatively selfless group members who together constituted a supremely selfish group. ~ Jonathan Haidt,

468:despite the variety of ingredients and the imagination with which Vermont cooks use them, the state remains strongly associated with several iconic products — think cheddar cheese (really, dairy products in general), apples and cider, and maple syrup. Here’s a brunch menu to commemorate Vermont’s anniversary that includes those tried-and-true flavors — cheddar in the quiche, maple syrup in the salad’s vinaigrette, and apple cider in the muffins, which recall fried cider doughnuts, with a thick cinnamon-sugar coating. Their crumb is a little denser than some other muffins, and their profile a bit more compact. Cheddar, Bacon, and Caramelized Onion Quiche Makes 1 quiche 6 slices bacon, cut into ¼-inch pieces, fried until crisp and the fat has rendered, drained, and 1½ tablespoons fat reserved 3 medium onions (about 1 ¼ pounds), thinly sliced (about 6 cups) Salt and black pepper 1½ tablespoons minced fresh sage ¼ teaspoon balsamic vinegar 3 large eggs 1 cup half-and-half Pinch cayenne pepper 2 cups coarsely grated medium or sharp cheddar 1 9-inch pie shell, blind-baked until lightly browned and warm In a large skillet over medium-high heat, heat the bacon fat until hot. Add onions and 1 teaspoon salt, toss to coat, and cook until they begin to soften and release liquid, about 6 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low and continue cooking, stirring and scraping the bottom of the skillet every 10 minutes (and adjusting the heat if the onions begin to scorch or are not browning), until the onions are sticky and caramelized, about 1 hour longer (you will have about 1 cup). Add the sage, vinegar, and 1½ tablespoons water, and with a wooden spoon, scrape bottom of pan to dissolve the fond, about 30 seconds; set aside to cool briefly. With the rack in middle position, heat the oven to 375 degrees. In a medium bowl, whisk the eggs, half-and-half, cayenne, 1¾ cups cheese, and ¾ teaspoon each salt and black pepper to combine thoroughly. Spread caramelized onions in an even layer in the warm, pre-baked pie shell. Sprinkle bacon evenly over the onions, place pie shell on the oven rack, and pour in the custard mixture (it should reach to about ½ inch beneath the rim of the pie shell). Sprinkle the remaining ¼ cup cheese over custard mixture and bake until custard is set, light golden brown, center wiggles slightly when you jiggle the quiche, and the tip of a knife inserted about 1½ inches from the edge comes out clean, 35 to 40 minutes. Cool on a wire rack and serve barely warm or at room temperature. ~ Anonymous,

469:Algebra applies to the clouds, the radiance of the star benefits the rose--no thinker would dare to say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who could ever calculate the path of a molecule? How do we know that the creations of worlds are not determined by falling grains of sand? Who can understand the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely small, the echoing of causes in the abyss of being and the avalanches of creation? A mite has value; the small is great, the great is small. All is balanced in necessity; frightening vision for the mind. There are marvelous relations between beings and things, in this inexhaustible whole, from sun to grub, there is no scorn, each needs the other. Light does not carry terrestrial perfumes into the azure depths without knowing what it does with them; night distributes the stellar essence to the sleeping plants. Every bird that flies has the thread of the infinite in its claw. Germination includes the hatching of a meteor and the tap of a swallow's beak breaking the egg, and it guides the birth of the earthworm, and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two has a greater view? Choose. A bit of mold is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an anthill of stars. The same promiscuity, and still more wonderful, between the things of the intellect and material things. Elements and principles are mingled, combined, espoused, multiplied one by another, to the point that the material world, and the moral world are brought into the same light. Phenomena are perpetually folded back on themselves. In the vast cosmic changes, universal life comes and goes in unknown quantities, rolling everything up in the invisible mystery of the emanations, using everything, losing no dream from any single sleep, sowing a microscopic animal here, crumbling a star there, oscillating and gyrating, making a force of light, and an element of thought, disseminated and indivisible dissolving all, that geometric point, the self; reducing everything to the soul-atom; making everything blossom into God; entangling from the highest to the lowest, all activities in the obscurity of a dizzying mechanism, linking the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating--who knows, if only by the identity of the law--the evolutions of the comet in the firmament to the circling of the protozoa in the drop of water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, whose first motor is the gnat, and whose last is the zodiac. ~ Victor Hugo,

470:Outsong in the Jungle [Baloo:] For the sake of him who showed One wise Frog the Jungle-Road, Keep the Law the Man-Pack make For thy blind old Baloo's sake! Clean or tainted, hot or stale, Hold it as it were the Trail, Through the day and through the night, Questing neither left nor right. For the sake of him who loves Thee beyond all else that moves, When thy Pack would make thee pain, Say: "Tabaqui sings again." When thy Pack would work thee ill, Say: "Shere Khan is yet to kill." When the knife is drawn to slay, Keep the Law and go thy way. (Root and honey, palm and spathe, Guard a cub from harm and scathe!) Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee! [Kaa:] Anger is the egg of Fear-- Only lidless eyes see clear. Cobra-poison none may leech-- Even so with Cobra-speech. Open talk shall call to thee Strength, whose mate is Courtesy. Send no lunge beyond thy length. Lend no rotten bough thy strength. Gauge thy gape with buck or goat, Lest thine eye should choke thy throat. After gorging, wouldst thou sleep ? Look thy den be hid and deep, Lest a wrong, by thee forgot, Draw thy killer to the spot. East and West and North and South, Wash thy hide and close thy mouth. (Pit and rift and blue pool-brim, Middle-Jungle follow him!) Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee! [Bagheera:] In the cage my life began; Well I know the worth of Man. By the Broken Lock that freed-- Man-cub, ware the Man-cub's breed! Scenting-dew or starlight pale, Choose no tangled tree-cat trail. Pack or council, hunt or den, Cry no truce with Jackal-Men. Feed them silence when they say: "Come with us an easy way." Feed them silence when they seek Help of thine to hurt the weak. Make no bandar's boast of skill; Hold thy peace above the kill. Let nor call nor song nor sign Turn thee from thy hunting-line. (Morning mist or twilight clear, Serve him, Wardens of the Deer!) Wood and Water, Wind and Tree, Jungle-Favour go with thee! [The Three:] On the trail that thou must tread To the threshold of our dread, Where the Flower blossoms red; Through the nights when thou shalt lie Prisoned from our Mother-sky, Hearing us, thy loves, go by; In the dawns when thou shalt wake To the toil thou canst not break, Heartsick for the Jungle's sake; Wood and Water, Wind air Tree, Wisdom, Strength, and Courtesy, Jungle-Favour go with thee! ~ Rudyard Kipling,

471:Separately they surveyed their individual plates, trying to decide which item was most likely to be edible. They arrived at the same conclusion at the same moment; both of them picked up a strip of bacon and bit into it. Noisy crunching and cracking sounds ensued-like those of a large tree breaking in half and falling. Carefully avoiding each other’s eyes, they continued crunching away until they’d both eaten all the bacon on their plates. That finished, Elizabeth summoned her courage and took a dainty bite of egg. The egg tasted like tough, salted wrapping paper, but Elizabeth chewed manfully on it, her stomach churning with humiliation and a lump of tears starting to swell in her throat. She expected some scathing comment at any moment from her companion, and the more politely he continued eating, the more she wished he’d revert to his usual unpleasant self so that she’d at least have the defense of anger. Lately everything that happened to her was humiliating, and her pride and confidence were in tatters. Leaving the egg unfinished, she put down her fork and tried the biscuit. After several seconds of attempting to break a piece off with her fingers she picked up her knife and sawed away at it. A brown piece finally broke loose; she lifted it to her mouth and bit-but it was so tough her teeth only made grooves on the surface. Across the table she felt Ian’s eyes on her, and the urge to weep doubled. “Would you like some coffee?” she asked in a suffocated little voice. “Yes, thank you.” Relieved to have a moment to compose herself, Elizabeth arose and went to the stove, but her eyes blurred with tears as she blindly filled a mug with freshly brewed coffee. She brought it over to him, then sat down again. Sliding a glance at the defeated girl sitting with her head bent and her hands folded in her lap, Ian felt a compulsive urge to either laugh or comfort her, but since chewing was requiring such an effort, he couldn’t do either. Swallowing the last piece of egg, he finally managed to say, “That was…er…quite filling.” Thinking perhaps he hadn’t found it so bad as she had, Elizabeth hesitantly raised her eyes to his. “I haven’t had a great deal of experience with cooking,” she admitted in a small voice. She watched him take a mouthful of coffee, saw his eyes widen with shock-and he began to chew the coffee. Elizabeth lurched to her feet, squired her shoulders, and said hoarsely, “I always take a stroll after breakfast. Excuse me.” Still chewing, Ian watched her flee from the house, then he gratefully got rid of the mouthful of coffee grounds. ~ Judith McNaught,

472:If I talk about the Loud family now, will all of you know who I mean? I mean a family of prosperous human beings in California, whose last name is Loud. I suggest to you that the Louds were healthy Earthlings who had everything but a religion in which they could believe. There was nothing to tell them what they should want, what they should shun, what they should do next. Socrates told us that the unexamined life wasn’t worth living. The Louds demonstrated that the morally unstructured life is a clunker, too. Christianity could not nourish the Louds. Neither could Buddhism or the profit motive of participation in the arts, or any other nostrum on America’s spiritual smorgasbord. So the Louds were dying before our eyes. Now is as good a time as any to mention White House Prayer Breakfasts, I guess. I think we all know now that religion of that sort is about as nourishing to the human spirit as potassium cyanide. We have been experimenting with it. Every guinea pig died. We are up to our necks in dead guinea pigs. The lethal ingredient in those breakfasts wasn’t prayer. And it wasn’t the eggs or the orange juice or the hominy grits. It was a virulent new strain of hypocrisy which did everyone in. If I have offended anyone here by talking of the need of a new religion, I apologize. I am willing to drop the word religion, and substitute three other words for it. Three other words are heartfelt moral code. We sure need such a thing, and it should be simple enough and reasonable enough for anyone to understand. The trouble with so many of the moral codes we have inherited is that they are subject to so many interpretations. We require specialists, historians and archaeologists and linguists and so on, to tell us where this or that idea may have come from, to suggest what this or that statement might actually mean. This is good news for hypocrites, who enjoy feeling pious, no matter what they do. It may be that moral simplicity is not possible in modern times. It may be that simplicity and clarity can come only from a new Messiah, who may never come. We can talk about portents, if you like. I like a good portent as much as anyone. What might be the meaning of the Comet Kahoutek, which was to make us look upward, to impress us with the paltriness of our troubles, to cleanse our souls with cosmic awe. Kahoutek was a fizzle, and what might this fizzle mean? I take it to mean that we can expect no spectacular miracles from the heavens, that the problems of ordinary human beings will have to be solved by ordinary human beings. The message of Kahoutek is: “Help is not on the way. Repeat: help is not on the way. ~ Kurt Vonnegut,

473:Out beyond and way back and further past that still. And such was it since. But after all appearances and some afternoons misspent it came to pass not all was done and over with. No, no. None shally shally on that here hill. Ah, but that was idle then and change was not an old hand. No, no. None shilly shilly on that here first rung. So, much girded and with new multitudes, a sun came purple and the hail turned in a year or two. And that was not all. No, no. None ganny ganny on that here moon loose. Turns were taken and time put in, so much heft and grimace, there, with callouses, all along the diagonal. Like no other time and the time taken back, that too like none other that can be compared to a bovine heap raising steam, or the eye-cast of a flailing comet. Back and forth, examining the egg spill and the cord fray and the clowning barnacle. And all day with no break to unwrap or unscrew or squint and flex or soak the brush. No, no. None flim flim on that here cavorting mainstay. From tree to tree and the pond there deepening and some small holes appearing and any number of cornstalks twisting into a thing far from corn. That being the case there was some wretched plotting, turned to stone, holding nothing. No, no. None rubby rubby on that here yardstick. Came then from the region of silt and aster, all along the horse trammel and fire velvet, first these sounds and then their makers. When passed betwixt and entered fully, pails were swung and notches considered. There was no light. No, none. None wzm wzm on that here piss crater. And it being the day, still considered. Oh, all things considered and not one mentioned, since all names had turned in and handed back. Knowing this the hounds disbanded and knowing that the ground muddled headstones and milestones and gallows and the almond-shaped buds of freshest honeysuckle. And among this chafing tumult fates were scrambled and mortality made untidy and pithy vows took themselves a breather. This being the way and irreversible homewards now was a lifted skeletal thing of the past, without due application or undue meaning. No, no. None shap shap on that here domicile shank. From right foot to left, first by the firs, then by the river, hung and loitered, and the blaze there slow to come. All night waking with no benefit of sleeping and the breath cranking and the heart-place levering and the kerosene pervading but failing to jerk a flame from out any one thing. No, none. None whoosh whoosh on that here burnished cunt. Oh, the earth, the earth and the women there, inside the simpering huts, stamped and spiritless, blowing on the coals. Not far away, but beyond the way of return. ~ Claire Louise Bennett,

474:Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like who wrote "Don't be a ninny" alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of "Irony" fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. Absolutely," they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird singing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their page- anonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencil- by a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet- Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love. ~ Billy Collins,

475:Marginalia Sometimes the notes are ferocious, skirmishes against the author raging along the borders of every page in tiny black script. If I could just get my hands on you, Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, they seem to say, I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. Other comments are more offhand, dismissive 'Nonsense.' 'Please! ' 'HA! ! ' that kind of thing. I remember once looking up from my reading, my thumb as a bookmark, trying to imagine what the person must look like why wrote 'Don't be a ninny' alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. Students are more modest needing to leave only their splayed footprints along the shore of the page. One scrawls 'Metaphor' next to a stanza of Eliot's. Another notes the presence of 'Irony' fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, Hands cupped around their mouths. 'Absolutely,' they shout to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. 'Yes.' 'Bull's-eye.' 'My man! ' Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points rain down along the sidelines. And if you have managed to graduate from college without ever having written 'Man vs. Nature' in a margin, perhaps now is the time to take one step forward. We have all seized the white perimeter as our own 36 and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge. Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria jotted along the borders of the Gospels brief asides about the pains of copying, a bird signing near their window, or the sunlight that illuminated their pageanonymous men catching a ride into the future on a vessel more lasting than themselves. And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, they say, until you have read him enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. Yet the one I think of most often, the one that dangles from me like a locket, was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye I borrowed from the local library one slow, hot summer. I was just beginning high school then, reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, and I cannot tell you how vastly my loneliness was deepened, how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, when I found on one page A few greasy looking smears and next to them, written in soft pencilby a beautiful girl, I could tell, whom I would never meet'Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love.' ~ Billy Collins,

476:English Gingerbread Cake Serves: 12 to 16 Baking Time: 50 to 60 minutes Kyle Cathie, editor for the British version of The Cake Bible (and now a publisher), informed me in no uncertain terms that a book could not be called a cake "bible" in England if it did not contain the beloved gingerbread cake. When I went to England to retest all the cakes using British flour and ingredients, I developed this gingerbread recipe. Now that I have tasted it, I quite agree with Kyle. It is a moist spicy cake with an intriguing blend of buttery, lemony, wheaty, and treacly flavors. Cut into squares and decorated with pumpkin faces, it makes a delightful "treat" for Halloween. Batter Volume Ounce Gram unsalted butter (65° to 75°F/19° to 23°C) 8 tablespoons (1 stick) 4 113 golden syrup or light corn syrup 1¼ cups (10 fluid ounces) 15 425 dark brown sugar, preferably Muscovado ¼ cup, firmly packed 2 60 orange marmalade 1 heaping tablespoon 1.5 40 2 large eggs, at room temperature ¼ cup plus 2 tablespoons (3 fluid ounces) 3.5 100 milk 2/3 cup (5.3 fluid ounces) 5.6 160 cake flour (or bleached all-purpose flour) 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (or 1 cup), sifted into the cup and leveled off 4 115 whole wheat flour 1 cup minus 1 tablespoon (lightly spooned into the cup) 4 115 baking powder 1½ teaspoons . . cinnamon 1 teaspoon . . ground ginger 1 teaspoon . . baking soda ½ teaspoon . . salt pinch . . Special Equipment One 8 by 2-inch square cake pan or 9 by 2-inch round pan (see Note), wrapped with a cake strip, bottom coated with shortening, topped with a parchment square (or round), then coated with baking spray with flour Preheat the Oven Twenty minutes or more before baking, set an oven rack in the lower third of the oven and preheat the oven to 325°F/160°C. Mix the Liquid Ingredients In a small heavy saucepan, stir together the butter, golden syrup, sugar, and marmalade over medium-low heat until melted and uniform in color. Set aside uncovered until just barely warm, about 10 minutes. Whisk in the eggs and milk. Make the Batter In a large bowl, whisk together the cake flour, whole wheat flour, baking powder, cinnamon, ginger, baking soda, and salt. Add the butter mixture, stirring with a large silicone spatula or spoon just until smooth and the consistency of thick soup. Using the silicone spatula, scrape the batter into the prepared pan. Bake the Cake Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, or until a wire cake tester inserted in the center comes out clean and the cake springs back when pressed lightly in the center. The cake should start to shrink from the sides of the pan only after removal from the oven. Cool the Cake Let the cake cool in the pan on a wire rack for 10 minutes. While the cake is cooling, make the syrup. ~ Rose Levy Beranbaum,

477:Triple-Chocolate Parfait This recipe comes from Michael Lewis-Anderson, the brilliant chocolate stylist from Wittamer in Brussels, who swears he cannot make his parfaits fast enough for chocolate lovers who come from all around the world for his superlative creations. When melting the chocolates, be sure that the bowls are thoroughly dry first. Just a drop of liquid can cause chocolate to become stiff and unmanageable. Since you are making three distinct mousse layers, whip all the cream in one bowl and then separate it into thirds, and do the same with the egg whites. For a change of pace, instead of serving the three mousses as a cake, divide the recipe in half and layer the three mousses in 8 tall wine goblets. They’re especially elegant when topped with shavings of dark, milk, and white chocolate, or perfect berries during the summer. ONE TALL 9-INCH (23-CM) CAKE, 8 TO 10 SERVINGS, OR 8 GOBLETS 9 ounces [255 grams] bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped 9 ounces [255 grams] white chocolate, chopped 9 ounces [255 grams] milk chocolate, chopped 2¼ cups [560 ml] heavy cream 9 large egg whites Chocolate shavings Lightly oil a 9 × 3-inch (23 × 7.5-cm) springform pan and set it on a serving platter. • In three separate medium-sized heatproof bowls, melt each chocolate successively over a saucepan of simmering water (you can use the same saucepan, just melt one after the other). Remove each chocolate from the heat and set aside to cool to lukewarm. • Whip the cream until it holds soft, droopy peaks. It should be relatively stiff but not dry and curdled. You should have about 6 cups (1½ liters) of whipped cream. • Making sure your chocolate is not hot, fold one-third of the whipped cream (about 2 cups [500 ml]) into the dark chocolate in two separate additions. • Divide the remaining whipped cream between the bowls of milk and white chocolate, then fold the cream into each. • In a clean bowl, beat the egg whites until they are thick and hold their shape, but not dry. • Fold one-third of the egg whites (about 2½ cups [625 ml]) into each chocolate mousse filling, folding until smooth. • Pour the dark chocolate mousse into the prepared cake pan and level the top. Add the milk chocolate mousse, spreading it over the dark chocolate mousse and leveling the top. (If the milk chocolate mousse seems thin, freeze the cake for about 30 minutes before adding the white chocolate mousse.) • Finally add the white chocolate mousse to the top. (It will seem thin, but that is fine.) • Chill the parfait cake for at least 6 hours, or freeze, before removing the sides of the cake pan. The cake should be sliced and served either chilled or frozen. Serve it with the chocolate shavings. • If you are concerned about serving uncooked egg whites, pasteurized egg whites are available in most grocery stores. ~ David Lebovitz,

478:Place the frozen hash browns in the bowl of a food processor. Use the steel blade, and process with an on-and-off motion until the potatoes are finely chopped. (If you don’t have a food processor, you don’t have to go out and buy one to make these. Just lay your frozen potatoes out on a cutting board in single layers, and chop them up into much smaller pieces with a chef’s knife.) Leave the potatoes in the food processor (or on the counter) while you… Crack the eggs into a large bowl and beat them with a fork or a wire whip until they’re fluffy. Stir in the grated onion (or the onion powder if you decided to use that), and the salt and pepper. Mix in the cracker crumbs. Let the mixture sit on the counter for at least two minutes to give the crumbs time to swell as they soak up the liquid. If you used a food processor, dump the potatoes on a cutting board. (If you used a chef’s knife, they’re already there.) Blot them with a paper towel to get rid of any moisture. Then add them to the mixture in the bowl, and stir them in. If the mixture in your bowl looks watery, add another Tablespoon of cracker crumbs to thicken it. Wait for the cracker crumbs to swell up, and then stir again. If it’s still too watery, add another Tablespoon of cracker crumbs. The resulting mixture should be thick, like cottage cheese. Place the ¼ stick of butter and the 1/8 cup of olive oil in a large nonstick frying pan. (This may be overkill, but I spray the frying pan with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray before I add the butter and olive oil.) Turn the burner on medium-high heat. Once the oil and butter are hot, use a quarter-cup measure to drop in the batter. Don’t try to get all of the batter out of the measuring cup. Your goal is to make 1/8 cup pancakes, and if you don’t scrape out the batter, that’s approximately what you’ll get. Keep the pancakes about two inches apart, and cover the bottom of the frying pan with them. Flatten them very slightly with a spatula so the potatoes spread out and don’t hump up in the middle. Fry the pancakes until they’re lightly browned on the bottom. That should take 2 to 3 minutes. You can tell by lifting one up with a spatula and peeking, but if it’s not brown and you have to do it again, choose another pancake to lift. Once the bottoms of the pancakes are brown, flip them over with your spatula and fry them another 2 to 3 minutes, or until the other side is brown. Lift out the pancakes and drain them on paper towels. Serve hot off the stove if you can, or keep the pancakes warm by placing them in a pan in a warm oven (the lowest temperature that your oven will go) in single layers between sheets of aluminum foil. Serve with your choice of sour cream, applesauce, cherry sauce, blueberry sauce, or apricot sauce. Yield: Approximately 24 small pancakes, depending on pancake size. ~ Joanne Fluke,

479:Without moving apart, Zev moaned and whispered into Jonah’s mouth, “Damn, Blondie, you’re a great kisser.” Jonah moved his arms up to Zev’s back, wrapping the young man in his embrace and stroking his smooth, firm skin. “You’re not so bad yourself, Hassick. You been practicing this with someone without me knowing?” Zev snickered. “You jealous?” Jonah didn’t return the smile. He looked into Zev’s eyes and answered without any guile, “Yeah. I’m jealous of anyone who got to touch you.” Instead of looking freaked out, as Jonah had half expected, Zev remained completely calm. He gazed into Jonah’s eyes with such powerful emotion that Jonah’s heart raced and his breath hitched. “Unless you can manage being jealous of yourself, you don’t have to worry. Like I told you yesterday, I haven’t ever thought about anyone else—girls or guys—let alone touched anyone else. It’s just you, Blondie. It’s always been you.” Zev let his words sink in, then he reversed the tables on the discussion. “What about you? Been hiding out behind the bleachers sneaking kisses with cheerleaders?” Jonah snorted more than laughed. “Uh, Zev, I was teasing about the whole not-so-smart thing earlier, but now I’m thinking I may have been on to something. That hardness you feel against your stomach isn’t a banana. That’s me happy to see you, or feel you, in this case. And you’re a guy. With that background in place, we can add two and two together here and even someone with your limited math skills can come up with the correct answer. I’m gay. I’ve got no deep dark cheerleader secrets in my past.” Zev was amazed at how easily Jonah said the words. He admired how his friend so completely accepted this part of himself. No shame, no hesitation. Just a matter-of-fact statement. In that moment, Zev decided he’d take the same approach. He knew it’d shock his parents. Hell, it’d rock his whole community. But he was attracted to a man. He had a male mate. That meant he was gay. Zev Hassick was a gay shifter. The pack would just have to find a way to deal with that truth even though they’d always believed it to be impossible. “And in case you’re wondering,” Jonah continued, his hand still rubbing Zev’s back but now moving lower, skating over his ass, “I don’t have any deep dark football player secrets, either. I’ve had a crush on one guy for as long as I can remember and I kinda put all my eggs in that basket.” Zev took another kiss, slow, soft and sweet this time. “I better be the egg-basket guy in that story, Blondie, or the tickles are coming back in full force. ~ Cardeno C,

