#Southern Cattail

[ziseviolet]

Hi love ya blog! I’ve been wondering how effective were the coir rain jackets?

Hi! Thanks for loving my blog, and sorry for taking ages to reply! (image via)

Chinese rain capes/raincoats are called 蓑衣/suoyi, and they are mainly made from local materials - in southern China, straw and coir grass are mostly used, as well as brown hair and brown leaves; in the north, thatch and cattail grass are mostly used. It takes about two to three days to make a suoyi by hand. They are typically worn with bamboo hats called 斗笠/douli.

Below - Ming dynasty illustration of a suoyi and douli (x):

Suoyi has a long history, originating before the Qin dynasty (221–206 BC). Although I haven't worn one myself, sources state that they were very effective. Compared with umbrellas, suoyi was not only better at keeping out the rain, but also freed up the two hands to work. Farmers liked to wear it on rainy days, and fishermen often wore it when fishing during rainy and snowy days. During the Ming and Qing dynasties, people travelling during the rainy season usually brought along suoyi (source).

Below - 19th-century late Qing dynasty suoyi made of palm and straw fiber, plus bamboo douli and basket (1, 2):

The tradition of working in the wind and rain wearing suoyi and douli continued until the late 1960s in China, after which they were gradually replaced with modern rain gear. Today, suoyi has become more of a tourist souvenir and decorative object than a practical item. Nevertheless, it can still be seen being worn by some elderly farmers and fisherman.

Below - a cormorant fisherman wearing suoyi and douli in Yangshuo, Guilin, Guangxi (x):

I highly recommend reading the following article for more information on suoyi's history, craftsmanship, and current status: Suoyi: RuCai Lyu’s rain cape and its ongoing tradition of protection.

For additional references, please see my suoyi tag.

If anyone has more info, please share! ^^

Hope this helps!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Napoleonville [Chapter 10: The House Of Saint Honoratus of Amiens] [Series Finale]

Series Summary: The year is 1988. The town is Napoleonville, Louisiana. You are a small business owner in need of some stress relief. Aemond is a stranger with a taste for domination. But as his secrets are revealed, this casual arrangement becomes something more volatile than either of you could have ever imagined.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), dom/sub dynamics, smoking, drinking, drugs, weddings, Willis Warning, infidelity, kids, parenthood, Rice-A-Roni.

Word Count: 6k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @marvelescvpe @toodlesxcuddles @era127 @at-a-rax-ia @0eessirk8 @arcielee @dd122004dd @humanpurposes @taredhunter @tinykryptonitewerewolf @partnerincrime0 @dr-aegon @persephonerinyes @namelesslosers @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @daenysx @gemini-mama @chattylurker @moonlightfoxx @huramuna @britt-mf @myspotofcraziness @padfooteyes @targaryenbarbie @trifoliumviridi @joliettes @darkenchantress @florent1s @babyblue711 @minttea07 @bungalowbear @bluerskiees @herfantasyworldd @elizarbell @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fudge13 @strangersunghoon @wickedfrsgrl

Thank you so much for loving this strange, sexy, sweet story. I hope you enjoy the finale. 🥰🧁

Your bare feet in warm grass, your hands around the ropes of the tree swing, no sounds except the ancient psalms of the earth: cicadas, mourning doves, goldfinches, bumble bees, bullfrogs, wind in the leaves of the dogwoods and southern live oaks. The adolescent alligator is at one end of the front yard, sunbathing up by the mouth of the gravel driveway; in the opposite corner are several nutria nibbling on cattails. The sky is a calm, cloudless blue. It’s hot, mid-80s, even when 5:00 p.m. comes and goes; but the breeze is cool as it evaporates the sweat from your temples, your palms, the nape of your neck. It’s as close as Louisiana ever gets to Heaven. It’s a good day for a wedding.

You remember thinking that it was the end of the world when you found out you were pregnant almost exactly eleven years ago, and then again when you realized you would have to divorce Willis, and so you have lived through enough moments like this—these quiet, infinitesimal apocalypses—to know that there will be a future beyond Aemond marrying Christabel. The sun will rise tomorrow, and then it will set, the lightning bugs will appear and the stars will tell myths in the night sky, and the phone will ring as orders come in for the bakery, and Cadi will be back in her bedroom playing her Nintendo, and life will roll on like currents through the bayou: slow, opaque, inevitable. The world isn’t ending, you know that. It’s just full of beautiful things that aren’t for you.

Out on Route 401, a Plymouth Gran Fury zooms by the house, squeals to a halt, and then reverses until Willis can take another look, squinting through his tinted windows. He turns down the driveway and steps out into golden July daylight. He doesn’t pay any attention to the gator as he strides past her. He belongs here, in a place that is old and strange and savage and full of beasts. You have carved out a home for yourself in the swamplands; Willis was born with veins like the roots of a mangrove tree and ancient silt instead of marrow in his bones.

“Hey, sugar,” he says, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. The wind ruffles the dark curls of his mullet, the bumble bees flee as he tramples clovers. “Ain’t ya supposed to be at the weddin’?”

“I’m sick.” A lie. “But Cadi’s fine, she’s with Amir. She was so excited she actually wore one of the sundresses my mom bought her and had Amir braid a dogwood flower into her hair to match his. You should have seen it. You would’ve been so proud.”

“I’m always proud of her,” Willis says, smiling. And then: “Ya don’t look sick.”

“I am.”

“Ya got one of your headaches?”

You pause. You don’t, but this is a convenient excuse. “Yeah.”

Willis stalls, his hands on his belt. His pistol is there; you remember how he used it in the bayou, how he helped save your life. But he wasn’t the one who jumped into the water. Aemond was willing to risk his body for me, but not his soul. What kind of sense does that make? “Ya had me scared for a minute there,” Willis says.

“What? When?”

“When I thought ya were goin’ to end up with that Rockefeller boy.”

“Aemond?” you say, like it’s so shocking. “No. Absolutely not. It’s impossible.”

“And why’s that?”

You stare into the trees so Willis can’t see the tears welling up in your eyes, the tension in your throat as embers kindle there, pulsing with heat that could char flesh to the bone. “He can’t marry someone like me.”

“I could,” Willis replies, grinning. You glare at him until he recants. “Alright, alright, oublie ça. Pardonne-moi.”

“Why would you be afraid of me and Aemond being together?”

“An oil tycoon? A millionaire? He would never stay here for long. In a town like Napoleonville? Soon as he was done getting’ those rigs up and runnin’, he’d go jettin’ off to some other corner of the world, and he’d take you with him. And Cadi too. I wouldn’t be able to fight that. What’s a parish sheriff to a Targaryen? Who would listen to me? Cadi would be gone and I’d never get her back. It would kill me. It would rip the heart right outta my chest.”

You look up at Willis from where you sit on the tree swing, the soles of your feet colored with soil and grass. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No?” he asks, perhaps suspicious, perhaps hopeful.

“No,” you promise. “Cadi loves you. Cadi needs you to be in her life. I would never try to take her away from you, Willis.”

He nods; he seems to believe you. And something relaxes in him, like there’s been a tension in the lines of his spine and shoulders that you didn’t notice for years. “I’m sorry about your petit ami.”

“Yeah. Me too.” It comes out like a whisper, brittle and frail. “I’m sorry about Lake Verret.”

“They might be able to fix it. Talk around town is they got some kind of desalination”—he says this with each syllable enunciated distinctly, like he’s put great effort into memorizing it—“process that can take the salt back outta the water. And if that don’t work…” He shrugs with a sly smile. “I’ll survive somehow. The world’s a big place. There’s always another lake.”

You consider him, and you remember—like a dream from the night before that just returned to you—how Willis can be unexpectedly deep, randomly tender. “They should put that on bumper stickers.”

He chuckles and waves as he heads back to his car. “I’ll pick Cadi up on Tuesday. Back to the usual schedule.”

“Sure.” Back to real life. Back to before I met Aemond. And you find yourself wishing that you could forget what it had felt like to be with him; the absence he left feels so much heavier than the nonspecific longing that existed before. Willis’ Plymouth Gran Fury rolls out of the driveway, and you stay precisely where you are on the tree swing, absentmindedly pushing yourself back and forth with your tiptoes and trying to believe that tomorrow this will feel easier, and then even easier the day after that, and eventually it will cease to be anything but a vague recollection, a relic in a rarely-opened drawer, a whisper, an echo. One day, you will stop missing Aemond. One day, you will stop wondering whether a sliver of his life would have been better than none at all.

Inside what Cadi calls the Fall-Down House, the phone rings. You ignore it; if it’s an order for the bakery, they can leave a message. But then it rings again, and again, and you have to answer it. What if your mother had a heart attack? What if Cadi and Amir were in a car accident? You hurry to the kitchen and grab the phone, pink to match the little Panasonic boombox that is presently silent.

“Hello?”

“Hiiiiiii,” Amir says, slow and something else too. Disoriented? Evasive?

Your forehead wrinkles with confusion. “Where are you calling from?” There are definitely no phonelines running to the Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens, a tiny brick-and-stucco edifice built in the 1830s.

“I’m at a McDonald’s up the road. I’ve paid them $5 to let me use the phone.” And then, because he knows it’s the first place your mind will go: “Cadi’s fine. She’s eating Chicken McNuggets. Everyone’s fine.”

“Okay…?”

“I think you should come over here.”

“What, to the chapel?!”

“Yeah.” He’s talking to someone; you can hear an indistinct tangle of voices through the hand he undoubtedly has clasped over the transmitter.

I can’t see Aemond. I can’t see Christabel. There is a lurching in your guts; you are a fish that swallowed a hook. “I thought we agreed that I wasn’t going to go to the wedding.” I can’t handle it. It might kill me.

“Yes, we did, but now…um…I think you will want to make an appearance.”

“Amir, what happened?”

There is more muffled conversation on the other end of the line. “Look,” he tells you. “Things, uh…things are…occurring. And I think it would be better to explain in person.”

“Did you drop the cake?”

“No,” he says, defensive. “The cake is perfect, thank you for your concern. Not a single frosting wildflower was mutilated in the delivery.”

“Then why—?”

“Do you trust me?” Amir asks.

The answer is obvious. Of course. More than anyone. “You know I do.”

“Then go get in your car.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “Okay, but you know it’s going to take me like 40 minutes to drive to Belle River.”

“That’s fine.” He confers with someone else. “Yeah, that’s good actually, that will work.”

“Great,” you say uncertainly.

“See you soon!” Then Amir hangs up, leaving you alone in the creaks and groans of your ailing house.

