Cold Brew Quotes

 “We think a spy scheme could be brewing with one or more of the Middle East scientists going to Los Alamos.

Ice is most welcome in a cold drink on a hot day. But in the heart of winter, you want a warm hot mug with your favorite soothing brew to keep the chill away. When you don’t have anything warm at hand, even a memory can be a small substitute. Remember a searing look of intimate eyes. Receive the inner fire.

Kohtake, though, liked her coffee hot, even in summer. She liked the aroma of it when it was freshly brewed. She couldn't enjoy iced coffee in the same way. Coffee was far more pleasurable when it was hot.

It's been a long, hard day, and bit by bit you have been transformed into a single, vertical, barely ambulatory ache. All that awaits you now is another long, lonely night on the hard, cold ground. "What am I doing out here?" you ask yourself. "I must be mad!" Indeed, you are mad. Otherwise right now you could be warm and cozy and stretched out in front of your beloved TV, munching popcorn and swigging down ice-cold brew, just like a civilized person. "Oh well," you sigh to yourself. "I'd better stop and get a fire going.

Some enterprising rabbit had dug its way under the stakes of my garden again. One voracious rabbit could eat a cabbage down to the roots, and from the looks of things, he'd brought friends. I sighed and squatted to repair the damage, packing rocks and earth back into the hole. The loss of Ian was a constant ache; at such moments as this, I missed his horrible dog as well. I had brought a large collection of cuttings and seeds from River Run, most of which had survived the journey. It was mid-June, still time--barely--to put in a fresh crop of carrots. The small patch of potato vines was all right, so were the peanut bushes; rabbits wouldn't touch those, and didn't care for the aromatic herbs either, except the fennel, which they gobbled like licorice. I wanted cabbages, though, to preserve a sauerkraut; come winter, we would want food with some taste to it, as well as some vitamin C. I had enough seed left, and could raise a couple of decent crops before the weather turned cold, if I could keep the bloody rabbits off. I drummed my fingers on the handle of my basket, thinking. The Indians scattered clippings of their hair around the edges of the fields, but that was more protection against deer than rabbits. Jamie was the best repellent, I decided. Nayawenne had told me that the scent of carnivore urine would keep rabbits away--and a man who ate meat was nearly as good as a mountain lion, to say nothing of being more biddable. Yes, that would do; he'd shot a deer only two days ago; it was still hanging. I should brew a fresh bucket of spruce beer to go with the roast venison, though . . . (Page 844)

Beer, brewed in cauldrons the size of houses by machines and then served cold. It has no soul. It isn't worthy of the name.

She would sit at her desk and drink free, expensive cold brew, write code that would disappear into the mouth of an ever-expanding corporate giant.

cold-brew coffee tastes amazing, and it's practically impossible to screw it up. Unlike espresso, where all the grounds

A Turkish Proverb says, “Coffee should be black as hell, strong as death, and as sweet as love.

If you are cold, tea will warm you. If you are too heated, it will cool you. If you are depressed, it will cheer you. If you are excited, it will calm you. -William Ewart Gladstone, British 19th century Prime Minister

If she’d been quizzed as to His Grace’s eye color, she would’ve had to reply simply that they were dark. Which they were. Very dark, nearly black, but not quite. The Duke of Wakefield’s eyes were a deep, rich brown, like coffee newly brewed, like walnut wood oiled and polished, like seal fur shining in the light, and even though they were rather lovely to look at, they were as cold as iron in winter. One touch and her very soul might freeze.

The coffee served in the coffeehouses wasn’t necessarily very good coffee. Because of the way coffee was taxed in Britain (by the gallon), the practice was to brew it in large batches, store it cold in barrels, and reheat it a little at a time for serving. So coffee’s appeal in Britain had less to do with being a quality beverage than with being a social lubricant. People went to coffeehouses to meet people of shared interests, gossip, read the latest journals and newspapers—a brand-new word and concept in the 1660s—and exchange information of value to their lives and business. Some took to using coffeehouses as their offices—as, most famously, at Lloyd’s Coffee House on Lombard Street, which gradually evolved into Lloyd’s insurance market.

She leaned over the basket again, taking in the mouthwatering aromas wafting out of it. "Fried chicken? Oh, I'm thinking buttermilk fried chicken?" Dylan was once again amused. "How do you do that?" "I like food." "You don't say." "And I love Southern fried chicken." She tried to open the basket, and he tapped her hand jokingly. "Sit," he said. And she did, crossing her legs and plopping down on the blanket. Opening the basket and playing waiter, Dylan began removing flatware and plates and red-checkered napkins, and then wrapped food. "For lunch today in Chez Orchard de Pomme, we have some lovely cheese, made from the milk of my buddy Mike's goat Shelia." He removed the plastic wrap, which covered a small log of fresh white cheese on a small plate, and handed it to her. Grace put her nose to the cheese. It was heavenly. "Oh, Shelia is my new best friend." "It's good stuff. And we have some fresh chili corn bread. The corn, I think, is from Peter Lindsey's new crop, just cut out from the maze, which is right down this hill." He motioned with his head toward the field, and then he handed her a big loaf of the fresh corn bread wrapped loosely in wax paper. "It's still warm!" Delighted, she held it to her cheek. Then he pulled out a large oval Tupperware container. "And, yes, we have Dolly's buttermilk fried chicken." Grace peeled open the top and smelled. "Fabulous." "It is!" He also pulled out a mason jar of sourwood honey, a sack of pecans, and a couple of very cold bottles of a local mountain-brewed beer.

