French Drain Quotes

I'm empty. I'm drained. And I can't move. Not that I'd want to. Because that's the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don't want to let it go. It becomes a comfort.

Men: they are what they are and women have to accept that and try to shift around them. Especially men with power. Money. The upper hand. The raised hand. Momma`s philosophy. Here`s to you, Momma. She raised the empty cup. What`s the use of fighting them. What`s the use. To struggle, to live in anger takes everything out of you, drains you, makes people hate you and what`s the use? You get nothing you want, all you get is tired.

Here’s one of the more disturbing things about working Murder: how little you think about the person who’s been killed. There are some who move into your mind—children, battered pensioners, girls who went clubbing in their sparkly hopeful best and ended the night in bog drains—but mostly the victim is only your starting point; the gold at the end of the rainbow is the killer.

We have seen that imagining an act engages the same motor and sensory programs that are involved in doing it. We have long viewed our imaginative life with a kind of sacred awe: as noble, pure, immaterial, and ethereal, cut off from our material brain. Now we cannot be so sure about where to draw the line between them. Everything your “immaterial” mind imagines leaves material traces. Each thought alters the physical state of your brain synapses at a microscopic level. Each time you imagine moving your fingers across the keys to play the piano, you alter the tendrils in your living brain. These experiments are not only delightful and intriguing, they also overturn the centuries of confusion that have grown out of the work of the French philosopher René Descartes, who argued that mind and brain are made of different substances and are governed by different laws. The brain, he claimed, was a physical, material thing, existing in space and obeying the laws of physics. The mind (or the soul, as Descartes called it) was immaterial, a thinking thing that did not take up space or obey physical laws. Thoughts, he argued, were governed by the rules of reasoning, judgment, and desires, not by the physical laws of cause and effect. Human beings consisted of this duality, this marriage of immaterial mind and material brain. But Descartes—whose mind/body division has dominated science for four hundred years—could never credibly explain how the immaterial mind could influence the material brain. As a result, people began to doubt that an immaterial thought, or mere imagining, might change the structure of the material brain. Descartes’s view seemed to open an unbridgeable gap between mind and brain. His noble attempt to rescue the brain from the mysticism that surrounded it in his time, by making it mechanical, failed. Instead the brain came to be seen as an inert, inanimate machine that could be moved to action only by the immaterial, ghostlike soul Descartes placed within it, which came to be called “the ghost in the machine.” By depicting a mechanistic brain, Descartes drained the life out of it and slowed the acceptance of brain plasticity more than any other thinker. Any plasticity—any ability to change that we had—existed in the mind, with its changing thoughts, not in the brain. But now we can see that our “immaterial” thoughts too have a physical signature, and we cannot be so sure that thought won’t someday be explained in physical terms. While we have yet to understand exactly how thoughts actually change brain structure, it is now clear that they do, and the firm line that Descartes drew between mind and brain is increasingly a dotted line.