480:The milk is long since out of date, the bread all has mold and I think you could start a bacterial plague with what’s in the crisper here…” “Order a pizza,” he suggested. “There’s a place down on the corner that still owes me ten pizzas, paid for in advance.” “You can’t eat pizza for breakfast!” “Why can’t I? I’ve been doing it for a week.” “You can cook,” she said accusingly. “When I’m sober,” he agreed. She glowered at him and went back to her chore. “Well, the eggs are still edible, barely, and there’s an unopened pound of bacon. I’ll make an omelet.” He collapsed into the chair at the kitchen table while she made a fresh pot of coffee and set about breaking eggs. “You look very domesticated like that,” he pointed out with a faint smile. “After we have breakfast, why don’t you come to bed with me?” She gave him a shocked glance. “I’m pregnant,” she reminded him. He nodded and laughed softly. “Yes, I know. It’s an incredible turn-on.” Her hand stopped, poised in midair with a spoon in it. “Wh…What?” “The eggs are burning,” he said pleasantly. She stirred them quickly and turned the bacon, which was frying in another pan. He thought her condition was sexy? She couldn’t believe he was serious. But apparently he was, because he watched her so intently over breakfast that she doubted if he knew what he was eating. “Mr. Hutton told the curator of the museum in Tennessee that I wasn’t coming back, and he paid off the rent on my house there,” she said. “I don’t even have a home to go to…” “Yes, you do,” he said quietly. “I’m your home. I always have been.” She averted her eyes to her plate and hated the quick tears that her condition prompted. Her fists clenched. “And here we are again,” she said huskily. “Where?” he asked. She drew in a harsh breath. “You’re taking responsibility for me, out of duty.” He leaned back in his chair. The robe came away from his broad, bronzed chest as he stared at her. “Not this time,” he replied with a voice so tender that it made ripples right through her heart. “This time, it’s out of love, Cecily.” Cecily doubted her own ears. She couldn’t have heard Tate saying that he wanted to take care of her because he loved her. He wasn’t teasing. His face was almost grim. “I know,” he said. “You don’t believe it. But it’s true, just the same.” He searched her soft, shocked green eyes. “I loved you when you were seventeen, Cecily, but I thought I had nothing to offer you except an affair.” He sighed heavily. “It was never completely for the reasons I told you, that I didn’t want to get married. It was my mother’s marriage. It warped me. It’s taken this whole scandal to make me realize that a good marriage is nothing like the one I grew up watching. I had to see my mother and Matt together before I understood what marriage could be. ~ Diana Palmer,

481:I think we must only a few of us go," Laurence said, low. "I will take a few volunteers - " "Oh, the devil you will!" Granby exclaimed furiously. "No, this time I damned well put my foot down, Laurence. Send you off to go scrambling about in that warren with no notion where you are going, and nothing more likely than running into a dozen guards round every corner; I should like to see myself do it. I am not going back to England to tell them I sat about twiddling my thumbs whilst you got yourself cut to pieces. Temeraire, you are not to let him go, do you hear me? He is sure to be killed; I give you my word." "If the party are sure to be killed, I am not going to let anyone go!" Temeraire said, in high alarm, and sat up sharp, quite prepared to physically hold anyone back who made an attempt to leave. "Temeraire, this is plain exaggeration," Laurence said. "Mr. Granby, you overstate the case, and you overstep your bounds." "Well, I don't," Granby said defiantly. "I have bit my tongue a dozen times over, because I know it is wretched hard to sit about watching and you haven't been trained up to it, but you are a captain, and you must be more careful of your neck. It isn't only your own but the Corps' affair if you snuff it, and mine too." "If I may," Tharkay said quietly, interrupting when Laurence would have remonstrated further with Granby, "I will go; alone I am reasonably sure I can find a way to the eggs, without rousing any alarm, and then I can return and guide the rest of the party there." "Tharkay," Laurence said, "this is no service you owe us; I would not order even a man under oath of arms to undertake it, without he were willing." "But I am willing," Tharkay gave his faint half-smile, "and more likely to come back whole from it than anyone else here." "At the cost of running thrice the risk, going and coming back and going again," Laurence said, "with a fresh chance of running into the guards every time through." "So it is very dangerous, then," Temeraire said, overhearing to too much purpose, and pricking up his ruff further. "You are not to go, at all, Granby is quite right; and neither is anyone else." "Oh, Hell," Laurence said, under his breath. "It seems there is very little alternative to my going," Tharkay said. "Not you either!" Temeraire contradicted, to Tharkay's startlement, and settled down as mulish as a dragon could look; and Granby had folded his arms and wore an expression very similar. Laurence had ordinarily very little inclination to profanity, but he was sorely tempted on this occasion. An appeal to Temeraire's reason might sway him to allow a party to make the attempt, if he could be persuaded to accept the risk as necessary for the gain, like a battle; but he would surely balk at seeing Laurence go, and Laurence had not the least intention of sending men on so deadly an enterprise if he were not going himself, Corps rules be damned. ~ Naomi Novik,

482:BACON, EGG, AND CHEDDAR CHEESE TOAST CUPS Preheat oven to 400 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 6 slices bacon (regular sliced, not thick sliced) 4 Tablespoons (2 ounces, ½ stick) salted butter, softened 6 slices soft white bread ½ cup grated cheddar cheese 6 large eggs Salt and pepper to taste Cook the 6 slices of bacon in a frying pan over medium heat for 6 minutes or until the bacon is firmed up and the edges are slightly brown, but the strips are still pliable. They won’t be completely cooked, but that’s okay. They will finish cooking in the oven. Place the partially-cooked bacon on a plate lined with paper towels to drain it. Generously coat the inside of 6 muffin cups with half of the softened butter. Butter one side of the bread with the rest of the butter but stop slightly short of the crusts. Lay the bread out on a sheet of wax paper or a bread board butter side up. Hannah’s 1st Note: You will be wasting a bit of butter here, but it’s easier than cutting rounds of bread first and trying to butter them after they’re cut. Using a round cookie cutter that’s three and a half inches (3 and ½ inches) in diameter, cut circles out of each slice of bread.   Hannah’s 2nd Note: If you don’t have a 3.5 inch cookie cutter, you can use the top rim of a standard size drinking glass to do this. Place the bread rounds butter side down inside the muffin pans, pressing them down gently being careful not to tear them as they settle into the bottom of the cup. If one does tear, cut a patch from the buttered bread that is left and place it, buttered side down, over the tear. Curl a piece of bacon around the top of each piece of bread, positioning it between the bread and the muffin tin. This will help to keep the bacon in a ring shape. Sprinkle shredded cheese in the bottom of each muffin cup, dividing the cheese as equally as you can between the 6 muffin cups. Crack an egg into a small measuring cup (I use a half-cup measure) with a spout, making sure to keep the yolk intact. Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you break a yolk, don’t throw the whole egg away. Just slip it in a small covered container which you will refrigerate and use for scrambled eggs the next morning, or for that batch of cookies you’ll make in the next day or two. Pour the egg carefully into the bottom of one of the muffin cups. Repeat this procedure for all the eggs, cracking them one at a time and pouring them into the remaining muffin cups. When every muffin cup has bread, bacon, cheese and egg, season with a little salt and pepper. Bake the filled toast cups for 6 to 10 minutes, depending on how firm you want the yolks. (Naturally, a longer baking time yields a harder yolk.) Run the blade of a knife around the edge of each muffin cup, remove the Bacon, Egg, and Cheddar Cheese Toast Cups, and serve immediately. Hannah’s 4th Note: These are a bit tricky the first time you make them. That’s just “beginner nerves”. Once you’ve made them successfully, they’re really quite easy to do and extremely impressive to serve for a brunch. Yield: 6 servings (or 3 servings if you’re fixing them for Mike and Norman). ~ Joanne Fluke,

483:Fireflies out on a warm summer's night, seeing the urgent, flashing, yellow-white phosphorescence below them, go crazy with desire; moths cast to the winds an enchantment potion that draws the opposite sex, wings beating hurriedly, from kilometers away; peacocks display a devastating corona of blue and green and the peahens are all aflutter; competing pollen grains extrude tiny tubes that race each other down the female flower's orifice to the waiting egg below; luminescent squid present rhapsodic light shows, altering the pattern, brightness and color radiated from their heads, tentacles, and eyeballs; a tapeworm diligently lays a hundred thousand fertilized eggs in a single day; a great whale rumbles through the ocean depths uttering plaintive cries that are understood hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, where another lonely behemoth is attentively listening; bacteria sidle up to one another and merge; cicadas chorus in a collective serenade of love; honeybee couples soar on matrimonial flights from which only one partner returns; male fish spray their spunk over a slimy clutch of eggs laid by God-knows-who; dogs, out cruising, sniff each other's nether parts, seeking erotic stimuli; flowers exude sultry perfumes and decorate their petals with garish ultraviolet advertisements for passing insects, birds, and bats; and men and women sing, dance, dress, adorn, paint, posture, self-mutilate, demand, coerce, dissemble, plead, succumb, and risk their lives. To say that love makes the world go around is to go too far. The Earth spins because it did so as it was formed and there has been nothing to stop it since. But the nearly maniacal devotion to sex and love by most of the plants, animals, and microbes with which we are familiar is a pervasive and striking aspect of life on Earth. It cries out for explanation. What is all this in aid of? What is the torrent of passion and obsession about? Why will organisms go without sleep, without food, gladly put themselves in mortal danger for sex? ... For more than half the history of life on Earth organisms seem to have done perfectly well without it. What good is sex?... Through 4 billion years of natural selection, instructions have been honed and fine-tuned...sequences of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, manuals written out in the alphabet of life in competition with other similar manuals published by other firms. The organisms become the means through which the instructions flow and copy themselves, by which new instructions are tried out, on which selection operates. 'The hen,' said Samuel Butler, 'is the egg's way of making another egg.' It is on this level that we must understand what sex is for. ... The sockeye salmon exhaust themselves swimming up the mighty Columbia River to spawn, heroically hurdling cataracts, in a single-minded effort that works to propagate their DNA sequences into future generation. The moment their work is done, they fall to pieces. Scales flake off, fins drop, and soon--often within hours of spawning--they are dead and becoming distinctly aromatic. They've served their purpose. Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in. ~ Carl Sagan,

484:Sister's Cake I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind, Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind; Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares, She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs, And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake. At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say: "Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!" Poor mother'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not-For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot-But neither she nor he presumed to signify dissent, Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went! No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand, The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand; The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew, With every damper set just so to heat the oven through; The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake. And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro; The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow-And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight-And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite! But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound. Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl! Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl; Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so, And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough! It looked so sweet and yellow--sure, to taste it were no sin-But, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in! The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through, That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do! So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night, Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might; 267 These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake! And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane-For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain. I never had a sister--may be that is why today I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay; A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirth, But I (because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth! Had I a little sister--oh, how happy I should be! I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me; I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse-I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse; And--yes, what's more and vastly more--I tell you what I'd do: I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too! I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see-Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me! I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks, When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks; But I draw the line at one thing--yes, I don my hat and take A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake! ~ Eugene Field,

485:Consider the genesis of a single-celled embryo produced by the fertilization of an egg by a sperm. The genetic material of this embryo comes from two sources: paternal genes (from sperm) and maternal genes (from eggs). But the cellular material of the embryo comes exclusively from the egg; the sperm is no more than a glorified delivery vehicle for male DNA—a genome equipped with a hyperactive tail. Aside from proteins, ribosomes, nutrients, and membranes, the egg also supplies the embryo with specialized structures called mitochondria. These mitochondria are the energy-producing factories of the cell; they are so anatomically discrete and so specialized in their function that cell biologists call them “organelles”—i.e., mini-organs resident within cells. Mitochondria, recall, carry a small, independent genome that resides within the mitochondrion itself—not in the cell’s nucleus, where the twenty-three pairs of chromosomes (and the 21,000-odd human genes) can be found. The exclusively female origin of all the mitochondria in an embryo has an important consequence. All humans—male or female—must have inherited their mitochondria from their mothers, who inherited their mitochondria from their mothers, and so forth, in an unbroken line of female ancestry stretching indefinitely into the past. (A woman also carries the mitochondrial genomes of all her future descendants in her cells; ironically, if there is such a thing as a “homunculus,” then it is exclusively female in origin—technically, a “femunculus”?) Now imagine an ancient tribe of two hundred women, each of whom bears one child. If the child happens to be a daughter, the woman dutifully passes her mitochondria to the next generation, and, through her daughter’s daughter, to a third generation. But if she has only a son and no daughter, the woman’s mitochondrial lineage wanders into a genetic blind alley and becomes extinct (since sperm do not pass their mitochondria to the embryo, sons cannot pass their mitochondrial genomes to their children). Over the course of the tribe’s evolution, tens of thousands of such mitochondrial lineages will land on lineal dead ends by chance, and be snuffed out. And here is the crux: if the founding population of a species is small enough, and if enough time has passed, the number of surviving maternal lineages will keep shrinking, and shrinking further, until only a few are left. If half of the two hundred women in our tribe have sons, and only sons, then one hundred mitochondrial lineages will dash against the glass pane of male-only heredity and vanish in the next generation. Another half will dead-end into male children in the second generation, and so forth. By the end of several generations, all the descendants of the tribe, male or female, might track their mitochondrial ancestry to just a few women. For modern humans, that number has reached one: each of us can trace our mitochondrial lineage to a single human female who existed in Africa about two hundred thousand years ago. She is the common mother of our species. We do not know what she looked like, although her closest modern-day relatives are women of the San tribe from Botswana or Namibia. I find the idea of such a founding mother endlessly mesmerizing. In human genetics, she is known by a beautiful name—Mitochondrial Eve. ~ Siddhartha Mukherjee,

486:Corn is what feeds the steer that becomes the steak. Corn feeds the chicken and the pig, the turkey, and the lamb, the catfish and the tilapia and, increasingly, even the salmon, a carnivore by nature that the fish farmers are reengineering to tolerate corn. The eggs are made of corn. The milk and cheese and yogurt, which once came from dairy cows that grazed on grass, now typically comes from Holsteins that spend their working lives indoors tethered to machines, eating corn. Head over to the processed foods and you find ever more intricate manifestations of corn. A chicken nugget, for example, piles up corn upon corn: what chicken it contains consists of corn, of course, but so do most of a nugget's other constituents, including the modified corn starch that glues the things together, the corn flour in the batter that coats it, and the corn oil in which it gets fried. Much less obviously, the leavenings and lecithin, the mono-, di-, and triglycerides, the attractive gold coloring, and even the citric acid that keeps the nugget "fresh" can all be derived from corn. To wash down your chicken nuggets with virtually any soft drink in the supermarket is to have some corn with your corn. Since the 1980s virtually all the sodas and most of the fruit drinks sold in the supermarket have been sweetened with high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS) -- after water, corn sweetener is their principal ingredient. Grab a beer for you beverage instead and you'd still be drinking corn, in the form of alcohol fermented from glucose refined from corn. Read the ingredients on the label of any processed food and, provided you know the chemical names it travels under, corn is what you will find. For modified or unmodified starch, for glucose syrup and maltodextrin, for crystalline fructose and ascorbic acid, for lecithin and dextrose, lactic acid and lysine, for maltose and HFCS, for MSG and polyols, for the caramel color and xanthan gum, read: corn. Corn is in the coffee whitener and Cheez Whiz, the frozen yogurt and TV dinner, the canned fruit and ketchup and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and candies, the soups and snacks and cake mixes, the frosting and gravy and frozen waffles, the syrups and hot sauces, the mayonnaise and mustard, the hot dogs and the bologna, the margarine and shortening, the salad dressings and the relishes and even the vitamins. (Yes, it's in the Twinkie, too.) There are some forty-five thousand items in the average American supermarket and more than a quarter of them now contain corn. This goes for the nonfood items as well: Everything from the toothpaste and cosmetics to the disposable diapers, trash bags, cleansers, charcoal briquettes, matches, and batteries, right down to the shine on the cover of the magazine that catches your eye by the checkout: corn. Even in Produce on a day when there's ostensibly no corn for sale, you'll nevertheless find plenty of corn: in the vegetable wax that gives the cucumbers their sheen, in the pesticide responsible for the produce's perfection, even in the coating on the cardboard it was shipped in. Indeed, the supermarket itself -- the wallboard and joint compound, the linoleum and fiberglass and adhesives out of which the building itself has been built -- is in no small measure a manifestation of corn. ~ Michael Pollan,

487:The Lion For Real "Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative..." I came home and found a lion in my living room Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion! Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut I hurried home to Patterson and stayed two days Called up old Reichian analyst who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana 'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room' 'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow he kicked me out I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.' Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!' He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn Ants But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's bathroom. But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat 'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father hath no lion You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for your Bridegroom.' Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink in Harlem Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside thru the window My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in deafening stillness 82 We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang greeting. I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tup under the sink board. He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence. Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha. Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten face stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had nightmares Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus, I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor--'Terrible Presence!'I cried'Eat me or die!' It got up that afternoon--walked to the door with its paw on the south wall to steady its trembling body Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in Mexico Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby-but I will be back again." Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your Mercy. ~ Allen Ginsberg,

488:The Quiche Lorraine Pie Shell: You can mix up your favorite piecrust recipe and line a 10-inch pie plate. Or…you can buy frozen shells at the grocery store. (If you decide to go the grocery store frozen pie shell route, buy 9-inch deep-dish pie shells.)   Hannah’s 1stNote: There’s no need to feel guilty if you choose to use the frozen pie shells. They’re good and it’s a real time saver. I happen to know that Edna Ferguson, the head cook at Jordan High, has been known to remove frozen pie shells from their telltale disposable pans and put them in her own pie tins to bake! (Sorry Edna—I just had to tell them.) Stack your pie shells in the refrigerator, or leave them in the freezer until two hours before you’re ready to use them.   Prepare your piecrust by separating one egg. Throw away the white and whip up the yolk with a fork. Brush the bottom and inside of your piecrust. Prick it all over with a fork and bake it in a 350 F. degree oven for 5 minutes. Take it out and let it cool on a wire rack or a cold stovetop while you mix up the custard. If “bubbles” have formed in the crust, immediately prick them with a fork to let out the steam. The Quiche Lorraine Custard: 5 eggs 1½ cups heavy whipping cream *** Hannah’s 2ndNote: You can do this by hand with a whisk, or use an electric mixer, your choice.   Combine the eggs with the cream and whisk them (or beat them with an electric mixer) until they’re a uniform color. When they’re thoroughly mixed, pour them into a pitcher and set it in the refrigerator until you’re ready to assemble the rest of your quiche. You may notice that you’re not adding any salt, pepper, or other seasoning at this point. You’ll do that when you assemble the quiche.   Hannah’s 3rdNote: You can mix up the custard ahead of time and store it in the refrigerator for up to 24 hours. When you’re ready to assemble your quiches, all you have to do is whisk it smooth and pour it out from the pitcher. The Quiche Lorraine Filling: 2 cups grated Gruyere cheese (approximately 7 ounces)*** 1 cup diced, well-cooked and drained bacon ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ¼ teaspoon ground cayenne pepper (optional—use if you like it a bit spicy) ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg (freshly grated is best, of course)   Sprinkle the grated cheese in the bottom of your cooled pie shell.   Spread the cup of diced bacon on top of the cheese.   Sprinkle on the salt, and grind the pepper over the top of the bacon.   Sprinkle on the cayenne pepper (if you decided to use it).   Grate the nutmeg over the top. Put a drip pan under your pie plate. (I line a jellyroll pan with foil and use that.) This will catch any spills that might occur when you fill your quiche with the custard mixture.   Take your custard mixture out of the refrigerator and give it a good whisk. Then pour it over the top of your Quiche Lorraine, filling it about half way.   Open your oven, pull out the rack, and set your pie plate and drip pan on it. Pour in more custard mixture, stopping a quarter-inch short of the rim. Carefully push in the rack, and shut the oven door.   Bake your Quiche Lorraine at 350 degrees F., for 60 minutes, or until the top is nicely browned and a knife inserted one-inch from the center comes out clean.   Let your quiche cool for 15 to 30 minutes on a cold stovetop or a wire rack, and then cut and serve to rave reviews.   This quiche is good warm, but it’s also good at room temperature. (I’ve even eaten it straight out of the refrigerator for breakfast!) ~ Joanne Fluke,

489:The Battle Of The Summer Islands : Canto 1 What fruits they have, and how heaven smiles Upon those late-discovered isles. Aid me, Bellona, while the dreadful fight Betwixt a nation and two whales I write. Seas stained with gore I sing, adventurous toil, And how these monsters did disarm an isle. Bermudas, walled with rocks, who does not know? That happy island where huge lemons grow, And orange trees, which golden fruit do bear, The Hesperian garden boasts of none so fair; Where shining pearl, coral, and many a pound, On the rich shore, of ambergris is found. The lofty cedar, which to heaven aspires, The prince of trees, is fuel for their fires; The smoke by which their loaded spits do turn, For incense might on sacred altars burn; Their private roofs on odorous timber borne, Such as might palaces for kings adorn. The sweet palmettos a new Bacchus yield, With leaves as ample as the broadest shield, Under the shadow of whose friendly boughs They sit, carousing where their liquor grows. Figs there unplanted through the fields do grow, Such as fierce Cato did the Romans show, With the rare fruit inviting them to spoil Carthage, the mistress of so rich a soil. The naked rocks are not unfruitful there, But, at some constant seasons, every year Their barren tops with luscious food abound, And with the eggs of various fowls are crowned. Tobacco is the worst of things which they To English landlords, as their tribute, pay. Such is the mold, that the blest tenant feeds On precious fruits, and pays his rent in weeds. With candied plantains, and the juicy pine, On choicer melons, and sweet grapes, they dine, And with potatoes fat their wanton swine. 24 Nature these cates with such a lavish hand Pours out among them, that our coarser land Tastes of that bounty, and does cloth return, Which not for warmth but ornament is worn; For the kind spring, which but salutes us here, Inhabits there, and courts them all the year. Ripe fruits and blossoms on the same tress live; At once they promise what at once they give. So sweet the air, so moderate the clime, None sickly lives, or dies before his time. Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncursed To show how all things were created first. The tardy plants in our cold orchards placed Reserve their fruit for the next age's taste. There a small grain in some few months will be A firm, a lofty, and a spacious tree. The palma-christi, and the fair papaw, Now but a seed, preventing nature's law, In half the circle of the hasty year Project a shade, and lovely fruit do wear. And as their trees, in our dull region set, But faintly grow, and no perfection get, So in this northern tract our hoarser throats Utter unripe and ill-constrained notes, Where the supporter of the poets' style, Phoebus, on them eternally does smile. Oh! how I long my careless limbs to lay Under the plantain's shade, and all the day With amorous airs my fancy entertain, Invoke the Muses, and improve my vein! No passion there in my free breast should move, None but the sweet and best of passions, love. There while I sing, if gentle love be by, That tunes my lute, and winds the strings so high, With the sweet sound of Sacharissa's name I'll make the listening savages grow tame But while I do these pleasing dreams indite, I am diverted from the promised fight. ~ Edmund Waller,