Cool green foods became the natural choice in restaurants and teahouses. Matcha, the powdered green tea used for the tea ceremony, flavored ice cream, jewel-like gelatin cubes, and sweet whipped cream eaten in parfaits and layered with grapes, pineapple chunks, and chewy white mochi balls. There were Japanese-style snow cones, huge hills of shaved ice drizzled with green tea syrup, along with green tea-flavored mousse and tea-tainted sponge cake. Matcha flavored savory items too, including green tea noodles served hot in dashi soup, as well as chilled and heaped on a bamboo draining mat with a cold dipping sauce of dashi, mirin, and soy. There was green tea-flavored wheat gluten and the traditional Kyoto-style dish of white rice topped with thin petals of sashimi that you "cooked" at the table by drenching it with brewed green tea from a tiny teapot.

Lesson one: Pack light unless you want to hump the eight around the mountains all day and night. By the time we reached Snowdonia National Park on Friday night it was dark, and with one young teacher as our escort, we all headed up into the mist. And in true Welsh fashion, it soon started to rain. When we reached where we were going to camp, by the edge of a small lake halfway up, it was past midnight and raining hard. We were all tired (from dragging the ridiculously overweight packs), and we put up the tents as quickly as we could. They were the old-style A-frame pegged tents, not known for their robustness in a Welsh winter gale, and sure enough by 3:00 A.M. the inevitable happened. Pop. One of the A-frame pegs supporting the apex of my tent broke, and half the tent sagged down onto us. Hmm, I thought. But both Watty and I were just too tired to get out and repair the first break, and instead we blindly hoped it would somehow just sort itself out. Lesson two: Tents don’t repair themselves, however tired you are, however much you wish they just would. Inevitably, the next peg broke, and before we knew it we were lying in a wet puddle of canvas, drenched to the skin, shivering, and truly miserable. The final key lesson learned that night was that when it comes to camping, a stitch in time saves nine; and time spent preparing a good camp is never wasted. The next day, we reached the top of Snowdon, wet, cold but exhilarated. My best memory was of lighting a pipe that I had borrowed off my grandfather, and smoking it with Watty, in a gale, behind the summit cairn, with the teacher joining in as well. It is part of what I learned from a young age to love about the mountains: They are great levelers. For me to be able to smoke a pipe with a teacher was priceless in my book, and was a firm indicator that mountains, and the bonds you create with people in the wild, are great things to seek in life. (Even better was the fact that the tobacco was homemade by Watty, and soaked in apple juice for aroma. This same apple juice was later brewed into cider by us, and it subsequently sent Chipper, one of the guys in our house, blind for twenty-four hours. Oops.) If people ask me today what I love about climbing mountains, the real answer isn’t adrenaline or personal achievement. Mountains are all about experiencing a shared bond that is hard to find in normal life. I love the fact that mountains make everyone’s clothes and hair go messy; I love the fact that they demand that you give of yourself, that they make you fight and struggle. They also induce people to loosen up, to belly laugh at silly things, and to be able to sit and be content staring at a sunset or a log fire. That sort of camaraderie creates wonderful bonds between people, and where there are bonds I have found that there is almost always strength.

You've had hot coffee before, and in the hands of a skilled maker, coffee can be amazing. But the fact is that coffee is one of the hardest things to get right in the world. Even with great beans and a great roast and great equipment, a little too much heat, the wrong grind, or letting things go on too long will produce a cup of bitterness. Coffee's full of different acids, and depending on the grind, temperature, roast, and method, you can "overextract" the acids from the beans, or overheat them and oxidize them, producing that awful taste you get at donut shops and Starbucks. But there is Another Way. If you make coffee in cold water, you only extract the sweetest acids, the highly volatile flavors that hint at chocolate and caramel, the ones that boil away or turn to sourness under imperfect circumstances. Brewing coffee in cold water sounds weird, but in fact, it's just about the easiest way to make a cup (or a jar) of coffee. Just grind coffee -- keep it coarse, with grains about the size of sea salt -- and combine it with twice as much water in an airtight jar. Give it a hard shake and stick it somewhere cool overnight (I used a cooler bag loaded with ice from ice camp and wrapped the whole thing in bubble wrap for insulation). In the morning, strain it through a colander and a paper coffee filter. What you've got now is coffee concentrate, which you can dilute with cold water to taste -- I go about half and half. If you're feeling fancy, serve it over ice.