Sisyphus cheated death,” Nico explained. “First he chained up Thanatos, the reaper of souls, so no one could die. Then when Thanatos got free and was about to kill him, Sisyphus told his wife to do incorrect funeral rites so he wouldn’t rest in peace. Sisy here—May I call you Sisy?” “No!” “Sisy tricked Persephone into letting him go back to the world to haunt his wife. And he didn’t come back.” The old man cackled. “I stayed alive another thirty years before they finally tracked me down!” Thalia was halfway up the hill now. She gritted her teeth, pushing the boulder with her back. Her expression said Hurry up! “So that was your punishment,” I said to Sisyphus. “Rolling a boulder up a hill forever. Was it worth it?” “A temporary setback!” Sisyphus cried. “I’ll bust out of here soon, and when I do, they’ll all be sorry!” “How would you get out of the Underworld?” Nico asked. “It’s locked down, you know.” Sisyphus grinned wickedly. “That’s what the other one asked.” My stomach tightened. “Someone else asked your advice?” “An angry young man,” Sisyphus recalled. “Not very polite. Held a sword to my throat. Didn’t offer to roll my boulder at all.” “What did you tell him?” Nico said. “Who was he?” Sisyphus massaged his shoulders. He glanced up at Thalia, who was almost to the top of the hill. Her face was bright red and drenched in sweat. “Oh . . . it’s hard to say,” Sisyphus said. “Never seen him before. He carried a long package all wrapped up in black cloth. Skis, maybe? A shovel? Maybe if you wait here, I could go look for him. . . .” “What did you tell him?” I demanded. “Can’t remember.” Nico drew his sword. The Stygian iron was so cold it steamed in the hot dry air of Punishment. “Try harder.” The old man winced. “What kind of person carries a sword like that?” “A son of Hades,” Nico said. “Now answer me!” The color drained from Sisyphus’s face. “I told him to talk to Melinoe! She always has a way out!” Nico lowered his sword. I could tell the name Melinoe bothered him. “Are you crazy?” he said. “That’s suicide!” The old man shrugged. “I’ve cheated death before. I could do it again.” “What did this demigod look like?” “Um . . . he had a nose,” Sisyphus said. “A mouth. And one eye and—” “One eye?” I interrupted. “Did he have an eye patch?” “Oh . . . maybe,” Sisyphus said. “He had hair on his head. And—” He gasped and looked over my shoulder. “There he is!” We fell for it. As soon as we turned, Sisyphus took off down the hill. “I’m free! I’m free! I’m—ACK!” Ten feet from the hill, he hit the end of his invisible leash and fell on his back. Nico and I grabbed his arms and hauled him up the hill. “Curse you!” He let loose with bad words in Ancient Greek, Latin, English, French, and several other languages I didn’t recognize. “I’ll never help you! Go to Hades!” “Already there,” Nico muttered. “Incoming!” Thalia shouted. I looked up and might have used a few cuss words myself. The boulder was bouncing straight toward us. Nico jumped one way. I jumped the other. Sisyphus yelled, “NOOOOOOO!” as the thing plowed into him. Somehow he braced himself and stopped it before it could run him over. I guess he’d had a lot of practice. “Take it again!” he wailed. “Please. I can’t hold it.” “Not again,” Thalia gasped. “You’re on your own.” He treated us to a lot more colorful language. It was clear he wasn’t going to help us any further, so we left him to his punishment.

Nous avons ete amies," I added. "There,that's two in French, and using past perfect, no less." I couldn't see his expression clearly. It flet like a long time before he said anything. "Ella..." He paused, then, "What happened? Between you and Anna?" "Other than the fact that I'm a fashion-impaired poor kid who draws doorknobs? Haven't a clue." Alex leaned forward. Now I could see his face. He looked annoyed. "Why do you do that? Diminish yourself?" "I don't-" "Bullshit." I could feel my cheeks flaming, feel my shoulders curving inward. "I don't-" "Right.Don't.Just don't, with me, anyway. I like you better feisty." I couldn't help it; that made me smile. "Did you really just say 'feisty'?" "I did.It's a good word." "It's am old word, favored by granddads and pirates." "Yar," Alex sighed. "Face it.You're just an old-fashioned guy." "Whatever.Three...?" "Three," I said, and changed my mind midthought. "I haven't been able to decide if Willing is the second best thing that ever happened to me, or the second worst." "What are the firsts?" "Nope.Uh-uh.It is not for you to ask, Alexander Bainbridge, but to reveal." He drained his glass and rolled it back and forth between his hands. "I had all these funny admissions planned, but you've screwed up my plans. Hey. Don't go all wounded-wide-eyed on me. It's cute, that Bambi thing you have going, but beside the point.Now I have to rethink." "You don't-" "Quiet.One: My name isn't Alexander." He sat up straight and gave his chest a resounding thump. "Menya zavut Alexei Pavlovich Dillwyn Bainbridge. Not Alexander. I don't think anyone outside my family knows that.