490:Santa Claus In The Bush It chanced out back at the Christmas time, When the wheat was ripe and tall, A stranger rode to the farmer's gate -A sturdy man and a small. "Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, And bid the stranger stay; And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne, For the morn is Christmas Day." "Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife, "But ye should let him be; He's maybe only a drover chap Frae the land o' the Darling Pea. "Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst To swiggle the hail nicht through; Or he's maybe a life assurance carle To talk ye black and blue," "Guidwife, he's never a drover chap, For their swags are neat and thin; And he's never a life assurance carle, Wi' the brick-dust burnt in his skin. "Guidwife, guidwife, be nae sae dour, For the wheat stands ripe and tall, And we shore a seven-pound fleece this year, Ewes and weaners and all. "There is grass tae spare, and the stock are fat. Where they whiles are gaunt and thin, And we owe a tithe to the travelling poor, So we maun ask him in. "Ye can set him a chair tae the table side, And gi' him a bite tae eat; An omelette made of a new-laid egg, Or a tasty bit of meat." 262 "But the native cats have taen the fowls, They havena left a leg; And he'll get nae omelette at a' Till the emu lays an egg!" "Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack, To whaur the emus bide, Ye shall find the auld hen on the nest, While the auld cock sits beside. "But speak them fair, and speak them saft, Lest they kick ye a fearsome jolt. Ye can gi' them a feed of thae half-inch nails Or a rusty carriage bolt." So little son Jack ran blithely down With the rusty nails in hand, Till he came where the emus fluffed and scratched By their nest in the open sand. And there he has gathered the new-laid egg -'Twould feed three men or four -And the emus came for the half-inch nails Right up to the settler's door. "A waste o' food," said the dour guidwife, As she took the egg, with a frown, "But he gets nae meat, unless ye rin A paddy-melon down." "Gang oot, gang oot, my little son Jack, Wi' your twa-three doggies sma'; Gin ye come nae back wi' a paddy-melon, Then come nae back at a'." So little son Jack he raced and he ran, And he was bare o' the feet, And soon he captured a paddy-melon, Was gorged with the stolen wheat. "Sit doon, sit doon, my bonny wee man, To the best that the hoose can do -- 263 An omelette made of the emu egg And a paddy-melon stew." "'Tis well, 'tis well," said the bonny wee man; "I have eaten the wide world's meat, And the food that is given with right good-will Is the sweetest food to eat. "But the night draws on to the Christmas Day And I must rise and go, For I have a mighty way to ride To the land of the Esquimaux. "And it's there I must load my sledges up, With the reindeers four-in-hand, That go to the North, South, East, and West, To every Christian land." "Tae the Esquimaux," said the dour guidwife, "Ye suit my husband well!" For when he gets up on his journey horse He's a bit of a liar himsel'." Then out with a laugh went the bonny wee man To his old horse grazing nigh, And away like a meteor flash they went Far off to the Northern sky. When the children woke on the Christmas morn They chattered with might and main -For a sword and gun had little son Jack, And a braw new doll had Jane, And a packet o' screws had the twa emus; But the dour guidwife gat nane. ~ Banjo Paterson,

491:DOC’S BRAN-OATMEAL-RAISIN COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ¾ cup raisins (either regular or golden, your choice) ¾ cup boiling water 1 cup white (granulated) sugar ½ cup brown sugar (pack it down when you measure it) ¾ cup (1 and ½ sticks, 6 ounces) salted butter, softened to room temperature 2 large eggs ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1 teaspoon ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon grated nutmeg (freshly grated is best) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down in the cup when you measure it) 1 and ½ cups dry quick oatmeal (I used Quaker Quick 1-Minute) 2 cups bran flake cereal Place ¾ cup of raisins in a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup or a small bowl that can tolerate boiling water without cracking. Pour the ¾ cup boiling water over the raisins in the cup. Stir a bit with a fork so they don’t stick together, and then leave them, uncovered, on the counter to plump up. Prepare your cookie sheets by spraying them with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray, or lining them with parchment paper that you also spray with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Hannah’s 1st Note: This cookie dough is a lot easier to make if you use an electric mixer. Place the cup of white sugar in the bottom of a mixing bowl. Add the half-cup of brown sugar. Mix them together until they’re a uniform color. Place the softened butter in the mixer bowl and beat it together with the sugars until the mixture is nice and fluffy. Mix in the eggs, one at a time, beating after each addition. Add the salt, baking soda, cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla extract. Beat until the mixture is smooth and well incorporated. On LOW speed, add the flour, one-half cup at a time, beating after each addition. Continue to beat until everything is well blended. Drain the raisins by dumping them in a strainer. Throw away any liquid that remains, then gently pat the raisins dry with a paper towel. With the mixer running on LOW speed, add the raisins to the cookie dough. With the mixer remaining on LOW speed, add the dry oatmeal in half-cup increments, mixing after each increment. Turn the mixer OFF, and let the dough rest while you prepare the bran flakes. Measure 2 cups of bran flake cereal and place them in a 1-quart freezer bag. Roll the bag up from the bottom, getting out as much air as possible, and then seal it with the bran flakes inside. Squeeze the bran flakes with your fingers, crushing them inside the bag. Place the bag on the counter and squash the bran flakes with your hands. Once they’re in fairly small pieces, take the bag over to the mixer. Turn the mixer on LOW speed. Open the bag and add the crushed bran flakes to your cookie dough, mixing until they’re well incorporated. Turn off the mixer, scrape down the sides of the bowl with a rubber spatula, and give the bowl a final stir by hand. Drop the dough by rounded Tablespoonfuls (use a Tablespoon from your silverware drawer, not one you’d use for measuring ingredients) onto your prepared cookie sheet. There should be 12 cookie dough mounds on every standard-size cookie sheet. Hannah’s 2nd Note: Lisa and I use a level 2-Tablespoon scooper to form these cookies down at The Cookie Jar. Bake Doc’s Bran-Oatmeal-Raisin Cookies at 350 degrees F. for 13 to 15 minutes, or until golden brown on top. Remove the cookies from the oven, and let them cool on the cookie sheets for 2 minutes. Then remove them to a wire rack to cool completely. Yield: 2 to 3 dozen delicious cookies, depending on cookie size. Hannah’s 3rd Note: Doc had to warn the Lake Eden Memorial Hospital cooks not to let the patients have more than two cookies. Since they contain bran and bran is an aid to the digestive system, patients who eat a lot of these cookies could be spending a lot of time in the little room with the porcelain fixtures. ~ Joanne Fluke,

492:TIO TITO’S SUBLIME LIME BAR COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ½ cup finely-chopped coconut (measure after chopping—pack it down when you measure it) 1 cup cold salted butter (2 sticks, 8 ounces, ½ pound) ½ cup powdered (confectioners) sugar (no need to sift unless it’s got big lumps) 2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down when you measure it)   4 beaten eggs (just whip them up with a fork) 2 cups white (granulated) sugar cup lime juice (freshly squeezed is best) cup vodka (I used Tito’s Handmade Vodka) ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ cup all-purpose flour (pack it down when you measure it) Powdered (confectioners) sugar to sprinkle on top Coconut Crust: To get your half-cup of finely-chopped coconut, you will need to put approximately ¾ cup of shredded coconut in the bowl of a food processor. (The coconut will pack down more when it’s finely-chopped so you’ll need more of the stuff out of the package to get the half-cup you need for this recipe.) Chop the shredded coconut up finely with the steel blade. Pour it out into a bowl and measure out ½ cup, packing it down when you measure it. Return the half-cup of finely chopped coconut to the food processor. (You can also do this by spreading out the shredded coconut on a cutting board and chopping it finely by hand.) Cut each stick of butter into eight pieces and arrange them in the bowl of the food processor on top of the chopped coconut. Sprinkle the powdered sugar and the flour on top of that. Zoop it all up with an on-and-off motion of the steel blade until it resembles coarse cornmeal. Prepare a 9-inch by 13-inch rectangular cake pan by spraying it with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Alternatively, for even easier removal, line the cake pan with heavy-duty foil and spray that with Pam. (Then all you have to do is lift the bar cookies out when they’re cool, peel off the foil, and cut them up into pieces.) Sprinkle the crust mixture into the prepared cake pan and spread it out with your fingers. Pat it down with a large spatula or with the palms of your impeccably clean hands. Hannah’s 1st Note: If your butter is a bit too soft, you may end up with a mass that balls up and clings to the food processor bowl. That’s okay. Just scoop it up and spread it out in the bottom of your prepared pan. (You can also do this in a bowl with a fork or a pie crust blender if you prefer.) Hannah’s 2nd Note: Don’t wash your food processor quite yet. You’ll need it to make the lime layer. (The same applies to your bowl and fork if you make the crust by hand.) Bake your coconut crust at 350 degrees F. for 15 minutes. While your crust is baking, prepare the lime layer. Lime Layer: Combine the eggs with the white sugar. (You can use your food processor and the steel blade to do this, or you can do it by hand in a bowl.) Add the lime juice, vodka, salt, and baking powder. Mix thoroughly. Add the flour and mix until everything is incorporated. (This mixture will be runny—it’s supposed to be.) When your crust has baked for 15 minutes, remove the pan from the oven and set it on a cold stovetop burner or a wire rack. Don’t shut off the oven! Just leave it on at 350 degrees F. Pour the lime layer mixture on top of the crust you just baked. Use potholders to pick up the pan and return it to the oven. Bake your Sublime Lime Bar Cookies for an additional 30 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven and cool your lime bars in the pan on a cold stovetop burner or a wire rack. When the pan has cooled to room temperature, cover it with foil and refrigerate it until you’re ready to serve. Cut the bars into brownie-sized pieces, place them on a pretty platter, and sprinkle them lightly with powdered sugar. Yum! Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you would prefer not to use alcohol in these bar cookies, simply substitute whole milk for the vodka. This recipe works both ways and I can honestly tell you that I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like my Sublime Lime Bar Cookies! ~ Joanne Fluke,

493:Any Soldier To His Son What did I do, sonny, in the Great World War? Well, I learned to peel potatoes and to scrub the barrack floor. I learned to push a barrow and I learned to swing a pick, I learned to turn my toes out, and to make my eyeballs click. I learned the road to Folkestone, and I watched the English shore, Go down behind the skyline, as I thought, for evermore. And the Blighty boats went by us and the harbour hove in sight, And they landed us and sorted us and marched us "by the right". "Quick march!" across the cobbles, by the kids who rang along Singing "Appoo?" "Spearmant" "Shokolah?" through dingy old Boulogne; By the widows and the nurses and the niggers and Chinese, And the gangs of smiling Fritzes, as saucy as you please. I learned to ride as soldiers ride from Etaps to the Line, For days and nights in cattle trucks, packed in like droves of swine. I learned to curl and kip it on a foot of muddy floor, And to envy cows and horses that have beds of beaucoup straw. I learned to wash in shell holes and to shave myself in tea, While the fragments of a mirror did a balance on my knee. I learned to dodge the whizz-bangs and the flying lumps of lead, And to keep a foot of earth between the sniper and my head. I learned to keep my haversack well filled with buckshee food, To take the Army issue and to pinch what else I could. I learned to cook Maconochie with candle-ends and string, With "four-by-two" and sardine-oil and any God-dam thing. I learned to use my bayonet according as you please For a breadknife or a chopper or a prong for toasting cheese. I learned "a first field dressing" to serve my mate and me As a dish-rag and a face-rag and a strainer for our tea. I learned to gather souvenirs that home I hoped to send, And hump them round for months and months and dump them in the end. I learned to hunt for vermin in the lining of my shirt, To crack them with my finger-nail and feel the beggars spirt; I learned to catch and crack them by the dozen and the score And to hunt my shirt tomorrow and to find as many more. I learned to sleep by snatches on the firestep of a trench, And to eat my breakfast mixed with mud and Fritz's heavy stench. I learned to pray for Blighty ones and lie and squirm with fear, When Jerry started strafing and the Blighty ones were near. I learned to write home cheerful with my heart a lump of lead With the thought of you and mother, when she heard that I was dead. And the only thing like pleasure over there I ever knew, Was to hear my pal come shouting, "There's a parcel, mate, for you." So much for what I did do - now for what I have not done: Well, I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun, I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum, I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum. I never borrowed money, and I never lent - but once (I can learn some sorts of lessons though I may be borne a dunce). I never used to grumble after breakfast in the Line That the eggs were cooked too lightly or the bacon cut too fine. I never told a sergeant just exactly what I thought, I never did a pack-drill, for I never quite got caught. I never punched a Red-Cap's nose (be prudent like your Dad), But I'd like as many sovereigns as the times I've wished I had. I never stopped a whizz-bang, though I've stopped a lot of mud, But the one that Fritz sent over with my name on was a dud. I never played the hero or walked about on top, I kept inside my funk hole when the shells began to drop. Well, Tommy Jones's father must be made of different stuff: I never asked for trouble - the issue was enough. So I learned to live and lump it in the lovely land of war, Where the face of nature seems a monstrous septic sore, Where the bowels of earth of earth hang open, like the guts of something slain, And the rot and wreck of everything are churned and churned again; Where all is done in darkness and where all is still in day, Where living men are buried and the dead unburied lay; Where men inhabit holes like rats, and only rats live there; Where cottage stood and castle once in days before La Guerre; Where endless files of soldiers thread the everlasting way, By endless miles of duckboards, through endless walls of clay; Where life is one hard labour, and a soldiers gets his rest When they leave him in the daisies with a puncture in his chest; Where still the lark in summer pours her warble from the skies, And underneath, unheeding, lie the blank upstaring eyes. And I read the Blighty papers, where the warriors of the pen Tell of "Christmas in the trenches" and "The Spirit of our men"; And I saved the choicest morsels and I read them to my chum, And he muttered, as he cracked a louse and wiped it off his thumb: "May a thousand chats from Belgium crawl under their fingers as they write; May they dream they're not exempted till they faint with mortal fright; May the fattest rats in Dickebusch race over them in bed; May the lies they've written choke them like a gas cloud till they're dead; May the horror and the torture and the things they never tell (For they only write to order) be reserved for them in Hell!" You'd like to be a soldier and go to France some day? By all the dead in Delville Wood, by all the nights I lay Between our lines and Fritz's before they brought me in; By this old wood-and-leather stump, that once was flesh and skin; By all the lads who crossed with me but never crossed again, By all the prayers their mothers and their sweethearts prayed in vain, Before the things that were that day should ever more befall May God in common pity destroy us one and all! ~ Anonymous English,

494:The Paper Windmill The little boy pressed his face against the window-pane and looked out at the bright sunshiny morning. The cobble-stones of the square glistened like mica. In the trees, a breeze danced and pranced, and shook drops of sunlight like falling golden coins into the brown water of the canal. Down stream slowly drifted a long string of galliots piled with crimson cheeses. The little boy thought they looked as if they were roc's eggs, blocks of big ruby eggs. He said, 'Oh!' with delight, and pressed against the window with all his might. The golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis' gleamed. His beak was open like a pair of scissors and a narrow piece of blue sky was wedged in it. 'Cock-a-doodle-do,' cried the little boy. 'Can't you hear me through the window, Gold Cocky? Cock-a-doodle-do! You should crow when you see the eggs of your cousin, the great roc.' But the golden cock stood stock still, with his fine tail blowing in the wind. He could not understand the little boy, for he said 'Cocorico' when he said anything. But he was hung in the air to swing, not to sing. His eyes glittered to the bright West wind, and the crimson cheeses drifted away down the canal. It was very dull there in the big room. Outside in the square, the wind was playing tag with some fallen leaves. A man passed, with a dogcart beside him full of smart, new milkcans. They rattled out a gay tune: 'Tiddity-tum-ti-ti. Have some milk for your tea. Cream for your coffee to drink to-night, thick, and smooth, and sweet, and white,' and the man's sabots beat an accompaniment: 'Plop! trop! milk for your tea. Plop! trop! drink it to-night.' It was very pleasant out there, but it was lonely here in the big room. The little boy gulped at a tear. It was queer how dull all his toys were. They were so still. Nothing was still in the square. If he took his eyes away a moment it had changed. The milkman had disappeared round the corner, there was only an old woman with a basket of green stuff on her head, picking her way over the shiny stones. But the wind pulled the leaves in the basket this way and that, and displayed them to beautiful advantage. The sun patted them condescendingly on their flat surfaces, and they seemed 378 sprinkled with silver. The little boy sighed as he looked at his disordered toys on the floor. They were motionless, and their colours were dull. The dark wainscoting absorbed the sun. There was none left for toys. The square was quite empty now. Only the wind ran round and round it, spinning. Away over in the corner where a street opened into the square, the wind had stopped. Stopped running, that is, for it never stopped spinning. It whirred, and whirled, and gyrated, and turned. It burned like a great coloured sun. It hummed, and buzzed, and sparked, and darted. There were flashes of blue, and long smearing lines of saffron, and quick jabs of green. And over it all was a sheen like a myriad cut diamonds. Round and round it went, the huge wind-wheel, and the little boy's head reeled with watching it. The whole square was filled with its rays, blazing and leaping round after one another, faster and faster. The little boy could not speak, he could only gaze, staring in amaze. The wind-wheel was coming down the square. Nearer and nearer it came, a great disk of spinning flame. It was opposite the window now, and the little boy could see it plainly, but it was something more than the wind which he saw. A man was carrying a huge fan-shaped frame on his shoulder, and stuck in it were many little painted paper windmills, each one scurrying round in the breeze. They were bright and beautiful, and the sight was one to please anybody, and how much more a little boy who had only stupid, motionless toys to enjoy. The little boy clapped his hands, and his eyes danced and whizzed, for the circling windmills made him dizzy. Closer and closer came the windmill man, and held up his big fan to the little boy in the window of the Ambassador's house. Only a pane of glass between the boy and the windmills. They slid round before his eyes in rapidly revolving splendour. There were wheels and wheels of colours big, little, thick, thin - all one clear, perfect spin. The windmill vendor dipped and raised them again, and the little boy's face was glued to the window-pane. Oh! What a glorious, wonderful plaything! Rings and rings of windy colour always moving! How had any one ever preferred those other toys which never stirred. 'Nursie, come quickly. Look! I want a windmill. See! It is never still. You will buy me one, won't you? I want that silver one, with the big ring of blue.' 379 So a servant was sent to buy that one: silver, ringed with blue, and smartly it twirled about in the servant's hands as he stood a moment to pay the vendor. Then he entered the house, and in another minute he was standing in the nursery door, with some crumpled paper on the end of a stick which he held out to the little boy. 'But I wanted a windmill which went round,' cried the little boy. 'That is the one you asked for, Master Charles,' Nursie was a bit impatient, she had mending to do. 'See, it is silver, and here is the blue.' 'But it is only a blue streak,' sobbed the little boy. 'I wanted a blue ring, and this silver doesn't sparkle.' 'Well, Master Charles, that is what you wanted, now run away and play with it, for I am very busy.' The little boy hid his tears against the friendly window-pane. On the floor lay the motionless, crumpled bit of paper on the end of its stick. But far away across the square was the windmill vendor, with his big wheel of whirring splendour. It spun round in a blaze like a whirling rainbow, and the sun gleamed upon it, and the wind whipped it, until it seemed a maze of spattering diamonds. 'Cocorico!' crowed the golden cock on the top of the `Stadhuis'. 'That is something worth crowing for.' But the little boy did not hear him, he was sobbing over the crumpled bit of paper on the floor. ~ Amy Lowell,

495:Ballad Of The Long-Legged Bait The bows glided down, and the coast Blackened with birds took a last look At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye; The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck. Then good-bye to the fishermanned Boat with its anchor free and fast As a bird hooking over the sea, High and dry by the top of the mast, Whispered the affectionate sand And the bulwarks of the dazzled quay. For my sake sail, and never look back, Said the looking land. Sails drank the wind, and white as milk He sped into the drinking dark; The sun shipwrecked west on a pearl And the moon swam out of its hulk. Funnels and masts went by in a whirl. Good-bye to the man on the sea-legged deck To the gold gut that sings on his reel To the bait that stalked out of the sack, For we saw him throw to the swift flood A girl alive with his hooks through her lips; All the fishes were rayed in blood, Said the dwindling ships. Good-bye to chimneys and funnels, Old wives that spin in the smoke, He was blind to the eyes of candles In the praying windows of waves But heard his bait buck in the wake And tussle in a shoal of loves. Now cast down your rod, for the whole Of the sea is hilly with whales, 39 She longs among horses and angels, The rainbow-fish bend in her joys, Floated the lost cathedral Chimes of the rocked buoys. Where the anchor rode like a gull Miles over the moonstruck boat A squall of birds bellowed and fell, A cloud blew the rain from its throat; He saw the storm smoke out to kill With fuming bows and ram of ice, Fire on starlight, rake Jesu's stream; And nothing shone on the water's face But the oil and bubble of the moon, Plunging and piercing in his course The lured fish under the foam Witnessed with a kiss. Whales in the wake like capes and Alps Quaked the sick sea and snouted deep, Deep the great bushed bait with raining lips Slipped the fins of those humpbacked tons And fled their love in a weaving dip. Oh, Jericho was falling in their lungs! She nipped and dived in the nick of love, Spun on a spout like a long-legged ball Till every Till every Till every Rose and beast blared down in a swerve turtle crushed from his shell bone in the rushing grave crowed and fell! Good luck to the hand on the rod, There is thunder under its thumbs; Gold gut is a lightning thread, His fiery reel sings off its flames, The whirled boat in the burn of his blood 40 Is crying from nets to knives, Oh the shearwater birds and their boatsized brood Oh the bulls of Biscay and their calves Are making under the green, laid veil The long-legged beautiful bait their wives. Break the black news and paint on a sail Huge weddings in the waves, Over the wakeward-flashing spray Over the gardens of the floor Clash out the mounting dolphin's day, My mast is a bell-spire, Strike and smoothe, for my decks are drums, Sing through the water-spoken prow The octopus walking into her limbs The polar eagle with his tread of snow. From salt-lipped beak to the kick of the stern Sing how the seal has kissed her dead! The long, laid minute's bride drifts on Old in her cruel bed. Over the graveyard in the water Mountains and galleries beneath Nightingale and hyena Rejoicing for that drifting death Sing and howl through sand and anemone Valley and sahara in a shell, Oh all the wanting flesh his enemy Thrown to the sea in the shell of a girl Is old as water and plain as an eel; Always good-bye to the long-legged bread Scattered in the paths of his heels For the salty birds fluttered and fed And the tall grains foamed in their bills; Always good-bye to the fires of the face, 41 For the crab-backed dead on the sea-bed rose And scuttled over her eyes, The blind, clawed stare is cold as sleet. The tempter under the eyelid Who shows to the selves asleep Mast-high moon-white women naked Walking in wishes and lovely for shame Is dumb and gone with his flame of brides. Susannah's drowned in the bearded stream And no-one stirs at Sheba's side But the hungry kings of the tides; Sin who had a woman's shape Sleeps till Silence blows on a cloud And all the lifted waters walk and leap. Lucifer that bird's dropping Out of the sides of the north Has melted away and is lost Is always lost in her vaulted breath, Venus lies star-struck in her wound And the sensual ruins make Seasons over the liquid world, White springs in the dark. Always good-bye, cried the voices through the shell, Good-bye always, for the flesh is cast And the fisherman winds his reel With no more desire than a ghost. Always good luck, praised the finned in the feather Bird after dark and the laughing fish As the sails drank up the hail of thunder And the long-tailed lightning lit his catch. The boat swims into the six-year weather, A wind throws a shadow and it freezes fast. See what the gold gut drags from under Mountains and galleries to the crest! 42 See what clings to hair and skull As the boat skims on with drinking wings! The statues of great rain stand still, And the flakes fall like hills. Sing and strike his heavy haul Toppling up the boatside in a snow of light! His decks are drenched with miracles. Oh miracle of fishes! The long dead bite! Out of the urn a size of a man Out of the room the weight of his trouble Out of the house that holds a town In the continent of a fossil One by one in dust and shawl, Dry as echoes and insect-faced, His fathers cling to the hand of the girl And the dead hand leads the past, Leads them as children and as air On to the blindly tossing tops; The centuries throw back their hair And the old men sing from newborn lips: Time is bearing another son. Kill Time! She turns in her pain! The oak is felled in the acorn And the hawk in the egg kills the wren. He who blew the great fire in And died on a hiss of flames Or walked the earth in the evening Counting the denials of the grains Clings to her drifting hair, and climbs; And he who taught their lips to sing Weeps like the risen sun among The liquid choirs of his tribes. The rod bends low, divining land, 43 And through the sundered water crawls A garden holding to her hand With birds and animals With men and women and waterfalls Trees cool and dry in the whirlpool of ships And stunned and still on the green, laid veil Sand with legends in its virgin laps And prophets loud on the burned dunes; Insects and valleys hold her thighs hard, Times and places grip her breast bone, She is breaking with seasons and clouds; Round her trailed wrist fresh water weaves, with moving fish and rounded stones Up and down the greater waves A separate river breathes and runs; Strike and sing his catch of fields For the surge is sown with barley, The cattle graze on the covered foam, The hills have footed the waves away, With wild sea fillies and soaking bridles With salty colts and gales in their limbs All the horses of his haul of miracles Gallop through the arched, green farms, Trot and gallop with gulls upon them And thunderbolts in their manes. O Rome and Sodom To-morrow and London The country tide is cobbled with towns And steeples pierce the cloud on her shoulder And the streets that the fisherman combed When his long-legged flesh was a wind on fire And his loin was a hunting flame Coil from the thoroughfares of her hair And terribly lead him home alive Lead her prodigal home to his terror, 44 The furious ox-killing house of love. Down, down, down, under the ground, Under the floating villages, Turns the moon-chained and water-wound Metropolis of fishes, There is nothing left of the sea but its sound, Under the earth the loud sea walks, In deathbeds of orchards the boat dies down And the bait is drowned among hayricks, Land, land, land, nothing remains Of the pacing, famous sea but its speech, And into its talkative seven tombs The anchor dives through the floors of a church. Good-bye, good luck, struck the sun and the moon, To the fisherman lost on the land. He stands alone in the door of his home, With his long-legged heart in his hand. ~ Dylan Thomas,

