#Variegated Form

[buffetlicious]

Went out shopping with mum and bought myself a pot of Variegated String of Pearls (Curio rowleyanus) or better known by its synonym Senecio rowleyanus. This creeping succulent vine is native to the Cape Provinces of South Africa. Also called string of beads, it comes in both green and variegated colours. The latter had pearl-like leaves that are swirled in cream, green and sometimes even pink and purple colours with the right combination of sun stress and water.

Green String of Pearls image from here.

[thequietabsolute]

currently thinking about nature’s implacable indifference to its most exotic creation: human consciousness (while very carefully eating a cherry flavoured yogurt, also a high-tier creation) 🍒

[icterid-rubus]

I cast off the intersections socks a while ago, but couldn’t photograph them because the house fell down around my ears. But with a fresh blanket of snow, I could finally do the ravelry thing and photograph my knits outdoors haha.

At first, I really disliked these socks. The pattern as it is in the book only offers two sizes, and the smallest was too large for my toes. So I modded them by not fully increasing the toe, and instead sprinkling the rest of the increases along the sole. At the heel turn, I followed the advice of other knitters and upped my needle size—but only for the cable section—then downsized for the leg. This pattern is not ideal for a tight sock, which is my preference, but I think I made it work.

The only change I’d make is shortening the foot by maybe 1/4”-1/2”. Others noted the heel turn started too early, and as this is a new heel construction for me, I couldn’t tell if the heel was situated properly on my foot while knitting. I believe now it’s a little high, but it’s just a little nitpick.

[philodendronneed]

Variegated Crepe Jasmine-Nanthiya Vattai

[philodendronforming]

Variegated Crepe Jasmine-Nanthiya Vattai

[philoldendronindoor]

Variegated Crepe Jasmine-Nanthiya Vattai

[philodendronleaves]

Variegated Crepe Jasmine-Nanthiya Vattai

[phildendron]

Variegated Crepe Jasmine-Nanthiya Vattai

[philodendronplant]

Variegated Crepe Jasmine-Nanthiya Vattai

[moondirti]

animalic (4)

← chapter three // series masterlist

pairing: miguel o'hara x f!reader rating: mature word count: 2.5k summary: things don't go according to plan warnings: enemies to lovers, light bondage, sexual tension, arousal, choking, canon-typical violence, dub-con elements, paralysis, suicidal ideation, self-hatred, angst, miguel o'hara is not nice, no use of y/n notes: y'all. i promise we are getting somewhere. i promise. lmk what you think tho cuz i thrive off comments

“Lyla?”

While you’re – regrettably – unable to make good on your promise to phase through the floor, you catch yourself hoping it splits to swallow you whole instead. It certainly would be a better alternative to the purgatory you currently face. 

“Lyla? Come in, Lyla.” 

Feeble rays of light filter in through the weathered windows, their reach slowly growing as night surrenders to the wakings of dawn. Variegated motes bob lazily, suspended upon the streams of sun, quivering back and forth between a range of countless colours. Paralysed and splayed atop the frigid, hard ground of the empty store-lot, you try counting them all for lack of anything else to do. Pink, green, orange, gold. You wonder what force chooses the order, whether it’s sequenced to fit some plan of high design. 

“¡Ay, coño–”

Slowly, you let yourself scrutinise other things, too. The scent of neglect that permeates the stale air, particularly pungent around the entryway. You trace the yellow-brown mass that runs along the door’s hinge edge, and attribute the vaguely muddy smell to rot. Then, it’s the glint of shattered glass, winking at you from lost corner’s of the room. They look narrow, far too inconvenient to clean out with a standard broom. You revel in the understanding that whoever had been in charge of scouring the wreckage appears to share your habit of quick quitting.

It’s only when your vision begins to water do you divert your attention to the situation at hand. Last you needed to blink, it took half a minute for the command to register, and even longer for the motor neurons in your eyelids to act. By the time you eventually got them closed, you’d already started contemplating whether his venom would be the death of you. 

(Lame end to a lame life.)

It didn’t take a genius to figure out, though. You know that, if he wanted to, he could’ve kept imbuing you with the substance until your body was no longer able to perform the basic mechanisms necessary to sustain life. He could have kept his fangs lodged deep into your neck – encroached upon your stuttering veins, bathing in the ichor that flowed – until he felt you go limp, concentrated with his poison. It would have been a denouement to his problems – right there, easy, sandwiched between him and the wall – but it wasn’t. Because he didn’t. 

