Iron On Transfers Quotes

The tavern keeper, a wiry man with a sharp-nosed face, round, prominent ears and a receding hairline that combined to give him a rodentlike look, glanced at him, absentmindedly wiping a tankard with a grubby cloth. Will raised an eyebrow as he looked at it. He'd be willing to bet the cloth was transferring more dirt to the tankard then it was removing. "Drink?" the tavern keeper asked. He set the tankard down on the bar, as if in preparation for filling it with whatever the stranger might order. "Not out of that," Will said evenly, jerking a thumb at the tankard. Ratface shrugged, shoved it aside and produced another from a rack above the bar. "Suit yourself. Ale or ouisgeah?" Ousigeah, Will knew, was the strong malt spirit they distilled and drank in Hibernia. In a tavern like this, it might be more suitable for stripping runt than drinking. "I'd like coffee," he said, noticing the battered pot by the fire at one end of the bar. "I've got ale or ouisgeah. Take your pick." Ratface was becoming more peremptory. Will gestured toward the coffeepot. The tavern keeper shook his head. "None made," he said. "I'm not making a new pot just for you." "But he's drinking coffee," Will said, nodding to one side. Inevitably the tavern keeper glanced that way, to see who he was talking about. The moment his eyes left Will, an iron grip seized the front of his shirt collar, twisting it into a knot that choked him and at the same time dragged him forward, off balance, over the bar,. The stranger's eyes were suddenly very close. He no longer looked boyish. The eyes were dark brown, almost black in this dim light, and the tavern keeper read danger there. A lot of danger. He heard a soft whisper of steel, and glancing down past the fist that held him so tightly, he glimpsed the heavy, gleaming blade of the saxe knife as the stranger laid it on the bar between them. He looked around for possible help. But there was nobody else at the bar, and none of the customers at the tables had noticed what was going on. "Aach...mach co'hee," he choked. The tension on his collar eased and the stranger said softly, "What was that?" "I'll...make...coffee," he repeated, gasping for breath. The stranger smiled. It was a pleasant smile, but the tavern keep noticed that it never reached those dark eyes. "That's wonderful. I'll wait here.

It is ironic that some left intellectuals should deem class struggle to be largely irrelevant at the very time class power is becoming increasingly transparent, at the very time corporate concentration and profit accumulation is more rapacious than ever, and the tax system has become more regressive and oppressive, the upward transfer of income and wealth has accelerated, public sector assets are being privatized, corporate money exercises an increasing control over the political process, people at home and abroad are working harder for less, and throughout the world poverty is growing at a faster rate than overall population.

I remember a seminar I once attended that was led by a brilliant and flamboyant Hungarian analyst named Robert Bak. The issue under debate was the nature of transference, and I raised my hand and asked rhetorically, "What would you call an interpersonal relationship where infantile wishes, and defenses against those wishes, get expressed in such a way that the persons within that relationship don't see each other for what they objectively are but, rather, view each other in terms of their infantile needs and their infantile conflicts. What would you call that?" And Bak looked over at me ironically and said, 'I'd call that life.

The end of this history saw the banality of art merge with the banality of the real world - Duchamp's act, with its automatic transference of the object, being the inaugural (and ironic) gesture in this process. The transference of all reality into aesthetics, which has become one of the dimensions of generalized exchange... All this under the banner of a simultaneous liberation of art and the real world. This 'liberation' has in fact consisted in indexing the two to each other - a chiasmus lethal to both. The transference of art, become a useless function, into a reality that is now integral, since it has absorbed everything that denied, exceeded or transfigured it. The impossible exchange of this Integral Reality for anything else whatever. Given this, it can only exchange itself for itself or, in other words, repeat itself ad infinitum. What could miraculously reassure us today about the essence of art? Art is quite simply what is at issue in the world of art, in that desperately self-obsessed artistic community. The 'creative' act doubles up on itself and is now nothing more than a sign of its own operation - the painter's true subject is no longer what he paints but the very fact that he paints. He paints the fact that he paints. At least in that way the idea of art remains intact.

