Pour Into My Cup Quotes

You must be shapeless, formless, like water. When you pour water in a cup, it becomes the cup. When you pour water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle. When you pour water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Water can drip and it can crash. Become like water my friend.

Eating plain toast will detonate her. "I'll have some honey." When the bread is done I scrape on a microscopic layer of it and pour a cup of coffee, black. She pretends not to listen or watch as I crunch through my breakfast. I pretend that I don't notice her pretending.

My coffee cup is empty. Why don't you pour your love in and wake up my soul?

My love is made out of three things: the dawn, the sunrise, and redundancy. I poured you two glasses, which can easily and efficiently be drunk out of one cup.

How much more of the mosque, of prayer and fasting? Better go drunk and begging round the taverns. Khayyam, drink wine, for soon this clay of yours Will make a cup, bowl, one day a jar. When once you hear the roses are in bloom, Then is the time, my love, to pour the wine; Houris and palaces and Heaven and Hell- These are but fairy-tales, forget them all.

May I?” Jayden sat on the edge of the couch and poured me a fresh cup of tea. He placed his hand over the brew. As his eyes swirled a whirlpool of shimmering blues and greens, the liquid iced into a frozen block. He fanned his fingers and spider lines cracked the ice. Seconds later the tea boiled. “You control tea?” Jayden’s satisfied smile faltered. “No. I…I control water. The tea, the actual plant doesn’t change, however—” He caught my look and nodded. “Ohhh. You were being facetious.” “If that means joking, yes I was.

she settled her chin in the crook of my collarbone. Her breath poured into the space like tea into a cup.

He could pour himself into my little paper cup heart and my emptiness would finally have a meaning.

I don’t know what to do today, help me decide. Should I cut myself open and pour my heart on these pages? Or should I sit here and do nothing, nobody’s asking anything of me after all? Should I jump off the cliff that has my heart beating so and develop my wings on the way down? Or should I step back from the edge, and let the others deal with this thing called courage? Should I stare back at the existential abyss that haunts me so and try desperately to grab from it a sense of self? Or should I keep walking half-asleep, only half-looking at it every now and then in times in which I can’t help doing anything but? Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?

The horror that riveted through me, the absolute terror with a taint of nausea, stunned me speechless for three, maybe four seconds. I put the mug down and made a cross with my fingers, screaming, "Death before decaf!" as Garrett poured himself a cup. The fool.

Two old people in a room devoid of furniture, steam rising from their teacups. They were motionless and expressionless. Waiting for something. I wish I could go into their room and sit down with them. I'd give them my Rolex for that. I wish they would smile, and pour me a cup of jasmine tea. I wish the world was like that.

He cups the back of my neck with his hand and holds the other against my face, rubbing my cheek with his thumb. Slowly, he leans down and kisses me. Soft, then deep. I ooze against the house. I can feel his kiss in my whole body, like warm liquid pouring through me—gold, rich, and melting. After about a minute of what can only be described as sheer ecstasy, Corey rests his forehead against mine so we can both catch our breath. Then he takes my head into his hands and looks at me hard, like his heart is breaking. 'I have wanted to do that for so, so long.' I cannot speak. I can only nod yes and hope he knows what I mean. He kisses me more... "... for months and months..." "... when you sprayed me with Dr. Pepper..." "... at the bakery when you were holding that corned beef..." "... and every single time I see you..." I lean against the house and hold on to his wrists so I don't dissolve into a puddle. And I kiss him back. Over and over, I kiss him back.

Then I swim deep inside the river of my soul, find the key from where it is sitting, full of rust, at the bottom of the river, and open the lock. I kneel down beside my bed, close my eyes, turn myself into a cup, and pour the memory out of me.

I don’t have the time to devote to circles or covens. I have to fit things in when and where I can, in stolen moments and cups of coffee. Stirring clockwise to conjure. Widdershins to banish. There’s never enough time, and rarely enough caffeine, but I make do with what I have. Besides, cauldrons and pointy hats are overrated. Sometimes I see other customers practicing. Pouring their cream and sugar with studied intent. Stirring with purpose. I add an extra spoonful of sugar to my own coffee for them, to make all of our enchantments sweeter.

These poems are cups that I pour my love into. Here, Drink!

And as Flora twirled, other girls and women came through the field in all directions. Our heartache poured into one another like water from cup to cup. Each time I told my story, I lost a bit, the smallest drop of pain. It was that day that I knew I wanted to tell the story of my family. Because horror on earth is real and it is every day. It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained.

Write your truth, Ms. Tia say. Your truth. I tear to pieces the paper, ad throw it to the floor. Then I swim deep inside the river of my soul, find the key from where it is sitting full of rust, at the bottom of the river, and open the lock. I kneel down beside my bed, close my eyes, turn myself into a cup, and pour the memory out of me.

These poems are cups that I pour my life into. Here, Drink!

Arise and pour pure wine into my cup, Pour moon beams into the dark night of my thought, That I may lead home the wanderer And imbue the idle looker-on with restless impatience; And advance hotly on a new quest And become known as the champion of a new spirit

THE ROBIN O Robin, sing! for the secret of eternity is in song. I wish I were as you, free from prisons and chains. I wish I were as you; a soul flying over the valleys, Sipping the light as wine is sipped from ethereal cups. I wish I were asyou, innocent, contented and happy Ignoring the future and forgetting the past. I wish I were as you in beauty, grace and elegance With the wind spreading my wings for adornment by the dew. I wish I were as you in beauty, a thought floating above the land Pouring out my songs between the forest and the sky. O Robin, sing! and disperse my anxiety. I listen to the voice within your voice that whispers in my inner ear;

My first morning back, and I’m in such a terrific mood that I start the day off right by blasting Nappy Roots in the kitchen while I scarf down some cereal. The loud strains of “Good Day” draw the others from their bedrooms, and Garrett is the first to appear, clad in boxers and rubbing his eyes. “Morning, Sunshine,” he mumbles. “Please tell me you made some coffee.” I point to the counter. “Go nuts.” He pours himself a cup and plops down on one of the stools. “Did cartoon chipmunks dress you this morning?” he grumbles. “You’re scarily chipper.” “And you’re scarily grumpy. Smile, dude. It’s our favorite day of the year, remember?

Sprawled on the shore of forever We are time travelers Talking to each other across Dusks and dawns of tomorrows Toasting our marshmellows In the bonfires of yesterdays Sipping amnesia we pour into Each others cups to heal Wounds on our feet that keep Changing shapes of our journeys

Here are the sounds of Wear. It rattles stone on stone. It sucks its teeth. It sings. It hisses like the rain. It roars. It laughs. It claps its hands. Sometimes I think it prays. In winter, through the ice, I've seen it moving swift and black as Tune, without a sound. Here are the sights of Wear. It falls in braids. It parts at rocks and tumbles round them white as down or flashes over them in silver quilts. It tosses fallen trees like bits of straw yet spins a single leaf as gentle as a maid. Sometimes it coils for rest in darkling pools and sometimes it leaps its banks and shatters in the air. In autumn, I've seen it breathe a mist so thick and grey you'd never know old Wear was there at all. Each day, for years and years, I've gone and sat in it. Usually at dusk I clamber down and slowly sink myself to where it laps against my breast. Is it too much to say, in winter, that I die? Something of me dies at least. First there's the fiery sting of cold that almost stops my breath, the aching torment in my limbs. I think I may go mad, my wits so outraged that they seek to flee my skull like rats a ship that's going down. I puff. I gasp. Then inch by inch a blessed numbness comes. I have no legs, no arms. My very heart grows still. These floating hands are not my hands. The ancient flesh I wear is rags for all I feel of it. "Praise, Praise!" I croak. Praise God for all that's holy, cold, and dark. Praise him for all we lose, for all the river of the years bears off. Praise him for stillness in the wake of pain. Praise him for emptiness. And as you race to spill into the sea, praise him yourself, old Wear. Praise him for dying and the peace of death. In the little church I built of wood for Mary, I hollowed out a place for him. Perkin brings him by the pail and pours him in. Now that I can hardly walk, I crawl to meet him there. He takes me in his chilly lap to wash me of my sins. Or I kneel down beside him till within his depths I see a star. Sometimes this star is still. Sometimes she dances. She is Mary's star. Within that little pool of Wear she winks at me. I wink at her. The secret that we share I cannot tell in full. But this much I will tell. What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.

Dave hands me the bread. Josh takes some chicken onto his plate. The silence is homicidal. Emily finishes her wine and Dave pours her more. For such a small thing, Emily can really pack it away. “Winnie has worms,” I tell the table, and spread some butter on my bread. “Took her to the vet earlier. I was so worried I was going to have to treat it with some ointment in her butt, but—nope—just a pill.” I take a sip of wine and grin at them. Josh puts his fork down and cups his forehead. But in a few beats they all break into laughter, and Emily looks over at me with my favorite kind of fondness. “She doesn’t really have worms. I was just kidding.” I am nothing if not a decent icebreaker.

I stood, crossed over to my office and poured him a cup, then asked if he liked his coffee like I liked my Death Stars: gigantic, on the Dark Side, and powerful enough to destroy a planet. He laughed softly. “A little cream is fine.” “One coffee high coming up,” I

She smiled as she poured tea into his cup. “I hope you find your rooms comfortable?” “Quite.” He took a too-hasty sip of tea and scalded his tongue. “The view is to your liking?” He had a view of a brick wall. “Indeed.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him over the rim of her teacup. “And the bed. Is it soft and… yielding?” He nearly choked on the bite of cake he’d just taken. “Or do you prefer a firmer bed?” she asked sweetly. “One that refuses to yield too soon?” “I think”—he narrowed his eyes at her—“whatever mattress I have on the bed you gave me is perfect. But tell me, my lady, what sort of mattress do you prefer? All soft goose down or one that’s a bit… harder?” It was very fast, but he saw it: Her gaze flashed down to the juncture of his thighs and then up again. If there hadn’t been anything to see there before, there certainly was now. “Oh, I like a nice stiff mattress,” she purred. “Well warmed and ready for a long ride.

A hundred times every day I remind myself that my inner and outer life depend on the labors of other men, living and dead, and that I must exert myself in order to give in the same measure as I have received. —ALBERT EINSTEIN

He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm. As he spoke, he lifted the kettle from the oil flame and poured steaming water into the cup and a bowl. Ginger and cinnamon wafted toward me. “All of time, every sliced instant of it, is rich with vertices of choices. One becomes accustomed to that, to the point at which sometimes even I have to stop and remind myself that I am making choices, even when I do not seem to be. Every indrawn breath is a choice. But sometimes one is reminded of that forcibly, sometimes I meet a person so laden with possibilities and potential that the mere existence of such a being is a jolt to reality. You are like that, still, to me. The sheer improbability of your existence took my breath away. … Yet here you are, with me still, defying the odds by existing. And by your existence, with every breath you take, you change all time. You are like a wedge driven into dry wood. With every beat of your heart, you are pounded deeper into ‘what might be’ and as you advance, you crack the future open, and expose a hundred, a thousand new possibilities, each branching into another hundred, another thousand.” p. 264 The Fool to Fitz

I’m mesmerized by lipstick prints on coffee cups. By the lines of lips against white pottery. By the color chosen by the woman who sat and sipped and lived life. By the mark she leaves behind. Some people read tea leaves and others can tell your future through the lines on your palm. I think I’d like to read lipstick marks on coffee mugs. To learn how to differentiate yearning from satiation. To know the curve of a deep-rooted joy or the line of bottomless grief. To be able to say, this deep blue red you chose and how firmly you planted your lips, this speaks of love on the horizon. But, darling, you must be sure to stand in your own truth. That barely-there nude that circles the entire rim? You are exploding into lightness and possibilities beyond what you currently know. The way the gloss only shows when the light hits it and the coffee has sloshed all over the saucer? people need to take the time to see you whole but my god, you’re glorious and messy and wonderful and free. The deep purple bruise almost etched in a single spot and most of the cup left unconsumed? Oh love. Let me hold the depth of your ache. It is true. He’s not coming back. I know you already know this, but do you also know this is not the end? Love. This is not the end. I imagine that I can know entire stories by these marks on discarded mugs. Imagine that I know something intimate and true of the woman who left them. That I could take those mugs home one day and an entire novel worth of characters would pour out, just like that.

There was a moment when any hope within me froze solid and I was finally emptied of all energy to fight the cold. And at the very point of that very surrender, when I became convinced that I must bow to a world that would be forever frigid, God cupped the hands of my soul and poured in the warmth of Christmas.

Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.

goddamn. what is this shit? early times, called j-bone. best little old drink they is. drink that and you wont feel a thing the next mornin. or any morning. whoo lord, give it here. hello early, come to your old daddy. here, pour some of it in this cup and let me cut it with coca-cola. can't do it, bud. why not? we done tried it. it eats the bottom out. watch it suttree. don't spill none on your shoes lord honey i know they make that old splo in the bathtub but this here is made in the toilet. he was looking at the bottle, shaking it. bubbles the size of gooseshot veered greasily up through the smoky fuel it held. the last time i drank some of that shit i like to died. i stunk from the inside out. i laid in a tub of hot water all day and climbed out and dried and you could still smell it. i had to burn my clothes. early times, he called. make your liver quiver. (page 26)

One of the terrible tragedies, for me, was the fact that my father passed away before he could witness what I achieved.

As I pour myself a cup from the coffee pot, I have to admit that fatherhood suits me; I already have my kid trained to provide caffeine and donuts. I’m amazing.

And out my cup,
life keeps pouring out, it never stops — Like the autumn leaves;
breath by breath, they're falling off.

I took the stone bowl in both hands and poured out my time onto the ground drowning hapless insects feeding the weeds until the sun stood looking down and stole the stain. Seeing in the vessel’s cup a thousand cracks a thousand cracks I looked back the way I came and saw a trail green with memories lost whoever made this bowl was a fool but the greater he who carried it. Stone

Tea, tea, tea - what? What?' I said. It wasn't what I had meant to say. My idea had been to be a good deal more formal, and so on. Still, it covered the situation. I poured her out a cup. She sipped it and put the cup down with a shudder. 'Do you mean to say, young man,' she said, frostily, ' that you expect me to drink this stuff?' 'Rather! Bucks you up, you know.' 'What do you mean by the expression "Bucks you up"?' 'Well, makes you full of beans, you know. Makes you fizz.' 'I don't understand a word you say. You're English, aren't you?' I admitted it. She didn't say a word. And she did it in a way that made it worse than if she had spoken for hours. Somehow it was brought home to me that she didn't like Englishmen, and that if she had had to meet an Englishman I was the one she'd have chosen last. Conversation languished once more after that. Then I tried again. I was becoming more convinced every moment that you can't make a real lively salon with a couple of people, especially if one of them lets it go a word at a time.

But my story is as much one of perseverance and drive as it is of talent and luck. I willed it to happen. I took my life in my hands, learned from anyone I could, grabbed what opportunity I could, and molded my success step by step. Fear of failure drove me at first, but as I tackled each challenge, my anxiety was replaced by a growing sense of optimism. Once you overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles, other hurdles become less daunting.

I bent down and sang Tihas, tihas, kai tihas, kai tihas, over and over, and found myself falling into the sound of the birthday song about living a hundred years. That sounds absurd, but the rhythm of it was easy and familiar, comforting. I stopped having to think about the words: they filled my mouth and spilled over like water out of a cup. I forgot to remember Jerzy’s mad laughter, and the green vile cloud that had drowned the light inside him. There was only the easy movement of the song, the memory of faces gathered around a table laughing. And then finally the magic flowed, but not the same way as when the Dragon’s spell-lessons dragged it in a rush out of me. Instead it seemed to me the sound of the chanting became a stream made to carry magic along, and I was standing by the water’s edge with a pitcher that never ran dry, pouring a thin silver line into the rushing current.

If you’re going to suffer,” Cookie said, “I’m going to suffer with you. I’m giving up caffeine, too.” I scrutinized the mug in her hand. “What are you drinking now?” “What we’re both going to be drinking for the next eight months. We’re switching to decaf.” The horror that riveted through me, the absolute terror with a taint of nausea, stunned me speechless for three, maybe four seconds. I put the mug down and made a cross with my fingers, screaming, “Death before decaf!” as Garrett poured himself a cup. The fool.

he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying,  k“This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” 20And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying,  k“This cup that is poured out for you is  lthe new  mcovenant in my blood. [3]

She poured me a cup of coffee and I drank it standing by the back door, looking out of the back garden. I felt it scald my tongue but it did not warm me. It was heavy with sugar but it did not taste sweet. I gave a little sigh. There are some days when nothing seems right.

Friends, Grecian Heroes, Ministers of Mars! Grievous, and all unlook’d for, is the blow Which Jove hath dealt me; by his promise led I hop’d to raze the strong-built walls of Troy, And home return in safety; but it seems 130 He falsifies his word, and bids me now Return to Argos, frustrate of my hope, Dishonour’d, and with grievous loss of men. Such now appears th’ o’er-ruling sov’reign will Of Saturn’s son; who oft hath sunk the heads 135 Of many a lofty city in the dust, And yet will sink; for mighty is his hand. ’Tis shame indeed that future days should hear How such a force as ours, so great, so brave, Hath thus been baffled, fighting, as we do, 140 ’Gainst numbers far inferior to our own, And see no end of all our warlike toil. For should we choose, on terms of plighted truce, Trojans and Greeks, to number our array; Of Trojans, all that dwell within the town, 145 And we, by tens disposed, to every ten, To crown our cups, one Trojan should assign, Full many a ten no cup-bearer would find: So far the sons of Greece outnumber all That dwell within the town; but to their aid 150 Bold warriors come from all the cities round, Who greatly harass me, and render vain My hope to storm the strong-built walls of Troy. Already now nine weary years have pass’d; The timbers of our ships are all decay’d, 155 The cordage rotted; in our homes the while Our wives and helpless children sit, in vain Expecting our return; and still the work, For which we hither came, remains undone. Hear then my counsel; let us all agree 160 Home to direct our course, since here in vain We strive to take the well-built walls of Troy.” Thus as he spoke, the crowd, that had not heard The secret council, by his words was mov’d; So sway’d and heav’d the multitude, as when 165 O’er the vast billows of th’ Icarian sea Eurus and Notus from the clouds of Heav’n Pour forth their fury; or as some deep field Of wavy corn, when sweeping o’er the plain The ruffling west wind sways the

To wonder sadly, did I say? No: a new influence began to act upon my life, and sadness, for a certain space, was held at bay. Conceive a dell, deep-hollowed in forest secresy; it lies in dimness and mist: its turf is dank, its herbage pale and humid. A storm or an axe makes a wide gap amongst the oak-trees; the breeze sweeps in; the sun looks down; the sad, cold dell becomes a deep cup of lustre; high summer pours her blue glory and her golden light out of that beauteous sky, which till now the starved hollow never saw. A new creed became mine - a belief in happiness.

Jesus, however, took upon himself all this suffering and lifted it up on the cross, not as a curse but as a blessing. Jesus made the cup of God's wrath into a cup of blessings. That's the mystery of the Eucharist. Jesus died for us so that we may live. He poured out his blood for us so that we may find new life. He gave himself away for us, so that we can live in community. He became for us food and drink so that we can be fed for everlasting life. That is what Jesus meant when he took the cup and said: “This cup is the new covenant in my blood poured out for you” (Luke 22:20).

When she lifted her head to meet his gaze, his eyes were closed, lashes like inky brushstrokes on his cheeks. His palms came up to cup the sides of her neck, and with a shaky sigh, he rested his forehead against hers. “I’ll let you go, Billie.” His words poured against her lips, husky, raw. “I always keep my end of a deal. In exchange, you’ll come to Avalon as a client. Tomorrow. This week. Walk through those doors and send for me. I’ll be whatever you want. I’ll take you up to my room and turn you inside out. I’ll taste and touch and fuck you until you scream. And if you want control, it’s yours. A favor for a favor.” She clung to him to keep from collapsing, torn between tears and wild, wayward laughter. The scenario was unreal. And the only argument she could think of was a frail one, easily shot down. “Azure would never allow—” “It’s as good as done. I’ll put you in the book myself. Maria will call you with the date, and I’ll keep my distance from you until then.” His lips brushed her ear. “Please, Billie. Let’s end this before it kills us both. Say yes.” The truth wrapped itself around her. You’re hopelessly in love with this man, aren’t you, Billie Cort? “Yes,” Billie said, squeezing her eyes closed. “God, yes.

Anything else you want to know? Dental records, fingerprints? Retinal scan?" "Urine sample would work." She rolled her eyes. "What cup you want me to use?" He was intrigued by her comebacks and the fact that she didn't appear angry over his questioning and word choice. "Does anything faze you?" "I fight people for a living. Do you honestly think peeing in a cup is going to frighten me?" She had a point… providing she wasn't lying about her occupation. Without a word, Aidan pulled a glass out of his cabinet and handed it to her. Her jaw dropped. "You've got to be kidding me? You really want a urine sample?" He actually smiled at her question. "Not hardly, but I thought you might be thirsty. The drinks are in the fridge." For once he saw relief in her gaze before she went and poured herself a glass of milk. "Thanks for showing some mercy." "Yeah," he said bitterly. "Just remember to return the favor." "Is that supposed to mean something?" He shrugged. "Just in my experience, all people do is take. None of them give a damn about helping someone else." "And sometimes people can surprise you." "Yeah. You're right. I'm constantly amazed by the unprovoked treachery they're capable of." She shook her head. "Wow, you arejaded.(Leta & Aidan)

Terence, this is stupid stuff: You eat your victuals fast enough; There can’t be much amiss, ’tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head: We poor lads, ’tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship ’tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.’ Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, There’s brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man. Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think: Look into the pewter pot To see the world as the world’s not. And faith, ’tis pleasant till ’tis past: The mischief is that ’twill not last. Oh I have been to Ludlow fair And left my necktie God knows where, And carried half way home, or near, Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer: Then the world seemed none so bad, And I myself a sterling lad; And down in lovely muck I’ve lain, Happy till I woke again. Then I saw the morning sky: Heigho, the tale was all a lie; The world, it was the old world yet, I was I, my things were wet, And nothing now remained to do But begin the game anew. Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck’s a chance, but trouble’s sure, I’d face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good. ’Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale Is not so brisk a brew as ale: Out of a stem that scored the hand I wrung it in a weary land. But take it: if the smack is sour, The better for the embittered hour; It should do good to heart and head When your soul is in my soul’s stead; And I will friend you, if I may, In the dark and cloudy day. There was a king reigned in the East: There, when kings will sit to feast, They get their fill before they think With poisoned meat and poisoned drink. He gathered all that springs to birth From the many-venomed earth; First a little, thence to more, He sampled all her killing store; And easy, smiling, seasoned sound, Sate the king when healths went round. They put arsenic in his meat And stared aghast to watch him eat; They poured strychnine in his cup And shook to see him drink it up: They shook, they stared as white’s their shirt: Them it was their poison hurt. —I tell the tale that I heard told. Mithridates, he died old.

Disheveled hair, sweaty, smiling, drunken, and With a torn shirt, singing, the jug in hand Narcissus loudly laments, on his lips, alas, alas! Last night at midnight, came and sat right by my bed-stand Brought his head next to my ears, with a sad song Said, O my old lover, you are still in dreamland The lover who drinks this nocturnal brew Infidel, if not worships the wine's command Go away O hermit, fault not the drunk Our Divine gift from the day that God made sea and land Whatever He poured for us in our cup, we just drank If it was a cheap wine or heavenly brand The smile on the cup's face and Beloved's hair strand Break many who may repent, just as Hafiz falsely planned

Is that coffee?” Hunt busied himself with pouring three cups, passing one to Quinlan first. “A drop of coffee in a cup of milk, just as you like it.” “Asshole.” She swiped the mug. “I don’t know how you drink it straight.” “Because I’m a grown-up.” Hunt passed the second mug to Ithan, whose large hands engulfed the white ceramic cup that said I Survived Class of 15032 Senior Week and All I Got Was This Stupid Mug! Ithan peered at it, his mouth twitching. “I remember this mug.” Hunt fell silent as Bryce let out a breathy laugh. “I’m surprised you do, given how drunk you were. Even though you were a sweet baby frosh.” Ithan chuckled, a hint of the handsome, cocky male Hunt had heard about. “You and Danika had me doing keg stands at ten in the morning. How was I supposed to stay sober?” The wolf sipped from his coffee. “My last memory from that day is of you and Danika passed out drunk on a couch you’d moved right into the middle of the quad.” “And why was that your last memory?” Bryce asked sweetly. “Because I was passed out next to you,” Ithan said, grinning now.

I am sitting here in my room at twilight. The window is open and the frogs are singing of something that happened very long ago. All along the middle garden walk the Gay Folk holding up great fluted cups of ruby and gold and pearl. It is not raining now, but it rained all day-a rain scented with lilacs. I like all kinds of weather and I like rainy days-soft, misty, rainy days when the Wind Woman just shakes the tops of the spruces gently; and wild, tempestuous, streaming rainy days. I like being shut in by the rain-I like to hear it thudding on the roof, and beating on the panes and pouring off the eaves, while the Wind Woman skirls like a mad old witch in the woods, and through the garden. Still, if it rains when I want to go anywhere I growl just as much as anybody! An evening like this always makes me think of that spring Father died, three years ago, and that dear little, old house down at Maywood.

The nymphs in green? Delightful girls.’ ‘It is clear you have been a great while at sea, to call those sandy-haired coarse-featured pimply short-necked thick-fingered vulgar-minded lubricious blockheads by such a name. Nymphs, forsooth. If they were nymphs, they must have had their being in a tolerably rank and stagnant pool: the wench on my left had an ill breath, and turning for relief I found her sister had a worse; and the upper garment of neither was free from reproach. Worse lay below, I make no doubt. “La, sister,” cries the one to the other, breathing across me – vile teeth; and “La, sister,” cries the other. I have no notion of two sisters wearing the same clothes, the same flaunting meretricious gawds, the same tortured Gorgon curls low over their brutish criminal foreheads; it bespeaks a superfetation of vulgarity, both innate and studiously acquired. And when I think that their teeming loins will people the East . . . Pray pour me out another cup of coffee. Confident brutes.

She had just given Liger his food when a tap sounded on the connecting door. Priss’s heart leaped into her throat. With excitement. Not dread, or annoyance, or even indifference. Pure, sizzling stimulation. Suddenly she was wide-awake. Tamping down her automatic smile, Priss leaned on the door. “Yeah?” “Open up.” Still fighting that twitching grin, Priss tried to sound disgruntled as she asked, “Why?” Something hit the door—maybe his head—and Trace said, “I heard you up and moving around, Priss. I have coffee ready, but if you don’t want any—” Being a true caffeine junkie, she jerked open the door. “Oh, bless you, man.” She took the cup straight out of Trace’s hand, drank deeply and sighed as the warmth penetrated the thick fog of novel sentiment. “Ahhhh. Nirvana. Thank you.” Only after the caffeine ingestion did she notice that Trace wore unsnapped jeans and nothing else. Her eyes flared wide and her jaw felt loose. Holy moly. “That was my cup,” Trace told her, bemused. But Priss could only stare at him. Despite the delicious coffee she’d just poured in it, her mouth went dry. When she continued to stare at him, at his chest and abdomen, her gaze tracking a silky line of brown hair that disappeared into his jeans, Trace crossed his arms. Her gaze jumped to his face and she found him watching her with equal fascination. A little lost as to the reason for that look, Priss asked with some belligerence, “What?” With a cryptic smile, Trace shook his head. “Never mind. Help yourself, and I’ll get another.” Oh, crap, she’d snatched away his cup! “Sorry.” He lifted a hand in dismissal and went to the coffee machine sitting atop the dresser. His jeans rode low on his hips. The sun had darkened his skin, creating a sharp contrast to his fair hair. Another drink was in order, and another sigh of bliss. Hoping to regain her wits, Priss said, “God, nothing in the world tastes better than that first drink of coffee.” Trace looked over his shoulder, his attention zeroing in on her mouth, then her chest and finally down to her bare legs. “Oh, I don’t know about that.