Just like he didn’t let you plummet to your death that day at the quarry, or strangle you while you were unconscious back at HQ. 

So, no. It doesn’t take a genius to acknowledge that Miguel O’Hara doesn’t want you dead. As he fiddles with his malfunctioning watch, you endeavour to come up with a divisive list as to why that is. 

One: you’ve charmed him. The notion is almost funny enough to elicit a snort, given that you weren’t cast in an immovable anathema.

Two: he’s a good guy. Somehow, this option seems less viable to you than the first. 

You find your third prospect slinging from the threads of a fraying memory. 

You’d been a student, before – attending college at a reputable institute close to home. It’s easy to forget what it was like most nights: cramped in that two hundred square foot dorm, borderline losing it as you tried to validate your claims on matter-antimatter rockets and their potential contribution to interstellar travel. There were concerns of total annihilation, and sourcing, and an array of other limitations – that which you’d dedicated your academic career to drawing up proposals for. It’s laughable now; the stress and theories blurring together to form a vague picture of your long-lost ambition. 

You have a hard time conjuring what exact future you were so hopeful for, but the lamp by your roommate’s bed remains clear in your mind’s eye. Warm-white, comforting. For as long as you were awake, tapping away at a never-ending thesis, she’d work through the latest volume of her beloved murder mystery anthology. 

It was the night before your start at an internship with Alchemax that the series came to a close. Her aggravated screams still ring fresh behind the clouded pane of time. You had thrown your pillow at her in a belligerent plea.

(You wanna elaborate?

The suspect behind every case was shot!

So? Isn’t that a good thing?

No, dumbass. It means the detectives fucking lost! They’ll never be able to prove how right they were.)

Admittedly, you know very little about Miguel, but you have an idea of what matters most to him. It’s entirely possible, then, that he refuses to kill you for what your death would do to negate his efforts thus far. 

“Oye,” 

Your mental traipse is reeled in when the devil himself snaps at you. Steadily, your pupils roll up to look at him. 

“I need your day pass.” 

You continue to stare. His jaw clenches. 

“Because of your little headbutt outside, my watch is busted. My only hope of fixing it is by using the parts of your day pass.” 

Is he asking? Does he expect you to respond? 

You can’t fool yourself into believing he’s that ignorant. 

But Miguel stays on standby, scanning your lax form. He takes in the webs that wrap around your waist, branching out to your thighs and shoulders, restraining your arms behind your back. When his eyes meet yours again, the reluctant question you see glaze over them pushes the recognition to the forefront of your mind. 

He is asking. 

Or, notifying – making sure you’re aware of what he’s about to do. 

God, you wish you could speak. You’ve never come up with so much to say without promptly blurting it out before. Irritation and amusement rip at one another within you, locked in a brutal dogfight fated to have no real winner. How hypocritical of him to pick and choose when your treatment takes priority over his mission; you’re littered in marks that all point to his prior negligence of such subtle humanity. Four stabs above your wrist, a pounding migraine at your temple. If it weren’t for your paralysed stomach, you’re certain you would have regurgitated your innards as consequence to the concussion he’s given you.  

But, oh. 

How funny would it be if you agreed. To let him discover the harrowing truth for himself. 

Deliberately, you muster an affirming blink.

Miguel's weariness escapes him in a heavy sigh, the weight of it etched upon his expression. Thick brows furrow, evidence to his age creasing between them, before he sinks down with a purposeful grace and carefully flips you over. Despite the resentment that festers in your gut, you can’t help but hiss a mental sigh of relief at the service it does to your elbows, which had begun throbbing in response to the pressure that the hardwood floor exerted.

From that point onward, it becomes a guessing game of sorts; you can’t see him, nor are you able to tilt your head and confirm your assumptions as to what he’s doing. Deprived of your most reliable sense, the others strain to fill the gaps in your knowledge, drawing upon every available cue; the sound of his miniscule grunts, the warmth of his skin – that which penetrates through his gloves. You’re alarmed into attempted action when the characteristic rip of his claws equipping pierces the strained air – your body powerless in addressing the adrenaline it secretes – until the spider-man touches his forefinger to your palm.

“Relax.” He all but commands. “I’m just cutting the webs off.” 

You’ve no reason to trust him, of course, but you can’t exactly pitch a complaint right now. 

(Perhaps it’s in your best interests to ignore how easy he’d been able to read you.)