Rumania ceded large parts of its territory to Hungary, King Carol abdicated, real power was transferred to Antonescu and the Iron Guard was given free rein and organised one bloody pogrom after another. In June 1941, Rumania committed itself completely by joining Germany’s foray into the Soviet Union. In 1940, however, the country was still neutral, and in June all of Europe was sitting side by side in the lobby of the Athene Palace, as though nothing untoward was going on: the old Rumanian dignitaries, the leaders of the new radical right-wing government, the American journalists and diplomats, the despondent French ambassador. The ‘elegantly bored’ British – diplomats, oil men, journalists and intelligence officers – had their own table, the young Rumanian nobility sat at the bar,

Ginger-Dijon Glazed Pork Tenderloin Prep time: 10 minutes • Cook time: 35 minutes Dijon mustard, reduced-fat sour cream, and fresh ginger create a flavorful coating for this tender pork roast. Buy an extra pork loin and slice for lunch the next day. 1½ tablespoons Dijon mustard 1 tablespoon reduced-fat sour cream 1 teaspoon grated fresh ginger ¼ teaspoon dried thyme Salt 1½ pounds pork loin 1 large garlic clove, thinly sliced 1½ teaspoons extra-virgin olive oil Freshly ground black pepper Heat the oven to 450°F. In a small bowl, stir together mustard, sour cream, ginger, thyme, and a pinch of salt; set aside. Make several ¼-inch slits in pork loin. Slip garlic into slits. Brush loin with oil and season with salt and pepper. Heat a large cast-iron or other ovenproof skillet over high heat. Add pork loin and brown on all sides, about 5 minutes. Remove the pan from the heat. Spread mustard mixture over pork, then transfer the skillet to the oven and cook until a meat thermometer inserted into center of pork

My father had a sister, Mady, who had married badly and ‘ruined her life.’ Her story was a classic. She had fallen in love before the war with an American adventurer, married him against her family’s wishes, and been disinherited by my grandfather. Mady followed her husband romantically across the sea. In America he promptly abandoned her. By the time my parents arrived in America Mady was already a broken woman, sick and prematurely old, living a life two steps removed from destitution. My father, of course, immediately put her on an allowance and made her welcome in his home. But the iron laws of Victorian transgression had been set in motion and it was really all over for Mady. You know what it meant for a woman to have been so disgraced and disinherited in those years? She had the mark of Cain on her. She would live, barely tolerated, on the edge of respectable society for the rest of her life. A year after we arrived in America, I was eleven years old, a cousin of mine was married out of our house. We lived then in a lovely brownstone on New York’s Upper West Side. The entire house had been cleaned and decorated for the wedding. Everything sparkled and shone, from the basement kitchen to the third-floor bedrooms. In a small room on the second floor the women gathered around the bride, preening, fixing their dresses, distributing bouquets of flowers. I was allowed to be there because I was only a child. There was a bunch of long-stemmed roses lying on the bed, blood-red and beautiful, each rose perfection. Mady walked over to them. I remember the other women were wearing magnificent dresses, embroidered and bejeweled. Mady was wearing only a simple white satin blouse and a long black skirt with no ornamentation whatever. She picked up one of the roses, sniffed deeply at it, held it against her face. Then she walked over to a mirror and held the rose against her white blouse. Immediately, the entire look of her plain costume was altered; the rose transferred its color to Mady’s face, brightening her eyes. Suddenly, she looked lovely, and young again. She found a long needle-like pin and began to pin the rose to her blouse. My mother noticed what Mady was doing and walked over to her. Imperiously, she took the rose out of Mady’s hand and said, ‘No, Mady, those flowers are for the bride.’ Mady hastily said, ‘Oh, of course, I’m sorry, how stupid of me not to have realized that,’ and her face instantly assumed its usual mask of patient obligation. “I experienced in that moment an intensity of pain against which I have measured every subsequent pain of life. My heart ached so for Mady I thought I would perish on the spot. Loneliness broke, wave after wave, over my young head and one word burned in my brain. Over and over again, through my tears, I murmured, ‘Unjust! Unjust!’ I knew that if Mady had been one of the ‘ladies’ of the house my mother would never have taken the rose out of her hand in that manner. The memory of what had happened in the bedroom pierced me repeatedly throughout that whole long day, making me feel ill and wounded each time it returned. Mady’s loneliness became mine. I felt connected, as though by an invisible thread, to her alone of all the people in the house. But the odd thing was I never actually went near her all that day. I wanted to comfort her, let her know that I at least loved her and felt for her. But I couldn’t. In fact, I avoided her. In spite of everything, I felt her to be a pariah, and that my attachment to her made me a pariah, also. It was as though we were floating, two pariahs, through the house, among all those relations, related to no one, not even to each other. It was an extraordinary experience, one I can still taste to this day. I was never again able to address myself directly to Mady’s loneliness until I joined the Communist Party. When I joined the Party the stifled memory of that strange wedding day came back to me. . .