You take Route 70 around Lake Verret, gliding past fields of soybeans and sugarcane, paddocks of cattle and horses, marshes of cordgrass occupied by blue herons and white egrets and prowling alligators, stirring awake as the sun begins its descent into the west. More than once, you notice that your Chevy Celebrity’s odometer reports you are travelling well below the speed limit. You aren’t in any hurry to reach the chapel; you don’t want to carry the weight of what you will see there, Christabel in her wedding dress, Aemond in his suit, Alicent anxiously fidgeting and gnawing at her fingernails, Viserys parading around triumphantly. You can’t imagine that there is anything less than torturous for you there. You don’t remember what you’re wearing until you reach Belle River, a small, old town full of double-wide trailers and jetties that run far out into the lake: a simple cotton sundress you threw on this morning without much thought, modest but white and therefore forbidden for a wedding guest. The sky is turning from a sun-drenched cerulean blue to something more soft, more muted, as dusk lurks just a few hours away. The radio is playing Tracy Chapman’s Fast Car.

The Chapel of Saint Honoratus of Amiens was built by a man in extremis. An acclaimed mason by trade, he had been born in France and settled in the New World in Louisiana when it was still in the possession of Napoleon. The mason had a wife and children—some people say 5, others say 8 or 10, though details always seem to grow more elaborate in the retelling, don’t they?—and he loved them dearly. But tragedy struck when every single member of the family, except for the mason himself, fell ill with tuberculosis. When healers of the earth failed to offer sufficient remedies, the mason appealed to a higher power. He built the chapel to implore Honoratus of Amiens, his wife’s favorite saint—she was a baker and a florist, both professions that Honoratus presides over—to intercede with the Almighty on their behalf. This effort proved futile, and as each member of the family died, the mason interred them in a brick vault beneath the altar where they would spend eternity together. Perhaps this makes for a peculiar wedding venue, yet for over a century couples rich and poor, religious and secular have traveled to the chapel to exchange their vows. Perhaps there are few things more romantic than loving someone in the face of total futility: illness, distance, unrequitedness, prohibitions, death.

The chapel sits in a clearing surrounded by live oak trees, massive, hundreds of years old, hanging with Spanish moss, blotting out the sunlight as aisles cascade through gaps in the leaves. As you park in the grass—joining an army of Lexuses, Audis, limousines, Porsches, Ferraris, Cadillacs, Aston Martins, Alfa Romeos, and Amir’s blue Ford Escort—you observe that there are perhaps fifty guests in formal attire milling aimlessly around the building. You peer down at your white sundress, frowning. Well, I can’t go naked. The faux pas will have to be forgiven. You step out of your Chevy Celebrity and make your way across the clearing towards the chapel.

There is a long table set up in the shade with a tower of champagne glasses, an ice sculpture of a dragon, and the banana bread cake you and Amir baked for the wedding. Grim-faced servants in black suits are cutting slices and handing them out to guests on green china plates. You recognize Aegon’s wife Stephanie chatting with a flock of young women in extravagant gowns, golds and emeralds and sapphires. Helaena is among them, wearing a shimmering blue-green color like the scales of her chameleon Dreamfyre. Evidently, the Targaryens’ exotic pets have been left at the mansion for this excursion.

“Well,” the princess of Monaco says sardonically as she takes a bite, the white cream cheese frosting covered with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. “At least the cake is good. What is this, banana? Whoever heard of a banana wedding cake? I mean, it’s delicious, but still. I knew that Christabel girl was daft. Did you see her positively absurd dress? It looks like children doodled all over it…”

Is it over? you think as you weave through the crowd, largely unnoticed. Is the ceremony done already? Why would Aemond want to see me? To try to convince me to be his mistress one last time? To show me what I’m missing by severing ties with him?

But no: something else has happened. Viserys and Christabel’s father the marquess are embroiled in a heated argument; a nun and two priests are trying to haul them apart.

“You’re dead to me, Viserys!” the marquess roars. “And you’ll be dead to everyone back home once I tell them what you’ve done!”

“I did my part! This has nothing to do with me! Wait…wait…we can figure something else out! Wait! Wait! You can have Daeron!”

Wedding guests are gawking and snapping photos with their polaroid cameras. Upon hearing his name, Daeron glances over towards his father wearily. Alicent’s youngest son is kneeling beside where she has collapsed to the grass, patting her encouragingly on the shoulder as she sobs into a green cloth handkerchief. Criston is there too, trying to soothe her with sympathetic murmurs and a flute of pink champagne glittering with bubbles of carbonation.

“How did this happen?” she wails, peering up at Criston with her vast, dark, glassy eyes. The gold rings on her fingers clang and glint; they match the single hoop earring that Criston wears. Alicent’s gown is purple like royalty, but Criston is dressed in a suit of pale pink; it’s the exact same one Daeron has on. Groomsmen? you wonder. “He knows better than this! We raised him better than this!”

You think, stunned and petrified: Aemond, what the hell did you do?

As you approach the chapel, you note that it appears empty inside; you don’t spot anyone in the pews. Somewhere, a boombox is thundering Higher Love. At the entrance of the building, Christabel is sitting on the brick walkway in her wedding dress. It’s the one you told her to choose: elegant and timeless, long train and short flowing sleeves, silk wildflowers sewn into the white lace. Her bouquet is lying forgotten on the ground beside her. Her lips are a deep, lovely pink; her eyeshadow is gold. She’s smoking, something you’ve never seen her do before. There is a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter in her left hand, a single lit cigarette in her right.

“Um, hi, Christabel,” you say. And then, something equally brainless: “Is everything okay?”

“I should have known.” She’s staring out at the crowd, not at you. Her large blue eyes are dull, vacant.

“You should have known what?” Your heart is in your throat; blood pounds in your ears like the hooves of a racehorse.

“That he didn’t care,” she says listlessly. “I could tell that he didn’t. I could feel it. But I didn’t want it to be true, so I told myself it wasn’t. Isn’t that interesting? How we can lie to ourselves? Not that it was entirely my error. Other people meddled plenty. ‘Oh no, Christabel.’ ‘He’s just emotionally stunted, Christabel.’ ‘He’s busy with work, Christabel.’ What man is too busy with work to handle a five-minute phone call? It’s not like he was on the moon. He could have made time if he wanted to. I bet he made lots of time for you.”

“Uh.” You try to decide what to say. “I broke up with him, if that’s what you’re asking. I didn’t want to be his mistress. I didn’t think that was fair to you.” Or me, obviously, but right now doesn’t seem to be the opportune time to voice my own grievances.

“Next time, I’m going to choose who I marry,” Christabel insists, puffing on her cigarette. “He has to talk to me. He has to like me.”

Aemond called it off? What did he say? What is he going to do now? “Christabel…do you know where Aemond is? Or Amir and Cadi?”

“Alicent is so upset,” she says instead. “Poor woman. She’s sweet, in her own way. But I don’t want to end up like her.” Christabel holds up the pack of Marlboros and the lighter. “She feels guilty, I think. She gave me these. She had them in her purse, she has so many neurotic little habits, doesn’t she? It’s not very ladylike to smoke, but it’s not ladylike to get left at the altar either, so fuck it.”

You ask, afraid to know the answer: “Do you hate me? I didn’t know Aemond was engaged when I met him. And then…” Why lie now? What’s the point? “Then I was in love with him and it was kind of…too late to try not to be. But I’m sorry.”

“I don’t hate you,” Christabel replies immediately. “I know he would never be allowed to marry…someone like you. Your options were limited.”

You don’t know if this is meant to be an insult or not. “Thanks.”

“I don’t think I ever loved him either,” Christabel realizes, exhaling smoke. “I think I idolized him. I think I loved my fantasy of what our marriage would be like. But I didn’t love Aemond. I didn’t even know Aemond. You did, I suspect. Good luck with him. He’s a bit…complex.”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, rather compulsively. You aren’t sure what she expects from you. Abruptly, from wherever it’s coming from, Higher Love is cut off. “So, is Aemond, like…around, or…?”

“I don’t regret the sex part.”

“Okay.” You examine the crowd in the clearing again. You still don’t see Aemond.

“That went well,” Christabel muses. “I’m glad my first time is over and done with. I was terrified it would hurt like hell. And so few people know, so it’s almost like it never happened, right?”

“Right,” you say obediently.

“I think I’ll have a new rule. I won’t marry anyone unless he likes me and we sleep together first. Life is too long to spend it with the wrong person, don’t you agree?”

“I totally do.”

“He’s waiting for you inside,” Christabel says, flicking ashes towards the gaping doorway of the chapel.

“Really?” you peer into the shadows; there is indeed a solitary figure standing at the altar. “So…what exactly is happening…?”

“Go,” Christabel urges, and takes a drag on her cigarette. You leave her and cross through the doorway into the chapel.

The light is dim and gentle; fading sunbeams slant in through the glass of the cathedral-style windows. The mason’s inspiration was Gothic architecture, imposing, cavernous. Two candlelit iron chandeliers hang from the high ceiling; the floor is made of tiles of black and white marble. Small stone sculptures of angels watch over their realm like benevolent gargoyles. There is a single stained glass window above the altar: circular like a ring, red and gold like the sun.

He’s waiting for you in a pale pink suit, long disheveled hair, thin mustache with flecks of white powder in it, mischievous smirk. “Hey cake lady,” Aegon says.

“Um. I’m not marrying you.”

“No, you’re definitely not.” Aegon offers you his hand and you take it with some hesitation. “I’m here to be your guide. Just like on the Oregon Trail.”

“What…?”

“Let’s go.” He pulls you out of the chapel, past where Christabel is still sitting at the entranceway, and across the clearing towards the trees. When you look to the crowd, Otto is elbowing his way through disgruntled guests towards a limousine, already idling.

Viserys bellows at him: “Where the hell are you going?!”

“Back to Kiribati!” Otto shouts back, not breaking his stride. He vanishes into the limo.

“Hurry,” Aegon says. He leads you into the forest, a thick canopy of verdant leaves and Spanish moss and the narrow rays of sunshine that tumble down through the gaps.

“Aegon, I don’t think we should be in the woods, it could be dangerous—”

“No, this part is fine. We already checked.”

“Who’s ‘we’?!” You’re wearing flip flops that catch on gnarled roots; the shrieking of cicadas grows loud. One of them buzzes towards Aegon and he screams as he backhands it away.

“You good?” Amir’s voice calls from farther within the trees.

“Yeah. I’m fine. We made it.”

You turn to Aegon. “What’s going on—?”

Suddenly, there is booming music that startles you: “Ooh, baby, do you know what that’s worth? Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth! They say in Heaven, love comes first, we’ll make Heaven a place on Earth! Ooh, Heaven is a place on Earth!”

