Bubbles The Wire Quotes

Why? You want to know why? Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight. Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all, "a disappointment." Puke and starve and cut and drink because you don't want to feel any of this. Puke and starve and drink and cut because you need the anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it's too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can't stop. Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everysinglething is wrong with you. "Why?" is the wrong question. Ask "Why not?

Why?’ She nods. ‘She had everything: a family who loved her, friends, activities. Her mother wants to know why she threw it all away?’ Why you want to know why? Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and falls off, roll in coarse salt, then put on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight. Smoke gunpowder and go to school to jump through hoops, sit up and beg, and roll over on command. Listen to the whispers that curl into your head at night, calling you ugly and fat and stupid and bitch and whore and worst of all ‘A disappointment.’ Puke and starve and cut and drink because you need an anesthetic and it works. For a while. But then the anesthetic turns into poison and by then it’s too late because you are mainlining it now, straight into your soul. It is rotting you and you can’t stop. Look in a mirror and find a ghost. Hear every heartbeat scream that everythingsinglething is wrong with you. ‘Why?’ is the wrong question. Ask ‘Why not?

These people were building homes for the rich, but they lived in tents covered with blue tarpaulin sheets, and partitioned into lanes by lines of sewage. It was even worse than Laxmangarh. I picked my way around broken glass, wire, and shattered tube lights. The stench of feces was replaced by the stronger stench of industrial sewage. The slum ended in an open sewer - a small river of black water went sluggishly past me, bubbles sparkling in it and little circles spreading on its surface. Two children were splashing about in the black water.

I dip my foot into the water. There is a second of brilliant heat that slides straight through me, like steel wire through a block of wet clay. I gasp but do not pause. A second foot, less pain. Hands on the sides of the bathtub, I lower myself down. The water hurts, and it is good. The chemicals in the bubble bath burn, and that is better.

The couple bubble is an agreement to put the relationship before anything and everything else. It means putting your partner's well-being, self-esteem and distress relief first. And it means your partner does the same for you. You both agree to do it for each other. Therefore, you say to each other, "We come first." In this way, you cement your relationship. It is like making a pact or taking a vow, or like reinforcing a vow you already took with one another.

Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. What is there to be or do? What's become of me or you? Are we kind or are we true? Sitting two and two, boys, waiting for the end. Shall I build a tower, boys, knowing it will rend Crack upon the hour, boys, waiting for the end? Shall I pluck a flower, boys, shall I save or spend? All turns sour, boys, waiting for the end. Shall I send a wire, boys? Where is there to send? All are under fire, boys, waiting for the end. Shall I turn a sire, boys? Shall I choose a friend? The fat is in the pyre, boys, waiting for the end. Shall I make it clear, boys, for all to apprehend, Those that will not hear, boys, waiting for the end, Knowing it is near, boys, trying to pretend, Sitting in cold fear, boys, waiting for the end? Shall we send a cable, boys, accurately penned, Knowing we are able, boys, waiting for the end, Via the Tower of Babel, boys? Christ will not ascend. He's hiding in his stable, boys, waiting for the end. Shall we blow a bubble, boys, glittering to distend, Hiding from our trouble, boys, waiting for the end? When you build on rubble, boys, Nature will append Double and re-double, boys, waiting for the end. Shall we make a tale, boys, that things are sure to mend, Playing bluff and hale, boys, waiting for the end? It will be born stale, boys, stinking to offend, Dying ere it fail, boys, waiting for the end. Shall we go all wild, boys, waste and make them lend, Playing at the child, boys, waiting for the end? It has all been filed, boys, history has a trend, Each of us enisled, boys, waiting for the end. What was said by Marx, boys, what did he perpend? No good being sparks, boys, waiting for the end. Treason of the clerks, boys, curtains that descend, Lights becoming darks, boys, waiting for the end. Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. Not a chance of blend, boys, things have got to tend. Think of those who vend, boys, think of how we wend, Waiting for the end, boys, waiting for the end. - 'Just A Smack at Auden