496:The Kalevala - Rune Xli WAINAMOINEN'S HARP-SONGS. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song be settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored; Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: 'Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing, To the harp's entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness.' Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains: Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvelous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, 186 O'er the plains the elk-deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest senior, Metsola's most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp, of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero's harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen. All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel's playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the, clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, 187 Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen ' Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature's well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the Moon's fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to bear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter. Ahto, king of all the waters, 188 Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered: 'Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen.' Satko's daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses. Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel's playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer's song out-circled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o'er her. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn till even. There was neither man nor hero, 189 Neither ancient dame, nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young, and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters Wept the warriors and heroes At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician. Wainamoinen's tears came flowing, Welling from the master's eyelids, Pearly tear-drops coursing downward, Larger than the whortle-berries, Finer than the pearls of ocean, Smoother than the eggs of moor-hens, Brighter than the eyes of swallows. From his eves the tear-drops started, Flowed adown his furrowed visage, Falling from his beard in streamlets, Trickled on his heaving bosom, Streaming o'er his golden girdle, Coursing to his garment's border, Then beneath his shoes of ermine, Flowing on, and flowing ever, Part to earth for her possession, Part to water for her portion. As the tear-drops fall and mingle, Form they streamlets from the eyelids Of the minstrel, Wainamoinen, To the blue-mere's sandy margin, To the deeps of crystal waters, Lost among the reeds and rushes. Spake at last the ancient minstrel: 'Is there one in all this concourse, One in all this vast assembly That can gather up my tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters?' Thus the younger heroes answered, Answered thus the bearded seniors: 'There is none in all this concourse, None in all this vast assembly, That can gather up thy tear-drops From the deep, pellucid waters.' 190 Spake again wise Wainamoinen: 'He that gathers up my tear-drops From the deeps of crystal waters Shall receive a beauteous plumage.' Came a raven, flying, croaking, And the minstrel thus addressed him: 'Bring, O raven, bring my tear-drops From the crystal lake's abysses; I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' But the raven failed his master. Came a duck upon the waters, And the hero thus addressed him: 'Bring O water-bird, my tear-drops; Often thou dost dive the deep-sea, Sink thy bill upon the bottom Of the waters thou dost travel; Dive again my tears to gather, I will give thee beauteous plumage, Recompense for golden service.' Thereupon the duck departed, Hither, thither, swam, and circled, Dived beneath the foam and billow, Gathered Wainamoinen's tear-drops From the blue-sea's pebbly bottom, From the deep, pellucid waters; Brought them to the great magician, Beautifully formed and colored, Glistening in the silver sunshine, Glimmering in the golden moonlight, Many-colored as the rainbow, Fitting ornaments for heroes, Jewels for the maids of beauty. This the origin of sea-pearls, And the blue-duck's beauteous plumage. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

497:The Kalevala - Rune I BIRTH OF WAINAMOINEN. In primeval times, a maiden, Beauteous Daughter of the Ether, Passed for ages her existence In the great expanse of heaven, O'er the prairies yet enfolded. Wearisome the maiden growing, Her existence sad and hopeless, Thus alone to live for ages In the infinite expanses Of the air above the sea-foam, In the far outstretching spaces, In a solitude of ether, She descended to the ocean, Waves her coach, and waves her pillow. Thereupon the rising storm-wind Flying from the East in fierceness, Whips the ocean into surges, Strikes the stars with sprays of ocean Till the waves are white with fervor. To and fro they toss the maiden, Storm-encircled, hapless maiden; With her sport the rolling billows, With her play the storm-wind forces, On the blue back of the waters; On the white-wreathed waves of ocean, Play the forces of the salt-sea, With the lone and helpless maiden; Till at last in full conception, Union now of force and beauty, Sink the storm-winds into slumber; Overburdened now the maiden Cannot rise above the surface; Seven hundred years she wandered, Ages nine of man's existence, Swam the ocean hither, thither, Could not rise above the waters, Conscious only of her travail; Seven hundred years she labored Ere her first-born was delivered. Thus she swam as water-mother, Toward the east, and also southward, Toward the west, and also northward; Swam the sea in all directions, Frightened at the strife of storm-winds, Swam in travail, swam unceasing, Ere her first-born was delivered. Then began she gently weeping, Spake these measures, heavy-hearted: 'Woe is me, my life hard-fated! Woe is me, in this my travail! Into what have I now fallen? Woe is me, that I unhappy, Left my home in subtle ether, Came to dwell amid the sea-foam, To be tossed by rolling billows, To be rocked by winds and waters, On the far outstretching waters, In the salt-sea's vast expanses, Knowing only pain and trouble! Better far for me, O Ukko! Were I maiden in the Ether, Than within these ocean-spaces, To become a water-mother! All this life is cold and dreary, Painful here is every motion, As I linger in the waters, As I wander through the ocean. Ukko, thou O God, up yonder, Thou the ruler of the heavens, Come thou hither, thou art needed, Come thou hither, I implore thee, To deliver me from trouble, To deliver me in travail. Come I pray thee, hither hasten, Hasten more that thou art needed, Haste and help this helpless maiden!' When she ceased her supplications, Scarce a moment onward passes, Ere a beauteous duck descending, Hastens toward the water-mother, Comes a-flying hither, thither, Seeks herself a place for nesting. Flies she eastward, flies she westward, Circles northward, circles southward, Cannot find a grassy hillock, Not the smallest bit of verdure; Cannot find a spot protected, Cannot find a place befitting, Where to make her nest in safety. Flying slowly, looking round her, She descries no place for resting, Thinking loud and long debating, And her words are such as follow: 'Build I in the winds my dwelling, On the floods my place of nesting? Surely would the winds destroy it, Far away the waves would wash it.' Then the daughter of the Ether, Now the hapless water-mother, Raised her shoulders out of water, Raised her knees above the ocean, That the duck might build her dwelling, Build her nesting-place in safety. Thereupon the duck in beauty, Flying slowly, looking round her, Spies the shoulders of the maiden, Sees the knees of Ether's daughter, Now the hapless water-mother, Thinks them to be grassy hillocks, On the blue back of the ocean. Thence she flies and hovers slowly, Lightly on the knee she settles, Finds a nesting-place befitting, Where to lay her eggs in safety. Here she builds her humble dwelling, Lays her eggs within, at pleasure, Six, the golden eggs she lays there, Then a seventh, an egg of iron; Sits upon her eggs to hatch them, Quickly warms them on the knee-cap Of the hapless water-mother; Hatches one day, then a second, Then a third day sits and hatches. Warmer grows the water round her, Warmer is her bed in ocean, While her knee with fire is kindled, And her shoulders too are burning, Fire in every vein is coursing. Quick the maiden moves her shoulders, Shakes her members in succession, Shakes the nest from its foundation, And the eggs fall into ocean, Dash in pieces on the bottom Of the deep and boundless waters. In the sand they do not perish, Not the pieces in the ocean; But transformed, in wondrous beauty All the fragments come together Forming pieces two in number, One the upper, one the lower, Equal to the one, the other. From one half the egg, the lower, Grows the nether vault of Terra: From the upper half remaining, Grows the upper vault of Heaven; From the white part come the moonbeams, From the yellow part the sunshine, From the motley part the starlight, From the dark part grows the cloudage; And the days speed onward swiftly, Quickly do the years fly over, From the shining of the new sun From the lighting of the full moon. Still the daughter of the Ether, Swims the sea as water-mother, With the floods outstretched before her, And behind her sky and ocean. Finally about the ninth year, In the summer of the tenth year, Lifts her head above the surface, Lifts her forehead from the waters, And begins at last her workings, Now commences her creations, On the azure water-ridges, On the mighty waste before her. Where her hand she turned in water, There arose a fertile hillock; Wheresoe'er her foot she rested, There she made a hole for fishes; Where she dived beneath the waters, Fell the many deeps of ocean; Where upon her side she turned her, There the level banks have risen; Where her head was pointed landward, There appeared wide bays and inlets; When from shore she swam a distance, And upon her back she rested, There the rocks she made and fashioned, And the hidden reefs created, Where the ships are wrecked so often, Where so many lives have perished. Thus created were the islands, Rocks were fastened in the ocean, Pillars of the sky were planted, Fields and forests were created, Checkered stones of many colors, Gleaming in the silver sunlight, All the rocks stood well established; But the singer, Wainamoinen, Had not yet beheld the sunshine, Had not seen the golden moonlight, Still remaining undelivered. Wainamoinen, old and trusty, Lingering within his dungeon Thirty summers altogether, And of winters, also thirty, Peaceful on the waste of waters, On the broad-sea's yielding bosom, Well reflected, long considered, How unborn to live and flourish In the spaces wrapped in darkness, In uncomfortable limits, Where he had not seen the moonlight, Had not seen the silver sunshine. 10 Thereupon these words be uttered, Let himself be heard in this wise: 'Take, O Moon, I pray thee, take me, Take me, thou, O Sun above me, Take me, thou O Bear of heaven, From this dark and dreary prison, From these unbefitting portals, From this narrow place of resting, From this dark and gloomy dwelling, Hence to wander from the ocean, Hence to walk upon the islands, On the dry land walk and wander, Like an ancient hero wander, Walk in open air and breathe it, Thus to see the moon at evening, Thus to see the silver sunlight, Thus to see the Bear in heaven, That the stars I may consider.' Since the Moon refused to free him, And the Sun would not deliver, Nor the Great Bear give assistance, His existence growing weary, And his life but an annoyance, Bursts he then the outer portals Of his dark and dismal fortress; With his strong, but unnamed finger, Opens he the lock resisting; With the toes upon his left foot, With the fingers of his right hand, Creeps he through the yielding portals To the threshold of his dwelling; On his knees across the threshold, Throws himself head foremost, forward Plunges into deeps of ocean, Plunges hither, plunges thither, Turning with his hands the water; Swims he northward, swims he southward, Swims he eastward, swims he westward, Studying his new surroundings. Thus our hero reached the water, Rested five years in the ocean, Six long years, and even seven years, 11 Till the autumn of the eighth year, When at last he leaves the waters, Stops upon a promontory, On a coast bereft of verdure; On his knees he leaves the ocean, On the land he plants his right foot, On the solid ground his left foot, Quickly turns his hands about him, Stands erect to see the sunshine, Stands to see the golden moonlight, That he may behold the Great Bear, That he may the stars consider. Thus our hero, Wainamoinen, Thus the wonderful enchanter Was delivered from his mother, Ilmatar, the Ether's daughter. ~ Elias Lönnrot,

498:A Farmhouse Dirge Will you walk with me to the brow of the hill, to visit the farmer's wife, Whose daughter lies in the churchyard now, eased of the ache of life? Half a mile by the winding lane, another half to the top: There you may lean o'er the gate and rest; she will want me awhile to stop, Stop and talk of her girl that is gone and no more will wake or weep, Or to listen rather, for sorrow loves to babble its pain to sleep. How thick with acorns the ground is strewn, rent from their cups and brown! How the golden leaves of the windless elms come singly fluttering down! The briony hangs in the thinning hedge, as russet as harvest corn, The straggling blackberries glisten jet, the haws are red on the thorn; The clematis smells no more but lifts its gossamer weight on high;If you only gazed on the year, you would think how beautiful 'tis to die. The stream scarce flows underneath the bridge; they have dropped the sluice of the mill; The roach bask deep in the pool above, and the water-wheel is still. The meal lies quiet on bin and floor; and here where the deep banks wind, The water-mosses nor sway nor bend, so nothing seems left behind. If the wheels of life would but sometimes stop, and the grinding awhile would cease, 'Twere so sweet to have, without dying quite, just a spell of autumn peace. Cottages four, two new, two old, each with its clambering rose: Lath and plaster and weather tiles these, brick faced with stone are those. Two crouch low from the wind and the rain, and tell of the humbler days, Whilst the other pair stand up and stare with a self-asserting gaze; But I warrant you'd find the old as snug as the new did you lift the latch, For the human heart keeps no whit more warm under slate than beneath the thatch. Tenants of two of them work for me, punctual, sober, true; I often wish that I did as well the work I have got to do. Think not to pity their lowly lot, nor wish that their thoughts soared higher; The canker comes on the garden rose, and not on the wilding brier. Doubt and gloom are not theirs and so they but work and love, they live Rich in the only valid boons that life can withhold or give. 46 Here is the railway bridge, and see how straight do the bright lines keep, With pheasant copses on either side, or pastures of quiet sheep. The big loud city lies far away, far too is the cliffbound shore, But the trains that travel betwixt them seem as if burdened with their roar. Yet, quickly they pass, and leave no trace, not the echo e'en of their noise: Don't you think that silence and stillness are the sweetest of all our joys? Lo! yonder the Farm, and these the ruts that the broad-wheeled wains have worn, As they bore up the hill the faggots sere, or the mellow shocks of corn. The hops are gathered, the twisted bines now brown on the brown clods lie, And nothing of all man sowed to reap is seen betwixt earth and sky. Year after year doth the harvest come, though at summer's and beauty's cost: One can only hope, when our lives grow bare, some reap what our hearts have lost. And this is the orchard, small and rude, and uncaredfor, but oh! in spring, How white is the slope with cherry bloom, and the nightingales sit and sing! You would think that the world had grown young once more, had forgotten death and fear, That the nearest thing unto woe on earth was the smile of an April tear; That goodness and gladness were twin, were one:- The robin is chorister now: The russet fruit on the ground is piled, and the lichen cleaves to the bough. Will you lean o'er the gate, whilst I go on? You can watch the farmyard life, The beeves, the farmer's hope, and the poults, that gladden his thrifty wife; Or, turning, look on the hazy weald,-you will not be seen from here,Till your thoughts, like it, grow blurred and vague, and mingle the far and near. Grief is a flood, and not a spring, whatever in grief we say; And perhaps her woe, should she see me alone, will run more quickly away. `I thought you would come this morning, ma'am. Yes, Edith at last has gone; To-morrow's a week, ay, just as the sun right into her window shone; Went with the night, the vicar says, where endeth never the day; But she's left a darkness behind her here I wish she had taken away. She is no longer with us, but we seem to be always with her, In the lonely bed where we laid her last, and can't get her to speak or stir. ``Yes, I'm at work; 'tis time I was. I should have begun before; But this is the room where she lay so still, ere they carried her past the door. I thought I never could let her go where it seems so lonely of nights; But now I am scrubbing and dusting down, and seting the place to rights. 47 All I have kept are the flowers there, the last that stood by her bed. I suppose I must throw them away. She looked much fairer when she was dead. ``Thank you, for thinking of her so much. Kind thought is the truest friend. I wish you had seen how pleased she was with the peaches you used to send. She tired of them too ere the end, so she did with all we tried; But she liked to look at them all the same, so we set them down by her side. Their bloom and the flush upon her cheek were alike, I used to say; Both were so smooth, and soft, and round, and both have faded away. ``I never could tell you how kind too were the ladies up at the hall; Every noon, or fair or wet, one of them used to call. Worry and work seems ours, but yours pleasant and easy days, And when all goes smooth, the rich and poor have different lives and ways. Sorrow and death bring men more close, 'tis joy that puts us apart; 'Tis a comfort to think, though we're severed so, we're all of us one at heart. ``She never wished to be smart and rich, as so many in these days do, Nor cared to go in on market days to stare at the gay and new. She liked to remain at home and pluck the white violets down in the wood; She said to her sisters before she died, `'Tis so easy to be good.' She must have found it so, I think, and that was the reason why God deemed it needless to leave her here, so took her up to the sky. ``The vicar says that he knows she is there, and surely she ought to be; But though I repeat the words, 'tis hard to believe what one does not see. They did not want me to go to the grave, but I could not have kept away, And whatever I do I can only see a coffin and church-yard clay. Yes, I know it's wrong to keep lingering there, and wicked and weak to fret; And that's why I'm hard at work again, for it helps one to forget. ``The young ones don't seem to take to work as their mothers and fathers did. We never were asked if we liked or no, but had to obey when bid. There's Bessie won't swill the dairy now, nor Richard call home the cows, And all of them cry, `How can you, mother?' when I carry the wash to the sows. Edith would drudge, for Death one's hearth of the helpful one always robs. But she was so pretty I could not bear to set her on dirty jobs. ``I don't know how it'll be with them when sorrow and loss are theirs, For it isn't likely that they'll escape their pack of worrits and cares. They say it's an age of progress this, and a sight of things improves, But sickness, and age, and bereavement seem to work in the same old grooves. 48 Fine they may grow, and that, but Death as lief takes the moth as the grub. When their dear ones die, I suspect they'll wish they'd a floor of their own to scrub. ``Some day they'll have a home of their own, much grander than this, no doubt, But polish the porch as you will you can't keep doctors and coffins out. I've done very well with my fowls this year, but what are pullets and eggs, When the heart in vain at the door of the grave the return of the lost one begs? The rich have leisure to wail and weep, the poor haven't time to be sad: If the cream hadn't been so contrairy this week, I think grief would have driven me mad. ``How does my husband bear up, you ask? Well, thank you, ma'am, fairly well; For he too is busy just now, you see, with the wheat and the hops to sell: It's when the work of the day is done, and he comes indoors at night, While the twilight hangs round the window-panes before I bring in the light, And takes down his pipe, and says not a word, but watches the faggots roarAnd then I know he is thinking of her who will sit on his knee no more. ``Must you be going? It seems so short. But thank you for thinking to come; It does me good to talk of it all, and grief feels doubled when dumb. An the butter's not quite so good this week, if you please, ma'am, you must not mind, And I'll not forget to send the ducks and all the eggs we can find; I've scarcely had time to look round me yet, work gets into such arrears, With only one pair of hands, and those fast wiping away one's tears. ``You've got some flowers, yet, haven't you, ma'am? though they now must be going fast; We never have any to speak of here, and I placed on her coffin the last. Could you spare me a few for Sunday next? I should like to go all alone, And lay them down on the little mound where there isn't as yet a stone. Thank you kindly, I'm sure they'll do, and I promise to heed what you say; I'll only just go and lay them there, and then I will come away.'' Come, let us go. Yes, down the hill, and home by the winding lane. The low-lying fields are suffused with haze, as life is suffused with pain. The noon mists gain on the morning sun, so despondency gains on youth; We grope, and wrangle, and boast, but Death is the only certain truth. O love of life! what a foolish love! we should weary of life did it last. While it lingers, it is but a little thing; 'tis nothing at all when past. 49 The acorns thicker and thicker lie, the briony limper grows, There are mildewing beads on the leafless brier where once smiled the sweet dog-rose. You may see the leaves of the primrose push through the litter of sodden ground; Their pale stars dream in the wintry womb, and the pimpernel sleepeth sound. They will awake; shall we awake? Are we more than imprisoned breath? When the heart grows weak, then hope grows strong, but stronger than hope is Death. ~ Alfred Austin,

499:Prairie I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan. Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam. Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches. Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home. Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water. The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart.. . After the sunburn of the day handling a pitchfork at a hayrack, after the eggs and biscuit and coffee, the pearl-gray haystacks in the gloaming are cool prayers to the harvest hands. In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse. On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels.. . . I am here when the cities are gone. I am here before the cities come. I nourished the lonely men on horses. I will keep the laughing men who ride iron. I am dust of men. The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher. You came in wagons, making streets and schools, 340 Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse, Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw, You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl, You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat, I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay, The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago Marching single file the timber and the plain. I hold the dust of these amid changing stars. I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like, While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men. I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days. Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun, I who have seen the red births and the red deaths Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait. Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley? Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?. . . Rivers cut a path on flat lands. The mountains stand up. The salt oceans press in And push on the coast lines. The sun, the wind, bring rain And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle: A love-letter pledge to come again.. . . Towns on the Soo Line, Towns on the Big Muddy, Laugh at each other for cubs And tease as children. Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up. Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up.. . . 341 Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke—out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise—out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples— Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want. Out of log houses and stumps—canoes stripped from tree-sides—flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims—in the years when the red and the white men met—the houses and streets rose. A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth. In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat. To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake. I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short.. . . What brothers these in the dark? What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon? These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties When the coal boats plow by on the river— The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators— The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel: what brothers these in the dark of a thousand years?. . . A headlight searches a snowstorm. A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin. In the morning hours, in the dawn, The sun puts out the stars of the sky And the headlight of the Limited train. The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled. 342 A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie. The horses fathom a snow to their knees. Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills. The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats.. . . Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain, O farmerman. Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat. Kill your hogs with a knife slit under the ear. Hack them with cleavers. Hang them with hooks in the hind legs.. . . A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning. Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple balls. The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses. The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair.. . . On the left-and right-hand side of the road, Marching corn— I saw it knee high weeks ago—now it is head high—tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears.. . . I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting. They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens. They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges. They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market. They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire.. . . The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands. There is no let-up to the wind. Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins. Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled. The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the 343 angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches—among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain—they keep old things that never grow old. The frost loosens corn husks. The Sun, the rain, the wind loosen corn husks. The men and women are helpers. They are all cornhuskers together. I see them late in the western evening in a smoke-red dust.. . . The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight, The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a coon in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib, The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a fortyacre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall, These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights. "The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa.. . . Look at six eggs In a mockingbird's nest. Listen to six mockingbirds Flinging follies of O-be-joyful Over the marshes and uplands. Look at songs Hidden in eggs.. . . When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven. When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose. When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way.. . . Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? 344 Any new songs?" O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting—your lover comes—your child comes—the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod. O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back— There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley.. . . O prairie mother, I am one of your boys. I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love. Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.. . . I speak of new cities and new people. I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes. I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down, a sun dropped in the west. I tell you there is nothing in the world only an ocean of to-morrows, a sky of to-morrows. I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say at sundown: To-morrow is a day. ~ Carl Sandburg,