We begin with an onion soup as smoky and fragrant as autumn leaves, with croutons and grated Gruyère and a sprinkle of paprika over the top. She serves and watches me throughout, waiting, perhaps, for me to produce from thin air an even more perfect confection that will cast her effort into the shade. Instead I eat, and talk, and smile, and compliment the chef, and the chink of crockery goes through her head, and she feels slightly dazed, not quite herself. Well, pulque is a mysterious brew, and the punch is liberally spiked with it, courtesy of Yours Truly, of course, in honor of the joyful occasion. As comfort, perhaps, she serves more punch, and the scent of the cloves is like being buried alive, and the taste is like chilies spiced with fire, and she wonders, Will it ever end? The second course is sweet foie gras, sliced on thin toast with quinces and figs. It's the snap that gives this dish its charm, like the snap of correctly tempered chocolate, and the foie gras melts so lingeringly in the mouth, as soft as praline truffle, and it is served with a glass of ice-cold Sauternes that Anouk disdains, but which Rosette sips in a tiny glass no larger than a thimble, and she gives her rare and sunny smile, and signs impatiently for more. The third course is a salmon baked en papillote and served whole, with a béarnaise sauce. Alice complains she is nearly full, but Nico shares his plate with her, feeding her tidbits and laughing at her minuscule appetite. Then comes the pièce de résistance: the goose, long roasted in a hot oven so that the fat has melted from the skin, leaving it crisp and almost caramelized, and the flesh so tender it slips off the bones like a silk stocking from a lady's leg. Around it there are chestnuts and roast potatoes, all cooked and crackling in the golden fat.

eight cups of water, add a handful of bulk dried hibiscus or four bags of tea in which hibiscus is the first ingredient. Then add the juice of one lemon and three tablespoons of erythritol, and leave it in your fridge to cold-brew overnight. In the morning, strain out the hibiscus or take out the tea bags, shake well, and drink throughout the day.

Why is coffee so valuable? isn't there other stuff in the, uh, multiverse, to find?"                 "Like what? Gold? There was enough gold and silver in the asteroid belt of your former solar system to make every house, car, building and road on Earth out of the stuff. Diamonds? shiny pebbles. Fiat currency? don't make me laugh. Utility is what creates value for the meta-traveler. Food, meta-vehicles, water, or at least whatever fluid solvent is necessary for continuing your biochemical reactions. Of these, the scarcest is good coffee. It rarely evolves, and only naturally evolved coffee has the right flavor. Only coffee grown in its native environment will please the palate. Few universes have the right cosmological constants and physical laws to even create good coffee. Good coffee only grows in narrow bands of subtropical climates and only at high elevations that aren't cold. Coffee is portable, dividable, consistent in mass, and quality can be tested with common olfactory senses. Every brew is a little different; the permutations of the coffee experience are endless. For most meta-traveling humanoid species, coffee is consistently satisfying. It is the only true currency."   *

A Vigilante Stalks by Stewart Stafford O slain avenger on the mortal shore, Moral compass of an immoral craft, Virtue cloaked with malignant wings, Intravenous vengeance on two legs. Grinning charm gave way to coercion, Cold eyes unwavering from the prize, Art critic and thief in a rogues' gallery, Breaking fingers reeking of corruption. Serving a brew of fear to the fearsome, Never made you a flavour of the month, Festering secrets spewed in last breaths, Before they made you yesterday's man. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

It was not far. Once away from the subdued lights of the buildings they were aware of the stars, snapping like sparks from a cold fire, in a clear black sky just engendering a few tattered snow-clouds in the east. In the garden, between the pleached hedges, it seemed almost warm, as though the sleeping trees breathed tempered air as well as cutting off the bleak wind. The silence was profound. The herb garden was walled, and the wooden hut where Cadfael brewed and stored his medicines was sheltered from the worst of the cold.

TIP: Love your coffee but can’t accept letting it go despite its acidic nature? Try cold press brewing—an alternative brewing method that not only reduces bitterness but also removes 60 to 70 percent of the acidity found in your favorite cup of joe. For more information, see Appendix V.

When looking at the big picture of life, I find myself the weaver and the woven, the artist and the canvas. A symphony of creation plays within my soul, coaxing forth an insatiable yearning to explore the unfathomable depths of human experience. I am a vessel, filled to the brim with the intoxicating brew of inspiration, a force as elusive as a springtime breeze yet as powerful as the wildest storm. It strikes unbidden, a siren's song that lures me towards the uncharted waters of creativity and innovation, fanning the embers of my spirit into a blaze that illuminates my existence. Yet, of late, I perceive a disquieting shift within my innermost self. A pall of ordinariness has descended upon my world, casting its dreary shadow upon the vibrant tapestry that once spoke to me in hues of myriad emotions. The world, which once shimmered with the uncaptured beauty of a million sunsets, now lies barren and cold, bereft of the inspirational light that once guided my every step. The colors have dimmed, the music has faded, and I stand at the precipice, yearning for the spark that will reignite the fire within. I am Jonathan Harnisch, and this is my cry into the void.

Maybe,” she said softly, hoping to bridge it herself, just a touch, “maybe one day I can return the favor.” “You can’t save me,” he whispered. “Why not?” “Because some things aren’t worth the effort.” Her heart went out to him right then and there. As firelight flickered over his chiseled features, she saw secrets brewing in his eyes. Secrets that fed something dark in his past that kept him closed off from the world. For years she’d thought he didn’t have a soul, but as she stared into his eyes now, she knew she’d been wrong. He hurt, just as she did. And he longed, the same as she. While she’d curled into herself over the years, letting her father and everyone else make her decisions for her, he’d gone the other way, pushing every single person away until they all thought he was nothing but a cold, evil shell. How wrong she’d been. How utterly hateful and horrid she’d been to him. As they stared at each other, she didn’t see him as an Argonaut. Didn’t see him as a fighter or even a hero, really. She saw him as a man. With the same humanity the gods both hated and envied. With the same frailties and faults she possessed. She moved into him fast, burying her cheek against his chest and wrapping one arm around his waist while the other held the blanket closed at her front. He sucked in a surprised breath, but she didn’t let go. Against her skin he was alive and warm, and her body jumped to life everywhere they touched.