Accras (Saltfish Fritters) Accras (or acrats) de morue are saltfish fritters—the French island version of Dingis’s saltfish cakes. (Morue is French for cod.) Serve them as an appetizer or a snack. 1⁄2 pound salt cod or other saltfish, preferably boneless 1 lime 1 small onion, grated 1 clove garlic, grated 1⁄4–1⁄2 hot pepper, seeded and finely minced 1 seasoning pepper or 1⁄2 green bell pepper, finely chopped 1 stalk celery, finely chopped 2 green onions, finely chopped 1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme or 1 teaspoon dried thyme Freshly ground black pepper 1 cup flour 1 teaspoon baking powder 1⁄2 cup water (approx.) Vegetable oil for deep frying 1. The night before you want to serve the fritters, put the fish in cold water to soak. Change water 4 or 5 times, squeezing half the lime into the water during each of the last two soakings. 2. Rinse fish, drain, and remove skin and bones if necessary. In a large bowl, finely shred the fish. (See Tips, below.) Add the onion, garlic, peppers, celery, green onions, thyme, and black pepper, and mix well. 3. Combine flour and baking powder and add to fish mixture. Stir thoroughly. Slowly add enough water to make a thick paste. 4. Heat oil to 350°F in a deep fryer or pot. Drop fish mixture by tablespoons into hot oil and fry until golden on both sides. 5. Drain on paper towels and serve hot with hot pepper sauce. Serves 4 Tips • Some saltfish may not shred easily. If that’s the case, chop it finely in a food processor or by hand with a knife. Alternatively, put it in boiling water, turn off the heat, and allow it to cool in the liquid. It should then flake easily. Whichever method you use, be sure to “chip it up fine,” as Dingis says. • Before proceeding with step 2, try a little piece of the soaked fish. If it is still too salty for your taste, soak it again in fresh water.

So, of course Rose decided this would be a good time to discuss such matters. “I would also like to know if you know ways to prevent pregnancy.” He choked on a grape. She lurched toward him, but he coughed and spat the villainous fruit on the grass. He wiped at his watery eyes with the back of his hand as he turned his face to her once more. “That will teach me not to chew sufficiently.” Rose smiled shakily, her heart skipping. “You scared me.” What if he had choked to death right in front of her? She couldn’t even begin to contemplate life without him. “You stunned me. That’s not exactly something you bring up out of the blue.” His eyes twinkled. “Was it the mention of your puppy? Are you frightened of having a litter?” When he looked at her like that-like they were friends and so much more-it made her insides feel like leaves blowing in the wind. Her gaze slid to her lap. “I would like us to have some time together before we have children.” Some of the tenderness drained from his expression. “I should have taken precautions last night. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of children, only…” “Only what?” If it made his eyes warm like that, she wanted to know what he’d been thinking. His gaze locked with hers, so sharp and hot. “I thought only of how it felt to be naked inside you.” A hard throb pulsed low and deep inside her, bringing sexual awareness speeding to the surface. It had been different without the “French Letter.” It had been better than the times at Saint’s Row, even though she wouldn’t have thought that possible. But that difference wasn’t entirely physical, she knew that. “And how did that feel?” Lord, was that warble really her voice? Grey regarded her from beneath heavy lids. “Like heaven.” Dear God, the man knew exactly what to say to her. She was already leaning toward him, pulled by some invisible string. “Really?” He reached out, cupping her jaw with his warm hand. His thumb brushed her lower lip, pulling it just a little. “Really. And if we weren’t out in the open I’d show you.” “I’d let you,” she replied breathlessly. The air between them seemed to crackle. If lightning struck the ground between them it wouldn’t surprise her. Grey rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Come with me.

