Kelp Quotes

Your head is full of kelp.

Thalia had been turned into a pine tree when she was 12. Me... well, i was doing my best not to follow her example. I had nightmares about what Poseidon might turn me into if i were ever in the verge of death—plankton, maybe. Or a floating patch of kelp.

I hear that you were on a date with Trouble Kelp. Are you two planning on building a bivouac any time soon?

Thalia had gotten herself turned into a pine tree when she was twelve. Me ... Well, I was doing my best not to follow her example. I had nightmares about what Poseidon might turn me into if I were ever on the verge of death--plankton, maybe. Or a floating patch of kelp.

The Witch's Life" When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her.

You are eating the sea, that's it, only the sensation of a gulp of sea water has been wafted out of it by some sorcery, and you are on the verge of remembering you don't know what, mermaids or the sudden smell of kelp on the ebb tide or a poem you read once, something connected with the flavor of life itself...

In this particular tub, two knees jut up like icebergs, while minute brown hairs rise on arms and legs in a fringe of kelp; green soap navigates the tidal slosh of seas breaking on legendary beaches; in faith we shall board our imagined ship and wildly sail among sacred islands of the mad till death shatters the fabulous stars and makes us real. --from "Tale of a Tub", written 1956

After that summer, after being friends with Won-a-nee and her young, I never killed another otter. I had an otter cape for my shoulders, which I used until it wore out, but never again did I make a new one. Nor did I ever kill another cormorant for its beautiful feathers, though they have long, think necks and make ugly sounds when they talk to each other. Nor did I kill seals for their sinews, using instead kelp to bind the things that needed it. Nor did I kill another wild dog, nor did I try to speak another sea elephant. Ulape would have laughed at me, and other would have laughed, too -- my father most of all. Yet this is the way I felt about the animals who had become my friends and those who were not, bu in time could be. If Ulape and my father had come back and laughed, and all the other had come back and laughed, still I would have felt the same way, for animals and birds are like people, too, though they do no talk the same or do the same things. Without them the earth would be an unhappy place.

The Voyager We are all lonely voyagers sailing on life's ebb tide, To a far off place were all stripling warriors have died, Sometime at eve when the tide is low, The voices call us back to the rippling water's flow, Even though our boat sailed with love in our hearts, Neither our dreams or plans would keep heaven far apart, We drift through the hush of God's twilight pale, With no response to our friendly hail, We raise our sails and search for majestic light, While finding company on this journey to the brighten our night, Then suddenly he pulls us through the reef's cutting sea, Back to the place that he asked us to be, Friendly barges that were anchored so sweetly near, In silent sorrow they drop their salted tears, Shall our soul be a feast of kelp and brine, The wasted tales of wishful time, Are we a fish on a line lured with bait, Is life the grind, a heartless fate, Suddenly, "HUSH", said the wind from afar, Have you not looked to the heavens and seen the new star, It danced on the abyss of the evening sky, The sparkle of heaven shining on high, Its whisper echoed on the ocean's spray, From the bow to the mast they heard him say, "Hope is above, not found in the deep, I am alive in your memories and dreams when you sleep, I will greet you at sunset and with the moon's evening smile, I will light your path home.. every last lonely mile, My friends, have no fear, my work was done well, In this life I broke the waves and rode the swell, I found faith in those that I called my crew, My love will be the compass that will see you through, So don't look for me on the ocean's floor to find, I've never left the weathered docks of your loving mind, For I am in the moon, the wind and the whale's evening song, I am the sailor of eternity whose voyage is not gone.

Many of our tribe went to the cliff each night to count the number killed during the day. They counted the dead otter and thought of the beads and other things that each pelt meant. But I never went to the cove and whenever I saw the hunters with their long spears skimming over the water, I was angry, for these animals were my friends. It was fun to see them playing or sunning themselves among the kelp. It more fun than the thought of beads to wear around my neck.

In town, there's a tiny beach that's never busy, not even in the summer. I used to like walking there, looking for stuff. Like old fireworks. Or kelp. A hat knocked off someone's head by the wind. You basically never find what you were expecting to. And maybe you weren't expecting to find anything right from the start...

If there was a moment that determined the course of my future, I'm pretty sure this was it. I had two somewhat simple choices. I could make a run for it and go back to Uncle Al's. Back to the bonfire where my cousins and dear sister would be drinking and revel in the normalcy of a Saturday night and forget I ever went to this horrid place and ran into this weirdo. Or I could go with said weirdo up the stairs in this decrepit old lighthouse, which was most likely condemned and unsafe, towards some unknown person (or thing) that was walking around, potentially waiting to murder us in horrific ways. It didn't seem like a very hard decision to make. In fact, I think 99.7% of people in the right frame of mind would have picked from column A and gone on with their merry lives. But for some freaking crazy reason, I thought that maybe, just maybe I should go with this stranger up those kelp-ridden stairs and toward the lair of unimaginable horror. You know, because it was the more interesting alternative.

... And when the giant clam opened you were standing there dressed only in kelps and weeds of the ocean. And you held in your hand a starfish, and you said, 'Take, my Queen, this is for you. I bring you the stars, the stars from the borderless sea.

Dortmunder followed Kelp as he carried the tray down along the bar past the regulars, where the third was now saying, “The idea of the flat tax is, you just pay the same as one month’s rent.

Here is a fish swimming around comfortably and (he thinks) unobtrusively, flicking here and there amongst the kelp and the plankton. Draw away for the long view and there’s the kicker: It’s a goldfish bowl.

A Faint Music by Robert Hass Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing

In the lowest pools the Laminarias begin to appear, called variously the oarweeds, devil’s aprons, sea tangles, and kelps. The Laminarias belong to the brown algae, which flourish in the dimness of deep waters and polar seas. The horsetail kelp lives below the tidal zone with others of the group, but in deep pools also comes over the threshold, just above the line of the lowest tides. [...] To look into such a pool is to behold a dark forest, it’s foliage like the leaves of palm trees, the heavy stalks of the kelps also curiously like the trunks of palms. [...] One of these laminarian holdfasts is something like the roots of a forest tree, branching out, dividing, subdividing, in its very complexity a measure of the great seas that roar over this plant.

(letters) They were like a kelp forest, they cast a weird green light, you could get lost there, become tangled and drown. ...still eyeing the letters like Portuguese man-of-wars floating on the innocent sea.

The smell of the sea, of kelp and fish and bitter moving water, rose stronger in my nostrils. It flooded my consciousness like an ancestral memory. The swells rose sluggishly and fell away, casting up dismal gleams between the boards of the pier. And the whole pier rose and fell in stiff and creaking mimicry, dancing its long slow dance of dissolution. I reached the end and saw no one, heard nothing but my footsteps and the creak of the beams, the slap of waves on the pilings. It was a fifteen-foot drop to the dim water. The nearest land ahead of me was Hawaii.

It makes a man feel universal, floating over the continents, seeing the rim of the world, a line as clear as a compass arc, knowing it is just a turning of the bend to Atlantic twilight, to sediment plumes and kelp beds, an island chain glowing in the dusky sea.

You’re not human, Eleanore Jones. I think that somewhere inside you, you must know that. You must always have known. You’re not made of ordinary bone or blood but of something else completely.” “Really. What am I of, then? Kelp and jellyfish, I suppose?” “You are made of magic.” He said it in an absolutely unremarkable way, as if instead he’d just said, I had coffee this morning or the floor needs mopping.

There, in the unconscious, we sleep upon the psyche's oceanic floor, together like some vast bed of kelp, each wavering strand an individual American, swaying in the currents of national suggestion. In the form of a giant Portuguese man-of-war, our government hovers, rippling above us, showering freshly produced national memory spores on the fertile bed of our forgetfulness. Schools of undulating corporate jellyfish pass over, sowing the brands of products and services ... followed by the octopi called media and marketing, issuing milky clouds of sperm to fertilise the seeds with the animating plasma of The Great Dream.

…you know if you look close at the black of a tiger’s whisker, it turns out it isn’t black at all, but a swirl of violet and deep blue and kelp green.

This Mikey,” Kelp said, “he’s the son of a mob guy, which is even worse than a mob guy. He came up soft, and he thinks he’s hard.