SOLUTION: Add a few grains of salt to your cold cup and nuke it in the microwave for a minute. You’ll notice that your coffee tastes almost as good as when it was freshly brewed.

I feel warmth brewing inside you. I think you pretend to be cold so no one gets close." "You're close now," he said against her lips. "I am." Her breath hitched as her gaze drifted down his chest. "And I like what I feel.

And even Andy would agree. Trendy glasses and a few short years of college are a poor replacement for a lifetime of experience and decent manners. Good day.” Before

Nakia would do anything Farren asked to ensure that her daughter was happy. She wasn’t the best mom growing up; she hated her past decisions and even how cold she treated Farren because of the hate that had been brewing for her father. Although

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be pas thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the sense and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me,,,,

Tonight she'll be with Jeremy, her lieutenant, but she wants to be with Roger. Except that, really, she doesn't. Does she? She can't remember being so confused. When she is with Roger it's all love, but at any distance- any at all, Jack- she finds that he depresses and even frightens her. Why? On top of him in the wild nights riding up and down his cock her axis, trying herself to stay rigid enough not to turn to cream taper-wax and fall away melting to the coverlet coming there's only room for Roger, Roger, oh love to the end of breath. But out of bed, walking talking, his bitterness, his darkness, run deeper than the War, the winter: he hates England so, hates "the System," gripes endlessly, says he'll emigrate when the War's over, stays inside his paper cynic's cave hating himself... and does she want to bring him out, really? Isn't it safer with Jeremy? She tried not to allow this question to often, but it's there. Three years with Jeremy. They might as well be married. Three years ought to count for something. Daily, small stitches and easings. She's worn old Beaver's bathrobes, brewed his tea and coffee, sought his eye across lorry-parks, day rooms and rainy mud fields when all the day's mean, dismal losses could be rescued in the one look- familiar, full of trust, in a season where the word is invoked for quaintness or a minor laugh. And to rip it all out? three years? for this erratic, self-centered- boy, really. Weepers, he supposed to be past thirty, he's years older than she. He ought to've learned something, surely? A man of experience? /// If the rockets don't get her there's still her lieutenant. Damned Beaver/Jeremy IS the War, he is every assertion the fucking War has ever made- that we are meant work and government, for austerity: and these shall take priority over love, dreams, the spirit, the senses and the second-class trivia that are found among the idle and mindless hours of the day... Damn them, they are wrong. They are insane. Jeremy will take her like the Angel itself, in his joyless weasel-worded come-along, and Roger will be forgotten, an amusing maniac, but with no place in the rationalized power-ritual that will be the coming peace. She will take her husband's orders, she will become a domestic bureaucrat, a junior partner, and remember Roger, if at all, as a mistake thank God she did not make... Oh, he feels a raving fit coming on- how the bloody hell can he survive without her? She is the British warm that protects his stooping shoulders, and the wintering sparrow he holds inside his hands. She is his deepest innocence in spaces of bough and hay before wishes were given a separate name to warn they might not come true, and his lithe Parisian daughter of joy, beneath the eternal mirror, forswearing perfumes, capeskins to the armpits, all that is too easy, for his impoverishment and more worthy love. /// Jessica steps away from Roger to blow her nose. The sound is as familiar to him as a bird's song, ip-ip-ip-ip NGUNNGG as the hankerchief comes away..."Oh sooper dooper," she says, "think I'm catching a cold." You're catching the War. It's infecting you and I don't know how to keep it away. Oh, Jess. Jessica. Don't leave me....

My coffee had grown cold. I looked down and saw a half cut of cold coffee staring back at me. That meant, in my haste, I had not sucked it down so fast that I hadn't truly tasted it. Working with Marshall, I learned how to find and brew great coffee, but living with Hack, I learned how to taste it. Big difference.

brewed green tea SERVES 4 RYOKUCHA 4 tablespoons (12 g) loose Japanese green tea (ryokucha) Fill a large teapot with cold filtered water and bring to a boil. Fill a smallish teapot for brewing the tea with about 1¾ cups (400 cc) boiling water and leave the large teapot off of the heat. The 194°F (90°C) water should have dropped to 176°F (80°C). Now fill 4 small cups (the portion size per person is usually a scant ½ cup/100 cc) with the water from the smallish teapot. This will heat the cups and cool the water another 50°F (10°C). Measure the tea into the smallish teapot and pour the water in the cups over the leaves. Let steep for 20 seconds and pour out evenly in each cup. It is important to pour in short bursts, a little at a time, and to use up all of the water in the pot. For the second round, pour water directly from the large teapot (which now should have cooled to about 176°F/80°C). Set the lid back on the smallish teapot, but crack it a bit to let steam escape. Steep for 10 seconds and pour out again in the same fashion. Always pour all of the tea out of the pot before adding water. The tea will become weaker and weaker until it is almost clear. This changing quality is part of the appeal.