“Aegon, what is that?”

“Uh, I think it’s Heaven Is A Place On Earth.”

“Yes, okay, but why?”

“Ask that guy.” You round a thicket and there under a colossal southern live oak tree, surrounded by hundred-year-old branches that twist down to the earth, is Aemond; but he’s not looking at you. He and Cadi are lighting the last of the candles. She picks them up, he ignites the wick with the same lighter he uses to smoke his Marlboros, and then Cadi places them back on the ground or on top of a branch. Amir is standing by the large black boombox, the same one Aegon always listens to by the Targaryens’ pool. Amir grins craftily, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of his nose. His suit is orange, the single dogwood flower in his hair white.

“Did we get them all?” Aemond asks Cadi.

“Yeah, I think so. Wait, no, there’s one over there!” Cadi darts to it and Aemond lights the candle, then spins around and sees you. He smiles. “Hi, Cupcake.”

“Hi,” you say, so shellshocked you can’t form any of your very vital questions.

“Okay, so we have the candles,” Aemond informs you as Cadi and Aegon go to join Amir. “White with wildflower patterns.” And you recall how Alicent mentioned needing to pick out candles with Christabel, and how you didn’t see any scattered around the chapel. They brought them here. They did it for me. “And we have some actual wildflowers.” He takes the boutonniere off the lapel of his white suit and tucks it into your hair behind your left ear. “And we have Heaven Is A Place On Earth.” He gestures to the boombox. “And I think those were the three things you said you wanted if you were ever going to get married again.”

I did say that. Just once, months ago, the first time he ever came over, the first time he ever touched me. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered.” He takes both of your hands in his own. Amir lets out a little squeal and covers his mouth as his eyes begin to glisten. Aemond takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t have a speech, because this is very last-minute. I mean extremely last-minute. But you were right about everything. And I realized I couldn’t live that way. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to me, but it wouldn’t be fair to Christabel either. So I broke it off.”

“Literally at the altar,” Aegon says. “In front of everybody. It was so fucking awkward.”

“Those are not necessary details!” Aemond snaps, then looks back to you and is smiling again. “I know what I want. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve known you. But I wasn’t a strong enough person to make it happen. I’m so sorry. I should have done things differently. I can’t change the past. But everything is going to be different now.”

You gaze up at him as Belinda Carlisle sings, thinking: This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up now.

“On the night we met, you told me you’d never felt chosen,” Aemond says. “I’m choosing you. And, you know.” He nods to her. “Cadi too. And Amir. And the bakery. And dealing with Willis too, I guess. All of it. I’m choosing you and your whole life and that’s exactly where I want to be.”

You can feel the warmth in your face, beaming and hopeful and full of possibilities. Under the shade of the southern live oak, the first lightning bugs are blooming in the air like stars. “What about your family?”

“I’ll figure it out. I don’t think my father can entirely disown me…turns out I’m the only one who understands how the stock market works. But no matter what, you and Cadi are the priority. And my father will have to learn to live with that.”

“Or he can drop dead,” Aegon says. “Whichever.”

It’s possible? We can be together? Not just for a night, an afternoon, a stolen moment, but forever?

“I said I don’t have a speech.” Aemond tells you. His right eye is bright, elated, gleaming like a mirror. “I don’t have a ring either. But I’m going to get you one, if you’ll let me. So I’m asking you, Cupcake: Will you marry me?”

“Say yes, Mom!” Cadi yells, and Amir bursts out laughing.

“Say yes, cake lady!” Aegon adds. “Unlimited Cap’n Crunch Treats!”

When am I going to wake up? When is this going to end?

But it’s not a dream. It’s real. And Aemond reads the answer on your face before you can say it, and so it’s only a murmur as he kisses you, a whisper, a prayer: “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The three of you drive from the new house all the way to San Francisco; you still call it the new house, even though you’ve owned it for a full year. The journey takes seven days, with overnight stops in Dallas, Wonderland Amusement Park in Amarillo, Albuquerque, Flagstaff, Las Vegas, and Bakersfield. Aemond sold his Audi Quattro and replaced it with a Dodge Caravan. It’s July 1989, and Tom Petty’s brand new single Runnin’ Down A Dream is strumming from the radio. It’s always temperate in San Fran, in the 60s even at the height of summer. The sky is overcast and grey. When Cadi complains that she’s cold despite the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie you packed for her, Aemond gives her his Marlboro jacket.

Amir, his boyfriend, and two other roommates share a sunshine yellow Italianate townhouse in the Castro District. Aemond parks his wood-paneled Caravan on the steep, inclined street—he narrowly misses colliding with a whooshing cable car, which he blames on poor depth perception—and then helps you carry the luggage inside. There are no alligators on the front porch, but there are neighborhood cats that Amir puts out Friskies for; there are no screaming cicadas, but there are swooping seagulls and the melodies of sidewalk musicians. When Amir opens the door, he nearly tackles you with enthusiasm. He still wears his loud colors and short shorts, but he’s traded in the dogwood flowers he once wove into his hair for dahlias.

Amir’s boyfriend is named Don, but everyone calls him Donald Schwarzenegger because he looks so much like the Austrian bodybuilder turned actor. When Amir first arrived in the city, he got a job as a cake decorator for a very popular bakery, and quickly segued into handling much of their marketing as well. He’s thinking of getting a degree in advertising and trying his luck in corporate America. You very much enjoy teasing him for being a sellout; what would socialist Bayard Rustin say?

“Call your Daddy and let him know we made it safely to the West Coast,” you tell Cadi once her things are unpacked in the guest room she’ll get all to herself; you and Aemond are consigned to the living room futon. Cadi chats with Willis for a while, then says he wants to talk to you. You take the phone, slightly concerned; you hope nothing is amiss with the house. “Hello?”

“What the hell is wrong with this horse?” he demands. “That ain’t no pet. That’s a demon. It’s a goddamn Rougarou.”

“I told you not to try to touch him,” you say, amused.

“I feed him and water him, don’t I? Ain’t that the least he can do? Lettin’ me scratch his big ol’ idiot head?”

“Patches is not very well-behaved. But Cadi loves him.”

“And don’t even get me started on the dog. Ugliest fuckin’ dog I ever saw. Growls every time I show up. Shows its teeth and everythin’. I’d take twenty gators over that son of a bitch any day.”

“Vhagar is a girl,” you say. “Thanks for watching them while we’re out of town.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Although I still don’t understand why the bon a rien can’t do it.”

“Aegon isn’t always…reliable.” But he does seem to be improving. He’s cut back to mostly just booze and marijuana, because otherwise he and Sunfyre aren't allowed to stay at the new house for sleepovers. There’s a guest bedroom, but Aegon prefers the sunken conversation pit in the mauve pink living room. He likes to be where anyone can stumble across him if they wake up in the middle of the night for pancakes or ice cream. He likes to be where people are; he likes to be included. “Anyway, I gotta go. Cadi will call again tomorrow. Enjoy your fishing.”

“Will do. Maybe I’ll toss your accursed animals in as bait.” Lake Verret is still a bit too brackish for a proper freshwater lake, but that’s changing gradually with Daeron’s desalination efforts and a subaquatic plug affixed to the opening of the breached salt dome. He views it as a pioneering experiment in reversing such drilling accidents, potentially for application globally. Now there are more bass and lampreys and catfish, and less breams and gars, but life goes on in Napoleonville’s 14,000-acre lake. Daeron has replaced Aemond as Viserys’ heir apparent, and he is thriving in the role. He is bookish yet empathetic, focused but never ruthless. Furthermore, he happens to be genuinely in love with his aristocratic fiancée: Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Aemond was right; Viserys didn’t disown him, but he did fire him, ban him from the mansion, and reduce his available funds to a modest living stipend. Fortunately, Viserys has a very limited comprehension of how money works for normal people, and he considers $200,000 per year to be “modest.” With that plus your bakery earnings and a paid-off house, you, Cadi, and Aemond will be living comfortably for the remainder of your lives. Also fortunately, no one else will enforce the no-Aemond rule at The Last Desire, so anytime Viserys is out of town—which is far more often than not—you get to visit the Targaryens at the mansion as much as you please. Cadi loves the water slide and the koi pond. She’s named the fish after Greek deities, her latest obsession: Zeus, Narcissus, Athena, Dionysus, Artemis, Apollo, Echo. Viserys will not acknowledge you, but the rest of the family is polite enough now that the drama of the broken engagement has blown over. When you finish the cookbook of Southern baked goods that you’ve been working on, Alicent had pledged to mail copies to all her friends and relatives back in the U.K. Otto has offered to take a box of them with him next time he jets off for Kiribati; the wealthy housewives marooned in paradise are always on the hunt for new reading material.

On your first night in San Francisco, Amir serves a dinner of cioppino, sourdough bread, and (not homemade) Rice-A-Roni. You provide dessert, a recipe you’re still perfecting: Saint Honoratus cake, a pastry that dates back to Paris in the 1800s. You want to be able to include it in your cookbook, along with photographs from your wedding in the chapel this past May, almost exactly a year from when you and Aemond first met. Your engagement ring has a gold band and pink diamonds arranged to resemble a rockrose, a dauntless little wildflower native to Aemond’s ancestral homeland of Greece. For over a decade you have loved that wildflowers are grown and not bought, small but tenacious, humble yet untamed. They do not wait for other hands to tell them where and how to grow. They are the architects of their own fortune.

When everyone is finished with dessert and gathers around the tv to watch The Golden Girls, Aemond says he’s going outside for a smoke break; but you know he’s trying to quit. You follow him into the small backyard and as soon as your bare feet touch the grass, he’s pushed you against the wall of the house, forced your thighs apart, slipped his hand down the front of your shorts as he watches the amazed, electrified desire rise in your face like heat from a stove. “It’s been a week, and I need you,” Aemond murmurs, his lips ghosting across your throat, his hips braced insistently against yours, and then he kisses you to stifle your moans as you bury your fingers in his hair, to swallow down the vicarious ecstasy of every wondrous thing he’s ever done to you and ever will. “I don’t even need you to get me off. I just need to see you like this.”

Trusting him, wanting him, letting him make me come.

Aemond has been accepted into UC Berkeley’s History PhD program and will start there at the end of August. He wants to write books about underrecognized heroes, extraordinary and yet unassuming people like Bayard Rustin and Bobbi Campbell and Phillis Wheatley. You’ll miss him of course, but there will be breaks for holidays and summers when he can return to Napoleonville, and you can fly out to visit him too, and there are phone calls, and postcards, and one day you’ll be able to go anywhere together—

You gasp, a shaky, starving breath, your lips grinning into Aemond’s. You’re close, you’re so close.