I noticed chartreuse lichen scabbing the rocks, the lick and suck of tide against sea-smoothed stones, how every single one of the shells in the bay was different; white limpet shells and ear-shaped mussel shells; kelp fronds, the ones like bronze ribbons, and cream ones like bandages, their stems like bone joints; and, of course, the ocean, that perpetual shapeshifter: one day a disc of hammered gold, the next wild and rearing, like a thousand white horses. I noticed how the ocean had moods, just like a person.

There I saw again, but not yet pressed and dried like the Nautilus's specimens, some peacock's tails spread open like fans to stir up a cooling breeze, scarlet rosetangle, sea tangle stretching out their young and edible shoots, twisting strings of kelp from the genus Nereocystis that bloomed to a height of fifteen meters [...] Near one o'clock, Captain Nemo gave the signal to halt. Speaking for myself, I was glad to oblige, and we stretched out beneath an arbour of winged kelp, whose long thin tendrils stood up like arrows.

So slip on your goggles and your reading trunks, for the sun is high. Let me leave you with one more thought. In what season of the year do we find ourselves - I'm speaking for a moment in terms of the physical world - wading through things? Surf. Kelp. Books. Summer.

Bearded Oaks" The oaks, how subtle and marine, Bearded, and all the layered light Above them swims; and thus the scene, Recessed, awaits the positive night. So, waiting, we in the grass now lie Beneath the languorous tread of light: The grassed, kelp-like, satisfy The nameless motions of the air. Upon the floor of light, and time, Unmurmuring, of polyp made, We rest; we are, as light withdraws, Twin atolls on a shelf of shade. Ages to our construction went, Dim architecture, hour by hour: And violence, forgot now, lent The present stillness all its power. The storm of noon above us rolled, Of light the fury, furious gold, The long drag troubling us, the depth: Dark is unrocking, unrippling, still. Passion and slaughter, ruth, decay descend, minutely whispering down, Silted down swaying streams, to lay Foundation for our voicelessness. All our debate is voiceless here, As all our rage, the rage of stone; If hope is hopeless, then fearless is fear, And history is thus undone. Our feet once wrought the hollow street With echo when the lamps were dead All windows, once our headlight glare Disturbed the doe that, leaping fled. I do not love you less that now The caged heart makes iron stroke, Or less that all that light once gave The graduate dark should now revoke. We live in time so little time And we learn all so painfully, That we may spare this hour's term To practice for eternity.

If you blink, you might miss it. You might miss the wet floor at the threshold, symbolically cleansing you before the meal begins. You might overlook the flower arrangement in the corner, a spare expression of the passing season. You might miss the scroll on the wall drawn with a single unbroken line, signaling the infinite continuity of nature. You might not detect the gentle current of young ginger rippling through the dashi, the extra sheet of Hokkaido kelp in the soup, the mochi that is made to look like a cherry blossom at midnight. You might miss the water.

The gravity of our situation isn't lost on me, but I stall for a few more moments. No one will like what I have to say. Our island is self-sufficient alright. Except for the threads of kelp we use to make súgán, rope that makes the trambles that we desperately need to catch fish. The long-stranded kelp comes from a dangerous, forbidden place below the island, a land belonging to no one that is situated between us and an enemy tribe, a tribe of fish people known as Iasc. As such, for lack of a better name, my people call the almost mythical area, as none of us has laid eyes on it, the Between.

Some part of me . . . had been waiting, since Kelp's death, for certainty that God . . . was either dead or malicious. On the cot, now, in the rain-shadowed room with the medicine smells, I knew it was worse than that. They were a challenge, a dare: you must look at the horrors of the world and find a way back to faith in spite of what you saw. I had a glimpse of what the purer version of myself might be capable of: enduring the loss, keeping the rage and disgust down, finding meaning through suffering. But it was only a glimpse. There was so much shame, and the shame made me angry at the thought of getting better.

I do know Aura. But there is not just Aura in the world. Your crow kind absorbs through Aura. My kind—those beneath the breathing line, those of scale and shell—we listen to Echo—the ocean’s breath, the song of whales, the hum of a mollusk, the swish and sway of kelp. It is connected to Aura as all things are connected.

Witch-sign, they said. Little eddies, like miniature storms breaking the surface of the ocean. Witch-signs rise up in great numbers, last a few minutes, and then disappear. When the whirlpools are gone, all that’s left is floating petals. Black sea roses. Anomalies. I’m not afraid. A queer chill settles into my bones, and I huddle, pulling my knees closer to my chest. What if Ilven’s death really did raise something up out of the waters? But those stories Nala is talking about—they’re just … fancies. There’s no real truth to them, they’re Hob tales. That’s what our House crake taught me. Of course, Ilven always did find the old stories fascinating and told me how she secretly wished that they were still real, that there was more to magic than just the scriv-forced power of the Houses. Oh Ilven. Bound now below the sea, caught in the kelp forests, nibbled at, her hair full of crabs and little ghost shrimp, a ghost herself. I choke on a sadness so sharp that it has sliced me in two.

The eye in this city acquires an autonomy similar to that of a tear. The only difference is that it doesn't sever itself from the body but subordinates it totally. After a while - on the third or fourth day here- the body starts to regard itself as merely the eye's carrier, as a kind of submarine to its now dilating, now squinting periscope. Of course, for all its targets, its explosions are invariably self-inflicted: it's own heart, or else your mind, that sinks; the eye pops up to the surface. This, of course, owes to local topography, to the streets - narrow, meandering like eels - that finally bring you to a flounder of a campo with a cathedral in the middle of it, barnacled with saints and flaunting its Medusa-like cupolas. No matter what you set out for as you leave the house here, you are bound to get lost in these long, coiling lanes and passageways that beguile you to see them through to follow them to their elusive end, which usually hits water, so that you can't even call it a cul-de-sac. On the map this city looks like two grilled fish sharing a plate, or perhaps like two nearly overlapping lobster claws ( Pasternak compared it to a swollen croissant); but it has no north, south, east, or west; the only direction it has is sideways. It surrounds you like frozen seaweed, and the more you dart and dash about trying to get your bearings, the more you get lost. The yellow arrow signs at intersections are not much help either, for they, too, curve. In fact, they don't so much help you as kelp you. And in the fluently flapping hand of the native whom you stop to ask for directions, the eye, oblivious to his sputtering, A destra, a sinistra, dritto, dritto, readily discerns a fish.

son of a mother!” Hazel reached the stern and couldn’t believe what she saw. When she heard the word turtle, she thought of a cute little thing the size of a jewelry box, sitting on a rock in the middle of a fishpond. When she heard huge, her mind tried to adjust—okay, perhaps it was like the Galapagos tortoise she’d seen in the zoo once, with a shell big enough to ride on. She did not envision a creature the size of an island. When she saw the massive dome of craggy black and brown squares, the word turtle simply did not compute. Its shell was more like a landmass—hills of bone, shiny pearl valleys, kelp and moss forests, rivers of seawater trickling down the grooves of its carapace.

The dying, possessed of similar feelings towards their parents as the captain of the Enola Gay, were frequently heard to call one word over and over in their final agony, as they wandered lost and blind through the burning ruins of Hiroshima. Mother, they kept saying as charred skin fell like long strands of kelp off their bodies and heads, mother.

Influence creates affluence. Affluence does not create influence. Affluence makes you more of who you already are.

looked like a plus-sized Tomb Raider. I zipped a light, hooded sweatshirt over the T-shirt and marched in place, wishing I liked cardio as much as I liked cheese.

There long he sojourned alone and roamed about the shore or fared over the rocks at the ebb, marvelling at the pools and the great weeds, the dripping caverns and the strange sea-fowl that he saw and came to know; but the rise and fall of the water and the voice of the waves was ever to him the greatest wonder and ever did it seem a new and unimaginable thing.

From the shelter of their porch, she turned to look out over Avonlea: the gulf in the distance roared; the wind was scented with melted icecaps and blew the trees like stalks of kelp; the rain fell faster and faster until it looked as if a veil had been drawn over the island, tinting everything wet gray. She hardly recognized Avonlea as home. From someone else's front door, it looked so different.