With a raw ache in his voice he said, “If you would take one step forward, darling, you could cry in my arms. And while you do, I’ll tell you how sorry I am for everything I’ve done-“ Unable to wait, Ian caught her, pulling her tightly against him. “And when I’m finished,” he whispered hoarsely as she wrapped her arms around him and wept brokenly, “you can help me find a way to forgive myself.” Tortured by her tears, he clasped her tighter and rubbed his jaw against her temple, his voice a ravaged whisper: “I’m sorry,” he told her. He cupped her face between his palms, tipping it up and gazing into her eyes, his thumbs moving over her wet cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Slowly, he bent his head, covering her mouth with his. “I’m so damned sorry.” She kissed him back, holding him fiercely to her while shattered sobs racked her slender body and tears poured from her eyes. Tormented by her anguish, Ian dragged his mouth from hers, kissing her wet cheeks, running his hands over her shaking back and shoulders, trying to comfort her. “Please darling, don’t cry anymore,” he pleaded hoarsely. “Please don’t.” She held him tighter, weeping, her cheek pressed to his chest, her tears soaking his heavy woolen shirt and tearing at his heart. “Don’t,” Ian whispered, his voice raw with his own unshed tears. “You’re tearing me apart.” An instant after he said those words, he realized that she’d stop crying to keep from hurting him, and he felt her shudder, trying valiantly to get control. He cupped the back of her head, crumpling the silk of her hair, holding her face pressed to his chest, imagining the nights he’d made her weep like this, despising himself with a virulence that was almost past bearing. He’d driven her here, to hide from the vengeance of his divorce petition, and still she had been waiting for him. In all the endless weeks since she’d confronted him in his study and warned him she wouldn’t let him put her out of his life, Ian had never imagined that she would be hurting like this. She was twenty years old and she had loved him. In return, he had tried to divorce her, publicly scorned her, privately humiliated her, and then he had driven her here to weep in solitude and wait for him. Self-loathing and shame poured through him like hot acid, almost doubling him over. Humbly, he whispered, “Will you come upstairs with me?” She nodded, her cheek rubbing his chest, and he swung her into his arms, cradling her tenderly against him, brushing his lips against her forehead. He carried her upstairs, intending to take her to bed and give her so much pleasure that-at least for tonight-she’d be able to forget the misery he’d caused her.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’t like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.” We’d gotten off on the subject of writers―from T.H. White and Tolkien to Edgar Allan Poe, another favorite. “My dad says Poe’s a second-rate writer,” I said. “That he’s the Vincent Price of American Letters. But I don’t think that’s fair.” “No, it isn’t,” said Hobie, seriously pouring himself a cup of tea. “Even if you don’ like Poe―he invented the detective story. And science fiction. In essence, he invented a huge part of the twentieth century. I mean―honestly, I don’t care as much for him as I did as when I was a boy, but even if you don’t like him you can’t dismiss him as a crank.

I had tracked down a little cafe in the next village, with a television set that was going to show the World Cup Final on the Saturday. I arrived there mid-morning when it was still deserted, had a couple of beers, ordered a sensational conejo au Franco, and then sat, drinking coffee, and watching the room fill up. With Germans. I was expecting plenty of locals and a sprinkling of tourists, even in an obscure little outpost like this, but not half the population of Dortmund. In fact, I came to the slow realisation as they poured in and sat around me . . . that I was the only Englishman there. They were very friendly, but there were many of them, and all my exits were cut off. What strategy could I employ? It was too late to pretend that I was German. I’d greeted the early arrivals with ‘Guten Tag! Ich liebe Deutschland’, but within a few seconds found myself conversing in English, in which they were all fluent. Perhaps, I hoped, they would think that I was an English-speaker but not actually English. A Rhodesian, possibly, or a Canadian, there just out of curiosity, to try to pick up the rules of this so-called ‘Beautiful Game’. But I knew that I lacked the self-control to fake an attitude of benevolent detachment while watching what was arguably the most important event since the Crucifixion, so I plumped for the role of the ultra-sporting, frightfully decent Upper-Class Twit, and consequently found myself shouting ‘Oh, well played, Germany!’ when Helmut Haller opened the scoring in the twelfth minute, and managing to restrain myself, when Geoff Hurst equalised, to ‘Good show! Bit lucky though!’ My fixed grin and easy manner did not betray the writhing contortions of my hands and legs beneath the table, however, and when Martin Peters put us ahead twelve minutes from the end, I clapped a little too violently; I tried to compensate with ‘Come on Germany! Give us a game!’ but that seemed to strike the wrong note. The most testing moment, though, came in the last minute of normal time when Uwe Seeler fouled Jackie Charlton, and the pig-dog dolt of a Swiss referee, finally revealing his Nazi credentials, had the gall to penalise England, and then ignored Schnellinger’s blatant handball, allowing a Prussian swine named Weber to draw the game. I sat there applauding warmly, as a horde of fat, arrogant, sausage-eating Krauts capered around me, spilling beer and celebrating their racial superiority.

Don't Be Afraid by Author C.A. Harms Here's a #SneakPeek! “I’m just scared.” “Of what?” Willow moved around the counter and stepped up to my side. “Forgetting him.” My vision blurred with tears. “Sometimes I wake up and I can still see him so clearly. I can imagine the way his eyes wrinkled when he grinned. Or I can hear his laughter when I’d go on one of my rambles and he was unable to hold it back.” My heart ached with each confession. “When I walk into a room, I swear I can sometimes still smell him, like he’s there waiting for me. I’ve even looked around like I’d actually find him watching television or pouring a cup of coffee.

Do me a favor, Ro,” Day said calmly. “What’s that?” Ronowski peeked around Johnson again. “Johnson won’t be with you all the time. Remind me to kick your ass later,” Day said. Ronowski came to stand in front of Day, looked at his watch and smirked. “Sure, what time works for you?” Day looked at his watch too. “Uhhh, let’s see. How’s five thirty, is that good?” “I just remembered I’m busy at five thirty.” “So what time can you be there?” “I can do five thirty-five.” “Damn, that’s cutting it close. I might be a little late, but wait on my ass whippin’.” “Will you dumb asses shut up? Lord help us…they’ve bonded.” The captain tried to suppress his laugh. “God, how the hell do you put up with Day’s mouth?” “I got something that’ll make him shut him up,” God said in a deep voice. Everyone groaned and scrunched their faces up in disgust. “We don’t want to hear that shit, God. Ugh,” the captain said while pouring his cup of coffee. God looked at Day and saw he wasn’t the slightest bit fazed and if he knew his lover—which he most certainly did—Day would not let him get the last word. “It’s all a mind game that I play with God. He thinks he’s shutting me up…but when he’s finished with my mouth…I start talking again.” Day winked. “I’m leaving. I should write your asses up for inappropriate conduct in front of a superior.” The captain hauled ass out of the room. Johnson and Ronowski were shaking their heads too and telling Day “he sure knew how to clear a room.” “I got to get back across town,” Johnson said and bent down and whispered something in Ronowski’s ear that made the man turn red. God tried to pull Day away but he refused to budge. When Johnson said good-bye to them and left out the room, Day mock whispered to Ronowski. “I told you. One good pounding is all you—” “For fucks sake, Leo,” Ronowski groaned, grabbing his soda hightailing it out of there before Day could finish his sentence.

She brought the tea into the living room on a lacquered tray. The pot and cups were Japanese with unglazed rims. She poured. "Thanks," I said. "Well?" "Huh?" "Your family," she reminded. I sipped the tea. "This is really good. Really delicious." She raised her eyebrows. "That's what I thought. You're a good listener, Davy, and you can change the subject on a dime. You've hardly talked about yourself at all." "I talk... too much." "You talk about books, you talk about plays, you talk about movies, you talk about places, you talk about food, you talk about current events. You don't talk about yourself." I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I hadn't really thought about it. Sure, I didn't talk  about the jumping, but the rest? "Well, there's not much to say. Not like those stories of growing up with four brothers." She smiled. "It's not going to work. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I'm not going to be distracted again, nor fooled into talking about those idiots again." She poured more tea into my cup. I frowned. "Do I really do that?" "What? Not talk about yourself? Yes." "No, try and distract you." She stared at me. "You are fucking amazing. I've never seen someone so good at changing the subject." "I don't do it on purpose." She laughed. 

That girl—do you like her?” Achilles turned to face me from across the room. “Why? Do you?” “No, no.” I flushed. “That is not what I meant.” I had not felt so uncertain with him since the earliest days. “I mean, do you want—” He ran at me, pushed me backwards onto my cot. Leaned over me. “I’m sick of talking about her,” he said. The heat rose up my neck, wrapped fingers over my face. His hair fell around me, and I could smell nothing but him. The grain of his lips seemed to rest a hairsbreadth from mine. Then, just like that morning, he was gone. Up across the room, and pouring a last cup of water. His face was still, and calm. “Good night,” he said.

Has he invited you to dinner, dear? Gifts, flowers, the usual?” I had to put my cup down, because my hand was shaking too much. When I stopped laughing, I said, “Curran? He isn’t exactly Mr. Smooth. He handed me a bowl of soup, that’s as far as we got.” “He fed you?” Raphael stopped rubbing Andrea. “How did this happen?” Aunt B stared at me. “Be very specific, this is important.” “He didn’t actually feed me. I was injured and he handed me a bowl of chicken soup. Actually I think he handed me two or three. And he called me an idiot.” “Did you accept?” Aunt B asked. “Yes, I was starving. Why are the three of you looking at me like that?” “For crying out loud.” Andrea set her cup down, spilling some tea. “The Beast Lord’s feeding you soup. Think about that for a second.” Raphael coughed. Aunt B leaned forward. “Was there anybody else in the room?” “No. He chased everyone out.” Raphael nodded. “At least he hasn’t gone public yet.” “He might never,” Andrea said. “It would jeopardize her position with the Order.” Aunt B’s face was grave. “It doesn’t go past this room. You hear me, Raphael? No gossip, no pillow talk, not a word. We don’t want any trouble with Curran.” “If you don’t explain it all to me, I will strangle somebody.” Of course, Raphael might like that . . . “Food has a special significance,” Aunt D said. I nodded. “Food indicates hierarchy. Nobody eats before the alpha, unless permission is given, and no alpha eats in Curran’s presence until Curran takes a bite.” “There is more,” Aunt B said. “Animals express love through food. When a cat loves you, he’ll leave dead mice on your porch, because you’re a lousy hunter and he wants to take care of you. When a shapeshifter boy likes a girl, he’ll bring her food and if she likes him back, she might make him lunch. When Curran wants to show interest in a woman, he buys her dinner.” “In public,” Raphael added, “the shapeshifter fathers always put the first bite on the plates of their wives and children. It signals that if someone wants to challenge the wife or the child, they would have to challenge the male first.” “If you put all of Curran’s girls together, you could have a parade,” Aunt B said. “But I’ve never seen him physically put food into a woman’s hands. He’s a very private man, so he might have done it in an intimate moment, but I would’ve found out eventually. Something like that doesn’t stay hidden in the Keep. Do you understand now? That’s a sign of a very serious interest, dear.” “But I didn’t know what it meant!” Aunt B frowned. “Doesn’t matter. You need to be very careful right now. When Curran wants something, he doesn’t become distracted. He goes after it and he doesn’t stop until he obtains his goal no matter what it takes. That tenacity is what makes him an alpha.” “You’re scaring me.” “Scared might be too strong a word, but in your place, I would definitely be concerned.” I wished I were back home, where I could get to my bottle of sangria. This clearly counted as a dire emergency. As if reading my thoughts, Aunt B rose, took a small bottle from a cabinet, and poured me a shot. I took it, and drained it in one gulp, letting tequila slide down my throat like liquid fire. “Feel better?” “It helped.” Curran had driven me to drinking. At least I wasn’t contemplating suicide.

Prepare a crust of crushed graham crackers mixed with four pats of margarine stolen from the dining hall. Bake it in a Tupperware bowl for about a minute in the microwave, and allow it to cool and harden. Take one full round of Laughing Cow cheese, smash with a fork, and mix with a cup of vanilla pudding until smooth. Gradually mix in one whole container of Cremora, even though it seems gross. Beat viciously until smooth. Add lemon juice from the squeeze bottle until the mixture starts to stiffen. Note: this will use most of the plastic lemon. Pour into the bowl atop the crust, and put on ice in your bunkie’s cleaning bucket to chill until ready to eat.

Intimacy The woman in the cafe making my cappuccino — dark eyes, dyed red hair, sleeveless black turtleneck — used to be lovers with the man I’m seeing now. She doesn’t know me; we’re strangers, but still I can’t glance at her casually, as I used to, before I knew. She stands at the machine, sinking the nozzle into a froth of milk, staring at nothing — I don’t know what she’s thinking. For all I know she might be remembering my lover, remembering whatever happened between them — he’s never told me, except to say that it wasn’t important, and then he changed the subject quickly, too quickly now that I think about it; might he, after all, have been lying, didn’t an expression of pain cross his face for just and instant? I can’t be sure. And really it was nothing, I tell myself; there’s no reason for me to feel awkward standing here, or complicitous, as though there’s something significant between us. She could be thinking of anything; why, now, do I have the sudden suspicion that she knows, that she feels me studying her, trying to imagine them together?— her lipstick’s dark red, darker than her hair — trying to see him kissing her, turning her over in bed the way he likes to have me. I wonder if maybe there were things about her he preferred, things he misses now that we’re together; sometimes, when he and I are making love, there are moments I’m overwhelmed by sadness, and though I’m there with him I can’t help thinking of my ex-husband’s hands, which I especially loved, and I want to go back to that old intimacy, which often felt like the purest happiness I’d ever known, or would. But all that’s over; and besides, weren’t there other lovers who left no trace? When I see them now, I can barely remember what they looked like undressed, or how it felt to have them inside me. So what is it I feel as she pours the black espresso into the milk, and pushes the cup toward me, and I give her the money, and our eyes meet for just a second, and our fingers touch?

he took the cup from my hand, Adèle, thinking the moment propitious for making a request in my favour, cried out— “N’est-ce pas, monsieur, qu’il y a un cadeau pour Mademoiselle Eyre dans votre petit coffre?” “Who talks of cadeaux?” said he gruffly. “Did you expect a present, Miss Eyre? Are you fond of presents?” and he searched my face with eyes that I saw were dark, irate, and piercing. “I hardly know, sir; I have little experience of them: they are generally thought pleasant things.” “Generally thought? But what do you think?” “I should be obliged to take time, sir, before I could give you an answer worthy of your acceptance: a present has many faces to it, has it not? and one should consider all, before pronouncing an opinion as to its nature.

I came to see that survival here was all about hope, the most important fuel to our brain-damaged engines. Without it, getting—or being taken—out of bed for another identical day of confusion and failure might have been futile, for both the patients and their relatives. If you woke up with the hope that today was the day you were going to pour yourself a cup of tea, or make a conscious decision to get to the breakfast room and eat cereal with your new friends, then you were on the road to some form of recovery, even if you were never going to be able to make yourself tea again or get yourself down to breakfast. But hope was also the heaviest burden and one that many patients couldn’t carry for themselves. My doctor told me that she often made a contract with her patients to carry it for them, to keep it alive.

From a distance, my mother looked almost like she belonged with the other mothers on the beach, wiping noses, passing out sandwiches, pouring lemonade into Dixie cups. Like the Polish refugee I’d turned her into, my mother had always been a kind of outsider, but that week, she looked happy, and I saw what she might have been had her life taken a different direction. The reason my mother was so happy that week, the reason she’d agreed to go to Leon and Fanny’s in the first place, I found out later, was because she was planning on leaving my father when we got home. But right after we returned, she learned she had cancer and “What was the point?” She told me this later, much later, in her hospital room, while Abe was downstairs feeding the meter, when she was dying and telling me things, things I didn’t want to know.

GERMAN APPLE PANCAKE ••• 2 tart cooking apples (Granny Smiths are good) 1 lemon ½ stick (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter ¼ cup brown sugar ½ teaspoon cinnamon Small grating of nutmeg 3 eggs ¾ cup flour Pinch of salt 1 tablespoon sugar 1 cup milk Sugar for sprinkling Rum or cognac (optional) Peel the apples, core them, and slice them thinly. Shower them with about 2 tablespoons of lemon juice. Melt half the butter (2 tablespoons) in a medium skillet, and stir in the brown sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Add the apple slices and cook over medium-high heat for about 8 minutes, until they’ve become quite darkly caramelized and smell impossibly delicious. Remove them from the heat. Meanwhile, beat the eggs. Gently whisk in the flour, salt, and sugar. Add the milk. The batter should be thin. Melt a couple of teaspoons of butter in an 8-inch skillet, and when it’s hot, pour in a third of a cup of batter, tilting the pan so that it covers the entire surface, making a thin crepe. Cook just until set, about 2 minutes. Evenly distribute a third of the apples over the crepe, pour another third of a cup of batter over the apples, then turn the pancake (this is easiest if you have two pancake turners) and allow the bottom to brown. Turn out onto a large plate, sprinkle generously with sugar, and roll the pancake up like a jelly roll. Sprinkle with a bit more sugar and, if you like, a splash of lemon juice. Repeat this until you have three plump rolled pancakes. If you want to flame your creations, lightly warm a few tablespoons of rum or cognac for each pancake in a pan, add the pancakes, spoon the liquor over the top, and set the pancakes on fire. Serves 6

I didn’t answer, occupied in dissolving the penicillin tablets in the vial of sterile water. I selected a glass barrel, fitted a needle, and pressed the tip through the rubber covering the mouth of the bottle. Holding it up to the light, I pulled back slowly on the plunger, watching the thick white liquid fill the barrel, checking for bubbles. Then pulling the needle free, I depressed the plunger slightly until a drop of liquid pearled from the point and rolled slowly down the length of the spike. “Roll onto your good side,” I said, turning to Jamie, “and pull up your shirt.” He eyed the needle in my hand with keen suspicion, but reluctantly obeyed. I surveyed the terrain with approval. “Your bottom hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years,” I remarked, admiring the muscular curves. “Neither has yours,” he replied courteously, “but I’m no insisting you expose it. Are ye suffering a sudden attack of lustfulness?” “Not just at present,” I said evenly, swabbing a patch of skin with a cloth soaked in brandy. “That’s a verra nice make of brandy,” he said, peering back over his shoulder, “but I’m more accustomed to apply it at the other end.” “It’s also the best source of alcohol available. Hold still now, and relax.” I jabbed deftly and pressed the plunger slowly in. “Ouch!” Jamie rubbed his posterior resentfully. “It’ll stop stinging in a minute.” I poured an inch of brandy into the cup. “Now you can have a bit to drink—a very little bit.” He drained the cup without comment, watching me roll up the collection of syringes. Finally he said, “I thought ye stuck pins in ill-wish dolls when ye meant to witch someone; not in the people themselves.” “It’s not a pin, it’s a hypodermic syringe.” “I dinna care what ye call it; it felt like a bloody horseshoe nail. Would ye care to tell me why jabbing pins in my arse is going to help my arm?” I took a deep breath. “Well, do you remember my once telling you about germs?” He looked quite blank. “Little beasts too small to see,” I elaborated. “They can get into your body through bad food or water, or through open wounds, and if they do, they can make you ill.” He stared at his arm with interest. “I’ve germs in my arm, have I?” “You very definitely have.” I tapped a finger on the small flat box. “The medicine I just shot into your backside kills germs, though. You get another shot every four hours ’til this time tomorrow, and then we’ll see how you’re doing.” I paused. Jamie was staring at me, shaking his head. “Do you understand?” I asked. He nodded slowly. “Aye, I do. I should ha’ let them burn ye, twenty years ago.

Temperance Dews stood with quiet confidence, a respectable women who lived in the sewer that was St. Giles. Her eyes had widened at the sight of Lazarus, but she made no move to flee. Indeed, finding a strange man in her pathetic sitting room seemed not to frighten her at all. Interesting. “I am Lazarus Huntington, Lord Caire,” he said. “I know. What are you doing here?” He tilted his head, studying her. She knew him, yet did not recoil in horror? Yes, she’d do quite well. “I’ve come to make a proposition to you, Mrs. Dews.” Still no sign of fear, though she eyed the doorway. “You’ve chosen the wrong woman, my lord. The night is late. Please leave my house.” No fear and no deference to his rank. An interesting woman indeed. “My proposition is not, er, illicit in nature,” he drawled. “In fact, it’s quite respectable. Or nearly so.” She sighed, looked down at her tray, and then back up at him. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He almost smiled. Tea? When had he last been offered something so very prosaic by a woman? He couldn’t remember. But he replied gravely enough. “Thank you, no.” She nodded. “Then if you don’t mind?” He waved a hand to indicate permission. She set the tea tray on the wretched little table and sat on the padded footstool to pour herself a cup. He watched her. She was a monochromatic study. Her dress, bodice, hose, and shoes were all flat black. A fichu tucked in at her severe neckline, an apron, and cap—no lace or ruffles—were all white. No color marred her aspect, making the lush red of her full lips all the more startling. She wore the clothes of a nun, yet had the mouth of a sybarite. The contrast was fascinating—and arousing. “You’re a Puritan?” he asked. Her beautiful mouth compressed. “No.

Keeping a new church outwardly focused from the beginning is much easier than trying to refocus an inwardly concerned church. In order to plant a successful church, you have to know that you know that you are undeniably called by God. The call to start a new church plant is not the same as the call to serve in an existing church or work in a ministry-related organization. You may be the greatest preacher this side of Billy Graham but still not be called to start a church. If you think you may have allowed an improper reason, voice or emotion to lead you to the idea of starting a new church, back away now. Spend some more time with God. You don’t want to move forward on a hunch or because you feel “pretty sure” that you should be planting a church. You have to be completely certain. “You’re afraid? So what. Everybody’s afraid. Fear is the common ground of humanity. The question you must wrestle to the ground is, ‘Will I allow my fear to bind me to mediocrity?’” When you think of a people group that you might be called to reach, does your heart break for them? If so, you may want to consider whether God is specifically calling you to reach that group for His kingdom. Is your calling clear? Has your calling been confirmed by others? Are you humbled by the call? Have you acted on your call? Do you know for certain that God has called you to start a new church? Nail it down. When exactly were you called? What were the circumstances surrounding your call? How did it match up with the sources of proper calling? Do you recognize the four specific calls in your calling? How? How does your call measure up to biblical characteristics? What is the emerging vision that God is giving you with this call? As your dependence on God grows, so will your church. One of the most common mistakes that enthusiastic and well-meaning church starters make is to move to a new location and start trying to reach people without thinking through even a short-term strategy. Don’t begin until you count the cost. why would you even consider starting a church (the only institution Jesus left behind and the only one that will last forever) without first developing a God-infused, specific, winning strategy? There are two types of pain: the pain of front-end discipline and the pain of back-end regret. With the question of strategy development, you get to choose which pain you’d rather live with. Basically, a purpose, mission and vision statement provides guiding principles that describe what God has called you to do (mission), how you will do it (purpose) and what it will look like when you get it done (vision). Keep your statement simple. Be as precise as possible. Core values are the filter through which you fulfill your strategy. These are important, because your entire strategy will be created and implemented in such a way as to bring your core values to life. Your strategic aim will serve as the beacon that guides the rest of your strategy. It is the initial purpose for which you are writing your strategy. He will not send more people to you than you are ready to receive. So what can you do? The same thing Dr. Graham does. Prepare in a way that enables God to open the floodgates into your church. If you are truly ready, He will send people your way. If you do the work we’ve described in this chapter, you’ll be able to build your new church on a strong base of God-breathed preparation. You’ll know where you are, where you’re going and how you are going to get there. You’ll be standing in the rain with a huge bucket, ready to take in the deluge. However, if you don’t think through your strategy, write it down and then implement it, you’ll be like the man who stands in the rainstorm with a Dixie cup. You’ll be completely unprepared to capture what God is pouring out. The choice is yours!

Pizzoccheri — SERVES 4 TO 6 — 1 medium Savoy cabbage A big, sexy slab of Valtellina cheese, or something similar, like fontina 3 large yellow potatoes A fuck of a lot of butter 4 large garlic cloves 1 pound pizzoccheri Extra-virgin olive oil 2 handfuls grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, or Bitto (if available and you can afford it) Salt Remove and discard any tough outer leaves from the cabbage and roughly chop it into long pieces. Thinly cut about 15 pieces of Valtellina cheese and also grate about 3 cups. Set aside. Preheat the oven to 325°F. Peel and dice the potatoes and boil until cooked but still firm, about 15 minutes or so. Halfway through boiling, add the cabbage to the potatoes. When the potatoes and cabbage are cooked, drain them and set them aside. In a large, deep frying pan over low heat, melt the fuckload of butter. Gently crush (if that’s even possible) the garlic cloves, place them in the pan, and cook until they soften and the butter has melted but not turned brown. Boil the pizzoccheri until al dente and drain, reserving about 2 cups of the water. Return the pizzoccheri to the pot and drizzle them with a little olive oil or some butter so they don’t stick together. Pour a little of the garlic butter into a baking dish and begin to layer the ingredients, starting with the pizzoccheri, then the cabbage, then the potatoes, then both cheeses, drizzling more garlic butter over the whole mixture after each layer, adding a bit of the reserved pasta water to ensure it doesn’t get too thick but making sure it doesn’t get too watery. You may need only a cup. Top the final layer with a drizzle of olive oil and more grated cheese. Cover with foil and bake for about 15 minutes or so. Remove the foil and return to the oven until the top has a slight crisp. Salt to taste. Serve it and eat it and drink a lot of wine with it and think about how much you deserve it after you burned off so many

The traumatic aspect of drinking ayahuasca is that in order to heal yourself, you must first confront the wound; by forcing you to deal with your own inner garbage, ayahuasca shows you things about yourself that you might not want to see. I wish that a whole country could drink ayahuasca—not merely every individual citizen of a country, but the country itself, the spirit of the country. I wish that a flag could drink ayahuasca, that we could just fold the Stars and Stripes into the shape of a cup, pour in the tea, and transport Uncle Sam into another dimension. He’d have to fight his way out of some nightmares, but he’d be cleansed. What would he find? William S. Burroughs wrote that when you drink ayahuasca, “The blood and substance of many races, Negro, Polynesian, Mountain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near East, Indian—new races as yet unconceived and unborn, combinations not yet realized—pass through your body.” When Burroughs drank, he actually saw himself transformed into both a black man and a black woman. What if some freedom-hating narcoterrorists snuck into the Fox News studios and put ayahuasca in Sean Hannity’s coffee, just before he went live? What would be the day’s fair and balanced news for America? If America drank ayahuasca and then withdrew into the filthy pit of its own heart, confronting all its fears and hate and finally purging itself of that negative energy, maybe America would come out Muslim: sucked through a black hole by the Black Mind, young Latter-Day Saint crackers with smooth cheeks, short-sleeved white shirts, and name tags confront nightmarish visions of getting swallowed whole by giant grotesque “Jolly Nigger” coin banks and then find themselves vomited back up as Nubian Islamic Hebrews in turbans and robes selling incense on the subways. The “God Hates Fags” pastor, eyes wild with a new passion for Allah, boards a helicopter to drop thousands of Qur’ans upon the small towns below. I want to see ayahuasca’s vine goddess clean out America’s poison. But what would happen if a religion could drink the vine? What if I poured ayahuasca into my Qur’an?