There is a shrill whistle from the back porch of a townhouse from the row behind Amir’s. “Get it, honey!” a man in a leopard-print robe cheers, waving the newspaper he’d been reading. You and Aemond unravel from each other, laughing hysterically.

“Okay,” you tell him, still panting. “Bad plan. We are clearly not accustomed to city life.”

“Tonight,” Aemond says, low and commanding. He returns to you, kissing the side of your face: temple, cheekbone, the curve of your jaw. His voice is dark, jagged glass; his lips are soft like kind dreams. “On the futon, on the floor, anywhere.”

You want it too, but you know the game. “No.”

He pins you to the wall again, powerful, irresistible, his hardness grinding against you through his jeans, everything about him—voice, flesh, rhythm, soul—promising you the peace only he has ever given you, proving that being at the right person’s mercy can make you free. “I’m in charge now. Let me take care of you.” And for a split second you almost beg: Just do it, Aemond, right now, please touch me again, I don’t care if a stranger sees. I want you now, I want you forever.

Instead you smile up at him, the whirls of your fingerprints skating harmlessly over his scarred left cheek as you answer: “Yes sir.”

[proton-wobbler]

Warbler Showdown pt 3; Bracket 5, Poll 2

Altamira Yellowthroat (Geothlypis flavovelata)

IUCN Rating: Near Threatened

Range: sedentary; coastal Mexico, on the Gulf side in a limited area. Central and southern Tamaulipas, east San Luis Potosí, and northern Veracruz.

Habitat: freshwater marshes with extensive reedbed vegetation, though it can also be found in pond reeds and irrigation ditches.

Subspecies: None

Black-polled Yellowthroat (Geothlypis speciosa)

IUCN Rating: Vulnerable

Range: sedentary; from the Valley of Mexico west to Lago Patzcuaro, Michoacan, and Lago Yuriria, Guanajuato.

Habitat: prefers cattail and bullrush marshes, but can also be found in swamps, floodplains, and highland wetlands.

Subspecies: None/2* (IOC recognizes two subspecies)

Image Sources: Black-polled (Andrew Spencer); Altamira (Daniel Garza Tobon)

[forestgreenivy]

A southern coastal setting is often the background to many love stories I’ve watched on screen. I think about the introduction to The Notebook, the birds flying above the Black River. Forest and Jenny. The list goes on and on. Take the people out of the plot, and there’s such a natural romanticism about the Lowcountry coast. It is a ripe setting for love. For me, that love starts and ends here. To feel so deeply connected to an area, and to love it so much. It’s hard to replicate. I fall in love with it over and over again.

When I decided to leave it two years ago, a piece of me was missing and I didn’t feel whole again until I was back. The fear of familiarity and the mundane consumed me. I’ve spent many of these summer days lamenting the cool air of the mountains, missing the summer days spent in the Appalachian creeks. An exciting deviation from the normal. I love it too. The way you love the excitement of an adventure, the rush, the constant of newness. Feeding into an adventurous rush. It’s hard to miss it. But…

I was empty there. I laughed and regularly lived in the awe of seeing places I’d never seen. I lost the familiar love of my life. The beauty in pointing my camera at yet another Egret. Watching the spartina grass finally hit its peak green in August. To then watch it fade to beige again. Seeing yet another lettered olive or little whelk along the beach. I will always pick them up. Watch the sun move over the horizon throughout the seasons.

I sat in my Greenville apartment all alone and decide to watch The Notebook movie because I had nothing better to do. The second those white birds flew over the Black River, a river I’ve spent so much time on, I would cry because I missed my birds. I missed seeing the things I regularly love. I felt like I was missing out on my own life.

Watching the coastal birds fly over to roost at the state park, watching the tide roll in and out. In and out. Who knew I would feel like I was missing out on something that seemingly never ended and something I saw every single day. I ultimately couldn’t take it. I gave up the promise of new sights and adventures to spent my days capturing yet another picture of some birds. To me, yes a waterfall is more magnificent than watching something I am use to. But that’s love. I look out at the cattails and brackish water. I listen to the Blue Herons abrasively honk. Who knows how many times I’ve been out in some marsh to watch it. It truly never gets old.

This area is romantic. At least for me. But not because of memories of lovers. No. This area is full of love for what it is. Something many people here deeply understand. When you see it through that lens, and you love it so much…. You can’t depart from it. It becomes the love of your life. Something I know I will grow old with.

If I make it to 80 or 90 years old, as long as I have strength to walk, you can find me out here among the wetlands. Over and over and over again. I love it more and more every time.

[strixcattus]

The Blisheag

From birds we began, and to birds we once again return.

...Though there's not exactly a lot to go by this time around.

The Blisheag

The Blisheag (Blisheag blisheag) is a migratory bird that lives throughout Europe in the summer and in southern Europe and southwest Asia in the winter. It has long legs and bill, broad wings, primarily white feathers, and tan markings along the backs of its wings and the tip of its tail. All Blisheag have red patches on their throats—these are small and uniform in females and large and varied in males.

Blisheag primarily nest near lakes, coastlines, and slow-moving rivers. They will build elaborate nests at the bases of trees, constructed from branches, cattails and other emergent plants, mud, and their own shed feathers. These nests are sturdy, and a mated pair of Blisheag will attempt to return to the same nest year after year, repairing and strengthening it as needed.

Their diet consists primarily of fish, and of snakes whenever they have the chance to hunt them. A Blisheag which has spotted a snake will glide overhead until it seizes the opportunity to land, foot atop the snake's neck, which prevents it from biting before the Blisheag can spear the snake's skull with its beak.

Blisheag mate for life, and both partners take equal roles in caring for their chicks. The female will lay eggs in late spring, upon arrival to her nest in Europe, and throughout summer at least one parent will always be present in the nest to shelter and guard the eggs, and later, to watch the chicks as they grow. At the end of summer, when it is time for the Blisheag to migrate, the chicks will travel with their parents, who in turn will join up with a larger flock typically containing their siblings and parents.

After the first year of their lives, Blisheag leave their parents to find mates and build nests of their own. However, they still frequently visit their parents, and as the parents age, their chicks will pay close attention to them during migration to ensure that every member of the family makes it to their nest safely. It is thanks to this mutual protection between parent and chick that Blisheag have few successful natural predators.

[truthdawn]

Bread is a staple food prepared from a dough of flour (usually wheat) and water, usually by baking. Throughout recorded history and around the world, it has been an important part of many cultures' diet. It is one of the oldest human-made foods, having been of significance since the dawn of agriculture, and plays an essential role in both religious rituals and secular culture.

Bread may be leavened by naturally occurring microbes (e.g. sourdough), chemicals (e.g. baking soda), industrially produced yeast, or high-pressure aeration, which creates the gas bubbles that fluff up bread. In many countries, commercial bread often contains additives to improve flavor, texture, color, shelf life, nutrition, and ease of production.

Etymology

The Old English word for bread was hlaf (hlaifs in Gothic: modern English loaf), which appears to be the oldest Teutonic name.[1] Old High German hleib[2] and modern German Laib derive from this Proto-Germanic word, which was borrowed into some Slavic (Czech: chléb, Polish: bochen chleba, Russian: khleb) and Finnic (Finnish: leipä, Estonian: leib) languages as well. The Middle and Modern English word bread appears in Germanic languages, such as West Frisian: brea, Dutch: brood, German: Brot, Swedish: bröd, and Norwegian and Danish: brød; it may be related to brew or perhaps to break, originally meaning "broken piece", "morsel".[3][better source needed]

History

Main article: History of bread

Bread is one of the oldest prepared foods. Evidence from 30,000 years ago in Europe and Australia revealed starch residue on rocks used for pounding plants.[4][5] It is possible that during this time, starch extract from the roots of plants, such as cattails and ferns, was spread on a flat rock, placed over a fire and cooked into a primitive form of flatbread. The oldest evidence of bread-making has been found in a 14,500-year-old Natufian site in Jordan's northeastern desert.[6][7] Around 10,000 BC, with the dawn of the Neolithic age and the spread of agriculture, grains became the mainstay of making bread. Yeast spores are ubiquitous, including on the surface of cereal grains, so any dough left to rest leavens naturally.[8]Woman baking bread (c. 2200 BC); Louvre

An early leavened bread was baked as early as 6000 BC in southern Mesopotamia, cradle of the Sumerian civilization, who may have passed on the knowledge to the Egyptians around 3000 BC. The Egyptians refined the process and started adding yeast to the flour. The Sumerians were already using ash to supplement the dough as it was baked.[9]

There were multiple sources of leavening available for early bread. Airborne yeasts could be harnessed by leaving uncooked dough exposed to air for some time before cooking. Pliny the Elder reported that the Gauls and Iberians used the foam skimmed from beer, called barm, to produce "a lighter kind of bread than other peoples" such as barm cake. Parts of the ancient world that drank wine instead of beer used a paste composed of grape juice and flour that was allowed to begin fermenting, or wheat bran steeped in wine, as a source for yeast. The most common source of leavening was to retain a piece of dough from the previous day to use as a form of sourdough starter, as Pliny also reported.[10][11]

The ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans all considered the degree of refinement in the bakery arts as a sign of civilization.[9]

The Chorleywood bread process was developed in 1961; it uses the intense mechanical working of dough to dramatically reduce the fermentation period and the time taken to produce a loaf. The process, whose high-energy mixing allows for the use of grain with a lower protein content, is now widely used around the world in large factories. As a result, bread can be produced very quickly and at low costs to the manufacturer and the consumer. However, there has been some criticism of the effect on nutritional value.[12][13][14]

Types

Main article: List of breads

Brown bread (left) and whole grain bread

Dark sprouted bread

Ruisreikäleipä, a flat rye flour loaf with a hole

Bread is the staple food of the Middle East, Central Asia, North Africa, Europe, and in European-derived cultures such as those in the Americas, Australia, and Southern Africa. This is in contrast to parts of South and East Asia, where rice or noodles are the staple. Bread is usually made from a wheat-flour dough that is cultured with yeast, allowed to rise, and baked in an oven. Carbon dioxide and ethanol vapors produced during yeast fermentation result in bread's air pockets.[15] Owing to its high levels of gluten (which give the dough sponginess and elasticity), common or bread wheat is the most common grain used for the preparation of bread, which makes the largest single contribution to the world's food supply of any food.[16]Sangak, an Iranian flatbreadStrucia — a type of European sweet bread