After all,” she said, her eyes meeting his, “it’s not as though you lack sufficient charm to woo ladies. And you’re certainly handsome enough, in your own way.” She bent her head again. “Oh, stop looking s smug. I’m not flattering you, I’m merely stating facts. Privateering was not your only profitable course of action. You might have married, if you’d wished to.” “Ah, but there’s the snag, you see. I didn’t wish to.” She picked up a brush and tapped it against her palette. “No, you didn’t. You wished to be at sea. You wished to go adventuring, to seize sixty ships in the name of the Crown and pursue countless women on four continents. That’s why you sold your land, Mr. Grayson. Because it’s what you wanted to do. The profit was incidental.” Gray tugged at the cuff of his coat sleeve. It unnerved him, how easily she stared down these truths he’d avoided looking in the eye for years. So now he was worse than a thief. He was a selfish, lying thief. And still she sat with him, flirted with him, called him “charming” and “handsome enough.” How much darkness did the girl need to uncover before she finally turned away? “And what about you, Miss Turner?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Why are you here, bound for the West Indies to work as a governess? You, too, might have married. You come from quality; so much is clear. And even if you’d no dowry, sweetheart…” He waited for her to look up. “Yours is the kind of beauty that brings men to their knees.” She gave a dismissive wave of her paintbrush. Still, her cheeks darkened, and she dabbed her brow with the back of her wrist. “Now, don’t act missish. I’m not flattering you, I’m merely stating facts.” He leaned back in his chair. “So why haven’t you married?” “I explained to you yesterday why marriage was no longer an option for me. I was compromised.” Gray folded his hands on his chest. “Ah, yes. The French painting master. What was his name? Germaine?” “Gervais.” She sighed dramatically. “Ah, but the pleasure he showed me was worth any cost. I’d never felt so alive as I did in his arms. Every moment we shared was a minute stolen from paradise.” Gray huffed and kicked the table leg. The girl was trying to make him jealous. And damn, if it wasn’t working. Why should some oily schoolgirl’s tutor enjoy the pleasures Gray was denied? He hadn’t aided the war effort just so England’s most beautiful miss could lift her skirts for a bloody Frenchman. She began mixing pigment with oil on her palette. “Once, he pulled me into the larder, and we had a feverish tryst among the bins of potatoes and turnips. He held me up against the shelves and we-“ “May I read my book now?” Lord, he couldn’t take much more of this. She smiled and reached for another brush. “If you wish.” Gray opened his book and stared at it, unable to muster the concentration to read. Every so often, he turned a page. Vivid, erotic images filled his mind, but all the blood drained to his groin.

Paolo is the learned one of us,” Falco explained. “His master is a scholar as well as a painter, so he is always getting his hands on literature from abroad.” He winked at Cass. “He is not nearly so dumb as his jokes--and his looks--would suggest.” “True,” Paolo said good-naturedly. “And I find I gravitate to the French.” He drained his mug and signaled the barkeep for a refill. “Last week I was reading an essay by Michel de Montaigne.” “Not more of this.” Nicolas, a stocky blond with the beginnings of a beard, rolled his eyes. “Why do you two always feel the need to impress the ladies with your knowledge of all things dull?

The days were bad enough, but I particularly dreaded the nights, contemplating each one with trepidation as it stretched before me, a dark desert to be crossed alone, knowing that in the shadows my anxious thoughts lurked, waiting to ambush me and harry me, nipping at my heels like a pack of wild dogs. Some evenings I would drift asleep in front of the television before dragging myself groggily into bed an hour or so later, only to lie there wider awake than ever the minute my head hit the pillow. Sometimes, relieved that another restless night was over, I would fall into a deep sleep just as dawn broke, floundering in a quicksand of troubled dreams which relinquished their grip on my mind only reluctantly when I woke, leaving me queasy and emotionally drained.