The number of living creatures of all orders whose existence intimately depends on kelp is wonderful. A great volume might be written describing the inhabitants of one of these beds of seaweed…. I can only compare these great aquatic forests…with terrestrial ones in the intertropical regions. Yet, if in any other country a forest was destroyed, I do not believe so many species of animals would perish as would here, from the destruction of kelp

She ventured out of the village that morning for what her mum would have called life's little luxuries. A soft gray dressing gown, a matching towel, and bubble bath promising the healing properties of sea kelp. Charlie knew there wasn't a big enough bottle enough to heal her wounds, but she was willing to begin the process. Penderrion was getting to her if she thought that anything with "sea" in the title could be soothing instead of threatening.

Dreadful as all these processes may seem, they are only the resolution of certain carbon-based compounds into certain other carbon-based compounds. Carbon is the element of life and death. We share it with diamonds and dandelions, with kerosene an kelp. While we may wrinkle our noses at some of its manifestations, we ought also to remember that this element comes to us from the stars, which wheel over us forever in silent, glittering array, pure fires obeying celestial laws.

Our circus caravan. The ringmaster told us to meet him at the gas station if we got lost, but he may have forgotten, or maybe he meant a different gas station. Anyway, we’re lost. Is that food I smell?” “Oh, my dears,” the woman said. “You must come in, poor children. I am Aunty Em. Go straight through to the back of the warehouse, please. There is a dining area.” We thanked her and went inside. Annabeth muttered to me, “Circus caravan?” “Always have a strategy, right?” “Your head is full of kelp.

A paradisiacal lagoon lay below them. The water was an unbelievable, unreal turquoise, its surface so still that every feature of the bottom could be admired in magnified detail: colorful pebbles, bright red kelp, fish as pretty and colorful as the jungle birds. A waterfall on the far side fell softly from a height of at least twenty feet. A triple rainbow graced its frothy bottom. Large boulders stuck out of the water at seemingly random intervals, black and sun-warmed and extremely inviting, like they had been placed there on purpose by some ancient giant. And on these were the mermaids. Wendy gasped at their beauty. Their tails were all colors of the rainbow, somehow managing not to look tawdry or clownish. Deep royal blue, glittery emerald green, coral red, anemone purple. Slick and wet and as beautifully real as the salmon Wendy's father had once caught on holiday in Scotland. Shining and voluptuously alive. The mermaids were rather scandalously naked except for a few who wore carefully placed shells and starfish, although their hair did afford some measure of decorum as it trailed down their torsos. Their locks were long and thick and sinuous and mostly the same shades as their tails. Some had very tightly coiled curls, some had braids. Some had decorated their tresses with limpets and bright hibiscus flowers. Their "human" skins were familiar tones: dark brown to pale white, pink and beige and golden and everything in between. Their eyes were also familiar eye colors but strangely clear and flat. Either depthless or extremely shallow depending on how one stared. They sang, they brushed their hair, they played in the water. In short, they did everything mythical and magical mermaids were supposed to do, laughing and splashing as they did. "Oh!" Wendy whispered. "They're-" And then she stopped. Tinker Bell was giving her a funny look. An unhappy funny look. The mermaids were beautiful. Indescribably, perfectly beautiful. They glowed and were radiant and seemed to suck up every ray of sun and sparkle of water; Wendy found she had no interest looking anywhere else.

Kombu is a species of edible kelp (Laminaria japonica) that thrives in long streamers about a palm's-width wide that can reach up to thirty feet in length. Along with katsuobushi, it is the other main ingredient for making dashi. Kombu contains a high level of the amino acid glutamate, which is the source of the "fifth taste", umami, and a precursor to the flavor enhancer MSG. Japan consumes about 50,000tons of kombu a year--- about half wild, and half farmed--- most of it harvested off the coast of the northern island, Hokkaidō.

The moon is not out yet, but there are stars, and the world that these Delawareans probably take as ordinary or even ugly—the mounds of kelp and sea litter, the hard stonelike sand, the rocks spattered with the candle wax of bird droppings, the smell of rot and life, the waves breaking into applause, and everywhere, everywhere, unstoppable life hidden or crawling or swimming—is, to anybody else (to me), extraordinary, beautiful, exotic, strange. Somewhere in the water, the fish lie listening, arranged like magic daggers in the dark.

Greenery Juniper, Oracle Oak and Hop Tree, California Buckeye, and Elderberry. Pacific Dogwood and the pale green Eucalyptus, Quaking Aspen and Flannelbush. raw, sprouting, lush green love green with envy green with youth green with early spring olive, emerald, avocado, greenlight ready, set, GO! greenhouse, greenbelts, ocean kelp, cucumber, lizard, lime and forest green, spruce, teal, and putting green. green-eyed, verdant, grassy, immature green and leafy green half-formed tender, pleasant, alluring temperate freshly sawed vigorous not ripe yet promising greenbriar, greenbug, green dragon greenshanks running along the ocean's edge greenlings swimming greenlets singing greengage plums green thumbs greenhorns and greenflies- how on earth amid sage swells kelly hillsides and swirls of firs did I ever find that green of hers? holly, drake, and brewster green, pistachio, shamrock, serpentine terre verde, Brunswick, tourmaline, lotus, jade, and spinach green: start to finish lowlands to highs no field, no forest, no leaf, no blade can catch the light or trap the shade; no earthly tones will ever rise to match the green enchantment of her eyes.

About twilight we came to the whitewashed pub On a knuckle of land above the bay Where a log was riding and the slow Bird-winged breakers cast up spray. One of the drinkers round packing cases had The worn face of a kumara god, Or so it struck me. Later on Lying awake in the veranda bedroom In great dryness of mind I heard the voice of the sea Reverberating, and thought: As a man Grows older he does not want beer, bread, or the prancing flesh, But the arms of the eater of life, Hine-nui-te-po, With teeth of obsidian and hair like kelp Flashing and glimmering at the edge of the horizon.

In the green, light-shot sea along the Oregon coast, bullwhip kelp lean toward land on the incoming tides and swirl seaward as the water falls away, never letting go of their grip on the ocean floor. What keeps each plant in places is a holdfast, a fist of knobby fingers that stick to rock with a glue the plant makes from sunshine and salt water, an invisible bond strong enough to hold against all but the worst winter gales. The holdfast is a structure biologists don’t entirely understand. Philosophers have not even begun to try. I resolve to study holdfasts. What will be cling to, in the confusion of the tides? What structures of connection will hold us in place? How will we find an attachment to the natural world that makes us feel safe and fully alive, here, at the edge of water?

The air was cool and fresh and smelled of the kelp and salt that streamed in off the bay at the full of the tide. The sun was high in the tender vault of the sky, and the thunderheads that would sweep in late in the day were still only white marble puffs at the margins of the sky, solid and silver-lined. There was a blue clarity about the horizon and the distant hills that spoke of a weather change but not for another day or two. Along the meadows' edges, as we drove past, I saw pink clover and purple lupine, hawkweed and wild daylilies. Brilliant pink wild azaleas, called lambkill here, flickered like wildfire in the birch groves. Daisies, buttercups, wild columbine, and the purple flags of wild iris starred the roadside. Behind them all was the eternal dark of the pines and firs and spruce thickets and, between those, the glittering indigo of the bay.

It sure if terrific to be in the back seat of a car full of all the people in your affinity group, and as you zip down the center of the road the radio is going boodeley-boodeley-boo in some bluegrass heart song to open space, and, whoopee, you’re hugging all the committed girls who love you just as the boys love you but even more so, maybe, because Bug never forgot that a Swiss army knife, for instance, does everything well and nothing excellently; and to do something excellently a good navy surplus kelp-slitting blade is far superior to a thousand sawtoothed frogman’s specials; and a gun is worth a thousand knives; and a good friend is worth a thousand guns; and ten minutes’ bored talk about the weather with any girl is worth a thousand friends at your back on the Great Trek of 1836, at least at that time in his life, perhaps because until he joined the affinity group none of his friends had ever been girls; but now everyone was his friend, especially the girls (but he only thought that; he didn’t say it, didn’t want anyone to claim that he was a sexist).