Waiting for two minutes, or until the cord has stopped pulsating, before clamping, enables blood transfer from the placenta to the baby. This will make a big difference to a child’s long-term iron stores and is especially important for babies born to mothers with low iron themselves.66

Since forever, infrastructure has been consensually understood to be a core function of government. The argument between left and right is about what you do beyond infrastructure. It's about transfer payments and redistributionist taxation, about geometrically expanding entitlements, about tax breaks and subsidies to induce actions pleasing to central planners. It's about free contraceptives for privileged students and welfare without work--the latest Obama entitlement-by-decree that would fatally undermine the great bipartisan welfare reform of 1996. It's about endless government handouts that, ironically, are crowding out necessary spending on, yes, infrastructure.

Peabody stripped off Uptight’s clothing and placed him in a cast iron tub with several decomposing derelict dogs from the dump. He hogtied his arms behind him and connected his feet so he couldn't get any leverage to get out of the tub. Then, he made several slices through the Dean’s arms and legs with a butcher knife and rubbed some of the gangrenous tissue into the wounds so the infection would spread quickly throughout his extremities. By tomorrow, he was confident the maggots feeding on the dead dogs would transfer into the dean's body and start devouring him while he was still alive. * * * Three days later, both enclosures were teeming with flies and maggots. Five down and one to go, Trixy Montpelier.

This curve, which looks like an elongated S, is variously known as the logistic, sigmoid, or S curve. Peruse it closely, because it’s the most important curve in the world. At first the output increases slowly with the input, so slowly it seems constant. Then it starts to change faster, then very fast, then slower and slower until it becomes almost constant again. The transfer curve of a transistor, which relates its input and output voltages, is also an S curve. So both computers and the brain are filled with S curves. But it doesn’t end there. The S curve is the shape of phase transitions of all kinds: the probability of an electron flipping its spin as a function of the applied field, the magnetization of iron, the writing of a bit of memory to a hard disk, an ion channel opening in a cell, ice melting, water evaporating, the inflationary expansion of the early universe, punctuated equilibria in evolution, paradigm shifts in science, the spread of new technologies, white flight from multiethnic neighborhoods, rumors, epidemics, revolutions, the fall of empires, and much more. The Tipping Point could equally well (if less appealingly) be entitled The S Curve. An earthquake is a phase transition in the relative position of two adjacent tectonic plates. A bump in the night is just the sound of the microscopic tectonic plates in your house’s walls shifting, so don’t be scared. Joseph Schumpeter said that the economy evolves by cracks and leaps: S curves are the shape of creative destruction. The effect of financial gains and losses on your happiness follows an S curve, so don’t sweat the big stuff. The probability that a random logical formula is satisfiable—the quintessential NP-complete problem—undergoes a phase transition from almost 1 to almost 0 as the formula’s length increases. Statistical physicists spend their lives studying phase transitions.

Dermefface FX7 Use apple cider vinegar on any pimples or other blemishes. This can restore skin moisture and reduce acne dryness. Apply every morning for best results. If you apply it at night the smell will transfer to your bedding.Try consuming watercress for reducing inflammation, pore size, and puffiness. You can eat watercress as a snack or a meal; either way it will be good for your skin. The presence of antioxidants as well as iron in watercress can be of additional benefit to your health.