The one generalization which is true about America is that everything is true about it. It's impossible to say anything that isn't true, good or bad. Our enemies are right. Our friends are right. It's an awful big country, an awful lot of different kinds of people in it, and violence always has been part of our story. It is, you know. I've seen it in my own lifetime, long before this period and we certainly read about it in history. That's the way we won in the country and stole it away from the Indians and all the rest of it... I've talked to people in other ex-colonies. Nice people. When you mention the British [they] burst into tears of anger. Literally tears of rage about our nice English cousins, so the bad things are true about them. They burnt the roofs off of the Irish and starved them out into the cold. There's nothing that you can think of that the English didn't do to that Island right next door to them, to the Irish over a period of seven hundred years. And we're English, then we added a lot of other violent mixtures to the brew. I think man is a crazy animal.

COFFEE FOR TWO Get one of those “concentrated” jugs of cold brew coffee. Pour a “shot” of concentrated cold brew. It’s just coffee. Drink it like a tequila shot. Go to the gym. Get on a StairMaster. Unable to stand, legs wobbling, fall off the machine. From the gym floor, text your spouse for help. Make your way outside, crawling, holding on to the wall. Your spouse arrives, looking amused. Your loved one shakes their head, helping you into the car, calling you a monkey.

If I hadn’t moved, I’d be wearing Americano and cold brew with my Diane von Furstenberg.

The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath" About the Song: The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath delves into the dark and haunting theme of a lover poisoned by a sinister concoction found in the medieval Grand Grimoire. The song narrates the tragic tale of love tainted by the cruel hand of death, where a forbidden potion is meticulously prepared with arcane ingredients. The song's lyrics evoke a gothic atmosphere, intertwining elements of medieval alchemy and romantic tragedy. The potion's ingredients—Red Copper, Nitric Acid, Verdigris, Arsenic, Oak Bark, Rose Water, and Black Soot—are transformed into metaphors for the slow, inevitable demise of the lover. This deadly recipe becomes a symbol of both the destructive power and the twisted beauty of forbidden love. The music captures the essence of gothic black metal with its somber melodies, eerie harmonies, and intense, brooding instrumentals. Each note and lyric serve to illustrate the dark journey of love poisoned by betrayal and malice. The song's atmosphere is thick with melancholy and dread, inviting listeners into a world where passion and death intertwine in a tragic dance. Copyright Notice: The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath © 2024 Umbrae Sortilegium. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying, reproduction, or distribution of this song or its lyrics is prohibited. The Composition of Death Upon Your Breath. (Verse 1) In an ancient tome of shadowed lore, A secret poison to settle the score, A lover’s whisper, a deadly art, The composition to tear us apart. (Pre-Chorus) Red copper gleaming, nitric acid's burn, Verdigris and arsenic, from which there’s no return, Oak bark and rose water, a fatal serenade, Black soot to bind it, in darkness, it’s made. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Verse 2) A new, glazed pot, the spell's design, A potion brewed, in shadows confined, Your lips, a chalice of cold despair, In each embrace, a whispered prayer. (Pre-Chorus) Red copper gleaming, nitric acid's burn, Verdigris and arsenic, from which there’s no return, Oak bark and rose water, a fatal serenade, Black soot to bind it, in darkness, it’s made. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Bridge) In your gaze, the twilight's fall, A lover's kiss, the end of all, The Grand Grimoire, its secrets told, In every kiss, the poison’s cold. (Breakdown) A potion brewed from darkest sin, Your breath the gateway, let death begin, A recipe of doom, our fates entwined, In your arms, I lose my mind. (Chorus) The composition of death upon your breath, A kiss that leads to the silent depths, In your arms, I fall to eternal rest, Poisoned by the love that you professed. (Outro) The final breath, a lover's sigh, In your arms, I’m doomed to die, The composition, a lover’s theft, Death upon your breath, my final bequest. Lyrics and ALL Vocals yours truly. Lead Guitar & Symphonics Raz Wolfgang Drums Alexander Novichkov Bass Auron Nightshade Guitarist Kael Thornfield