In a sense Provincetown is a beach. If you stand on the shore watching the tide recede, you are merely that much closer to the water and that much more available to weather than you would be in the middle of town. All along the bay side, the entire length of town, the beach slopes gently, bearded with kelp and dry sea grass. Because Provincetown stands low on the continental shelf, it is profoundly affected by tides, which can exceed a twelve-foot drop at the syzygy of sun, moon, and earth. Interludes of beach that are more than a hundred yards wide at low tide vanish entirely when the tide is high. The water of the bay is utterly calm in most weathers and warmer than that of the ocean beaches, but this being the North Atlantic, no water anywhere is ever what you could rightfully call warm, not even in August. Except in extreme weather the bay beach is entirely domesticated, the backyard of the town, never empty but never crowded, either; there is no surf there, and the water that laps docilely up against the shore is always full of boats. The bay beach is especially good for dogs

Myles P. doesn’t resist, he sinks down and down, letting the sound of Willard’s lisp close over him light as a foaming wave and he drifts gently down, without a gurgle, past the floating beds of giant kelp and the abalone-eating otters, the unschooled senoritas and egg-filled cabezon, he thinks he might touch his toes to the bottom when he gets there and wonders if it will be mud or just more cement. 'Meaning other animals, shoot, soon as the young’s able to hunt or run, mother takes off and dad’s eyeing the offsprung for dinner. But we can’t let ours be, colic to college, we’re constantly wiping their little booger’d noses, dolling out free dough and freer advice, thinking they’ll powder our own asses later in the home. But a baby’s just a for-instance, fact is, others never tender the way you do. Species’d peter, rent’d come due.' Willard goes to Hiro, 'The punchline, my friend, is giving without wanting’s the trick once you’ve managed that, you’ve partly pierced heaven a bunghole, but it’s a pure penniless instigation that you ain’t got ‘n ain’t gonna get got, ‘n ain’t gonna get it, not on no roadfuckingtrip.' 'Meaning?' says Hiro 'Meaning love’s all true.

It's our shadow!—the shadow of the Dawn Treader" said Lucy. "Our shadow running along on the bottom of the sea. That time when it got bigger it went over a hill. But in that case the water must be clearer than I thought! Good gracious, I must be seeing the bottom of the sea; fathoms and fathoms down." [...] At present, for instance, they were passing over a mass of soft purply green with a broad, winding strip of pale grey in the middle of it. But now that she knew it was on the bottom she saw it much better. She could see that bits of the dark stuff were much higher than other bits and were waving gently. "Just like trees in a wind," said Lucy. "And I do believe that's what they are. It's a submarine forest.

It was evening of the following day when they entered San Diego. The expriest turned off to find them a doctor but the kid wandered on through the raw mud streets and out past the houses of hide in their rows and across the gravel strand to the beach. Loose strands of ambercolored kelp lay in a rubbery wrack at the tideline. A dead seal. Beyond the inner bay part of a reef in a thin line like something foundered there on which the sea was teething. He squatted in the sand and watched the sun on the hammered face of the water. Out there island clouds emplaned upon a salmoncolored othersea. Seafowl in silhouette. Down-shore the dull surf boomed. There was a horse standing there staring out upon the darkening waters and a young colt that cavorted and trotted off and came back. He sat watching while the sun dipped hissing in the swells. The horse stood darkly against the sky. The surf boomed in the dark and the sea’s black hide heaved in the cobbled starlight and the long pale combers loped out of the night and broke along the beach. He rose and turned toward the lights of the town. The tidepools bright as smelterpots among the dark rocks where the phosphorescent seacrabs clambered back. Passing through the salt grass he looked back. The horse had not moved. A ship’s light winked in the swells. The colt stood against the horse with its head down and the horse was watching, out there past men’s knowing, where the stars are drowning and whales ferry their vast souls through the black and seamless sea.

Fish at breakfast is sometimes himono (semi-dried fish, intensely flavored and chewy, the Japanese equivalent of a breakfast of kippered herring or smoked salmon) and sometimes a small fillet of rich, well-salted broiled fish. Japanese cooks are expert at cutting and preparing fish with nothing but salt and high heat to produce deep flavor and a variety of textures: a little crispy over here, melting and juicy there. Some of this is technique and some is the result of a turbo-charged supply chain that scoops small, flavorful fish out of the ocean and deposits them on breakfast tables with only the briefest pause at Tsukiji fish market and a salt cure in the kitchen. By now, I've finished my fish and am drinking miso soup. Where you find a bowl of rice, miso shiru is likely lurking somewhere nearby. It is most often just like the soup you've had at the beginning of a sushi meal in the West, with wakame seaweed and bits of tofu, but Iris and I were always excited when our soup bowls were filled with the shells of tiny shijimi clams. Clams and miso are one of those predestined culinary combos- what clams and chorizo are to Spain, clams and miso are to Japan. Shijimi clams are fingernail-sized, and they are eaten for the briny essence they release into the broth, not for what Mario Batali has called "the little bit of snot" in the shell. Miso-clam broth is among the most complex soup bases you'll ever taste, but it comes together in minutes, not the hours of simmering and skimming involved in making European stocks. As Tadashi Ono and Harris Salat explain in their book Japanese Hot Pots, this is because so many fermented Japanese ingredients are, in a sense, already "cooked" through beneficial bacterial and fungal actions. Japanese food has a reputation for crossing the line from subtlety into blandness, but a good miso-clam soup is an umami bomb that begins with dashi made from kombu (kelp) and katsuobushi (bonito flakes) or niboshi (a school of tiny dried sardines), adds rich miso pressed through a strainer for smoothness, and is then enriched with the salty clam essence.

Summary: Wheat Belly Detox Supplements Look for the supplements we use in the Wheat Belly 10-Day Grain Detox in health food stores. Because of regional variation in brands, the reputable brands that are available to you may differ from the ones I list below. Where national brands are widely distributed, I will specify a few quality representative ones. High-potency probiotic supplement: 30 billion to 50 billion CFUs per day for 6 to 8 weeks. My favorite brands include Garden of Life, Renew Life, and VSL#3, all of which contain a long list of preferred bacterial species, as well as high CFU counts. Vitamin D: 4,000 to 8,000 IUs per day to start for adults, as gelcaps or drops; long-term dose adjusted to achieve a 25-hydroxy vitamin D blood level of 60 to 70 ng/mL. Excellent vitamin D preparations are widely available in many brands and surprisingly low in cost. Look for oil-based gelcaps (that look like little fish oil capsules) or liquid drops, but not tablets. Even the big-box stores like Costco and Sam’s Club have excellent preparations. Magnesium: Preferably magnesium malate, 1,200 mg two or three times per day, or magnesium glycinate, 400 mg two or three times per day; or magnesium citrate, 400 mg two or three times per day. (If elemental magnesium—i.e., magnesium without the weight of malate, glycinate, or citrate—is specified on your supplement, aim for around 400 mg magnesium per day.) Source Naturals, NOW, and KAL are excellent brands. Fish oil: 3,000 to 3,600 mg per day of EPA and DHA, divided into two doses. Among my preferred brands are Nordic Naturals, Ascenta Nutra-Sea, and Carlson. Iodine: 500 to 1,000 mcg per day as potassium iodide drops or kelp tablets. Like vitamin D, there are many excellent preparations available at low cost. Iron: Look for supplements in the ferrous form and take only if low ferritin levels or iron deficiency anemia is identified; the dose depends on the severity of anemia and the form chosen. Sundown Naturals, Feosol, and Pure Encapsulations are among preferred brands. Zinc: 10 to 15 mg per day of (elemental) zinc as gluconate, sulfate, or acetate. Twinlab, Thorne, and NOW provide great choices.

This white broth... ... is soy milk!" "That's right! I mixed a dash of parmesan cheese and a little dollop of miso paste into the soy milk and then lightly simmered it. This is my pike dish... Pike Takikomi Rice, Ojiya Style!" OJIYA Also called "Zosui," Ojiya is soup stock and seasonings added to precooked rice, vegetables and fish and cooked into a thick porridge. It is distinctly different from dishes like risotto, which is uncooked rice that is first sautéed in butter and oils before adding liquid... and Okayu, which is a rice gruel cooked to soupy softness in extra water. "Soy milk?" "Ah, so you finally see it, Alice. Like all soups, the most important part of Ojiya porridge is the stock! He built this dish to be porridge from the start... ... with soy milk as the "stock"!" "Soy milk as soup stock?!" "Can you even do that?!" "So that's what it is! Soup stock is essentially meant to be pure umami. Like kombu kelp- a common stock- soy milk is packed with the umami component glutamic acid. It's more than good enough to serve as a sound base for the Ojiya porridge! Not only that, umami flavors synergies with each other. Adding two umami components to the same dish will magnify the flavor exponentially! The inosinic acid in the pike and the glutamic acid in the soy milk... combining the two makes perfect, logical sense! " "Soy milk Ojiya Porridge. Hm. How interesting!" " Mm! Delicious! The full-bodied richness of the cheese and the mild, salty flavor of the miso meld brilliantly with the rice! Then there are the chunks of tender pike meat mixed in... ... with these red things. Are they what I think they are?" "Yep! They're crunchy pickled-plum bits!" "What?!" "Again with the dirt cheap, grocery store junk food! Like that cracker breading and the seaweed jelly pearls..." "He totally dumped those in there just for the heck of it!" "These pickled plums are a very important facet of the overall dish! They have a bright, pleasing color and a fun, crunchy texture. Not only that, their tart flavor cuts through the rich oiliness of the pike meat, giving the dish a fresh, clean aftertaste. And, like all vinegary foods, they stir the appetite- a side effect that this dish takes full advantage of! Finally, these plums are salt pickled! It is no wonder they make a perfect accent to the pickled pike at the center of the dish!"