Ironically enough, when we returned to the zoo, the Dr. Dolittle cameo almost came true. We had to transfer a big female crocodile named Toolakea to another enclosure. Steve geared up for the move as he always did. “Don’t think about catching Toolakea,” he instructed his crew, me included, before we ever got near to the enclosure. “If you’re concentrating on catching her, she’ll know it. We’ll never get a top-jaw rope on. Crocs know when they’re being hunted.” For millions of years, wild animals have evolved to use every sense to tune into the world around them. Steve understood that their survival depended on it. So as I approached the enclosure, I thought of mowing the lawn, or doing the croc show, or picking hibiscus flowers to feed the lizards. Anything but catching Toolakea. It went like clockwork. Steve top-jaw-roped Toolakea, and we all jumped her. He decided that since she was only a little more than nine feet long, we would be able to just lift her over the fence and carry her to her other enclosure. Steve never built his enclosures with gates. He knew that sooner or later, someone could make a mistake and not latch a gate properly. We had to be masters at fence jumping. He picked up Toolakea around her shoulders with her neck held firmly against his upper arm. This would protect his face if she started struggling. The rest of us backed him up and helped to lift Toolakea over the fence. All of a sudden she exploded, twisting and writhing in everyone’s arms. “Down, down, down,” Steve shouted. That was our signal to pin the crocodile again before picking her up. Not everyone reacted quickly enough. As Steve moved to the ground, the people on the tail were still standing up. That afforded Toolakea the opportunity to twist her head around and grab hold of Steve’s thigh. The big female croc sank her teeth deep into his flesh. I never realized it until later. Steve didn’t flinch. He settled the crocodile on the ground, keeping her eyes covered to quiet her down. We lifted her again. This time she cleared the fence easily. I noticed the blood trickling down Steve’s leg. We got to the other enclosure before I asked what had happened, and he showed me. There were a dozen tears in the fabric of his khaki shorts. A half dozen of Toolakea’s teeth had gotten through to his flesh, putting a number of puncture holes in his upper thigh. As usual, Steve didn’t bother with the wound. He cleaned it out and carried on, but even after his leg had healed, he couldn’t feel the temperature accurately on his leg. Once, about a month after the incident, I got a drink out of the fridge and rested it on his thigh. “I can feel something there,” he said. “Hot or cold?” I quizzed. “I don’t know,” he said. The croc-torn khaki shorts he wore that day made an amazing souvenir for a lucky sponsor of the zoo. People who donated a certain amount of money to our conservation efforts received a bonus in return: one of Steve’s uniforms and a photograph of him in it. Steve was very proud to include his khakis with teeth holes in them as the gift for a generous supporter.

PETA itself has been exposed for killing, literally, tens of thousands of animals in its care. Dating back to 1998, according to records provided by the Virginia Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services to the Center for Consumer Freedom, the animal rights group kills hundreds of household pets every year in facilities it ironically calls “animal shelters.” In 2014, PETA took in 2,631 animals in Virginia. Thirty-nine were adopted. A shocking 2,324 were killed. The rest were transferred to other facilities. Between 1998 and 2014, according to the records, PETA killed 33,514 household pets.25 In one Norfolk, Virginia, branch of PETA, documents disclosed the organization killed almost all of its animals—that’s according to a report in the reliably liberal Huffington Post, which was accompanied by a graphic entitled “For An Animal Rights Organization, PETA Kills A Lot Of Animals.” No kidding.

[F]ashion always stands, as I have pointed out, at the periphery of personality, which regards itself as a pièce de résistance for fashion, or at least can do so when called upon. It is this phase of fashion that is received by sensitive and peculiar persons, who use it as a sort of mask. [...] We have here a triumph of the soul over the actual circumstances of existence, which must be considered one of the highest and finest victories, at least as far as form is concerned, for the reason that the enemy himself is transformed into a servant, and that the very thing which the personality seemed to suppress is voluntarily seized, because the leveling suppression is here transferred to the external spheres of life in such a way that it furnishes a veil and a protection for everything spiritual and now all the more free. This corresponds exactly to the triviality of expression and conversation through which very sensitive and retiring people, especially women, often deceive one about the individual depth of the soul. [...] The impossibility of enticing her beyond the most banal and trite forms of expression, which often drives one to despair, in innumerable instances signifies nothing more than a barricade of the soul, an iron mask that conceals the real features and can furnish this service only by means of a wholly uncompromising separation of the feelings and the externals of life.