Bread is also made from the flour of other wheat species (including spelt, emmer, einkorn and kamut).[17] Non-wheat cereals including rye, barley, maize (corn), oats, sorghum, millet and rice have been used to make bread, but, with the exception of rye, usually in combination with wheat flour as they have less gluten.[18]

Gluten-free breads are made using flours from a variety of ingredients such as almonds, rice, sorghum, corn, legumes such as beans, and tubers such as cassava. Since these foods lack gluten, dough made from them may not hold its shape as the loaves rise, and their crumb may be dense with little aeration. Additives such as xanthan gum, guar gum, hydroxypropyl methylcellulose (HPMC), corn starch, or eggs are used to compensate for the lack of gluten.[19][20][21][22]

Properties

Physical-chemical composition

In wheat, phenolic compounds are mainly found in hulls in the form of insoluble bound ferulic acid, where it is relevant to wheat resistance to fungal diseases.[23]

Rye bread contains phenolic acids and ferulic acid dehydrodimers.[24]

Three natural phenolic glucosides, secoisolariciresinol diglucoside, p-coumaric acid glucoside and ferulic acid glucoside, can be found in commercial breads containing flaxseed.[25]Small home made bread with pumpkin and sunflower seeds

Glutenin and gliadin are functional proteins found in wheat bread that contribute to the structure of bread. Glutenin forms interconnected gluten networks within bread through interchain disulfide bonds.[26] Gliadin binds weakly to the gluten network established by glutenin via intrachain disulfide bonds.[26] Structurally, bread can be defined as an elastic-plastic foam (same as styrofoam). The glutenin protein contributes to its elastic nature, as it is able to regain its initial shape after deformation. The gliadin protein contributes to its plastic nature, because it demonstrates non-reversible structural change after a certain amount of applied force. Because air pockets within this gluten network result from carbon dioxide production during leavening, bread can be defined as a foam, or a gas-in-solid solution.[27]

Acrylamide, like in other starchy foods that have been heated higher than 120 °C (248 °F), has been found in recent years to occur in bread. Acrylamide is neurotoxic, has adverse effects on male reproduction and developmental toxicity and is carcinogenic. A study has found that more than 99 percent of the acrylamide in bread is found in the crust.[28]

A study by the University of Hohenheim found that industrially produced bread typically has a high proportion of FODMAP carbohydrates due to a short rising time (often only one hour). The high proportion of FODMAP carbohydrates in such bread then causes flatulence. This is particularly problematic in intestinal diseases such as irritable bowel syndrome. While in traditional bread making the dough rises for several hours, industrial breads rise for a much shorter time, usually only one hour. However, a sufficiently long rising time is important to break down the indigestible FODMAP carbohydrates. Some flours (for example, spelt, emmer and einkorn) contain fewer FODMAPs, but the difference between grain types is relatively small (between 1 and 2 percent by weight). Instead, 90% of the FODMAPs that cause discomfort can be broken down during a rising time of 4 hours. In the study, whole-grain yeast doughs were examined after different rising times; the highest level of FODMAPs was present after one hour in each case and decreased thereafter. The study thus shows that it is essentially the baking technique and not the type of grain that determines whether a bread is well tolerated or not. A better tolerance of bread made from original cereals can therefore not be explained by the original cereal itself, but rather by the fact that traditional, artisanal baking techniques are generally used when baking original cereals, which include a long dough process. The study also showed that a long rising time also breaks down undesirable phytates more effectively, flavors develop better, and the finished bread contains more biologically accessible trace elements.[29][30]

Culinary uses

Bread pudding

Bread can be served at many temperatures; once baked, it can subsequently be toasted. It is most commonly eaten with the hands, either by itself or as a carrier for other foods. Bread can be spread with butter, dipped into liquids such as gravy, olive oil, or soup;[31] it can be topped with various sweet and savory spreads, or used to make sandwiches containing meats, cheeses, vegetables, and condiments.[32]

Bread is used as an ingredient in other culinary preparations, such as the use of breadcrumbs to provide crunchy crusts or thicken sauces; toasted cubes of bread, called croutons, are used as a salad topping; seasoned bread is used as stuffing inside roasted turkey; sweet or savoury bread puddings are made with bread and various liquids; egg and milk-soaked bread is fried as French toast; and bread is used as a binding agent in sausages, meatballs and other ground meat products.[33]

Nutritional significance

Bread is a good source of carbohydrates and micronutrients such as magnesium, iron, selenium, and B vitamins. Whole grain bread is a good source of dietary fiber and all breads are a common source of protein in the diet, though not a rich one.[34][35]

Crust

Crust of a cut bread made of whole-grainrye with crust crack (half right at the top)

Bread crust is formed from surface dough during the cooking process. It is hardened and browned through the Maillard reaction using the sugars and amino acids due to the intense heat at the bread surface. The crust of most breads is harder, and more complexly and intensely flavored, than the rest. Old wives' tales suggest that eating the bread crust makes a person's hair curlier.[36] Additionally, the crust is rumored to be healthier than the remainder of the bread. Some studies have shown that this is true as the crust has more dietary fiber and antioxidants such as pronyl-lysine.[37]

Preparation

Steps in bread making, here for an unleavened Chilean tortilla

Doughs are usually baked, but in some cuisines breads are steamed (e.g., mantou), fried (e.g., puri), or baked on an unoiled frying pan (e.g., tortillas). It may be leavened or unleavened (e.g. matzo). Salt, fat and leavening agents such as yeast and baking soda are common ingredients, though bread may contain other ingredients, such as milk, egg, sugar, spice, fruit (such as raisins), vegetables (such as onion), nuts (such as walnut) or seeds (such as poppy).[38]

Methods of processing dough into bread include the straight dough process, the sourdough process, the Chorleywood bread process and the sponge and dough process.Baking bread in East Timor

Formulation

Professional bread recipes are stated using the baker's percentage notation. The amount of flour is denoted to be 100%, and the other ingredients are expressed as a percentage of that amount by weight. Measurement by weight is more accurate and consistent than measurement by volume, particularly for dry ingredients. The proportion of water to flour is the most important measurement in a bread recipe, as it affects texture and crumb the most. Hard wheat flours absorb about 62% water, while softer wheat flours absorb about 56%.[39] Common table breads made from these doughs result in a finely textured, light bread. Most artisan bread formulas contain anywhere from 60 to 75% water. In yeast breads, the higher water percentages result in more CO2 bubbles and a coarser bread crumb.

Dough recipes commonly call for 500 grams (about 1.1 pounds) of flour, which yields a single loaf of bread or two baguettes.

Calcium propionate is commonly added by commercial bakeries to retard the growth of molds.[citation needed]

Flour

Main article: Flour

Flour is grain ground into a powder. Flour provides the primary structure, starch and protein to the final baked bread. The protein content of the flour is the best indicator of the quality of the bread dough and the finished bread. While bread can be made from all-purpose wheat flour, a specialty bread flour, containing more protein (12–14%), is recommended for high-quality bread. If one uses a flour with a lower protein content (9–11%) to produce bread, a shorter mixing time is required to develop gluten strength properly. An extended mixing time leads to oxidization of the dough, which gives the finished product a whiter crumb, instead of the cream color preferred by most artisan bakers.[40]

Wheat flour, in addition to its starch, contains three water-soluble protein groups (albumin, globulin, and proteoses) and two water-insoluble protein groups (glutenin and gliadin). When flour is mixed with water, the water-soluble proteins dissolve, leaving the glutenin and gliadin to form the structure of the resulting bread. When relatively dry dough is worked by kneading, or wet dough is allowed to rise for a long time (see no-knead bread), the glutenin forms strands of long, thin, chainlike molecules, while the shorter gliadin forms bridges between the strands of glutenin. The resulting networks of strands produced by these two proteins are known as gluten. Gluten development improves if the dough is allowed to autolyse.[41]

Liquids

Water, or some other liquid, is used to form the flour into a paste or dough. The weight or ratio of liquid required varies between recipes, but a ratio of three parts liquid to five parts flour is common for yeast breads.[42] Recipes that use steam as the primary leavening method may have a liquid content in excess of one part liquid to one part flour. Instead of water, recipes may use liquids such as milk or other dairy products (including buttermilk or yogurt), fruit juice, or eggs. These contribute additional sweeteners, fats, or leavening components, as well as water.[43]

Fats or shortenings

Fats, such as butter, vegetable oils, lard, or that contained in eggs, affect the development of gluten in breads by coating and lubricating the individual strands of protein. They also help to hold the structure together. If too much fat is included in a bread dough, the lubrication effect causes the protein structures to divide. A fat content of approximately 3% by weight is the concentration that produces the greatest leavening action.[44] In addition to their effects on leavening, fats also serve to tenderize breads and preserve freshness.

Bread improvers

Main article: Bread improver

Bread improvers and dough conditioners are often used in producing commercial breads to reduce the time needed for rising and to improve texture and volume and to give antistaling effects. The substances used may be oxidising agents to strengthen the dough or reducing agents to develop gluten and reduce mixing time, emulsifiers to strengthen the dough or to provide other properties such as making slicing easier, or enzymes to increase gas production.[45]

Salt

Salt (sodium chloride) is very often added to enhance flavor and restrict yeast activity. It also affects the crumb and the overall texture by stabilizing and strengthening[46] the gluten. Some artisan bakers forego early addition of salt to the dough, whether wholemeal or refined, and wait until after a 20-minute rest to allow the dough to autolyse.[47]

Mixtures of salts are sometimes employed, such as employing potassium chloride to reduce the sodium level, and monosodium glutamate to give flavor (umami).

Leavening

See also: Unleavened breadA dough trough, located in Aberdour Castle, once used for leavening bread

Leavening is the process of adding gas to a dough before or during baking to produce a lighter, more easily chewed bread. Most bread eaten in the West is leavened.[48]

Chemicals

A simple technique for leavening bread is the use of gas-producing chemicals. There are two common methods. The first is to use baking powder or a self-raising flour that includes baking powder. The second is to include an acidic ingredient such as buttermilk and add baking soda; the reaction of the acid with the soda produces gas.[48] Chemically leavened breads are called quick breads and soda breads. This method is commonly used to make muffins, pancakes, American-style biscuits, and quick breads such as banana bread.