He carefully poured the juice into a bowl and rinsed the scallops to remove any sand caught between the tender white meat and the firmer coral-colored roe, wrapped around it like a socialite's fur stole. Mayur is the kind of cook (my kind), who thinks the chef should always have a drink in hand. He was making the scallops with champagne custard, so naturally the rest of the bottle would have to disappear before dinner. He poured a cup of champagne into a small pot and set it to reduce on the stove. Then he put a sugar cube in the bottom of a wide champagne coupe (Lalique, service for sixteen, direct from the attic on my mother's last visit). After a bit of a search, he found the crème de violette in one of his shopping bags and poured in just a dash. He topped it up with champagne and gave it a swift stir. "To dinner in Paris," he said, glass aloft. 'To the chef," I answered, dodging swiftly out of the way as he poured the reduced champagne over some egg yolks and began whisking like his life depended on it. "Do you have fish stock?" "Nope." "Chicken?" "Just cubes. Are you sure that will work?" "Sure. This is the Mr. Potato Head School of Cooking," he said. "Interchangeable parts. If you don't have something, think of what that ingredient does, and attach another one." I counted, in addition to the champagne, three other bottles of alcohol open in the kitchen. The boar, rubbed lovingly with a paste of cider vinegar, garlic, thyme, and rosemary, was marinating in olive oil and red wine. It was then to be seared, deglazed with hard cider, roasted with whole apples, and finished with Calvados and a bit of cream. Mayur had his nose in a small glass of the apple liqueur, inhaling like a fugitive breathing the air of the open road. As soon as we were all assembled at the table, Mayur put the raw scallops back in their shells, spooned over some custard, and put them ever so briefly under the broiler- no more than a minute or two. The custard formed a very thin skin with one or two peaks of caramel. It was, quite simply, heaven. The pork was presented neatly sliced, restaurant style, surrounded with the whole apples, baked to juicy, sagging perfection.

They’re all okay, then?” I grin like an idiot. What is wrong with me? She rises from her chair, fluid and vaguely shimmering. Her grace is legendary. I’m agile and strong, but I’d rather move like sunbeams on water, like Selena. “In good health and arguing incessantly with Desma and Aetos. Those two are under the impression the Sintans abducted you.” She’s asking a question. I owe her an answer. “They did. Sort of.” Her sculpted lips purse. “Help me understand a ‘sort of’ abduction,” Selena says, pouring me a cup of water. Well, it sounds stupid when you say it like that. My throat is parched, so I drink before answering. “He’s Beta Sinta. He said he’d have you all arrested if I didn’t come.” “And you believed him?” It’s a loaded question coming from Selena. I nod. After nearly a month with him, I also know he would have done it because he felt he had to, not because he wanted to. “He needs a powerful Magoi to help him and his precious Alpha sister, Egeria.” Egeria is no Alpha. She sounds more like a buttercup. Beta Sinta on the other hand, he’s Alpha material. Fierce on the battlefield, bloody, focused, ruthless…fair? “Plus, he had a magic rope.” Selena laughs, and the sound is like wind chimes on a spring breeze. “You? Caught by a magic rope?” I flush. “Don’t remind me.” She clears her throat, taming more laughter, and asks, “Will you help him?” Selena may not know who I am, but I’m certain she knows what I am—the Kingmaker—even if we’ve never discussed it. “My abilities can be valuable in diplomatic situations,” I say carefully. “He came here to save you. He looked like he cared.” I shrug, glancing down. “I’m a weapon he doesn’t want to lose.” “I think there’s more.” My eyes snap back up. “Don’t infer something that isn’t there. We’re both monsters.” Her dark-blue gaze flicks over me, unnerving. “Monsters still mate.” I choke on my own spit and then cough. A faint smile curves her lips. “Why didn’t you just escape?” “The rope.” That stupid, infuriating enchanted rope that led me to make a binding vow to stay with Beta Sinta until his—or my, if it comes first—dying day. She looks incredulous. “You couldn’t find a way out?” “It was a bloody good rope!

... If I am correct... ... the secret to this sauce is honey and balsamic vinegar ." "Got it one, sir! Both ingredients have a mild sweetness that adds a layer of richness to the dish. The tartness of the vinegar ties it all together, ensuring the sweetness isn't too cloying and giving the overall dish a clean, pure aftertaste. The guide told me that Hokkaido bears really love their honey... ... so I tried all kinds of methods to add it to my recipe!" "Is that how he gave his sauce a rich, clean flavor powerful enough to cause the Gifting? Unbelievable! That's our Master Yukihira!" Something doesn't add up. A little honey and vinegar can't be enough to create that level of aftertaste. There has to be something else to it. But what? "...?! I got it! I know what you did! You caramelized the honey!" CARAMELIZATION Sugars oxidize when heated, giving them a golden brown color and a nutty flavor. Any food that contains sugar can be caramelized, making caramelization an important technique in everything from French cooking to dessert making. "I started out by heating the honey until it was good and caramelized. Then I added some balsamic vinegar to stretch it and give it a little thickness. Once that was done, I poured it over some diced onions and garlic that I'd sautéed in another pan, added some schisandra berries and then let it simmer. After it had reduced, I poured bear stock over it and seasoned it with a little salt... The result was a deep, rich sauce perfect for emphasizing the natural punch of my Bear-Meat Menchi Katsu!" "Oho! You musta come up with that idea while I was relaxing with my cup o' chai! Not bad, Yukihira-chin! Not bad at all! Don'tcha think?" "Y-yes, sir..." Plus, there is no debating how well honey pairs well with bear meat. The Chinese have long considered bear paws a great delicacy... ... because of the common belief that the mellow sweetness of the honey soaks into a bear's paw as it sticks it into beehives and licks the honey off of it. What a splendid idea pairing honey with bear meat, each accentuating the other... ... then using caramelization and balsamic vinegar to mellow it to just the right level. It's a masterful example of using both flavor subtraction and enhancement in the same dish!

Under a Torremolinos Sky (Psalm 116)8 For Jim The first thing I notice is not the bed, oddly angled as all hospital beds are nor the pillowcase, covered in love notes. Not the table filled with pill bottles nor the sterile tools of a dozen indignities. I’ll notice these things later, on my way out perhaps. But first, my wide-angle lens pulls narrow, as eyes meet eyes and I am seen. How is it, before a word is spoken, you make me know I am known and welcome? What can I give back to God for the blessings he’s poured out on me? I’ll lift high the cup of salvation—a toast to God! You smile behind the plastic that keeps you alive, and as I rest my hand on your chest we conspire together to break the rules. The rhythm of your labored breathing will decide our seconds, our minutes, our hours. Tears to laughter and back again always in that order and rightly so. We bask under a Torremolinos sky and hear the tongues of angels sing of sins forgiven long before the world was made. I’ll pray in the name of God; I’ll complete what I promised God I’d do, and I’ll do it together with his people. Talk turns to motorcycles and mortuaries, to scotch and sons who wear their father’s charm like a crown, daughters who quicken the pulse with just a glance. Time flies and neither of us has time to waste. I’ll make a great looking corpse, you say because we of all people must speak of these things, because we of all people refuse to pretend. This doesn’t bring tears—not yet. Instead a giggle, a shared secret that life is and is not in the body. Soul, you’ve been rescued from death; Eye, you’ve been rescued from tears; And you, Foot, were kept from stumbling. Your chest still rises and falls but you grow weary, my hand tells me so. It’s too soon to ever say goodbye. When it’s my turn, brother, I will find you where the streets shimmer and tears herald only joy where we wear our true names and our true faces. Promise me, there, the dance we never had. When they arrive at the gates of death, God welcomes those who love him. Oh, God, here I am, your servant, your faithful servant: set me free for your service! I’m ready to offer the thanksgiving sacrifice and pray in the name of God. I’ll complete what I promised God I’d do, and I’ll do it in company with his people, In the place of worship, in God’s house, in Jerusalem, God’s city.

Della & I are drunk at the top of Mont-Royal. We have an open blue plastic thermos of red wine at our feet. It's the first day of spring & it's midnight & we've been peeling off layers of winter all day. We stand facing each other, as if to exchange vows, chests heaving from racing up & down the mountain to the sky. My face is hurting from smiling so much, aching at the edges of my words. She reaches out to hold my face in her hands, dirty palms form a bowl to rest my chin. I’m standing on a tree stump so we’re eye to eye. It’s hard to stay steady. I worry I may start to drool or laugh, I feel so unhinged from my body. It’s been one of those days I don’t want to end. Our goal was to shirk all responsibility merely to enjoy the lack of everyday obligations, to create fullness & purpose out of each other. Our knees are the colour of the ground-in grass. Our boots are caked in mud caskets. Under our nails is a mixture of minerals & organic matter, knuckles scraped by tree bark. We are the thaw embodied. She says, You have changed me, Eve, you are the single most important person in my life. If you were to leave me, I would die. At that moment, our breath circling from my lungs & into hers, I am changed. Perhaps before this I could describe our relationship as an experiment, a happy accident, but this was irrefutable. I was completely consumed & consuming. It was as though we created some sort of object between us that we could see & almost hold. I would risk everything I’ve ever known to know only this. I wanted to honour her in a way that was understandable to every part of me. It was as though I could distill the meaning of us into something I could pour into a porcelain cup. Our bodies on top of this city, rulers of love. Originally, we were celebrating the fact that I got into Concordia’s visual arts program. But the congratulatory brunch she took me to at Café Santropol had turned into wine, which had turned into a day for declarations. I had a sense of spring in my body, that this season would meld into summer like a running-jump movie kiss. There would be days & days like this. XXXX gone away on a sojurn I didn’t care to note the details of, she simply ceased to be. Summer in Montreal in love is almost too much emotion to hold in an open mouth, it spills over, it causes me to not need any sleep. I don’t think I will ever feel as awake as I did in the summer of 1995.

I had never in my life made something for someone else that wasn't a cup of tea. True, I could download a food app on my phone or leaf through one of the cookbooks Leander kept on the counter (though I didn't want to consider why he owned a copy of 38 Meals for Your Picky Toddler), but I was intelligent. I was capable. I could figure this out for myself. An hour later, I nudged open the bedroom door, carrying a tray. Watson sat up on his elbows. "What do you have there?" he asked, his voice coated in sleep. "I made you breakfast." "How domestic of you." He picked up his glasses from the bedside table and put them on. "That's - that's a rather large plate you've got there. Plates?" "This is tray one of four," I said, placing it at the end of the bed. He blinked at me. Perhaps he was still tired. "Don't begin eating until you see all your options," I told him, and went off to fetch the next platter. By the time I'd arranged it all on my coverlet to my satisfaction, Watson had roused himself appropriately. He'd put on one of my oversized sleep shirts - CHEMISTRY IS FOR LOVERS - and poured himself a cup of coffee. That surprised me; he usually took tea. "I need real caffeine to deal with this.

The rock came loose, but Jake’s satisfied grunt turned into a howl of outraged pain as a set of huge teeth in the next stall clamped into Jake’s ample rear end. “You vicious bag of bones,” he shouted, jumping to his feet and throwing himself half over the rail in an attempt to land a punch on Attila’s body. As if the horse anticipated retribution, he sidled to the edge of his stall and regarded Jake from the corner of his eye with an expression that looked to Jake like complacent satisfaction. “I’ll get you for that,” Jake promised, and he started to shake his fist when he realized how absurd it was to threaten a dumb beast. Rubbing his offended backside, he turned to Mayhem and carefully put his own rump against the outside wall of the barn. He checked the hoof to make certain it was clean, but the moment his fingers touched the place where the rock had been lodged the chestnut jerked in pain. “Bruised you, did it?” Jake said sympathetically. “It’s not surprisin’, considering the size and shape of the rock. But you never gave a sign yesterday that you were hurtin’,” he continued. Raising his voice and infusing it with a wealth of exaggerated admiration, the patted the chestnut’s flank and glanced disdainfully at Attila while he spoke to Mayhem. “That’s because you’re a true aristocrat and a fine, brave animal-not a miserable, sneaky mule who’s not fit to be your stallmate!” If Attila cared one way or another for Jake’s opinion, he was disappointingly careful not to show it, which only made Jake’s mood more stormy when he stomped into the cottage. Ian was sitting at the table, a cup of steaming coffee cradled between his palms. “Good morning,” he said to Jake, studying the older man’s thunderous frown. “Mebbe you think so, but I can’t see it. Course, I’ve spent the night freezin’ out there, bedded down next to a horse that wants to make a meal of me, and who broke his fast with a bit of my arse already this mornin’. And,” he finished irately as he poured coffee from the tin pot into an earthenware mug and cast a quelling look at his amused friend, “your horse is lame!” Flinging himself into the chair beside Ian, he gulped down the scalding coffee without thinking what he was doing; his eyes bulged, and sweat popped out on his forehead. Ian’s grin faded. “He’s what?” “Picked up a rock, and he’s favoring his left foreleg.” Ian’s chair legs scraped against the wooden floor as he shoved his chair back and started to go to the barn. “There’s no need. It’s just a bruise.

What are you going to say to the Maternal Organism?” Dinah asked, as Ivy rummaged in the back of a storage bin for her bottle of tequila. Ivy stiffened for a moment, then pulled out the bottle and swung it toward Dinah’s head like a club. Dinah didn’t flinch, just watched it glide to a halt above her head. “What?” “I can’t believe that the Morg has so taken over my wedding that the first thing that comes into your mind is how she’s going to react.” Dinah looked mildly sick. “Don’t worry about it,” Ivy said, “you forgot.” To put on your makeup. “Sorry, baby. I was just thinking . . . you and Cal are still going to get married, and have a great life, no matter what.” “But the Morg is going to take the hit,” Ivy said, nodding, as she poured tequila into a pair of small plastic cups. “Having to reschedule everything.” “Sounds like she’s kind of in her element doing that, though,” Dinah said. “Not to minimize it or anything.” “Totally.” “To the Morg.” “The Morg.” Dinah and Ivy tapped their plastic cups together and sipped at the tequila. One of the fringe benefits that came of being in the torus was that you could drink normally instead of sucking everything through tubes. The lower gravity took some getting used to, but they were old hands at it by now. “What’s

Fall down seven times, get up eight,” Manjiro said. “So my mother used to say.” 22 THE RACE here were no earthquakes. There were no broken legs. There were no emergencies of any kind. The day of the race arrived, as days generally did on the farm, with the barnyard rooster incessantly announcing its arrival. Manjiro climbed out of bed like an old man. Today was the day of his humiliation. Captain Whitfield squinted up at him from his coffee when he came into the dining room. “Rough night?” he asked. Manjiro shook his head, trying not to let his gloom show. He had taken great pains to keep this contest secret from Captain Whitfield. He poured himself a cup of coffee, muttering to himself, “I’m not going to let the cat jump in the bag now.” “Pardon me?” the captain said. Manjiro shook his head and sipped his coffee, the bitterness of it like a rebuke. His relationship with Captain Whitfield had been changing. Now that Manjiro was growing up—he was seventeen now—he regarded the captain more as a friend than a father. There were times, though, like now, when the feeling of being the naughty child of a possibly disapproving father was overwhelming. He should have confided in Captain Whitfield; the captain might have been able to help him out of his predicament. Well, it was too late now. He

Nella had the sudden flash of seeing Rio, in his leather leggings, kneeling with thighs spread, his hands behind him, his brawny wrists encircled by wide cuffs with a chain between them. Rio’s gaze locked to hers, his eyes nearly filling with blue, as though he knew what was in her head. Then she noticed Rees. He’d stilled, his irises also widening. His large hand moved to cup Talan’s waist and pull her toward him. The tunic couldn’t hide the fact that his cock was stiffening and lengthening. “Better stop whatever you are imagining,” Dr. Laas said to Nella, amusement in her voice. “You have two Shareem males erect and randy in front of you, and you’re only wearing a sheet. Who knows what the consequences will be?” “Can they read my mind?” Nella asked in surprise. “No,” Rees said, his voice rumbling and low. “Your pheromones.” “They pour over us like water, sweetheart,” Rio said. “When your body is craving us, we get all hot and bothered. We can’t help it.” He moved to her. “Later, I’ll make you tell me what you were thinking about.” Bad idea. A very bad idea. Talan seemed the only one able to take the situation in stride. She broke away from Rees and came to Nella. “You poor dear. I imagine you are quite confused. Come and sit.” She glanced at Rio. “Couldn’t you find her any clothes?” Rio shrugged. “I like her the way she is.

Cups and Rings and Drawings. I stopped by a famed park, Picked a blank sheet And drew a cup. For me, it represented me holding myself up in a storm, It represented the start of life, Something to pour out every lesson learnt Out of every misfortune we’ve ever been. The cup — the container to hold chocolate drink Water. Wine and strawberries. I drew a ring, A marriage between blessing and joy The bloom of flowers in spring The sprouting of leaves in midsummer And the smell of fresh grasses at night. I drew Monalisa I painted art I became Michaelangelo Da Vinci I became the Renaissance I healed through art “Don’t you know that you are gods?” So the first day, I cleared the storms out of my life. The second day, I dried all my tears The third day, I reinvented myself. The fourth day, I finally remembered what it felt like to be happy Like two children drawing arts on a canvass. Delilah & Annabelle Arts curled out of girls trying to reinvent the world Or the colours of the rainbow. The fifth day, I opened the windows wide To let the lights shine in. “When I’m down on my knees you’re how I pray.” The sixth day I created my favourite masterpiece — Baroque. The seventh day, I admired myself in the mirror. I missed me I missed the time I had so much optimism I miss you And I miss writing so innocently.

It was George the Mailman’s last day on the job after 35 years of carrying the mail through all kinds of weather to the same neighborhood. When he arrived at the first house on his route, he was greeted by the whole family who congratulated him and sent him on his way with a tidy gift envelope. At the second house, they presented him with a box of fine cigars. The folks at the third house handed him a selection of terrific fishing lures. At the fourth house, he was met at the door by a strikingly beautiful blonde woman in a revealing negligee. She took him by the hand, gently led him through the door, which she closed behind him, and took him up the stairs to the bedroom where she blew his mind with the most passionate love he had ever experienced. When he had enough, they went downstairs and she fixed him a giant breakfast: eggs, potatoes, ham, sausage, blueberry waffles, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. When he was truly satisfied, she poured him a cup of steaming coffee. As she was pouring, he noticed a dollar bill sticking out from under the cup’s bottom edge. "All this was just too wonderful for words," he said, "But what’s the dollar for?" "Well," she said, "Last night, I told my husband that today would be your last day, and that we should do something special for you. I asked him what to give you. He said, “Screw him. Give him a dollar.” The breakfast was my idea.

And were you immediately taken with Charlotte, when you found her?" "Who wouldn't be?" Gentry parried with a bland smile. He drew a slow circle on Lottie's palm, stroking the insides of her fingers, brushed his thumb over the delicate veins of her wrist. The subtle exploration made her feel hot and breathless, her entire being focused on the fingertip that feathered along the tender flesh of her upper palm. Most disconcerting of all was the realization that Gentry didn't even know what he was doing. He fiddled lazily with her hand and talked with Sophia, while the chocolate service was brought to the parlor and set out on the table. "Isn't it charming?" Sophia asked, indicating the flowered porcelain service with a flourish. She picked up the tall, narrow pot and poured a dark, fragrant liquid into one of the small cups, filling the bottom third. "Most people use cocoa powder, but the best results are obtained by mixing the cream with chocolate liquor." Expertly she stirred a generous spoonful of sugar into the steaming liquid. "Not liquor as in wine or spirits, mind you. Chocolate liquor is pressed from the meat of the beans, after they have been roasted and hulled." "It smells quite lovely," Lottie commented, her breath catching as Gentry's fingertip investigated the plump softness at the base of her thumb. Sophia turned her attention to preparing the other cups. "Yes, and the flavor is divine. I much prefer chocolate to coffee in the morning." "Is it a st-stimulant, then?" Lottie asked, finally managing to jerk her hand away from Gentry. Deprived of his plaything, he gave her a questioning glance. "Yes, of a sort," Sophia replied, pouring a generous amount of cream into the sweetened chocolate liquor. She stirred the cups with a tiny silver spoon. "Although it is not quite as animating as coffee, chocolate is uplifting in its own way." She winked at Lottie. "Some even claim that chocolate rouses the amorous instincts." "How interesting," Lottie said, doing her best to ignore Gentry as she accepted her cup. Inhaling the rich fumes appreciatively, she took a tiny sip of the shiny, dark liquid. The robust sweetness slid along her tongue and tickled the back of her throat. Sophia laughed in delight at Lottie's expression. "You like it, I see. Good- now I have found an inducement to make you visit often." Lottie nodded as she continued to drink. By the time she reached the bottom of the cup, her head was swimming, and her nerves were tingling from the mixture of heat and sugar. Gentry set his cup aside after a swallow or two. "Too rich for my taste, Sophia, although I compliment your skill in preparing it. Besides, my amorous instincts need no encouragement." He smiled as the statement caused Lottie to choke on the last few drops of chocolate.

I'm making a galette instead of a tart," Sam said. "Fancy," Deana said. "Actually, it's not," Sam said. "It's more rustic. More fitting of Michigan, I thought." Willo pulled three mugs- all mismatched- from her cupboard and poured three cups of coffee. "In school, I learned that a galette is sort of the offspring of a pie and a tart- halfway between homespun and fancy- but easier to make than its parents. The biggest difference is that a galette is a free-form pastry, baked without a pie pan or tart ring. It's rustic. And it's forgiving. You just roll it out flat and then fold it in roughly around the filling." Sam stopped and sipped her coffee. "The wonderful thing is that you can't mess it up; the crust will tear and be a little more done in places, the juices will leak, but as long as you use really fresh ingredients, like the fruit we have here, and real butter for the dough, it bakes into something magical. Making a galette really gave me confidence to try trickier desserts. But it's still one of my favorites. And you can make sweet or savory galettes. I made two crusts today. I thought I'd turn one into a savory galette for dinner. I have a recipe for an asparagus, mushroom, goat cheese, and bacon galette I think I'll make." Sam looked at her mom and grandma, who were staring at her openmouthed. "I never realized how accomplished you were," Deana said. "But I knew you had- what did we call it, Mom?" "The gift," Willo said. "You've always had the desire and talent to bake.

If loneliness or sadness or happiness could be expressed through food, loneliness would be basil. It’s not good for your stomach, dims your eyes, and turns your mind murky. If you pound basil and place a stone over it, scorpions swarm toward it. Happiness is saffron, from the crocus that blooms in the spring. Even if you add just a pinch to a dish, it adds an intense taste and a lingering scent. You can find it anywhere but you can’t get it at any time of the year. It’s good for your heart, and if you drop a little bit in your wine, you instantly become drunk from its heady perfume. The best saffron crumbles at the touch and instantaneously emits its fragrance. Sadness is a knobby cucumber, whose aroma you can detect from far away. It’s tough and hard to digest and makes you fall ill with a high fever. It’s porous, excellent at absorption, and sponges up spices, guaranteeing a lengthy period of preservation. Pickles are the best food you can make from cucumbers. You boil vinegar and pour it over the cucumbers, then season with salt and pepper. You enclose them in a sterilized glass jar, seal it, and store it in a dark and dry place. WON’S KITCHEN. I take off the sign hanging by the first-floor entryway. He designed it by hand and silk-screened it onto a metal plate. Early in the morning on the day of the opening party for the cooking school, he had me hang the sign myself. I was meaning to give it a really special name, he said, grinning, flashing his white teeth, but I thought Jeong Ji-won was the most special name in the world. He called my name again: Hey, Ji-won. He walked around the house calling my name over and over, mischievously — as if he were an Eskimo who believed that the soul became imprinted in the name when it was called — while I fried an egg, cautiously sprinkling grated Emmentaler, salt, pepper, taking care not to pop the yolk. I spread the white sun-dried tablecloth on the coffee table and set it with the fried egg, unsalted butter, blueberry jam, and a baguette I’d toasted in the oven. It was our favorite breakfast: simple, warm, sweet. As was his habit, he spread a thick layer of butter and jam on his baguette and dunked it into his coffee, and I plunked into my cup the teaspoon laced with jam, waiting for the sticky sweetness to melt into the hot, dark coffee. I still remember the sugary jam infusing the last drop of coffee and the moist crumbs of the baguette lingering at the roof of my mouth. And also his words, informing me that he wanted to design a new house that would contain the cooking school, his office, and our bedroom. Instead of replying, I picked up a firm red radish, sparkling with droplets of water, dabbed a little butter on it, dipped it in salt, and stuck it into my mouth. A crunch resonated from my mouth. Hoping the crunch sounded like, Yes, someday, I continued to eat it. Was that the reason I equated a fresh red radish with sprouting green tops, as small as a miniature apple, with the taste of love? But if I cut into it crosswise like an apple, I wouldn't find the constellation of seeds.

Spinach Quiche Preheat oven to 375 degrees F., rack in the middle position   This is my recipe. It can be served as an appetizer if you cut it into thin slices and arrange them on a platter. It can also be served as an entrée.   One 9-inch unbaked pastry shell 1 beaten egg yolk (reserve the white in a small dish) 10-ounce package frozen chopped spinach ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon pepper (freshly ground is best) 3 Tablespoons horseradish sauce 2 ounces shredded Jarlsberg (or good Swiss cheese) 4 eggs 1½ cups Half & Half (or light cream) 1/8 teaspoon salt 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg (freshly ground is best)   Beat the egg yolk in a glass with a fork. Brush the inside of the unbaked pastry shell with the yolk. Set the shell aside to dry. Cook and drain the spinach. Squeeze out as much moisture as you can and then blot with a paper towel. In a bowl, combine the spinach with the salt, pepper, and horseradish sauce. Spread it in the bottom of the pastry shell. Sprinkle the top with the grated cheese. Beat the 4 whole eggs with the reserved egg white. Add the Half & Half, salt, and cayenne pepper. Mix well and pour on top of cheese. Sprinkle the top with nutmeg. Bake at 375 degrees F. for 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted one inch from the center comes out clean. Let cool for ten minutes and then cut into wedges and serve. This quiche can be served warm or at room temperature. I’ve even been known to eat it cold, straight out of the refrigerator. It’s perfect for a fancy brunch or a lazy, relaxed breakfast on the weekend. Yield: Serves from 12 to 18 as an appetizer. Serves six as an entrée if they only have one piece.