Schwieger ordered the submarine to the bottom so his crew could dine in peace. “And now,” said Zentner, “there was fresh fish, fried in butter, grilled in butter, sautéed in butter, all that we could eat.” These fish and their residual odors, however, could only have worsened the single most unpleasant aspect of U-boat life: the air within the boat. First there was the basal reek of three dozen men who never bathed, wore leather clothes that did not breathe, and shared one small lavatory. The toilet from time to time imparted to the boat the scent of a cholera hospital and could be flushed only when the U-boat was on the surface or at shallow depths, lest the undersea pressure blow material back into the vessel. This tended to happen to novice officers and crew, and was called a “U-boat baptism.” The odor of diesel fuel infiltrated all corners of the boat, ensuring that every cup of cocoa and piece of bread tasted of oil. Then came the fragrances that emanated from the kitchen long after meals were cooked, most notably that close cousin to male body odor, day-old fried onions. All this was made worse by a phenomenon unique to submarines that occurred while they were submerged. U-boats carried only limited amounts of oxygen, in cylinders, which injected air into the boat in a ratio that varied depending on the number of men aboard. Expended air was circulated over a potassium compound to cleanse it of carbonic acid, then reinjected into the boat’s atmosphere. Off-duty crew were encouraged to sleep because sleeping men consumed less oxygen. When deep underwater, the boat developed an interior atmosphere akin to that of a tropical swamp. The air became humid and dense to an unpleasant degree, this caused by the fact that heat generated by the men and by the still-hot diesel engines and the boat’s electrical apparatus warmed the hull. As the boat descended through ever colder waters, the contrast between the warm interior and cold exterior caused condensation, which soaked clothing and bred colonies of mold. Submarine crews called it “U-boat sweat.” It drew oil from the atmosphere and deposited it in coffee and soup, leaving a miniature oil slick. The longer the boat stayed submerged, the worse conditions became. Temperatures within could rise to over 100 degrees Fahrenheit. “You can have no conception of the atmosphere that is evolved by degrees under these circumstances,” wrote one commander, Paul Koenig, “nor of the hellish temperature which brews within the shell of steel.

Those with wings unfurled and ignited breath. Lips that chant a brew. A voice calling out the Moon. The cold presence in the air of a mourned host. Dancer of shadows, the timeless predator, living for the flavor of blood. Thus devils ought to be present around any God if there is one.

This Heft upon Your Leaving I peel to the center for the shape of an answer to give you, for the way an answer cures in wet resin or can hook through the days toward the pendulous blink of your eye. I answer as air answering a clapper against edges of bronze before belting out an anthem of a thousand grazes, until I hear paper stones fall at your softening window. Years ago, it seemed we were loose strands swept from our ways, two vestigial selves to hide behind. Only the smell darkened when we washed our hands in a brew of cardamom and clove, and your arms blushed over me in earnest. I tell to your thick listening as the mouth to a sudden ear, to your shimmering heat as it condenses around me. Now what century fell down at your door? What cold bowl of oats did you repurpose into blessings? From the kettle tongue, take my answer as a sun-hatched shadow slipping to meet your palm inside the vapor of our moment. Take this entire autumn of waiting. Be held by the sense of an answer the way an animal can sense where the rain will fall.

Ditching straws has recently become an environmental cause—but did you know that sucking on straws causes wrinkles? The movement your mouth makes when it grasps the straw encourages the breakdown of collagen and elasticity more quickly, both of which your skin requires for support. As a result, you get unnecessary wrinkles and lines that make you look like you’ve been smoking, even if you haven’t! If you only use a straw once in a while, it’s no big deal. But if you’re sucking your cold brew coffee or

To eight cups of water, add a handful of bulk dried hibiscus or four bags of tea in which hibiscus is the first ingredient. Then add the juice of one lemon and three tablespoons of erythritol, and leave it in your fridge to cold-brew overnight. In the morning, strain out the hibiscus or take out the tea bags, shake well, and drink throughout the day. That’s something I try to do every day I’m home. For extra credit, add green foam: Pour a cup of the tea into a blender with a bunch of fresh mint leaves, blend on high, and enjoy. You end up with dark-green leafies blended into what may be the highest antioxidant beverage in the world, and it tastes like fruit punch.

Bungalow number seven sat on the edge of the beach surrounded by tropical plants and flowers of every color, providing privacy. It had the best view of the ocean of all the bungalows at Aloha Village. Sam walked in and headed straight for the refrigerator, grabbing a cold beer. With beer and cell phone in hand, he went out front to the lanai, sat down on the chaise lounge and leaned back. He took a swig of his ice cold brew and looked out at the ocean, and relaxed while going over what just happened at the harbor–with Jessica.

I come bearing brews and treats for Longganisa. There was a gourmet pet store by the restaurant I went to last night and the salesperson promised these treats were both delicious and diet-friendly." Jae held up a four-pack of beer, a bottle of Adeena's cold brew, a bag of Elena's calming tea blend, and a box of organic dog treats. "Where should I put them?" I led him into the kitchen, where Longganisa lay in wait. As soon as he stepped into the room, she pounced on his legs, barking and nudging him until he'd set down everything and stooped down to pet her. "Hey there, Longganisa. I missed you, too." He held out a treat and she went still. "Son jooseyo." She put a chubby paw in his hand and received a treat in return. I laughed to myself at this scene as I washed my hands and got dinner ready. Jae had taken Nisa out one day when I was sick, and his mom had taught my dog the command for "paw" in Korean. Which was adorable in itself, but it wasn't until Jae translated and explained his mom had been politely asking my dog to "please give me your hand" that I melted.