Yeast

Main article: Baker's yeastCompressed fresh yeast

Many breads are leavened by yeast. The yeast most commonly used for leavening bread is Saccharomyces cerevisiae, the same species used for brewing alcoholic beverages. This yeast ferments some of the sugars producing carbon dioxide. Commercial bakers often leaven their dough with commercially produced baker's yeast. Baker's yeast has the advantage of producing uniform, quick, and reliable results, because it is obtained from a pure culture.[48] Many artisan bakers produce their own yeast with a growth culture. If kept in the right conditions, it provides leavening for many years.[49]

The baker's yeast and sourdough methods follow the same pattern. Water is mixed with flour, salt and the leavening agent. Other additions (spices, herbs, fats, seeds, fruit, etc.) are not needed to bake bread, but are often used. The mixed dough is then allowed to rise one or more times (a longer rising time results in more flavor, so bakers often "punch down" the dough and let it rise again), loaves are formed, and (after an optional final rising time) the bread is baked in an oven.[48]

Many breads are made from a "straight dough", which means that all of the ingredients are combined in one step, and the dough is baked after the rising time;[48] others are made from a "pre-ferment" in which the leavening agent is combined with some of the flour and water a day or so ahead of baking and allowed to ferment overnight. On the day of baking, the rest of the ingredients are added, and the process continues as with straight dough. This produces a more flavorful bread with better texture. Many bakers see the starter method as a compromise between the reliable results of baker's yeast and the flavor and complexity of a longer fermentation. It also allows the baker to use only a minimal amount of baker's yeast, which was scarce and expensive when it first became available. Most yeasted pre-ferments fall into one of three categories: "poolish" or "pouliche", a loose-textured mixture composed of roughly equal amounts of flour and water (by weight); "biga", a stiff mixture with a higher proportion of flour; and "pâte fermentée", which is a portion of dough reserved from a previous batch.[50][51]

Before first rising

After first rising

After proofing, ready to bake

Sourdough

Main article: SourdoughSourdough loaves

Sourdough is a type of bread produced by a long fermentation of dough using naturally occurring yeasts and lactobacilli. It usually has a mildly sour taste because of the lactic acid produced during anaerobic fermentation by the lactobacilli. Longer fermented sourdoughs can also contain acetic acid, the main non-water component of vinegar.[52][53][54]

Sourdough breads are made with a sourdough starter. The starter cultivates yeast and lactobacilli in a mixture of flour and water, making use of the microorganisms already present on flour; it does not need any added yeast. A starter may be maintained indefinitely by regular additions of flour and water. Some bakers have starters many generations old, which are said to have a special taste or texture.[52] At one time, all yeast-leavened breads were sourdoughs. Recently there has been a revival of sourdough bread in artisan bakeries.[55]

Traditionally, peasant families throughout Europe baked on a fixed schedule, perhaps once a week. The starter was saved from the previous week's dough. The starter was mixed with the new ingredients, the dough was left to rise, and then a piece of it was saved to be the starter for next week's bread.[48]

Steam

The rapid expansion of steam produced during baking leavens the bread, which is as simple as it is unpredictable. Steam-leavening is unpredictable since the steam is not produced until the bread is baked. Steam leavening happens regardless of the raising agents (baking soda, yeast, baking powder, sour dough, beaten egg white) included in the mix. The leavening agent either contains air bubbles or generates carbon dioxide. The heat vaporises the water from the inner surface of the bubbles within the dough. The steam expands and makes the bread rise. This is the main factor in the rising of bread once it has been put in the oven.[56] CO2 generation, on its own, is too small to account for the rise. Heat kills bacteria or yeast at an early stage, so the CO2 generation is stopped.

Bacteria

Salt-rising bread does not use yeast. Instead, it is leavened by Clostridium perfringens, one of the most common sources of food-borne illness.[57][58]

Aeration

Aerated bread is leavened by carbon dioxide being forced into dough under pressure. From the mid-19th to mid-20th centuries, bread made this way was somewhat popular in the United Kingdom, made by the Aerated Bread Company and sold in its high-street tearooms. The company was founded in 1862, and ceased independent operations in 1955.[59]

The Pressure-Vacuum mixer was later developed by the Flour Milling and Baking Research Association for the Chorleywood bread process. It manipulates the gas bubble size and optionally the composition of gases in the dough via the gas applied to the headspace.[60]

Cultural Significance

A Ukrainian woman in national dress welcoming with bread and salt

Main article: Bread in culture

Bread has a significance beyond mere nutrition in many cultures because of its history and contemporary importance. Bread is also significant in Christianity as one of the elements (alongside wine) of the Eucharist,[61] and in other religions including Paganism.[62]

In many cultures, bread is a metaphor for basic necessities and living conditions in general. For example, a "bread-winner" is a household's main economic contributor and has little to do with actual bread-provision. This is also seen in the phrase "putting bread on the table". The Roman poet Juvenal satirized superficial politicians and the public as caring only for "panem et circenses" (bread and circuses).[63] In Russia in 1917, the Bolsheviks promised "peace, land, and bread."[64][65] The term "breadbasket" denotes an agriculturally productive region. In parts of Northern, Central, Southern and Eastern Europe bread and salt is offered as a welcome to guests.[66] In India, life's basic necessities are often referred to as "roti, kapra aur makan" (bread, cloth, and house).[67]

Words for bread, including "dough" and "bread" itself, are used in English-speaking countries as synonyms for money.[1] A remarkable or revolutionary innovation may be called the best thing since "sliced bread".[68] The expression "to break bread with someone" means "to share a meal with someone".[69] The English word "lord" comes from the Anglo-Saxon hlāfweard, meaning "bread keeper."[70]

Bread is sometimes referred to as "the staff of life", although this term can refer to other staple foods in different cultures: the Oxford English Dictionary defines it as "bread (or similar staple food)".[71][72] This is sometimes thought to be a biblical reference, but the nearest wording is in Leviticus 26 "when I have broken the staff of your bread".[73] The term has been adopted in the names of bakery firms.[74]

See also

Food portal

Bark bread – Scandinavian bread used as famine food

Bread bowl – Round loaf of bread which has had a large portion of the middle cut out to create an edible bowl

Bread clip – Closure device for plastic bags

Bread dildo – Dildo prepared using bread, allegedly made in the Greco-Roman era around 2,000 years ago

Breading – Residue of dried bread

Bread machine – Type of home appliance for baking bread

Bread pan – Kitchen utensil

Crouton – Rebaked breads

List of breads

List of bread dishes – Dishes using bread as a main ingredient, listed by category

List of toast dishes

Quick bread – Bread leavened with agents other than yeast

Sliced bread – Loaf of bread that has been sliced with a machine

Slow Bread – Type of bread made using very little yeast

Sop – Piece of bread or toast that is drenched in liquid and then eaten.

Stuffing – Edible mixture filling a food's cavity

White bread – Type of bread made from white wheat flour

oh fuck yes bread

[outofangband]

Green Elves of Ossiriand World Building Introduction

Other world building intros for different elven peoples on this Masterlist!

Here are some more general world building headcanons (architecture/homes, governance, etc) Please feel free to ask more!!

General posts are hard because I didn’t have specific categories to cover so feel free to send categories! I also have this world building prompt list here!

The green elves are semi nomadic with few permanent settlements. The exception to this are those in Arthórien in Doriath but these are mostly refugees, the injured and displaced and traumatized after the early battles of Beleriand

In Southern Beleriand there are also some more permanent settlements

Possessions tend to be spare, what can be held in small satchels or kept in small homes. Tools tend to be shared among families, made from wood, clay and stone.

Homes and shelters are formed from a variety of materials and in a variety of places; treehouses and dug out shelters in hills are some of the most common lasting structures. Wood, woven reeds and earth are among the most common materials.

Silk worms are cultivated by both Sindar and Nandor cultures and silk can be found both in Doriath and in Southern Ossiriand though on a smaller scale.

The Green elves also use hemp, flax or linseed and green and white ramie.

Through trade with dwarven and other elven peoples, namely an Avarin group with cultural and genetic links to the Noldor of the mountains in Aman, they also use goat and alpaca wool, especially in northern Ossiriand and other regions of Eastern Beleriand

Music and the creation of instruments are vital crafts throughout Nandor cultures. Bow harp, guirs, plucked string instruments like Çifteli, flutes, and percussive instruments are some of the more common ones.

Flours are made from acorn, Pine nuts, cattails and amaranths depending on the location. Breads are often sunbaked or through clay ovens

Eggs are used rarely though they are occasionally used, typically foraged ones as ground birds aren't usually kept except as companions.

Farmers market like occasions are erected in the spring and summer and less commonly in colder weather. (Note: Ossiriand has a mild climate but there are still a few months of cooler temperatures)

Population density varies widely throughout Ossiriand

Governance varies throughout their people with many living outside formal government structures and traveling with original or chosen family. Communities tend to be self governing with leaders decided based on experience and age. Typically a few people will also be selected for diplomatic and trade relations.

After the death of Denethor on Amon Ereb, the noble or governmental structure he was apart of largely fell apart

The primary language is Danian or Ossiriandic. Its written form is largely lost. Like the Falathrim, I headcanon that pictographs are highly utilized though a different system than theirs

The diet is largely vegetarian though they do eat fish occasionally. Growing and gathering/foraging is primarily how food is sourced. The mild climate allows for plant based foods to be eaten throughout the year though options do become limited in cooler months. Fresh food is prioritized though the Nandor do have methods of preserving food.

As always please feel free to ask more! I couldn't cover everything here obviously!

[rodentcompetition]

Preliminaries

Information about contestants below!

Nutria or coypu (Myocastor coypus)

Nutria is a large, herbivorous, semiaquatic rodent. It lives in burrows alongside stretches of water and feeds on river plant stems. It somewhat resembles a very large rat, or a beaver with a small, long and skinny hairless tail. Three distinguishing features are a white patch on the muzzle, webbed hind feet, and large, bright orange-yellow incisors.

Nutria are found most commonly in freshwater marshes and wetlands. They either construct their own burrows, or occupy burrows abandoned by other animals. They are also capable of constructing floating rafts out of vegetation. Nutria live in partially underwater dens. One male will share a den with three or four females and their offspring.

Nutria can live up to six years in captivity, but individuals uncommonly live past three years old. It is considered an invasive species in Europe.

Desmarest's hutia or Cuban hutia (Capromys pilorides)

It is the largest living hutia. It has thick, coarse fur which extends to the tip of the tail. The colour of the body fur varies from black to brown, with a light sand colour and red also seen.

The Desmarest's hutia is found only in Cuba, but is widespread throughout its range. In northern Cuba, populations tend to be centred on areas where there are abundant mangroves, while southern populations tend to favour a more terrestrial habitat.

Desmarest's hutias normally live in pairs, but can be found individually or in small groups. They are diurnal and do not burrow, so during the night they rest in hollows in rocks or trees. They are omnivorous but eat mostly bark, leaves and fruit. In captivity they live for eight to eleven years.

Muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus)

They are covered with short, thick fur of medium to dark brown color. They have long tails covered with scales. To aid in swimming, their tails are slightly flattened vertically, a shape that is unique to them. Muskrats spend most of their time in the water and can swim underwater for 12 to 17 minutes.

The muskrat mostly inhabit wetlands. They live in families, consisting of a male and female pair and their young. They build nests that are often burrowed into the bank with an underwater entrance. Muskrats feed mostly on cattail and other aquatic vegetation but also eat small animals.

Their bodies, like those of seals and whales, are less sensitive to the buildup of carbon dioxide than those of most other mammals. They can close off their ears to keep water out. In some European countries the muskrat is considered an invasive species.

[onamentalone]

Wings, (Daryl Dixon)

fem! oc x Daryl Dixon

warnings: slight implications of smut

setting: greene family farm

Taite was unsure as of yet if she was searching for something to live for, or a reason to die.

She knew that her family had been shielded from what was really happening in the world, I mean her father believed that these things were sick for gods sake.

When the group of survivors had come to seek refuge at her families farm, she knew that the difference in opinions would cause conflict.

They’d already cleared out the barn of undead family that her father was so carefully protecting and feeding.

Taite had always felt like an outcast to her family, she was the middle child - older than Beth, but younger than Maggie.

———————————————————————————

“Y’ got a spare?” A gravely voice called from behind Taite. She turned to face Daryl, a pariah such as herself. She’d noticed that he’d always kept himself to himself, stayed silent during debates, even refused to camp near the rest of his group.

The air was humid yet still nippy, a low mist hung over the unkept grass and the shallow waters of the pond swished against the cattail plants.

“Nope.” The girl responded after a second. She pulled the cigarette from her lips and offered it to the man. She was surprised that a man like Daryl would even associate himself with the farmers daughter.

He took the cigarette and took a large drag. “I’m Taite.” The girl spoke, disrupting the silence. “I know who y’ ’re.” smoke trails escaping from his mouth as he spoke.

The two looked into each others eyes, they both realised their similarities.

He took a few more draws before handing the singular cigarette back, by that time it was almost finished.

“Haven’t been able t’ get ma hands on one of them f’r a while now.” He spoke.

She stayed quiet, taking a drag and allowing the flame of the cigarette to finally burn out. She stomped the butt into a patch of dirt, holding her hair out of her face in the process.

“They’re my daddy’s.” She responded in a light southern accent. “What? Y’ steal ‘em?” He asked, a small smile creeping onto his face. The girl only giggled in response, tucking one side of her hair behind her ear.

“Ay, watch out!” Daryl suddenly half-yelled. A growl sounded from the behind the girl but before she could turn, she was shoved out of the way.

She tumbled straight onto the floor, a sharp pain becoming apparent in her ankle from the impact of the hard dirt.

The sound of an arrow releasing from Daryl’s crossbow sounded and the growls stopped instantly. The girl turned onto her side, whimpering slightly and clutching onto her foot.

“Ow!” Taite managed to get out. Daryl quickly took notice of the injured girl, slinging his crossbow back over his shoulder and crouching down into the grass.

“Y’ alright?” He spoke, unsure on whether to touch her or not, instead flailing his arms awkwardly.

“M-My ankle…” She muttered, “I think I twisted it.” She managed to sit up, her grip still tight around her foot. “I don’t know if I can walk.”

Daryl didn’t need her permission, he quickly wrapped his arms around the girl and stood up without delay.

The girl was now being carried bridal style, back towards the farm house. Daryl stomped through the wispy grass, eyes set on the glowing home.

“She twisted ‘er ankle.” He announced once stepping foot through the door. The girl used one hand to cover her face, her cheeks turning a deeper shade, embarrassed at the fact she’d injured herself so easily.

Daryl slumped the girl down onto the couch, a few family members flocked to assess the severity of the sore.

“What were y’all doing out there anyway?” Maggie asked, her brows knitted together as Hershel pushed her dirtied cargoes up her leg.

“We were ju-” “Nothin’!” Taite interrupted, not wanting her father to know where his missing cigarettes had disappeared to.

Carol, Maggie and Hershel exchanged quizzical exchanges, deciding not to question any further. Hershel pushed some ice wrapped in a cloth onto her ankle and allowed it to rest on the arm of the seat.

———————————————————————————

“So, what were y’all actually doing?” Carol asked, now sat on the porch with Daryl.

Daryl gazed into the window at the now, deep in slumber Taite.

“We weren’ doin’ anythin’ ju- just… smoking a cigarette, sh’ didnt wan’ Hershel knowin” He finally spoke, tearing his eyes away from the window.

“Really?” Carol smiled, not quite believing that Daryl wouldn’t grab at the opportunity to get close to a pretty girl.

Daryl just scoffed, knowing no amount of convincing would make Carol accept the truth.

———————————————————————————

[oaresearchpaper]

Discovery of Carasobarbus Sublimus in Al-Diwaniya River, Iraq

Abstract

During a fish survey from 2016 to 2017, we captured 83 specimens of the cyprinid fish, Carasobarbus sublimus from the Al-Diwaniya River, Middle Euphrates, Iraq. This is the first report of the occurrence of this species in this locality. Fish were captured by gill nets and electro-fishing equipment. Twenty two morphometric and eleven meristic measurements were applied to describe the species. The range of total length in the present specimens (130.4-250.1mm) is larger than the range quoted for C. sublimus. The indices characters to standard length (SL) varied from 7.4 % to 121.0 %, and the head characters to head length (HL) from 27.4% to 93.2%. The growth rate between body characters and SL varied from 0.085 to 1.118 and between head characters and HL from 0.210 to 1.091.The numbers of scales in lateral line and around the least circumference of the caudal peduncle are 27-29 and 12, respectively. The biometric data were successful in identifying of C. sublimus and confirm the presence of the species in the Al-Diwaniya River. This is the second record of the species in the Iraqi freshwaters. Based on this finding, the case would be interesting and open to discussion about the distributions of C. sublimus in the Tigris-Euphrates basin.

Introduction

According to Borkenhagen and Krupp (2013), the cyprinid genus Carasobarbus Karaman, 1971 (the himri) belong to the family Cyprinidae, subfamily Barbinae are distributed across southwest Asia and northwest Africa. They occur in all major river systems of the Levant, Mesopotamia, southern Iran, western and south-western Arabian Peninsula and in northern Morocco. 

Also, Borkenhagen and Krupp (2013) revised and expanded Karaman’s (1971) diagnosis of the genus that now contains the nine following species: Carasobarbus apoensis, C. canis, C. chantrei, C. exulatus, C. fritschii, C. harterti, C. kosswigi, C. luteus and C. sublimus.

Three species from the genus, C. luteus, C. kosswigi and C. sublimus have been reported from Iranian waters (Borkenhagen and Krupp, 2013) and C. chantrei, C. kosswigi and C. luteus from Turkish waters (Çiçek et al., 2015), while C. luteus, C. kosswigi and C. sublimes were found in Iraqi waters (Coad, 2010; Mohamed et al., 2017).

C. sublimus was first described and reported by Coad and Najafpour in 1997 from Khuzestan waters, southwestern Iran. C. sublimus formerly placed in the genus Kosswigobarbus Berg, 1916, but Borkenhagen et al. (2011) placed this species in Carasobarbus.

Coad and Najafpour (1997) and Esmaeil et al. (2006) have rectified the species by comparing it with C. kosswigi and C. luteus on the basis of their morphology in Iran, while, Mohamed et al. (2017) described and compared C. sublimus obtained from the Shatt Al-Arab River for the first time in Iraq with C. luteus in Iraqi waters.

During the ichthyofauna survey for the Al-Diwania River (a branch from the Euphrates River, middle of Iraq) during November 2016 - October 2017, several specimens of cyprinid fish, C. sublimus have been caught for the first time from south the Daghghara barrier on this river. 

The predominant vegetations on the both banks of this locality were reed, Phragmites australis and cattail, Typha domingensis, whereas hornwort, Ceratophyllum demersum was dominant in the deeper areas.

The water temperature of the river varied from 10.2oC in March to 32.8oC in August, dissolved oxygen fluctuated from 5.0mg/l in August to 9.6mg/l cm in February, salinity values ranged from 0.55‰ in April to 0.79‰ in October (Mohamed and Al-Jubouri, 2017). 

So, the purpose of this paper is to describe the morphometric and meristic characters of C. sublimus for the first time in the middle of Iraq. Examined specimens had been placed in the fish collection of the Department of Pathology, College of Veterinary Medicine, Al-Qasim Green University, Iraq.

Source Occurrence of cyprinid fish, Carasobarbus sublimus in the Al-Diwaniya River, Middle Euphrates, Iraq

[beaucolics]

Summer Stars

Each night I stare into the blackness,

Spying upon the countless celestial pinpoints Dancing amidst the void of space and time, Twilight gleams that are ageless and defy time.

Shining upon the midnight hours, when the glowing blue

Bewitches the soul and fondles the spirit,

Waking the primal fire with beams that shine Like Diamonds from worlds beyond imagination.

When the mandolin's song plays low in the distance

The fiddle's harmony floats in the sultry air,

When the mists enshroud the moonlight and swirl amid lovers, From her watery Southern grave she rises in the night To conjure a spell draped in robes of virgin white, While echoing contradictions to the evening air, Sweet intoxicating vapors that forever haunt The pages of the mind -

Hidden forever among the cattails and backwaters, That is where she dwells, in drenched linen Which wraps invisibly around her darkened body.

Her voice still swirls in the corners of the lake, Where only the fireflies dance, the toad does bellow, And the primal snake does curl in waiting.

Her long flowing hair of black does nestle the sweet smell - Magnolia - the Willow branch does reach out to her path, The Moon may always set, the fog shall vanish, and the Specter Of Memory does fade with the ages.

Yet she can still be heard in faint laughter and southern drawl, Calling forever in the Banjo Wind, as a lonesome harmony flows From the Cliffs, the River's Bend, the Winds, Woods, and Waters, Oh, Glorious Southern Belle, your memory dwells

In the Song of the Lake and shines under Summer Stars.

N.D.G.

25 July 1994

southern gothic slay. go check out @revenant2021 <3

[novafloofeatsbirds]

ok so back when i obsessively played the original cattails when I was 11 i think?? I had this entire plot in my mind that i spent around 2 ingame years just setting up. The premise was that my character and Nil were friends but Nil was having a forbidden relationship with Missy from the forest colony?? I don't think I had any reason for the ship other than that I wanted one of the kits to look like Blackstar from warrior cats ;-; so neither of them could take the kits so my character and Krampy would have pretended to find them abandoned.