I text her from the lobby and tell her I’m on my way up. Having a badge is a really convenient way to get past building security. Not that this place has much. She’s standing in the open doorway of her apartment when I get off the elevator, hand on her hip with her head cocked to the side in question. “I brought donuts,” I offer by way of explanation for showing up unannounced. “Did you need a favor or something?” she asks, taking the box from my hands and setting it on the tiny round dining table just inside the door of her apartment. Not a promising start, but she does allow me to follow her inside. “I just brought you a favor,” I comment then eye her. “Do you own any pants?” She’s wearing another pair of those godforsaken leggings. “What are you talking about? I’m wearing pants right now. And how does this count as a favor when I didn’t ask for it? It shouldn’t count towards my favor tally if I didn’t make the official request.” She pops open the donut box and peeks inside. “You’re like the worst genie ever.” “I know. But your favors are piling up. I gotta work them off. And those aren’t pants.” “Leggings are pants. They’re very popular.” “What the hell is even on them?” I step closer and eye her ass, focusing on the print. Purely for research purposes. “Are those black cats?” “They’re my seasonal leggings!” she retorts and selects a donut as I walk past her into the tiny aisle of a kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee. “Oh. Did you want something to drink? Let me get that for you,” she says sarcastically before biting into a donut. I ignore her tone. “No, no. I’ve got it, thank you.” I take the mug and pass by her, taking a seat on her couch

Circulation of Song after Rumi Once again I'm climbing the mountain Circle on circle like a winding rose Below me the mountains fall away like rose-petals I wish to be at the centre of the mystic rose Where I shall meet Him He shall greet me: Beloved! So long in coming -- He shall be the lonely pine tree On the flattened promontory And I, the spider clinging to Him by a mere thread, against the sun and the wind Each dawn the sunrise tinting gold the burnt Sienna houses Each dusk the alpine rosy glow on the mountain Each afternoon such darkness in the glen Fold on fold in a foliage all the shades of green: They have crept into my dream He is the air I breathe Purest mountain-air: I'm cleaned He is the lark's descant And in the evening, the nightingale He is the star's ascent and the moon's cloud-hiding He is all the circles and in this circulation of song: I read you / you read me circulating In my blood from head to heel He is the fruit of my unfulfilled life The peach pooped with juice And running with the Argentine waters, the pear In the Chinese nectarine flecked like a child's cheek with red And in the sour loquat and the sweet cherry In the fragrance of the jasmine of India And the Shiraz rose that makes the bee mad for them In the grape that becomes wine to suffuse my cheek In the olive that becomes a lamp to shine through my cupped hands In these and not only in these does He circulate Pouring from the sun at 5' o'clock as if at noon Dancing on the lake, pure honey And all the chatter over tea! But in the quiet you find me out You find me out Plucking myself from Me So that I become you The breath in my nape-nerve Sweetly saying: I bow to the God in you

He poured a splash of liquid into a second cup. “Come in and warm yerself by the fire.” Ariana walked deeper into the room, toward the glow of the hearth. It’s heat enveloped her skin and eased away the chill with such expediency, she almost sighed. Connor appeared beside her with a metal cup extended. “I canna sleep often myself.” She closed her fingers around the cool surface and glanced at the dark liquid within. A sharp scent hit her nostrils. “Whisky,” Connor said. He was perfection in the firelight. Shadows etched his jaw while the light softened his face, his lips. The powerful lines of his chest were visible at the neck of his leine, as well as a dark peppering of small curling black hairs. “Whisky,” Ariana said with a forced stare at the cup instead of him. “Of course. I drink this all the time.” “Aye, I knew that about ye. When I first saw ye, I thought, ‘Now there’s a lass who can handle her whisky.’” Connor winked at her with disarming playfulness. “It’ll do ye some good. Take off the chill and settle yer thoughts.” “Why do you assume my thoughts are unsettled?” she asked. He took a swallow from his cup. “Because sleep comes easily to those without weight on their minds.” Ariana took a careful sip from her own cup, the way she’d seen men at the card tables drink. The liquid burned like sin down her throat and caught in her chest. She gritted her teeth and swallowed hard several times to keep from sputtering. Though she’d hoped to keep her reaction discreet, the grin on Connor’s face told her he saw through her guise. “It’s good.” Her voice came out in a croak and Connor laughed. It was a warm, rich sound and she found it terribly pleasing. His eyes crinkled. “Now that we’ve discovered yer love of whisky, why dinna ye tell me what’s got yer thoughts heavy?

Chase shoved one of the ultrasound pictures in Bree’s face, “Then what the hell is this?” I stepped up next to her, took the photo out of his hand and spoke softly, trying to hide my shaking. “It’s mine Chase.” You could have heard a pin drop. Chase’s face had softened as soon as he’d seen me, but turned into one of shock when he registered what I’d said. After a few minutes, a grin that reached his eyes spread across his face as he searched mine. His eyes slowly trailed down to my stomach and grew wide, “You’re pregnant Princess?” “Yes.” I whispered. He lifted his head to smile at me and dropped it again, gaze fixed on my bump. This time no one stopped me when I let my hand fall to cover it lovingly. “Is it – is it mine?” “Of course it is.” “We’re going to have a baby?” “Yes.” “This is our baby?” He reached for the photo in my hand. I smiled, “Yes.” His expression was so beautiful, tears instantly poured down my cheeks. “We’re having a baby.” I laughed through my tears and nodded my head. Chase ran a hand through his hair and huffed out a laugh. He looked from the picture to my stomach once more, “I love you so much.” he breathed and closed the distance between us, crushing his lips to mine. I didn’t care that his family was watching, I threw my arms around his neck and let him lift me off the ground. After I was good and kissed, he set me back down and dropped to his knees. Running his hand over my gummy bear bump, he lifted my shirt and kissed my bare stomach twice. A sob broke out of my chest and I looked at Claire who was freely crying and leaning into Robert. Even Bree was wiping a few tears away. Chase stood back up and cupped my face in his hands, “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I was scared,” I shrugged, “I still am.” “You don’t have to be scared,” he whispered and kissed my nose, “I’ll take care of us.” I

He put his tray down across from Suzao, whose eyes ran up his arm like a skimming hand, counting the kill marks there. “Remember me?” Akos said. Suzao was smaller than him, now, but so broad through the shoulders it didn’t seem that way when he was sitting. His nose was spotted with freckles. He didn’t look much like Jorek, who took after his mother. Good thing, too. “The pathetic child I dragged across the Divide?” Suzao said, biting down on the tines of his fork. “And then beat to a pulp before we even made it to the transport vessels? Yeah. I remember. Now get your tray off my table.” Akos sat, folding his hands in front of him. A rush of adrenaline had given him pinhole vision, and Suzao was in the very center. “How are you feeling? A little sleepy?” he said as he slammed the vial down in front of him. The glass cracked, but the vial stayed in one piece, still wet from the sleeping potion he had poured in Suzao’s cup. Silence spread through the cafeteria, starting at their table. Suzao stared at the vial. His face got blotchier with every second. His eyes were glassy with rage. Akos leaned closer, smiling. “Your living quarters aren’t as secure as you’d probably like. What is this, the third time you’ve been drugged in the past month? Not very vigilant, are you?” Suzao lunged. Grabbed him by the throat, lifted, and slammed him hard into the table, right on top of his tray of food. Soup burned Akos through his shirt. Suzao drew his knife and held the point over Akos’s head like he was going to shove it in Akos’s eye. Akos saw spots. “I should kill you,” Suzao snarled, flecks of spit dotting his lips. “Go ahead,” he said, straining. “But maybe you should wait until you’re not about to fall over.” Sure enough, Suzao looked a little unfocused. He let go of Akos’s throat. “Fine,” he said. “Then I challenge you to the arena. Blades. To the death.” The man didn’t disappoint.

TIO TITO’S SUBLIME LIME BAR COOKIES Preheat oven to 350 degrees F., rack in the middle position. ½ cup finely-chopped coconut (measure after chopping—pack it down when you measure it) 1 cup cold salted butter (2 sticks, 8 ounces, ½ pound) ½ cup powdered (confectioners) sugar (no need to sift unless it’s got big lumps) 2 cups all-purpose flour (pack it down when you measure it)   4 beaten eggs (just whip them up with a fork) 2 cups white (granulated) sugar cup lime juice (freshly squeezed is best) cup vodka (I used Tito’s Handmade Vodka) ½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking powder ½ cup all-purpose flour (pack it down when you measure it) Powdered (confectioners) sugar to sprinkle on top Coconut Crust: To get your half-cup of finely-chopped coconut, you will need to put approximately ¾ cup of shredded coconut in the bowl of a food processor. (The coconut will pack down more when it’s finely-chopped so you’ll need more of the stuff out of the package to get the half-cup you need for this recipe.) Chop the shredded coconut up finely with the steel blade. Pour it out into a bowl and measure out ½ cup, packing it down when you measure it. Return the half-cup of finely chopped coconut to the food processor. (You can also do this by spreading out the shredded coconut on a cutting board and chopping it finely by hand.) Cut each stick of butter into eight pieces and arrange them in the bowl of the food processor on top of the chopped coconut. Sprinkle the powdered sugar and the flour on top of that. Zoop it all up with an on-and-off motion of the steel blade until it resembles coarse cornmeal. Prepare a 9-inch by 13-inch rectangular cake pan by spraying it with Pam or another nonstick cooking spray. Alternatively, for even easier removal, line the cake pan with heavy-duty foil and spray that with Pam. (Then all you have to do is lift the bar cookies out when they’re cool, peel off the foil, and cut them up into pieces.) Sprinkle the crust mixture into the prepared cake pan and spread it out with your fingers. Pat it down with a large spatula or with the palms of your impeccably clean hands. Hannah’s 1st Note: If your butter is a bit too soft, you may end up with a mass that balls up and clings to the food processor bowl. That’s okay. Just scoop it up and spread it out in the bottom of your prepared pan. (You can also do this in a bowl with a fork or a pie crust blender if you prefer.) Hannah’s 2nd Note: Don’t wash your food processor quite yet. You’ll need it to make the lime layer. (The same applies to your bowl and fork if you make the crust by hand.) Bake your coconut crust at 350 degrees F. for 15 minutes. While your crust is baking, prepare the lime layer. Lime Layer: Combine the eggs with the white sugar. (You can use your food processor and the steel blade to do this, or you can do it by hand in a bowl.) Add the lime juice, vodka, salt, and baking powder. Mix thoroughly. Add the flour and mix until everything is incorporated. (This mixture will be runny—it’s supposed to be.) When your crust has baked for 15 minutes, remove the pan from the oven and set it on a cold stovetop burner or a wire rack. Don’t shut off the oven! Just leave it on at 350 degrees F. Pour the lime layer mixture on top of the crust you just baked. Use potholders to pick up the pan and return it to the oven. Bake your Sublime Lime Bar Cookies for an additional 30 minutes. Remove the pan from the oven and cool your lime bars in the pan on a cold stovetop burner or a wire rack. When the pan has cooled to room temperature, cover it with foil and refrigerate it until you’re ready to serve. Cut the bars into brownie-sized pieces, place them on a pretty platter, and sprinkle them lightly with powdered sugar. Yum! Hannah’s 3rd Note: If you would prefer not to use alcohol in these bar cookies, simply substitute whole milk for the vodka. This recipe works both ways and I can honestly tell you that I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like my Sublime Lime Bar Cookies!

They've never been able to ignore you, Ma'am." "I made damn sure they couldn't. I never let them or anyone tell me what to do, except where Peter was concerned." She sighed, her weak chest rising and falling beneath the teal hospital down. "I'd trade my diamonds for a cigarette." Vera reached into her purse and pulled out a package of Gigantes she'd purchased at a tobacconist shop on the way to the hospital. She removed the cellophane wrapper and handed it to the Princess, the ability to anticipate Her Royal Highness's needs never having left her, even after all these years. The Princess didn't thank her, but the delight in her blue eyes when she put one in the good side of her mouth and allowed Vera to light it was thanks enough. The Princess struggled to close her lips around the base, revealing the depths of her weakness but also her strength. She refused to be denied her pleasure, even if it took some time to bring her lips together enough to inhale. Pure bliss came over her when she did before she exhaled. "I don't suppose you brought anything to drink?" "As a matter of fact, I did." Vera took the small bottle of whiskey she'd been given on the plane and held it up. "It isn't Famous Grouse, I'm afraid." "I don't care what it is." She snatched the plastic cup off the bedside table and held it up. "Pour." Vera twisted off the cap and drained the small bottle into the cup. The Princess held it up, whiskey in one hand, the cigarette in the other, and nodded to Vera. "Cheers." She drank with a rapture equal to the one she'd shown with the cigarette, sinking back into the pillows to enjoy the forbidden luxuries. "It reminds me of when we used to get drinks at the 400 Club after a Royal Command Film Performance or some other dry event. Nothing ever tasted so good as that first whiskey after all the hot air of those stuffy officials." "We could work up quite a thirst, couldn't we, Ma'am?" "We sure could." She enjoyed the cigarette, letting out the smoke slowly to savour it before offering Vera a lopsided smile. "We had fun back then, didn't we, Mrs. Lavish?

Glaring, I snarled, “Kiss me. Give me one fracture of human company, and I’ll never say another word to you again. I’ll be whatever you want. Just kiss me!” His eyes narrowed. “You’re an idiot.” “So you keep telling me.” “You’re wasting your time.” “So you keep telling me.” “I don’t want to kiss you!” I lashed out. My arms came up. I opened my palm. And I slapped the self-righteous, egotistical arsehole on the cheek. The moment went from lust-heavy to stagnant with violence. We stared, caught dead centre in war. “You’re a fucking nightmare,” he snapped. “Kiss me.” “You’re ruining my life.” “Kiss me.” “You’re—” “Kiss me, Jethro. Kiss me. Just fucking kiss me and give me—” His body crashed against mine. His hands flew up, grabbing my cheeks and holding me firm. His lips, oh his lips, they bruised mine as his head tilted, and with pure anger, he gave me what I’d wanted for weeks. He kissed me. My lungs were empty—he’d stolen all my air, but I no longer survived on oxygen. I survived on his mouth, his taste, his unbridled energy pouring down my throat. His tongue tore past my lips, taking me savage and hungry. There was nothing sweet or gentle. This was a punishment. A reminder that I hadn’t won. He wasn’t kissing me. He was fighting me in every underhanded way. His hands dropped from my cheeks, cupping my breasts. The violence in his touch throbbed instantly. I arched my back, opening my mouth wider to scream, but he swallowed my cries, kissing me deeper, harder, stealing every inch of sanity I had left. I thought a kiss would put me on even ground—show him that he did care. That he was human—just like me. I hadn’t gambled on being detonated into a billion tiny pieces that had no notion of who I’d been before he’d stolen my soul. He backed me up, faster and faster to the bed. His breath saturated my lungs. His touch skated from my cheeks, to my breasts, to my waist, to my arse. Jerking me hard against the huge length of arousal in his jeans. The bed stopped our motion, tumbling us onto the sheets, but nothing, absolutely nothing could unweld our lips. We were joined, kissing, frantic, desperate. He groaned as I slid my hands beneath his t-shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine. He was blood and fire and heat. So different to the glacier he pretended to be. “Fuck,” he grunted

Mystery is the sugar in the cup,' said the Doctor. She picked up the container of white crystals the delicatessen had included in the picnic basket and poured a large dollop into her cognac. 'I don’t think I’d do that, Gunilla,' said Darcourt. 'Nobody wants you to do it, Simon. I am doing it, and that’s enough. That is the curse of life—when people want everybody to do the same wise, stupid thing. Listen: Do you want to know what life is? I’ll tell you. Life is a drama.' 'Shakespeare was ahead of you, Gunilla,' said Darcourt. '"All the world’s a stage,"' he declaimed. 'Shakespeare had the mind of a grocer,' said Gunilla. 'A poet, yes, but the soul of a grocer. He wanted to please people.' 'That was his trade,' said Darcourt. 'And it’s yours, too. Don’t you want this opera to please people?' 'Yes, I do. But that is not philosophy. Hoffmann was no philosopher. Now be quiet, everybody, and listen, because this is very important. Life is a drama. I know. I am a student of the divine Goethe, not that grocer Shakespeare. Life is a drama. But it is a drama we have never understood and most of us are very poor actors. That is why our lives seem to lack meaning and we look for meaning in toys—money, love, fame. Our lives seem to lack meaning but'—the Doctor raised a finger to emphasize her great revelation—'they don’t, you know.' She seemed to be having some difficulty in sitting upright, and her natural pallor had become ashen. 'You’re off the track, Nilla,' said Darcourt. 'I think we all have a personal myth. Maybe not much of a myth, but anyhow a myth that has its shape and its pattern somewhere outside our daily world.' 'This is all too deep for me,' said Yerko. 'I am glad I am a Gypsy and do not have to have a philosophy and an explanation for everything. Madame, are you not well?' Too plainly the Doctor was not well. Yerko, an old hand at this kind of illness, lifted her to her feet and gently, but quickly, took her to the door—the door to the outside parking lot. There were terrible sounds of whooping, retching, gagging, and pitiful cries in a language which must have been Swedish. When at last he brought a greatly diminished Gunilla back to the feast, he thought it best to prop her, in a seated position, against the wall. At once she sank sideways to the floor. 'That sugar was really salt,' said Darcourt. 'I knew it, but she wouldn’t listen. Her part in the great drama now seems to call for a long silence.' 'When she comes back to life I shall give her a shot of my personal plum brandy,' said Yerko. 'Will you have one now, Priest Simon?

Rose barely poured herself a cup of hot, mouth-watering chocolate, when she saw Grey and Archer walking across the lawn. Archer was impeccable as always, but Grey was a mess. His clothes were the same he’d worn the night before, and obviously slept in. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed a glimpse of tanned flesh that made her heart twitch and her gingers itch to touch him. His hair was mussed, and stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, except where prohibited by his scar. In short, he looked absolutely beautiful-a fallen angel. The only thing that made him remotely human was that scar, and she could easily tell herself he got that from battling the archangel Gabriel before being thrown out of heaven. She squinted as she realize Grey held something against his chest-something that moved. Was that a puppy? She jumped to her feet, and skipped down the few steps that took her down to the lawn. Lifting the skirts of her yellow morning gown, she hurried to meet them. “Good morning!” she cried. “What have you there?” Archer smiled in greeting, but Rose barely noticed. Her gaze was riveted on the man looking at her with an expression so hopeful it neigh on broke her heart. “I brought you something,” he said, his voice low and strangely rough. “A gift.” And then he held out his arms and offered her the sweetest face she’d ever seen. “Oh!” What an idiot she must seem, her eyes welling with tears over a dog, but she didn’t care. She let the tears come and slip down her cheeks as she took the warm, silky animal into her own arms, burying her face against its fur. “Grey, thank you!” “He’s too young to be away from his mother yet, but he’s yours if you want hm.” “Of course I want him! He’s beautiful.” He ran a hand through the thick tangle of his hair. “I didn’t know that you’d never had a dog before.” Rose cast a glance at Archer, who shrugged. “Telling my secrets are you, Lord Archer?” What else had he revealed? Grey’s brother shot her a sincere glance. “Only that one, Lady Rose. I did not think you would mind.” “And I don’t.” Turning her attention back to the squirming puppy in her arms, Rose was rewarded with a lick to the chin. “He’ll need to go back to the stables in a few minutes,” Grey told her. “But you can see him whenever you like.” With her free hand, Rose reached out and took one of Grey’s. His fingers were so big and strong next to hers. She squeezed and then let go, letting him know with a touch just how much his gift meant to her. “I love him. Thank you so very much.” “What are you going to name him?” he asked. Rose tore her gaze away from the pleasure in his, lest she do something stupid like kiss him in front of his brother. Instead, she cast a small, secretive smile at Archer. “Heathcliff,” she replied. “His name is Heathcliff.

Braised Striped Bass Pavillon YIELD: 4 SERVINGS I HAD NEVER SEEN or tasted striped bass before I worked at Le Pavilion. It is similar, however, to the loup de mer of the Mediterranean, one of the most prized fish of that region and a standard menu item in restaurants along the Côte d’Azur. With flesh that is slightly softer and moister than its European cousin, striped bass was a specialty of Le Pavilion. The braised wild striped bass would be presented to the patrons whole and carved at tableside. The following is a simple, elegant, and mouth-watering adaptation of the recipe from Le Pavilion. The fish, gutted with head on, is braised with white wine, shallots, and mushrooms in the oven, then coated with the cooking juices enriched with butter. This dish is excellent served with tiny steamed potatoes or sautéed cucumbers. 1 striped bass, gutted, with head on (about 3 pounds) 2 cups thinly sliced mushrooms ¼ cup chopped shallots ½ teaspoon salt, plus more to taste ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, plus more to taste 1 tablespoon good olive oil 1 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves 2 bay leaves 1 cup dry, fruity white wine (Chardonnay or Sauvignon Blanc) 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, at room temperature 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice 1 tablespoon minced fresh chives Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Place the fish in a gratin dish or stainless steel baking dish that is narrow enough to prevent the garnishes and the wine from spreading out too much. Sprinkle with the mushrooms, shallots, ½ teaspoon salt, ½ teaspoon pepper, olive oil, thyme, bay leaves, and wine. Cover tightly with a piece of aluminum foil so the fish will cook in its own steam. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until the fish is cooked through. Check by inserting the point of a small knife into the flesh. It should be tender, and the flesh should separate from the central bone when pierced with the knife. Reduce the heat to 150 degrees. Using a large hamburger spatula, transfer the whole fish to an ovenproof serving platter, and set aside in the warm oven while you complete the recipe. Pour the fish’s cooking juices and vegetable solids into a small saucepan, and discard the bay leaves. You should have ¾ to 1 cup of liquid; cook down the liquid or add water to adjust the yield to this amount. Bring to a boil on top of the stove, and add the butter spoonful by spoonful, incorporating each piece into the mixture with a whisk before you add another. Remove the saucepan from the heat, and add the lemon juice, chives, and additional salt and pepper to taste. At serving time, pull or scrape off the skin on top of the fish with a small paring knife. Coat the fish with the sauce, and sprinkle the chives on top. Bring to the table, and carve for the guests.

New England Clam Chowder YIELD: 4 TO 6 SERVINGS (ABOUT 8 CUPS) I DON’T REMEMBER ever eating clams when I was in France. Oysters and mussels, yes, but not clams. Fried clams and New England clam chowder were popular menu items at Howard Johnson’s, and I soon learned to love them. Although HoJo’s clam chowder recipe was made in 3,000-gallon amounts and canned, it was quite good. I reproduce that taste at home when a bit of Howard Johnson’s nostalgia creeps in. 5 quahog clams or 10 to 12 large cherrystone clams 4 cups water 4 ounces pancetta or lean, cured pork, cut into 1-inch pieces (about ¾ cup) 1 tablespoon good olive oil 1 large onion (about 8 ounces), peeled and cut into 1-inch pieces (1½ cups) 2 teaspoons chopped garlic 1 tablespoon all-purpose flour 2 sprigs fresh thyme 1 pound Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and cut into ½-inch dice (2¼ cups) 1 cup light cream 1 cup milk ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Wash the clams well under cold water, and put them in a saucepan with 2 cups of the water. Bring to a boil (this will take about 5 minutes), and boil gently for 10 minutes. Drain off and reserve the cooking liquid, remove the clams from their shells, and cut the clams into ½-inch pieces (1½ cups). Put the clam pieces in a bowl, then carefully pour the cooking liquid into another bowl, leaving behind any sediment or dirt. (You should have about 3½ cups of stock.) Set aside the stock and the clams. Put the pancetta or pork pieces in a large saucepan, and cover with the remaining 2 cups water. Bring to a boil, and boil for 30 seconds. Drain the pancetta, and wash it in a sieve under cold water. Rinse the saucepan, and return the pancetta to the pan with the oil. Place over medium heat, and cook gently, stirring occasionally, for 7 to 8 minutes. Add the onion and garlic, and continue cooking, stirring, for 1 minute. Add the flour, mix it in well, and cook for 10 seconds. Add the reserved stock and the thyme, and bring to a boil. Then add the potatoes and clams, bring to a boil, cover, reduce the heat to very low, and cook gently for 2 hours. At serving time, add the cream, milk, and pepper, bring to a boil, and serve. (Note: No salt should be needed because of the clam juice and pancetta, but taste and season to your liking.)

Maman’s Cheese Soufflé YIELD: 4 SERVINGS WHEN MY MOTHER got married, she was seventeen and my father was twenty-two. She did not know how to cook, except for a few simple dishes that she had learned from her mother. Yet she was willing and fearless. My father liked cheese soufflé, so my mother graciously obliged. She had never made a soufflé before, but a friend told her that it consisted of a white sauce (béchamel), grated cheese, and eggs—a cinch! To the béchamel, that staple of the French home cook, she added her grated Swiss cheese and then cracked and added one egg after another to the mixture, stirred it well, poured it into a gratin dish, and baked it in the oven. Voilà! No one had told her that the eggs should be separated, with the yolks added to the base sauce and the whites whipped to a firm consistency and then gently folded into the mixture. Ignorance is bliss, and in this case it was indeed: the soufflé rose to a golden height and became a family favorite. This is a great recipe; it can be assembled hours or even a day ahead, and although it is slightly less airy than a standard soufflé, it is delicious. 6 tablespoons (¾ stick) unsalted butter, plus more to butter a 6-cup gratin dish 6 tablespoons all-purpose flour 2 cups cold whole milk ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 5 extra-large eggs 2½ cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère (about 6 ounces) 3 tablespoons minced fresh chives Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Butter a 6-cup gratin dish, and set it aside. Melt the butter in a saucepan, then add the flour, and mix it in well with a whisk. Cook for 10 seconds, add the milk in one stroke, and mix it in with a whisk. Keep stirring with the whisk until the mixture thickens and comes to a strong boil, which will take about 2 minutes. It should be thick and smooth. Remove from the heat, and stir in the salt and pepper. Allow about 10 minutes for the white sauce to cool. Meanwhile, break the eggs into a bowl, and beat well with a fork. Add the eggs, the cheese, and the chives to the cooled sauce, and mix well to combine. Pour into the buttered gratin dish and cook immediately, or set aside until ready to cook. Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until the soufflé is puffy and well browned on top. Although it will stay inflated for quite a while, it is best served immediately.

Pissenlit (DANDELION SALAD) YIELD: 4 SERVINGS PISSENLIT, as the common dandelion is often called in France, is considered a great early-spring treat in our family. Gloria loves to pick the greens at the end of March and the beginning of April, especially the small white specimens hidden in the fallen leaves behind our guesthouse. This family tradition started for me with my father and my two brothers, and now my wife and daughter, Claudine, are great lovers of pissenlit salad. The leaves should be picked before the flowers start forming, while they are small, white, and tender. There is no comparison between the tender wild dandelion greens you pick yourself and the ones that are found in markets. With a small paring knife, cut about an inch below the ground to get the dandelion plant in one piece. Cut the leaves away from the root, and discard any that are damaged or darkened. Our version always includes pieces of pancetta as well as croutons, boiled eggs with soft yolks, and a dressing made of garlic, anchovies, and olive oil. 4 large eggs 5 ounces pancetta, cut into pieces about 1 inch long, ½ inch wide, and ½ inch thick (about 2 dozen) 2 cups water 6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 2 teaspoons chopped garlic 4 anchovy fillets in oil, finely chopped 1 tablespoon red wine vinegar ½ teaspoon salt ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper A piece of baguette (about 3 ounces), cut into sixteen ¼-inch slices About 8 ounces (8 cups packed) dandelion greens, washed two or three times and spun dry Lower the eggs carefully into boiling water, and boil them at a simmer for 7 minutes. Pour out the water, shake the pan to crack the shells, then fill the pan with ice, and let the eggs cool in the pan for at least 15 minutes. Peel the eggs under cold running water, and cut them into quarters. Meanwhile, put the pancetta pieces in a saucepan, and cover them with the water. Bring the water to a boil, and boil gently for 10 minutes. Drain, then put the pancetta in a saucepan with 1 tablespoon of the olive oil. Cook gently for 5 minutes, or until crisp and lightly browned. Transfer the pancetta along with the rendered fat to a salad bowl, and add the garlic, anchovies, vinegar, salt, pepper, and 4 tablespoons of the olive oil. Mix well. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Spread the remaining 1 tablespoon oil on a cookie sheet, press the slices of bread into the oil, and then turn them over, so they are oiled on the second side. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes, until nicely browned. At serving time, add the greens to the salad bowl, and toss them with the dressing. Divide among four plates, and top with the bread and quartered eggs. Serve.