October 26 He went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone. (Matthew 14:23) Christ Jesus, in His humanity, felt the need of complete solitude—to be entirely by Himself, alone with Himself. Each of us knows how draining constant interchange with others can be and how it exhausts our energy. As part of humankind, Jesus knew this and felt the need to be by Himself in order to regain His strength. Solitude was also important to Him in order to fully realize His high calling, His human weakness, and His total dependence on His Father. As a child of God, how much more do we need times of complete solitude—times to deal with the spiritual realities of life and to be alone with God the Father. If there was ever anyone who could dispense with special times of solitude and fellowship, it was our Lord. Yet even He could not maintain His full strength and power for His work and His fellowship with the Father without His quiet time. God desires that every servant of His would understand and perform this blessed practice, that His church would know how to train its children to recognize this high and holy privilege, and that every believer would realize the importance of making time for God alone. Oh, the thought of having God all alone to myself and knowing that God has me all alone to Himself! Andrew Murray Lamartine, the first of the French Romantic poets and a writer of the nineteenth century, in one of his books wrote of how his mother had a secluded spot in the garden where she spent the same hour of each day. He related that nobody ever dreamed of intruding upon her for even a moment of that hour. It was the holy garden of the Lord to her. Pity those people who have no such Beulah land! (See Isa. 62:4.) Jesus said, “Go into your room, close the door and pray” (Matt. 6:6), for it is in quiet solitude that we catch the deep and mysterious truths that flow from the soul of the things God allows to enter our lives.

Tonight's lesson was a breadcrumb cake, and the idea that so many Italian desserts were less about being impressive---as so many French recipes were---than about being resourceful. "After all," I said, "tiramisu is just cookies dipped in coffee and liqueur, layered with custard." For the breadcrumb cake, I walked them through how to make the breadcrumbs. "There's no sense in buying breadcrumbs, not in that quantity." We sliced the crusts off of the bread together, toasted the slices lightly, and ran the bread through the food processor. Afterward, we grated the dark chocolate, peeled and sliced the pears, cracked eggs, and measured cream. The thick batter came together quickly, and we placed them into the ovens. While the cakes baked, I walked them through the pasta fritta alla Siracusa, the angel-hair pasta twirls fried in a shallow amount of oil. We boiled up the pasta, then stirred together honey and candied orange before chopping pistachios and adding some cinnamon. One by one, they dropped the knotted pasta into the oil and cooked them on both sides. After draining them, we drizzled the honey mixture over the top, followed by a sprinkle of the pistachios and cinnamon. The process of frying the pasta bundles, one by one, kept everyone busy until the breadcrumb cakes finished baking.

A simple dinner had been prepared. The first course comprised soup a la reine, chicken stew with oysters, fried tripe, and boiled cauliflower; the second course, a wholesome ragout of pig ears, macaroni pie, roast mutton, mushrooms, and cabbage in butter sauce; for dessert there would be jam tartlets and apple pie. Mrs. Tooley had enlisted the help of both Doris and Nancy and they had made a good start. The desserts were prepared, the stew set to simmer, the mutton already darkening to the spit. With an hour left to complete the rest, Agnes rose to the challenge, which she felt better equipped to handle than consorting with thief takers and street rogues. Turning first to the soup, she picked up a pot containing lean beef and a knuckle of veal, onions, carrots, celery, parsnips, leeks, and a little thyme, which had been simmering for most of the morning. She strained it through a muslin cloth, then thickened it with bread crumbs soaked in boiled cream, half a pound of ground almonds, and the yolks of six hard eggs. She licked her little finger thoughtfully and adjusted the seasoning, while issuing a barrage of further instructions to Doris. "Water on for the vegetables, then slice up the ears in strips; then baste the joint- careful, mind- so the fat don't catch on the fire." Cheeks glowing from steam and heat, Agnes wiped a damp hand across her brow, then began on the gravy, adding a pinch of mace and a glassful of claret as the French chef had taught her. She poured the gravy over the sliced ears. "Into the hot cupboard with this, Doris. And then get me the cabbage and cauliflower, please." She basted the mutton with a long-handled spoon, and fried the tripe in a deep pan of lard until it was brown and crisp. She set a pan of mushrooms alongside, and tossed the cabbage leaves in a pan of boiling water and the cauliflower in another. "More cream, Doris. Are the plates warmed?" she called, shaking the mushrooms while tasting the macaroni. "Vegetables need draining. Where are John and Philip?" Without waiting for a reply, she garnished the tripe with parsley and poured the soup into a large tureen.