A few moments of jostling ensue, before he withdraws with a curse. Your arms remain ensnared in the tight restraints, the ache that smarts your skin all too real for the continued predicament to be illusory. An assortment of jokes occur to you. 

Can’t get it up? 

In your peripheral, you catch him weighing his options. The pause is laden with a sticky indecision – this change in placement, you realise, exacerbates the already difficult task of breathing for you. 

While you fixate on that fact, he seems to come to a conclusion. With one swift manoeuvre, he positions himself astride your thighs, straddling the deadened extremities, and reaches forward to push your wrists apart. You’re quick to catch on to his intention, how the arrangement gives him better leverage, yet–

His groyne presses into the swell of your ass, worsening with every bid to sever the webbing. It’s impossible not to notice, especially not when the seam of your jeans start to shift in tandem, smoothing over your clothed core.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last roused like this. Enough for it to feel brand new, a wrapped curse in a prim little bow, eager for all that you shouldn’t be. 

And… Christ– 

And then he unfastens the lines around your arms, and runs his hands up your skin. It’s not gentle, nor is it brutish, but you can feel his desperation escalating. His touches grow progressively antagonistic, kneading your palms up to your shoulders, patting down to the shallow pockets of your pants. You’re searched like you hold the key to his success – you suppose that, in some oddly comical way, you do. And it should be upsetting, blasphemous. 

But you’re no sacred thing. You’d laid down that possibility a long time ago. 

No. You’re foul, questionable at your best, and erupt into goosebumps over the ruthless grip of a man who hates your very soul. You’re a deeply detestable spirit, truly, but a detestable spirit who has just managed to get one up on Miguel O’Hara. 

He throws you back around, wrapping his hands around your throat. His snarl is primal, maturated in acrid anger. 

“Where is it?” 

You’re sure that, in some alternate reality, your face is stretched in a shit-eating grin. 

“Where’s the fucking day pass?” 

Your satisfaction is short-lived. 

You’ve never been one to notably detest humiliation. It’s productive – healthy, even – in smaller doses; a fitting consequence for those who you deem deserve it. Yet, as you find yourself unceremoniously hoisted over Miguel’s shoulder, forced into a meandering parade through the streets of New York, you breach into uncharted territory – a threshold where your tolerance encounters its breaking point. 

He makes no effort to soften his strides, unmoved by the idea of providing even a shred of respite for your susceptible self. If anything, it feels as though he deliberately seeks out the harshest terrain, silently chastising your earlier defiance in the most passive aggressive manner known to man. He’d reinforced your constraints before marching out on this fruitless venture, and now you bobble uselessly, backside pointed upward, anchored solely by the meaty arm around your knees. 

At least you’ve regained control of your mouth. 

“D’stroyed it. Gone. Dearly d’parted–” 

“If you’re going to run that little mouth, then make it helpful.” 

“M’bein’ helpfoo,” you start, straining your weakened vocal cords in an effort to mock him. The grip of paralysis may have slackened its hold, but neurotransmission remains at an all time, sluggish low. In all actuality, it astounds you that he can even begin to decipher your words from the tangled murmurs they become. 

“You had it on at the convenience, and a little bit afterward. You can’t expect me to believe that you dealt with it while running for your life.”

Running for your life. Sure. 

Displeasure sparks at the confidence he imbues in his assumption.

“Escoos m– hnngh–” A sudden jump of stress robs you of breath, your stomach plummeting alongside the rapidly distancing ground. As Miguel propels himself above the city skyline, effortlessly evading the crowded streets via a web he’d grappled to an adjacent building, you’re confronted with a stark reality – that this is the very first time you have ever, and likely will ever, experience what it’s like to swing. 

It’s exhilarating and nauseating all at once, gravity relinquishing its command as you transcend the confines of the physical, soaring through some reality where law loses significance. If it had been you, your arms and skill and jurisdiction, you’d never come down. But maybe that’s why it isn’t; maybe your life was meant to lead up to this, and only ever this. 

(Not antimatter technologies or heroic conquest. Yeah, this feels more fitting.) 

Your skin prickles. You phase through the sturdy frame that’s held you up so far, and plummet from its grasp.

Slicing through the boundless sky, you’re accompanied by a profound tranquillity. It isn’t absolute – fear still gnaws at your core, its presence undeniable. But, amidst the churning horror, your instincts are fainter than they ought to be. They whisper in a subdued tone, overshadowed by conflicting conceptions. One, being the inference you’d drawn earlier about how – whether you like it or not – Miguel would not let you die. 