Anyways during all of this while getting her reputation up with all the colonies she started to make friends with everyone in the Mountain Domain and found that she liked it better there than in the Mystic Colony. So My character, Krampy, and the 4 kits booked it and joined the Mountain Domain. And then I had this plot where every 5 years in game the Mountain Domain would take over every territory tile on the map, then withdraw from the southern half of the map and let the Forest and Mystic colonies fight it out??? What was happening in my brain

[holyathome]

The Grass IS always Greener…

Musings & Lessons from an Emerald Isle Broom Tree Time #2

…in Ireland. There is no denying it. One glimpse through the window, even before the plane wheels hit the tarmac of the Emerald Isle, I knew…it was no lore that the grass was ALWAYS greener in this land of shamrocks, leprechauns, and rainbows with pots of gold, as I envisioned the brown crunchy sticks protruding from the rain-foresaken, sun-baked Lexington earth I’d departed.

On my last day in the cozy, quaint area where I was staying in southern Ireland, I found myself hiking trails, strolling gardens, even wandering along a fairy path through the woods. My feet traipsed 16 mi of the Irish countryside in brisk fashion (partially to keep the blood pumping to stay warm - it was a tad chilly, even in the sun!). The sights between Blarney and Ballincollig upon which I feasted my eyes would have had Bob Ross going nuts trying to paint so many happy trees in a plethora of green hues. But, the reality of it all - it was a lush land of natural beauty, designed by the Master Creator, that no brush on canvas could truly capture. And that is the “Aha-Moment” where I found myself.

Entering the Blarney Castle grounds I was truly in awe of just how gorgeous the color green really is (I’m 100% sure my Nana is smiling in heaven to hear me make this statement). I mean, everyone knows I’m partial to pink…as my dad said prior to my Irish escape, “she’s OK with any of the color options, as long as it is pink.” He’s right. But today, I have a new appreciation for green. 

The grass, the trees, the moss, the ferns, the ivy, (and the shamrocks, too) offered the brightest shades. Upon arrival at the castle, I photographed it, posed for a fellow tourist to get a snap of me, and was in awe with those around me that something like this could be built in the 1400s. After ducking low to hunker through the “badger cave”, I made my way around to the back of the castle where I was met with a choice: stand in the winding queue of guests seeking to kiss a rock and get a view from the top OR continue to venture through my natural surroundings stretching the legs that would be confined to a 3x3 space in coach for 12 hours the next day. 

MY CHOICE - the latter. Sometimes, I’m a sucker for a tourist trap. But, this time not so much. I mean honestly the thoughts of connecting my lips with a piece of rock that a billion other lips have salvivated upon (and per warnings from my new Irish friends…other unmentionable acts) leaves me thinking that I have a far better chance of getting hygolicka flip than the promised “gift of gab”. Besides…some would say, I already have that…and I don’t need to engage in a lip-lock with a rock in order to live into the relationship building chats, I mentioned in my last post.

THE VERDICT - I made a great choice. While 80% of the rest of the visitors stood still in a line ready to ascend a treacherous flight of stairs…my legs were on the move in a practically solitude land. The river gurgled, the leaves rustled, the cows stared at me, the lake glistened as the sun shone, the cattails waved, and the grass was shining like a field of neon glowsticks. As I rounded the lake loop, I found my self in communion with my Creator, not a dead rock, but the fully alive King of the Universe. The God Who gave this emerald land its color from a palette unimaginable to us. The God Who designed such beauty, yet also meticulously designed every intricate detail of my being from my curly top, to my personality tinged with a touch of child-like playfulness, and even my usual preference of pink to green! Thinking back on my last musings, I was grateful I’d chosen to skip the blarney stone and spend time in relationship with Jesus. I prayed…I listened…I praised…I gave thanks…I stood in awe. This day of adventure with Jesus was the perfect conclusion to my hop across the pond for a few days. Can’t say I left with the luck of the Irish, but I did leave with a blessing. 

So, for the record…the grass IS always greener in Ireland (and with Jesus)! 

The Green Green Grass of Ireland.

#holyathome #chefsprinklesatrest #BroomTreeTime

[cattailhealing]

A Hello

Time, I have often wanted to stop time. I needed more time. I needed time to be still. As we all know, time is far from still and moves differently for each person through their experiences. It is undoubtedly not forgiving and requires a lot of trust. In this need to be still, I wanted to commune with my dead ancestors since childhood, looking for their guidance and comfort. Wrote to them and sat with them. There was a space I could still be in, and it felt like time stood still.

Cattail Healing began in a bathtub, in a little house, with a whole lot of trust and love. Before that moment, though, I was deflated by my academic career. I took to art as a young adult because it filled my world with a way to make sense of my experiences and the world around me. I took to teaching because I wanted to bring that kind of healing into the classroom. To bring together body, mind, and spirit. Unfortunately, academia is not interested in that kind of time or philosophy. While performing this bathtub ritual, I felt utterly and totally held by my ancestors, grounding me and working through me in this healing ritual. I realized then my path was a healer’s path, but also that I didn’t know how to be what I was supposed to be in this world. I was guided to death work through the witch community at the former Catland Books. That is where I took my first course with Hannah Haddadi. Hannah holds a significant and special place in my rebirth cycle throughout 2023, for which I am eternally grateful to them. Through their Scared Death course, I felt so many scattered pieces of my childhood finally align.

I have known death from the tender age of 5, expected and brutally unexpected. I have seen the way people react to grief and death to the point it destroys relationships, bodies, and shared history. However, amongst all of that human messiness, I never felt alone. I felt held by knowing they were there with me, watching me and rooting for me. This connection to the dead is a core truth that has always been a part of me. Many times, in loving and unloving ways, I have called death a friend.

I stepped fully and intentionally into magic and witchcraft in 2017. While it was an interest before, it needed a foundation. I came to magic in the American South. It felt like a punch to the gut, calling for protection and understanding because of the land's energy and past. I strengthened my foundation by tending the tangled roots in my chest. This rebirth cycle of my life led me to feel crazy at times, and this experience heavily influenced my thesis work for my graduate degree. These callings later made sense as I began to uncover a forgotten side of my mother’s family line. A scream to “know me” rattled my head. My ancestral line has always been the key to my craft and growth as a witch. My craft is based in these midwestern and southern magic practices inside my respective lane.

With Cattail Healing, I aim to achieve a place where people can come without fear of judgment to start untangling the roots that might be bound in their chests from grief, loss, shame, and anxiety. Through the use of esoteric rituals and tools to tap into a deeper part of our human existence, there is a need to have marked passages through times of struggle, celebration, and resistance. As an American raised in the oppressive Western ideology, I have observed a decline in all three of these moments in our lives, especially as a queer person. The lack of these rituals is often experienced by those who don’t fit into the nuclear way of life. We usually only have a few unique or ritualistic moments in our lives that are shared with the community. What happens when we expand on these? That is the question at hand with Cattail Healing. Here, we refuse to believe the future is set in stone. That there is doom, that there is no potential to be the catalyst for a new and better future, an investment one might never see the returns on. This mindset of doom is often stifled through the survival mode most of us are living in, suppressed through stagnate grief.

Cattail Healing is not a place of a quick fix, as a quote that has stuck with me throughout my life is from the book Where the Red Fern Grows: you have to meet the intuition, the want, the emotion, the divine manifestation halfway, through almost always deep shadow work. When kudzu runs wild in your garden and home, it takes a lot of knowledge to pull it from the roots and constant tending to keep it at bay. Tending the tangled roots and confronting that hard-to-face part of ourselves is shadow work. A self-knowledge that can be used to look outward and grow our community.

Cattail Healing in the future is a place for radical community growth that can foster conversations of creativity so that we are resilient and adaptable in our grief.

I am so excited to be on this journey with you all and watch it unfold. Thank you to all my new and old friends who supported me this last year. Nothing in life can be done without friendship. And thank you to sacred death, who understood getting my heart broken would be the best thing ever to happen.

[subiysu-chan]

North-West Region

The entire region of the North-West of the country has oats and rutapagas as the staple foods for the entire region, from it's northern limit to it's southern limit.

Penbre and Aulbec complete their diets with animal products of various kinds (pork, mutton, pigeon, crab, freshwater shellfish, dairy, fish, geese and duck). It has a textile production of wool, and produces much ceramics. It's most typical vegetables are peas, radishes, shallots, cress, nettle and cattails, while fruits are rowan, cranberries, hazel, cedar nuts and virburnum and birdcherries, with a little bit of strawberries, raspberries, gooseberries, blueberries and currents whenever possible. Penbre has the best access to trade with the wider world, making them the biggest cafeine consummers in the country, both per person and per capital.

The Nothern limit province of Layne consummes more meat and dairy due to it's harsh climate, namely beef, but also fish, geese and sea-ducks. It's the southern limit of reindeer and goat. However, the favored proteins are fish and sea-foods of various kinds. Cheese and butter made out of cow, sheep, goat or reindeer are quite the popular options. They even domesticated some species of auk. Sea-gulls, crows, grouse and swans are hunted whenever possible, as well as a wide variety of costal birds. Crabs are a delicacy. There, a special type of "brassica" capable of withstanding it's cooler temperatures. It is small and dense, rich in vitamin C, as well as plenty of cranberries, lingonberries, cloudberries and rowan, and some connifers as well. They do have more of a leather production than textiles, but they are independant in terms of wool production. Despite it's harsh climate, it is able to house two cities mostly thanks to fungiculture and trade, one being the second largest after the capital. These cities do have some form of fungiculture that allow them to exist. It's local cuisine is quite hearty and often combines dairy with sea food.

Yaune and Lennes provinces are very swampy and rich in lakes. They seldom eat large animals nor dairy, but instead mussles, bivalves, pondshells and more. These foods are consummed mostly during lent. They produce quite the bit of hempt and linen, enough to export. Dewberries, meleze and cranberries are the main sources of vitamin C. The main source of fat are goose and duck. Cattails and water cress are the main vegetables, although radishes and leeks could be added to the diet. The climate is too cold for rice. It's cuisine is quite unique as foods are either fermented, lean foods are stewed or steamed while fatty foods are reserved for winter and are dutch-oven baked.

The province of Avalbre is the only apple-producing region (enough to export), and it's hills allow for a variaty of growing seasons like in Penbre. It has a very similar diet, with radishes, shallots, cress and peas as the main vegetables, only it adds leaks, onions, scallions, apples and currents to their diet. It is 0.37*C of difference with the province of Penbre, which, small as it is, does allow to grow a hearty version of these crops.

[naturedude24]

Edible And Medicinal Plants; BroadLeaf and Southern Cattail