jitterbug Few ingredients combine to create as much comfort as do coffee and chocolate. The Jitterbug includes this star duo while also tossing in some coconut, vanilla, and, of course, alcohol, in the form of rum. It’s essentially a vacation in a glass, but one so filled with activities that you need a little pick-me-up in order to make it through cocktail hour. Teetotalers can use rum extract mixed with water to simulate the liquor content in this drink. TIME: 5 MINUTES SERVES: 1 2 tablespoons coconut sugar 1½ teaspoons unsweetened cacao powder 1 ounce Vanilla Syrup 1½ ounces dark rum 2 ounces coconut cream 3 ounces cold-brew coffee 3 coffee beans, for garnish Mix the coconut sugar and cacao powder on a small round plate until fully combined. Fill a large coupe (10 to 12 ounces) with ice and water to chill the glass, then discard them when the glass is sufficiently cold. Using a sponge or paper towel, moisten the rim of the chilled glass with a bit of vanilla syrup. Turn the glass upside down and dip it into the chocolate coconut sugar, without twisting. Make sure the rim is thoroughly coated. Combine the rum, coconut cream, vanilla syrup, and coffee in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake vigorously. Strain into the sugared-rim coupe. Garnish with the coffee beans to make a triangle shape. Serve and enjoy.

I’ll tell you what’s groan-worthy. That man you’re so insistent on keeping at arm’s length did have a room here. You know what he did when you arrived looking like something the cat dragged in? Well, he said to me, ‘Nilsa, I’d like Lilia to have my room. I run hot, like my ancestors, and so I’m just fine sleeping out in the cold.’ Bet you didn’t know he gave up his room for you, now did ya?

Their publicity model was the marketing strategy for another rather stimulating product, produced by none other than the Coca-Cola Company, which—with the catchy slogan “ice cold”—had enjoyed enormous success with their brown brew.

believe it or not, when you come here and order something, you’re not ordering a drink, you’re ordering a solution. A solution to fatigue, irritability, and anything else that a lack of coffee means to you. So, if you’ll indulge me, I’m confident that the Nitro Cold Brew with Sweet Cream is what you actually want. It has ten grams less sugar than your regular, forty fewer calories, and one hundred forty milligrams more caffeine.

We are a walk-in barbershop with no appointment needed. We aspire to continue providing prestige services in men's grooming while having that laid back vibe, we love a yarn & a nice cold brew.

It still had electricity and running water, the stove worked, the coffee maker could still brew, the refrigerator kept food cold. But the house had become a phantom. It was no longer living and breathing, surrounding the family and making them feel safe. It wafted along, an untethered spirit, drained of everything it once had been.

After the better part of a month working in the fringed cold, we were ready. There were still a few minor things to do but the ship was now completely primed and painted, with her name outlined with spot welds on each side of the bow and the stern. That morning, prior to sailing from Boston, I slipped ashore and bought a case of Budweiser beer. There was a lot of activity around the ship so no one noticed when I returned with beer in my sea bag. I distributed the three six-packs I had sold to classmates and the remaining one was for the guys in my room. I hung the brew out of the porthole, wrapped and tied securely in a towel. For us the porthole wasn’t just a small round window to the outside, it was also our refrigerator for keeping things cold! We didn’t get going until after dark, expecting to be on the Penobscot River back in Maine by daybreak. I was on the afterdeck trying to free lines that were solidly frozen from the cold, when I felt a jarring under foot. Looking over the railings, I saw one of the tugboats right outside of where our room was. He had bumped into us, and now with his engines roaring in reverse, was backing down. What the hell was going on? Instinctively, I knew what had happened. I dropped the mooring lines onto the deck and left the flaking down of them to others. I quickly ran to our room and opened the porthole, confirming what I already knew. Our beer was gone! Damn it, the tugboat was disappearing into the dark and they would be the ones drinking our beer that night! At least we still had some cold pizza. Free of the dock, we headed down the Inner Harbor, past Logan International Airport and Deer Island towards the Atlantic. We had worked hard to get our ship ready, and had every reason to be proud, as we steamed out of Boston Harbor that night. We were on our way back to Castine and to the Academy. By the next morning, we were sailing under the Waldo-Hancock Bridge into Bucksport Harbor.

My personal hell is a place filled with loud, cocky, inked hipster—millennials. It’s a place where every guy looks like a member of Mumford & Sons, and all the women shun makeup. No, it isn’t Lollapalooza, nor an Arcade Fire concert. No, it isn’t some hipster independent coffee shop serving the latest trend in cold brewed coffee and a donut. No, not a craft cocktail lounge playing Daft Punk on vinyl while everyone sits on low striped cushions and corduroy couches wearing color schemes of pants and tops that make no sense.

My personal hell is a place filled with loud, cocky, inked hipster—millennials. It’s a place where every guy looks like a member of Mumford & Sons, and all the women shun makeup. No, it isn’t Lollapalooza, nor an Arcade Fire concert. No, it isn’t some hipster independent coffee shop serving the latest trend in cold brewed coffee and a donut. No, not a craft cocktail lounge playing Daft Punk on vinyl while everyone sits on low striped cushions and corduroy couches wearing color schemes of pants and tops that make no sense. I’ll give you a hint. A woman walked around wearing a t-shirt stating, “Data is the new bacon.” Excuse me, but fuck you, it is not! Okay, fine. Last hint. All the Mumford & Sons dudes and non-makeup wearing inked millennials are wearing the exact same shirt. Slap yourself if you get this wrong. My hell is the APPLE STORE!

he sipped the cold brew again, to douse the low-grade fire in his pants which was calling him a liar

A word about Hope House: there are places in the world where so many desperate people have lived and so many bad things have happened that the places themselves have become desperately bad. They're damp and weird and smell like foot fungus. The windows are never clean, and the linoleum curls up at the edges because it can't stand the floor. Every corner is sprayed with cobwebs and quivering shadows. When you walk into those bad places, you can feel a headache brewing between your eyebrows, a churning in your gut, a cold prickle at the back of your neck. You feel sad and angry and helpless, all at the same time. These bad places seem to hate you but, they also seem to want to keep you there very very much.