Locust Flower (Acacia) Fritters YIELD: 6 SERVINGS, 12 TO 15 FRITTERS THIS IS A TASTE from my youth that we still enjoy a few times each early summer. Two large locust trees next to our garden supply more fragrant flowers than we can use during the few weeks a year that these blossoms are available. The tiny white flowers have the sweet flavor of honey and a powerful spicy and musky aroma. 4 cups locust flowers, stems removed 4 tablespoons Grand Marnier ¼ cup sugar 1½ cups all-purpose flour 1 can (12 ounces) beer 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract 2 large egg whites 2½ cups canola oil, for cooking the fritters Confectioners’ sugar, to dust the finished fritters Mix the flowers, Grand Marnier, and sugar together in a bowl, cover, and refrigerate for 1 hour. When ready to cook the fritters, place the flour, about two thirds of the beer, and the vanilla in a bowl. Mix well with a whisk until the batter is smooth, then add the remainder of the beer, and mix well. In a separate bowl beat the egg whites until they form peaks but are not too firm. Using the whisk, combine them with the beer batter. Fold in the locust flower mixture. At serving time, preferably, put enough of the oil in a large saucepan so that it is about 1 inch deep in the pan. Heat to 375 degrees. Using a large spoon or a small measuring cup, pour about ⅓ cup of the batter into the hot oil. Repeat, cooking 4 or 5 fritters at a time in the oil. Cook the fritters for about 4 minutes on one side, then turn with tongs, and cook for 4 minutes on the other side. They should be crisp and nicely browned on both sides. Lift the fritters from the oil with a slotted spoon, and place them on a wire rack. Repeat, making additional fritters with the remaining batter. Dust with confectioners’ sugar before serving. NOTE: If cooking the fritters ahead, recrisp in a 425-degree oven for 5 to 6 minutes, or until crisp and hot, then dust with the confectioners’ sugar just before serving.

TOPPING 1 cup (lightly packed) fresh flat-leaf parsley leaves 2 garlic cloves, peeled and coarsely crushed 2 shallots, peeled and thinly sliced 4 slices good white bread (4 ounces) 2 tablespoons good olive oil About ⅓ cup water Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Rub the leg of lamb with the butter, and sprinkle it with the salt and pepper. Place in a roasting pan top side up, and bake for 20 minutes. FOR THE TOPPING: Meanwhile, put the parsley, garlic, shallots, and bread into a food processor, and process just enough to finely chop all the ingredients, or chop them by hand. Transfer to a bowl, and mix in the olive oil, gently tossing it with the other topping ingredients until the bread mixture is coated. (This will help hold the topping together on the roast, and the oil makes the bread crumbs brown beautifully.) After the lamb has baked for 20 minutes, tilt the pan, and use the fat that collects on one side to baste the lamb. Pat the crumb mixture gently but firmly over the top and sides of the lamb to make it adhere. Return the lamb to the oven, and reduce the heat to 400 degrees. Cook for another 30 minutes or so, or until the internal temperature registers 125 to 130 degrees for medium-rare meat. Transfer the lamb to an ovenproof platter, and keep it warm in a 150-degree oven. It should rest for 15 to 20 minutes before carving. Meanwhile, pour the water into the pan, and stir well with a wooden spatula to melt the solidified juices and mix the water with the drippings. Slice the lamb and serve it with these natural juices.

Indians of my parents’ and grandparents’ generation never sipped—they thought it unsanitary to be spreading germs by sipping cups, even if the dishes were washed afterward. Instead they used tumblers with rims to pour coffee, tea, water, or rasam down their throat

Onion Soup Gratinée YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ONE OF MY greatest treats when working in Paris was to go with my fellow chefs and commis to les Halles, the big market of Paris that spreads through many streets of the Châtelet neighborhood. The excitement in the streets and cafés started a little before 3:00 A.M. and ended around 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Our nocturnal forays would, more often than not, finish at Le Pied de Cochon (The Pig’s Foot), the quintessential night brasserie of les Halles. There, large, vociferous butchers in bloody aprons would rub shoulders with tuxedoed and elegantly evening-gowned Parisians stopping by for late-night Champagne and a meal after the opera or the theater. The restaurant was famous for its onion-cheese gratinée; it was one of the best in Paris, and hundreds of bowls of it were served every night. For this recipe, you will need four onion soup bowls, each with a capacity of about 12 ounces and, preferably, with a lip or rim around the edge that the cheese topping will stick to as it melts to form a beautiful crust on top of the soup. 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 3 onions (about 12 ounces), cut into thin slices About 7 cups good-quality chicken stock, or a mixture of chicken and beef stock About ½ teaspoon salt, more or less, depending on the saltiness of the stock ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 16 slices of baguette, each cut about ⅜ inch thick About 3 cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère, Comté, or Emmenthaler (about 10 ounces) Melt the butter in a saucepan, and sauté the sliced onions in the butter over medium to high heat for about 8 minutes, or until lightly browned. Add the stock, salt, and pepper, and boil gently for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Arrange the bread slices in a single layer on a tray, and bake them for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. Divide the toast among the bowls, and sprinkle ¼ cup of cheese into each bowl. When the stock and onions have cooked for 15 minutes, pour the soup into the bowls, filling each to the top. Sprinkle on the remainder of the cheese, dividing it among the bowls and taking care not to push it down into the liquid. Press the cheese around the rim or lip of the bowls, so it adheres there as it cooks and the crust does not fall into the liquid. Arrange the soup bowls on a baking sheet, and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a glorious brown, rich crust has developed on top. Serve hot right out of the oven.

Gnocchi à la Romaine (ROMAN GNOCCHI) YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ATHOUGH MOST PEOPLE associate gnocchi with the Italian kitchen, gnocchi à la parisienne (little dumplings made with choux paste) and gnocchi à la romaine, made from semoule des blé dur, called semolina in Italian, were standards on the menu of Le Plaza Athénée. I still love semolina gnocchi and make them a few times a year for family and friends. They make a great starter to a meal and are just as good as an accompaniment with poultry or veal. 2 cups whole milk ¾ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Dash of grated nutmeg ½ cup semolina (granulated hard durum wheat flour) 2 large eggs 1 teaspoon good olive oil ¾ cup grated Comté or Gruyère cheese (2 ounces) ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ cup heavy cream Bring 1¾ cups of the milk to a boil in a medium saucepan with the salt, pepper, and nutmeg. As soon as the milk boils, pour the semolina into it in a steady stream while mixing it in with a whisk. Reduce the heat to low, and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, stirring occasionally with the whisk. The mixture should be very thick and smooth. Meanwhile, break the eggs into a small bowl, add the remaining ¼ cup milk, and beat with a fork until smooth. Add to the semolina in the pan, and mix in well with a whisk. Cook and stir for about 30 seconds, until very thick. Set aside while you line a 9-×-6-inch baking dish with plastic wrap, so the ends overhang the sides of the dish. Pour the mixture into it, and using the plastic wrap liner, press on the dough so that it is about ¾ inch thick. Let cool. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Cut the cold gnocchi dough into 3-inch squares (you will have 6 squares), oil a gratin dish with the teaspoon of oil, and arrange the gnocchi in the dish, leaving a little space between them. Sprinkle the grated cheese, salt, and pepper on top, and bake for about 15 minutes, until lightly browned and hot. Remove from the oven, and move the oven shelf 6 to 8 inches from the heat source. Pour the cream over the gnocchi, and return the dish to the oven. Immediately switch the oven setting to broil, and broil the gnocchi for about 5 minutes, or until nicely browned on top. Serve.

Well?” Chef Broussard asked as Jake Valentine entered the kitchen the next morning. Mrs. Pennywhistle and Chef Rupert, who were standing by the long table, looked at him expectantly. “I told you it was a bad idea,” Jake said, glaring at the three of them. Sitting on a tall stool, he grabbed a warm croissant from a platter of pastries, and shoved half of it into his mouth. “It didn’t work?” the housekeeper asked gingerly. Jake shook his head, swallowing the croissant and gesturing for a cup of tea. Mrs. Pennywhistle poured a cup, dropped in a lump of sugar, and gave it to him. “From what I could tell,” Jake growled, “Rutledge spent the night on the settee. I’ve never seen him in such a foul mood. He nearly took my head off when I brought him the managers’ reports.” “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Pennywhistle murmured. Broussard shook his head in disbelief. “What is the matter with you British?” “He’s not British, he was born in America,” Jake snapped. “Oh, yes,” Broussard said, recalling the indelicate fact. “Americans and romance. It’s like watching a bird try to fly with one wing.

The things that we describe so carefully are called phenomena — the second element in the definition. The word phenomenon has a special meaning to phenomenologists: it denotes any ordinary thing or object or event as it presents itself to my experience, rather than as it may or may not be in reality. As an example, take a cup of coffee. (Husserl liked coffee: long before Aron talked about the phenomenology of apricot cocktails, Husserl told students in his seminars, ‘Give me my coffee so that I can make phenomenology out of it.’) What, then, is a cup of coffee? I might define it in terms of its chemistry and the botany of the coffee plant, and add a summary of how its beans are grown and exported, how they are ground, how hot water is pressed through the powder and then poured into a shaped receptacle to be presented to a member of the human species who orally ingests it. I could analyse the effect of caffeine on the body, or discuss the international coffee trade. I could fill an encyclopaedia with these facts, and I would still get no closer to saying what this particular cup of coffee in front of me is. On the other hand, if I went the other way and conjured up a set of purely personal, sentimental associations — as Marcel Proust does when he dunks his madeleine in his tea and goes on to write seven volumes about it — that would not allow me to understand this cup of coffee as an immediately given phenomenon either. Instead, this cup of coffee is a rich aroma, at once earthy and perfumed; it is the lazy movement of a curlicue of steam rising from its surface. As I lift it to my lips, it is a placidly shifting liquid and a weight in my hand inside its thick-rimmed cup. It is an approaching warmth, then an intense dark flavour on my tongue, starting with a slightly austere jolt and then relaxing into a comforting warmth, which spreads from the cup into my body, bringing the promise of lasting alertness and refreshment. The promise, the anticipated sensations, the smell, the colour and the flavour are all part of the coffee as phenomenon. They all emerge by being experienced. If I treated all these as purely ‘subjective’ elements to be stripped away in order to be ‘objective’ about my coffee, I would find there was nothing left of my cup of coffee as a phenomenon — that is, as it appears in the experience of me, the coffee-drinker. This experiential cup of coffee is the one I can speak about with certainty, while everything else to do with the bean-growing and the chemistry is hearsay. It may all be interesting hearsay, but it’s irrelevant to a phenomenologist.

The first half of your detention will be spent digging an eight foot deep hole in the meadow.” Darius stalked off with the other guys and I moved forward to collect my shovel. Orion scooped it up, holding it out for me. Before I took it he caught my hand, brushing his thumb across my palm and sending a shiver through me. He repeated the process on the other hand then pressed his index finger to his lips. “That'll stop your skin chaffing,” he whispered. I stared at him in complete surprise as he passed me the shovel and moved aside. “Thank you,” I said, confused as I stepped past him, making my way through the high grass and colourful array of meadow flowers as I walked toward the Heirs. The four of them had formed a circle and were already getting to work digging the hole. ... “Vega!” Orion beckoned me and I was grateful to put the shovel down. I was a little dizzy as I walked up to his high metal chair where he was sitting a few feet above my head. He now had a large umbrella set up over it and a flask of coffee in his hand which he'd apparently brought with him. His Atlas was propped on his knee and he looked like he was thoroughly enjoying his morning as he gazed down at my mud stained skin with a bright smile. Thanks to his magic, at least I didn't have any blisters on my hands. “Water.” Orion waved his hand and water gathered in the air before me, circling into a glistening sphere. Orion tossed me a cup and I caught it at the last second. The water dropped straight into it with a splash and I guzzled it down greedily, “That's favouritism, sir!” Caleb called. “You're right, how rude of me!” Orion shouted back, lifting a hand and a torrential waterfall poured down on all of the heirs. Max crowed like a cockerel, pounding his chest, seemingly spurred on by the downpour. The others didn't seem quite as happy as the water continued to fall down on them. A laugh rushed from my throat and Orion threw me a wink. “So I'm having a little trouble, Miss Vega.” “With what, sir?” “Telling you apart from your sister,” he said in a low voice that I imagined only I could hear through the torrential storm he was still casting over the Heirs. “And you never did answer my question. Blue or green?” A smile twisted up my lips and I shrugged, deciding to leave him in continued suspense over that question, walking back to join the group. “I want an answer by sundown,” he called after me and my grin grew even wider. ... “Shut the fuck up!” Orion shouted. “I'm trying to concentrate here.” “Watching porn again, sir?” Seth shot at him with a smirk. “Yeah, your mom's really improved since the last edition,” he answered without missing a beat and Seth's face dropped into a scowl as a laugh tore from my throat. “Do you know who is always watching porn?” Max chipped in. “You?” the three other guys answered in unison. They all burst out laughing and I fought the urge to join in. “Hilarious,” Max said dryly. “I meant Washer. He snuck off in class the other day to rub one out.” “Useless. Well up you go then,” he said and I moved toward the ladder, taking hold of the first rung. Orion stepped up close behind me and his fingers brushed my waist, barely perceptible but I felt it everywhere. It scored a line of goosebumps across my back and a heavenly shiver fluttered up my spine. Heated air pushed under my clothes, drying them out almost instantly. “Thank you,” I whispered for the second time today. What’s gotten into him? He took hold of the ladder either side of my hands. “Up,” he breathed against my cheek and hot wax seemed to pour down each of my legs, making it almost impossible to move. But somehow, I managed it.

She wraps my hand in hers. 'Listen to me. I know romantic love isn't everyone's cup of tea, but I've seen you happy and in love before, Bea.' I flinch, hating the reminder. 'Love is your cup of tea," she says softly. "And just because you got burned once, doesn't mean you can't find the perfect pour that's just right for you.

While Princess Betsy poured her tea, Vronsky came over to Anna. ‘What do they write to you?’ he repeated. ‘I often think that men don’t understand what is noble and what is ignoble, though they always talk about it,’ Anna said without answering him. ‘I’ve long wanted to tell you,’ she added and, moving a few steps away, sat down by a corner table with albums on it. ‘I don’t quite understand the meaning of your words,’ he said, handing her the cup. She glanced at the sofa beside her, and he sat down at once. ‘Yes, I’ve wanted to tell you,’ she said without looking at him. ‘You acted badly - very, very badly.’ ‘Don’t I know that I acted badly? But who was the cause of my acting so?’ ‘Why do you say that to me?’ she said, glancing sternly at him. ‘You know why,’ he replied boldly and joyfully, meeting her eyes and continuing to look. It was not he but she who became embarrassed. ‘That proves only that you have no heart,’ she said. But her eyes said that she knew he did have a heart, and because of it she was afraid of him.

[fictional speech] As a woman. And as a woman in psychology, I’m expected to absorb the problems of the world. My super power is taking the world’s negative energy and giving that energy back to the world in a new positive form. With great power comes great responsibility. With great responsibility comes a strict commitment. So I’ve committed every day to keeping the world calm. I wake up and pour into the world. Wake up pour into the world. Wake up again and pour into the world. A process I love, but then I come back with an empty cup. So I have to refill, and repeat again. Super woman! We are super women in psychology. But what happens when the world has drained out all of our power? How do we recharge? We know how to pour into the world, but have we forgotten about ourselves? Are we allowed to put our pitcher down and pull out our glass? Are we allowed to be selfish? I want to challenge what we think about the word selfish. I want to change the way that we think about caring for self. As we know it today, the word selfish means being devoted to or caring only for oneself. In other words committed to self care. So if the definition only means this, where did the word go wrong? Being selfless, self....less, is defined alongside words like noble, charitable, and generous; while self interest is looked down upon. We can be self interested without the expense of hurting others. If indeed we change the world by changing ourselves then it is productive to the world to be selfish. If we are constantly meeting the demands of the world, are we satisfying ourselves? I agree that as a society it is more beneficial for the majority for everyone to work together, but the world also works on balance. I want everyone to go out into the world and uplift it, but I also want everyone to put that same amount of energy into themselves. Our place that we call home should be a place where we can be selfish. A place that we can have full peace and not worry about the politics of the world. A place that we are held to our own standard and not the standard that the world sets for us. [time passes] Ladies, you are beautiful. You are strong. You are intelligent; and you are committed. You are the foundation of the world and everything enters through you. You are the nurturers. You are the healers. You are the teachers. Your job is much more greater than your career in psychology. You are magic. While letting the world borrow some of your magic, don’t forget about healing, nurturing, teaching, and providing for yourselves. Thank you.

You won’t catch me sitting like a saddo drinking at lunchtime,’ he says, pouring quarter of a bottle of sherry into his Cup-a-Soup. He offers me

along the sidewalk fluttered and the branches swayed. My body tensed and my head throbbed as I imagined Carla out there somewhere, ignoring my calls. Because she was with him. What were they doing right now? I wondered irritably. At this very moment? I bowed my head and leaned forward over the white windowsill, bracing my weight on my knuckles and clenched fists, breathing deep and slow. Hell. I needed a cup of coffee. Turning away from the window, I moved into the kitchen to brew a pot, then poured myself a bowl of cereal, which I ate on the sofa while watching the sports channel on television. I checked my phone again for a text from Carla. Still…nothing. A part of me wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt, because I knew I wasn’t the most rational guy in the world when it came to cheating girlfriends. I’d been burned once before, so I had a small problem with jealousy. But what if she’d been in a car accident on her way home yesterday and was in a coma at the hospital and couldn’t get in touch? If that was the case, I was going to feel pretty guilty. But it wasn’t the case, and I knew it. I’d have heard something. No, she hadn’t texted or called because she didn’t know how to tell me it was over. She felt badly about standing me up for dinner the other night and probably wasn’t ready to face me and explain herself. I felt a muscle twitch at my jaw. Setting my empty cereal bowl down, I rested my elbows on my knees and stared at the blue velvet ring box on the coffee table. Thirty-five hundred bucks. That’s how much that gigantic sucker had cost, and I’d had no choice but to set up a financing plan with monthly payments because I didn’t have that

INGREDIENTS 2½ cups stone ground whole wheat flour 1½ cups white flour (some bakers use whole wheat again) ½ cup rolled oats 1½ teaspoon salt 1 teaspoon baking soda 1¾ cups buttermilk 2 Tablespoons molasses or treacle (optional, but Siobhán uses it) Siobhán even splashes in some Guinness for luck. In a large bowl, combine all flour, oats, salt, and baking soda. In a separate bowl, whisk together the buttermilk and molasses. Make a well in the center of the dry ingredients and pour in the buttermilk mixture. (Add a drop of Guinness for good luck.) Stir with a fork or spatula until combined. Cover your hands with flour and knead the dough into a ball. Place the dough ball on a lined baking sheet and press it flat, a few inches thick. With a knife, make a cross on top of the loaf. Bake at 450°F for 15 minutes. Then reduce to 400°F and bake an additional 20 to 25 minutes, until the bottom of the bread sounds hollow when tapped. Note: I once asked an Irish woman for her brown bread recipe. She let me know that recipes are handed down, not out. So I pushed my luck and asked how hers was so soft. She relented on this and suggested longer baking times at lower heat, that is, 180 degrees for one hour.

For in the hand of the Lord there is a cup, and the wine is red; it is fully mixed, and He pours it out (Psalm 75:8). For thus says the Lord God of Israel to me: “Take this wine cup of fury from My hand, and cause all the nations, to whom I send you, to drink it. And they will drink and stagger and go mad” (Jeremiah 25:15-16). You will be filled with drunkenness and sorrow, the cup of horror and desolation (Ezekiel 23:33).

Later, I sat down drunk on the corner of Carondelet and Canal Streets, listening for the rumble of the streetcar that would take me back uptown to my apartment, watching the evening sun bleed from the streets, the city shifting into night, when it truly became New Orleans: the music, the constant festival, the smell of late evening dinners pouring out, layering the beer-soaked streets, prostitutes, clubs with DJs, rowdy gay bars, dirty strip clubs, the insane out for a walk, college students vomiting in trash cans, daiquiri bars lit up like supermarkets, washing-machine-sized mixers built into the wall spinning every color of daiquiri, lone trumpet players, grown women crying, clawing at men in suits, portrait painters, spangers (spare change beggars), gutter punks with dogs, kids tap-dancing with spinning bike wheels on their heads, the golden cowboy frozen on a milk crate, his golden gun pointed at a child in the crowd, fortune-tellers, psycho preachers, mumblers, fighters, rock-faced college boys out for a date rape, club chicks wearing silver miniskirts, horse-drawn carriages, plastic cups piling against the high curbs of Bourbon Street, jazz music pressing up against rock-and-roll cover bands, murderers, scam artists, hippies selling anything, magic shows and people on unicycles, flying cockroaches the size of pocket rockets, rats without fear, men in drag, business execs wandering drunk in packs, deciding not to tell their wives, sluts sucking dick on open balconies, cops on horseback looking down blouses, cars wading across the river of drunks on Bourbon Street, the people screaming at them, pouring drinks on the hood, putting their asses to the window, whole bars of people laughing, shot girls with test tubes of neon-colored booze, bouncers dragging skinny white boys out by their necks, college girls rubbing each other’s backs after vomiting tequila, T-shirts, drinks sold in a green two-foot tube with a small souvenir grenade in the bottom, people stumbling, tripping, falling, laughing on the sidewalk in the filth, laughing too hard to stand back up, thin rivers of piss leaking out from corners, brides with dirty dresses, men in G-strings, mangy dogs, balloon animals, camcorders, twenty-four-hour 3-4-1, free admission, amateur night, black-eyed strippers, drunk bicyclers, clouds of termites like brown mist surrounding streetlamps, ventriloquists, bikers, people sitting on mailboxes, coffee with chicory, soul singers, the shoeless, the drunks, the blissful, the ignorant, the beaten, the assholes, the cheaters, the douche bags, the comedians, the holy, the broken, the affluent, the beggars, the forgotten, and the soft spring air pregnant with every scent created by such a town.

If I could give you any gift in the world, it would be the honey haze of a slow afternoon. I would cup the whole thing in my palms, if I could, and pour it into yours. And you could be warm, and content, and marvel at the way the moments dance by, infinite.

left the basket on the doorstep. Clearly, he wanted to be left alone. After last night, she was happy to oblige. Back in her kitchen, she filled the electric kettle and flicked on its switch. She put a scoop of tea leaves in her teapot. The kettle clicked off as the water came to a boil and she went to fetch it. When she turned around, Alec was standing in the doorway. “Hello, you,” he said. “Hi.” They stood looking at each other, smiling shyly. Fiona broke the silence. “You will have noted,” she needled, “that my interpretation of the marine weather forecast yesterday was correct.” “I did, yes. Not a great day to give the mountain another try.” “I shouldn’t think so, given your last attempt.” Alec was about to protest, but there was a knock at the back door. Fiona went to open it. “Oh hello, Owen; come in and have a cuppa.” Owen followed her into the kitchen. “Morning, Alec,” he said. Fiona poured a cup of tea and gestured for Owen to sit. “What do you need, Owen?” Owen hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “David’s already gone back to his cottage. Looked done in when he arrived this morning and left after a

I tear to pieces the paper, and throw it to the floor. Then I swim deep inside the river of my soul, find the key from where it is sitting, full of rust, at the bottom of the river, and open the lock. I kneel down beside my bed, close my eyes, turn myself into a cup, and pour the memory out of me.

Jackson shrugged. "It's no big deal. I'm sorry that people were assholes today, you know. You don't deserve that. No one deserves that because they are gay, or trans, or ace, or any of that." I managed a small smile. "Thanks. I appreciate that. I suppose this is awkward for you with the military background. What if your friends see that your 'with' a man?" Jackson sighed softly and looked into his cocoa cup. "They'll probably be happy for me," he said quietly. "My last partner was a man, and he died in Afghanistan. I've been alone since then." He poured his cup into the sink. "I should turn in. Good night.

But in order to keep my family a priority, I have to first prioritize my own needs so that I have a healthy amount in my cup of life to pour out for others.

I slurp my tea, breaking the heavy silence with another lapse in manners. Tea serves many purposes and as I pour another cup I make my intention to brandish it at full force perfectly clear.

who" is your home? Your home is so much more than just an impersonal roof over your head. In fact, the personality of your home "lives with you" and influences you as much as the actual people and pets that share your space. That means it's important to figure out just "who" it is you are living with. So If your home were a persona that woke up next to you every day, stood in the kitchen each morning when you poured your first cup of coffee and waited at the front door when you arrived, who would it be? For me, my home is like a best friend who waits for me at the front door with cookies and flowers, and who greets me in the kitchen with a cheery "Good morning." Nice, eh? (Happy Starts at Home: Getting the Life You Want by Changing the Space You've Got, Rebecca West)

You break me down, then build me up. You pour me out, then fill my cup. I love You, Jesus. I'll rejoice. I'll lift my hands. I'll lift my voice. Refine me, Lord. O clean my heart. May all uncleanliness depart. Holiness, I yearn for thee. Wicked world, depart from me! Lord, thank You for Your awesome grace. Soon I'll reach the eternal place. When the corruptible finally dies, and the incorruptible will rise. O Lord, what a time that will be when I'm with You eternally.

I poured my last cup down the drain, found a package of mints, and stuffed one in my mouth, crunching furiously. Couldn’t ask a girl out with coffee breath, could I?

An anonymous gray-asexual panromantic person’s perspective on the gray areas: “Imagine full sexuality as a glass of soda and asexuality as a glass of water. To the person with the water, it tastes like plain water, and they’re happy with that as long as soda-drinkers don’t insist they should like soda. Likewise, the people with various flavors of soda will be happy with them and be able to identify them as soda, even though some of them might be ‘mixed flavors’ of varying percentages that are hard to pick out. Some may even have some ice melted in them, but as long as it’s not much, well, it’s still a soda. But my case is like having a glass of water with a little bit of soda poured into it. When I taste it, I can’t really tell what’s off about it. It doesn’t seem like just water, but it’s definitely not a cup of soda. I might not even be able to identify the off taste as soda. Maybe it’s not! Some-times I think I taste it more than others. But I’m not sure I like the taste of it. It’s confusing, and it might be easier if I just had a glass of plain water, but I don’t really have any control over that. But overall, I still feel like what I have is much more like water than soda, especially since I can’t always even identify the added ingredient as soda. So I’ll call it water. Just not plain water.

it myself!” These are the words that I would hear from my grandson when, as a toddler, he would try to pour juice from a large container into a cup. Grownups aren’t much different. It is a well-documented fact that no one of my gender will ever ask for directions. I’m not lost. I can find it myself.