Reintroducing history into evolutionary thinking has already begun at other biological scales. The cell, once an emblem of replicable units, turns out to be the historical product of symbiosis among free- living bacteria. Even DNA turns out to have more history in its amino- acid sequences than once thought. Human DNA is part virus; viral encoun- ters mark historical moments in making us human. Genome research has taken up the challenge of identifying encounter in the making of DNA. Population science cannot avoid history for much longer. Fungi are ideal guides. Fungi have always been recalcitrant to the iron cage of self- replication. Like bacteria, some are given to exchanging genes in nonreproductive encounters (“horizontal gene transfer”); many also seem averse to keeping their genetic material sorted out as “individ- uals” and “species,” not to speak of “populations.” When researchers studied the fruiting bodies of what they thought of as a species, the ex- pensive Tibetan “caterpillar fungus,” they found many species entan- gled together. When they looked into the filaments of Armillaria root rot, they found genetic mosaics that confused the identification of an individual. Meanwhile, fungi are famous for their symbiotic attach- ments. Lichen are fungi living together with algae and cyanobacteria. I have been discussing fungal collaborations with plants, but fungi live with animals as well. For example, Macrotermes termites digest their food only through the help of fungi. The termites chew up wood, but they cannot digest it. Instead, they build “fungus gardens” in which the chewed- up wood is digested by Termitomyces fungi, producing edible nutrients. Researcher Scott Turner points out that, while you might say that the termites farm the fungus, you could equally say that the fungus farms the termites. Termitomyces uses the environment of the termite mound to outcompete other fungi; meanwhile, the fungus regulates the mound, keeping it open, by throwing up mushrooms annually, cre- ating a colony- saving disturbance in termite mound- building.

his decisions in every second he spent fighting not to doze off in lecture, not to mention the long, sluggish walks between buildings as the weather grew steadily colder and the days greyer. Still, he’d thought sparring itself had always woken him up, so Rei was surprised when barely 20 minutes into the last training session with Christopher Lennon, the third year called a halt to their bout. “All right, stop.” Rei, having no way to pause in the massive punch he’d just thrown at the young man’s face, nearly choked as the blow ripped towards Lennon’s eyes. At the last possible moment, though, a dark hand snapped up, sliding fingers between Shido’s claws with impossible precision, taking hold and stopping the fist as absolutely as might a stone wall. The impact was jarring, and Rei actually grunted as the force transferred into the bones of his arm, making them throb. Standing up straight, he pulled the Device away carefully from Lennon’s hand, shaking his wrist out in an attempt to dissipate the lingering ache.

you look at a lot of the popular shirts on any Nasty Gal, Brandy Melville, or H&M website, chances are you can re-create it. It’s so easy to click on a site and buy a trendy T-shirt with invisible credit-card money, but TRUST ME, it’s even more rewarding to make your own similar shirt for a fraction of the price and celebrate your savings alone in your house with your dog! Most iron-on letters and transfer paper cost less than $10.

Violet.” His voice was above her. She opened her eyes to see him staring down at her, a fine edge of pain on his face. “I need to fuck you.” The crude words should have been shocking. She had only ever heard that word in jokes the workmen would shout at one another at Crenshaw Iron. But when Christian said them, they transferred his desperate need to her, so that she shared his fervor. “Yes. Please

Nutritarian Granola Serves: 10 ½ cup raw almond or cashew butter 1 medium apple, peeled and quartered 1 ripe banana 1½ teaspoons ground cinnamon ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg 1½ teaspoons alcohol-free vanilla flavoring 4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats 1 cup chopped raw walnuts or pecans ½ cup raw pumpkin seeds ¼ cup unhulled sesame seeds ⅓ cup unsweetened shredded coconut 1 cup currants Preheat the oven to 225˚F. Place the nut butter, apple, banana, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla flavoring in a high-powered blender and blend until smooth and creamy. In a large bowl, mix the oats, nuts, seeds, and coconut. Add the blended mixture and toss to combine. Transfer the mixture to two parchment-lined baking pans. Do not overcrowd the pans so the granola can bake evenly. Bake for 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. After baking, stir in currants. Allow to cool, then store in an airtight container. PER SERVING: CALORIES 337; PROTEIN 9g; CARBOHYDRATE 38g; TOTAL FAT 19.1g; SATURATED FAT 4g; SODIUM 5mg; FIBER 6.4g; BETA-CAROTENE 15mcg; VITAMIN C 2mg; CALCIUM 58mg; IRON 8.9mg; FOLATE 19mcg; MAGNESIUM 91mg; ZINC 1.7mg; SELENIUM 3.7mcg