The Wire “How y'all do what y'all do every day and not wanna get high?” –

champagne, n. You appear at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne, and I have no idea why. I search my mind desperately for an occasion I've forgotten - is this some obscure anniversary or, even worse, a not-so-obscure one? Then I think you have something to tell me, some good news to share, but your smile is silent, cryptic. I sit up in bed, ask you what's going on, and you shake your head, as if to say that nothing's going on, as if to pretend that we usually start our Wednesday mornings with champagne. You touch the bottle to my leg - I feel the cool condensation and the glass, the fact that the bottle must have been sleeping all night in the refrigerator without me noticing. You have long-stemmed glasses in you other hand, and you place them on the nightstand, beside the uncommenting clock, the box of kleenex, the tumbler of water. "The thing about champagne," you say, unfailing the cork, unwinding its wire restraint, "is that it is the ultimate associative object. Every time you open a bottle of champagne, it's a celebration, so there's no better way of starting a celebration than opening a bottle of champagne. Every time you sip it, you're sipping from all those other celebrations. The joy accumulates over time." You pop the cork. The bubbles rise. I feel some of the spray on my skin. You pour. "But why?" I ask as you hand me my glass. You raise yours and ask, "Why not? What better way to start the day?" We drink a toast to that.

In a provocative article in Wired, editor-in-chief Chris Anderson argued that huge databases render scientific theory itself obsolete. Why spend time formulating human-language hypotheses, after all, when you can quickly analyze trillions of bits of data and find the clusters and correlations? He quotes Peter Norvig, Google’s research director: “All models are wrong, and increasingly you can succeed without them.

Would you change that bulb, then?" He held out a fresh bulb from the drawer beside him. It was a perfect glass bubble with a tangle of fine wire inside. Thaniel took it and felt unqualified to be doing anything with it. "Why can't you?" "I'd have to stand on the desk." He shifted. "I'm afraid of heights." "And you can't even stand on a desk?" "Shall we not dwell on it?" Mori said, at a slightly higher pitch then usual.

best hopes coming true. As the relationship progresses and the pair become closer and more interdependent, a couple bubble may form, and the perception of permanence may emerge. This is of course what they hope for. Yet sometimes along with security comes its opposite. Fears and expectations that date back to earlier experiences of dependency, but that didn’t arise during courtship or dating, are activated as commitment to the relationship increases. As a result, partners start to anticipate the worst, not the best, from their relationship. Anticipation of the worst is not logically purposeful, nor does it

The ghost was not a ghost at all, or so it claimed - it claimed to be a psychic energy baby, birthed in some ethereal dimension, and pulled into the phone by the powerful magnetism of phone signals. It remembered with perfect clarity how it came to be - remembered coalescing from the membranous surface of the world, streaked with reflected light, humming with surface tension under the pressure of emptiness underneath. The Psychic Energy Baby found form among the emanations of people's minds and the susurrus of their voices, it found flesh in the shapes of their lips and eyes made, the surprise of 'o's and the sibilations of 's's; its skin stretched taut like a soap bubble, forged from the wet sound of lips touching; its thoughts were the musky smells and the nerves twined around the transparent water balloons of the muscles like stems of toadflax, searching restlessly for every available crevice, stretching along cold rough surfaces. Its veins, tiny rivers, pumped heartbeats striking in unison, the dry dallying of billions of ventricular contractions. And it spoke, spoke endlessly, it spokes words that tasted of dark air and formic acid. It could speak long before it took it's final shape. And when it happened, when all the sounds and smells and words in the world, when all the thoughts had aligned so that it could become - then it found itself pulled into the wires, surrounded by taut copper and green and red and yellow insulation; twined and quartered among the cables, rent open by millions of voices that shouted and whispered and pleaded and threatened, interspersed with the rasping of breaths and tearing laughter. It traveled through the criss-crossing of the wires so fast that it felt itself being pulled into a needle, head spearing into the future while its feet infinitely receded into the past, until it came into a dark quiet pool of the black rotary phone, where it could reassemble itself and take stock.