J. Edgerton/ The Spirit of Christmas Page 11 Mr. Angel smiled warmly at the vision of the two boys playing in the snow. “All God’s creatures . . . one and all . . . large and small! But some more important than others, in their magnificence. And I’ve found you both . . . at last”. Jonas took off racing through the snow, the cup in his hand. “Come on James!” James scrambled after him, the snow crunching pleasantly beneath his tiny feet. “Jonas wait for me!” The taller Nicholas stopped before a Cinder Vendor. “Two warm Ciders please, with extra spices.” The Cider Vendor raised an eyebrow as he took in the smudged face of the boy and his shabby clothes. “Very well, young Sir. Have you money? I’m not a charity you know!” Jonas quickly fished out coins and showed him the silver. “Oh yes Sir. I know of charities Sir and you’re better off not being one. They’re a cheat!” The Cider Vendor began filling two cups with steaming apple cider. The sweet smell of it made the boy’s mouth water. The burly Cider Vendor handed him the first cup of sweet, steaming, mouth puckering cider. “Many are, young master!” He replied. “I grew up in the system meself and it was a poor boy’s torment. That’ll be 2 cents!” The littlest Nicholas raced up and slid to a halt in the snow beside him. Jonas handed James the cup of cider. Then he paid the vendor with coins from the tin cup. “That’s highway robbery . . . but very well!” The Cider Vendor squinted through one eye, his thick eyebrow nearly obscuring it. “It’s very good cider, with extra spices.” James face lit up with joy as he took a sip. “M-mmm! It is good cider! J. Edgerton/ The Spirit of Christmas Page 12 The Vendor handed Jonas the second cup of steaming cider. “I’ve not had any complaints. I work hard to make my cider. It’s worth the money.” His lips smacking, Jonas sipped in the warm cider. “I’m sure it is Sir.” The angelic faced little one smiled up at him. “It’s yummy!” The Cider Vendor smiled down at him and tipped his hat to him “Yes it tis! Yummy!” Then he chuckled cheerfully with another satisfied customer, no matter how small. “Ummm, good!” Jonas agreed with them. The Cider Vendor took a sip of his own brew himself, his mouth puckering. “It’ll put the spirit of life back in you on a cold day like this, that Cider.” Two men in tall top hats and fine suits halted in front of the Cider Vendor. “Sir, we are collecting for the poor and wondered if a fine fellow such as yourself might have something to contribute.” Jonas glanced up at them in a wizened way. “We’ve a couple coins to contribute but it better get to the poor, understand?” “Of course, my fine fellow! “The taller of the two sharply dressed gentlemen spoke. Smiling a satisfied smile, Jonas dropped two silver coins into the gentleman’s hands. The tall gentleman took them and tipped his hat, smiling down at them both. “Very generous!” He glanced stone faced at the vendor, who immediately forked over several dollars. “A very Merry Christmas to you both!” They trod off through the snow in their finery, to the welcome crunch of the snow drifts beneath their feet. Mr. Angel paused at the Cheese vendor next to them, where a raggedy young girl was staring wide eyed at the rows and rows of cheeses above her.

One woman’s recipe for laundry day included this 11-step routine that’s exhausting even to read: bild fire in back yard to het kettle of rain water. set tubs so smoke won’t blow in eyes if wind is peart. shave 1 hole cake lie sope in bilin water. sort things. make 3 piles. 1 pile white, 1 pile cullord, 1 pile work briches and rags. stur flour in cold water to smooth then thin down with bilin water [for starch]. rub dirty spots on board. scrub hard. then bile. rub cullord but don’t bile just rench [rinse] and starch. take white things out of kettle with broom stick handle then rench, blew [whitener] and starch. pore rench water in flower bed. scrub porch with hot sopy water turn tubs upside down go put on a cleen dress, smooth hair with side combs, brew cup of tee, set and rest and rock a spell and count blessings.

Longganisa was curled up on her bed beneath my desk but stood up to greet me. Today, she was outfitted in a leaf-patterned hoodie that bore the Brew-ha Cafe logo. Cute, simple, and practical since Longganisa hated the cold. I clipped on her leash and led her around the cafe. Her usual admirers surrounded us, and we spent some time on pets and belly rubs. When we got to the front of the shop, Leslie was helping Adeena bag her order. "Longganisa, show your Tita Adeena some love." Adeena was more of a cat person, but she loved my little wiener dog almost as much as I did. Longganisa adored her as well, and Adeena was the only person other than me and Jae who was allowed to pick her up. Even Tita Rosie didn't get that privilege. Adeena snuggled Longganisa close to her chest, and Longganisa rewarded her with a few licks. "Oh, my bestest girl. Your kisses will sustain me through all my family lecturing.