500:The Truant Dove, From Pilpay A MOUNTAIN stream, its channel deep Beneath a rock's rough base had torn; The cliff, like a vast castle wall, was steep By fretting rains in many a crevice worn; But the fern wav'd there, and the mosses crept, And o'er the summit, where the wind Peel'd from their stems the silver rind, Depending birches wept­­ There, tufts of broom a footing used to find, And heath and straggling grass to grow, And half-way down from roots enwreathing, broke The branches of a scathed oak, And seem'd to guard the cave below, Where each revolving year, Their twins, two faithful doves were wont to rear; Choice never join'd a fonder pair; To each their simple home was dear, No discord ever enter'd there; But there the soft affections dwell'd, And three returning springs beheld Secure within their fortress high The little happy family. 'Toujours perdrix, messieurs, ne valent rien'­ So did a Gallic monarch once harangue, And evil was the day whereon our bird This saying heard, From certain new acquaintance he had found, Who at their perfect ease, Amid a field of peas Boasted to him, that all the country round, The wheat, and oats, and barley, rye and tares, Quite to the neighbouring sea, were theirs; And theirs the oak, and beech-woods, far and near, For their right noble owner was a peer, And they themselves, luxuriantly were stored In a great dove-cote­to amuse my lord ! 'Toujours perdrix ne valent rien.' That's strange ! 198 When people once are happy, wherefore change ? So thought our stock-dove, but communication, With birds in his new friend's exalted station, Whose means of information, And knowledge of all sorts, must be so ample; Who saw great folks, and follow'd their example, Made on the dweller of the cave, impression; And soon, whatever was his best possession, His sanctuary within the rock's deep breast, His soft-eyed partner, and her nest, He thought of with indifference, then with loathing; So much insipid love was good for nothing.­ But sometimes tenderness return'd; his dame So long belov'd, so mild, so free from blame, How should he tell her, he had learn'd to cavil At happiness itself, and longed to travel ? His heart still smote him, so much wrong to do her, He knew not how to break the matter to her. But love, tho' blind himself, makes some discerning; His frequent absence, and his late returning, With ruffled plumage, and with alter'd eyes, His careless short replies, And to their couplets, coldness or neglect Had made his gentle wife suspect, All was not right; but she forbore to teaze him, Which would but give him an excuse to rove: She therefore tried by every art to please him, Endur'd his peevish starts with patient love, And when (like other husbands from a tavern) Of his new notions full, he sought his cavern She with dissembled cheerfulness, 'beguiled 'The thing she was,' and gaily coo-ed and smiled. 'Tis not in this most motley sphere uncommon, For man, (and so of course more feeble woman) Most strongly to suspect, what they're pursuing Will lead them to inevitable ruin, Yet rush with open eyes to their undoing; Thus felt the dove; but in the cant of fashion He talk'd of fate, and of predestination, 199 And in a grave oration, He to his much affrighted mate related, How he, yet slumbering in the egg, was fated, To gather knowledge, to instruct his kind, By observation elevate his mind, And give new impulse to Columbian life; 'If it be so,' exclaim'd his hapless wife, 'It is my fate, to pass my days in pain, 'To mourn your love estrang'd, and mourn in vain; 'Here in our once dear hut, to wake and weep, 'When thy unkindness shall have ‘murder'd sleep;’ 'And never that dear hut shall I prepare, 'And wait with fondness your arrival there, 'While me, and mine forgetting, you will go 'To some new love.' 'Why, no, I tell you no,­ 'What shall I say such foolish fears to cure ? 'I only mean to make a little tour, 'Just­just to see the world around me; then 'With new delight, I shall come home again; 'Such tours are quite the rage­at my return 'I shall have much to tell, and you to learn; 'Of fashions­some becoming, some grotesque 'Of change of empires, and ideas novel; 'Of buildings, Grecian, Gothic, Arabesque, 'And scenery sublime and picturesque; 'And all these things with pleasure we'll discuss­' 'Ah, me ! and what are all these things to us ?' 'So then, you'd have a bird of genius grovel, 'And never see beyond a farmer's hovel ? 'Even the sand-martin, that inferior creature, 'Goes once a year abroad.' 'It is his nature, 'But yours how different once !' and then she sigh'd, 'There was a time, Ah ! would that I had died, 'E'er you so chang'd ! when you'd have perish'd rather 'Than this poor breast should heave a single feather 'With grief and care. And all this cant of fashion 'Would but have rais'd your anger, or compassion,­ 'O my dear love ! You sought not then to range, 'But on my changeful neck as fell the light, 'You sweetly said, you wish'd no other change 200 'Than that soft neck could shew; to berries bright 'Of mountain ash, you fondly could compare 'My scarlet feet and bill; my shape and air, 'Ah ! faithless flatterer, did you not declare 'The soul of grace and beauty center'd there ? 'My eyes you said, were opals, brightly pink, 'Enchas'd in onyx; and you seem'd to think, 'Each charm might then the coldest heart enthrall: 'Those charms were mine. Alas ! I gave you all­ 'Your farthest wanderings then were but to fetch 'The pea, the tare, the beechmast, and the vetch, 'For my repast; within my rocky bower, 'With spleenwort shaded, and the blue-bell's flower, 'For prospects then you never wish'd to roam, 'But the best scenery was our happy home; 'And when, beneath my breast, then fair and young, 'Our first dear pair, our earliest nestlings sprung, 'And weakly, indistinctly, tried to coo­ 'Were not those moments picturesque to you ?' 'Yes, faith, my dear; and all you say is true.' 'Oh ! hear me then; if thus we have been blest, 'If on these wings it was your joy to rest, 'Love must from habit still new strength be gaining­' 'From habit ? 'tis of that, child, I'm complaining 'This everlasting fondness will not be 'For birds of flesh and blood. We sha'nt agree, 'So why dispute ? now prithee don't torment me; 'I shall not long be gone; let that content ye: 'Pshaw ! what a fuss ! Come, no more sighs and groans, 'Keep up your spirits; mind your little ones; 'My journey won't be far­my honour's pledged­ 'I shall be back again before they're fledged; 'Give me a kiss; and now my dear, adieu !' So light of heart and plumes, away he flew; And, as above the sheltering rock he springs, She listen'd to the echo of his wings; Those well-known sounds, so soothing heretofore, Which her heart whisper'd she should hear no more. Then to her cold and widow'd bed she crept, 201 Clasp'd her half-orphan'd young, and wept ! Her recreant mate, by other views attracted, A very different part enacted; He sought the dove-cote, and was greeted there With all that's tonish, elegant, and rare, Among the pigeon tribes; and there the rover Lived quite in clover ! His jolly comrades now, were blades of spirit; Their nymphs possess'd most fascinating merit; Nor fail'd our hero of the rock to prove, He thought not of inviolable love To his poor spouse at home. He bow'd and sigh'd, Now to a fantail's, now a cropper's bride; Then cow'ring low to a majestic powter, Declared he should not suffer life without her; And then with upturn'd eyes, in phrase still humbler, Implor'd the pity of an almond tumbler; Next, to a beauteous carrier's feet he'd run, And lived a week, the captive of a nun: Thus far in measureless content he revels, And blest the hour when he began his travels. Yet some things soon occurr'd not quite so pleasant; He had observ'd that an unfeeling peasant, It silence mounting on a ladder high, Seiz'd certain pigeons just as they could fly, Who never figur'd more, but in a pie; That was but aukward; then, his lordship's son Heard from the groom, that 'twould be famous fun To try on others his unpractis'd gun; Their fall, the rattling shot, his nerves perplex'd; He thought perhaps it might be his turn next. It has been seen ere now, that, much elated, To be by some great man caress'd and fêted, A youth of humble birth, and mind industrious, Foregoes in evil hour his independance; And, charm'd to wait upon his friend illustrious, Gives up his time to flattery and attendance. His patron, smiling at his folly, lets him­ Some newer whim succeeds, and he forgets him. So fared our bird; his new friend's vacant stare, 202 Told him he scarce remember'd he was there; And, when he talk'd of living more securely, This very dear friend, yawning, answered, 'Surely ! 'You are quite right to do what's most expedient, 'So, au revoir !­Good bye ! Your most obedient.' Allies in prosperous fortune thus he prov'd, And left them, unregretting, unbelov'd; Yet much his self-love suffer'd by the shock, And now, his quiet cabin in the rock, The faithful partner of his every care, And all the blessings he abandon'd there, Rush'd on his sickening heart; he felt it yearn, But pride and shame prevented his return; So wandering farther­at the close of day To the high woods he pensive wing'd his way; But new distress at every turn he found­ Struck by an hawk, and stunn'd upon the ground, He once by miracle escaped; then fled From a wild cat, and hid his trembling head Beneath a dock; recovering, on the wind He rose once more, and left his fears behind; And, as above the clouds he soar'd, the light Fell on an inland rock; the radiance bright Shew'd him his long deserted place of rest, And thitherward he flew; his throbbing breast Dwelt on his mate, so gentle, and so wrong'd, And on his memory throng'd The happiness he once at home had known; Then to forgive him earnest to engage her, And for his errors eager to atone, Onward he went; but ah ! not yet had flown Fate's sharpest arrow: to decide a wager, Two sportsmen shot at our deserter; down The wind swift wheeling, struggling, still he fell, Close to the margin of the stream that flow'd Beneath the foot of his regretted cell, And the fresh grass was spotted with his blood; To his dear home he turn'd his languid view, Deplor'd his folly, while he look'd his last, 203 And sigh'd a long adieu ! Thither to sip the brook, his nestlings, led By their still pensive mother, came; He saw; and murmuring forth her dear lov'd name, Implor'd her pity, and with shortening breath, Besought her to forgive him ere his death.­ And now, how hard in metre to relate The tears and tender pity of his mate ! Or with what generous zeal, his faithful moitie Taught her now feather'd young, with duteous piety, To aid her, on their mutual wings to bear, With stork-like care, Their suffering parent to the rock above; There, by the best physician, Love, His wounds were heal'd.­His wanderings at an end, And sober'd quite, the husband, and the friend, In proof of reformation and contrition, Gave to his race this prudent admonition; Advice, which this, our fabling muse, presumes May benefit the biped without plumes: 'If of domestic peace you are possess'd, 'Learn to believe yourself supremely bless'd; 'And gratefully enjoying your condition, 'Frisk not about, on whims and fancies strange, 'For ten to one, you for the worse will change: 'And 'tis most wise, to check all vain ambition­ 'By such aspiring pride the angels fell; 'So love your wife, and know when you are well.' ~ Charlotte Smith,

501:The Botanic Garden( Part I) The Economy Of Vegetation Canto I STAY YOUR RUDE STEPS! whose throbbing breasts infold The legion-fiends of Glory, or of Gold! Stay! whose false lips seductive simpers part, While Cunning nestles in the harlot-heart!For you no Dryads dress the roseate bower, For you no Nymphs their sparkling vases pour; Unmark'd by you, light Graces swim the green, And hovering Cupids aim their shafts, unseen. 'But THOU! whose mind the well-attemper'd ray Of Taste and Virtue lights with purer day; Whose finer sense each soft vibration owns With sweet responsive sympathy of tones; So the fair flower expands it's lucid form To meet the sun, and shuts it to the storm;For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath, My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe; Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded fly Smooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye; On twinkling fins my pearly nations play, Or win with sinuous train their trackless way; My plumy pairs in gay embroidery dress'd Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest, To Love's sweet notes attune the listening dell, And Echo sounds her soft symphonious shell. 'And, if with Thee some hapless Maid should stray, Disasterous Love companion of her way, Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade, Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade; There, as meek Evening wakes her temperate breeze, And moon-beams glimmer through the trembling trees, The rills, that gurgle round, shall soothe her ear, The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear; There as sad Philomel, alike forlorn, Sings to the Night from her accustomed thorn; While at sweet intervals each falling note 80 Sighs in the gale, and whispers round the grot; The sister-woe shall calm her aching breast, And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest.'Winds of the North! restrain your icy gales, Nor chill the bosom of these happy vales! Hence in dark heaps, ye gathering Clouds, revolve! Disperse, ye Lightnings! and, ye Mists, dissolve! -Hither, emerging from yon orient skies, BOTANIC GODDESS! bend thy radiant eyes; O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign, Pomona, Ceres, Flora in thy train; O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse, And with thy silver sandals print the dews; In noon's bright blaze thy vermil vest unfold, And wave thy emerald banner star'd with gold.' Thus spoke the GENIUS, as He stept along, And bade these lawns to Peace and Truth belong; Down the steep slopes He led with modest skill The willing pathway, and the truant rill, Stretch'd o'er the marshy vale yon willowy mound, Where shines the lake amid the tufted ground, Raised the young woodland, smooth'd the wavy green, And gave to Beauty all the quiet scene.She comes!-the GODDESS!-through the whispering air, Bright as the morn, descends her blushing car; Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers intwines, And gem'd with flowers the silken harness shines; The golden bits with flowery studs are deck'd, And knots of flowers the crimson reins connect.And now on earth the silver axle rings, And the shell sinks upon its slender springs; Light from her airy seat the Goddess bounds, And steps celestial press the pansied grounds. Fair Spring advancing calls her feather'd quire, And tunes to softer notes her laughing lyre; Bids her gay hours on purple pinions move, And arms her Zephyrs with the shafts of Love, Pleased GNOMES, ascending from their earthy beds, Play round her graceful footsteps, as she treads; Gay SYLPHS attendant beat the fragrant air On winnowing wings, and waft her golden hair; Blue NYMPHS emerging leave their sparkling streams, 81 And FIERY FORMS alight from orient beams; Musk'd in the rose's lap fresh dews they shed, Or breathe celestial lustres round her head. First the fine Forms her dulcet voice requires, Which bathe or bask in elemental fires; From each bright gem of Day's refulgent car, From the pale sphere of every twinkling star, From each nice pore of ocean, earth, and air, With eye of flame the sparkling hosts repair, Mix their gay hues, in changeful circles play, Like motes, that tenant the meridian ray.So the clear Lens collects with magic power The countless glories of the midnight hour; Stars after stars with quivering lustre fall, And twinkling glide along the whiten'd wall.Pleased, as they pass, she counts the glittering bands, And stills their murmur with her waving hands; Each listening tribe with fond expectance burns, And now to these, and now to those, she turns. I. 'NYMPHS OF PRIMEVAL FIRE! YOUR vestal train Hung with gold-tresses o'er the vast inane, Pierced with your silver shafts the throne of Night, And charm'd young Nature's opening eyes with light; When LOVE DIVINE, with brooding wings unfurl'd, Call'd from the rude abyss the living world. '-LET THERE BE LIGHT!' proclaim'd the ALMIGHTY LORD, Astonish'd Chaos heard the potent word;Through all his realms the kindling Ether runs, And the mass starts into a million suns; Earths round each sun with quick explosions burst, And second planets issue from the first; Bend, as they journey with projectile force, In bright ellipses their reluctant course; Orbs wheel in orbs, round centres centres roll, And form, self-balanced, one revolving Whole. -Onward they move amid their bright abode, Space without bound, THE BOSOM OF THEIR GOD! II. 'ETHEREAL POWERS! YOU chase the shooting stars, Or yoke the vollied lightenings to your cars, Cling round the aërial bow with prisms bright, 82 And pleased untwist the sevenfold threads of light; Eve's silken couch with gorgeous tints adorn, And fire the arrowy throne of rising Morn. -OR, plum'd with flame, in gay battalion's spring To brighter regions borne on broader wing; Where lighter gases, circumfused on high, Form the vast concave of exterior sky; With airy lens the scatter'd rays assault, And bend the twilight round the dusky vault; Ride, with broad eye and scintillating hair, The rapid Fire-ball through the midnight air; Dart from the North on pale electric streams, Fringing Night's sable robe with transient beams. -OR rein the Planets in their swift careers, Gilding with borrow'd light their twinkling spheres; Alarm with comet-blaze the sapphire plain, The wan stars glimmering through its silver train; Gem the bright Zodiac, stud the glowing pole, Or give the Sun's phlogistic orb to roll. III. NYMPHS! YOUR fine forms with steps impassive mock Earth's vaulted roofs of adamantine rock; Round her still centre tread the burning soil, And watch the billowy Lavas, as they boil; Where, in basaltic caves imprison'd deep, Reluctant fires in dread suspension sleep; Or sphere on sphere in widening waves expand, And glad with genial warmth the incumbent land. So when the Mother-bird selects their food With curious bill, and feeds her callow brood; Warmth from her tender heart eternal springs, And pleased she clasps them with extended wings. 'YOU from deep cauldrons and unmeasured caves Blow flaming airs, or pour vitrescent waves; O'er shining oceans ray volcanic light, Or hurl innocuous embers to the night.While with loud shouts to Etna Heccla calls, And Andes answers from his beacon'd walls; Sea-wilder'd crews the mountain-stars admire, And Beauty beams amid tremendous fire. 'Thus when of old, as mystic bards presume, Huge CYCLOPS dwelt in Etna's rocky womb, 83 On thundering anvils rung their loud alarms, And leagued with VULCAN forged immortal arms; Descending VENUS sought the dark abode, And sooth'd the labours of the grisly God.While frowning Loves the threatening falchion wield, And tittering Graces peep behind the shield, With jointed mail their fairy limbs o'erwhelm, Or nod with pausing step the plumed helm; With radiant eye She view'd the boiling ore, Heard undismay'd the breathing bellows roar, Admired their sinewy arms, and shoulders bare, And ponderous hammers lifted high in air, With smiles celestial bless'd their dazzled sight, And Beauty blazed amid infernal night. IV. 'EFFULGENT MAIDS! YOU round deciduous day, Tressed with soft beams, your glittering bands array; On Earth's cold bosom, as the Sun retires, Confine with folds of air the lingering fires; O'er Eve's pale forms diffuse phosphoric light, And deck with lambent flames the shrine of Night. So, warm'd and kindled by meridian skies, And view'd in darkness with dilated eyes, BOLOGNA'S chalks with faint ignition blaze, BECCARI'S shells emit prismatic rays. So to the sacred Sun in MEMNON's fane, Spontaneous concords quired the matin strain; -Touch'd by his orient beam, responsive rings The living lyre, and vibrates all it's strings; Accordant ailes the tender tones prolong, And holy echoes swell the adoring song. 'YOU with light Gas the lamps nocturnal feed, Which dance and glimmer o'er the marshy mead; Shine round Calendula at twilight hours, And tip with silver all her saffron flowers; Warm on her mossy couch the radiant Worm, Guard from cold dews her love-illumin'd form, From leaf to leaf conduct the virgin light, Star of the earth, and diamond of the night. You bid in air the tropic Beetle burn, And fill with golden flame his winged urn; Or gild the surge with insect-sparks, that swarm 84 Round the bright oar, the kindling prow alarm; Or arm in waves, electric in his ire, The dread Gymnotus with ethereal fire.Onward his course with waving tail he helms, And mimic lightenings scare the watery realms, So, when with bristling plumes the Bird of JOVE Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, Borne on broad wings the guilty world he awes, And grasps the lightening in his shining claws. V. 1. 'NYMPHS! Your soft smiles uncultur'd man subdued, And charm'd the Savage from his native wood; You, while amazed his hurrying Hords retire From the fell havoc of devouring FIRE, Taught, the first Art! with piny rods to raise By quick attrition the domestic blaze, Fan with soft breath, with kindling leaves provide, And lift the dread Destroyer on his side. So, with bright wreath of serpent-tresses crown'd, Severe in beauty, young MEDUSA frown'd; Erewhile subdued, round WISDOM'S Aegis roll'd Hiss'd the dread snakes, and flam'd in burnish'd gold; Flash'd on her brandish'd arm the immortal shield, And Terror lighten'd o'er the dazzled field. 2. NYMPHS! YOU disjoin, unite, condense, expand, And give new wonders to the Chemist's hand; On tepid clouds of rising steam aspire, Or fix in sulphur all it's solid fire; With boundless spring elastic airs unfold, Or fill the fine vacuities of gold; With sudden flash vitrescent sparks reveal, By fierce collision from the flint and steel; Or mark with shining letter KUNKEL's name In the pale Phosphor's self-consuming flame. So the chaste heart of some enchanted Maid Shines with insidious light, by Love betray'd; Round her pale bosom plays the young Desire, And slow she wastes by self-consuming fire. 3. 'YOU taught mysterious BACON to explore Metallic veins, and part the dross from ore; With sylvan coal in whirling mills combine The crystal'd nitre, and the sulphurous mine; 85 Through wiry nets the black diffusion strain, And close an airy ocean in a grain.Pent in dark chambers of cylindric brass Slumbers in grim repose the sooty mass; Lit by the brilliant spark, from grain to grain Runs the quick fire along the kindling train; On the pain'd ear-drum bursts the sudden crash, Starts the red flame, and Death pursues the flash.Fear's feeble hand directs the fiery darts, And Strength and Courage yield to chemic arts; Guilt with pale brow the mimic thunder owns, And Tyrants tremble on their blood-stain'd thrones. VI. NYMPHS! You erewhile on simmering cauldrons play'd, And call'd delighted SAVERY to your aid; Bade round the youth explosive STEAM aspire In gathering clouds, and wing'd the wave with fire; Bade with cold streams the quick expansion stop, And sunk the immense of vapour to a drop.Press'd by the ponderous air the Piston falls Resistless, sliding through it's iron walls; Quick moves the balanced beam, of giant-birth, Wields his large limbs, and nodding shakes the earth. 'The Giant-Power from earth's remotest caves Lifts with strong arm her dark reluctant waves; Each cavern'd rock, and hidden den explores, Drags her dark coals, and digs her shining ores.Next, in close cells of ribbed oak confined, Gale after gale, He crowds the struggling wind; The imprison'd storms through brazen nostrils roar, Fan the white flame, and fuse the sparkling ore. Here high in air the rising stream He pours To clay-built cisterns, or to lead-lined towers; Fresh through a thousand pipes the wave distils, And thirsty cities drink the exuberant rills.There the vast mill-stone with inebriate whirl On trembling floors his forceful fingers twirl. Whose flinty teeth the golden harvests grind, Feast without blood! and nourish human-kind. 'Now his hard hands on Mona's rifted crest, Bosom'd in rock, her azure ores arrest; With iron lips his rapid rollers seize 86 The lengthening bars, in thin expansion squeeze; Descending screws with ponderous fly-wheels wound The tawny plates, the new medallions round; Hard dyes of steel the cupreous circles cramp, And with quick fall his massy hammers stamp. The Harp, the Lily and the Lion join, And GEORGE and BRITAIN guard the sterling coin. 'Soon shall thy arm, UNCONQUER'D STEAM! afar Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car; Or on wide-waving wings expanded bear The flying-chariot through the fields of air. -Fair crews triumphant, leaning from above, Shall wave their fluttering kerchiefs as they move; Or warrior-bands alarm the gaping crowd, And armies shrink beneath the shadowy cloud. 'So mighty HERCULES o'er many a clime Waved his vast mace in Virtue's cause sublime, Unmeasured strength with early art combined, Awed, served, protected, and amazed mankind.First two dread Snakes at JUNO'S vengeful nod Climb'd round the cradle of the sleeping God; Waked by the shrilling hiss, and rustling sound, And shrieks of fair attendants trembling round, Their gasping throats with clenching hands he holds; And Death untwists their convoluted folds. Next in red torrents from her sevenfold heads Fell HYDRA'S blood on Lerna's lake he sheds; Grasps ACHELOUS with resistless force, And drags the roaring River to his course; Binds with loud bellowing and with hideous yell The monster Bull, and threefold Dog of Hell. 'Then, where Nemea's howling forests wave, He drives the Lion to his dusky cave; Seized by the throat the growling fiend disarms, And tears his gaping jaws with sinewy arms; Lifts proud ANTEUS from his mother-plains, And with strong grasp the struggling Giant strains; Back falls his fainting head, and clammy hair, Writhe his weak limbs, and flits his life in air;By steps reverted o'er the blood-dropp'd fen He tracks huge CACUS to his murderous den; Where breathing flames through brazen lips he fled, 87 And shakes the rock-roof'd cavern o'er his head. 'Last with wide arms the solid earth He tears, Piles rock on rock, on mountain mountain rears; Heaves up huge ABYLA on Afric's sand, Crowns with high CALPÈ Europe's saliant strand, Crests with opposing towers the splendid scene, And pours from urns immense the sea between.-Loud o'er her whirling flood Charybdis roars, Affrighted Scylla bellows round his shores, Vesuvio groans through all his echoing caves, And Etna thunders o'er the insurgent waves. VII. 1. NYMPHS! YOUR fine hands ethereal floods amass From the warm cushion, and the whirling glass; Beard the bright cylinder with golden wire, And circumfuse the gravitating fire. Cold from each point cerulean lustres gleam, Or shoot in air the scintillating stream. So, borne on brazen talons, watch'd of old The sleepless dragon o'er his fruits of gold; Bright beam'd his scales, his eye-balls blazed with ire, And his wide nostrils breath'd inchanted fire. 'YOU bid gold-leaves, in crystal lantherns held, Approach attracted, and recede repel'd; While paper-nymphs instinct with motion rife, And dancing fauns the admiring Sage surprize. OR, if on wax some fearless Beauty stand, And touch the sparkling rod with graceful hand; Through her fine limbs the mimic lightnings dart, And flames innocuous eddy round her heart; O'er her fair brow the kindling lustres glare, Blue rays diverging from her bristling hair; While some fond Youth the kiss ethereal sips. And soft fires issue from their meeting lips. So round the virgin Saint in silver streams The holy Halo shoots it's arrowy beams. 'YOU crowd in coated jars the denser fire, Pierce the thin glass, and fuse the blazing wire; Or dart the red flash through the circling band Of youths and timorous damsels, hand in hand. -Starts the quick Ether through the fibre-trains Of dancing arteries, and of tingling veins, 88 Goads each fine nerve, with new sensation thrill'd, Bends the reluctant limbs with power unwill'd; Palsy's cold hands the fierce concussion own, And Life clings trembling on her tottering throne.So from dark clouds the playful lightning springs, Rives the firm oak, or prints the Fairy-rings. 2. NYMPHS! on that day YE shed from lucid eyes. Celestial tears, and breathed ethereal sighs! When RICHMAN rear'd, by fearless haste betrayed, The wiry rod in Nieva's fatal shade;Clouds o'er the Sage, with fringed skirts succeed, Flash follows flash, the warning corks recede; Near and more near He ey'd with fond amaze The silver streams, and watch'd the saphire blaze; Then burst the steel, the dart electric sped, And the bold Sage lay number'd with the dead!NYMPHS! on that day YE shed from lucid eyes Celestial tears, and breathed ethereal sighs! 3. 'YOU led your FRANKLIN to your glazed retreats, Your air-built castles, and your silken seats; Bade his bold arm invade the lowering sky, And seize the tiptoe lightnings, ere they fly; O'er the young Sage your mystic mantle spread, And wreath'd the crown electric round his head.Thus when on wanton wing intrepid LOVE Snatch'd the raised lightning from the arm of JOVE; Quick o'er his knee the triple bolt He bent, The cluster'd darts and forky arrows rent, Snapp'd with illumin'd hands each flaming shaft, His tingling fingers shook, and stamp'd, and laugh'd; Bright o'er the floor the scatter'd fragments blaz'd, And Gods retreating trembled as they gaz'd; The immortal Sire, indulgent to his child, Bow'd his ambrosial locks, and Heaven relenting smiled. VIII. 'When Air's pure essence joins the vital flood, And with phosphoric Acid dyes the blood, YOUR VIRGIN TRAINS the transient HEAT dispart, And lead the soft combustion round the heart; Life's holy lamp with fires successive feed, From the crown'd forehead to the prostrate weed, From Earth's proud realms to all that swim or sweep 89 The yielding ether or tumultuous deep. You swell the bulb beneath the heaving lawn, Brood the live seed, unfold the bursting spawn; Nurse with soft lap, and warm with fragrant breath The embryon panting in the arms of Death; Youth's vivid eye with living light adorn, And fire the rising blush of Beauty's golden morn. 'Thus when the Egg of Night, on Chaos hurl'd, Burst, and disclosed the cradle of the world; First from the gaping shell refulgent sprung IMMORTAL LOVE, his bow celestial strung;O'er the wide waste his gaudy wings unfold, Beam his soft smiles, and wave his curls of gold;With silver darts He pierced the kindling frame, And lit with torch divine the ever-living flame.' IX. The GODDESS paused, admired with conscious pride The effulgent legions marshal'd by her side, Forms sphered in fire with trembling light array'd, Ens without weight, and substance without shade; And, while tumultuous joy her bosom warms, Waves her white hand, and calls her hosts to arms, 'Unite, ILLUSTRIOUS NYMPHS! your radiant powers, Call from their long repose the VERNAL HOURS. Wake with soft touch, with rosy hands unbind The struggling pinions of the WESTERN WIND; Chafe his wan cheeks, his ruffled plumes repair, And wring the rain-drops from his tangled hair. Blaze round each frosted rill, or stagnant wave, And charm the NAIAD from her silent cave; Where, shrined in ice, like NIOBE she mourns, And clasps with hoary arms her empty urns. Call your bright myriads, trooping from afar, With beamy helms, and glittering shafts of war; In phalanx firm the FIEND OF FROST assail, Break his white towers, and pierce his crystal mail; To Zembla's moon-bright coasts the Tyrant bear, And chain him howling to the Northern Bear. 'So when enormous GRAMPUS, issuing forth From the pale regions of the icy North; Waves his broad tail, and opes his ribbed mouth, And seeks on winnowing fin the breezy South; 90 From towns deserted rush the breathless hosts, Swarm round the hills, and darken all the coasts; Boats follow boats along the shouting tides, And spears and javelins pierce his blubbery sides; Now the bold Sailor, raised on pointed toe, Whirls the wing'd harpoon on the slimy foe; Quick sinks the monster in his oozy bed, The blood-stain'd surges circling o'er his head, Steers to the frozen pole his wonted track, And bears the iron tempest on his back. X. 'On wings of flame, ETHEREAL VIRGINS! sweep O'er Earth's fair bosom, and complacent deep; Where dwell my vegetative realms benumb'd, In buds imprison'd, or in bulbs intomb'd, Pervade, PELLUCID FORMS! their cold retreat, Ray from bright urns your viewless floods of heat From earth's deep wastes electric torrents pour, Or shed from heaven the scintillating shower; Pierce the dull root, relax its fibre-trains, Thaw the thick blood, which lingers in its veins; Melt with warm breath the fragrant gums, that bind The expanding foliage in its scaly rind; And as in air the laughing leaflets play, And turn their shining bosoms to the ray, NYMPHS! with sweet smile each opening glower invite, And on its damask eyelids pour the light 'So shall my pines, Canadian wilds that shade, Where no bold step has pierc'd the tangled glade, High-towering palms, that part the Southern flood With shadowy isles and continents of wood, Oaks, whose broad antlers crest Britannia's plain, Or bear her thunders o'er the conquer'd main, Shout, as you pass, inhale the genial skies, And bask and brighten in your beamy eyes; Bow their white heads, admire the changing clime, 91 Shake from their candied trunks the tinkling rime; With bursting buds their wrinkled barks adorn, And wed the timorous floret to her thorn; Deep strike their roots, their lengthening tops revive, And all my world of foliage wave, alive. 'Thus with Hermetic art the ADEPT combines The royal acid with cobaltic mines; Marks with quick pen, in lines unseen portrayed, The blushing mead, green dell, and dusky glade; Shades with pellucid clouds the tintless field, And all the future Group exists conceal'd; Till waked by fire the dawning tablet glows, Green springs the herb, the purple floret blows, Hills vales and woods in bright succession rise, And all the living landscape charms his eyes. XI. 'With crest of gold should sultry SIRIUS glare, And with his kindling tresses scorch the air; With points of flame the shafts of Summer arm, And burn the beauties he designs to warm;-So erst when JOVE his oath extorted mourn'd, And clad in glory to the Fair return'd; While Loves at forky bolts their torches light, And resting lightnings gild the car of Night; His blazing form the dazzled Maid admir'd, Met with fond lips, and in his arms expir'd;NYMPHS! on light pinion lead your banner'd hosts High o'er the cliffs of ORKNEY'S gulphy coasts; Leave on your left the red volcanic light, Which HECCLA lifts amid the dusky night; Mark on the right the DOFRINE'S snow-capt brow, Where whirling MAELSTROME roars and foams below; Watch with unmoving eye, where CEPHEUS bends His triple crown, his scepter'd hand extends; Where studs CASSIOPE with stars unknown Her golden chair, and gems her sapphire zone; Where with vast convolution DRACO holds The ecliptic axis in his scaly folds, O'er half the skies his neck enormous rears, And with immense meanders parts the BEARS; Onward, the kindred BEARS with footstep rude Dance round the Pole, pursuing and pursued. 92 'There in her azure coif and starry stole, Grey TWILIGHT sits, and rules the slumbering Pole; Bends the pale moon-beams round the sparkling coast, And strews with livid hands eternal frost. There, NYMPHS! alight, array your dazzling powers, With sudden march alarm the torpid Hours; On ice-built isles expand a thousand sails, Hinge the strong helms, and catch the frozen gales; The winged rocks to feverish climates guide, Where fainting Zephyrs pant upon the tide; Pass, where to CEUTA CALPE'S thunder roars, And answering echoes shake the kindred shores; Pass, where with palmy plumes CANARY smiles, And in her silver girdle binds her isles; Onward, where NIGER'S dusky Naiad laves A thousand kingdoms with prolific waves, Or leads o'er golden sands her threefold train In steamy channels to the fervid main, While swarthy nations croud the sultry coast, Drink the fresh breeze, and hail the floating Frost, NYMPHS! veil'd in mist, the melting treasures steer, And cool with arctic snows the tropic year. So from the burning Line by Monsoons driven Clouds sail in squadrons o'er the darken'd heaven; Wide wastes of sand the gelid gales pervade, And ocean cools beneath the moving shade. XII. Should SOLSTICE, stalking through the sickening bowers, Suck the warm dew-drops, lap the falling showers; Kneel with parch'd lip, and bending from it's brink From dripping palm the scanty river drink; NYMPHS! o'er the soil ten thousand points erect, And high in air the electric flame collect. Soon shall dark mists with self-attraction shroud The blazing day, and sail in wilds of cloud; Each silvery Flower the streams aerial quaff, Bow her sweet head, and infant Harvest laugh. 'Thus when ELIJA mark'd from Carmel's brow In bright expanse the briny flood below; Roll'd his red eyes amid the scorching air, Smote his firm breast, and breathed his ardent prayer; High in the midst a massy altar stood, 93 And slaughter'd offerings press'd the piles of wood; While ISRAEL'S chiefs the sacred hill surround, And famish'd armies crowd the dusty ground; While proud Idolatry was leagued with dearth, And wither'd famine swept the desert earth.'OH, MIGHTY LORD! thy woe-worn servant hear, 'Who calls thy name in agony of prayer; 'Thy fanes dishonour'd, and thy prophets slain, 'Lo! I alone survive of all thy train!'Oh send from heaven thy sacred fire,-and pour 'O'er the parch'd land the salutary shower,'So shall thy Priest thy erring flock recal,'And speak in thunder, 'THOU ART LORD OF ALL.'He cried, and kneeling on the mountain-sands, Stretch'd high in air his supplicating hands. -Descending flames the dusky shrine illume; Fire the wet wood, the sacred bull consume; Wing'd from the sea the gathering mists arise, And floating waters darken all the skies; The King with shifted reins his chariot bends, And wide o'er earth the airy flood descends; With mingling cries dispersing hosts applaud, And shouting nations own THE LIVING GOD.' The GODDESS ceased,-the exulting tribes obey, Start from the soil, and win their airy way; The vaulted skies with streams of transient rays Shine, as they pass, and earth and ocean blaze. So from fierce wars when lawless Monarch's cease, Or Liberty returns with laurel'd Peace; Bright fly the sparks, the colour'd lustres burn, Flash follows f Blue serpents sweep along the dusky air, Imp'd by long trains of scintillating hair; Red rockets rise, loud cracks are heard on high, And showers of stars rush headlong from the sky, Burst, as in silver lines they hiss along, And the quick flash unfolds the gazing throng. ~ Erasmus Darwin,