What the world-wide Web did to the demotic character is hard to define. It made still more general the nerveless mode of existence – sitting and staring – and thus further isolated the individual. It enlarged the realm of abstraction; to command the virtual reduces the taste for the concrete. At the same time, the contents of the Internet were the same old items in multiplied confusion. That a user had ‘the whole world of knowledge at his disposal’ was one of those absurdities like the belief that ultimately computers would think – it will be time to say so when a computer makes an ironic answer. ‘The whole world of knowledge’ could be at one’s disposal only if one already knew a great deal and wanted further information to turn into knowledge after gauging its value. The Internet dispensed error and misinformation with the same impartiality as other data, the best transferred from books in libraries. The last 20C report on the working of the “world-wide web” was that its popularity was causing traffic jams on the roads to access and that the unregulated freedom to contribute to its words, numbers, ideas, pictures, and foolishness was creating chaos—in other words, duplicating the world in electronic form. The remaining advantage of the real world was that its contents were scattered over a wide territory and one need not be aware of more than one’s mind had room for.

Around 995 AD, a merchant in Sichuan’s capital, Chengdu, had an idea. He started letting people leave their iron coins with him. In exchange for coins, he would give people fancy, standardized paper receipts. The receipts were like coat-check tickets for coins. And just like anyone with a coat-check ticket can claim the coat, anyone with a receipt could claim the coins: the receipts were transferable. Pretty soon, rather than go to the trouble of getting their coins every time they wanted to make a purchase, people started using the coat-check receipts to buy stuff: the paper itself turned into money.

SHORTY JOHNSON’S BISCUITS AND GRAVY Serves 4 (Double these recipes for hearty appetites!)   BUTTERMILK BISCUITS 2 cups all-purpose flour* 2 teaspoons baking powder ½ teaspoon baking soda ¾ teaspoon salt 1/3 cup Crisco, chilled ¾ cup buttermilk   COUNTRY SAUSAGE GRAVY 1 pound loose pork sausage meat (or diced links) 3 tablespoons flour 2 cups whole milk Salt and pepper to taste   For biscuits: Preheat oven to 450 degrees. Into sifted flour*, stir baking powder, soda, and salt; then cut in Crisco until mixture resembles coarse meal. Add buttermilk. Stir lightly until ingredients are moistened. Form dough into a ball and transfer to a lightly floured work surface. Knead about 6 times (too much kneading will make tough biscuits!). Roll to ½-inch thickness. Cut into 2-inch disks with biscuit cutter (or inverted drinking glass). Arrange on a lightly oiled baking sheet so that the biscuits are not touching. Bake 16 minutes or until biscuits have risen and are golden-brown.   For gravy: While biscuits are baking, prepare sausage gravy by browning sausage in a heavy, well-seasoned iron skillet over medium-high heat until cooked through, stirring frequently to break up meat. Using a slotted spoon, transfer browned sausage to a bowl and set aside. Discard all but 3 tablespoons of pan drippings. Return skillet to medium heat. Sprinkle flour into drippings and whisk 2–3 minutes until lightly browned. Whisk in milk. Increase heat to medium-high and stir constantly, 2–3 minutes, or until it begins to bubble and thicken. Return sausage to gravy, reduce heat, and simmer 1–2 minutes, until heated through. Season with salt and pepper to taste. (Use lots of black pepper!)   NOTE: Gravy can be prepared using drippings from fried bacon, chicken, steak, or pork chops too! For those on a budget, you can even make gravy from fried bologna drippings!!!!   *If using unbleached self-rising flour, omit the powder, soda, and salt.