SUPPLEMENT DAILY DOSAGE Vitamin A 10,000 IU or 6 mg beta-carotene (choose mixed carotenes if available)     B-complex vitamins B1, B2, B3, B5: 50 mg B6: 50 mg, or 100 mg if nauseated (can be higher: if necessary up to 250 mg to prevent nausea) B12: 400 mcg Choline, Inositol, PABA: 25 mg Biotin: 200 mcg Folic acid: 500 mcg (increase this to 1000 mcg if you have suffered a previous miscarriage, if there is a history of neural tube defects in your family, or if you are over 40 years of age)     Vitamin C 1–2 g (take the higher dose if you are exposed to toxicity or in contact with, or suffering from, infection)     Bioflavonoids 500–1000 mg (helpful for preventing miscarriage and breakthrough bleeding)     Vitamin D 200 IU     Vitamin E 500 IU (increasing to 800 IU during last trimester)     Calcium 800 mg (increasing to 1200 mg during middle trimester when your baby’s bones are forming, or if symptoms such as leg cramps indicate an increased need)     Magnesium 400 mg (half the dose of calcium)     Potassium 15 mg or as cell salt (potassium chloride, 3 tablets)     Iron Supplement only if need is proven; dosage depends on serum ferritin levels (stored iron) If levels < 30 mcg per litre, take 30 mg If levels < 45 mcg per litre, take 20 mg If levels < 60 mcg per litre, take 10 mg This test for ferritin levels should be repeated at the end of each trimester, and we give further details in Chapter 11.     Manganese 10 mg     Zinc 20–60 mg, taken last thing at night on an empty stomach (dose level to depend on results of zinc taste test, which ideally should be performed at two monthly intervals during your pregnancy; see page 172–174 for details)     Chromium 100–200 mcg (upper limit applies to those with sugar cravings or with proven need)     Selenium 100–200 mcg (upper limit for those exposed to high levels of heavy metal or chemical pollution). Selenium is best taken away from vitamin C, but can be taken with zinc.     Iodine 75 mcg (or take 150 mg of kelp instead)     Acidophilus/Bifidus Half to one teaspoonful, one to three times daily (upper limits for those who suffer from thrush)     Evening primrose oil 500–1000 mg two to three times daily     MaxEPA (or deep sea fish oils) 500–1000 mg two to three times daily     Garlic 2000–5000 mg (higher levels for those exposed to toxins)     Silica 20 mg     Copper 1–2 mg (but only if zinc levels are adequate)     Hydrochloric acid and digestive enzymes For those with digestive problems. There are numerous proprietary preparations which contain an appropriate combination of active ingredients. Ask your health practitioner, pharmacist or health food shop for guidance, and take as directed on the label.     Co-enzyme Q10 10 mg daily

One day we strolled down the Philosopher's Path, which proved as enchanting as I had hoped in the fragrant pink bloom of spring. Since ancient times, the Japanese have heralded the arrival of the cherry blossoms because they symbolize the ephemeral beauty of life. But it isn't just the three or four days of open flowers that stirs the senses. It is their arrival and departure. Looking at a bud about to burst open offers the pleasurable anticipation of rebirth, while the soft scattering of petals on the ground is often considered the most beautiful stage of all because it represents the death of the flowers. Another day I took John to one of my tea kaiseki classes to watch the making of a traditional picnic to celebrate the arrival of the cherry blossoms. While he sat on a stool near my cooking station, Stephen and I cooked rice in water flavored with kelp, sake, and light soy, then packed it into a wooden mold shaped like a chrysanthemum. After tapping out the compact white flower, we decorated it with two salted cherry blossoms. We wrapped chunks of salted Spanish mackerel in brined cherry leaves and steamed the packets until the fatty fish turned milky in parts. We also made cold seafood salad, pea custard, and chewy millet dumplings, which we grilled over a charcoal burner until brown and sticky enough to hold a coating of ivory Japanese poppy seeds.

After more sake, we dipped into salmon roe for fecundity, followed by salmon and kelp rolls. We also had slices of rare beef that had been seared in a drip of soy, plus grilled duck and pickled lotus root rounds, representing the root of the lotus flower that blooms in the lake of the Land of Happiness where Buddha lives. Each morsel lay nestled in separate sections of the various lacquer boxes. "Have some tai (sea bream)," said Tomiko, passing me a container holding several slices of the coral-red fish, eaten because it sounds like medetai, meaning "auspicious.

I don’t think it’s an accident that 7NC Luxury Cruises appeal mostly to older people. I don’t mean decrepitly old, but I mean like age-50+ people, for whom their own mortality is something more than an abstraction. Most of the exposed bodies to be seen all over the daytime Nadir were in various stages of disintegration. And the ocean itself (which I found to be salty as hell, like sore-throat-soothing-gargle-grade salty, its spray so corrosive that one temple-hinge of my glasses is probably going to have to be replaced) turns out to be basically one enormous engine of decay. Seawater corrodes vessels with amazing speed—rusts them, exfoliates paint, strips varnish, dulls shine, coats ships’ hulls with barnacles and kelp-clumps and a vague ubiquitous nautical snot that seems like death incarnate.

Soon, the oceans boiled, sending continent-size billows of steam floating across the globe, smelling of simmering fish, salt, and kelp.

This book does not agree with this view. It cannot be assumed that efficient asset allocation will result if investment decisions are made by the investing equivalent of kelp and plankton of the marine food chain—uneducated passive reactors whose goal in investing is to outperform a market consistently.

Dortmunder lifted his gaze from his reproachful knees, and contemplated, without love, the clothing Andy Kelp had forced him into. He said, "Who wears this stuff?" "Americans," Kelp told him. "Don't they have mirrors in America?

It is Ian’s regular smoothie. Some raspberries, a fistful of spinach, Icelandic yogurt (Finnish, if they are out of Icelandic), spirulina, wheatgrass, acerola cherry powder, chlorella, kelp, acai extract, cocoa nibs, zinc, beetroot essence, chia seeds, mango zest, and ginger. It is his own invention, and he calls it Keep It Simple.

A sign that the universe had my back and did not want me to spend precious mental energy wondering what candied kelp tasted like. (Bad, right? It had to be bad.)