...And of course they'll get their milk from us, because Gooch's milk in the village really can't be trusted. I do hope, Henry, the vicarage drains are all right if Martin is to go there, because the French are rather vague about drains.' 'Yes, but darling, they aren't bringing their drains with them'...

Supper on French Bread   1 loaf French bread 1 1/4 lbs. lean ground beef 2/3 cup evaporated milk (5 oz. can) 1/2 cup cracker crumbs 1 egg 1/2 cup onion, chopped 1 tablespoon prepared mustard 1 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon pepper 2 cups shredded American cheese Heavy duty aluminum foil - 2 pieces 18” x 24”   Brown the ground beef and drain. Cut bread loaf in half lengthwise. Combine beef and remaining ingredients; spread mixture over

The McDonald brothers kept their potatoes—top quality Idaho spuds, about eight ounces apiece—piled in bins in their back warehouse building. Since rats and mice and other varmints like to eat potatoes, the walls of the bins were of two layers of small-mesh chicken wire. This kept the critters out and allowed fresh air to circulate among the potatoes. I watched the spuds being bagged up and followed their trip by four-wheeled cart to the octagonal drive-in building. There they were carefully peeled, leaving a tiny proportion of skin on, and then they were cut into long sections and dumped into large sinks of cold water. The french-fry man, with his sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, would plunge his arms into the floating schools of potatoes and gently stir them. I could see the water turning white with starch. This was drained off and the residual starch was rinsed from the glistening morsels with a flexible spray hose. Then the potatoes went into wire baskets, stacked in production-line fashion next to the deep-fry vats.

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Boil water in a pot and remove from heat.Transfer scallops in hot water, remove immediately, and drain.

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Look at history: We know very well what happened to Christianity after the Church became powerful. It seems that the corruption of the clergy has usually been in direct proportion to the power of the Church at any given time. Some of the popes have actually been depraved. Islam didn't turn out any better. Twenty-four years after the Prophet's death his son-in-law, the Caliph Uthman ibn Affan, was killed by rebels, and this event was followed by power-struggles and violence among the Muslims and a prolonged period of conflict within Islam. Nor does the later history of lslam indicate that it adhered to its ideals any better than Christianity did. The French Revolution was followed by the dictatorship of Napoleon, the Russian Revolution by that of Stalin. After the Mexican Revolution of 1910-1920, the revolutionary ideals were progressively drained of their content until Mexico found itself under the dictatorship of a party that continued to call itself "revolutionary" without being so in reality.

This was the first Roman province of Gaul, its capital the little city of Narbonne and its monuments to Roman enterprise everywhere. Civil engineering does not get much more ambitious than at Ensérune, where hundreds of acres of farmland are sculpted into a single circular basin, draining mysteriously to a central plughole. La Clape in Roman times was an island in the delta of the River Aude, a flat-topped chunk of limestone washed by the Mediterranean, unique I believe on the whole French coast. I went there prospecting for wines with my Wine Club partner Tony Laithwaite. Reds and rosés were the local norm (and Tony’s system to follow the local rugby heroes: the bigger the man, the better the wine).