Reese’s Corn Bread Chili Pie For a weekday dinner with family, you need something that will please both kids and adults and that isn’t too complicated to make. My favorite thing is chili pie. This is an easy one-dish dinner if you are using a cast-iron or other oven-safe skillet. If using a baking dish or casserole, cook the filling on the stove top in a skillet or sauté pan and transfer to the baking dish before adding the corn bread batter topping. 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 medium onion, chopped 2 cloves garlic, minced 1 pound ground beef 1 pound ground pork 2 (1.75 oz.) packets chili seasoning 1 (14 oz.) can diced tomatoes 2 tablespoons tomato paste 2 cups chicken broth 2 (8.5 oz.) boxes Jiffy Corn Muffin Mix 2 eggs

Almond Flatbread Autophagy activators: SP, SA, SU, PO, VIT Makes 4 servings • Prep time: 5 minutes • Cook time: 25 minutes This flatbread uses high-protein almond flour instead of wheat or other grain-based flour, giving you a bread that won’t cause a spike in your blood sugar. Enjoy it with Tahini. 1 cup almond flour 1 teaspoon sea salt 1 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 4 tablespoons tea seed oil, plus more for brushing ½ large onion, thinly sliced 1 cup finely chopped kale 2 teaspoons chopped fresh rosemary 1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. Put a well-seasoned cast-iron skillet in the oven to preheat. 2. In a large bowl, combine the almond flour, salt, and pepper. While whisking, slowly add 1 cup lukewarm water and whisk to eliminate lumps. Stir in 2 tablespoons of the oil. Cover and let sit while the oven heats, or for up to 12 hours. The batter should have the consistency of heavy cream. 3. Carefully remove the hot pan from the oven, pour the remaining 2 tablespoons oil into the pan, and swirl to coat. Add the onion and return the pan to the oven. Bake, stirring once or twice, until the onion is well browned, 6 to 8 minutes. Add the kale and rosemary and stir to combine. 4. Carefully remove the pan from the oven and transfer the onion-kale mixture to the bowl with the batter. Stir to combine, then immediately pour the batter into the pan. 5. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until the edges look set. Remove from the oven and switch the oven to broil, with a rack a few inches away from the heating element. 6. Brush the top of the bread with 1 to 2 tablespoons oil. Broil just long enough for the bread to brown and blister a little on top. 7. Cut the bread into four wedges, and serve hot or warm with some grass-fed ghee or butter. Nutritional analysis per serving (¼ flatbread): fat 28g, protein 6g, carbohydrate 8g, net carbs 4g

The Spark, the animating spirit of the early warrior caste, is distinct from the religion that comes to predominate and maintain the later multiethnic empire, which I will call The Imperial Altar. Civilisational successes—such as conquest, wealth, and education—generate their own loss conditions. The Barbarism of Reflection destroys the foundations of the Imperial Altar and successfully kills any last remnants of The Spark. The castes of the lion archetype (warriors and peasants) have mutual antagonisms with the castes of the fox archetype (priests or intellectuals and merchants). Where the lion archetype predominates either as monarchism (warriors) or as Caesarism (peasants) ‘civilisational successes’ can be held in check for a period. They tend to create strong regimes through ruthlessness but such strength, ironically, leads to the managerial need for administration generated by growth and complexity, which in turn leads to the rise of elites of the fox archetype taking over. When the fox archetype predominates, either as theocracy (priests/intellectuals) or plutarchy (merchants), ‘civilisational success’ may accelerate but, in the process, the very foundations that facilitated such success in the first place (i.e. the strong regime maintained by the lion’s ruthlessness) are eroded, eventually leading to collapse. Quantity has a quality all of its own, which manifests as all that is ‘mass’: democracy, utilitarianism, standardisation, and the destruction of quality and distinction. This is a feature of the late, pre-collapse cycle. Individuals of one civilisational season cannot embody the spirit of another: the Children of Winter, for example, cannot embody the Spring. Civilisation is incommunicable. The ‘world-feeling’ of a people as Spengler says is ‘not transferable’. ‘What one people takes over from another—in “conversion” or in admiring feeling—is a name, dress, and mask for its own feeling, never the feeling of that other.’[1] Ethnicity is a constant reality which promotes ingroup solidarity in the early cycle and becomes a problem for the ruling class to manage in the late cycle.