Walking back through the mall to the exit nearest our part of the parking lot, we passed one shop which sold computers, printers, software, and games. It was packed with teenagers, the kind who wear wire rims and know what the new world is about. The clerks were indulgent, letting them program the computers. Two hundred yards away, near the six movie houses, a different kind of teenager shoved quarters into the space-war games, tensing over the triggers, releasing the eerie sounds of extraterrestrial combat. Any kid back in the computer store could have told the combatants that because there is no atmosphere in space, there is absolutely no sound at all. Perfect distribution: the future managers and the future managed ones. Twenty in the computer store, two hundred in the arcade. The future managers have run on past us into the thickets of CP/M, M-Basic, Cobal, Fortran, Z-80, Apples, and Worms. Soon the bosses of the microcomputer revolution will sell us preprogrammed units for each household which will provide entertainment, print out news, purvey mail-order goods, pay bills, balance accounts, keep track of expenses, and compute taxes. But by then the future managers will be over on the far side of the thickets, dealing with bubble memories, machines that design machines, projects so esoteric our pedestrian minds cannot comprehend them. It will be the biggest revolution of all, bigger than the wheel, bigger than Franklin’s kite, bigger than paper towels.

Silas refuses to help us cage Screwtape, who hisses loudly, having long suspected something is up. I go to pick him up, trying to act like everything is normal, but Screwtape darts away. It’d probably be easier to crate a Fenris than it is to crate Screwtape. The dance repeats until Scarlett and I are red in the face and Silas is laughing at us. We finally run the cat down, and Scarlett manages to toss the laundry basket over him when he’s too busy anticipating his next dash. “We could still leave him,” Silas jokes—I think he’s joking, anyway—as we load the howling backseat of his car. Scarlett looks as though she might feel the same way as she nurses a batch of claw marks on top of the thicker Fenris scars. She climbs into the backseat of the car as Silas and I slide into the front. Silas hot-wires the ignition of the hatchback and pounds on the radio for a few minutes before it buzzes to life. “We can’t change the station, by the way,” he says. “Because you really like pop music?” I ask, wrinkling my nose as a bubbly song blares at us. “Not hardly,” Silas says. “I hate it. But last time I changed it, the car stopped. Oh, and lean away from your door—sometimes it opens randomly. “Um . . . great,” I say, leaning as far away from the door as possible. But this feels even more dangerous, because I’m leaning incredibly close to Silas, so close that I’m hyperaware of the fact that my sister is right behind me. My stomach twists as it fights my body’s urge to fall against him. I shudder and try to shake the desire off.

VANILLA CRACK Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. 1 box salted soda crackers. (I used Saltines) 2 sticks salted butter (1 cup, 8 ounces, ½ pound) 1 cup white (granulated) sugar 2 teaspoons vanilla extract ½ cup salted nut pieces Line a 10-inch by 15-inch cookie sheet with heavy-duty foil. If you have a jellyroll pan, that’s perfect. If you don’t, turn up the edges of the foil to form sides. Spray the foil with Pam or other nonstick cooking spray. (You want to be able to peel it off later, after the cookies harden.) Cover the pan completely with a single layer of soda crackers, salt side up. (You can break the crackers in pieces to make them fit if you have to.) Set the cracker-lined jellyroll pan or cookie sheet aside while you cook the topping. Combine the butter with the white sugar and vanilla in a heavy saucepan. Bring it to a full boil over medium high heat on the stovetop, stirring constantly. (A full boil will have breaking bubbles all over the surface of the pan.) Boil it for exactly five (5) minutes, stirring it constantly. If it sputters too much, you can reduce the heat. If it starts to lose the boil, you can increase the heat. Just don’t stop stirring. Pour the mixture over the soda crackers as evenly as you can. Hannah’s Note: I start by pouring the mixture in lines from top to bottom over the length of the pan. Then I turn it and pour more lines over the width of the pan. Once the whole pan is cross-hatched with the hot toffee mixture, I pour any that’s left where it’s needed. If it doesn’t cover the soda crackers completely, don’t worry—it’ll spread out quite a bit in the oven. Sprinkle the salted nut pieces over the top. Slide the pan into the oven and bake the cookies at 350 degrees F. for ten (10) minutes. Remove the pan from the oven and let it cool on a wire rack. When the cookies have thoroughly cooled, peel off the foil and break them into random-sized pieces.