The ritual of the Lord’s Supper is explicitly identified by Jesus as a covenant renewal rite: “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in My blood” (Lk. 22:10). That means we should find the same covenantal order and shape here as well. The Lord’s Supper is a covenant memorial meal. Every week at this meal the covenant is renewed when the Lord takes us through the order of covenant renewal: Jesus took hold of the bread and gave thanks. He did the same with the cup. He broke the bread and poured out the wine giving them new names (“my body” and “my blood”), and as Lord and Master distributed them to His followers. He taught them while they ate and spoke of the new covenant that would result from His death and resurrection. (Jn. 14–17) He told them to “do” what He did and so memorialize His life, death, and resurrection to the Father in this ritual meal. After they ate and enjoyed the bread and wine, the disciples were strengthened for the mission to which they were being called. They sang a psalm and departed.

Being unavailable does not mean we're not working hard or not caring for others. In fact, I think it's the opposite. Being unavailable means I'm choosing me. It means I'm nurturing my own mind, body and soul so that I can continue to give, expand and evolve. We cannot pour from an empty cup. We can’t even pour from a half-full cup. I have learned that my cup needs to be overflowing before I can even think about being there for anyone else.

26While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, ‘Take and eat; this is my body.’ 27Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink from it, all of you. 28This is my blood of theb covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.

poured him more mead then moved to the ambassador, a noble-born Mevian by the name of Rukard. Though I felt his eyes on me, I refused to look at him as I refilled his cup. He was about Papa’s age, some gray at his temples, his long brown hair tied back in a tail. His fancy Mevian silk garb threaded with silver embroidery signified his importance. While I stood next to him, he flared his indigo wings as if he was trying to impress me. The moon fae were the only light fae who had beautiful, iridescent wings, ones that my true father would’ve had. The ambassador’s wings didn’t impress me, nor did his lecherous stare. His two guardsmen both wore the blue and silver armor of Mevia. They were bulkier than the ambassador, of course, and their wings were a deep shade of blue. I

Hey,” Arethusa said from my right, just past Sally. “What’s wrong with pacifists? Look at Buddhists: they’re nice people.” I gave her my best smile, and got a much better one in trade. Arethusa can smile like a long-distance kiss. I poured her two plastic cups of peach juice from the flask on my bedside table. Lady Sally started to adjust her chair so she could see us both… then left it as it was and spoke past me, to Arethusa’s other body, which opened its eyes politely. “They’re different,” Lady Sally conceded. “They’re honest pacifists. You don’t have to worry about them fighting dirty, because they never fight: they don’t have Jihads or Crusades. The strongest weapon they use is reason; the strongest protest they allow themselves is suicide, and they’re always careful not to let the flames spread. Pacifism of that sort is no more objectionable than belief in astrology or membership in the Flat Earth Society. I was speaking of the kind of pacifists we grew like hothouse flowers in this country fifteen or twenty years ago, and still have all too many of. Pacifist terrorists. The kind who want all wars everywhere to cease and everyone to live in peace… and are prepared to keep blowing up wealthier and less enlightened fellow citizens until that day comes. There’s nothing wrong with wanting wars to stop—but the moment a pacifist uses any weapon but calm speech, he’s a hypocrite. If he’s willing to kill, he’s a psychotic. The only good thing about them as opponents is that it isn’t murder to kill one.

Mother Frey nodded. “You are right to ask, my lady, and I will tell you.” But she did not immediately explain. Instead, she poured herself another cup of wine. The others watched, and Helleda Frost in particular noted how badly the old woman’s hands were shaking. Some of the wine slopped onto the table. Helleda rose, reached across to take the wine bottle, and finished pouring. Her eyes met Mother Frey’s and they shared a moment of communication that ran along a different channel than what was ever shared between the men. Mother Frey reached for her cup and her fingers briefly brushed the back of the stern noblewoman’s hand, and for a moment Helleda’s eyes softened. There was even a shared nod, though it was very small and very brief.

But you will find,” Rhysand went on, pouring a cup for me, “that our nights are more spectacular—so spectacular that some in my territory even awaken at sunset and go to bed at dawn, just to live under the starlight.

The sun descends as I make my way into the forest, sapphire hues painting the night like a jewel. Lanterns flicker in the distance, guiding me forward. The spread Amelia has set up is illuminated by tall magenta candles bathing the table with a rosy glow. In the center, there's a tiered cake with vanilla frosting, decorated with pink pansies, marigolds, and violets. Beside it is a summer salad with juicy peaches, soft cheese, and pitted cherries--- a perfect pairing to the bruschetta topped with diced tomatoes. Different fruits are scattered across the table, sliced open to show off their vibrant innards--- blood oranges, figs, and plums. Everyone is dressed in white with bright flowers crowning their heads. Carmella pours sangria into crystal cups while Yvette helps Amelia string more lights in the trees. Roisin is seated beside Serena, adding tiny braids into her hair and placing daisies between the plaits.

Papa sat down at the table and poured his tea from the china tea set with pink flowers on the edges. I waited for him to ask Jaja and me to take a sip, as he always did. A love sip, he called it, because you shared the little things you loved with the people you loved. Have a love sip, he would say, and Jaja would go first. Then I would hold the cup with both hands and raise it to my lips. One sip. The tea was always too hot, always burned my tongue, and if lunch was something peppery, my raw tongue suffered. But it didn't matter, because I knew that when the tea burned my tongue, it burned Papa's love into me. But Papa didn't say, 'Have a love sip'; he didn't say anything as I watched him raise the cup to his lips.

...into my happiness God pours sadness in exactly the same amount, like he's measuring it out in a Pyrex cup.

While they were eating, Jesus took some bread, and after a blessing, He broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is My body.” 27And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you; 28for this is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for forgiveness of sins. 29But I say to you, I will not drink of this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in My Father’s kingdom.

The Spirit of Christmas The Boys finished their cider and handed the vendor the cups, smacking their lips and wiping their mouths on their sleeves. The towering Vendor smiled down on them. “And a Very Merry Christmas to you two young Gents.” Jonas scowled up at him, “Christmas is a bunch of bunk, just meant for the rich. Come on Jamey.” Little James Nicholas tipped his hat to the Vendor and his eyes shined angelically when he replied, “And a Merry Christmas to you too Sir!” Jonas led the way as they raced the snowy sidewalks of New York. In his heart Jonas knew that they were late but the cider warmed him inside and he didn’t mind the risk. Mr. Angel watched them run, knowing his work was cut out for him. “Christmas a bunk, hm-mmm! I’ve some work to do with these lads and not much time to do it in.” He glanced up at the heavens calculating the time before Christmas. He then tipped his hat to the vendor as he munched the delicious cheese. The Cheese Vendor watched the kindly man depart, knowing there was indeed goodness abound in the world tonight. “Thank ye kind Sir!” The tall Toymaker waved back at him over his shoulder, while keeping the two young dashing lads in sight. “And may the Spirit of Christmas haunt your home with joy.” The Cheese Vendor chuckled to himself. “A joyful haunting? Be there such a thing?” Mr. Angel followed along after the boys. He passed a poor couple and thrust the bag of cheese into their hands. The Poor Man’s face shined with pleasure, “Thank you and bless you sir.” He nodded back at them with a smile. Ahead of him, Jonas and James rushed towards the corner. They raced past a fruit vendor and each of them snatched a piece of fruit from the boxes on display. The Fruit Vendor screamed after them, “Hey, you! Stop thieves!” A New York Policeman witnessing the theft and blew his whistle. Then he shouted after them. “Stop thieves!” He immediately took up the chase, through the down pouring snow. Mr. Angel could be seen in the background keeping pace behind the policeman. The two young boys raced along the sidewalk, twisting their way between passers-by, their eyes frantically glancing behind them at the large pursuing policeman. Suddenly Mr. Thorn, a large, burley man dressed in black blocked their way and took them both by the collars. “So there you are!” He snatched the apple quickly from James’ hand. “What have we here?” He was about to take a bite of it, when he saw the officer racing towards them. “It’s all right officer. I have the young scoundrels and I’ll make full restitutions for their thievery.” He quickly fished coins from his pocket and with a conning smile, put them in the hand of the frowning Policeman. “And a little extra for your trouble, my good man. It’s such a small crime and the criminals so . . . minor.” The burly policeman rocked back and forth considering and then grunted, after all it was Christmas. “Very well sir. I’ll give these to the Vendor but I catch either of you snatching again, it’s behind bars with you and a good strong workhouse. You got me!” Jonas glanced down at his worn out boots, his face red with shame. “Oh yes sir.” James followed suit and then glanced up into the gruff face of the law. “Sorry, we were just hungry!

The two young boys raced along the sidewalk, twisting their way between passers-by, their eyes frantically glancing behind them at the large pursuing policeman. Suddenly Mr. Thorn, a large, burley man dressed in black blocked their way and took them both by the collars. “So there you are!” He snatched the apple quickly from James’ hand. “What have we here?” He was about to take a bite of it, when he saw the officer racing towards them. “It’s all right officer. I have the young scoundrels and I’ll make full restitutions for their thievery.” He quickly fished coins from his pocket and with a conning smile, put them in the hand of the frowning Policeman. “And a little extra for your trouble, my good man. It’s such a small crime and the criminals so . . . minor.” The burly policeman rocked back and forth considering and then grunted, after all it was Christmas. “Very well sir. I’ll give these to the Vendor but I catch either of you snatching again, it’s behind bars with you and a good strong workhouse. You got me!” Jonas glanced down at his worn out boots, his face red with shame. “Oh yes sir.” James followed suit and then glanced up into the gruff face of the law. “Sorry, we were just hungry!” Mr. Thorn smiled and tipped his hat to the Policeman, who shaking his head, sauntered away. Immediately Mr. Thorn slapped Jonas hard across the face, drawing blood from his nose and then smacked James on the head, crushing his cap. He snatched the apple from James’ hand and pocketed them both. “So here you two no-accounts are? I’ve been searching high and wide for the lot of you. I left you at this corner and I expected to find you right where I left ya!” He then snatched the cup from Jonas’ hand with a scowl. He poured the coins into his hand and his greedy eyes took in the meager profits. Jonas immediately stammered justification for their absence. “We-we found a better corner to beg at, Mr. Thorn. I think we done all right.” Mr. Thorn cleared his throat considering and then his boisterous laughter echoed. He put his big arms around the two young lads. “Well, you done fine for us boys! We needs the money! We’ll have to have you two young Sirs representing our fine establishment again tomorrow, I do believe.” He chuckled cruelly. “We’ve great charity in our hearts for you kiddies but a soulful heart won’t put bread and molasses on the table.” He greedily poured the coins into his coat pocket. Both lads coughed mischievously at mention of such charitable actions. Thorn eyed them both to see if they are making fun of him, which they were. Jonas cleared his throat. “A bit of a tickle.” Thorn growled and gruffly took hold of the boy’s arm. “I’d tickle you both with a whip if I thought you was funning with me! Now boys, you’ve roughed my gentle nature. You know that I has nothing but love for the lot of you. My big heart swells at the sight of each and every one of you little bastards . . . I mean kiddies. Shall we on home?” “Here Jamey lad, you hold the cup. Give us a song the two of you, to beg alms by. I think I’m in the mood for “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”, but make it sweet or there’s a lashing for the both of ya!” Jonas and James exchanged tortured looks. Together the young Nicholas boys sweetly began to sing the song, as they moved through the crowd. The Tall Toymaker followed them down the sidewalk, trying not to be observed by Thorn. ”And a villain enters the scene, an ugly villain at that!

3/4 cup rosé wine 6 tbsp/80 g sugar 1/2 tsp rosewater Scant 1 cup whipping cream, very cold Pinch of salt 2 cups/250 g strawberries, halved or quartered if large Place a large metal bowl in the freezer to chill. In a small saucepan over medium-high heat, bring the rosé and sugar to a boil. Whisk until the sugar has dissolved, then remove from the heat and let cool completely. Add the rosewater. Pour the cream into the chilled metal bowl. Add the salt and whip to stiff peaks. Fold in the cool rosé syrup and half of the strawberries. Serve immediately with the rest of the strawberries on top.

Shall I pour?” he asked. There was something significant about his offer, something far less innocent than three prosaic words suggested. Maggie couldn’t put her finger on it. “Suit yourself.” Without her instructing him, he fixed her tea exactly as she liked it: plenty of cream, a dash of sugar. He chose a sandwich for her of thick yellow cheese and butter and put that on her plate beside a few ripe strawberries. “How did you know what I’d choose?” For he’d gotten it exactly right. “Lucky guess. You don’t trust me, do you?” “I trust you to find my reticule.” He munched on a sandwich of roasted beef and cheese, consuming the thing in about two bites. “You want me to find your reticule; you don’t trust me, though. We’re going to have to work on that.” She wrinkled her nose over her tea cup. “I want you to find a lost object, not plight me your troth.” Without

Who do you think he was, Kash? Who the fuck do you think he is to me?” “Other than Candice’s cousin, I don’t know! I want you to explain what I saw.” He reached around me and tried to turn off the shower but I smacked his arm back. “No! I need to get clean, please!” “You can take a shower after we’ve talked this out.” “Think about it!” I shrieked, and whirled on him. “Did I look like I was enjoying seeing him? I couldn’t even look at him. Think about when Candice said I was ‘dating’ him. Think. About. It.” Steam was filling the tiny bathroom and again, I tried to go into the shower. I just needed to wash him away. “Please, let me get clean,” I cried. “Clean,” he whispered like that word had finally sunk in, and sucked in a quick gasp. “Oh my God, Rach—” “I hate him, Kash. I hate him with everything in me. If I never see or hear from him again, it will be too soon! He tried to ruin me. And today—he saw us kiss. He started texting me. He said I forgot who I belonged to.” Kash’s hand dropped from my arm and I cried in relief when my body hit the stinging water. I grabbed a loofah and poured shower gel on it before hastily scrubbing at my body. I was grabbing for more shower gel when Kash caught my wrist. I looked up at him and saw his horrified expression. “Baby, please—don’t . . . don’t tell me he was right there and I did nothing.” My jaw trembled and I blinked back the tears that began to cloud my vision. Kash’s face drained of color and his shoulders slumped. “Son of a bitch. You said he worked at UT, I thought—I thought he was a professor. I was expecting some old, sick bastard, not . . . that.” I shook my head quickly and began scrubbing myself again. “He’s a personal trainer there. He’s only twenty-six.” His body swayed before going rigid, his eyes wide. “And he’s Candice’s cousin? Her goddamn cousin raped you?!” Sobs filled the bathroom and I continued to scrub vigorously. “That’s why she didn’t believe me,” I explained when I could take a deep enough breath in. “She was so mad, said I was just accusing him because I didn’t want to date him.” “What the fuck? She—how could she—” “He’s her family. She loves him, I get it.” “There’s nothing to get. That shouldn’t make a difference. Rachel, I’m so sorry. I’m . . . I’m sorry.” He grabbed the loofah out of my hand and tossed it in the tub. Cupping his hands to catch the water, he tried to help wash the suds off me and turned the water off when I was soap free. “You don’t need to get clean, baby. You aren’t dirty. You’re okay.” He wrapped a large towel around my body and pulled me close as I trembled. “You’re okay. I’m so sorry I didn’t realize, I’m sorry I was upset with you.” I face-planted into his chest and let him lead me into my bedroom. Letting me go for a moment, he flipped off the lights, quickly undressed until he was only in his boxer-briefs, and walked back up to me. Grabbing the comforter off the bed, he had me let go of the wet towel and let it fall to the floor before wrapping me up in the comforter. I climbed onto the bed after him, and he got under the sheet and pulled me close to him, his arms tightening around my shaking body. “I’ve got you,” he whispered against the top of my head. “You’re safe.” My

Quality is a tremendous filter. Cream always rises, my friends, no matter how many cups of coffee you pour.

Be formless ... shapeless, like water. Now you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You pour water into a bottle; it becomes the bottle. You put water into a teapot; it becomes the teapot. Now water can flow, or creep or drip or crash! Be water, my friend...” –Bruce Lee         After

I beg your pardon, my ladies, Mr. Trottenham. I did not realize I’d be intruding unannounced.” “Deene, good day.” Trottenham rose and bowed, smacking his heels together audibly. “The more the merrier, I say, what? Saw your colt beat Islington’s by two lengths. Well done, jolly good and all that. Islington’s made a bit too much blunt off that animal in my opinion.” Trottenham apparently had a nervous affliction of the eyebrows, for they bounced up and down as he spoke, suggesting either a severe tic or an attempt to indicate some sort of shared confidence. “Perhaps the ladies would rather we save the race talk for the clubs?” “The ladies would indeed,” Louisa said. “Sit you down, Deene, and do the pretty. Mr. Trottenham was just leaving.” She gave a pointed look at the clock, while Eve, who had said nothing, busied herself pouring tea, which Deene most assuredly did not want. “Leaving?” Trottenham’s eyebrows jiggled around. “Suppose I ought, but first I must ask Lady Eve to join me at the fashionable hour for a drive around The Ring. It’s a beautiful day, and I’ve a spanking pair of bays to show off.” Deene accepted his cup of tea with good grace. “Afraid she’s not in a position to oblige, Trottenham, at least not today.” He smiled over at Eve, who blinked once then smiled back. Looking just a bit like Louisa when she did. “Sorry, Mr. Trottenham.” She did not sound sorry to Deene. “His lordship has spoken for my time today.” Trottenham’s smile dimmed then regained its strength. “Tomorrow, then?” Jenny spoke up. “We’re supposed to attend that Venetian breakfast with Her Grace tomorrow.” “And the next day is His Grace’s birthday. Couldn’t possibly wander off on such an occasion as that,” Louisa volunteered. “Why don’t I see you out, Mr. Trottenham, and you can tell me where you found these bays.” She rose and took him by the arm, leaving a small silence after her departure, in which Deene spared a moment to pity poor Trottenham. “I have an appointment at the modiste,” Lady Jenny said, getting to her feet. “Lucas, I’m sure you’ll excuse me.” She swanned off, leaving Eve sitting before the tea tray and Deene wondering what had just happened. “Did you tell them I’ve a preference for leeks?” “I did not, but I cannot vouch for the queer starts my sisters take.

out and started again? Well, she hated cold tea, so she tipped it onto the grass, holding her breath. No complaint, so she began again. ‘Milk?’ Hannah studied him from under her hair. ‘Yes, please, just a small amount. Lapsang is a very delicate tea and too much milk kills the flavour.’ ‘I’ll need lots of milk then.’ Balancing the cup, saucer and spoon carefully, she offered it. ‘Thank you, Miss Hollis.’ ‘Hannah.’ She poured her own tea, wondering if it would taste like the ashtray it smelled like. With cup only in hand, she leaned against the back of the wooden chair then threw a leg over the side arm. ‘So, Miss Hollis, what brings you to Cornwall?’ ‘Call me Hannah. Miss Hollis makes me sound like some old school marm.’ ‘Is that a problem? Most old school marms, as you call them, of my acquaintance are delightful people.’ ‘Sure, but boring I bet.’ ‘Not at all.’ ‘Right. Not to you, maybe.’ Hannah braved a sip and winced. ‘Back to the question: what has brought you to Cornwall?’ ‘Bloody bad luck,’ she said, frowning at her tea. ‘No need to swear,’ he said. ‘I didn’t swear.’ ‘You did,’ he said. ‘What? Are you talking about bloody?’ she asked. ‘Yes. It is a curse.’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ ‘Well, maybe in the dark ages it was, but it isn’t now.’ She began to wonder if she’d walked through a time machine when she’d come through the gate earlier. It was a nice one, though. The orchard was beautifully laid out and the table and chairs were a lovely weathered blue. ‘Who advised you of this?’ he asked. Hannah sat up and put her empty cup on the table, not quite sure when she had drunk it. ‘Look, it’s a word that’s used every day.’ ‘Yes, but does that change its meaning?’ he asked. ‘No, but no one takes it like that any more.’ ‘Who is no one?’ he asked. ‘I mean no one who hasn’t lived in the dark ages.’ She looked at his wrinkled skin and tried to guess his age. ‘You mean anyone over the age of, say, sixty?’ he suggested. ‘Yeah, sort of.’ ‘Well, as I fit that category, could you refrain from using it?’ ‘Yeah, I guess. If it bothers you that much.’ ‘Thank you. Would you be kind enough to pour more tea?’ Old Tom leaned back into his chair. The sun wasn’t coming through the east window when Maddie opened her eyes for the second time that day; instead, she found Mark standing at the end of the bed with a tray. She blinked. When she last peered at the bedside clock, it had been eight a.m. and she’d thought that if she slept for another hour, she would begin to feel human. What a wasted day. What had Hannah been up to? Had she come into the room and seen her like this? Well, it was a lesson in what not to do in life. The end of last night, no, this morning, was more than fuzzy; in fact, she didn’t remember coming up to her room. The last clear memory was saying goodbye to Tamsin and Anthony. She and Mark had gone back into the kitchen and had another glass of wine or two. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘It’s not that late?’ ‘Almost time for a drink.’ He smiled. She winced. ‘Oh, don’t.’ ‘Would a bit of tea and toast help?’ ‘It might.’ Maddie eased herself onto her elbows and then slipped back down again. She was only wearing knickers. Mark’s eyes widened. ‘Could you hand me that shirt on the end of the bed?’ she asked. ‘Certainly.’ She wrestled with it under the duvet. ‘Sorry. I couldn’t find your pyjamas last night.’ ‘What?’ Maddie

You will be warm with me in my lodge? I have many buffalo robes. And plenty food. Meat, yes? And my strong arm will protect you, forever into the horizon. There is nothing to fear.” He pressed his hand more firmly against her midriff. “My tongue does not make lies. It is the truth I speak, not penende taquoip, the honey talk, but a promise. I have spoken the words, and they are carried away on the wind to whisper to me always. You will trust? When I go away from you on raids and hunting trips, my brother’s strong arm will be yours. No harm will come to you.” Loretta swallowed. His brother? The man who had helped pour water down her, she guessed. The one he called Warrior. “You can seek death another time. Te-bit-ze, sure enough. But first, you will see what lies on the horizon. It is wisdom.” “I want--” Tension and disuse strung her voice so taut, it twanged like a harp cord. “I want to go home.” “That cannot be. You go with me--to a new place. You are my woman, eh? You have said it, I have said it. Suvate, it is finished.” “I’m not your woman,” she cried. “You stole me from my family.” “I traded many fine horses.” “You bought me, then. And that’s just as--” Loretta craned her neck and stared up at his carved features. “I’m a person, not a thing.” “The white men have slaves, and this is okay, yes? Your Gray Coats fight the great fight so you can own black men. Is this not so? This Comanche has a slave, too. It is good.” “No! It’s not good. It’s monstrous.” She passed a hand over her eyes. “I’ll die before I let you touch me. You hear me?” “Ah, but Blue Eyes, I tough you now.” He slid his hand up her ribs and gently cupped her breast. “You see? I touch you, and you do not die. There is nothing to fear.

You must teach her, eh? If you go down in battle and I have to take her into my lodge circle, I want to know her children are yours.” “She will learn. I will teach her honor if I kill her doing it.” Warrior plucked a blade of grass and began to nibble on it, his expression distant. Hunter recognized the signs. His brother’s thoughts were flitting to yet another place. After a moment Warrior spat and said, “Old Man tells me that you may have to strike the girl to make her obey. That is their way. She may not understand anything else. This worries me. You have a heavy hand when you grow angry. Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned, but with the yellow-hair I’m afraid your patience will snap like a wet bowstring.” Hunter scooped a handful of wood chips and tossed them into the flames. The flare of heat matched his mood. “She’s my woman, tah-mah. Let me do the worrying.” “But her bones are like a bird’s. If you lost your temper with her and used your fists, you would shatter them.” Hunter scowled and made no reply. Old Man, who had been standing nearby and listening, joined them at the fire to pour himself another measure of coffee. Once his cup was filled, he stepped back from the flames. “Ai-ee, Hunter, are you planning to be our dinner? It’s already so hot in these woods that I’m about to stifle.” Hunter had chosen to crouch by the fire because he hoped no one would join him there, but he saw no point in telling Old Man and his brother that. “A warrior can find great truths by searching the flames.” “You have troubles with your woman, eh?” Old Man smiled. “You young braves! All too proud to seek advice. I lived with the tosi tivo for many winters, remember. I know things about them that you don’t.” A rakish grin slanted across Old Man’s crinkled face. “Especially about the women.” Hunter wasn’t in the mood for advice. “The girl is half my size. I think I can handle her without calling council.” “You disappoint me, Hunter. Where is the patience you show with the wild horses you train? Has it gone the way of the wind?” “A horse is worth the trouble. A yellow-hair is not.

about my No. 1 goal and decide which three things I’m going to do on this day to move closer toward reaching it. For example, at the time of this writing, my No. 1 goal is to deepen the love and intimacy in my marriage. Each morning I plan three things I can do to make sure that my wife feels loved, respected, and beautiful. When I get up, I put on a pot of coffee, and while it’s brewing, I do a series of stretches for about ten minutes—something I picked up from Dr. Oz. If you’ve lifted weights your whole life as I have, you get stiff. I realized that the only way I was going to incorporate more stretching into my life was to make it a routine. I had to figure out where in my schedule I could stick it in—and while the coffee’s brewing is as good a time as any. Once I’ve stretched and poured my cup, I sit in my comfy leather recliner, set my iPhone for thirty minutes (no more, no less), and read something positive and instructional. When the alarm sounds, I take my most important project and

By the time Trevor finished scrubbing the machine oil from his hands, Chassie and Edgard had returned to the kitchen. Chassie said, “Who wants coffee?” “Sounds great, Chass.” “There’s cookies, unless Trev ate them all. The man has a serious sweet tooth.” “Then I oughta munch on you, darlin’, since you’re so durn sweet.” Trevor nibbled the side of her jaw and Chassie squealed. He reached above her head for the coffee cups on the pegs. Trevor turned and saw Edgard staring at them. Not with jealousy, but with longing. Simple affectionate moments had been rare between them and Trevor remembered it was one of the things Edgard had needed that Trevor hadn’t been able to offer him. Why did he feel just as guilty about that shortcoming now as he had back then? Chassie poured the coffee. Trevor automatically grabbed the milk jug from the fridge and set it next to Edgard. He snagged a spoon from the dish rack, passing it and the sugar canister to Edgard, ignoring Chassie’s questioning stare. Didn’t mean a damn thing he remembered exactly how Edgard liked his coffee. Not a damn thing. “So, Edgard, what are you doin’ in our neck of the woods?” “Reliving some old memories. I drove past my grandparents’ place yesterday. With the shabby way it’s looking I’m wishing I would’ve bought it when I had the chance.” He smiled wryly. “I’m kicking myself for letting another thing slip through my fingers.