... It strikes me that if I'm in such a febrile and imaginative mood I ought to take advantage of it with some serious writing exercises or at least a few ideas for stories, if only to demonstrate that I'm not treating this here commonplace book solely as a journal to record my most recent attacks of jitters! Maybe I should roll my sleeves up and attempt as least an opening practice paragraph or two of this confounded novel I'm pretending to be writing. Let's see how it looks. Marblehead: An American Undertow By Robert D. Black Iron green, the grand machinery of the Atlantic grates foam gears against New England with the rhythmic thunder of industrial percussion. A fine dust of other lands and foreign histories is carried in suspension on its lurching, slopping mechanism: shards of bright green glass from Ireland scoured blunt and opaque by brine, or sodden splinters of armada out of Spain. The debris of an older world, a driftwood of ideas and people often changed beyond all recognition by their passage, clatters on the tideline pebbles to deposit unintelligible grudges, madnesses and visions in a rank high-water mark, a silt of fetid dreams that further decompose amid the stranded kelp or bladder-wrack and pose risk of infection. Puritans escaping England's murderous civil war cast broad-brimmed shadows onto rocks where centuries of moss obscured the primitive horned figures etched by vanished tribes, and after them came the displaced political idealists of many nations, the religious outcasts, cults and criminals, to cling with grim determination to a damp and verdant landscape until crushed by drink or the insufferable weight of their accumulated expectations. Royalist cavaliers that fled from Cromwell's savage interregnum and then, where their puritanical opponents settled the green territories to the east, elected instead to establish themselves deep in a more temperate South, bestowing their equestrian concerns, their courtly mannerisms and their hairstyles upon an adopted homeland. Heretics and conjurors who sought new climes past the long shadow of the stake; transported killers and procurers with their slates wiped clean in pastures where nobody knew them; sour-faced visionaries clutching Bunyan's chapbook to their bosoms as a newer and more speculative bible, come to these shores searching for a literal New Jerusalem and finding only different wilderness in which to lose themselves and different game or adversaries for the killing. All of these and more, bearing concealed agendas and a hundred diverse afterlives, crashed as a human surf of Plymouth Rock to fling their mortal spray across the unsuspecting country, individuals incendiary in the having lost their ancestral homelands they were without further longings to relinquish. Their remains, ancient and sinister, impregnate and inform the factory-whistle furrows of oblivious America.

... It strikes me that if I'm in such a febrile and imaginative mood I ought to take advantage of it with some serious writing exercises or at least a few ideas for stories, if only to demonstrate that I'm not treating this here commonplace book solely as a journal to record my most recent attacks of jitters! Maybe I should roll my sleeves up and attempt as least an opening practice paragraph or two of this confounded novel I'm pretending to be writing. Let's see how it looks. Marblehead: An American Undertow By Robert D. Black Iron green, the grand machinery of the Atlantic grates foam gears against New England with the rhythmic thunder of industrial percussion. A fine dust of other lands and foreign histories is carried in suspension on its lurching, slopping mechanism: shards of bright green glass from Ireland scoured blunt and opaque by brine, or sodden splinters of armada out of Spain. The debris of an older world, a driftwood of ideas and people often changed beyond all recognition by their passage, clatters on the tideline pebbles to deposit unintelligible grudges, madnesses and visions in a rank high-water mark, a silt of fetid dreams that further decompose amid the stranded kelp or bladder-wrack and pose risk of infection. Puritans escaping England's murderous civil war cast broad-brimmed shadows onto rocks where centuries of moss obscured the primitive horned figures etched by vanished tribes, and after them came the displaced political idealists of many nations, the religious outcasts, cults and criminals, to cling with grim determination to a damp and verdant landscape until crushed by drink or the insufferable weight of their accumulated expectations. Royalist cavaliers that fled from Cromwell's savage interregnum and then, where their puritanical opponents settled the green territories to the east, elected instead to establish themselves deep in a more temperate South, bestowing their equestrian concerns, their courtly mannerisms and their hairstyles upon an adopted homeland. Heretics and conjurors who sought new climes past the long shadow of the stake; transported killers and procurers with their slates wiped clean in pastures where nobody knew them; sour-faced visionaries clutching Bunyan's chapbook to their bosoms as a newer and more speculative bible, come to these shores searching for a literal New Jerusalem and finding only different wilderness in which to lose themselves and different game or adversaries for the killing. All of these and more, bearing concealed agendas and a hundred diverse afterlives, crashed as a human surf on Plymouth Rock to fling their mortal spray across the unsuspecting country, individuals incendiary in that having lost their ancestral homelands they were without further longings to relinquish. Their remains, ancient and sinister, impregnate and inform the factory-whistle furrows of oblivious America.

The recommended daily intake of iodine is 150 mcg, which is what is in about two sheets of nori,31 the seaweed that’s used to make sushi. There are all sorts of seaweed snacks on the market now, but most, if not all of them, seem to have added red-light ingredients. So I buy plain nori and season the sheets myself by brushing them with jarred pickled ginger juice and lightly sprinkling on wasabi powder before recrisping them at 300°F for about five minutes. Sprinkling just a half teaspoon of the seaweeds arame or dulse onto dishes you’re preparing may also get you your iodine for the day. Dulse is sold as pretty purple flakes you can just shake onto your food. I do caution against hijiki32 (also spelled hiziki), because it has been found to be contaminated with arsenic. I also caution against kelp, which may have too much iodine; just a half teaspoon of kelp could exceed the daily upper limit. For the same reason, you shouldn’t get into a regular habit of eating more than fifteen sheets of nori or more than a tablespoon of arame or dulse a day.33 Too much iodine can cause excessive thyroid gland activity.34

For those who don’t like seaweed, Eden brand’s canned beans have a tiny amount of kelp added such that iodine levels average between 36.3 mcg per half-cup serving (great northern beans) to 71.2 mcg (navy beans).35 Not only are those levels safe—you’d have to eat about twenty cans a day to get too much—but checkmarking my three legume servings a day with Eden’s beans would fulfill your daily iodine requirement.

Cute. Cozy.” Without asking, he took a seat in the chair opposite her desk, leaned back, and put his feet up. “I could get used to this.” “Off, Brother.” He dropped his feet. “Has Lucas seen it yet?” “No. He’s in Massachusetts, dealing with the Marblehead kelp-huggers.” “Kelp-huggers?” “You know, the environmentalists who want to break our addiction to fossil fuels—” “What’s wrong with that?

Nicasia, meanwhile, wears the colours of the sea. Her gown is the green of kelp, deep and rich. Her aqua hair is braided up and adorned with a cunning crown made of fish bones and jaws.

A shadow passed over her hand. Strange, because she hadn’t seen any large animals since she’d started welding. Every now and then, she was treated to the sight of a massive whale in the distance. And sometimes at night she listened to their haunting songs as they swam by the city. It was beautiful, and for some reason, it always made tears sting in her eyes. Mouth full, still chewing, she looked up to find the source of the shadow and froze. A monster hovered in front of the glass. His black tail, so long it tangled in the kelp, was at least ten feet long. Blue slashes of fins, so deep they blended in with the water, undulated all along the black scales. It stretched up to his waist, seamlessly turning into that pale, almost gray skin. His body was as all the rumors claimed. So handsome it was painful to look at, and eerily like the gold sculptures that surrounded her.

I stared at the kelp, for once disappointed I wasn't eating kale.

The pink ingredient in your fried rice: it had to be these." Nagare produced a packet of fish sausages from a plastic bag at his side. "You must have noticed them in the rice?" "Oh yes," said Hatsuko. "You know, I think I remember seeing something like that in our fridge." "I picked these up in Yawatahama. A local butcher told me this brand was the closest you could get to the type Aihachi Foods used to make." Nagare set the sausages to one side, then produced another packet from his bag. "Now, this was the other reason for that pink color." "What's that?" asked Hatsuko. "A Yawatahama specialty. Kamaboko flakes. Just like bonito flakes, except made from kamaboko fish cake instead of tuna. They were invented back before people had fridges, as a way of making kamaboko last longer. Normally you'd sprinkle them over things like chirashi-zushi, but your mother decided they'd be a good addition to her fried rice. They make a pretty decent drinking snack too, by the way." Nagare opened the packet and retrieved a handful of the flakes, which he began to nibble on. "So it wasn't just the fish sausage, then," said Hatsuko, also sampling the flakes. "That's right," said Koishi, grabbing a handful for herself. "Given what they're both made from, it's no wonder you remembered the fried rice having a fishy flavor." "As for the all-important seasoning," continued Nagare, "I imagine she used a mix of shredded shio-kombu and sour plum. That's where that tart aftertaste you mentioned came from. Then I realized: sour plum is pink too. It all fits the color scheme, see?" He showed her a can of the shredded kelp and sour plum mix. Hatsuko gave a deep, appreciative nod.

Life on this planet has been evolving and transforming itself since the beginning of time as we know it. It is not poetry, but science when I say this: we are descendants of fish that crawled out of the ocean. We breathe air exhaled from trees whose leaves are made of starlight. We have oxygen thanks to the primordial kelps that created this biosphere. The mushrooms we eat come from space; they strengthen both the communications networks in our brains as well as between the plants and soil. We have stardust in our bones. Our veins echo the patterns of rivers, branches, and root system. The moon moves the blood in women’s wombs to the same rhythm as the tides of the oceans. We are not a part of Nature. We are Nature.