Tabasco Worcestershire sauce 1 tsp. Pernod or scotch (optional) Make the Marie Rose sauce:  Stir together mayonnaise, ketchup, and horseradish until well mixed.Add a dash of Worcestershire sauce and Tabasco to taste.  Add the liquor if you're using it. (The French like Pernod, but I prefer to omit the liquor.) Refrigerate, covered, until ready to use. Marinate the bay shrimp for fifteen minutes in white wine vinegar to which a few dashes of Tabasco has been added.  Drain and chill until composing the starter. Halve avocados lengthwise and remove seeds.  Cut a small slice out of skin so that the avocado half sits flat on plate, cut side up.  Sprinkle with lemon juice to prevent it from darkening.

Stendahl syndrome” was the name for this, he would eventually learn. Dizziness, confusion, even fainting, usually by foreign visitors in the act of viewing great art. It was called that because the French writer had given its first and best description: I was in a sort of ecstasy … Absorbed in the contemplation of sublime beauty … I reached the point where one encounters celestial sensations … Everything spoke so vividly to my soul … Life was drained from me … He thanked them, of course, but mostly he hoped they would go away, so he could look at it in peace, and eventually they did.

Page after page of sauces. Page after page of soups. Bisque of snipe à la bonne bouche. Bisque of crab à la Fitzhardinge, which included adding a pint of boiling cream. Puree of asparagus à la St George involved three dozen small quenelles of fowl and half a pint of small fillets of red tongue. Mercy me. I flicked on. What on earth was ragout of cock's kernels à la soubise, or ragout of ox palates? At the Tilleys' residence, we rarely ate offal. Mr Tilley was fond of liver and bacon, but Mrs Tilley saw offal as food of the lower classes, for those who could afford nothing better. So our meals were good old-fashioned roast beef, leg of lamb, chops and steaks, with thee occasional steak and kidney pie. These recipes looked horribly complicated: Put about half a pound of cock's kernels, with cold water, into a stewpan, let it stand by the side of a slow fire to remove the little blood they contain, taking care that the water does not become too warm. I read on. As soon as they whiten... pat of butter... simmer... drain them on a napkin... small stewpan, with a ragout-spoonful of Soubise sauce and a little Allemande sauce...

Bet you never thought I’d save your skin.” “What?” “Just makin’ small talk. Got to distract myself from the pain, y’know? Life has a funny way of workin’ out, don’t it? Take your friend, for example. The sword-lady.” “Tanith?” “First time we met, we were tryin’ to kill each other, remember that? But every time subsequent to that there’s been a kind of a frisson between us.” “A what?” “Frisson. It’s French for … To be honest I don’t really know what it’s French for, but I know what it means in American. A sort of electrical undercurrent of emotion.” “I know what frisson means, but I really don’t think Tanith would share your view.” “You’re a kid. You don’t know the ways of menfolk and womenkind. All those threats she fires my way? That there is the mark of flirtation.” “Oh, dear God,” Valkyrie said, the colour draining from her face. “You fancy Tanith.” “I don’t fancy her, I—” “You have a crush on Tanith. That is disgusting.” “What? Why would it be disgustin’?” “Because you’re a hired killer.” “That don’t make it disgustin’, just makes it … unusual. Does she talk about me? “Somebody shoot me.” “What does she say? I’m a formidable foe, right? Does she say anythin’ in a kind of a more … wistful voice?” “I don’t want to talk about this.” “Does she ever say, ‘If only he were good …’?” “Stop your talking. Stop it right now. Stop it. She has a boyfriend.” His face fell. “Someone I know?” he asked morosely. “He may have punched you a few times, yes.” “She’s not … She’s not datin’ the skeleton, is she? How would that be even possible, let alone … nice? He’s got no skin, or lips, or … or nothin’. And he talks. Good God, he talks and he never shuts up.” “It’s not Skulduggery.” “Well then, who else could it …? It’s not the ugly fella, is it? It couldn’t be the ugly fella.” “Don’t call him ugly.” “It is him! But he’s all scars! I mean, I know I ain’t got no eyes, but once you get past that, you got my face. And my face is all right. Better’n his. His is a mess, like he was dropped head first into a blender as a kid. Seriously? She’s with him?” “Seriously, and you’re not going to break them up. Not because you won’t try, but because you won’t be able to. Look, are you ready yet? Can we move now?” “I’m ready,” he snapped. “But this conversation stays between us, understand? My romancin’ ain’t gonna work if she knows it’s comin’.” “Believe me, I never want to speak to anyone about this ever again.