Another, quieter suspicion hints toward the full reality of your… relief.

Though, of course, you’re right about the former. Tree-trunk biceps wrap around your waist, pulling you close as he slingshots off to a nearby rooftop. You flop into him, a ragdoll to the overwhelming force of his agitation, and squeeze your eyes shut at the hints of patchouli permeating from under his mask. 

You don’t have to face the gospel just yet.

“¿Qué mierda? Eh?” He shouts, propping you up against a ledge. “What the fuck was that?” 

You don’t have an answer for him. Your heart lurches, catching up to the urgency at hand, striking on the hollow bars of your ribcage to some reckless tune. It’s only amplified by the torrent of blood distending through your system, throbbing at your temple, rushing by your ears. 

What the fuck, indeed. 

He damns you, it seems, with a fervour that breaches the heavens, as if willing God Himself to commit his plea to eternal memory. Or not; truthfully, you can’t tell. With the roar of your own snowballing thrill, it becomes impossible to discern the sequence of interrogations that explode from him. The world around you fades to the background, your preoccupancy consumed by the disquietude it leaves in its wake. 

Your sense is only validated a minute later when, two blocks away, an ear-piercing shriek ruptures your dissociation. 

Miguel stiffens, slowly turning to face its source.

𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘈𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘏𝘕𝘖-𝘏𝘜𝘔𝘈𝘕𝘖𝘐𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘓𝘠-𝘔𝘜𝘓𝘛𝘐𝘝𝘌𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘋𝘈𝘛𝘈𝘉𝘈𝘚𝘌:

Earth-15 – analysed, marked as closed. 

Spider-totem – The Spider: soon after being bit by his radioactive spider, convicted felon Peter Parker merged with Earth-15’s variation of the carnage Symbiote.

Notes – do not engage, at any cost. 

chapter five →

follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs to be alerted of future updates!

[albontology]

it goes without explanation with zhou's new helmet is dope as hell. i will provide explanation anyways.

(above, zhou's helmet design as posted to the KV design twitter)

the central design on zhou's helmet is almost certainly inspired by the traditional craft of mother-of-pearl inlay in lacquerware, a practice which originated in China over 6 thousand years ago, and which has been developed and practiced in discrete forms historically in Korea and Japan alike. (continued under the cut!)

(on the left, a korean (goryeo dynasty) lacquerware stationery box; on the right, a chinese (song dynasty) lacquerware lidded bowl for cosmetics or incense. both photos via the met museum website)

traditionally, lacquerware is created through the refinement of a toxic plant sap into a naturally deep and glossy adhesive coat that is built up and polished often on top of wooden furniture and decorative items, such as chests and jewelry boxes. in the above examples, you can see two types of lacquerware practice.

on the left is mother-of-pearl inlay, which is created through the careful grinding down of tortoise or abalone shell into thin iridescent sheets which are then carefully cut into shape and imbedded into the coats of dark lacquer, being repeatedly covered and then polished down in the lacquer until the shiny shell surface is level with its surroundings. it's both visually stunning and incredibly labor-intensive: for a case like this, there would have been separate artisans making the wooden base box, making the metalware (hinges and clasps) for the box, applying the base layers of lacquer, and then completing the inlay itself.

on the right is (what i understand to be) a predominantly chinese lacquer practice, which is carving into the layers of lacquer to form images in relief. while this practice is not replicated on zhou's helmet, the image selected does display the pattern of the peony flower, which i believe to be the flower depicted in the inlay! the striations of the central petals seem to match zhou's. of course, this is speculative and only based off an amateur's eye, especially considering the motif of scrolling foliage is fairly ubiquitous and somewhat generic in east asian decorative art.

(on the left, zhou's 2024 helmet (detail). on the right, a detail image of a korean chest decorated with mother-of-pearl. zhou's helmet via twitter, right image via the met museum website)

the 'metallic' or 'holographic' effect a lot of people have recognized is a natural property of polished mother-of-pearl: look at the iridescence of the design! while it has been exaggerated to some extent on zhou's helmet (for good effect, i must say), you can clearly see the inspiration when compared side-by-side with a more predominantly mother-of-pearl composition: the variegation between blues, greens, and warmer peachy-reds is mesmerizing.

i really want to drive home how brilliant of a design this is and give the due appreciation to KV Design, who made this helmet for zhou. clearly a lot of thought and creativity went into it, and I can't wait to see it in action. >:D

[elodieunderglass]

Immigrating in adulthood means that I get the exciting experience of being surprised by life around me. I didn’t grow up with them, you see.