KELP (KOMBU) DASHI 1 ounce kombu (a 4-inch x 6-inch piece of kelp) 5 cups water ¾ cup dried bonito flakes Wipe off white layer on kelp with dry cloth. Soak kombu overnight in water. Drain kombu and combine with 5 fresh cups of water in a soup pot. Heat until just before boiling. As soon as the liquid boils, strain kombu out. Add bonito flakes and bring dashi broth to a boil, skimming top if necessary. When dashi boils, reduce heat to simmer immediately; let simmer for 30 seconds. Remove from heat and let bonito flakes sink to the bottom, about 10 minutes. Strain dashi into a bowl. Use dashi immediately or store in the refrigerator for up to one week.

It is a fascinating human characteristic the ability to instantly change one’s priorities, or rather, to instantly adapt as they are altered by circumstance. I think it’s both an indication of our natural flexibility and our true insignificance—simply kelp swaying as the tide demands.

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A much studied example is the sea otter in California. The otter all but disappeared during the nineteenth century because of excessive hunting for its pelts. After federal regulators in 1911 forbade further hunting of this lovely creature, the otter made a dramatic comeback. Because it feeds on urchins, with the increase in otters the urchin population went down. With fewer urchins around, the number of kelps, a favorite food of urchins, increased dramatically. This increased the supply of food for fish and protected the coast from erosion. Therefore, protection of only one species, a hub, drastically altered both the economy and the ecology of the coastline. Indeed, finfish dominate in coastal fisheries once dedicated to shellfish.

Professor Kikunae Ikeda of Tokyo Imperial University isolated umami as glutamic acid while studying kombu, giant Japanese sea kelp. He commercialized this finding as monosodium glutamate (MSG), but you need not eat headache powder to taste the wonder (and healthfulness, when organic) of umami. Tomatoes, parmesan, and chicken broth all have high glutamate content. There are also mimics: shiitake mushrooms have umami-like nucleotides that allow them to impart a similar taste.

Standing there small among the boxes of Kandy Kakes that rose like brownish cartoon cliffs around him, he resembled the videos I'd seen of sea lions floating angelically among the kelp, black bodies filmed from below, their shapes cut out in bright sunlight, bodies mistakable for those of a human being. I felt the memory of a shadowy arm around me, a watcher again, sitting there on the couch with my boyfriend, watching the animals become prey. Somewhere there were giant whales feeding on creatures too small to see, pressing them against fronds of baleen with a tongue the size of a sedan. There were polar bears killing seals, tearing ovoid chunks from out of their smooth, round bellies. In the surrounding vastness of the warehouse, I heard something scratching against the concrete floor and knew there were rats here, scraping a thin film of nutrient from the dry packaged matter that surrounded them. Life was everywhere, inescapable, imperative.

Footsteps vibrated the dock lightly, mercifully pulling him from the endless merry-go-round of his thoughts. He looked up, half-expecting to see Grace coming out to check on her guest, or possibly Logan, breaking it to him that Kerry wanted him gone and couldn’t find the heart to tell him in person. So it was a surprise, when he looked up, to find it was Kerry. The instant whoosh of relief he felt was immediately tempered by the smooth expression on her face. Maybe she’d found the heart to do it herself after all. He didn’t realize how tightly he’d gripped the edge of the pier until he pried one of his hands loose to reach up and offer her assistance. She sank effortlessly to the dock next to him, no assistance needed, and slid her feet over the edge of the pier so they dangled next to his. “You look like someone stole your pirate ship,” she said, squinting into the sun as she briefly looked at him, then back to the water. “No, it’s moored just down the harbor. I seem to have misplaced my pirate queen, though.” He bumped the side of his foot into the side of hers but otherwise kept his hands to himself. “Oh, she’s been navigating the choppy waters of Bridal Bay, trying not to drown in the froth of lace whitecaps or get dragged under by the pearl-seeded kelp beds.” He smiled at that. “I’ve heard that particular channel can be a tricky one to navigate. Lots of something olds looming out there in the deep, blocking the easier paths to the something news.

I'm getting soft! I need the sea! I miss its greens and blues and grays. Its singing whales. Its silent rays. Its shipwrecks resting on the sand. Undiscovered and unmanned Removed now from all history I miss the sea! Its mystery. Its kelp. Its creatures. Crabs and corals Devoid of complicating morals. Its secrets. All its saline riches. I'm going home.

That girl could make friends with the meanest croc alive with little more than a smile and a laugh. You, on the other hand, made her work for it.” “Did you just compare me to a mean old croc?” Kerry asked, the thread of amusement back in her tone. “If the tough hide fits,” he said, but not unkindly. Kerry nodded, gave him a considering look. “True that,” she said. She picked her way over a tricky stretch of kelp-covered rock, then added, “Maybe I was trying to save her from her own friendly nature.” She looked back as Cooper hopped his way over the last pile, his heavy-booted feet sinking into a narrow stretch of sand before starting over the next rock bed. “I knew I was going to leave. You all did. No point in breaking hearts.” She held his gaze more directly now, turning back slightly to look at him full on. “I might be a tough old croc, but I’m not heartless.” “I didn’t say--” “You didn’t have to.” She opened her mouth, closed it again, then took in a slow, steadying breath, letting the deep salt tang tickle the back of her throat and the tart brine of the sea fill her senses. Anything to keep his scent from doing that instead. “As a rule, I don’t do good-byes well. I know that about myself. I also know that I have the attention span of a sand fly. A well-intentioned sand fly,” she added, trying to inject a bit of humor, mostly failing judging by the unwavering look in his eyes. “So, given my wanderlusting, gypsy life, I learned early on to keep things friendly and light. Easy, breezy. I’ve made friends all over the world, but none so close that--” “That missing them causes a pang,” he added, “Here maybe,” he said, pointing at his own head. “But not here.” He pointed at her chest, more specifically at her heart. This was how they were, how they’d been from the start. Finishing each other’s sentences, following each other’s train of thought, even when the exchange of words was a bare minimum. She glanced up into his steady gaze and thought, or when there’d been no words at all. That was why they’d worked so well together. And also why she’d had a tough time keeping her feelings for him strictly professional…She’d forgotten how threatening it felt, to have someone read her so easily. Most folks never look past the surface. Cooper--hell, the entire Jax family--hadn’t even blinked at surface Kerry before barreling right on past all of her well-honed, automatically erected barriers. “Like I said,” she went on, “I don’t do good-byes well.” She continued walking down the beach then, knowing she was avoiding continued eye contact, but it was unnerving enough that he was here, in her personal orbit, in her world. Her home world. Wasn’t that invasive enough? “Would a postcard or two have killed you?” he finally asked her retreating back. “Not for me; I never expected one.” She didn’t glance back at that, but just as he knew her too well, she knew him the same way. She’d heard that little hint of disappointment, of long-held hope. Of course the very fact that he was there, on her beach, was proof enough that he’d had hopes where she was concerned. And in that moment, she thought, the hell with this, and stopped. Running halfway around the world apparently hadn’t been far enough to leave him and all of what had transpired between her and the entire Jax family behind. So why did she think she could escape it along the span of one low-tide beach?

Kerry had headed up the back stairs of the pub, and even as exhausted as she was, she’d still found it impossible to wipe that image of Cooper from her mind. The sun setting over his back, highlighting the breadth of his shoulders, sending shadows under those cheekbones, made more chiseled by the ridiculously gorgeous, shit-eating grin that had been on his face when he made it clear he was in town to stay. “For another twenty-nine days anyway.” Kerry pulled her pillow over her face and groaned. Part of her was still in utter shock that he was actually there, in her town. Hell, in her orbit at all. Other parts of her--most of them hormonally activated--were still all aquiver from that kiss. She groaned again and ground clenched fists into the mattress on either side of her hips. Damn, but that kiss… How many times had she lain in bed, just like this, only in a bunkhouse at Cameroo Downs, and wondered what it would be like to be kissed by Cooper Jax? Okay, okay, a whole lot more than kissed. But damn…that kiss alone had been worlds better than the best sex she’d ever had. So much so, he’d probably ruined her for having sex with mere mortals. So I guess you’ll just have to have sex with him, then. “Not helpful,” she grunted at her little voice, jerking the pillow off her face and thumping it on the bed beside her. Besides, even if she was willing to have some kind of fling with Cooper, fulfill even a sliver of the many, oh, so very many fantasies she’d had about the man, he’d made it clear from pretty much the moment he’d set foot back into her world that he wasn’t looking for a fling. He’d strolled right in and made it clear he was looking for a--no. She squeezed her eyes shut and tightened her lips, willing her mind to go blank. It didn’t work. She couldn’t shut it out. Cooper Jax had, basically, proposed to her. Then he’d walked all up and down a kelp-covered, low-tide seashore and listened to her enumerate the reasons why they couldn’t even contemplate such a union. Right before kissing her in a way that defied science and made her wonder if she might need a pregnancy test, before pretty much declaring he was going to spend the next four weeks making it as impossible for her to say no to his doing that again, and maybe more, as he could.