When le dessert finally arrives, it looks like an innocent upside-down chocolate cupcake, accompanied by a small cloud of freshly whipped cream. But when my spoon breaks the surface, the chocolate center flows like dark lava onto the whiteness of the plate. The last ounce of stress drains from my body. I feel my spine soften in the chair. The menu says Moelleux au Chocolat "Kitu." "'Kitu' is a pun," says Gwendal, with his best Humphrey Bogart squint. "It means 'which kills.'" I have discovered the French version of "Death by Chocolate.

Cèpes aux Lardons (WILD MUSHROOMS WITH LARDONS) YIELD: 4 SERVINGS I OFTEN MAKE this type of recipe in the summer when wild mushrooms are plentiful. I must emphasize that you should pick only those mushrooms that you can identify with certainty. Join a mycological society in your area if you want to learn about them. A reminder: wild mushrooms should be well cooked—some may cause intestinal problems unless well done—so be sure to cook them for a minimum of 15 minutes. If cèpes are unavailable, large white mushrooms from the supermarket will work well in this recipe. 4 ounces pancetta, lean cured pork, or salt pork, cut into ½-inch pieces (¾ cup) 2 cups water 3 tablespoons good olive oil 1 pound fresh cèpes, cleaned and cut into 1-inch pieces ⅓ cup minced scallions 1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste 2 tablespoons chopped fresh chives 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 4 slices French bread, brushed with olive oil and toasted Place the pancetta or cured or salt pork in a skillet with the water. Bring to a boil, boil for 10 minutes, then drain and rinse under cool water. Return these lardons to the skillet with the olive oil, and sauté them for about 1 minute. Add the cèpes to the skillet, and cook them, covered, over high heat for about 15 minutes, stirring occasionally, until they are nicely browned on all sides and have a leathery, chewy texture. Add the scallions, thyme, salt, and pepper, and cook over high heat, uncovered, for 2 to 3 minutes. Add the chives and butter, toss to combine them with the other ingredients, and serve immediately on the toasted bread.

She breathed in the smell of Paris – a smell distinctively different from the air of Edinburgh or London, composed of coffee and cigarette smoke mingled with top notes of French perfume and a pungent undercurrent of drains.

seemed to have any. Germany, according to Erzberger, was to utilize victory to gain control of the European continent for “all time.” All demands at the peace table were to be based on this premise for which three conditions were necessary: abolition of neutral states at Germany’s borders, the end of England’s “intolerable hegemony” in world affairs, and the breaking up of the Russian colossus. Erzberger envisioned a Confederation of European States analogous to the later Mandates system under the League of Nations. Some states would be under German “guidance”; others, such as Poland and the Baltic group annexed from Russia, would be under German sovereignty for “all time,” with possible representation but no voting power in the Reichstag. Erzberger was not sure which category Belgium would fit into, but in either case Germany was to retain military control over the entire country and over the French coast from Dunkirk down to and including Boulogne and Calais. Germany would also acquire the Briey-Longwy iron basin and Belfort in Upper Alsace which she had failed to take in 1870. She would also take the French and Belgian colonies in Africa. Morocco, curiously enough, was excepted as likely to be too much of a drain on Germany’s strength. No mention was made of England’s colonies, which suggests that Erzberger may have been considering a negotiated settlement with England. In reparations the vanquished nations were to pay at least 10 billion marks for direct war costs, plus enough more to provide veterans’ funds, public housing, gifts to generals and statesmen, and pay off Germany’s entire national debt, thus obviating taxes on the German people for years to come.