Yesterday the surprise came in the form of a moth the size of a thumbnail. I was hanging up laundry when I saw it - the first impression was a small fly, with a dense quickness and buzz. I could identify “moth” by its gestures, but I was enchanted by the brilliance of the graphic design - the sweet velvety purple-brown color set against the bright gold - and the gratified, lavish attention it was paying to my variegated oregano. It was tremendously excited by some mysterious property of that oregano. I mean, I get it too, but I hardly ever do an interpretive dance on it. It reminded me of a cat romping on a fresh catnip plant.

After research, I was happy to meet the MINT MOTH or SMALL PURPLE AND GOLD, which just goes to show that moth-namers - more than any other natural historians - understand the assignment. They give you two choices, both good, both descriptive, and conveying the essential character. Trustworthy folk, your moth people. My moth-fancying friend, who goes out of her way to meet new moths, has a Facebook album called Much Ado About Mothing and goes to local mothing meetings, sometimes posting the minutes, which only reinforces my take here; these people are trustworthy, diligent hands to place problems in.

I like the Linnean name too: Pyrausta aurata, the ‘aurata’ meaning gold-adorned, gilded; and Pyrausta possibly being a reference to a Greek mythological insect, which is exciting because you don’t get many mythological insects. but you’d better research that for yourself, as I didn’t see a single source I liked very much.

And best of all I liked the description of its habits. The Mint Moth loves mint and marjoram, and is a delightfully common visitor in gardens that grow these. In the wild, it follows watermint and wild marjoram. These plants form forage for its polite caterpillars, who barely affect the host plants at all. And if you have a garden in the uk with mint and marjoram, a very tiny creature the size of a thumbnail may come and roll around in it.

Now, I have mint and marjoram - but it really wanted that oregano, which was interesting to think about - something worth exploring and understanding better, even though it isn’t the food source of its caterpillars. Oregano is a member of the Lamiaceae family, which mint and marjoram belong to, so it clearly has something that mint moths like; and even though the marjoram is right next to it, it was clearly worthy of deep mothy investigation. Who knows what’s in the mind of a moth! I hope if any caterpillars emerge from this little dance, they’re happy with eating oregano…

Hurray for little visitors who bring surprises.

[vestaignis]

Маргаритки очень красивые многолетники, в переводе с греческого их название означает «жемчужина». Маргаритка ценится многими народами как знак сердечности и верной любви, чистоты и доброты. Наибольшее распространение цветы получили в средние века – века рыцарей. В то время, если девушка давала рыцарю согласие на брак, то последний изображал на своем щите цветы Маргаритки. Этот же цветок зачастую изображался на кубках знатных вельмож.

На сегодняшний день садоводы насчитывают более 20 разновидностей маргариток, от самых простых форм – до пестрых, махровых и игольчатых.

Daisies are very beautiful perennials; their name means “pearl” in Greek. The daisy is valued by many peoples as a sign of cordiality and true love, purity and kindness. Flowers became most widespread in the Middle Ages - the Age of Knights. At that time, if a girl gave her consent to marriage to a knight, the latter would depict Daisy flowers on his shield. The same flower was often depicted on the cups of noble nobles.

Today, gardeners count more than 20 varieties of daisies, from the simplest forms to variegated, terry and needle-shaped.

Источник:://procweti.ru/margaritka,://lafoy.ru/margaritki-50-foto-2068,/kartin.papik.pro/cveti/7203-kartinki-cvety-margaritki-krasivye-70-foto.html, /tolstoymuseum.ru/news/2021/08/19/63606/#:~ :text=Ну%20а%20 само%20сл��во%20«маргаритка,с%20греческого %20означает%20«жемчужина», ://obradoval.ru/article/margaritka.

[jillraggett]

Plant of the Day

Thursday 25 January 2024

The evergreen shrub Monstera deliciosa (Swiss cheese plant, custard plant, fruit salad plant, Indian ivy, Mexican breadfruit) climbs using aerial roots. This is a commonly grown houseplant with heart-shaped, pinnatisect and often perforated, glossy deep green leaves and there is a variegated form, Monstera deliciosa 'Variegata'.

Jill Raggett

[somediyprojects]

Palestinian Tatreez stitched by Electronic_Gazelle_5.