   17 Occultism
   14 Integral Yoga
   6 Psychology
   3 Poetry
   2 Yoga
   2 Christianity
   1 Science
   1 Philosophy
   1 Hinduism
   1 Alchemy


   10 The Mother
   8 Carl Jung
   7 Aleister Crowley
   6 Sri Ramakrishna
   6 James George Frazer
   5 Satprem
   3 Nolini Kanta Gupta
   2 Walt Whitman
   2 Swami Vivekananda
   2 A B Purani


   7 The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
   6 The Golden Bough
   4 The Secret Doctrine
   4 Magick Without Tears
   3 Mysterium Coniunctionis
   3 Liber ABA
   2 Whitman - Poems
   2 The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious
   2 Questions And Answers 1953
   2 Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo
   2 Aion
   2 Agenda Vol 07

07.19 - Bad Thought-Formation, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 03, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga    I do not think so. Things spoken of in relation to animals as monstrous are not really due to a bad will. Let us take for example the insect world. Of all animals it is this species which seems to have most the attri bute of wickedness, something akin to a bad will. It may, however, be simply that we are applying our own mode of consciousness to theirs, we impute bad will to an action which is not really of the kind. For example, there are insects whose larva can live only upon a living being; they have to feed upon a living creature, they do not get nourishment from dead flesh. So the parent insect before laying The Eggs that are to become larvae first prepares the ground: it finds another insect or a small animal, stings into a nerve centre and paralyses it; then safely lays eggs in that paralysed body, which not being dead feeds the larvae when they come out of The Eggs. All this looks very much Machiavellian. But nothing is reasoned out there, it is pure instinct. Would you call it bad will? It is simply the will to propagate. You can say perhaps that these insects are moved by a spirit of the species which is conscious and has a conscious will and that this will is an evil will. These beings that create or form the various species of the insect worldmany working in a much more monstrous way than the example I have givenmust then truly be frightful, inspired by a perverse and diabolic imagination. Quite possible. For it is said that the origin of the insect world is in the vital; the builders of that world belong to the vital and not to the material plane of consciousness; in other words, they not only symbolise, but they represent and live the evil will. They are fully conscious of their evil will and they exercise that will deliberately and with a set purpose. Man's bad will is often only a reflection, an imitation of the bad will of vital beings which is a will clearly hostile to created world and whose express intention it is to make things as painful, as difficult, as ugly, as monstrous as possible. It is these beings, some say, that have created the insects. Even then, the insects cannot be described as representing the evil will, since they do not do mischief purposely, they are moved by an unconscious will in them. The bad will is really that will which does evil for the sake of doing evil, which seeks to destroy for the sake of destroying, that takes pleasure in doing wrong. In the animal I do not think there is this kind of evil will, especially in the higher species. What is there is the instinct of self-preservation, obscure and violent reactions, but not the kind of evil that human will shows in the perverse human mental. I believe it is the human mind under the direct influence of vital beings that begins to work in the perverse way. Titans, Asuras are the beings of ill-will, they belong totally to the vital world and when they manifest themselves in this world of ours, they mean mischief, they do evil for the sake of doing evil, they destroy for the sake of destroying, they have the delight of negation.    What is instinct exactly? It is Nature's consciousness. Nature is conscious of her action; it is not an individual consciousness. It is a global or collective consciousness. There is also a consciousness of the species. Each species has its consciousness which is called sometimes the spirit of the species, that is to say, a conscious being presiding over a particular species. Nature is conscious in the sense that she knows what she wants, she knows her whither and her how, her end and the way to go towards it. To man much of Nature seems incoherent, because his consciousness is narrow and he has not an overall vision. When you look at the small details, the little fragments, you do not understand; you do not find any link, sequence, sense. But Nature has a conscious will, she is a conscious being. Perhaps the word being is too human. When we speak of Nature's being, we naturally think of the human being, only a little bigger, or perhaps much bigger but working more or less in the same way. But it is not so. Instead of the word being, I would prefer the word entity. The conscious entity that is Nature has a conscious will and it does things much more deliberately and purposively than map, and it has formidable forces at its disposal. Man speaks of blind and violent Nature. But it is man who is blind and violent, not nature. You say an earthquake is a terrible affair. Thousands of houses crash into dust, millions of people are killed, whole cities devastated, entire portions of earth are swallowed up etc., etc. Yes, from the human point of view Nature seems monstrous. But what has she done after all? When you get a knock on your body somewhere there appears a blue patch. Are you worried about it? Your earthquake is nothing more than a reshuffling of a cell in your body. You destroy thousands of cells every moment of your life. You are monstrous! That is the relative proportion. And consider, we are speaking of earth alone and earthly events. But what is this earth itself in the bosom of the universe? A point, a zero. You are walking on the ground and are not looking down. You place one step forward and then another and you trample thousands of innocent ants under your feet. If you were an ant you would have cried out, what a cruel and stupid force! Imagine other forces stalking about much bigger than yourself and under their casual steps millions of creatures like you are crushed, continents are pressed down and mountains kicked up. They do not even notice such catastrophic happenings! The only difference between man and ant is that man knows what happens to him and the ant does not. But even there are you sure?

09.18 - The Mother on Herself, #Collected Works of Nolini Kanta Gupta - Vol 04, #Nolini Kanta Gupta, #Integral Yoga    When I began to practise occultism, as I started working with my nights, making them conscious, I found that between the subtle physical level and the most material vital there was a small region, very small indeed, that was not developed well enough to serve as a conscious link between the two. So what happened in the most material vital was not being accurately translated into the consciousness of the most subtle physical. Something was lost in the passage which was however not quite empty but only half-conscious, not adequately developed. I knew there was only one way, namely to go on working for the development. I started working sometime in February, I suppose. One month, two months, three, four months passed with no result. I continued. Five months, six months. Then in July or August I left my home in Paris for the country-side. I came to a very small place near the seaside and stayed with friends. There was a garden there. And in the garden a fine green turf and flowers and trees all round. It was a pretty little quiet place. It was very quiet, very silent. One day I lay myself down on the grass, flat on the face resting on my elbows (among the grass). Suddenly the whole life of this nature, the whole life of the intermediate region I am speaking of, which is most living in the plant and in physical nature, all this domain became all on a sudden, unexpectedly, without any transition, absolutely living, intense, conscious, wonderful. This was the result of the continuous activity of six months that had not given any result till then. I did not know it; just a little favourable condition and the result is there. It is like the chick in The Egg. It has been there for a long time but you do not see it. You ask doubtfully if there is any chick at all inside The Egg. And then suddenly a crack, a small hole The Egg bursts and the chick comes out, quite formed and whole and entire. It took all this time to form itself. So it is like this. When you wish to pre pare something within you it is like the preparation of the chick inside the shell. It takes a long time and there is not the least result. But you must not be disheartened. You must continue your effort, as before, regularly as if the whole of eternity were before you, thoroughly disinterested in the result. One day the result bursts upon you, the whole result of all your work.    II

1.02 - SADHANA PADA, #Patanjali Yoga Sutras, #Swami Vivekananda, #Hinduism   as soon as they come out of The Eggs, they flew to water, and   the mother thought they would be drowned. If experience be

1.02 - SOCIAL HEREDITY AND PROGRESS, #The Future of Man, #Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, #Christianity   embryogenesis. When the chick pecks its way out of The Egg, is it   the "germen" or the "soma" that guides its beak? The same insid-

1.02 - The 7 Habits An Overview, #The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, #Stephen Covey, #unset   This fable is the story of a poor farmer who one day discovers in the nest of his pet goose a glittering golden egg. At first, he thinks it must be some kind of trick. But as he starts to throw The Egg aside, he has second thoughts and takes it in to be appraised instead.    The Egg is pure gold! The farmer can't believe his good fortune. He becomes even more incredulous the following day when the experience is repeated. Day after day, he awakens to rush to the nest and find another golden egg. He becomes fabulously wealthy; it all seems too good to be true.

1.03 - Sympathetic Magic, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism   the fat and The Eggs. Round this painting the men sit and sing.   Afterwards performers, wearing head-dresses to represent the long

1.03 - To Layman Ishii, #Beating the Cloth Drum Letters of Zen Master Hakuin, #unset, #Philosophy   "Watch the way a mother hen warms an egg. When she has warmed The Egg sufficiently so that the conditions are ripe for hatching, instead of pecking The Egg, she waits, she holds back until she hears faint pecking sounds inside the shell. She gives the shell a single peck, and the baby chick emerges. It is truly heartwarming to watch her forthrightly attending to her task, cocking her head this way and that, up and down, as she restrains herself from pecking. Yet if she did not hold back, if she pecked the shell too early, she would have ruined everything, producing a sight too terrible to behold.   "Or consider the case of a pregnant woman. Although her time has not yet arrived, she and her husb and have taken every possible precaution and secured in advance the services of a physician.

1.04 - Sounds, #Walden, and On The Duty Of Civil Disobedience, #Henry David Thoreau, #Philosophy   I am not sure that I ever heard the sound of cock-crowing from my clearing, and I thought that it might be worth the while to keep a cockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird. The note of this once wild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any birds, and if they could be naturalized without being domesticated, it would soon become the most famous sound in our woods, surpassing the clangor of the goose and the hooting of the owl; and then imagine the cackling of the hens to fill the pauses when their lords clarions rested! No wonder that man added this bird to his tame stock,to say nothing of The Eggs and drumsticks. To walk in a winter morning in a wood where these birds abounded, their native woods, and hear the wild cockerels crow on the trees, clear and shrill for miles over the resounding earth, drowning the feebler notes of other birds,think of it! It would put nations on the alert. Who would not be early to rise, and rise earlier and earlier every successive day of his life, till he became unspeakably healthy, wealthy, and wise? This foreign birds note is celebrated by the poets of all countries along with the notes of their native songsters. All climates agree with brave Chanticleer. He is more indigenous even than the natives. His health is ever good, his lungs are sound, his spirits never flag. Even the sailor on the Atlantic and   Pacific is awakened by his voice; but its shrill sound never roused me from my slumbers. I kept neither dog, cat, cow, pig, nor hens, so that you would have said there was a deficiency of domestic sounds; neither the churn, nor the spinning wheel, nor even the singing of the kettle, nor the hissing of the urn, nor children crying, to comfort one. An old-fashioned man would have lost his senses or died of ennui before this. Not even rats in the wall, for they were starved out, or rather were never baited in,only squirrels on the roof and under the floor, a whippoorwill on the ridge pole, a blue-jay screaming beneath the window, a hare or woodchuck under the house, a screech-owl or a cat-owl behind it, a flock of wild geese or a laughing loon on the pond, and a fox to bark in the night. Not even a lark or an oriole, those mild plantation birds, ever visited my clearing. No cockerels to crow nor hens to cackle in the yard. No yard! but unfenced Nature reaching up to your very sills. A young forest growing up under your meadows, and wild sumachs and blackberry vines breaking through into your cellar; sturdy pitch pines rubbing and creaking against the shingles for want of room, their roots reaching quite under the house. Instead of a scuttle or a blind blown off in the gale,a pine tree snapped off or torn up by the roots behind your house for fuel. Instead of no path to the front-yard gate in the Great Snow,no gate,no front-yard, and no path to the civilized world!

1.04 - Te Shan Carrying His Bundle, #The Blue Cliff Records, #Yuanwu Keqin, #Zen   track, after all revealing the whereabouts of The Eggs. This expres   sion is thus similar to the Ch'an saying about hiding the body but

1.05 - ADVICE FROM A CATERPILLAR, #Alice in Wonderland, #Lewis Carroll, #Fiction   "As if it wasn't trouble enough hatching The Eggs," said the Pigeon,   "but I must be on the look-out for serpents, night and day! And just as

1.07 - Medicine and Psycho therapy, #The Practice of Psycho therapy, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   just as the chicken comes out of The Egg in the same way all the world   over, so there are psychic modes of functioning, certain ways of thinking,

1.10 - Concentration - Its Practice, #Raja-Yoga, #Swami Vivkenanda, #unset   This clinging to life you see manifested in every animal. Upon it many attempts have been made to build the theory of a future life, because men are so fond of life that they desire a future life also. Of course it goes without saying that this argument is without much value, but the most curious part of it is, that, in Western countries, the idea that this clinging to life indicates a possibility of future life applies only to men, but does not include animals. In India this clinging to life has been one of the arguments to prove past experience and existence. For instance, if it be true that all our knowledge has come from experience, then it is sure that that which we never experienced we cannot imagine or understand. As soon as chickens are hatched they begin to pick up food. Many times it has been seen, where ducks have been hatched by hens, that, as soon as they came out of The Eggs they flew to water, and the mother thought they would be drowned. If experience be the only source of knowledge, where did these chickens learn to pick up food, or the ducklings that the water was their natural element? If you say it is instinct, it means nothing it is simply giving a word, but is no explanation. What is this instinct? We have many instincts in ourselves. For instance, most of you ladies play the piano, and remember, when you first learned, how carefully you had to put your fingers on the black and the white keys, one after the other, but now, after long years of practice, you can talk with your friends while your fingers play mechanically. It has become instinct. So with every work we do; by practice it becomes instinct, it becomes automatic; but so far as we know, all the cases which we now regard as automatic are degenerated reason. In the language of the Yogi, instinct is involved reason. Discrimination becomes involved, and gets to be automatic Samskaras. Therefore it is perfectly logical to think that all we call instinct in this world is simply involved reason. As reason cannot come without experience, all instinct is, therefore, the result of past experience. Chickens fear the hawk, and ducklings love the water; these are both the results of past experience. Then the question is whether that experience belongs to a particular soul, or to the body simply, whether this experience which comes to the duck is the duck's forefa thers' experience, or the duck's own experience. Modern scientific men hold that it belongs to the body, but the Yogis hold that it is the experience of the mind, transmitted through the body. This is called the theory of reincarnation.   We have seen that all our knowledge, whether we call it perception, or reason, or instinct, must come through that one channel called experience, and all that we now call instinct is the result of past experience, degenerated into instinct and that instinct regenerates into reason again. So on throughout the universe, and upon this has been built one of the chief arguments for reincarnation in India. The recurring experiences of various fears, in course of time, produce this clinging to life. That is why the child is instinctively afraid, because the past experience of pain is there in it. Even in the most learned men, who know that this body will go, and who say "never mind, we have had hundreds of bodies, the soul cannot die" even in them, with all their intellectual convictions, we still find this clinging on to life. Why is this clinging to life? We have seen that it has become instinctive. In the psychological language of the Yogis it has become a Samskara. The Samskaras, fine and hidden, are sleeping in the Chitta. All this past experience of death, all that which we call instinct, is experience become subconscious. It lives in the Chitta, and is not inactive, but is working underneath.