I’m not,” Ben said. “I’m careful. There’s a difference.” “Of course,” my father said. “I’d never—” “Save it for the paying customers, Arl,” Ben cut him off, irritation plain in his voice. “You’re too good an actor to show it, but I know perfectly well when someone thinks I’m daft.” “I just didn’t expect it, Ben,” my father said apologetically. “You’re educated, and I’m so tired of people touching iron and tipping their beer as soon as I mention the Chandrian. I’m just reconstructing a story, not meddling with dark arts.” “Well, hear me out. I like both of you too well to let you think of me as an old fool,” Ben said. “Besides, I have something to talk with you about later, and I’ll need you to take me seriously for that.” The wind continued to pick up, and I used the noise to cover my last few steps. I edged around the corner of my parents’ wagon and peered through a veil of leaves. The three of them were sitting around the campfire. Ben was sitting on a stump, huddled in his frayed brown cloak. My parents were opposite him, my mother leaning against my father, a blanket draped loosely around them. Ben poured from a clay jug into a leather mug and handed it to my mother. His breath fogged as he spoke. “How do they feel about demons off in Atur?” he asked. “Scared.” My father tapped his temple. “All that religion makes their brains soft.” “How about off in Vintas?” Ben asked. “Fair number of them are Tehlins. Do they feel the same way?” My mother shook her head. “They think it’s a little silly. They like their demons metaphorical.” “What are they afraid of at night in Vintas then?” “The Fae,” my mother said. My father spoke at the same time. “Draugar.” “You’re both right, depending on which part of the country you’re in,” Ben said. “And here in the Commonwealth people laugh up their sleeves at both ideas.” He gestured at the surrounding trees. “But here they’re careful come autumn-time for fear of drawing the attention of shamble-men.” “That’s the way of things,” my father said. “Half of being a good trouper is knowing which way your audience leans.” “You still think I’ve gone cracked in the head,” Ben said, amused. “Listen, if tomorrow we pulled into Biren and someone told you there were shamble-men in the woods, would you believe them?” My father shook his head. “What if two people told you?” Another shake. Ben leaned forward on his stump. “What if a dozen people told you, with perfect earnestness, that shamble-men were out in the fields, eating—” “Of course I wouldn’t believe them,” my father said, irritated. “It’s ridiculous.” “Of course it is,” Ben agreed, raising a finger. “But the real question is this: Would you go into the woods?” My father sat very still and thoughtful for a moment. Ben nodded. “You’d be a fool to ignore half the town’s warning, even though you don’t believe the same thing they do. If not shamble-men, what are you afraid of?” “Bears.” “Bandits.” “Good sensible fears for a trouper to have,” Ben said. “Fears that townsfolk don’t appreciate. Every place has its little superstitions, and everyone laughs at what the folk across the river think.” He gave them a serious look. “But have either of you ever heard a humorous song or story about the Chandrian? I’ll bet a penny you haven’t.” My mother shook her head after a moment’s thought. My father took a long drink before joining her. “Now I’m not saying that the Chandrian are out there, striking like lightning from the clear blue sky. But folk everywhere are afraid of them. There’s usually a reason for that.” Ben grinned and tipped his clay cup, pouring the last drizzle of beer out onto the earth. “And names are strange things. Dangerous things.” He gave them a pointed look. “That I know for true because I am an educated man. If I’m a mite superstitious too…” He shrugged. “Well, that’s my choice. I’m old. You have to humor me.

I pulled my hair up in a messy ponytail upon leaving the bedroom and didn’t change from my blue and white shorts and red tank top I wore to bed the night before (Go, USA!). The shirt is tight and the shorts are short, but I'm completely comfortable. Graham is presently glaring at me like he doesn’t like me too much, so I'm thinking he is not comfortable with my outfit—or he still isn't over last night. I don't think he's ever been so angry with me before—well, except for maybe that time I accidentally put salt in his girlfriend's coffee instead of sugar. I pour myself a cup of coffee, showing him my back. And I wait. He doesn't make me wait long. His voice is brittle as he snaps, “Do you have to dress like that?” “I always dress like this. You never seemed to care before.” I give my behind an extra wiggle just to irritate him. I know I've succeeded when something thumps loudly against the tabletop. “I think you should dress like that more often,” Blake immediately replies. “Did anyone ask you?” is Graham's hotheaded comeback. “In fact, I think you’re wearing too many clothes. You should remove some.” A low growl leaves Graham. When I finally face the Malone boys, it is to find them staring one another down from across the small table. Graham’s wearing a white t-shirt and black shorts; his brother is in jeans and a brown shirt. Their coloring is so different, as are their features, but they are both striking in appearance, and their expressions currently mimic one another’s. “Graham, you're being an ass,” I calmly inform him. He grabs a piece of toast off his plate and whips it at me. I duck and it lands in the sink. To say I’m surprised would be an understatement. Toast throwing now? This is what our friendship has resorted to? “I will not live with someone who throws toast at me in anger,” I announce, setting my untouched cup of coffee on the counter. Blake snorts, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he turns his attention to the world beyond the sliding glass patio doors. Graham blinks at me, like he doesn’t understand what I just said or maybe he doesn’t understand what he just did. Either way, I grab my mug and stride out of the room and down the hall to my bedroom. I’ll drink my coffee in peace, away from the toast throwing. Only peace is not to be mine. The door immediately opens after I close it, and there is Graham, staring at me, his head cocked, his expression unnamable. “This coffee is hot,” I warn, holding the white mug out. “You wanna be a toast thrower then I can be a coffee thrower. Just saying.” “Put the coffee down.” “No.” He takes a step toward me. “Come on. Please.” “You threw toast at me,” I point out, in case he forgot. “I don’t know why I did that,” he mumbles, looking down. When he lifts his eyes to me, they are pleading. “Please?” With a sigh, I comply. I am putty in his hands—or I could be. I keep the mug within reach on the dresser, should I need it as backup. As soon as I let the cup go, I’m pulled against his hard chest, his strong arms wrapping around me, his chin on the crown of my head. His scent cocoons me; a mixture of soap and Graham, and I inwardly sigh. He should throw toast more often if this is the end result. “I’m sorry—for last night, for the toast.

I love you, Maude Laurent. I’ve loved you since the moment you poured that cup of coffee all over me and berated me in French and I haven’t stopped since. I could say that I love your smile, your laugh, and your sunny disposition. But the truth is I love you more when you frown, when you glare, when you’re mad as hell like you are right now. Love is too feeble a word to express how I feel. I love and need you in my life and I’d rather you be angry with me everyday until the day I die than to not have you by my side.” Maude

Later, in one of the few times he attended church as an adult, he discovered that it was about much more than a piece of fruit. Knowledge of evil is contaminating, and in this new manifestation, it makes him pull back from her hug. ‘Poppy?’ Small eddies of anxiety ripple over her face. ‘Poppy. Richie Dog and me have made you breakfast . . .’ Her voice trails off, uncertain. With some effort, George rallies. ‘How’s that for luck? I’m hungry as a lion.’ He waggles a finger at Richie. ‘I hope you aren’t giving me dog biscuits for breakfast, young pup.’ Rory giggles. It’s a sign she feels safe, that she hasn’t done anything wrong after all. ‘You’re so funny, Poppy.’ In the kitchen, George spoons up the cornflakes from their inundation of milk and yums at his undercooked toast. ‘I didn’t make the tea,’ she says. ‘Richie and me are a bit young for boiling water.’ She’s so serious, so anxious to be responsible. George grins. ‘Very wise. I’ll make the tea and you can have a cup, just for making such a nice breakfast.’ He pours her a milky tea and stirs in two teaspoons of sugar. Rory’s eyes gleam. This is an unexpected treat. ‘What about Richie? He helped, too.’ ‘I might share my toast with him,’ George says, tearing off a substantial chunk. He chuckles to himself as the dog wolfs down his portion. Talk about killing two birds with one stone. ‘Best breakfast I’ve had in years,’ he says, swigging the last of

#11 Look for little ways to delight him. Be mindful of those small preferences of his. My husband likes his coffee cup warmed up before pouring. He has a certain way he likes his t-shirts folded (yes, I’m serious). He likes it when we go to bed at the same time. They might be tiny details, but they say something big to him. What about your guy?

HOMEMADE SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK cup boiling water 4 tablespoons butter ¾cup sugar ½teaspoon pure vanilla extract 1 cup powdered milk (I used Carnation Nonfat Pow- dered Milk, but I’ve also used my local grocery store brand.) In a blender, or using an electric mixer set on LOW, blend together the boiling water and butter. Add the sugar and let it run for a few seconds. Add the pure vanilla extract and let it run for several additional seconds. Shut off the blender or mixer, pour in the powdered milk, and then blend or mix on LOW until the resulting mixture is thick. Use immediately, or store in a covered container in the refrigerator. This homemade version of sweetened condensed milk will last for up to one week in the refrigerator. Yield: This recipe makes the equivalent of one 14-ounce can of sweetened condensed milk that can be used in pies, cakes, cookie bars and flans. Hannah’s Note: My Grandma Ingrid made this up every Sunday morning and put it in the refrigerator to use in coffee for the whole week. SUBSTITUTE FOR SWEETENED CONDENSED MILK (for anyone who needs to avoid milk or dairy) 2 large eggs 1 cup brown sugar (pack it down when you measure it) 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 Tablespoons flour ½ teaspoon baking powder ¼ teaspoon salt Hannah’s 1st Note: This is easy to make if you use an electric mixer. You can also make it in a blender. You must make it fresh for each recipe you bake. Beat the eggs until they’re of a uniform color and thoroughly blended. Add the brown sugar and mix it in. Add the vanilla extract. Mix it in. Add the flour and beat for one minute, making sure it’s thoroughly incorporated into the mixture. Add the baking powder and the salt. Beat for another minute. Set the resulting mixture aside on the counter until you need it in your recipe. Then add it when your recipe calls for sweetened condensed milk. Hannah’s 2nd Note: This substitute can be used in any BAKED dessert recipe, including pies, cakes, and cookie bars. DO NOT use it in frostings or candy. Yield: One recipe makes enough to substitute for one 14-ounce can of sweetened condensed milk. (That’s the store-bought size.)

Yes, I also came home to settle my father's estate." "Would you have come home if it hadn't also been your job?" "I think you know the answer to that." "You hated him, didn't you?" Nell poured the coffee and pushed his cup across the counter to him so he could fix it the way he liked. Matter-of-factly, she said, "Yes, I hated him. And I think it's a cosmic joke that I ended up with all his property.

Just a crumb, I thought. If I could just have a crumb from the table of God, it would be enough. A tiny crumb, a stale crumb, a moldy crumb, just a speck, just a scrap. Oh give me but the smallest morsel and I will be satisfied! Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner. Just a crumb. But as the wafer was placed in my hands, with the words, “the body of Christ,” the truth of it came crashing through me. I tremble to plead for a crumb. Jesus replies by giving me his entire ascended, glorified body. I do not deserve a speck, but God gives me himself, all of himself. Then the chalice was put to my lips. What, the cup too? For me the beggar? “The blood of Christ poured out for you.” This seemed beyond hope. God invited me to drink from the festive cup the wine of the new covenant. To the abject beggar in his rags is offered the chalice of God.

The LORD is my chosen portion and my cup” (Psalm 16:5). What do you get when you come to the Supper, you compromised, double-hearted, double-minded, befouled cur? The triune God of grace himself is your portion. One drop would be beyond an eternity of deserving, but he pours in the unending wine of his presence. The cup overflows. The cup of salvation. Christ drank down the dregs of my sin and passed back the chalice filled with his precious blood, the wine of everlasting life.

Double Chocolate Brownies 2 6-ounce bags semisweet chocolate chips 3 tablespoons butter ¾ cup granulated sugar 3½ tablespoons water 2 eggs ¾ cup flour ¾ teaspoon salt powdered sugar 2 cups walnuts or pecans (optional) Preheat oven to 325 degrees. In a medium saucepan, combine 1 bag of chocolate chips with butter, sugar, and water. Cook and stir over low heat. When melted, stir in the second bag of chocolate chips and dissolve/melt into mixture. Next, stir in eggs, flour, and salt. (Optional: stir 2 cups of walnuts or pecans into batter.) Stir the thick, lumpy batter before pouring into (sprayed) 9-inch square pan. Bake for 30 to 35 minutes then set on rack to cool. Top with dusting of powdered sugar. Yield: 1 pan of brownies Donna’s Cook’s Notes I know I don’t look like I eat brownies by the pan full, and I don’t. But if I get a craving and make a pan, I share them with my pals at the station as well as whenever I run into cute paramedics. I always think I might freeze the rest, but that never happens because they disappear before I get around to it. Chocolate Cheesecake CRUST 1¾ cups graham cracker crumbs 2 tablespoons sugar 1/3 cup melted butter ¼ teaspoon salt Combine graham cracker crumbs, sugar, butter, and salt. Press mixture into side of greased 10 -inch springform pan. Chill. FILLING 2 8-ounce packages cream cheese 8 ounces of chocolate chips 2 eggs 2/3 cup corn syrup 1/3 cup heavy cream 1½ teaspoons vanilla Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Cube cream cheese and set aside to soften. In microwave-safe bowl, microwave chocolate chips on high for 1 minute. Stir. If chips aren’t completely melted, microwave for another minute then stir again. Next, in separate mixing bowl, beat eggs, corn syrup, cream, and vanilla until smooth. Slowly add cream cheese cubes. When filling is smooth, slowly

ARE MY CHILDREN still alive?" Sara Prague asked the question in a quiet, steady voice that he heard very clearly despite the noise around her. Cops coming and going, keyboards clicking, phones ringing. She looked haggard. Hard. She hadn't always, Vince figured. The worry lines bracketing her eyes, her mouth, the dry skin, the chapped lips, the sense that she really didn't give a damn what she looked like—those things had been strangers to her that first day. The day her kids hadn't come home from school. Now those lines, that hardness, had made themselves at home. It looked as if they planned to stay awhile. This shouldn't have happened to Sara Prague, a PTA mom whose world revolved around her kids. It shouldn't have happened to her husband. Mike, full-time plumber and part-time Little League coach. It shouldn't happen to anyone. Ever. Vince walked around his desk and eased Sara Prague into a cracked vinyl chair, ignoring the chaos around them. He poured her some stale coffee from the pot on the nearby stand, just as he had every day for the past three weeks. She came in here like clockwork—something the Center for Missing and Exploited Children had probably told her to do. He thought she would keep doing it, too. For years, if necessary. It wouldn't be necessary, though. She took the foam cup and sipped automatically. It was all part of their daily

often. Meanwhile, in a small saucepan, melt the remaining 4 tablespoons of butter over low heat. Gradually whisk in the flour. Cook, whisking almost constantly, to make a roux, for about 3 minutes. Be careful not to brown it. Whisk about 1½ cups of the hot tomato mixture into the roux, then pour the roux mixture into the top of the double boiler and stir until blended. Reduce the heat to low and simmer for about 35 minutes to allow the flavors to blend and thicken the soup. Turn off the heat and then add the dill, salt, and pepper. Serve hot, topping each serving with about 2 tablespoons of grated cheese. The soup can be prepared up to 2 days ahead, cooled completely, covered, and refrigerated. It should last for 4 to 5 days. The soup will thicken when chilled; when reheating, thin the heated soup with milk to the desired thickness. Do not freeze the soup.

Kimchi Jeon There are many different kinds of Korean pancakes using vegetables, seafood, or meat in Korean cuisine. We call this type of pancake "jeon." Among them, this kimchi pancake snack is one of the most popular Korean pancakes. Today, I want to share some secrets to make really tasty kimchi pancakes with you. When I was little, I used to visit an aunt's house and she made kimchi pancakes for me. I love kimchi pancakes, and her kimchi pancakes were the best ever. She gave me some tips about how to make good kimchi jeon. Some people asked me, why I call some Korean dishes "pancakes," even though they are not sweet, and not even close to the American pancakes that you might be imagining. Another word that could describe Korean pancakes is "fritter" - batter mixed with different kinds of ingredients: vegetables, seafood, meat, and so on. Yield: 1/2 Dozen 8-inch Pancakes Main Ingredients 1 Cup All Purpose Flour 1/3 Frying Mix (or 1/3 Cup All Purpose Flour) 1 Cup Well Fermented Kimchi 1/3 Cup Kimchi Broth 1/4 Cup Milk 1/3 Cup Water 1 Egg 1 1/2 tsp Sugar 1/8 Generous tsp Salt Directions Chop 1 cup of kimchi into 1-inch pieces. The most important tip for delicious kimchi pancakes is using well-fermented kimchi. Sour (old) kimchi works great too. When you cut kimchi on your cutting board, the cutting board will get stained. Here is a tip: Put some wax paper on top of your cutting board before cutting the kimchi. :) In a bowl, add 1 cup of all-purpose flour and 1/3 cup of frying mix. To make the pancakes a little crispier, I like to add some frying mix to the batter. However if you don't have the frying mix or don't want a crispy texture, you can use another 1/3 cup of flour instead. Add 1 1/2 tsp of sugar and a generous 1/8 tsp of salt into the bowl. Mix everything together. Adding some sugar is a secret ingredient from my aunt. Depending on how salty your kimchi is, you might need to adjust the amount of salt. Pour 1/4 cup of milk and 1/3 cup of water into the dried ingredients. Milk is another secret ingredient from her, but if you cannot eat milk or do not have it, you can use another 1/4 cup of water instead. Add 1 egg and 1/3 cup of kimchi broth. Several people have asked, "What is kimchi broth?" While the kimchi is fermenting in the jar, a liquid forms from the fermentation process of the napa cabbage. That is what I call kimchi broth. You can use it for other kimchi dishes such as Kimchi fried rice or kimchi soup, so don't throw away your valuable kimchi broth. It will give these dishes an extra burst of kimchi flavor. Before you add the kimchi to the batter, stir the batter until it doesn't have any chunks and gets a consistency like pancake batter. Add 1 cup of chopped kimchi into the batter. If you don't have enough kimchi broth, you can add a little more water and kimchi to get enough flavor. Mix thoroughly. Oh, it already looks delicious, even without frying. In a non-stick pan, add generous amount of oil. Heat the pan on medium-high. I said generous! =P According to your pan size, get 1 or 2 scoops of batter and pour it into the pan. It is important to spread the batter out thinly for crispy pancakes. ;) When the surface of the pancake starts to cook, flip it over. Pressing the pancake with a spatula helps the pancake fry better and makes it crispier. Occasionally flip the pancake, but not too often. When both sides of the pancakes are nicely brown and crispy, it is done. Again, it is a very simple and delicious dish. You should try this someday, especially if you love kimchi.

Eventually I was ready to learn how to perform routine life tasks again. 'Enabling occupation'—that’s what the learning process was called when it was presented to me. Enabling occupation involved the mastery of skills that I didn’t even know could properly be called 'skills.' How to pick up and carry and manipulate a set of common objects: a handbag, a stoneware saucer, a mobile phone, a paperback book. I was told that my new limbs were capable of hefting an automobile, of bending an iron bar, but I couldn’t make them do any of these magical things—not anything remotely close. Instead, I spent my days trying to pick up a thumbtack from a hard surface using my feeble pincer grasp, to activate a light switch with a single articulated finger, and to fasten a long line of shirt buttons, each of which was around the size of a half-dollar coin. During this period, I worked to improve my gross motor skills in parallel. I relearned how to reach for distant objects without collapsing under my own weight, how to twist a standard brass doorknob, and how to pour liquid from a plastic pitcher into a paper cup without spilling everything everywhere or crushing the handle itself in my grip. Eventually I used these newfound skills to practice clothing myself in simple blouses with velcro fasteners and pants with elastic waistbands, struggling to take it all off again when it was time. At some point during this phase, a team of nameless staff members helped me stand upright in front of a full-length mirror so I could stare at my newly-made body, fully exposed, and with my sharpened vision I was able to see the true extent of my transformation, the exquisite atrocity I’d chosen to perpetrate.

I got up and turned off the coffee machine, pouring the last of the brew into my cup. I sat back down and sipped it, wondering why I bothered; there was no reason for me to be awake and alert. I had all the leisure time a man could want—I was suspended from work, and being stalked by somebody who thought he was turning himself into me. And if he somehow missed me, I was still under investigation for a murder I hadn’t committed. Considering how many I had gotten away with, that was probably very ironic. I tried a hollow, mocking laugh at myself, but it sounded too spooky in the sudden silence of the empty house. So I slurped coffee and concentrated on self-pity for a while. It came surprisingly easily; I really was the victim of a gross miscarriage of justice, and it was a simple matter for me to feel wounded, martyred, betrayed by the very system I had served so long and well. Luckily, my native wit trickled back in before I began to sing country songs, and I turned my thoughts toward finding a way out of my predicament. But in spite of the fact that I finished the coffee—my third cup of the morning, too—I couldn’t seem to kick my brain out of the glutinous sludge of misery it had fallen into. I was reasonably sure that Hood could not find anything and make it stick to me; there was nothing there to find. But I also knew that he was very anxious to solve Camilla’s murder—both so that he would look good to the department and the press and, just as importantly, so he could make Deborah look bad. And if I added in the uncomfortable fact that he was obviously aided and abetted by Sergeant Doakes and his toxic tunnel vision, I had to conclude that the outlook was far from rosy. I didn’t really believe they would manufacture evidence merely in order to frame me, but on the other hand—why wouldn’t they? It had happened before, even with an investigating officer who had a whole lot less on the line. The

The traffic inched along as slowly as ever, but nobody really seemed to mind. I wondered if I should have read my horoscope—perhaps that would explain what was going on. It could well be that somewhere in Miami really knowledgeable people—druids, perhaps—were nodding their heads and murmuring, “Ahhh, Jupiter is in a retrograde moon of Saturn,” and pouring another cup of herb tea while they lounged around in Birkenstocks. Or maybe it was a group of the vampires Debs was chasing—was it called a flock? Perhaps if enough of them sharpened their teeth a new age of harmony would dawn for us all. Or at least for Dr. Lonoff, the dentist. I

I poured myself another cup of the brown sludge he was claiming to be coffee. I downed it and poured a second. It was an acquired taste I suppose. The more of it I drank, the less my taste buds protested. Apparently, it was either tasting better or just killing my tongue.

Those early weeks were a blur. Like most new parents, I slept no more than two or three hours at the longest. How tired was I? One morning I piled a load of laundry into the washing machine, scooped a plastic cup of laundry detergent from the box, and poured it into the receptacle in the washing machine. The detergent filled the receptacle and then spilled over the edges. This had never happened before. I had never scooped out more detergent than could fit into the receptacle. I thought hard. I stared at the detergent. I stared at the object in my hand. It was not the small detergent scoop, but a big plastic cup. Why would there be a big plastic cup in the detergent box? I read the side of the detergent box, then it became clear that this was not detergent but kitty litter. I had just loaded the washing machine full of kitty litter. I pondered what would happen if I started the washing machine with kitty litter inside -- the clumping kind! -- and then spent the next thirty minutes trying desperately to get every last bit of litter out of the machine. Then I went to get some sleep; I could do laundry later.

Institution of the Lord’s Supper 22[†] d And as they were eating, he took bread, and after  e blessing it broke it and gave it to them, and said, “Take;  f this is my body.” 23[†]And he took a cup, and when he had  g given thanks he gave it to them, and they all drank of it. 24And he said to them,  f “This is my  h blood of the [3] covenant, which is poured out for  i many. 25[†]Truly, I say to you, I will not drink again of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.

The Quaker float was a disaster.” “Oh, now, how bad could that be?” Miss Ellie placed the tray on the side table, poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. “The pets fought, the children screamed, my nephew pulled down his pants and peed, a cat chewed on Jitters, and a float depicting Jesus on a cross pulled in behind us. Jesus was crucified in bubble land. To top it off I lied to my son. If the Quakers still disowned members, I’d be on the street.

And it shall be in the last days, saith God, I will pour out of My Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams; and also upon My men-servants, and upon My maid-servants, in those days, I will pour out of My Spirit, and they shall prophesy; and I will give wonders in the heaven above, and signs upon the earth beneath—blood, and fire, and vapor of smoke, the sun shall be turned to darkness, and the moon to blood, before the coming of the day of the Lord—the great and illustrious; and it shall be, every one—whoever shall call upon the name of the Lord, he shall be saved.” (Joel)

It's a huge hole in the ground. No reported casualties. Not humanoids, anyway. Did vampires die?" Karzac lifted the boiling kettle off the flame and poured hot water over tea leaves in both cups. "A few," I said, watching him calmly make tea. He set a cup in front of me and we both waited for it to steep. "The bad ones," I continued when Karzac didn't say anything. "I got the rest out." "And how many was that?" "More than five hundred, I think." Karzac is a good physician, even if he is a little on the curmudgeonly side. "Are you well? Do you need assistance?" he asked, doing his best to give me a visual once over without appearing too obvious about it. "I'm okay," I said, sipping my tea. "There were a few broken bones among the others, but there were enough vamps there that had experience with that, so the injured vampires were taken care of. They'll heal with a good sleep." "How did you get that many out?" "By turning them to mist.

Quiet!” Gabriel shushed. “Behold!” at first there was a slight pinkish glow coming from Golgotha, I thought it was the reflection of the rising sun but the East was still very dark, and then it became brighter, the whole mountain grew brighter and brighter like a cupped hand over a candle, the light was coming from within the mountain itself. Rays of intense light poured out in every direction from behind the burial stone. Gabriel blew his golden shofar in a loud single blast so loud that Gar shook. Then all at once everything was quiet once more and my eyes had to focus in the darkness once more after nearly being blinded by the light and deafened by the blast.

poured the coffee for me. My hand touched hers as I had started for it, and we looked up at each other, startled by the accidental touching. Her eyes were blue and deep. Then I looked down at my cup. Marty started to say something but didn’t say it. We just sat there quietly for a few minutes. Then I said: “It’s damn nice of you two to come over!” “It was my idea.” Marty said, “I wanted to see you. It’s been so long and I’ve been curious, and Ruth…” “What about Ruth?” I asked. Ruth spoke up. “I wanted him

His latest job [My Dad] had been as a truck driver, picking up and delivering diapers. For months, he had complained bitterly about the odor and the mess, saying it was the worst job in the world. But now that he had lost it, he seemed to want it back.

I adore macaroni and cheese. Whenever I see it on a menu at a restaurant, I have to order it. I’ve had (and consequently made) fried mac and cheese balls, lobster mac and cheese, truffle mac and cheese, quattro formaggi mac and cheese, and Kraft mac and cheese. Now, don’t get me wrong—all of the fancy macaroni and cheese dishes have been delectable and enjoyable, but at home, I like a simple, delicious mac and cheese. So here’s my recipe. This dish is best when served during a game or movie night with family and friends. Serves 8 to 10 8 ounces (225 g) elbow macaroni 1½ cups Velveeta cheese (about 7 ounces/190g), cut into ½-inch cubes 2 tablespoons plus 1 teaspoon all-purpose flour 1½ teaspoons kosher salt 1½ teaspoons dry mustard ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ¼ teaspoon ground nutmeg ⅛ teaspoon cayenne pepper ⅔ cup (165 ml) sour cream 2 large eggs, lightly beaten 1½ cups (360 ml) half-and-half 1½ cups (360 ml) heavy cream ⅓ cup (55 g) grated onion 1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce 2 cups grated sharp Cheddar cheese (about 8 ounces/230g) • Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Grease a 9-by-13-inch (23-by-33-cm) baking dish. Bring a 4-quart (3.8-L) saucepan of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook it halfway through, about 3 minutes. Drain the pasta and transfer it to the baking dish. Stir in the cubed Velveeta. • Combine the flour, salt, mustard, black pepper, nutmeg, and cayenne in a large mixing bowl. Add the sour cream and eggs and whisk until smooth. Whisk in the half-and-half, cream, onion, Worcestershire sauce, and a sprinkle of black pepper. Pour the egg mixture over the pasta mixture in the prepared baking dish and stir to combine. Sprinkle the Cheddar cheese evenly over the surface. Bake until the pasta mixture is set around the edges but still a bit loose in the center, about 30 minutes. Let it cool for 10 minutes before serving.