Tatreez chest piece for child’s thobe. Pattern taken the book Tatreez and Tea by Wafa Ghnaim. I used DMC 99 and 94 on 18 count Aida. This is the first time I used variegated thread and I hated every second of it. 😂 The frame was heavily inspired by this post by user FrenchFryNotFrench. I’ve had this book for years and always planned to make something from it, but I felt now more than ever was the best time to honor this traditional Palestinian art form.

[williamedwardparry]

Twelfth-cake and riddles on HMS Erebus

A Twelfth Night celebration illustrated by Robert Seymour from The Book of Christmas (1836) by Thomas Kibble Hervey – note the cake in the left part of the picture and the cards in people's hands.

In his entry for January 6th, 1841 in his Antarctic-journal-slash-autobiography, Robert McCormick (who was surgeon on the Erebus on the Antarctic expedition) makes this reference to a Twelfth-cake eaten by the officers:

Wednesday, 6th. — Being Twelfth-night, all the officers took tea in the cabin with Captain Ross, and partook of a Twelfth-cake, which had been given him in a tin case, and was to have been opened on the 6th of January, 1840, but had been reserved for entering the ice. It was accompanied by the customary painted figures on paper and sugar, with enigmas to solve, which afforded us all some amusement and laughter; to aid which we had a glass of cherry brandy each.

(The age of the cake always surprised me a little, but apparently, according to the 19th century Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery, fruit cake “will improve with keeping – indeed, confectioners do not use their cakes until they have been made some months; and if a cake is cut into soon after it is made it will crumble.” (x))

I had no idea that “painted figures on paper and sugar” were a customary part of the Twelfth-cake tradition, so I had a poke around the web and was delighted to learn that Twelfth-cakes came with various figurines for decoration. They were made from moulded sugar paste, with some depicting people, some not.

In the Every-Day Book of William Hone (1827), Twelfth-cakes are described as decorated with “Stars, castles, kings, cottages, dragons, trees, fish, palaces, cats, dogs, churches, lions, milkmaids, knights, serpents, and innumerable other forms, in snow-white confectionery, painted with variegated colours”.

An advertisement for “well executed Twelfth-Night characters”, 1842 (The Australian). Queen Victoria���s Twelfth-cake, 1849 (ILN).

The Twelfth-cakes themselves were generally large, domed, and heavy, full of nuts, dried fruits, and spices. Hone, again, calls them “Dark with citron and plums and heavy as gold”. (A recipe from 1802 is available here, and one from 1830 here – the latter promises a cake 12-14 inches across.)

You could also buy sets of cards with Twelfth Night figures and riddles on them, which were sold in packs. In the late 18th century, it was customary for the party to draw lots with the cards – and whichever character a person was assigned, they would have to play until midnight.

An extant pack of Park's Twelfth-Night characters, 1843. (The Puzzle Museum)

The resolution on these is only just about legible, but here's a close-up of four of them and their solutions from the sheet:

Transcriptions: From left to right: SIR OLIVER OGLE. Why is a lover like a gooseberry? BETRICE BOUQUET. When is a cheese most like college? CHARLES CUTEMDOWN. Why are Jews at a feast like a brewer? PATTY PRIMROSE. Why is a dandy like a haunch of venison?

Solutions: He is easily made a fool of. / When it is eaten. [Eton] / He brews [Hebrews] drink here. / He is a bit of a buck.

———

Sources:

The Puzzle Museum https://www.puzzlemuseum.com/month/picm08/2008-04-parks.htm

The Dickens Museum blog https://dickensmuseum.com/blogs/charles-dickens-museum/dickens-and-the-spirit-of-twelfth-cake-past-by-pen-vogler

Elizabeth Gaskell House blog https://elizabethgaskellhouse.co.uk/twelfth-night-cakes/

Sydney Living Museums blog https://blogs.sydneylivingmuseums.com.au/cook/let-them-eat-fruit-cake/

Foods of England blog http://www.foodsofengland.co.uk/twelfthcake.htm

Primary sources:

Hone, William, The Every-Day Book (1827) - Project Gutenberg

Kibble Hervey, Thomas, The Book of Christmas (1836) - Project Gutenberg

Kitchiner, William, The Cook's Oracle (1830) - Project Gutenberg

McCormick, Robert, Voyages of Discovery in the Arctic and Antarctic Seas (1884) - Hathi Trust

The Australian, January 8th, 1842 - Trove Newspaper Archive

Illustrated London News, 13th January 1849 - Hathi Trust