I have a number of such wells in mind. In county Longford, not far from the town of Granard, a spring bubbles in some rough ground a few yards from the roadside. Climb the old wire fence where it ties into a tree, walk in a north-westerly direction, and look out for some unexpected ferns and water fronds; the big green blades will catch your eye.

cup flour and ¼ cup warm water. 2.​Over time, the starter may develop a brown liquid on top. Before you use the starter again, pour off the brown liquid and remove ¼ cup of starter. Discard both. 3.​Make sure you feed your starter each day before baking to strengthen and revive the starter. 4.​If you bake frequently and want to keep the starter going, you can add water and flour daily or even twice a day. 5.​Always make sure to add equal parts warm water and flour. You don’t have to stick to a ¼ cup. You can use as little as a tablespoon in equal amounts or as much as a cup of each. SIMPLE SOURDOUGH BREAD Now that you have a simple starter, let’s make some sourdough. Before you begin, you need to know some differences between sourdough and traditional bread. Unlike traditional bread, sourdough needs to be prepared a day in advance. The dough won’t double in size in an hour like some traditional breads. And there’s a chance you won’t be successful on your first (or second) try. But with tenacity and practice, you’ll be making mouthwatering artisanal loaves in no time. PREP: 1–3 days COOK: 45–60 minutes COOL: 30 minutes 1 cup sourdough starter (preferably fed 3 hours before) 3 – 4 cups flour 1 ½ cups warm water 2 teaspoons salt Optional: 1 tablespoon olive oil DIRECTIONS 1.​Mix bubbly sourdough starter with 1½ cups flour and 1 cup water in a bowl and whisk until the dough looks like batter. 2.​Add salt and remaining flour. When you can no longer whisk, use your hands. Rather than knead the dough, practice folding it. Simply take dough from one side, stretch it up, and fold it on top. Repeat for each side of the dough. Continue to add flour until the texture is sticky and still pourable. 3.​Pour dough into loaf or pie pans until ⅓ full. Cover and allow to rest at room temperature for 8–12 hours or until double in size with a dome on the top. 4.​Take a sharp serrated knife and slice the top of the loaves into a square. 5.​Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Place your dough in the refrigerator to stabilize it while the oven preheats. 6.​Bake bread for 45–60 minutes until the edges turn golden. If you prefer your bread browner, brush olive oil on top ten minutes before removing from oven. When you tap on the loaves, they should sound hollow. 7.​Remove and allow to cool on wire racks. Makes 2 loaves.

The sudden quiet made Charlotte's bedroom feel as if it had been plunged underwater. Even the small glass ball ornaments she'd hung by fishing wire from the ceiling gave the impression of air bubbles floating to the water's surface. It was folklore Charlotte had grown up hearing, how these glass spheres called witch balls had been used for centuries to protect homes against ghosts and evil spirits. Her artistic mother used to replicate them out of grapevines, the only thing she had to work with. She would tell customers about their mystical properties at the roadside stand where the camp sold maple syrup and the meager amount of vegetables they managed to grow. Charlotte now collected them, and the symbolism wasn't lost on her. She was trying to protect herself from the ghosts of her past.

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

Ain’t no problem holding on to grief - as long as you make room for other things too. Bubble - The Wire

Wire man, electric cell in which the family energy from the naming of a man is converted directly to electrical water flaps in a continuous person. The efficiency of conversion from name to water in a wire man is between Ocean (Gary%) and River (Lewis%), nearly twice that of the usual dry method of switching, in which wires are used to whip steam to turn a man connected to an electric family of waters. The earliest father, in which a Gary and Lewis were mixed to form Michael%, was constructed in the Age of Wire and String by the English. In the Ocean and River wire man, Garies and Lewises are bubbled into separate rooms connected by a porous cell, through which a wire can freely move. Inert, unnamed men, mixed with a collection of unrelated waters, are dipped into each room. When Gary and Lewis are connected by a wire, the combination of flap, wire, and name form a complete family, and an emotion takes place in the cell: The inert men are covered with the flap to form a home surrounded by water; relatives are liberated by this process and flow through the wire to other rooms; and the fathers themselves sail outward on the back of the wire, carrying a succession of cells and water, which they distribute as names to the new children who are floating in their homes.