I thought that was it, you know? I thought she was forever.” He poured two cups of coffee, then handed me a mug. “When I first met Katie, she was a ray of sunlight. She had this energy about her that spread through me, you know? I don’t know what happened to her over the years, but she started changing. She became colder… I wondered if it was something I did, something I said, but I lost my wife a long time ago. But heck, I changed too. “I convinced myself she was just going through some things, that what had happened to you somehow happened to her too—not directly, just a cause and effect kind of thing. But things got worse each day. The woman I knew disappeared right in front of me each day. And the man I knew myself to be went away, too.” You miss her? He brushed his fingers against his temple. “I miss the idea of missing her. Truth is I stopped missing her even when she was in the same room as me. Over time, I wanted to leave. But, I couldn’t rush you. I couldn’t make you leave when you weren’t ready.” My

Can’t you just leave me alone?” I groaned and rolled over to face him. “Once again Princess, you’re in my room.” “Fine, then I’ll go.” I tried to make my way around him but he planted his hands on my shoulders holding me in place. “Chase let me go!” “Not until you talk to me.” I couldn’t even throw my hands out in exasperation, “We have nothing to talk about!” “I’m sorry I hurt you but I was just so damn mad!” “Do you know how immature you sound right now? You decided to hurt me because you were mad?! What did I ever do to you Chase? And why do I always end up with your hands on me? Let. Me. Go.” “Because you won’t stop and talk to me for five minutes!” “Then you should understand that I don’t want to talk to you.” He still didn’t let me go, “Answer me! What did I do to make you mad?” His face was suddenly directly in front of mine and he gripped even harder, making me gasp from the sudden pain; it felt like his thumbs were digging into the sockets. “Nothing! You did nothing, I’m not mad at you!” The scent of vodka was pouring out of his mouth, I’m pretty sure I could get drunk just from his breath. “Seriously, you’re hurting me! Get off me and leave me alone!” I didn’t feel threatened yet, but I instinctively went through different moves I’d been taught in case I started to. The door swung open and Brandon rushed in, followed closely by Bree and a few others. “What the hell, Chase?!” He roared and stomped towards us. Brandon’s fist connected with Chase’s face seconds after his hands left me. I shrieked and jumped back as he fell to the ground. “Keep your hands off her!” Brandon took a step towards me and pulled me close, cupping my face in his hands. “Was he hurting you?” I just stared at him and put a hand over his reassuringly. I didn’t need a guy coming to my rescue, but damn if Brandon punching him hadn’t just turned me on. “Come on, let’s get you out of this room.” He led me towards the door, stopping at Bree. “Bree I’m sorry –” She held up a hand to stop him, “Don’t. He deserved that one.” She smiled at us before glaring at her brother, still on the floor. Brandon must’ve hit him hard. “Can you make sure Harper has a bed to sleep in tonight? I don’t want him near her.” “Of course.” “And keep your hands to yourself.” She said sternly, complete with a raised eyebrow. “Yes ma’am.” He squeezed me gently once before pulling me through the crowd gathered in the doorway and hall. Once we were in his dark room he turned to face me and cupped my cheeks once again. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine. He wasn’t doing anything other than trying to talk to me.” “He doesn’t need to force you to speak with him, or to stay in the room with him. He should have let you go the first time you asked him.” “The first time?” He sighed, “We heard everything Harper.” I groaned and let my head sink into his chest, silently thanking the dark for hiding my blush, “Awesome. I’m starting to think I’m just not meant to come to this house.” “Maybe

custom of the day, he and his twelve disciples reclined on narrow couches, arranged like spokes on a wheel around a low table. The table was supplied with all they needed to share a Passover meal together. Matthew, one of the men who was there, recorded part of the evening: When evening came, Jesus was reclining at the table with the Twelve. And while they were eating … Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.” 88 When Jesus said, “Take and eat,” he was doing

Tatiana really wanted an ice cream. Biting her lip, she let the bus pass. It’s all right, she thought. The next one will come soon, and in the meantime I’ll sit at the bus stop and have an ice cream. Walking up to the kiosk man, she said eagerly, “Ice cream, yes?” “It says ice cream, doesn’t it? I’m sitting here, aren’t I? What do you want?” He lifted his eyes from the newspaper to her, and his hard expression softened. “What can I get you, dearie?” “Have you got…” She trembled a little. “Have you got crème brûlée?” “Yes.” He opened the freezer door. “A cone or a cup?” “A cone, please,” Tatiana replied, jumping up and down once. She paid him gladly; she would have paid him double. In anticipation of the pleasure she was about to receive, Tatiana ran across the road in her heels, hurrying to the bench under the trees so she could eat her ice cream in peace, while she waited for the bus to take her to buy caviar because war had started. There was no one else waiting for the bus, and she was glad for the fine moment to feast on her delight in seclusion. She took off the white paper wrapping, threw it in the trash can next to the bench, smelled the ice cream, and took a lick of the sweet, creamy, cold caramel. Closing her eyes in happiness, Tatiana smiled and rolled the ice cream in her mouth, waiting for it to melt on her tongue. Too good, Tatiana thought. Just too good. The wind blew her hair, and she held it back with one hand as she licked the ice cream in circles around the smooth ball. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, swung her head back, lolled the ice cream in her throat, and hummed the song everyone was singing these days: “Someday we’ll meet in Lvov, my love and I.” It was a perfect day. For five minutes there was no war, and it was just a glorious Sunday in a Leningrad June. When Tatiana looked up from her ice cream, she saw a soldier staring at her from across the street. It was unremarkable in a garrison city like Leningrad to see a soldier. Leningrad was full of soldiers. Seeing soldiers on the street was like seeing old ladies with shopping bags, or lines, or beer bars. Tatiana normally would have glanced past him down the street and moved on, except that this soldier was standing across the street and staring at her with an expression Tatiana had never seen before. She stopped eating her ice cream. Her side of the street was already in the shade, but the side where he stood swam in the northern afternoon light. Tatiana stared back at him for just a moment, and in the moment of looking into his face, something moved inside her; moved she would have liked to say imperceptibly, but that wasn’t quite the case. It was as if her heart started pumping blood through all four chambers at once, pouring it into her lungs and flooding it through her body. She blinked and felt her breath become shorter. The soldier was melting into the pavement under the pale yellow sun.

Years later, that image of my father -slumped on the family couch, his leg in a cast, unable to work or earn money, and ground down by the world- is still burned into my mind. Looking back now, I have a lot of respect for my dad. He never finished high school, but he was an honest man who worked hard.

It's an old New England style pie. You make a single baked crust. Then pour the crust full of berries to measure them and set aside. You put about a third as many more berries in a pan, with a quarter cup of water and boil a sauce up, with a half cup of sugar or a bit more, and a maybe a quarter teaspoon of nutmeg,” Jay told him. The cook nodded like he had been wondering about that last. “You add a bit of water if you need to thin the sauce, and then you dump in the raw berries and mix it up gently, so you don't bust up all the berries, and pour it in the shell to chill. The sauce blanches the berries just a bit, and they firm it up. My aunt would put a bit of gelatin in the sauce, but my mom didn't. That's all. It's pretty simple,” Jay said.

Back when I was younger Mom would say, “Look, Molly, you have two options: stop caring about Stella or make her come crawling back, and if you pick the latter I will help you.” I didn’t have the strength to walk away from Stella so Mom planned a Kitten Cap Party in fourth grade where she would help every girl make a kitten cap, Mom is a very good sewer and I invited all of the girls who mattered EXCEPT for Stella and of course she found out and started being nice again, but Mom said DO NOT BUDGE until she gives you Tears and Groveling, nothing less, and on the morning of the Kitten Cap Party Stella came with her mom to our house “wanting to talk,” and Mom poured Stella’s Mom a cup of coffee although she has privately called Stella’s Mom a “superficial dunce,” and Stella and I went upstairs to my room and she cried and apologized saying I was her best friend she just liked to hurt me sometimes but that was the last time and PLEASE could she come to my Kitten Cap Party? So I had my Tears and Groveling, and Stella and I came back downstairs holding hands and I said Mom I want to invite Stella, I’ll let her have my kitten cap materials but Mom said, “Actually, I believe we have one extra!

Toast? Multigrain or sourdough?” Deputy Dave poured himself a cup of coffee and sat. “I’d rather have sourdough, but my wife has me on a strict diet of whole grain. I eat so much fiber I could pass wicker furniture.

Red wine and Hennessy She fell out of her bottle when she fell into love, cup running over, overflowing emotions in glass- red stained palet, on a pallet on the grass, to a quilt on the floor -affixed between lips and red lipstick on a shirt that he wore. A familiar place, she know she's been here before Reminiscent of the evening On his shirt that she tore ............ Drop by drop, puddle in glass getting lower- impressions in her gut, rim of her glass, hour glass figure moves counter clockwise - while absorbing the contents of merlot. Hard liquor and fine wine ............. Red Wine and Hennessy A wicked twist on some champagne tips French nails, manicures over grapes Whoever said wine and liquor don't mix? Last night I had six Bottle caps, corks, bedazzled juice Merlot was her name - slim waist - good taste slinger neck, red lace. Long stem, pedestal - hands embraced her face ............. room temperature, her body temperature ... personality of two, she's mellow and chill... aged to perfection- pop the seal- watch the erection ... splatters on the floor- covers the rug, Residue of red lipstick- Merlot stained lips match the kiss on his neck ............ Chasing fantasy through the Red Sea While chasing that with a white BC How much will she pour- how much will she drink How much more before her ship sinks ........... A full body lush, blackberry crush Medium sized Bordeaux Intense velvety plum I asked her where she's from She said she's international She's longer thinking rational .......... Sips in sync with blinking eyes She sips too much to realize Every time you pour into me, my bottle gets more empty- Glass falling to the floor She staggers to the door Glass shatters her feet She stumbles to her seat She's still asking for more But she falls to the floor Red lipstick in the mud She covers up the blood ............ She lays in her wine She forgot about the time Clock on the wall Footsteps in the hall Pounding in her head She rushes to the bed ......... She lays motionless ... but her head is racing Her heart is pacing Her lungs are gasping - air, she needs air Rolls to her side, brings her self to sit up She gags and gags until She throws it all up- ........... Wakes up the next morning Dazed and confused She's laying in a bed That she's not used to She moves slowly, where did everyone go? She checks the time- it's a quarter pass 4 sounds on the other side of the door Are Muffled by the sound of a knock at the door ........... Looks around for her little red dress Notices a blotch - a red stain on her breast Lipstick smeared an accessory to her mess She reached for her clothes and saw a note on the desk. .......... Dearly beloved, I want to see you again I'd love to have to back I think we make a great blend I tried to wake you Because I had to go And Oh by the way, my name is merlot "Little Black Bird

Recipe Hello from Honey Hollow! Lottie here! I hope you’re in the mood for something devilishly delicious. My famous, or rather infamous devil’s food cake is well—to die for. If you have a serious hankering for chocolate, you will not regret this. But be warned, your entire home will hold the scent of warm, tempting chocolate. It is rather hard to resist. Happy baking! From the kitchen of the Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery Devil’s Food Cake 1½ cup of softened butter ¾ cup unsweetened baking coco 2 cups sugar 3 eggs 3 cups sifted all-purpose flour ¼ tsp salt 1 ½ tsp baking soda ¾ cup milk 1 cup hot water 1 tsp white distilled vinegar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract Instructions Preheat oven 350° Grease and dust with coco powder or flour, two 9 inch round pans or a 9x13 pan. *I prefer to use a stand mixer. Although mixing by hand works well, too. Mix and cream together coco, sugar, butter, milk and eggs. Slowly mix in one cup of hot water. Add flour, salt, baking soda, vinegar and vanilla extract. Pour into two pans evenly, or a single prepared pan. Bake at 350° for 30 minutes or until a toothpick inserted into the middle, comes out clean. Cutie Pie Bakery and Cakery’s Go-to Chocolate Frosting Recipe 6 tablespoons softened butter ¾ cup unsweetened baking coco Pinch of salt 3 tablespoons hot water 1 ¾ cup of powdered sugar In a mixing bowl, cream butter, coco, salt, and water. Stir until it reaches a smooth finish. Slowly add in powdered sugar. Make sure it reaches your desired consistency. If it’s too thick, add a touch more water. If it’s too thin, add in a touch more powdered sugar. Frost your cooled devil’s food cake and enjoy!

Do we have anything chocolate in this kitchen? Anything?" "I think there's some chocolate syrup in the fridge. But we don't have any milk. Not that it was me who drank it. That would be the witch." Della glanced back at Kylie. Kylie reached into the refrigerator and found the chocolate syrup. Oh, hell, beggars couldn't be choosy. She squeezed a line of chocolate all the way up her index finger and popped the digit into her mouth. "So the meeting with the Brightens didn't go well?" Della asked. "No, it went fine," Kylie mumbled around her chocolate-covered finger. When the sweetness disappeared, she pulled her finger out and aimed the top of the bottle down and gave the digit another squirt of sweetness. "Then why are you sucking chocolate syrup off your finger like it's whiskey? Wait! I know why, I heard about the fiasco with your dad and mom-the whole pregnancy thing. Hilarious." Della dropped her elbows on the table and laughed."Not hilarious." Kylie frowned. "How did you hear about it?" Della shrugged, looking a little guilty for bringing it up. "Someone heard it go down. Everybody was talking about it. Sorry." She made an apology face. Kylie moaned. "Will I ever stop being the source of gossip around here?" She held her head back and squeezed a good squirt of chocolate straight into her mouth. "Now that's gross!" Della chuckled. Kylie brought the bottle down and licked her lips. "I didn't touch my lips to the bottle. I just poured it into my mouth." "And on your chin." Frowning, Kylie wiped her chin with the back of her hand. "Sorry, I'm feeling desperate." She snagged a bowl and spoon and went back to the table and emptied a half a cup of the sweet feel-good stuff into her bowl. "Damn," Della said. "You are feeling desperate." Kylie scooped a spoonful of chocolate into her mouth, licked the spoon clean and said, "Monique crawled into the stall with me." "Who? What stall?" "Monique. Lucas's Monique. She climbed into the bathroom stall with me in the restaurant bathroom." "Oh, shit! Did you two like duke it out or something?" "No." Kylie licked the spoon. "I just peed all over myself." She took another spoonful of chocolate into her mouth. Della sighed. "Are you okay?" "I will be after I finish off this bottle," Kylie said. Della half grinned. "If I was a real friend, I'd stop you from drinking it." Kylie shook her head. "If you were a real friend, you'd help me finish it." "Shit. Why not?" She pushed over her glass of blood. "Give me a couple of shots." Kylie arched an eyebrow. "For real?" "Yeah." Della pushed her schoolbooks to the side. "Screw homework, let's get drunk off chocolate. I could use a pick-me-up, too.

Try this smoked chicken with a dressing made from wine vinegar and herbs. Than the liver sashimi with just salt. Try the gizzard and chicken leg sashimi with salt and sesame oil. This one is from Nakagomi-san's Yorozuya brewery. It's a Shunnoten Junmaishu, 'Takazasu.' I've warmed it so that it'll be 108 degrees when poured into your sake cup." "108 degrees! Do you have to be that precise in warming the sake?!" "Of course. That's why the Okanban's job is so important. I've made it slighty lukewarm to stimulate your taste buds, It should be just the right warmth to enjoy the delicate differences of the various sashimi." "Wow. You really put a lot of thought into warming the sake." "Okay. Let's try the sake and food together." "The chicken leg is sweet! And the warm sake wraps that sweetness and enhances it in your mouth!" "The warm sake spreads out the aftertaste of the liver on your tongue!" "The more I chew on the gizzard, the richer the taste becomes!" "Man, it's totally different from cold sake! Its scent and flavor are so lively!" "Exactly. That's what's important. Warming the sake brings the flavor and scent to life, so they're much stronger than with cold sake. That's the reason you serve sake warm." "I see... I never knew there was a reason like that behind warming sake." "And now the main dish--- yakitori. Please start with the chicken fillet, heart and liver. This is a Shunnoten Junmai Daiginjo that has been aged a little longer than usual. It's made from Yamadanishiki rice that has been polished down to 45 percent and then dry-steamed to create a tough malt-rice... ... which is then carefully fermented in low temperatures to create the sake mash. Many people think I'm out of my mind to warm such a high-class Daiginjo. But when sake like this, which has been aged for a long time, is warmed to be 118 degrees when poured into the cup... you can clearly taste the deep flavor of the aged sake." "Wow!" "But 118 degrees is a little hot, isn't it?" "I wanted you to taste the succulent, savory chicken heart and other skewers... ...with a hot Daiginjo that has a rich yet refreshing flavor and can wash away the fat." "I think Junmai Ginjoshu tastes good when you warm it. People who claim that it's wrong to warm Junmai Ginjoshu don't know much about sake." "Aah... the sake tastes heavier since it's warmer than the last one!" "The flavor and scent of the sake fill my mouth and wash away the fat from the chicken too!" "This sake has such a rich, mature taste!

We're one of the three Solar Courts,' he said, motioning for me to sit with a graceful twist of his wrist. 'Our nights are far more beautiful and our sunsets and dawns are exquisite, but we do adhere to the laws of nature.' I slid into the upholstered chair across from him. His tunic was unbuttoned at the neck, revealing a hint of the tanned chest beneath. 'And do the other courts choose not to?' 'The nature of the Seasonal Courts,' he said, 'is linked to their High Lords, whose magic and will keeps them in eternal spring, or winter, or fall, or summer. It has always been like that- some sort of strange stagnation. But the Solar Courts- Day, Dawn, and Night- are of a more... symbolic nature. We might be powerful, but even we cannot alter the sun's path or strength. Tea?' The sunlight danced along the curve of the silver teapot. I kept my eager nod to a restrained dip of my chin. 'But you will find,' Rhysand went on, pouring a cup for me,' that our nights are more spectacular- so spectacular that some in my territory even awaken at sunset and go to bed at dawn, just to live under the starlight.

Chapter 5 Eyebright For Eye Strain The other night, I took a break from writing and went for a walk. It was dark, but the moon was bright giving me the light I needed to see my way up the road and back. When I returned I could see a few lights on in the house, but what really stood out was my laptop that I had left open; it’s bright white light standing out. I thought, “man, I stare at that light for hours at a time!” No wonder my eyes feel tired so often. Many people do this for eight or more hours every day. When we are viewing the screens of our devices, we blink less than normal which can cause dryness and soreness. The intense focus can also be the root of headaches and other eye related symptoms. Relief can be achieved by taking frequent ‘eye breaks’ which involve looking at something in the distance every twenty minutes or so (there are even apps to remind you!), and making sure your screen is just below eye level. But the reality is many of us are spending a lot of time focusing intently on electronic devices and straining our eyes. Symptoms of eye strain range from dry, sore, or itchy eyes, to headaches, light sensitivity and blurred vision. Mother Nature in her infinite wisdom has provided us with a wild herb that works directly to reduce the discomforts of eye strain and many other eye issues. Eyebright, a tiny flowered, weedy looking herb found wild in Europe, Asia and North America can be used to treat all eye disorders. Eyebright’s tannin content, which acts as an astringent, and its anti-inflammatory and antibacterial properties, combine to make the perfect eye wash. Its 3 major antioxidant vitamins bring in eye-specific support as well:  Vitamin C, in conjunction with Eyebright’s high content of Quercetin, assists in reducing swelled and runny eyes; Vitamin E has been shown to help improve visual sharpness; and Vitamin A protects the cornea and prevents dry eyes. Eyebright is the perfect solution for eyestrain symptoms, but it can also be used for many other eye disorders including conjunctivitis and itchy or runny eyes caused by allergies. Traditionally it has been used to improve memory and treat vertigo and epilepsy. Harvesting and drying Eyebright is easy. The high tannin content makes it a fast-drying herb. Simply cut the flowering tops of the plant and dry for a day or two in an oven with just the pilot light on, or in an airy spot out of the sun for several days. The dried herb will have retained its colors, though the flowers will have diminished considerably in size. How To Use Eyebright How to make an eye bath:   Boil 2 cups of water and pour over 1 cup of dried or fresh herb and let sit for 20 minutes or more. Strain well using cheesecloth or an unbleached coffee filter, store in a sterile glass jar (just dip in the boiling water before adding the herbs and let stand, open side up), cool, lid tightly and place in refrigerator for up to a week. When you wash your face in the morning or evening, use a sterile eyecup or other small sterile container to ‘wash’ your eyes with this herbal extract. If you are experiencing a painful eye condition, it is better to warm the eye bath liquid slightly before use. You can also dip cotton balls in the solution and press one on each eye (with lid closed) as a compress. Eyebright Tea: Using the same method for making an eye bath, simply drink the tea for relief of eye symptoms due to eyestrain, colds and allergies.

Half a long pepper and lastly a teaspoon of troll fat.' 'Yuck,' Stef said, as she looked down at the small bowl of fat. 'Yes, it is a bit gross, but it's very effective,' Miss Maker said, as she walked over to the front row and paused by a cauldron that belonged to a girl with red hair. 'That looks fantastic, Patricia.' 'How does she know all our names?' Gerty whispered to Charlotte, forgetting that Miss Maker could hear them. 'Gerty, Charlotte, how are you getting on?' She smiled over at them. 'Erm, okay,' Gerty muttered quietly. Yeah, okay I think,' Charlotte added. 'Great!' Miss Maker walked back to the front of the room. 'Now take your spoons and place them into the cauldron, careful not to splash any of the potion. Turn it in a clockwise direction twenty times, like this’ She began to turn her spoon, counting the turns aloud. 'When you've done that, carefully remove your spoon.' 'Now take your wand out and say, 'strength potion make me strong.' Then add one cup of cranberry juice and stir another ten times in a clockwise direction. Pour a glass and drink up girls. This spell will only last for three hours, and then your body’s strength will return to normal.' Stef was the first to drink her potion, followed by Margaret and then Demi. Charlotte and Gerty exchanged looks before they picked up their glasses and drank the liquid. Charlotte looked down to see her arms begin to bulk up under her cardigan until large muscles were visible. 'Look, look!' Gerty lifted her blouse, revealing a six-pack of muscles on her tummy. ''Whoa,' Charlotte said, as she looked down at her own stomach and legs and saw that they were changing too. 'My thighs are huge,' Alice said disgustedly, clutching hold of her muscled leg. 'I feel so strong,' Gerty giggled, as she reached out and lifted Charlotte with one hand and balanced her above her head, spinning her around like a spinning top. 'I feel weaker Miss Maker, what's happening?' Stef asked, as she stumbled and gripped onto the table for support before looking down at herself. Her arms and legs had become much smaller, and she looked skinny and haggard. There were gasps at Stef's appearance as the other girls gathered around her. 'Can you show me what direction is clockwise?' Miss Maker passed Stef a spoon. Stef nodded as she put the spoon into the cauldron and stirred to her left. 'Oh dear.' Miss Maker shook her head. 'That is anti-clockwise, you're lucky the spell is only for three hours.' She led Stef over to the comfy chair that was behind her desk and then addressed the other girls. 'This is a perfect example of how careful you must be when brewing potions and a great lesson for us all. Now, we have to tidy up. Please be careful when cleaning the cauldrons and glasses, don't forget your new strength.' 'Have you seen Demi's muscles? They're huge!' A girl with black hair pointed to Demi's arms.

And while they were eating, He took some bread, and aafter a blessing, He broke it, and gave it to them, and said, “Take it; this is My body.” 23And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He gave it to them, and they all drank from it. 24And He said to them, “This is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. 25Truly I say to you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.

I, inside you! ( Part 2 ) ................So time waited at the door and the destiny knocked too, But the ones they had been sent for had become something else, So time asked destiny,” if still it could do what it was meant to do?” And it replied, “Only if they wink I can fulfil your wish. Until then there is nothing else I can do, nothing else!” But for her kiss, for her embrace, for the rhythm of her heart beats, I never winked my eyes, Even though many sunshines had passed and the walls had witnessed million moonlights, The time waits there, the destiny is tired too, to be the joy of the Cupid who lives in the skies, And had granted us the dreams made of lights, So, there was no need to wink, There was no need to wake up, And time that steals moments whenever lovers blink, Had become the Destiny’s Atlas, bearing our yoke, because we had poured ourselves into the depths of love cup, Where time disappeared and never found its end, There, there in the depths of the love cup, I love my darling Irma forever, And for her smiles, her kisses, I had compelled the destiny to bend, Because fate too favours the destiny of the wish, of a true lover, And in the room of love walls, we lie submersed in the love cup, She and I caught in the eternal embrace, Where time waits, destiny waits too, and we neither wink nor look up, Because I am caught in the moment of her eternal grace, Her beauty, her heart beat and her face, And I want to be in this place just with her, Away from the disturbances of time, worries of destiny, just with her and her beautiful face, Where she belongs to me and I belong to her, So, let the time wait till the end of everything, Then when time does not exist destiny would cease to be, Then Irma, we shall arise from the state of nothing, And the universe shall be just you, and me, With no curtains, no walls, no time, no destiny, Your heart beats, your beautiful face and our eternal embrace, Then maybe we shall be the darlings of divinity, Because in the wide and infinitely empty space, it shall be left with no choice, but to feed your grace, Then as a lover I shall be truly jovial, Because now, Irma, everything would lie at your feet, Destiny, time, eternity, and that instinct original and primeval, Where only you and I shall be destined to meet! With the cup of love always full, Of your beauty, your feelings, your smiles, and you, Then I shall dive into it and let it cover me full, And disappear forever somewhere inside you, only you!

Because miso may contain probiotic bacteria,19 it’s probably best not to actually cook the miso, lest the good bugs be wiped out. When I prepare it, I boil dried mushrooms, a pinch of arame seaweed, a few sun-dried tomatoes, and greens in a pot and ladle off about a quarter cup of hot broth into a large bowl, add the miso, and mash it with a fork until only a thin paste remains. I then pour the rest of the soup into the bowl and stir to combine it with the miso. And, because I’m a bit of a hot-sauce freak, I add some Sriracha for a little kick. My new favorite addition is freshly toasted sesame seeds. I pour out a layer of raw, hulled sesame seeds, put them in the toaster oven until they just start to turn golden, and then throw them sizzling into the soup. Makes the whole kitchen smell heavenly.

6 large eggs 1/4 cup chopped fresh basil leaves 1/2 cup crumbled goat cheese 1/2 teaspoon salt 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 cups sliced baby bella mushrooms 1 small yellow onion, peeled and diced 1 cup water 1 In a medium bowl, whisk together eggs, basil, goat cheese, salt, and pepper. Set aside. 2 Press the Sauté button on the Instant Pot®. Heat oil 30 seconds and stir-fry mushrooms and onions 5 minutes until onions are translucent. 3 Transfer cooked mushroom mixture to a 7-cup glass bowl greased with either oil or cooking spray and set aside to cool 5 minutes. Pour