1.12 - The Left-Hand Path - The Black Brothers, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism     His voice comes in a whisper: O thou that art master of the fifty gates of Understanding, is not my mother a black woman? O thou that art master of the Pentagram, is not The Egg of spirit a black egg? Here abideth terror, and the blind ache of the Soul, and lo! even I, who am the sole light, a spark shut up, stand in the sign of Apophis and Typhon.     I am the snake that devoureth the spirit of man with the lust of light. I am the sightless storm in the night that wrappeth the world about with desolation. Chaos is my name, and thick darkness. Know thou that the darkness of the earth is ruddy, and the darkness of the air is grey, but the darkness of the soul is utter blackness.      The Egg of the spirit is a basilisk egg, and the gates of the understanding are fifty, that is the sign of the Scorpion. The pillars about the Neophyte are crowned with flame, and the vault of the Adepts is lighted by the Rose. And in the abyss is the eye of the hawk. But upon the great sea shall the Master of the Temple find neither star nor moon.     And I was about to answer him: "The light is within me." But before I could frame the words, he answered me with the great word that is the Key of the Abyss. And he said: Thou hast entered the night; dost thou yet lust for day? Sorrow is my name and affliction. I am girt about with tribulation. Here still hangs the Crucified One, and here the Mother weeps over the children that she hath not borne. Sterility is my name and desolation. Intolerable is thine ache, and incurable thy wound. I said, 'Let the darkness cover me;' and behold, I am compassed about with the blackness that hath no name. O thou, who hast cast down the light into the earth, so must thou do for ever. And the light of the sun shall not shine upon thee and the moon shall not lend thee of her luster, and the stars shall be hidden because thou art passed beyond these things, beyond the need of these things, beyond the desire of these things.

1.13 - Gnostic Symbols of the Self, #Aion, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   solis" 149 in The Egg-yolk, which grows into a chick. In Khunrath   it represents Sapientia in the form of the "salt-point"; 15 in   --   149 Or punctus solis. "In The Egg therefore are four things: earth, water, air, and   fire; but the 'punctum solis' is apart from these four, in the midst of the yolk

1.14 - The Structure and Dynamics of the Self, #Aion, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   of Nature," and Haly's description of the vessel as "ovum." The Egg is content and   container at once. The vas naturale is the aqua permanens and the "vinegar" of

1.19 - Tabooed Acts, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism   us, of breaking egg-shells after The Eggs have been eaten may very   well have originated in the same superstition.

1.45 - Unserious Conduct of a Pupil, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism   It think personally that the error lies in calculating. The injunction is "to buy The Egg of a perfectly black hen without haggling." You have no means of judging what is written in Their ledger; so "...reason is a lie; ... & all their words are skew-wise...." AL II, 32.   Let me add that it is a well-attested fact of magical experience beginning with Tarquin and the Sibylline books! as well as a fact of profane psychology, that if you funk a fence, it is harder next time. If the boy falls off the pony, put him on again at once: if the young airman crashes, send him up again without a minute's avoidable delay. If you don't, their nerve is liable to break for good and all.

1.50 - Eating the God, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism   back, with an egg, to the priest, who offers The Egg in sacrifice   and returns the rice to the women. Of this rice every member of the

1.52 - Killing the Divine Animal, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism   thrown into pots of boiling water. The Eggs are considered a great   delicacy. The meat is seldom touched except as a medicine, which is

1.54 - On Meanness, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism   Yes, indeed! As you surmise, the injunction to "buy The Egg of a perfectly black hen without haggling" is another way of putting the Parable of the Pearl of Great Price; a much better way. For the Pearl-buyer did think of equating the values, which is precisely what one must not do. That Egg is incommensurable with money.   (Further, the saying teaches one to insist on perfection; the hen must not have one tinge of aught but black in any feather.)

1.55 - Money, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism   But this is by the way; the text, tenor and thesis of the illuminated and illuminating discourse is the above Epigram, which is not merely one of the extravagant absurdities for which I am justly infamous. It is the Pearl of Great Price. Observe that, formally it is a generalization of the principle of the old injunction "to buy The Egg of a perfectly black hen without haggling." I want you to realize the supreme importance of this. For one thing, it goes hand-in-hand with the whole doctrine of so-called renunciation which is nothing of the sort. You don't "renounce" five shillings if you pay that for a country house with 3000 acres of shooting, and the best salmon fishing on Deeside, do you? This is the Greater Interpretation of the Injunction, that no equation is possible: Magical Power is immeasurably more valuable than any amount of money. But the Epigram is severely practical. It may sound a little romantic, but here goes! A community which thinks in terms of wealth is rich; in terms of money, poor. How so? Because the former includes the imponderables.   A couple of Japanese wrestlers may be worth more than Phidias, Robert Browning, Titian and Mozart in terms of butchers' meat. We might alter that incorrect truism "money cannot by anything worth having" to "things worth having cannot be estimated in terms of money." You see, no counting. The operation to save your child's life: do you care if the surgeon wants five pounds or fifty? Of course, you may not have the fifty, or be obliged to retrench in other ways to get it; but it makes no odds as to what you feel about it. What is the value of a University Education? The answer is that it is a pure gamble. The student may use his advantages to make a rich marriage, to attract the wife of a millionaire, to earn a judgeship or a post in the Cabinet, to earn 500 a year as a doctor, 150 as a schoolmaster or he may die in the process. So with all the spiritual values; they are, in the most literal sense, inestimable. So don't start to count!

1.66 - The External Soul in Folk-Tales, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism   hare is a duck, and in the duck is an egg; and he who finds The Egg   and breaks it, kills me at the same time." The prince naturally   --   began to squeeze The Egg. At that the warlock shrieked with pain,   and turning to the false princess, who stood by smirking and   --   before he could reach it, the prince had crushed The Egg, and sure   enough the deathless warlock found his death at the same moment. "In   --   duck, in the duck is an egg, in The Egg burns a light, that light is   my life. If you could put out that light, my life would be at an   --   of The Egg, smashed it, and put out the light, and with it the   witch's life went out also. In a German story a cannibal called Body   --   some animals to whom he had been kind, obtains The Egg and squeezes   it, at which the giant screams piteously and begs for his life. But   the hero breaks The Egg in pieces and the giant at once bursts. In   another Norse story a hill-ogre tells the captive princess that she   --   belly, and an egg in the belly of the duck, and it is in The Egg   that my soul is." On the morrow when the giant was gone, the queen   contrived to get possession of The Egg and crushed it in her hands,   and at that very moment the giant, who was coming home in the dusk,   --   is in The Egg, and if The Egg breaks, the beast is dead." As usual    The Egg is broken and the beast dies.   --   soldier contrived to obtain The Egg and crush it on the breast of   the giant, who immediately expired. In another Breton tale the life   --   in the sea. The hero procures The Egg and crushes it between his   hands, and the ogre dies. In a Magyar folk-tale, an old witch

1.68 - The Golden Bough, #The Golden Bough, #James George Frazer, #Occultism   a blow from The Egg or the stone in which his life or death is   secreted; the ogres burst when a certain grain of sand--doubtless

1951-01-04 - Transformation and reversal of consciousness., #Questions And Answers 1950-1951, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga   The starting-point of this transformation is receptivity, we have already spoken about it. That is the indispensable condition for obtaining the transformation. Then comes the change of consciousness. This change of consciousness and its preparation have often been compared with the formation of the chicken in The Egg: till the very last second The Egg remains the same, there is no change, and it is only when the chicken is completely formed, absolutely alive, that it itself makes with its little beak a hole in the shell and comes out. Something similar takes place at the moment of the change of consciousness. For a long time you have the impression that nothing is happening, that your consciousness is the same as usual, and, if you have an intense aspiration, you even feel a resistance, as though you were knocking against a wall which does not yield. But when you are ready within, a last effort the pecking in the shell of the being and everything opens and you are projected into another consciousness.   I said that it was a revolution of the basic equilibrium, that is, a total reversal of consciousness comparable with what happens to light when it passes through a prism. Or it is as though you were turning a ball inside out, which cannot be done except in the fourth dimension. One comes out of the ordinary three-dimensional consciousness to enter the higher four-dimensional consciousness, and into an infinite number of dimensions. This is the indispensable starting-point. Unless your consciousness changes its dimension, it will remain just what it is with the superficial vision of things, and all the profundities will escape you.

1953-07-08, #Questions And Answers 1953, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    I do not think so. I cant say for sure since I dont know all the animal species, but I have heard things which to us seem monstrosities, yet are not at all instances of ill-will. For example, take the world of insects; of all the animal species it is this which most contains the sense of what we call wickedness and what may be called ill-will, but it could very well be that this is our consciousness applied to their movements which sees a movement of wickednessor ill-will. There are insects whose larvae can live only on a living being. They can feed only on a living being; dead flesh does not nourish these. So the parent insect that is going to lay its eggs (which will change into larvae) begins by stinging a nervous centre of another insect or small lower animal which it paralyses, and after that gently lays its eggs inside in such a way that when The Eggs are hatched the larvae feed on that paralysed but not dead animal. It is Machiavellian, isnt it? Evidently it is not the result of reasoning, it is an instinct. Can this be called ill-will? Is this ill-will? It is simply the instinct of procreation.    Perhaps, if we say that these insects are moved by the spirit of the species which in itself is conscious and has a conscious will, we can then say that all these imaginations (I give you this one instance, but there are any number of them as terrible, as monstrous for our human consciousness), all these beings, fashioners, who have created these insects must be frightful beings (dont you think so?) and have a perverse and diabolical imagination. It is quite possible, for indeed it is said that the origin of the insect species is a vital origin, that the fashioners are those of a vital type, that is, beings who not only symbolise but represent and live upon the ill-will in the world. These are very conscious of their ill-will, and it is deliberate. The ill-will of men is usually only a kind of reflectionan imitation or a reflectionof the will of the beings of the vital, a will clearly hostile to creation, a will to make things as painful, as ugly, as sorrowful, as monstrous as possible. It is said that it is these who have created insects, and so the insect species would perhaps be But they do not wilfully represent evil, you understand, they are moved by an unconscious instinct. They do not do evil intentionally. They do it because it is in their nature. What I call ill-will is truly the will to do evil for the sake of doing evil, destroying for the sake of destroying, harming for harmings sake and taking pleasure in the fact of doing evil. That really is ill-will. Egoism, I do believe, begins with the birth of mind. I cant tell for certain, for always new things are being found. But what I have seen of the animal species, specially of the higher animals, may be the instinct of preservation, may be violence, obscure and brutal reactions, but is that truly what is called ill-will? It is possible. If someone were to tell me a story he has witnessed which proves the opposite, I am ready to admit it but for the time being I havent seen it. All that I know of animals is their instinct which pushes them into action, but they dont have that perversity thats in the human mind. I believe it is with this kind of mental functioning and under the direct influence of the vital that man has become an ill-willed being. The Titans are ill-willed beings but the Titans are beings of the vital world manifested in the forces of Nature: they want to do evil for the pleasure of doing it, to destroy for the pleasure of destroying.

1953-11-18, #Questions And Answers 1953, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    Perhaps one was destined to call. That is: Did the hen produce The Egg or The Egg the hen? I dont know whether it is the Grace which makes you call the Grace or whether because the Grace is called the Grace comes. It is difficult to say.    Essentially, it is quite possible that what is most lacking is faith. There is always a tiny corner in the thought which doubts and debates. So that spoils everything. It is only just when one is in an absolutely critical situation, when the mind realises that it can do nothing, absolutely nothing, when it stands there quite stupid and incapable, then, at that moment, if one aspires for a higher help, the aspiration has exactly that kind of intensity which comes from despair, and that takes effect. But if your thought continues to argue, if it says: Yes, yes, I have aspired, I have prayed, but God knows if this is the moment, and whether it will come and whether it is possible, well, then it is finished, it doesnt work. This is one of the commonest of things. People are told: If you want to advance in the yoga, you must have no desires. One goes even a little further and says: You must not have any needs. One goes a little further still and says: Never ask anything from the Divine. Well, I dont know, more than ninety-nine times out of a hundred, peoples reaction is: Ah! if I dont ask, I wont have what I need. They dont see that they cut the whole movement at the very root! They dont have faith. I need this.

1954-06-23 - Meat-eating - Story of Mothers vegetable garden - Faithfulness - Conscious sleep, #Questions And Answers 1954, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga   Its not yet formed, the consciousness of the chicken. Of course, one must take care to eat The Egg fresh before the chick begins to be formed.   Sweet Mother, if the agony of a chicken can attack us, so too can that of a beetroot or a carrot, cant it?   --   When I began studying occultism, I became aware thatjust when I began to work upon my nights in order to make them conscious I became aware that there was between the subtle-physical and the most material vital a small region, very small, which was not sufficiently developed to serve as a conscious link between the two activities. So what took place in the consciousness of the most material vital did not get translated exactly in the consciousness of the most subtle physical. Some of it got lost on the way because it was like anot positively a void but something only half-conscious, not sufficiently developed. I knew there was only one way, that was to work to develop it. I began working. This happened sometime about the month of February, I believe. One month, two months, three, four, no result. We go on. Five months, six months it was at the end of July or the beginning of August. I left Paris, the house I was staying in, and went to the countryside, quite a small place on the seashore, to stay with some friends who had a garden. Now, in that garden there was a lawnyou know what a lawn is, dont you? grasswhere there were flowers and around it some trees. It was a fine place, very quiet, very silent. I lay on the grass, like this, flat on my stomach, my elbows in the grass, and then suddenly all the life of that Nature, all the life of that region between the subtle-physical and the most material vital, which is very living in plants and in Nature, all that region became all at once, suddenly, without any transition, absolutely living, intense, conscious, marvellous; and this was the result, wasnt it?, of six months of work which had given nothing. I had not noticed anything; but just a little condition like that and the result was there! It is like the chick in The Egg, yes! It is there for a very long time and yet one sees nothing at all. And one wonders whether there is indeed a chick in The Egg; and then, suddenly Tick!, there is a tiny hole, you know, and then everything bursts and out comes the chick! It is quite ready, but it took all that time to be formed; thats how it is. When you want to prepare something within you, that is how it is, it is like the chick in The Egg. You need a very long time, and this without having the least result, never getting discouraged, and continuing your effort, absolutely regularly, as though you had eternity before you and, moreover, as though you were quite disinterested about the result. You do the work because you do it. And then, suddenly, one day, it bursts and you see before you the full result of your work.   But you understand, dont you? One speaks like this, very easily, of becoming conscious of ones nights, having control over ones sleep-activities and all sorts of things of this kind, but you need to do many such little works like the one I have just described to you. Many of these are needed to obtain this result. When one is accomplished, you realise that there is another missing, and when this is done, you realise there is still another, and so on, until one fine day you can do what I said, and you go from one plane to another, like that, putting all to rest, until you come out of all activity and enter the supreme rest, consciously. It is worth the trouble.

1957-06-26 - Birth through direct transmutation - Man and woman - Judging others - divine Presence in all - New birth, #Questions And Answers 1957-1958, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga   It is not true that one can understand little by little, it is not like that. This kind of progress is different. What is more true is that one is shut up in a shell, and inside it something is happening, like the chick in The Egg. It is getting ready in there. It is in there. One doesnt see it. Something is happening in the shell, but outside one sees nothing. And it is only when all is ready that there comes the capacity to pierce the shell and to be born into the light of day.   It is not that one becomes more and more perceptible or visible: one is shut inshut in and for sensitive people there is even that terrible sensation of being compressed, of trying to pass through and then coming up against a wall. And then one knocks and knocks and knocks, and one cant go through.

1962-09-05, #Agenda Vol 03, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    And I am sure thats how the work is done, slowly, imperceptibly, like a chick being formed in The Egg: you see the shell, you see only the shell, you dont know whats inside, whether its just an egg or a chick (normally, I meanof course, you could see through with special instruments) and then the beak goes peck-peck! And then cheep! Out comes the chick, just like that. Its the same thing exactly for the contact with the psychic being. For months on end, sometimes years, you may be sitting before a closed door, push, push, pushing, and feeling, feeling the pressure (it hurts!), and theres nothing, no results. Then all at once, you dont know why or how, you sit down and poof! Everything bursts wide open, everything is ready, everything is doneits over, you emerge into a full psychic consciousness and become intimate with your psychic being. Then everything changeseverything changesyour life completely changes, its a total reversal of your whole existence.    In the end, its best not to worry, not to get agitated or depressed (thats the worst of all), not to get worked up or impatient or disgustedjust be calm and say, It will come when it comes, but with an unyielding stubbornness. Do what you feel has to be done, and keep on with it, keep on even if it seems utterly futile.

1964-10-10, #Agenda Vol 05, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    It will be like the chick popping out of The Egg all at once: as long as its inside, to the superficial vision theres no chick; and all at once, pop! out it comes.    Lets hope so!

1966-01-22, #Agenda Vol 07, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    And it doesnt require rest; these experiences are so concrete and spontaneous and real (they arent the result of a will, still less of an effort) that they dont require rest: I was busy washing. I took my whole breakfast in that state, it was charming. It was only when those people came (and I even did The Egg distribution I dont know if you are aware of it, but I am the one who puts your egg in your box every day I did my egg distribution in that state, I gave the flowers in that state), it was only afterwards, when letters came that I had to listen to and answer and all manner of things (gesture of a truckload being dumped)then it fades away, it gets erased. It still leaves me in a half-dream, but the experience is gone: its no longer that.    But those who got hold of this experience for some reason or other without having all the philosophical and mental preparation I had (the saints, or at any rate all the people who led a spiritual life) had instead a very acute impression of the unreality of life and the illusion of life. But thats only a narrow way of looking at it. Thats not it thats not it, EVERYTHING is a choice! Everything, everything. The Lords choice, but IN US; not there (gesture above): here. And we are unaware of it, its deep down in ourselves. But when we are aware of it, we can choosewe can choose our choice, thats wonderful!

1966-10-29, #Agenda Vol 07, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    Its like their relationship with the Divine. Yesterday, while I was working here in the morning (distributing The Eggs!), they made me listen to music by Sahana,1 a hymn by their group which is in the line of religious music. There are sounds, certain sounds that may be called religious sounds; they are certain associations of sounds, which are universal, that is, they dont belong to a particular time or a particular country. In all times and all countries, those who have had this religious emotion have spontaneously given out this sound. While the music was playing, that perception came to me very clearly (its an association of two or three sounds), it came with the very state of consciousness that produces these sounds, and which is always the same: the sounds reproduce the state of consciousness. The whole [instrumental] accompaniment is different, and naturally that always, always spoils it. But these twotwo or threesounds are wonderfully expressive, in a precise, exact way, of the religious feeling, the Contact (gesture to the Heights), the adoration: the contact of adoration.    It was very interesting.

1970-01-17, #Agenda Vol 11, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga    An eggshell is oblong, not spherical. The Egg is really somewhat like a spinning top; so the upper part would be broader and the lower part narrower, with only the staircases. Thats quite possible.    Give me a piece of paper (Mother draws an egg while explaining). So here, all the way down, there would only be the staircases.   --    And here (Mother draws a horizontal line across The Egg), its 24 meters, and only 15.5 meters high. So this way its correct.    24 meters for the entire width or for the carpet?   --    And the widest point of The Egg would be here (Mother draws a line at the level of the carpet).    At ground level.   --    And then, an underground passageway leading to the base of The Egg, from where the seven stairways begin.    Thats possible.   --    Yes, a dome over the straight wall. But the dome can be The Eggs dome, and I thought that the point at which the dome meets the walls would be over the columns.    Twelve columns.

1.whitman - Song of Myself, #Whitman - Poems, #unset, #Philosophy   And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and The Egg of the wren,   And the tree-toad is a chef-d'uvre for the highest,

1.whitman - Song Of Myself- XXXI, #Whitman - Poems, #unset, #Philosophy   And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and The Egg of the wren,   And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest,

2.01 - MASTER AND DISCIPLE, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   As soon as The Egg is laid it begins to fall; but it is so high up that it continues to fall for many days. As it falls it hatches, and the chick falls. As the chick falls its eyes open; it grows wings. As soon as its eyes open, it realizes that it is falling and will be dashed to pieces on touching the earth. Then it at once shoots up toward the mother bird high in the sky."   At this point Narendra left the room. Kedar, Prankrishna, M., and many others remained.

2.01 - THE ARCANE SUBSTANCE AND THE POINT, #Mysterium Coniunctionis, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   [41] John Dee (15271607) speculates as follows: It is not unreasonable to suppose, that by the four straight lines which run in opposite directions from a single, individual point, the mystery of the four elements is indicated. According to him, the quaternity consists of four straight lines meeting in a right angle. Things and beings have their first origin in the point and the monad.30 The centre of nature is the point originated by God,31 the sun-point in The Egg.32 This, a commentary on the Turba says, is the germ of The Egg in the yolk.33 Out of this little point, says Dorn in his Physica Genesis, the wisdom of God made with the creative Word the huge machine of the world.34 The Consilium coniugii remarks that the point is the chick (pullus).35 Mylius adds that this is the bird of Hermes,36 or the spirit Mercurius. The same author places the soul in the midpoint of the heart together with the spirit, which he compares with the angel who was infused with the soul at this point (i.e., in the womb).37 Paracelsus says that the anima iliastri dwells in the fire in the heart. It is incapable of suffering, whereas the anima cagastris is capable of suffering and is located in the water of the pericardium.38 Just as earth corresponds to the triangle and water to the line, so fire corresponds to the point.39 Democritus stresses that fire consists of fiery globules.40 Light, too, has this round form, hence the designation sun-point. This point is on the one hand the worlds centre, the salt-point in the midst of the great fabric of the whole world, as Khunrath calls it (salt = Sapientia). Yet it is not only the bond but also the destroyer of all destructible things. Hence this world-egg is the ancient Saturn, the . . . most secret lead of the sages, and the ambisexual Philosophic Man of the Philosophers, the Catholick Androgyne of the Sophists, the Rebis, etc.41 The most perfect form is round, because it is modelled on the point. The sun is round and so is fire, since it is composed of the fiery globules of Democritus. God fashioned the sphere of light round himself. God is an intelligible sphere whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.42 The point symbolizes light and fire, also the Godhead in so far as light is an image of God or an exemplar of the Deity. This spherical light modelled on the point is also the shining or illuminating body that dwells in the heart of man. The light of nature is the radical moisture (humidum radicale) which, as balsam, works from the heart, like the sun in the macrocosm and, we must conclude, like God in the supracelestial world. Thus does Steeb describe the   , the second God in man.43 The same author derives the gold from the dew or supracelestial balsam sinking into the earth. Here he is probably referring to the older formulations of Maier,44 where the sun generates the gold in the earth. Hence the gold, as Maier says, obtains a simplicity approaching that of the circle (symbol of eternity) and the indivisible point. The gold has a circular form.45 This is the line which runs back upon itself, like the snake that with its head bites its own tail, wherein that supreme and eternal painter and potter, God, may rightly be discerned.46 The gold is a twice-bisected circle, i.e., one divided into four quadrants and therefore a quaternity, a division made by nature that contraries may be bound together by contraries.47 It can therefore, he says, be compared to the sacred city, Jerusalem48 (cf. Revelation 21 : 10ff.). It is a golden castle engirt with a triple wall,49 a visible image of eternity.50 Though gold be mute so far as sound or voice is concerned, yet by virtue of its essence it proclaims and everywhere bears witness to God. And just as God is one in essence, so the gold is one homogeneous substance.51 For Dorn the unity of God,52 the unarius, is the centre of the ternarius, the latter corresponding to the circle drawn round the centre.53 The point as the centre of the quaternio of the elements is the place where Mercurius digests and perfects.54

2.02 - On Letters, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Philosophy    Disciple: There is a report on the behaviour of rats, in an American publication. It describes how the rats attacked a hanging basket full of eggs, formed a chain to drop them down, and how they carried away all The Eggs.    Sri Aurobindo: This may shock some people but the ordinary idea about the animal is, of course, absurd. They are much nearer to man than is generally supposed.