Once his affairs were in order, he reported for duty. “How are you at soldering?” Chief Technician Scully said casually. “Pretty good,” Philo replied. “I’ve done a fair amount of wiring and building things from scratch. None of it has failed so far.” “Good. All the consoles in the station need to be re-capped. The heat from the vacuum tubes dries out the electrolytic capacitors over time, and we have to replace them every five years, before the audio performance starts degrading.” Philo took an equipment cart to the backup studio, pulled all the modules out of the console, and carefully packed them in bubble wrap for transport back to the workshop. He set a module on the bench and set up his vacuum desoldering station, soldering iron, magnifier, and boxes of new capacitors, organized by capacitance and voltage. The channel modules were densely packed with components, providing all the capabilities of a modern console, but using subminiature vacuum tubes instead of transistors. Each channel module had two dozen electrolytic capacitors, and there were more in the output modules and power supplies. Scully came along a while later to inspect his work. “Splendid! Very clean work. You’ll be on full-time recapping duty from now on.” “You’re doomed,” said an older Technician, who was disassembling a condenser microphone on the other bench. “You never should have told him you were good at soldering.” Once Philo was done with all the consoles, he moved on to the multi-track tape machines, which were transistorized but had a tendency to run hot. He recapped electronics ten hours a day, until he was desoldering capacitors in his sleep.

In a medium bowl, whisk together the cocoa, sugar, salt, flour, and baking soda, then sift into a large bowl. In a medium bowl, stir the vanilla and oil together. Bring the water to a boil or brew the coffee. Add it to the oil-vanilla mixture. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and gradually whisk in the water-oil mixture until incorporated. Gradually whisk in the eggs and stir until smooth. The batter will be thin. Divide the batter evenly between the prepared pans. Drop the pan onto the counter from a height of 3 inches a couple of times to release any air bubbles that may have formed. Bake in the upper third of the oven for 25 to 30 minutes, until the cakes spring back from the touch and just pull away from the edges of the pan. An inserted toothpick should come out clean. Cool the cakes completely on a wire rack before unmolding them from the pan and peeling off the parchment paper. To serve, place one layer down on a cake plate. Spread 1 cup Vanilla Cream in the center of the cake and gently place the second layer atop it. Spread

The tour concluded with our buying the ingredients for shabu-shabu to enjoy that night with Tomiko and her husband. Sitting around the wooden table in Tomiko's kitchen, we drank frosty Kirin beers and munched on edamame, fresh steamed soybeans, nutty and sweet, that we pulled from their salt-flecked pods with our teeth. Then Tomiko set down a platter resplendent with gossamer slices of raw beef, shiitake mushrooms, cauliflower florets, and loamy-tasting chrysanthemum leaves to dip with long forks into a wide ceramic bowl of bubbling primary dashi. I speared a piece of sirloin. "Wave the beef through the broth," instructed Tomiko, "then listen." Everyone fell silent. As the hot dashi bubbled around the ribbon of meat, it really did sound as though it was whispering "shabu-shabu," hence the onomatopoeic name of the dish. I dipped the beef in a sauce of toasted ground sesame and soy and as I chewed, the rich roasted cream mingled with the salty meat juices. "Try this one," urged Tomiko, passing another sauce of soy and sesame oil sharpened with lemony yuzu, grated radish, and hot pepper flakes. I tested it on a puffy cube of warm tofu that Tomiko had retrieved from the dashi with a tiny golden wire basket. The pungent sauce invigorated the custardy bean curd.

We each filled about a hundred bottles every fall, using mostly the unpasteurized juice of Russet, Golden Delicious, and New York Imperial apples from a nearby farm. After allowing the cider to ferment for a couple of weeks in five-gallon jugs, we drew it carefully into Champagne bottles salvaged from a friend’s restaurant in New York, corked the bottles, and secured each cork with a metal wire. The cider rested in my cellar over the winter—undergoing a second fermentation to produce a hard, sparkling beverage. Every bottle was different. Sometimes it came out just right: a golden color, with beautiful, sparkling bubbles; a clean, dry, slightly sweet taste of apple, honey, and apricot, with the scent of apple blossoms and honeysuckle. At other times it was hard and rough, with such a high carbon dioxide content that the corks, despite being secured with wire, burst out of the bottles during the peak of the second fermentation. Precious cider was lost on the floor and walls of the cellar. Opening a bottle became so unpredictable that after a few sticky showers in the kitchen and dining room, Gloria insisted that I perform that chore outside.

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