You’re just annoyed because you can’t find a way to be in charge and control this whole thing and it’s making you jumpy.” Kerry considered that, relented a little. “Maybe.” “And because we all like him. A lot. And you’re feeling overly nudged.” “Nudged?” Kerry repeated, eyebrow raised. “How about all but shoved down the aisle? You know, just because you’re all schmoopy and wedding obsessed doesn’t mean the rest of us live to follow in your pearl-and-laced-encrusted footsteps.” Fiona just batted her lashes again. “Oh, come on. You love the schmoopy. You just don’t want to admit it. And you don’t have to go all pearls and lace. I’m sure we can find something in a tasteful banana leaf gown for you.” Kerry nudged her sister with a sharp elbow--it was that or snicker--but Fiona just nudged back, and clung to her arm like a kelp bed attached to the seafloor. “And, okay,” Fiona added, “perhaps we’re just enjoying seeing you so out of your depth. Between that and Cooper’s full-on pursuit, I can see it’s enough to make anyone a little grumpy.” She squeezed Kerry’s arm, then added, “Ms. I Can Run Circles Around the Globe But Not Around Mr. Dead Sexy Accent.” Kerry gave up, as she always did, in the face of Fiona’s unrelenting cheer and pulled her in for a quick, if purposely smothering hug. “Don’t say anything to Fergus,” she whispered against Fiona’s hair before turning her sister loose. “He’s already stuck his nose in way too far, and you know he’ll just worry about me.” Fiona laughed. “You’re the only one Fergus never worries about. And don’t kid yourself about slowing his roll; he’s thrilled--thrilled--finally to have the chance to stick his nose in your business. Do you think anything will stop him from ‘helping’ you make the right choice?

Selle öö meie jaoks meeldejäävaim sündmus toimus aga hoopis pärast kella kolme restorani ees. Ootasime mingit bussi, mis pidi moosekandid ööbimiskohaks olnud kämpingusse viima. Ühtäkki oli meie keskel Urmas Alender isiklikult. "Kutid, kuidas läheb?" "Tead, Alender, sa võid küll hea laulja olla, aga Eesti kõige kõvem laulja olen ilmselt mina," teatas Pepe. Poisikese kemplemine lõbustas Urmast ja ta küsis selgitust. "Surume kätt," käis Pepe välja oma leivanumbri, millega ta oli ka kõrtsides hiilanud. Kohe valiti sobiv koht ja võistlus algas. Mõlema käega võitis Pepe. "Noh?" "Tunnistan, et sina oled tõesti Eesti tugevaim laulja... käesurumises," teatas Alender, ja läinud ta oligi.

Järgmiseks pidime linnaga tutvuma. Kohalik kirik, kuhu pastor ootas meid järgmisel päeval, linnavalitsus, ajaloolised punasest tellisest hooned. "Kas teadsite, et Moskva Kremli müürid on tehtud punasest Cēsise tellisest?" "Ei teadnud. Aga vabandage, kas me võiksime pisut tagasi pöörata? Seal nurga peal nägin ma viinapoodi," küsis Pepe vastu.

Lavale tormanud Hetero alustas raevukalt. Publik hullus. Mingist loost alates hakkas aga rütm meeletult kõikuma. Neissari poole kiigates nägin, et ta jääb keset mängu lihtsalt magama. Kainenesin hetkega. Nagu märkasin, et trummari pea vajub rinnale, hakkasin teda kidra kaelaga ribidesse torkima. Esialgu see aitas. Hiljem muutus asi veel hullemaks, sest ärgates hakkas trummimees topeltkiirusel andma, kuni taas unne vajudes aeglaseks jäi.

There is a quiet core, a center inside each of us, where our spirit resides. This is the intimate place where we commune with God. This is the origin of our prayer life and our inner place of refuge when the world gets crazy. For me, I picture this place like a kelp forest on the ocean floor. There may be a storm above, but the depths remain calm. I picture myself diving deep down within myself when I sense a storm on the horizon of my life. I practice going there in ordinary times so I can get there quickly when the waves are too big for me. Our steadiness lies within. Kristin Armstrong

Who can explain the difference between something chosen by the mind and something decided by the heart? Words are not kelp string. They cannot bind pain into neat packs to be stored away like food in a cache.

The sea cows lived in the northern North Pacific and ate kelp. Humans exterminated sea cows in 1768.

After making my way through a bowl full of lawn (Sure, Dana had said it was exotic sautéed greens, but it smelled like the grass in Griffith Park to me.), a cold purée of squash soup (Cold. Squash. Two words that should never be thrown together in the same recipe.), and a platter of seared kelp (I'm sorry, anything that washes up onto the beach is not considered food in my world.), I

Cooper Jax had, basically, proposed to her. Then he’d walked all up and down a kelp-covered, low-tide seashore and listened to her enumerate the reasons why they couldn’t even contemplate such a union. Right before kissing her in a way that defied science and made her wonder if she might need a pregnancy test, before pretty much declaring he was going to spend the next four weeks making it as impossible for her to say no to his doing that again, and maybe more, as he could.

I know you don’t owe me a damn thing,” she said at length, “but I’m going to ask a favor anyway.” “Ask,” he replied, simply. She didn’t glance at him, keeping her eyes on the rocks as they began to crowd out most of the seafloor and the kelp beds, which were strewn over and in between them. “Please tell Sadie that my being a total shite of a friend was not in any way about her.” “What was it about, then?” he asked, the barest hint of amusement in his tone, when she’d expected--and earned--censure. Or worse. She sent him a quick, sideways glance, but his gaze was fixed downward, as hers had been, as he navigated the exposed seafloor under their feet. “I meant to,” she said. “Write her,” she added. “I know she was upset that I left.” “She’s a tough little sheila,” he said. Kerry glanced at him again, not missing the barest hint of an edge in his voice this time. More like it, she thought. More like what she deserved. “I know. She has to be, living with the likes of the rest of her family.” That got a quick look from Cooper, and maybe the first bare hint of a smile from her. He caught that, looked back, and this time their glances caught and held. Her smile faded, but the honest affection came through in her tone when she said, “She shouldn’t have had to be where I was concerned.” Kerry was surprised at the bark of laughter that comment earned her. She merely lifted her eyebrows in response. “Says the woman who made it as hard as humanly possible for Sadie to connect in the first place. That girl could make friends with the meanest croc alive with little more than a smile and a laugh. You, on the other hand, made her work for it.” “Did you just compare me to a mean old croc?” Kerry asked, the thread of amusement back in her tone. “If the tough hide fits,” he said, but not unkindly. Kerry nodded, gave him a considering look. “True that,” she said.

I sighed as I worried about that and Thick asked sympathetically, “You got a gut ache?” “No. Not exactly. Worrying about Hap. My son back in Buckkeep Town.” “Oh.” He did not sound very interested. Then, as if this was a thing he had pondered for a long time, he added, “You’re always somewhere else. You never do the music where you are.” I looked at him for a moment, and then lowered my perpetual guard against his music. Letting it in was like letting the night into my eyes when twilight came over the land and it was a good time to hunt. I relaxed into the moment, letting the wolf’s enjoyment of the now come into me, as I had not for far too long. I had been aware of the water and the light wind. Now I heard the whispering of blowing sand and snow, and deep behind it, the slow groaning creak of the glacier across the land. I could suddenly smell the salt of the ocean and the iodine of the kelp on the beach and the icy breath of old snow. It was like opening a door to an older place and time. I glanced at Thick and suddenly saw him complete and whole in this setting, for he gave himself to it. While he sat here and enjoyed the night, he lacked nothing. I felt a smile bend my mouth. “You would have made a good wolf,” I told him.