2.04 - Absence Of Secondary Qualities, #Of The Nature Of Things, #Lucretius, #Poetry   Just as we see The Eggs of feathered fowls   To change to living chicks, and swarming worms

2.04 - ADVICE TO HOUSEHOLDERS, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   MASTER (to M.): "The mind of the yogi is always fixed on God, always absorbed in the Self. You can recognize such a man by merely looking at him. His eyes are wide open, with an aimless look, like the eyes of the mother bird hatching her eggs. Her entire mind is fixed on The Eggs, and there is a vacant look in her eyes. Can you show me such a picture?"   M: "I shall try to get one."

2.06 - The Wand, #Liber ABA, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism   77:And it is of the very greatest importance not to limit the vow in any way. You must buy The Egg without haggling.   78:In a certain Society the members were bound to do certain things, being assured that there was "nothing in the vow contrary to their civil, moral, or religious obligations." So when any one wanted to break his vow he had no difficulty in discovering a very good reason for it. The vow lost all its force.WEH footnote: Crowley expressly cites this clause in the Golden Dawn initiations as the third defense for his publishing the Golden Dawn rituals. See Equinox I, 4, page 5, "Editorial".

2.08 - THE MASTERS BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION AT DAKSHINESWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   The bird lives high up in the sky and never descends to earth. It lays its egg in the sky, and The Egg begins to fall. But the bird lives in such a high region that The Egg hatches while falling. The fledgling comes out and continues to fall. But it is still so high that while falling it grows wings and its eyes open. Then the young bird perceives that it is dashing down toward the earth and will be instantly killed. The moment it sees the ground, it turns and shoots up toward its mother in the sky. Then its one goal is to reach its mother.   "Youngsters like Rakhal are like that bird. From their very childhood they are afraid of the world, and their one thought is how to reach the Mother, how to realize God.

2.12 - The Origin of the Ignorance, #The Life Divine, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga   6 Tapas means literally heat, afterwards any kind of energism, askesis, austerity of conscious force acting upon itself or its object. The world was created by Tapas in the form, says the ancient image, of an egg, which being broken, again by Tapas, heat of incubation of conscious force, the Purusha emerged, Soul in Nature, like a bird from The Egg. It may be observed that the usual translation of the word tapasya in English books, "penance", is quite misleading - the idea of penance entered rarely into the austerities practised by Indian ascetics. Nor was mortification of the body the essence even of the most severe and self-afflicting austerities; the aim was rather an overpassing of the hold of the bodily nature on the consciousness or else a supernormal energising of the consciousness and will to gain some spiritual or other object.   592

2.15 - On the Gods and Asuras, #Evening Talks With Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Philosophy    Sri Aurobindo: That is like the question which someone put the other day: whether The Egg is first or the hen, and I had to say: "Both together and the cock." (Laughter) There must be the collective personality for the individual to be and vice versa!    6 NOVEMBER 1926

2.16 - WITH THE DEVOTEES AT DAKSHINESWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   MASTER: "The time is ripe for you. The mother bird does not break the shell of The Egg until the right time arrives. What I told you is indeed your Ideal."   Sri Ramakrishna again mentioned to M. his spiritual Ideal.

2.17 - M. AT DAKSHINEWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   MASTER: "That is true. Distress of mind disappears for ever. I shall tell you a few things about yoga. But you see, the mother bird doesn't break the shell until the chick inside The Egg is matured. The Egg is hatched in the fullness of time. It is necessary to practise some spiritual discipline. The guru no doubt does everything for the disciple; but at the end he makes the disciple work a little himself. When cutting down a big tree, a man cuts almost through the trunk; then he stands aside for a moment, and the tree falls down with a crash.   "The farmer brings water to his field through a canal from the river. He stands aside when only a little digging remains to be done to connect the field with the water. Then the earth becomes soaked and falls of itself, and the water of the river pours into the canal in torrents.

2.20 - 2.29 - RULES FOR HOUSEHOLDERS AND MONKS, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   "But you don't have to renounce everything. Live in the world the way the tortoise does. The tortoise roams about in the water but keeps its eggs on land. Its whole mind is on The Eggs.   "What a nice state of mind Captain has developed! He looks like a rishi when he is seated to perform worship. He performs the rati with lighted camphor and recites beautiful hymns. When he rises from his seat after finishing the worship, his eyes are swollen from emotion, as if bitten by ants. Besides, he always devotes himself to the study of the sacred books, such as the Git and the Bhagavata. Once I used one or two English words before him, and that made him angry. He said, 'English-educated people are profane.' "   --   MASTER: "Yesterday I came to know Baburam's inner nature. That is why I have been trying so hard to persuade him to live with me. The mother bird hatches The Egg in proper time. Boys like Baburam are pure in heart. They have not yet fallen into the clutches of 'woman and gold'. Isn't that so?"   M: "It is true, sir. They are still stainless."   --   The Vedas speak of the homa bird. It lives very high in the sky. There the mother bird lays her egg. She lives so high that The Egg falls for many days. While falling it is hatched. The chick continues to fall. That also goes on for many days. In the mean time the chick develops eyes. Coming near the earth, it becomes conscious of the world. It realizes it will meet certain death if it hits the ground. Then it gives a shrill cry and shoots up toward its mother. The earth means death, and it frightens the young bird; it then seeks its mother. She dwells high up in the sky, and the young bird shoots straight up in that direction. It doesn't look anywhere else.   "Those who are born as the companions of an Incarnation of God are eternally perfect.

2.30 - 2.39 - THE MASTER IN VARIOUS MOODS, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   Take it, first of all, to The Eggplant seller.' The servant took the diamond to The Eggplant seller. He examined it, turning it over in the palm of his hand, and said, 'Brother, I can give nine seers of eggplants for it.' 'Friend,' said the servant, 'a little more-say, ten seers.' The Eggplant seller replied: 'No, I have already quoted above the market price.   You may give it to me if that price suits you.' The servant laughed. He went back to his master and said: 'Sir, he would give me only nine seers of eggplants and not one more.

3.05 - The Formula of I.A.O., #Liber ABA, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism   seed. It becomes the Babe in The Egg (AHarpocrates) by virtue of   the Spirit (A = Air, impregnating the Mother-Vulture) and this   --   This Yod in the Virgin expands to the Babe in The Egg by formulating the Secret Wisdom of Truth of Hermes in the Silence of the   Fool. He acquires the Eye-Wand, beholding and acting and being

3.07 - The Formula of the Holy Grail, #Liber ABA, #Aleister Crowley, #Occultism    The Babe in The Egg (Harpocrates on the Lotus).   That of Agape is as follows: Dionysus (Capital A)The Virgin   Earth The Babe in The Egg (small the image of the Father)   The Massacre of the Innocents, (winepress)The Draught of   --   Golden Bough. A is also the babe in The Egg thus produced. The   quality of A is thus bisexual. It is the original beingZeus Arrheno thelus, Bacchus Diphues, or Baphomet.

4.03 - The Special Phenomenology of the Child Archetype, #The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   seems as if The Egg came out of the womb of the wide world and   were, accordingly, a cosmic, objective, external occurrence. To

4.04 - THE REGENERATION OF THE KING, #Mysterium Coniunctionis, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   [460] This is the apotheosis of the filius regius, as we find it in numerous treatises. Thus the Tractatus aureus260 says: The king comes forth from the fire and rejoices in the marriage. The son is become a warrior of the fire and surpasses the tinctures, for he himself is the treasure and himself is attired in the philosophic matter. Come hither, ye sons of wisdom, let us be glad and rejoice, for the dominion of death is over, and the son reigns; he is clothed with the red garment, and the purple is put on. The reborn king is the wonder of the world, an exceeding pure spirit;261 he is, the Aquarium sapientum assures us, the most elect, the most subtile, the purest, and noblest of all the heavenly spirits, to whom all the Test yield obedience as to their King, who bestows on men all health and prosperity, heals all sickness, gives to the God-fearing temporal honour and long life, but to the wicked who abused him, eternal punishment. . . . In sum, they have designated him the chief of all things under heaven, and the marvellous end and epilogue of all philosophic works. Hence some devout philosophers of old have affirmed that he was divinely revealed to Adam, the first man, and thereafter was awaited with peculiar longing by all the holy Patriarchs.262 The Almighty, remarks the Introitus, has made him known by a most notable sign, whose birth263 is declared throughout the East on the horizon of his hemisphere. The wise Magi saw it at the beginning of the era, and were astonished, and straightway they knew that the most serene King was born in the world. Do you, when you see his star, follow it to the cradle, and there you shall behold the fair infant. Cast aside your defilements, honour the royal child, open your treasure, offer a gift of gold; and after death he will give you flesh and blood, the supreme Medicine in the three monarchies of the earth.264 The clothing of the elixir with the kingly garment is also found in the Turba.265 The Consilium coniugii describes the king as descending from heaven.266 Mylius says of King Sol that Phoebus with shining hair of gold sits in the midst, like a king and emperor of the world, grasping the sceptre and the helm. In him are all the powers of heaven.267 In another place he cites the following quotation: And at last the king will go forth crowned with his diadem, radiant as the sun, bright as the carbuncle. 268 Khunrath speaks of the wondrous natural triune Son of the Great World, whom the sages name their Son and crowned King, artificially hatched from The Egg of the world.269 Elsewhere he says of the filius Mundi Maioris:   The Son of the great World [Macrocosm] who is Theocosmos, i.e., a divine power and world (but whom even today, unfortunately, many who teach nature in a pagan spirit and many builders of medical science reject in the high university schools), is the exemplar of the stone which is Theanthropos, i.e., God and man (whom, as Scripture tells us, the builders of the Church have also rejected); and from the same, in and from the Great World Book of Nature, [there issues] a continuous and everlasting doctrine for the wise and their children: indeed, it is a splendid living likeness of our Saviour Jesus Christ, in and from the Great World which by nature is very similar to him (as to miraculous conception, birth, inexpressible powers, virtues, and effects); so God our Lord, besides his Sons Biblical histories, has also created a specific image and natural representation for us in the Book of Nature.270

4.05 - THE DARK SIDE OF THE KING, #Mysterium Coniunctionis, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   [483] Like the heroes and spirits of the dead, the gods too (particularly the earth-gods), are associated with the snake, as are Hermes and Asklepios.324 Indeed, the Greek god of healing, on being hatched from The Egg, seems to have taken the form of a snake.325 An inscription on the temple of Hathor at Dendereh reads:326   The sun, who has existed from the beginning, rises up like a falcon out of the midst of his lotus-bud. When the doors of his petals open in sapphire-coloured splendour, he has sundered the night from the day. Thou risest up like the sacred snake as a living spirit, creating the beginnings and shining in thy glorious form in the barge of the sunrise. The divine Lord whose image dwells in secret in the temple at Dendereh is made the creator of the world by his work. Coming as one, he multiplies himself a millionfold when the light goes forth from him in the form of a child.327

6.0 - Conscious, Unconscious, and Individuation, #The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, #Carl Jung, #Psychology   eggs. The Egg is a germ of life with a lofty symbolical signifi-   cance. It is not just a cosmogonic symbol it is also a "philo-   --   the rocky shore and the sea are proof of this. But The Eggs turned   into abstract spheres or circles, and the magician's touch be-   --   VI, ix, i and x, 1) The Egg, and matter itself, consist of four components. (Cited   from Xenocrates, ibid., VI, xv, 8.)   --   Aged 58, artistic and technically accomplished. In the centre is The Egg   encircled by the snake; outside, apotropaic wings and eyes. The   --   patient thought The Egg might split and produce something new,   maybe a snake. In alchemy the peacock is synonymous with the   --   Upanishad VI, 8 The Egg (Hiranyagarbha) is described as "thou-   sand-eyed." The eyes in the mandala no doubt signify the ob-

7 - Yoga of Sri Aurobindo, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga   fore laying The Eggs that are to become larvae first pre-   pares the ground: it finds another insect or a small animal,   --   feeds the larvae when they come out of The Eggs. All this   looks very much machiavellian. But nothing is reasoned

BOOK II. -- PART III. ADDENDA. SCIENCE AND THE SECRET DOCTRINE CONTRASTED, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy   from The Egg." Yet the bud must be traced through its parent-plant to the seed, and The Egg to the   animal or bird that laid it; or at any rate to the speck of protoplasm from which it expanded and grew.   --   established of a female organ or ovary containing The Egg or primitive cell from which the new being   was to be developed." . . . . "This is confirmed by a study of embryology, which shows that in the   --   Baumgartner, who believes that "the germs for the higher animals could only be The Eggs of the lower   animals"; who thinks that "besides the advance of the vegetable and animal world in development,   --   Kosmos, The Egg.   ** It might be better, perhaps, for FACT had we more Specialists in Science and fewer "authorities"   --   earth or globe (See "Esoteric Buddhism"). Wherever the Serpent with The Egg is found, there this tenet   was surely present. Their Dracontia are a proof of it. This belief was so universal that, if we seek for it

BOOK II. -- PART II. THE ARCHAIC SYMBOLISM OF THE WORLD-RELIGIONS, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy   every side" by seven elements, also within The Egg -- as explained, "the universe is encompassed on   every side, above and below by the Andakat'aha -- the shell of The Egg of Brahma." . . . Around the   shell flows water, which is surrounded with fire; fire by air; air by ether; ether by the origin of the

BOOK I. -- PART I. COSMIC EVOLUTION, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy   IN SPACE THE RE-AWAKENED ENERGIES; THE ONE FROM The Egg, THE SIX, AND THE   FIVE. THEN THE THREE, THE ONE, THE FOUR, THE ONE, THE FIVE -- THE TWICE SEVEN   --   SECOND ONE, AND THE PENTACLE WITHIN The Egg. IT IS THE RING CALLED "PASS   NOT" FOR THOSE WHO DESCEND AND ASCEND. ALSO FOR THOSE WHO DURING THE   --   miniature the process of Cosmic evolution in The Egg, both being due to heat and moisture under the   efflux of the unseen creative spirit, justified fully the selection of this graphic symbol. The "Virgin   --   IN SPACE THE RE-AWAKENED ENERGIES (Dhyan Chohans): THE ONE FROM The Egg,   THE SIX AND THE FIVE (a); THEN THE THREE, THE ONE,   --   "The One from The Egg, the Six and the Five," give the number 1065, the value of the first-born (later   on the male and female Brahma-Prajapati), who answers to the numbers 7, and 14, and 21   --   figure 1.), THE CUBE, THE SECOND ONE, AND THE PENTACLE WITHIN The Egg (circle)   (a). IT IS THE RING CALLED "PASS NOT," FOR THOSE WHO DESCEND AND ASCEND (as   --   Baoth, "chaos," emptiness, void, or desolation; or the child born in The Egg of   Chaos, like Brahma.   --   the orthodox Brahmins) at the two ends of The Egg of Matter (our Earth and its poles). The seven lokas   are also called the "Rings," elsewhere, and the "Circles." The ancients made the polar circles seven   --   reckoned from Mahat to Earth -- so at the time of pralaya (pratyahara) these seven successively reenter into each other. The Egg of Brahma (Sarva-mandala) is dissolved with its seven zones (dwipa),   seven oceans, seven regions, etc." (Vishnu Purana, Book vi., ch. iv.)*   --   totally. In Vol. 1, page 40, The Egg is said to be externally invested by seven envelopes -- Wilson   comments: "by Water, Air, Fire, Ether, and Ahamkara" (which last word does not exist in the Sanskrit

BOOK I. -- PART II. THE EVOLUTION OF SYMBOLISM IN ITS APPROXIMATE ORDER, #The Secret Doctrine, #H P Blavatsky, #Theosophy   which flows out of the pre-cosmic Source of all, symbolised by the Head, the Circle, The Egg; and they   all have an identical meaning and relate to the primordial Archetypal man (Adam Kadmon) the

Book of Imaginary Beings (text), #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga   hollows out The Egg and puts his father in it, covering over   with more myrrh the hollow in which the body lies; so   --   Russian steppe. Riding rams and goats, the Pygmies retaliated by destroying The Eggs and nests of their foes. These   expeditions of war kept them busy for the space of three

BOOK XIX. - A review of the philosophical opinions regarding the Supreme Good, and a comparison of these opinions with the Christian belief regarding happiness, #City of God, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity   But let us suppose a man such as poetry and mythology speak of,a man so insociable and savage as to be called rather[Pg 317] a semi-man than a man.[640] Although, then, his kingdom was the solitude of a dreary cave, and he himself was so singularly bad-hearted that he was named , which is the Greek word for bad; though he had no wife to soo the him with endearing talk, no children to play with, no sons to do his bidding, no friend to enliven him with intercourse, not even his father Vulcan (though in one respect he was happier than his father, not having begotten a monster like himself); although he gave to no man, but took as he wished whatever he could, from whomsoever he could, when he could; yet in that solitary den, the floor of which, as Virgil[641] says, was always reeking with recent slaughter, there was nothing else than peace sought, a peace in which no one should molest him, or disquiet him with any assault or alarm. With his own body he desired to be at peace; and he was satisfied only in proportion as he had this peace. For he ruled his members, and they obeyed him; and for the sake of pacifying his mortal nature, which rebelled when it needed anything, and of allaying the sedition of hunger which threatened to banish the soul from the body, he made forays, slew, and devoured, but used the ferocity and savageness he displayed in these actions only for the preservation of his own life's peace. So that, had he been willing to make with other men the same peace which he made with himself in his own cave, he would neither have been called bad, nor a monster, nor a semi-man. Or if the appearance of his body and his vomiting smoky fires frightened men from having any dealings with him, perhaps his fierce ways arose not from a desire to do mischief, but from the necessity of finding a living. But he may have had no existence, or, at least, he was not such as the poets fancifully describe him, for they had to exalt Hercules, and did so at the expense of Cacus. It is better, then, to believe that such a man or semi-man never existed, and that this, in common with many other fancies of the poets, is mere fiction. For the most savage animals (and he is said to have been almost a wild beast) encompass their own species with a ring of protecting peace. They cohabit, beget, produce, suckle, and bring up their young, though very many of them are not gregarious, but solitary,not like sheep, deer, pigeons, starlings,[Pg 318] bees, but such as lions, foxes, eagles, bats. For what tigress does not gently purr over her cubs, and lay aside her ferocity to fondle them? What kite, solitary as he is when circling over his prey, does not seek a mate, build a nest, hatch The Eggs, bring up the young birds, and maintain with the mother of his family as peaceful a domestic alliance as he can? How much more powerfully do the laws of man's nature move him to hold fellowship and maintain peace with all men so far as in him lies, since even wicked men wage war to maintain the peace of their own circle, and wish that, if possible, all men belonged to them, that all men and things might serve but one head, and might, either through love or fear, yield themselves to peace with him! It is thus that pride in its perversity apes God. It abhors equality with other men under Him; but, instead of His rule, it seeks to impose a rule of its own upon its equals. It abhors, that is to say, the just peace of God, and loves its own unjust peace; but it cannot help loving peace of one kind or other. For there is no vice so clean contrary to nature that it obliterates even the faintest traces of nature.   He, then, who prefers what is right to what is wrong, and what is well-ordered to what is perverted, sees that the peace of unjust men is not worthy to be called peace in comparison with the peace of the just. And yet even what is perverted must of necessity be in harmony with, and in dependence on, and in some part of the order of things, for otherwise it would have no existence at all. Suppose a man hangs with his head downwards, this is certainly a perverted attitude of body and arrangement of its members; for that which nature requires to be above is beneath, and vice vers. This perversity disturbs the peace of the body, and is therefore painful. Nevertheless the spirit is at peace with its body, and labours for its preservation, and hence the suffering; but if it is banished from the body by its pains, then, so long as the bodily framework holds together, there is in the remains a kind of peace among the members, and hence the body remains suspended. And inasmuch as the earthy body tends towards the earth, and rests on the bond by which it is suspended, it tends thus to its natural peace, and the voice of its own weight demands a place for it to rest; and though now lifeless and without feeling, it does[Pg 319] not fall from the peace that is natural to its place in creation, whether it already has it, or is tending towards it. For if you apply embalming preparations to prevent the bodily frame from mouldering and dissolving, a kind of peace still unites part to part, and keeps the whole body in a suitable place on the earth,in other words, in a place that is at peace with the body. If, on the other hand, the body receive no such care, but be left to the natural course, it is disturbed by exhalations that do not harmonize with one another, and that offend our senses; for it is this which is perceived in putrefaction until it is assimilated to the elements of the world, and particle by particle enters into peace with them. Yet throughout this process the laws of the most high Creator and Governor are strictly observed, for it is by Him the peace of the universe is administered. For although minute animals are produced from the carcase of a larger animal, all these little atoms, by the law of the same Creator, serve the animals they belong to in peace. And although the flesh of dead animals be eaten by others, no matter where it be carried, nor what it be brought into contact with, nor what it be converted and changed into, it still is ruled by the same laws which pervade all things for the conservation of every mortal race, and which bring things that fit one another into harmony.

DS3, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga   are also related to the four stages of liberation discussed in Chapter Nine, which begin with the srotaapanna, who breaks out of The Egg of the ego, and end with the arhan, whose soul is no longer subject   to rebirth. Tsung-mi says, The beginning of life is called birth. When it first begins, it is by one of   --   Tzu-hsuan says, The karma of our thoughts is the seed, while The Egg, the womb, the water, and the   air are the causal conditions. Thus, beings are the result of karma.

Liber 111 - The Book of Wisdom - LIBER ALEPH VEL CXI, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga    Blessed be She, uniting The Egg with the Serpent, and restoring Man    unto his Mother the Earth! Blessed be She, that offereth Beauty and   --    Babe in the Lotus, who is also the Serpent and The Egg, that is, the    Holy Ghost. This is the most secret of all Energies, the Seed of all

Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna (text), #Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism   the sky, and that their young ones are hatched in mid-air as The Eggs fall, pulled down by gravity. No   sooner do these fledglings find out that they are falling downwards, than they immediately change their

Talks 001-025, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga     D.: But the hen cannot contain The Eggs?     M.: But there are potential lives in them.

The Act of Creation text, #The Act of Creation, #Arthur Koestler, #Psychology   absent-minded don boiling his watch while clutching The Egg, like a   machine obeying the wrong switch. Fate keeps playing practical jokes   --   felt the same way when he made The Egg stand on end*. The same   thought suggested itself to the ornithologist Alfred Newton, who   --   shore.' The learner then must 'boldly retrieve The Egg* and in the act   of retrieving acquires the art of swimming.   --   skills which enable The Egg to grow into a hen, of the vegetative   skills of maintaining homeostasis, of perceptual, locomotive, and   --   Its primary function is to trigger off The Egg; butwith frogs at least    a platinum needle will do just as well.*   --   previously been segregated from the rest of The Eggs, do not participate in the   fateful fifth division and preserve their chromosome complement intact. Thus   --   Accordingly, a young goose, reared from The Egg in isolation (or in   the incubator) will accept during the brief critical period of matura-

The Dwellings of the Philosophers, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga   yard where the yellow chick, bom from The Egg of a black hen, will soon become our   wonderful hen (22) that laid the golden eggs.   --   plate called nest or arena because The Egg undergoes incubation in the warm sand (Latin   arena, sand). As for the combustible agent used for heating, it often varies although many   --   we say of sulphur is true of mercury. So that The Egg, the manifestation of the new metallic   form emanated from the mercurial principle, while it owes its substance to mercury or the   --   identical with the fig, the fruit of the date tree, with The Egg of the Phoenix which is our   philosophical egg. It is the one reproducing the legendary eagle of Hermes, whose feathers